#it would be so much bleaker

[meganelixabethh]

I had never considered this but LOVE it- can I also suggest the first episode starts with introducing them all, seeing them all going about their day, all of them rejecting the idea that there might be another Great War, and then the last scene is them huddling around the radio, listening to Churchills announcement and trying to be strong.

I love Call the Midwife but all I can want is a prequel set in WW2.

Sister Monica Joan in her prime??

Sister Julienne and Sister Evangelina in the earlier stages of their career??

GIVE IT ALL TO ME. Show me them delivering babies during the blitz. Show me Poplar as it falls apart around them.

I don’t really want the 70s. I want the 40s. Show me what we haven’t seen.

[01zfan]

in chair

anton x reader | 8.5k words

rewatched juno recently (the best movie of all time by the way) and i thought of anton. he is so paulie bleaker coded. this is mainlyyyy inspired by the beginning scene of the movie but the dynamic i tried to write here is supposed to be like them heh

also in my head the album pinkerton by weezer plays in the background during all of this. 

contains: loss of virginity, sneaking around

There was some sort of binding vow that kept the recliner safe.

Even if it made no sense, to Anton and to you it felt like doing it on the recliner was better than doing it anywhere else. As though Anton’s dad was all the way in South Korea unknowingly keeping his irresponsible son honest. The terrible conversation they had about safe sex in his home studio lingered in the air and seeped into the recliner through the cracks in the vinyl covering.

Neither of you had a condom but that was okay because the recliner itself was one big condom, keeping you both safe from whatever absolutely couldn’t happen.

No matter how Anton felt about you, he was convinced that nothing would ever come of it. Not only was he a responsible and dutiful son, he promised his dad he wouldn’t do reckless things to save his mom the trouble. He would also never do anything because the mere thought of holding hands made his palms sweaty. He didn’t even really know how to have sex, much less with someone he’s friends with and has been dating-but-not-really-dating for the last year. You once described the relationship as something that had to do with close proximity and your shared taste in nerd-rock bands everyone else thought were shitty. Even if he did share that kiss with you in Park Wonbin's sweaty basement for no reason and you two did hold hands, you weren't together. You two were open and honest but you got defensive once when Anton brought up anything regarding your relationship. So because of that, the thought of having to speak or touch you even if he wanted to, and you never had any complaints when he did, made Anton’s mind overflow with all that could go wrong.

But he was in the chair. This was better than laying missionary on the bed, or being on the floor. This was different than whatever you were going to do when you finally got the courage to take off your underwear and close the difference between you and him. 

You stood in front of Anton, watching him in just his boxers and a white shirt. His hoodie was taken off and thrown onto his small bed, his sweats were bunched at his feet. This scene had to be degrading, him with his pants down and staring at you waiting for what you were going to do next. You were wearing more clothes than him. You told yourself you couldn’t take off your layered shirts for his sake, not because the thought of being completely naked felt embarrassing. Anton was with you through your terrible nu-metal phase and even humored you and listened to the mixtape you burned for him. There was nothing worse than that but still, you stayed in your bra with your undershirt, the long sleeve, and the short sleeve band tee on top. Anton was still your bestfriend, and he could take back that he wanted to do this at any moment. 

There was also the fear that his mother and brother could come back. You two had lost track of time because you started awkwardly kissing immediately once you heard the front door close. Anton eventually found the strength to pull you onto his lap after sitting criss cross to accommodate you. Once you were there and your hands were on his shoulders bringing him closer, the seconds started turning into minutes, minutes turned into hours, so forth. You forgot when you even started and looking at the time was useless. 

All of this was ironic, because Anton’s mom had recently become wary of leaving you two alone. She had developed the habit of trying to snoop on your conversations while talking to his dad over the phone. She would stand in the kitchen, holding the phone close to her face while standing on her tiptoes to see over the upstairs banister into Anton’s room.

“Is he taking a liking to it?” Anton’s dad asked it over the phone when she described the scene to him. He was elated with the idea of the recliner going in his sons room. He saw it as some sort of compensation for missing more formative years in his life. He was happy imagining his son sitting in his old recliner, rocking back and forth on the creaky springs maybe even thinking about him. “He always favored that chair.” 

“It’s hideous,” Anton’s mom whispered it into the receiver, recalling the sight of it in Anton’s room. “Even in Anton’s mess of a room.”

The brown fraying recliner did not match Anton’s shining gold trophies and medals that hung on his wall. It didn’t match his old race car bed frame he couldn’t bring himself to replace. The way the recliner sat made Anton’s cluttered room an even tighter fit, and the growth spurt he had last summer made it so he had to bend his legs if he wanted to sit on the floor.

The reclining chair from his father’s studio was replaced with leather imported from overseas. The shipment came from Italy and stood on sturdy wooden rings with a detached ottoman. The new recliner was minimalist and smelled like a new car. The old one was clunky, the lever was sentient, and the vinyl started peeling off years ago. Anton’s brother said it was disgusting and his father said himself that he was due for an upgrade. 

Anton tried to remain indifferent to the old chair but when his mother asked for help to put it on the curb he found himself suddenly advocating for it to stay in the house. There was no reason for it to be downstairs in the studio where the new sofa was, and his mother would be damned putting it in the living room where anyone could see it. By the end of the day Anton was clearing out a place for the recliner in his room. Junyoung made that face of disgust and their mother tilted her head to the side. 

He already had a beanbag he rarely used and a million other things that cluttered his room. Anton’s mother told her son this gently, but he had already set his mind to it. He “cleared” a space—pushed a pile of unfolded laundry and stuffed animals from one side of his room to the other—just to make a brand new home for the disgusting sofa. Junyoung and him carried the heavy recliner up the stairs, bumping into the banister as his mom watched and told them to be careful. 

“He has a better use for it than I do.” Anton’s father said over the phone. Anton’s mom shook her head remembering her son’s promise of cleaning up his room. She also remembers that it felt like the entire family was in the room if she counted the chair. “Does he like it?”

“He likes sitting in it to do homework.” Anton’s mom from the kitchen peered up the stairs. From where she was she should be able to see directly into Anton’s room. She readjusted herself on her tiptoes, becoming more and more distracted as she tried to see what was going on. “But the one who’s really taken a liking to it is his friend.” 

Before her husband could say your name back to her in a titled voice Anton’s mom put her hand over the receiver of the phone and projected her voice.

“Kids.” She spoke sweetly, including an endearing term for everyone to seem inconspicuous. She pretended like she was talking to Junyoung through his closed door. She waited for a moment, until she could hear the sound of Anton calling back to her. “Are you guys hungry?” She asked.

“No. You just made us lunch.” Anton spoke barely above a normal talking volume back. 

Sound unfortunately carried easily even through half-shut doors. Anton’s mom had no reason to tell him to open the door all the way so she could snoop to her hearts content. Still though, she tried standing on her tiptoes again, desperately trying to see what was going on upstairs in her son’s room without prying.

“Lunch was really good by the way.” You said, even gentler than Anton’s.

“I can bring you guys up some snacks if you’d like?” She said back.

“Mom, we’re okay, really.” Anton’s voice told her that he knew what she was trying to do. She went back to the balls of her feet, trying to remember who was on the other side of the line. 

“You don’t have to bring us anything, you already made us lunch.” Your sweet voice followed afterwards, a cute pitch that neither of her sons had.

“Okay.” She let go of the receiver, trying to get one last look into Anton’s room. When she only saw the tip of his head she finally gave up, letting go of the receiver and bringing the phone back to her face. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you Mom.” 

“You bother them too much.” Her husband was amused on the other end of the line, even if his voice came out tired through the speaker. About seven thousand miles and fourteen hours separated them. “But do you think he’ll finally get furniture that matches?” He added.

His mother wasn’t completely against the idea of the recliner in Anton’s room. When her son looked back and for approval she nodded, and her approval made Junyoung follow suit. She liked the recliner because she hoped it would make Anton realize how juvenile the rest of his room was. The ill-fitted race car bed was from when he was a preteen and he’s amassed a collection of stuffed animals since he was a baby. The accolades from swimming was the most mature thing in her son’s room, even if there was a trophy from his little league days. Maybe the aged recliner would make Anton get things that accommodated his age. He could keep the gundam figurines because robots and guns are normal for kids his age, but not the colorful squishmallows. 

When his mother followed up the steps she had to breathe in before telling Anton that he needed to declutter his space. She said it to the stuffed animals spilling out from the hammock fastened to the wall and the barely closed doors of his closet she didn’t dare to open. She looked at the gundam figurines lining what was supposed to be his school desk and unfolded laundry resting at the foot of his bed.

The recliner could also be a stand-in for his father. She figured that in some weird way the recliner filled the void while he made music overseas. Next time she’d reprimand her son she already envisioned casting a glance towards the chair, like her husband was there backing her up. 

“Your mom definitely thinks we’re doing something we’re not supposed to.” You spoke while looking at your homework, settling deeper into the bean bag. Anton looked up from his notebook settled in between his bent legs. “She wants to come up here so bad.”

“What do you think she thinks we’re doing?” 

Anton asked the question just to pull you from your assignment. He knew the answer already, he picked up the desperation in his mother’s voice and the way she gently reminded Anton to keep the door open before you came over. He liked acting clueless because you always shot him the look that asked if he was stupid and deadpanned the answer. 

“She thinks we’re like,” Before the words could roll off your tongue you pause. It’s covered by the quiet mix coming through Anton’s CD player, but the way you avert your eyes and start picking at the corner of your paper makes it obvious. Anton looks back to his assignment too, trying to help you cover up the pause in your words. “kissing or something.” You finish.

Truthfully, what his parents think you two do when you’re left unsupervised is much worse than kissing. So much worse that Anton was sat down by his parents to have a terribly awkward safe sex talk. He didn’t know what he was doing in his dad’s home office or why they started the conversation with how you two met. 

Anton already knew that you became friends when you were freshmen, pushed to the outskirts of your grade’s caste. Your shared niche taste in media brought you two close together at the cost of any chance at being popular. He already knew that his only other opportunity to make friends was through forced proximity of his teammates on the swim team, and you still had your friend from childhood. She was the complete opposite of you—and she made fun of Anton any chance she got—but she was nice. She was the only popular kid that actually seemed to engage with people from other cliques.

But Anton already knew that it was you and him against the world. He didn’t know why his mother implemented a rule that the door had to be open when you two are in his room. Anton was confused by all this because one day his parents viewed you as his one and only friend and the next day you were viewed as a girl that he could possibly be romantically involved with. 

The way his parents acted around you made Anton look at you differently. He came to the conclusion that you were still the same, you still wore your baggy clothes and cursed almost every sentence and listened to the same music you always have. Anton had to tell his parents that you were still the same girl—and you were still only friends—even if you were seemingly getting prettier by the day. He had the moment of clarity when you two were in this exact position, where you were looking up at him asking what the answer was to a question on science homework. He came to the conclusion that him seeing you in a different light was based on technicality. Even if there was that girl on his swim team that asked him to the formal it made sense that you would be the subject of Anton’s dreams because you were always together. 

But maybe it was the chair. Both of you assumed that Anton’s mom realized how ridiculous she was being, and that there was nothing her responsible son and his unassuming friend would do. She was also trying really hard to get you both to come with her to the store, but once you both lamented how responsible you were trying to be studying for an exam she left you be. She wrangled Junyoung instead to be her companion on the trip grocery store run, said a prayer, and then left. 

With just you, Anton, and the CD playing in his room it was quiet. You mentioned the kissing or something to hide the fact it was all you ever thought about. Being left alone with him was harder these days. After your garage band was dissolved because Eunseok was visiting his grandparents for the rest of the month there was an extremely different air surrounding you two. Being partners for class projects was one thing, being alone in his room in an empty house was another.

There was no segue into you two kissing. One moment you were asking about that girl on Anton’s swim team and he was asking you about the boy from your English class. You told him that he was just a boy and Anton said she was just a girl. There was a stare that lasted too long and you holding your pencil so hard in your hand you thought it would break. When the silence became too much you reached forward, planting a kiss on the corner of Anton’s mouth. He hesitated, then he reciprocated, trig homework still bunched in his lap. 

The kisses started off slow and awkward, neither of you knowing exactly what to do with all of eachother.  The very act of crawling into Anton’s lap was humiliating for some reason, the sound of the notebooks and assignments being pushed to the side was embarrassing. Anton’s perpetually dry lips pressing to yours was slow, the overwhelming anticipation made first contact just feel like a regular touch. Anton was too nervous to ask you if you wanted to stop, and that was good because you were too embarrassed to tell him to do it again. Anton just silently stretched his legs fully until they pressed into the beanbag and he pulled you fully onto him, basically cradling you. 

Lack of communication made you two just slip through the motions. You both just continued pressing your lips against eachothers while your faces heated up from embarrassment until contact started feeling like something more. You think it changed when Anton tilted his head slightly to one side and wet his lips. When he went back in after that it made you tilt your head to the other side, and then it felt like something was actually happening. Anton’s hand that kept you still on his lap went to your head when it was obvious you weren’t going anywhere. You felt his hands grip the back of your neck. 

The hesitation from Anton to go into your hair made you gain your bearings long enough to finally create some distance. Anton’s hands left your body completely the second you moved, and you stood up immediately. You were dizzy from moving too quick and the view of Anton from above. His lips already looked different, plump from constant contact and wet from your shared spit. His tongue was peaking out before he let it go back into his mouth. His hands were pressed into the ground on either side of his body, and he looked so cramped in the small space between his bed and the wall. You looked from him to the recliner, trying to calm your racing heart. Each time you looked back to Anton he was already looking up at you, eyes wide and not moving an inch.  

You two should’ve definitely talk about whatever was happening. Silence has served the both of you well up to this point. Anton started moving slowly backwards until he could sit in the recliner. It rocked back from his weight when he reached for his sweater, and Anton kept his fingers there. He didn’t move fully until he saw you kick off your slippers and reach for the button on your cargo pants.

Anton’s mom was currently shopping, Junyoung went with her because you and Anton needed to focus on studying for the Trigonometry exam in two days. Instead you two were engaged in a silent standoff, one staring at the other while you tried to figure out what to do next.

Anton moved first. When his room got too dark from the evening he reached to his bedside table quickly, pulling the string on his Yoshitomo Nara table lamp to light the area. Your bare thighs were suddenly illuminated, your body casting a shadow on the wall behind you. Your cargo pants were bunched behind you, leaving you in your stripped crew socks and your baggy shirts that left too much to the imagination. When Anton turned on the light he realized he could be seen clearly too. He hoped he looked good sitting on the recliner in front of you. Like a boyish Adam Yauch or another rockstar you were always talking to him about.

You moved second. You don’t count the tremor that wracked through your body but you counted your hands finally leaving your sides to reach for your waist instead. You looked from Anton’s face to his hands, you watched them clench as you tried willing yourself to loosen up. You were supposed to be calmer than Anton was. You were supposed to be breaking through the tension with a joke at Anton’s expense and he was supposed to laugh to lighten the mood. But both of you were silent, trying to suppress the clues that you simultaneously panicking. 

You let out a deep breath, and another shake that was hidden underneath your layers of shirts. Your hands went to the waistband of your underwear, fingers going underneath the wrap around the elastic waistband. You’ve done this a million times, the setting and the audience were different but the motions were the same. You repeated that to herself over and over as you pulled your panties down, until you had to bend over to get them the rest of the way. 

When you came back up Anton’s hands were no longer balled up on top of his thighs. They were gripping the armrest now, and he was getting that leg bounce you always teased him for. You didn’t say anything this time because you watched him try to stop it. He wiped his hands on his legs until he reached his knee. He grasped around the joint and held tight until his knuckles became white. 

You had a handful of your underwear with cherries on it, still not taking a step towards him. That table lamp was expensive but it was never very bright. You thought about what Anton could see, if his eyes kept on darting down to her your because he didn’t like what he was seeing or because he couldn’t see it at all. 

You stepped forward and Anton leaned back into his seat. You took another step and he leaned forward. The third step left him awkwardly between the two positions, and his leg started bouncing again. You did feel bad, like you were playing with him without meaning to. You and Anton had built up a rapport centered around you lightly bullying him and him taking it. You couldn’t remember the last time you two were in complete silence like this, or when you two were so sincere and so lost. But this was cruel for you too, because up until twenty minutes ago you thought that Anton wasn’t interested in you at all. Now you’re walking towards him thinking about how this could ruin your friendship forever, or if he became your friend solely at the prospect of getting in your pants. You knew the situation was unlikely because Anton was your friend when you didn’t want to be kind to yourself, but the more you think about it the more it makes sense why there’s so much hesitation.

You’re in front of the recliner now. Anton pulled his legs together until his knees touched, making his large body small so you could have the most space possible. It was a kind gesture, but you were too busy being completely silent to acknowledge it. Anton looked between your legs up to your face, leaning back so much the chair tilted back with him. You casted a shadow on his face, but you could still make up the way he was looking at you through it. He offered his hands on the armrest of the recliner, giving you a place of stability if you wanted to take it further. Anton only looked at your chest in passing, not pressing further even if all you focused on was the center of his white shirt. He leaned forward to take the shirt off too, tossing it in the same place his sweatshirt was. 

Anton let out the smallest tremor. You looked at his silver necklace first, too afraid to look at his toned stomach. You could only get the courage to look at his broad chest, the way he looked against the back of the recliner. You had your hands on his shoulders when he pulled you onto his lap but looking at them now doesn’t make sense. You had seen the pictures of him with his shirt off, you’ve been to his swim meets before. Seeing him like this with no one else there was different. You couldn’t believe that this was the same guy who was lanky and bumping into everything the first time you met. This was a social outcast like you, someone who stayed in swim and orchestra because he wouldn’t have friends any other way. The same one who burned CD’s of nerd rock bands and idolized his father too much. 

When Anton’s hand that was on the armrest went palms up you quickly put your underwear there. He was surprised, taking his attention away from your face to his hand. His hand went rigid underneath the fabric and Anton was still staring at it, he didn’t move until your hands went to his shoulders for leverage. Like he couldn’t touch you with the hand holding your panties his other went to you, stabilizing you as you straddled his lap on the creaky recliner. 

For a moment it’s just you and Anton like that. Chest to chest, you hovering above his lap. Your eye level with him for what feels like the first time in your life, and the least amount of clothes separates the two of you. Even if you have on an undershirt, a long sleeve, and a band tee on it feels like your bare against Anton’s chest. Your hands stay on his shoulder and his arm stays on the lowest part of your waist that’s covered by clothes. His other hand closes around your underwear.

“I like that band.” 

Anton said it still looking into your eyes. You looked down like you didn’t know what shirt you were wearing. You and Anton actually went to the show together, you both forgot earplugs so you spent a portion of the opening act stuffing toilet paper into eachothers ears. 

You should've reminded him of that moment like he would've forgotten what you looked like looking up at him with worrying vocalizing concerns about toilet paper becoming permanently stuck in your ear. But instead you played with the chipping leather on the seat and nodded your head.

“I like them too.” You respond.

Another chance to talk about what’s happening dissolves in the air as you two settle into another bout of silence. Anton brings your underwear into your line of sight, a silent offering that for a split second you think is rejection. When you take it back you try to get off of him, but instantly both of his hands are on your waist keeping you in place. 

He experiments, letting his hands slide further and further down until his hands are on your bare skin underneath all your shirts. Your skin is flaming and his hands feel like ice, you stiffen and Anton gets a better grip on you. You’re in the palm of his hands and your underwear is wedged between his shoulder blade and your hand. He keeps eye contact with you and applies the lightest force downwards. You give in immediately, and you feel the area you couldn’t bring yourself to look at before. Anton’s bulge is hard against your bare cunt, your combined heat overwhelms you. Already you can feel sweat lining your body underneath your shirts, and you can feel embarrassing wetness seep from you onto his boxers. 

There’s barely anything separating the two of you. All Anton would have to do is pull down his waistband or reach into the fly of his boxers and pull himself out. Maybe he shouldn’t. You always imagined you’d lose your virginity in college when you'd miraculously become hot enough to bang, or when you got married and someone was contractually obligated to find you sexy. Everyone else in your grade seemed to be doing this but you and Anton prided yourselves on being different. You didn’t not imagine losing it to him, he was the first real boy that you ever thought about kissing when he got really handsome over the summer two years ago. But this seemed wrong, like you were doing this wrong. Even if it felt so good that your combined slick and his precum made the thin layer of his boxers wet, this felt wrong. Feeling the ridge of Anton’s dick shouldn’t feel so nice, and you shouldn’t want more. The anticipation shouldn’t feel so nice that nothing feels like it will be enough.

Even if you’ve convinced yourself that this is all wrong, you still drag your hips forward in the smallest motion. Suddenly the creaking from the recliner while you two were trying to find a comfortable position stops. The silence is so loud, it somehow overpowers the music playing in Anton’s room. His hands freeze on your waist, your blunt nails dig into his shoulder. You look down at where you two almost are so close to meeting. You can see the discoloration on his boxers, and if you really focus you can see yourself glistening. When you glance up quickly Anton is looking down too, even if his hands on your hip are still unmoving. He doesn’t look up from your hips, and then you grind against him again.

The third time you drag your hips on his is when the first sound leaves his lips. A quiet moan, a quick sound that’s almost muffled by his closed lips. You focus on Anton’s neck, watching his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. His hands dig a little more into your waist, and you drag your hips again. Without looking at Anton you move forward slowly, until your chin is resting in the crook of his neck. You have enough leverage now to apply more pressure, dragging your bare cunt on his clothed dick.

His hand left your hip when you let your first sound slip out. He went to pressing his hand to your lower back, then as though he was waiting for you first more sounds of his own started slipping out. You stayed focused on his Adam’s apple, the way it moves in his throat with each sound. You’re driven by watching it move, you purposefully drag your hips rougher against his, just to see the movement.

“Oh my God.” Anton’s hand creeps up under your shirt until you can feel his large hand pressed between your shoulder. “That feels so good.” 

Anton’s voice is barely above a whisper. He does better than you, because you’re still completely silent, only nodding as you drag your hips on his again. 

Beyond Anton’s comment that floated around in his cluttered room, you two went back to being silent. Just pitiful noises swapped between the two of you, trying to be silent while also seeing what the other liked. Anton gripped you a little tighter when you whimpered and your lips would press against his neck, and you liked feeling his moans ring through his chest. 

“Should I—“ Anton moved, trying to offer something that got stuck in his throat “Do you want me to—”

The gesture towards your exposed bottom half made you shake your head on instinct. When you tried to pause his hand over your shirt kept you moving, tiny swivels against him. You were making a mess on his boxers, grinding on him like a dog in heat. You never heard about this being so embarrassing. You know it’s painfully obvious you’ve never been touched this way before. 

“I hear it helps.” Anton’s fingers dig into your shirt when you pause again. “And I’ll try to make it feel good for you.”

Anton’s hand is already drifting down when you nod your head. He leaves your waist and settles between your legs, cramming his long fingers through the space where your hips meet. Both of you let out a sigh at the same time, even when it’s just his inexperienced hand bumping into your clit. You still coat his fingers and he repeats the same awkward motion.

“You’re so wet.” Anton whispers. 

You say sorry even though you've never apologized for anything in your life. You sound so sincere it makes Anton shake his head.

"Don't apologize." He says quickly, repeating the motion.

He lifts his head from the recliner to look down, watching his fingers disappear as you continue your tiny grinds. He experiments with you. He scissors his fingers against your folds, he pushes a finger between them and glides down. He is operating off terrible guesswork and the sounds you make, when you try to stifle something by biting your lip or shaking your head slightly. 

You know Anton wants you to tell him what to do. At some point his gaze moved to the side of your face, intense and burning while he continued doing something with his fingers. You were figuring it out too, what you liked. Bossing Anton around was easier in different circumstances, but now he was beginning to pout when nothing he was doing was working. When you hear a whimper bubbling in his throat you take a chance, leaving your crumpled panties draped over his shoulder to drop your hand down.

You press two fingers to your clit and look at Anton’s chest, trying to find that place in your room on top of your bed where you did this the most. 

“Like this.” 

You say it quietly, soft motions that make you bump and grind on his hand. He keeps his hand still for you, and you continue grinding on the side of his hand. The slick sound replaces the silence in the room, only interrupted by the sound of your bodies moving on top of the fraying cushion.

Anton watches you for a moment, nodding like he’s the one touching your clit. You have to give him some credit, because he’s takes the leap to reach his hand from your waist to replace your fingers with his. 

You don’t know how to deal with the fact that Anton is bringing you pleasure like this. There’s something that creeps on you, burning on your cheeks as you start huffing into Anton’s neck. He tries his best to make it feel good for you, and he does it well. He’s attentive, learns too fast and continues to go when your hands would’ve started cramping. 

“Ton.” You whimper.

“Am I doing it right?” He asks. 

You grind on Anton’s hand and the other works your clit. You’ve never felt the extent of stimulation like this, grinding on something desperately while having another thing on your clit. There’s also never been someone but yourself doing this for you. 

The more you pathetically grind on Anton’s hand the hotter your cheeks feel, and then you feel sweat lining your body underneath your shirts.

You know something else is going to happen when Anton gets quiet again. He’s too nervous to ask what to do next and you’re too busy chasing after something to tell him. But you feel his hand go to your ass to lift you, and his hand that was on your clit goes further and further down until he presses into your entrance. 

Your fingers take him in too fast. You sigh into his neck, and your hands move to press into Anton’s chest. Your underwear is caught between your hand and his body, the wrinkled fabric against him.

You start grinding against his fingers inside of you. With your chest heaving you pull away from Anton’s neck, trying your best to hide how scared you are to look up at him. You find comfort in the fact that his cheeks are flushed and tinted red too, and that sweat is making hair stick to his forehead. You find enough courage to look at Anton directly, and you chase after that feeling you were trying to suppress. 

Anton is pressed into the recliner watching you bounce on his fingers. He keeps his fingers the same for you, not daring to move an inch while he watches you. His chest is heaving watching you. How far gone Anton is could be bizarre, but you’ve been in similarly gone thinking about him in this situation. His fingers feel just as good as you thought they would, and he’s so insistent on getting you somewhere he’s silent, not saying a word so he can focus completely on you.

“I can handle it.” You say it quickly. The first time you feel Anton’s fingers move inside of you is when your words register. Now it’s you reaching for Anton’s dick, an unsteady hand sticking right through the fly in his boxers. When you feel him heavy and sticky in your hands you pulse around his fingers “Let’s do it.” 

“Are you sure?” Anton asks the question purely on technicality. Both of you have already made it this far, not thinking about the consequences. You don’t even know what you’re sure of, besides the fact that Anton is twitching in your hand and a sigh racks through his entire body when you pull him out through his boxers.

There’s only hesitation when you felt Antons’ tip prod your entrance. You held onto his shoulders tight, keeping yourself suspended above him. The music stopped at some point, leaving you two with the creaky wood and springs in the recliner and your tense breathing.

“I’m really glad you’re here.” Anton says it like you haven’t spent almost everyday after school at his house for the past three years. His hand is still holding the base of his dick, his bicep flexing with each moment. You sink just a little deeper. His fingers couldn’t compare to this, because you’ve already felt yourself seize up again and Anton is letting out a tense breath at how tight you already feel. “But if you want me to stop, just say so.” 

“I want to keep going.” You say it, but you still are in the same place above his dick. Feeling his tip makes you lightheaded, and having him wait for you to move makes you want to crumble into him again. You can feel Anton let out a choked gasp when you sink a little further. You’ve made it past his tip, swollen and twitching inside of you when you retreat back to his neck. “Help me the rest of the way.”

You feel his head nod against yours, and then you feel his hand leave between your two bodies to wrap around your waist instead. He readjusts his grip on you, and you can feel your soft skin peaking through the space in his fingers. Anton has felt your frame underneath your layers of clothes, you feel tiny compared to him. You feel weak too, because Anton starts pulling you down slowly on top of him.

“Try to relax.” Anton croaks into your ear when you seize around him. “You’re too tight.”

Selfishly, you start making loud noises in Anton’s ear to try and relieve some of the pressure. He lets out a strained sound back to you, slowly working you down the rest of the way. He’s too big, the stretching from his large fingers did nothing to stretch you out. He’s a tight fit, and you’re getting tighter the more you think about how there’s somehow more of him to go.

Just before you curse into his ear, you feel yourself sitting on his lap. Anton is fully inside of you. Your hands are pressed to his chest and you feel like your body is melding into the recliner. Anton’s hands on your waist twitch and grasp at you. When you seize around him Anton pitches forward head hung low. You can see him scrunch his face, his eyebrows knitting together in concentration. You get used to him fast. From the very beginning you wanted more, and when your nails dig into his shoulder you finally get enough leverage to lift yourself on his lap.

Anton pulls in a deep breath fast and holds it. You do all the work, going up as high and you can before you can drop again. You repeat the motion, waiting for Anton to bring up his hanging head or to make a sound. He seems so helpless, almost shaking his head as his hands on your hips gets more desperate. You want to pull his head up manually so he has to look at you, but you can’t bring yourself to say a word. You grind on him when you sink fully down, feeling him writhe in your gut. You start hanging your head too, unable to find the strength to lift yourself up again.

Despite begging inwardly for Anton to lift your head, when he finally finds the strength to do it, you press your cheek to his. Physically touching is the contact you need, and not being able to see his face keeps you from burning up. The contact was what Anton needed to, because when your flushed cheeks smushed together he let moans slip from his parted lips louder. You were whimpering against his cheek, looking out the window behind the recliner to his yard. 

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Anton whispered it directly in your ear, fanning the side of your face with his quick breath. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling your clothed body against his bare chest. Your hands move to the back to the recliner and it tips backwards from the added weight. “I’ve—I’ve thought about this for so long.” He adds.

Over the top of the recliner you could see the backyard. During that summer before Anton’s dad cleared out the garage your band used to play there. You never would’ve thought that being in the backyard would lead you hear. The recliner creaks when Anton’s hand move underneath your ass, lifting you up slightly to bring you down. 

“I’ve thought about this too.” You say it even quieter than Anton did, nodding your head against his. His skin is so soft against yours, you keep moving your head just to feel his skin catch on yours. You start working with his strength to lift yourself on your knees.

The rhythm you and Anton build up is messy. The inclination of knowing music is out the window, the two of you lack pattern chasing after something. Anton can’t figure out if he wants to hold you tight by your waist or keep a tight grip on your ass. You can’t will away the burn working in your thighs, and you can’t work with the small space you have on the recliner. The chair tilts back and forth, screaming from the extra weight. 

The louder you and Anton get the louder the recliner gets too. When you curse and say tell Anton that you’re close the chair is almost louder than you.

“I think I’m close too.” Anton’s hand works up your back, ending with his large hand over the back of your neck. He squeezes and your body reacts by squeezing him tight. You make Anton’s next moan come out strained, his sentence is cut off when he experimentally squeezes the back of your neck again. “Does that feel good?”

You know his question comes from a genuine place of worry. He’s had a reputation of being so gentle with you it was unbearable at times. You wore baggy clothes and hung out with the boys in an effort of becoming one of them. Everyone seemed to know that except for Anton, always treating you like you were liable to break. Even when you know he wants to continue chasing after that feeling and bring you down on his dick faster he’s gentle, letting you set the pace and just helping you when your legs fail. He clenches the back of your neck a third time, and it feels like his concerns become dirty talk. You want him to ask you if he’s too big for you in that same worried tone, or too ask you if you’re sure you’re close. 

“Feels good Anton.” The chair continues to creak underneath you too. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus on one thing. He’s unknowingly overstimulating, despite the fact that he’s quiet and gentle with you. You’re filling in the gaps, letting your imagination run beyond you two and this recliner. You think about your shared time together as friends, like the moment at the rock show when Anton’s hand gripped you the same way they do now. Like he doesn’t want to let go of you, like you’re his and he’s yours. “I’m really close.”

“Can I look at you?” 

Anton asks the question in between the recliner creaking and him bringing you back down on his twitching dick. He offers you the chance to ignore him, but you’re slowly nodding your head against his again.

With the gentle grip on the back of your neck Anton brings your face away from his. The split second you summon your remaining courage, following his gentle pull. You’re face to face with Anton. The recliner seems to get a little quieter, both of your hips falter when you make eye contact. Anton’s pupils are blown wide, his lips are parted and swollen. You see his tongue peak out, running over that place he always touches with his fingers. His hair falls in front of his face, bangs almost covering his eyes completely. You push his bangs out of the way quickly, both of your hands still cradling his face. You run your thumb over his cheek for a moment and Anton’s hand kneads your skin.

The second time you go in to kiss Anton is different from the first. Instead of closing your eyes and lurching forward it’s deliberate. You keep your eyes open until Anton closes his, squeezing his cheeks a little harder when you finally feel his lips press to yours.

Anton’s hand on the back of your neck moves to your face. You’re tilting your head and then he’s tilting it for you. You can hear your lips moving against eachother, then the feeling of his tongue poking your bottom lip. You open your mouth slow, and then it’s Anton’s tongue pressing flat against yours. You curve your tongue and mix spit, overextending the gap in your mouth to get a better taste. 

The action is messy, Your spit is smeared along the perimeter of Anton’s mouth when you start riding him again. It’s a simple motion, that’s closer to grinding than actually fucking yourself. But it’s enough to get Anton to hold your face still and separate your lips from his. Anton brings your head together until your foreheads touch. He’s breathing heavily as you continue grinding against his lap, just repeating the small motion. You can feel Anton’s body bumping into your clit, and you hear his breathing turn into his chest heaving. 

You don’t stop grinding, you open your eyes and see Anton looking through half-lidded eyes right back at you. You whimper and continue grinding, and one of his hand’s leaves your face to hold your ass. He speeds up your hips, and you hear the terrible creak in the recliner. You’re sure something will give out any minute, and right before the chair can rock all the way back Anton freezes underneath you. His words are caught in his throat, you think you hear him curse for the first time in your life before he leans his entire body against the back of the recliner. You continue riding him, and both of you become louder than the recliner. You’re cursing back at Anton, digging your nails into his skin and balling up your underwear in the palm of your hand. 

“Baby.” Anton moans, pathetic and loud. He projects towards the ceiling, eyes squeezed shut. His grip on your waist is bruising, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. Your moans turn into loud grunts, and your grinds turn into flicks against his skin. “Too much. Too much.” He whines.

You nod your head quickly, flicking your hips three times before you finally feel relief. You let out a deep breath you didn’t know you were holding, and your whole body starts to collapse. You heave out each breath, your chest shaking. You have to breathe in deep to center yourself, and you seize around him each time you try to ground yourself. Anton is shaking his head against the back of the recliner. With each breath you get closer and closer to Anton, until your chest is pressing against his and his arms wrap around you to pull you in for a hug. 

When you move again Anton hisses right in your ear. You playfully grind against him again, and Anton weakly lifts you up until his dick slides out of you. He’s still half hard, landing against his stomach with a wet slap. He lets you lay back down on him, and you shiver when your bare cunt rests on his dick.

You’re laying against Anton’s chest for awhile. You can hear his heart rate finally start to slow down. His hand creeps underneath your layer of shirts, rubbing his hand on your bare back. Like it’s the most intimate thing you’ve done in the past hour he’s awkward, only continuing the massaging motion when you sigh contently against him.

Your shared sweat starts mixing with Anton’s welding you both to the peeling vinyl. You already feel disgusting against underneath your shirts, and the cold sweat from Anton that seeps through to you.

“Your mom will be back soon.” You murmur. 

You feel warmth seep out of you and you shiver again. You hum against his chest, feeling your eyelids get heavy.

Anton’s mom came through the door with Junyoung behind her. He had a handful of grocery bags, walking past her to go to the kitchen. She was busy standing on her tiptoes, and the moment she saw the closed door to Anton’s room her heart dropped. Junyoung was already going back outside to get the groceries when she said out loud she was going to get Anton.

Up the stairs she was contemplating on what to do Should she stomp up the stairs a little louder to give you two fair warning? Should she sneak up and try to catch you two in the act? Junyoung came back inside with more bags in his hands. He complained about wanting help before going back out, whispering under his breath that he was leaving the heavy stuff for Anton. 

His mom cleared the stairs and walked across the landing to her sons door. She held her head to the door first, trying to pick up on anything. At the sound of the recliner creaking loudly she knocked and opened the door in one go, preparing for the worst.

When she opened the door she found Anton in the recliner, in his white shirt and sweatpants. He was alone in the room, looking up from his assignment to his mother standing in the doorframe. Anton stopped rocking in the chair, the loud creaking coming to an end. She scanned the room quickly, trying to remember the reason why she came up here.

“She had to go home before it got to dark.” Anton said, answering her question.

“I’m making dinner, I would’ve given her a ride home.” 

Anton shrugs, clutching something in his hand. She sees that his pencil is on his bedside table. She really shouldn’t press the issue any further. She already stormed into her son’s room expecting to catch him in the act. She’s guilty, she lets go of the doorknob and almost turns around without saying another word. She sees Junyoung come inside again, more bags of food clutched in his hand. 

“Can you help your brother with the groceries?” She trades the order for a suggestion, trying to compensate for the intrusion in her room. Anton nods and shifts in the recliner, causing it to creak. He looks back down to his paper. “Whenever you finish what you’re working on.” She adds quickly.

“No it’s okay, I was done anyways. I’ll be down in a little bit.” Anton says and gets up from his chair. She leaves the room completely, her husband saying she needs to leave her son alone playing in her mind again and again. 

When his mom leaves the room he turns around to face towards the chair. He looks out the chair behind the window, looking at his backyard to where you climbed your bike to pedal back home. He insisted that you stay, but you seemed really adamant on leaving saying you had to be home at a certain time. When Anton hears his mom make her way down the stairs he looks down to his clenched fist. He really wanted you to stay, and the only thing that convinced him he didn’t do something wrong was your parting gif. Anton opens up his hand to see your crumpled pair of underwear expand in his palm. He sighs and clutches it again before opening the top drawer of his bedside table and putting it inside. He closes the drawer and sighs again, turning off his lamp to help with the groceries. 

[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

════════════════════

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. 

[gay-dorito-dust]

More pjo things that I’ve thought about. More or less things/ behaviours they only have towards you.

Percy would hate going back to an empty cabin, so he just drags you along with him instead.

He doesn’t like how void of life and laughter it is that sometimes he’d sneak himself into your cabin to join you if he couldn’t wait until the next day to see you.

Percy just hates being alone with his thoughts and stuff that he’s more then often doing anything in his power to not be on his own for longer then a hour, it typically never ends well and so he just tries to fill time by doing whatever he could with you in order to have his mind fixated on the new memories, and not the ones he’s still not ready to confront just yet.

Thoughts such as whether Luke was right (he was)

So yeah impromptu sleepovers at cabin 3 are a thing you do.

The gods ask far too much out of him, so when he has time with you, all he wants to do is either nothing at all or mundane things that reminded him that he was someone outside of being a demigod. So baking foods and dying them blue was a favoured pass time for you both before it quickly dissolved into a fight that ends with a really cute kiss.

You guys are sickeningly sweet to everyone but they can’t look away either because if they want to know what a healthy relationship looked like, they’d just look at you and Percy as he’s splashing you with water, meanwhile you can’t do shit because he can’t get wet unless he will himself to. You call him a cheater for this but find that you can’t stay mad at your water boy for very long when he’s giving you sea puppy dog eyes and a cute pout.

He’s even attempted to make you something out of the seashells he’s found amongst other things he’s found at the bottom of the lake, with some help of course, and would beam brightly when he sees that you’ve kept them in good use afterwards that he didn’t mind if a shell or two fell off because as long as you were using what he gifted you Percy didn’t care.

With Percy to be loved is to be a comforting thought, a guiding light in the bleaker moments and a tether to one’s own humanity.

Leo utilises his talents to make something for you that you end up having scattered across your bedside table.

He’s the kind to say ‘you want to kiss me so bad’ but the moment you do give him a kiss, whether it’s his lip, cheek, forehead or even his nose, he’s silent as a mouse and is looking at you as though he was seeing you for the first time.

This dude is a living furnace and a sassy bastard, so if you’ve got a lot to get off of your chest please let this man be the first to know and he’s more then willing to cradle you in his arms as you both chat shit on those that you don’t like.

Leo doesn’t even need to hear the whole story to know whose side he’s on because it’s yours and only yours! He’s in your corner no matter what, hell he’d even support your wrongdoings if you wanted him to and needles to say he’s the man who boosts your self confidence more than anyone else. Without a shadow of a doubt.

Also by the end of the rants your more then likely to be fast asleep as this man runs hotter then most and Leo will shamelessly admire you as you slept against him before feeling left out and joining you in your dreams. He’s a sweetheart and wherever you went, Leo will always follow.

With Leo to be loved is to be seen, thought about and cherished as though you were a treasure only found once in a lifetime.

Nico would tolerate you more than others.

He keeps to himself but he can be often found within your company as though he were your second shadow.

He’s weary of the people who’d come your way, but that’s mainly due to the fact that he’s been through so much and had much taken away from him unfairly, he’s naturally going to want to keep a tight grasp on what he still has while he could.

So needless to say he forms somewhat an attachment to you that Chiron and Mr D considered borderline worrisome considering the hod whom Nico was the forbidden child of. Yet they knew that there wasn’t much that can be done to undo what had already been done.

So when your on quests, Nico is more then likely to follow afterwards if he can get away with it.

If he can’t then he’s most likely to stay near your cabin -the only thing that he had of you- and waits for you to come back on your bed, the longer your gone the more likely you’ll find him fast asleep in your bed, making you smile at how sweet he could be underneath his hardened persona.

You knew the sweet boy Nico use to be was still in there, and he knew it too, so don’t be surprised when he comes back from travelling through the shadows to bring you something that would make you feel a little less shittier. He acts like it doesn’t matter but he just wants you to be okay and doesn’t like the idea of being in able to help you when you’ve been nothing but accommodating to him and his needs after everything.

With Nico to be loved is to be at peace with the silence and welcome it, for words tends to loose meaning when overused to the point it losses meaning. For nothing every proclamation of love has to be said aloud, when it can be said in a whisper also.

Luke is overly more affectionate to you compared to the rest of camp and it shows.

There’s an arm being tossed over your shoulder here, and a nudge against your side with his elbow here, with a sprinkle of his head resting against your shoulder for added effect.

It was as if it came natural to the son of Hermes to always be touching you somehow, as though he couldn’t go a minute without having a hand on you to guide you away from other campers when he wanted to show you something he was keen you’d like.

While sitting at tables that weren’t your own was a camp rule not to be broken, Luke would either save you a seat at his table or even joins you at yours on the odd occasion, much to the curiosity of the rest of camp.

So you knew for certain this was going to be talked about for a good while as he only smiles mischievously at those who wanted to know what was going through his mind when doing such a thing, all despite knowing that he’ll end up with extra chores to do because of it.

He’s very intuitive towards you and poetically knows you better then you know yourself on most days, so it’s not surprising when he’s taking you out of a situation that you find stressful and somewhere less crowded for you both, only to find that he’s set up a lovely little picnic for you as well as you both overlooked the lake in comfortable silence as you just enjoy the others company.

With Luke to be loved is to be known deeper then any ocean, revered with respect and to be valued more then surface level.

[muzaktomyears]

John Lennon and Yoko Ono: his affairs, binges and diet pills

For years the radio host Elliot Mintz was the only person the former Beatle and his wife trusted. Now, he has written a book about his intense relationship with the couple — including what really happened during Lennon’s infamous ‘Lost Weekend’

John Lennon, Yoko Ono and Elliot Mintz outside the Mampei Hotel in Karuizawa, Japan, 1977. Right: Lennon and Ono in 1980

I am holding a pair of glasses. They are antique, made of steel wire and perfectly round. The trademarked name is the Panto 45. This is the 26th pair of John’s glasses I’ve examined on this snowy night in February 1981. It’s been about two months since he was gunned down in New York outside the Dakota, the gothic edifice where he and Yoko Ono had been living since 1973.

I’ve been tasked with the responsibility of inventorying his personal effects so that Yoko, and posterity, would know precisely what he had left behind. I did not want this task. For one thing, I live 2,500 miles from the Dakota, in Los Angeles, where I host a late-night radio interview show. But Yoko asked me to do it, and I have rarely been able to say no to Yoko, let alone John.

I found their idealism infectious and inspiring. Still, as I got to know John and Yoko as flesh-and-blood friends, I began to see their flawed human sides as well.

The trio at a restaurant in Kyoto, 1977

Yoko, for one, was even more airy and ethereal in private than she was in the media. She could be a fountain of aphorisms, dispensing endless nuggets of Zen-like philosophy. Her haiku-esque homilies on manifesting one’s desires or the wisdom of the nonrational mind could be a bit much for some people.

There were moments when even I was a bit baffled by it all. Except then she would say or do something that would absolutely convince me that she was connected to some higher plane.

John, meanwhile, was every bit as charming, funny and intelligent as he came across in public. But I gradually discovered he was far from perfect. For starters, for a guy who aspired to be a world-shaking peacemaker — a thought leader on a par with Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr and Nelson Mandela — he was surprisingly uninformed about historic figures like, well, Gandhi, King and Mandela.

He also had some Luddite-like notions about science, particularly medicine, extending well beyond his annoyance at “daddy doctors” for not letting him perform his own weight-loss injections. Even though John had smoked, ingested or snorted just about every illegal recreational drug he could get his hands on, he was weirdly suspicious of the ones that were properly prescribed and proven efficacious.

Lennon and Ono on The Dick Cavett Show, 1971

John and Yoko could be incredibly sensitive, honest, provocative, caring, creative, generous and wise. They could also be self-centred, desperate, vain, petty and annoying. In John’s case, also shockingly cruel — even to Yoko.

An example…

Early one morning in November 1972, the red ceiling light that would flash whenever my hotline to John and Yoko rang started blinking. I picked up.

“Ellie, I f***ed up,” were the first words out of John’s mouth.

“Why?” I groggily asked. “What did you do?”

“We were at this party last night,” he said, “and I got loaded. And there was a girl…”

I sat up in bed.

The party was at Jerry Rubin’s Greenwich Village apartment. A small crowd of well-connected peaceniks had gathered to watch the presidential election returns on television. As it became clear that Richard Nixon would win re-election by a landslide, the mood grew bleaker and the crowd began drinking more heavily.

Alcohol was not John’s friend and on this occasion, John’s evil inner gremlins truly outdid themselves.

I got some of the specifics from a hungover John during his morning-after call. The upshot was that John had indeed hit it off with some girl at the party and had slipped into a bedroom with her, where they proceeded to have such loud, raucous sex that everyone sitting around the TV in Rubin’s living room — including Yoko — could clearly hear them going at it.

Lennon and Mintz in 1972

At one point, a well-meaning guest put a record on the turntable — Bob Dylan’s 11-minute ballad Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands — at high volume. Yoko sat on the sofa in stunned, mortified silence.

Whatever they said to each other later, I suspect the conversation was not a pleasant one.

“I slept on the sofa,” John told me, sounding defeated and embarrassed — although, frankly, not quite as contrite as I thought his situation warranted. “Things like that happen,” he said, way too matter-of-factly for my taste. “A bloke cheats on his wife… If I weren’t famous, nobody would care.”

Yoko, unsurprisingly, felt differently.

“Are you OK?” I gently asked her when I phoned to check in on her a few hours later.

“There is no answer to that question,” she said shakily.

“Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive him?”

“I can forgive him,” she said. “But I don’t know if I can ever forget what happened. I don’t know if it will ever be the same.”

After a few weeks of cooling down, though — during which Yoko wrote and recorded Death of Samantha, her bluesy ode to burying one’s pain for the sake of outward appearances — the crisis seemed to abate. John and Yoko chose to roll the cosmic dice with a spectacular gesture of faith and hope in the staying power of their love. They bought an apartment in the Dakota.

“It’s apartment No 72,” Yoko announced when she called to tell me about the purchase. “Do you see the significance?”

Lennon’s 38th birthday party, 1978

When you add seven and two, you get nine, Yoko explained, which was a hugely significant numeral to the Lennons, a magic integer that seemed to mysteriously recur throughout John’s life. Yoko would rattle off the number’s many repeated appearances: John was born on October 9. She was born on February 18 (1 plus 8). Paul McCartney’s last name has nine letters…

I was somewhat mystified as to why they chose this particular neighbourhood. “Aren’t you worried it’ll be too stuffy for you?” I asked John. “Will the people who live there even know who you are?”

“I don’t want them to know who we are,” he said with a laugh. “I don’t want to know who they are. We just want to be left alone.”

The Dakota struck me as one of the most eerily beautiful — and oddly daunting — structures in all of New York. John and Yoko greeted me in the vaulted vestibule, eager to begin our tour, which started on the ground floor with the new headquarters for Studio One, the business entity behind John and Yoko’s creative enterprises. Tellingly, John did not have an office in Studio One; Yoko did.

The main attraction was on the seventh floor. It was nearly 5,000sq ft, with massive windows offering eye-popping views of Central Park. Virtually everything in its expansive living room, from the plush carpeting to the grand Steinway piano, was as white as Japanese snowbells.

Lennon, Ono and Mintz at a Shinto temple in Kyoto. The custom was to hang your horoscope on a line

There was only one highly conspicuous work of art in the White Room: a Plexiglass case on a white pedestal, in which was a 3,000-year-old sarcophagus. John and Yoko had scored the very last mummy allowed out of Egypt before the Egyptian government put a ban on exporting their national antiquities.

“You should x-ray it and see what’s inside,” I suggested. “There might be something of great value, like precious jewels.”

“I don’t care what’s inside,” Yoko responded. “The great value is the magic of the mummy itself.”

Another thing I clearly remember about that long afternoon at the Dakota was how enthusiastic both John and Yoko seemed about the life they were building together in this new nest. John giddily described the “entertainment centre” he wanted to construct in a nook off the kitchen. Yoko, ever the artist, chattered about the endless design ideas she had. It was all too easy to forget about the pain and stress they’d been dealing with. I managed to convince myself that the worst was over for John and Yoko. I was wrong.

There are those who believe Yoko not only approved of the affair but arranged it. That she planted May Pang in the seat next to John on that American Airlines flight from New York to Los Angeles knowing full well what was likely to happen. That their comely 23-year-old assistant would sooner or later end up sleeping with her husband.

It’s possible, I suppose. It could be she saw some strategic long-term advantage in setting up the affair; by handpicking John’s mistress, she might have felt she could exert some dominion over his extramarital wanderings. Perhaps, thanks to her mystical advisers, she really did see that John was heading for a free fall and was endeavouring to soften his inevitable crash.

If any of that is true, though, Yoko never breathed a word of it to me. All she said in October 1973 was that she was sending John and an assistant to LA. Could I please meet them at the airport?

With his assistant and lover, May Pang, 1974

I was by then aware that their marriage was in deep trouble. Despite their best efforts to mend the relationship, the red light on my bedroom ceiling had been blinking even more feverishly than usual leading up to what would later be known as John’s “Lost Weekend”, the 18 months he spent in exile from his wife in New York.

Yoko’s demeanour back then, as always, was not demonstrably emotional but it was clear from our phone conversations that she was in pain. John’s calls were every bit as depressing.

“Has Mother been talking to you about us?” he asked during one early morning chat.

“Yoko talks to me about everything,” I answered vaguely.

“The other day I shaved and got dressed up and told her I wanted to take her to her favourite restaurant and she turned me down,” he lamented. “She said she didn’t have time. Me own f***ing wife said that to me!”

Yoko has always been a methodical person, and my guess is that she precisely and carefully orchestrated John’s eviction from the Dakota. John might not have even realised what was happening to him. He certainly didn’t seem like a man who’d been kicked out of his home when I met him and May Pang at LA airport.

“You look trim, Ellie,” he said with a big grin when I greeted them. “Have you been taking those diet pills again?”

They had very little luggage, suggesting that neither of them was expecting a long stay. My instructions from Yoko were to drive them to music manager Lou Adler’s house in Bel Air, a mini-mansion up on Stone Canyon Road.

“I need some money,” John said as we settled into my weary old Jaguar. “Mother said these could be used for money,” John continued, shoving a fistful of traveller’s cheques in my hand.

The couple outside the Dakota building in New York, 1980. They bought an apartment there in 1973

John was functionally a child when it came to taking care of himself. But then, that was what May was for. Whatever other intentions Yoko may or may not have had for the assistant, her primary job was to make sure John was properly fed and cared for, that all his basic needs — or at least most of them — were satisfied.

John and I spent a lot of time together over the next several weeks. He was also expanding his friendship circle in LA, hanging out with people like Harry Nilsson, the brilliant but notoriously hell-raising singer-songwriter. But after three or four months, much of his initial enthusiasm had boiled off and his mood was starting to curdle. He was missing Yoko: he began asking me when I thought she’d be ready for him to come home. He started spending more and more time with Nilsson, drinking at the Troubadour till all hours. After John famously got thrown out for drunkenly heckling the Smothers Brothers, the late-night shenanigans moved to the Rainbow Bar & Grill on Sunset. That’s where John and Harry and a collection of others — including my old pals Micky Dolenz and Alice Cooper — formed an infamous drinking club known as the Hollywood Vampires.

It would be difficult to exaggerate the level of unbridled indulgences that took place in the Rainbow’s VIP room, a small alcove atop some stairs overlooking the bar. The amount of alcohol imbibed was staggering, to say the least, and there were also small bags of cocaine discreetly passed into the room. Nilsson, a great big bear of a man, could pound down a dozen or so brandy alexanders — a potent mix of brandy and cream, his cocktail of choice, which John soon adopted as his own — in a single sitting.

Not being a celebrity, I was never invited to become a member of the Hollywood Vampires, but I was a welcome visitor and spent many a late night on the edges of their wild, sometimes harrowing saturnalias.

Lennon with his Hollywood Vampires drinking partners, from left, Harry Nilsson, Alice Cooper and Micky Dolenz, November 1973

There was always a crowd of attractive young women at the bottom of the steps leading to the Vampires’ VIP lair. Frankly, though, by the time the boys descended, usually at closing time, most of them were too wasted to take advantage of the opportunity. I lost count of the number of times I all but carried John down those stairs and poured him into whatever car service I had called to the bar’s car park.

For the most part, I kept my promise to Yoko: I kept John safe. But one night, I realised things were starting to spiral out of my control. Normally, John didn’t put up much of a fight when I helped him down the stairs at the Rainbow Bar but on this occasion, he resisted. He didn’t want to go home.

He pushed away and dived straight into the crowd. It was my worst nightmare: a drunken star lost inside a drunken mob.

Finally, I spotted John with Nilsson at the edge of the car park, the two of them climbing into the back of a black limousine. A moment later, it pulled away into the night, going I had no idea where.

John, I realised with a sinking feeling in my gut, was slipping away.

I was about to walk into the nadir of the Lost Weekend, John’s rock bottom. The call came not on the hotline but my regular house phone, and the voice on the other end identified himself as a security officer working for Phil Spector. John was in trouble: could I please hurry over to Adler’s house and help “calm him down”.

What I saw when I stepped into Adler’s living room some 20 minutes later looked like a scene out of The Exorcist. Drunk and wild-eyed, John was strapped to a high-backed chair, his arms and legs restrained with ropes, which he was struggling against with all his might as he shouted obscenities at his captors, a pair of beefy-armed bodyguards who stood in awkward silence nearby. The place was a shambles. John had torn some of Adler’s framed gold records off the walls and smashed them to pieces. Bits of broken wood and shattered Plexiglass littered the floor.

The couple in Selfridges in London where Ono was signing copies of her book Grapefruit, July 1971

Apparently, the meltdown had started earlier that evening at the studio, where John and Phil had nearly come to blows. What precisely they were arguing about, nobody seemed to remember. But the session ended early with Phil’s guards restraining John and shuttling him to Adler’s house, where John slipped away from them long enough to pick up some sort of walking stick or cane, which he swung wildly around the living room until the guards were able to subdue him.

I slowly stepped up to John, who had stopped shouting. His head hung low on his shoulders, his chest heaving furiously. After a long beat, he slowly lifted his eyes to me. He looked possessed.

“Get these ropes off me!” he erupted. “Get them off me, you…”

And then John spat out an epithet so hurtful and offensive, I can’t bring myself to repeat it.

I looked straight into his eyes, barely containing my disgust and disappointment. He looked back into mine. And that exchange of glances seemed to reach some shred of humanity buried deep in John’s alcohol-addled brain. Suddenly he became very, very quiet.

After a moment or two, I turned to the guards. “I think you can take those ropes off him,” I said. “I think he’s done.”

John stood up, rubbed his wrists and, without another word, slowly made his way down the hall to the bedroom, where he must have collapsed on the mattress and passed out.

The next day, as I was getting ready to leave for work, the hotline started flashing.

“Ellie?” John said. “I’m sorry for what I said. But if you think about it, if that’s the worst thing I could say about you, you couldn’t be all that bad, right?”

“Thanks for the compliment,” I said.

“Well, welcome to the real world, Mother Virgin Mary. I’m me. I have a big mouth and express meself the way I feel when I feel it. I don’t hide behind some microphone. I sing into it or speak into it when it suits me. I’m not always the Imagine guy or the Jealous Guy or the Walrus. So I said I’m sorry to you. That’s all I can do.

Lennon and Ono in 1972

“Do you want to have dinner?”

“No,” I answered. “I think I’m going to take the night off.”

For the first time I can remember, I was the one who hung up the phone.

Obviously, our friendship took a hit after the incident at Adler’s house; how could it not? For the next several months, John and I barely spent time together — at least, not in person. We would talk almost every day on the phone, as we always had, and eventually our rapport began to feel as easy and familiar as ever. But I no longer joined him for evenings at the Troubadour or the Rainbow.

John, meanwhile, had shifted from the mayhem of the Spector sessions to the slightly lesser bedlam of producing a record for his pal Harry Nilsson. The most notable thing about the Pussy Cats sessions was who else was in the room. Ringo Starr sat in on drums. And although it never made it onto Nilsson’s album, another ex-Beatle unexpectedly turned up and even sang with John, the first time the two of them had performed together since the Beatles split.

I wasn’t present but later heard that Paul McCartney and his wife, Linda, had popped in without warning, bringing Stevie Wonder with them. According to those who were there, John and Paul seemed to pick up their friendship as if they were teenagers again, but when John told me about it later, he was kind of dismissive about it, saying, “They were all just looking at us, thinking that something big was going to happen. To me, it was just playing with Paul.”

Lennon with Harry Nilsson, left, outside the Troubadour club in West Hollywood, having just been ejected for heckling a performance by the Smothers Brothers, March 12, 1974

What John didn’t know, though, was that, according to Yoko, Paul had an ulterior motive for the visit. A few days earlier, she had called me to explain the machinations behind the visit.

Yoko told me she spoke with Paul, who offered to speak with John. “I thought it was very kind,” she said. “I was very appreciative. But I made it very clear to Paul that it wasn’t something I was asking him to do. It would have to be Paul’s idea, not mine.”

To me, there was never any question that John desperately wanted to get back with Yoko. Yes, he had feelings for May, yet at some point during virtually every phone call I had with him, John would sooner or later beseech me to talk to Yoko on his behalf. “Tell Mother I’m ready to come home, Ellie. Tell her I’m a changed man.”

“I don’t think she wants to hear it from me,” I would say. “She wants you to show it to her.”

Paul, I later heard, gave John similar advice. Sometime after popping into the studio in Burbank, he sat down with John and laid out, step by step, what he would need to do to win Yoko back.

It’s impossible to say if Paul’s presentation was what did it, or if John experienced some other epiphany around that time, but over the ensuing months he did indeed begin to clean up his act. In the summer of 1974, he started working on his next album, Walls and Bridges, regularly flying to New York for rehearsals and recordings at the Record Plant on West 44th Street. By all accounts, those sessions were entirely professional, with John showing up 100 per cent sober every day.

At the Grammy Awards in New York, March 1, 1975

Then, as work on the album neared completion, John made a fateful decision: he decided not to wait any longer for Yoko’s invitation to return to New York. Instead, towards the end of the summer, he and May rented an apartment of their own on the Upper East Side. It was a small but comfortable place that had a wraparound balcony with spectacular views of the East River.

When I flew to New York to tape some interviews, I took the opportunity to pay them a visit — my first face-to-face meeting with John since the ugliness at Adler’s house. It was an awkward encounter for numerous reasons. For one thing, I had just spent an afternoon with Yoko at the Dakota, some 20 blocks away; taking a cab across town to John and May’s felt something akin to betrayal.

Perhaps sensing my apprehension, May gave me a wide berth, leaving to make some phone calls in a bedroom while John and I stood together on the balcony, catching up.

“Does this make you feel uneasy?” John asked after a beat.

“You mean being here with you and May? Yes, a little,” I admitted. “It just reminds me of the fact that you and Mother are still separated, and that makes me sad.”

“Well, that’s the way Mother wants it,” he said. “At least for now.”

Then, unexpectedly, he wrapped his arm over my shoulders and added, “Don’t look so glum, me boy. Put on your radio face. There’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be.”

It was one of the few times he’d quoted a line to me from a Beatles song.

Walls and Bridges was released a month or so later. John sent a prereleased signed copy (“To my little dream lover on ice, with love and old pianos,” he wrote, referring to my affection for Bobby Darin’s hit song).

As it happened, Elton John had joined John on keyboards for one song on the album. Elton made a bet with John. If the song was a hit, John would have to perform at Elton’s upcoming concert at Madison Square Garden. John agreed, never imagining he’d have to honour that promise.

Of course, Elton was spot on: Whatever Gets You Thru the Night did indeed become John’s first No 1 solo single. And so it came to pass that, in November 1974, onstage at Madison Square Garden, in front of thousands and thousands of fans, that the Lost Weekend finally began to fade to a finish.

Lennon’s surprise appearance at Elton John’s concert at Madison Square Garden, November 28, 1974

The details of what exactly transpired backstage that night remain, 50 years later, shrouded in some mystery. What is known is that Yoko, who’d been invited to the concert by Elton’s manager, was in the audience. She couldn’t have been prepared for the reaction around her when Elton announced, about two thirds into the concert, that he was bringing John onto the stage for his first public performance in two years. The crowd went berserk.

After the show, Elton’s manager approached Yoko and told her that Elton had requested her presence in his dressing room. Yoko was led backstage to a door with a star on it. She knocked, the entrance opened, and inside she saw her husband standing there, alone.

I cannot tell you what happened after the dressing room door closed behind them. Nobody but Yoko knows that, and she has never shared with me any details. What I can tell you is that in the weeks and months that followed, there must have been many more rendezvous as Yoko and John re-established their connection, even as he continued living with May in their East Side apartment.

According to one of May’s early accounts, John was ultimately hypnotised into ending his relationship with her; she has long claimed that Yoko hired a mesmerist to help John quit smoking but that it was all a ruse to brainwash him into splitting up with her so he could return to Yoko. To this day, many people believe that story. But I know for certain that it wasn’t true. Because, as it happens, I’m the one who arranged the hypnotist.

Yoko had nothing to do with it.

John had remembered that I had interviewed a hypnotist on my radio show and asked me if he might be able to help him kick nicotine.

At the Lincoln Center in New York, circa 1975

I called the hypnotist, planned for him to fly to New York, booked him a room in a Midtown hotel, and set up an appointment with John. In just about every respect, though, the hypnosis was a total bust. John told me immediately afterwards he was never put under; the hypnotist claimed John was but just couldn’t remember. The hypnotist also turned out to be something of a diva. He disliked his hotel — he thought the desk clerks were rude — and checked out the next day, flying back to LA in a huff.

John didn’t quit smoking, not for a minute, so it’s hard to imagine the hypnotist had succeeded in brainwashing him into anything else — like, say, leaving a lover. But the very next day, John did break it off with May and returned to the Dakota, resuming his marriage to Yoko and ending, at last, the long and lonely winter that had been the Lost Weekend. He called me in LA shortly afterwards to share the happy news.

He said, “Let the media know the separation did not work.”

‘He’d weigh himself twice a day’

Elliot Mintz on his friendship with John and Yoko. By Georgina Roberts

When a red light in Elliot Mintz’s bedroom flashed, it meant that John Lennon or Yoko Ono was calling him on a special hotline. “In an average week, 20 hours of phone conversation would not be unusual,” the 79-year-old former radio DJ and talk-show host says from his Beverly Hills living room.

Mintz describes the friendship with the couple that “dominated” nine years of his life as “almost a kind of marriage”. He was taken aback when Ono called him in 1971 to thank him for not asking about Lennon when he interviewed her on his radio show. When they began to speak for hours at night, she batted away his concern that her husband might get jealous, saying, “Aren’t you giving yourself a little too much credit, Elliot?”

Lennon first called Mintz to ask if he could get him fat-melting pills. “That was my first conversation with John Lennon. It wasn’t philosophical. It wasn’t about Elvis or the Beatles. It was about weight loss,” he says. Sometimes Lennon would weigh himself twice a day and the couple “were obsessive about diet”.

In Hotel Okura in Tokyo, October 1975

After six months of speaking, the couple summoned him to meet them in Ojai, California, where they were trying to kick a methadone addiction. Ono barely spoke until she was in a bathroom with the tap running. “She whispered to me, ‘This house is bugged. Everything we say here, they’re listening. So you have to be very careful what you say.’ ” FBI files released years later showed that Ono wasn’t being paranoid. President Nixon had placed the couple under surveillance after rumours they planned to disrupt his convention, Mintz says.

His clandestine friendship with the couple wreaked havoc on his love life. When he couldn’t explain whom he’d been speaking to in the middle of the night, one love interest assumed he was married and stormed out. “I realised at that moment that my love life would have to take a back seat to my relationship with John and Yoko,” he says.

There were times when lines were crossed in the friendship. One morning, Lennon summoned Mintz to kick out a girl who’d stayed the night. “I told him, ‘Please don’t ask me to do something like that again.’ He flipped out. He said, ‘I will effing ask you to do anything that I feel like asking you to do. Do you understand that?’ ” Mintz was hurt and offended. The next day was one of the few times he said no to “grabbing a bite” with Lennon.

Becoming parents was “the biggest game-changer” for the couple. After his son Sean was delivered via caesarean section in 1975, “John was outraged that when Yoko was clearly struggling, doctors would come up to him and say, ‘I’ve always dreamt of shaking your hand.’ He would bark at them, ‘Look after me wife!’ ”

While Lennon threw himself into childcare, Ono, who came from a banking dynasty, handled the couple’s finances. After becoming stratospherically famous so young, Lennon was “clueless” about money. “I doubt if John was ever in a supermarket, went to a bank, wrote a cheque. That’s what Yoko did,” Mintz says. “If not for Yoko, there’d be no money in the Lennon-Ono estate today.”

A drawing by Lennon on a postcard from Japan sent to Mintz in 1977

The first time Mintz met their son, Lennon said protectively, “Not too close. Germs.” “He said, ‘Look, we were going to make you the godfather, but we decided on Elton, because he would at least give him better Christmas presents.’ ” “This is typical John,” Mintz says.

Sean would only spend five years with his father before Lennon was murdered outside the Dakota in December 1980. Lennon had always “poo-pooed” Mintz’s requests for him to employ more security. “John said, ‘I’m just a rock’n’roll singer. Who would want to hurt me?’ ”

When Mintz speaks about learning of Lennon’s murder from a weeping flight attendant, his honeyed radio-presenter voice cracks with emotion. “Even now, after all these years, just thinking about that moment…” He trails off. The most gut-wrenching of his responsibilities was making an inventory of Lennon’s possessions. When he signed for a stapled brown paper bag that came from the hospital where Lennon was taken after he was shot, he could not bear to open it. “It was what John was wearing, what he had on him when he fell, including his broken, bloodied glasses.”

He is reticent about his friendship with Ono today. “I want to give her a sense of privacy,” he says, but adds, “It still feels like family. I still love her dearly.” The last time he saw her was at her 91st birthday in February. It was there that Sean encouraged Mintz to write his book, We All Shine On. Does he think Ono will like it? “I’ve never tried to predict a Yoko Ono conclusion.”

How different would his life be if he had never met the couple? “I could have got married. Could have had children.” Were the sacrifices worth it? “Of course. I got to spend that amount of my time with these two extraordinary people.”

We All Shine On: John, Yoko, & Me by Elliot Mintz (Bantam, £25).

(source)

[toskarin]

I finally heard that one imagine dragons song and it was so much bleaker than I expected. that would have left a black mark on my impression of the show that I could never exorcise, people are some kind of deep sea fish for continuing past that

[rootspiral]

Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 8 part 1

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4][5] ep6 [1][2][3] ep7 [1][2][3][4][5][6] ep8 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9] ep9 [1][2][3][4][5][6])

EPISODE EIGHT. fasten your seat belts, get ready for some turbulence, nobody panic. things are going to become fucking sad, but you're going to be okay. yay?

for a fleeting moment at the beginning of the episode you get the mad hope that alice survived - that rio is going to spare her, somehow

but the camera keeps spinning, keeps spinning, and we're upside down. this show is so good at evoking uncanny vibes with simple practical effects. not to mention the great callback to lilia flipping the room at the end of last episode. we are on the other side now, we're not in kansas anymore.

and this is of course rio collecting alice's soul, and it's where she disappeared to at the end of episode 5. I find rio's choices here so brilliant, because we know that she chooses the way she appears to souls. she is not being mean per se, she's woken alice up so gently and she's talking in a soft voice. but she looks fucking scary too, there is no questioning who she is or what she's doing here. indeed alice doesn't question her former companion being the grim reaper. it's like, rio is willing to go slow, but alice still needs to know right away that there is no escape.

alice's quiet devastation as she sees her own dead body. as much as I would have liked to see lilia walk away with her Death, I'm so glad we got alice instead. lilia died on her own terms and on such a high note. alice's story needed to take one last breath. literally.

this whole scene to me perfectly encapsulates the message of the show. beautiful, strong alice, alive one moment and gone the next, just like that. how can one come to terms with that?

words that sound mocking, but aren't. it's like accusing the ocean or the stars of being cruel. nature doesn't carry any ill intent, it simply exists.

but look what happens next. rio's smile fades at alice's despair. because rio is a willing agent of nature and balance, but also - and that's the brilliancy and tragedy of this character - rio is capable of love. she has an impossible job and she's damn good at it, but it takes a toll. she bent the rules of nature once, for the one person she loves more than the universe itself. she won't go that far for anybody else, but she has gotten to know alice, she felt true companionship with her - alice's loss is hurting on a personal level.

I've seen so many 'alice's death doesn't sit right with me' takes. YEAH, YOU THINK?!! alice's death is AWFUL. she lived all her life under this horrible curse and died one moment after liberating herself. all her hopes, all her goodness, all her potential, gone. it's MONSTROUS. it's UNFAIR.

it is monstrous that people (and children, dear god, children!) die all the time of disease, or wars, accidents, calamities. go scream at the sky about it. see if it answers back.

you died protecting someone. it's so matter-of-factly.

have you ever watched blade runner 2049? (if you haven't major spoilers ahead). ryan gosling's character, a replicant, believes he might be special, a chosen one, but turns out he was just a cog in the machine. he dies protecting harrison ford who is of course the real hero of the story. the bittersweet implication being that he didn't die in vain, that no matter how small his role in the overarching story, his life mattered and is worth remembering. but he still died alone and bleeding under the snow. it's a much bleaker message than the sweeping hero tales of old, but is not completely devoid of hope.

rio wishes to give alice's brief existence some closure, some meaning. alice died selflessly, doing something she truly believed in: isn't that worth something?

and yet. alice is still dead, all of rio's good intentions won't spare her. we do need to be kind to each other and uphold our humanity in the face of tragedy, even if it hurts like a bitch, even if it won't change a thing. be kind, if you find the strength for it. create meaning where there isn't. it's all we have in common. it's all we can do.

alice visibly recoils at rio's words. they're not enough, nothing is ever going to be enough.

and that's why I think rio had to look so damn scary in this scene, even if she's being patient and so gentle under the circumstances. her role as Death has to come before her personal feelings, that is her job and her choice.

oh, alice. my sweet alice.

lilia saw Death coming and went willingly. alice said no and cried as she stepped through the threshold. again, I am SO glad we were shown this. she wasn't as brave as lilia, but I dare you to call her a coward or to love her any less.

GOD jen's ear-piercing SCREAM. what did I just say about lilia's death being better? screw that. death is an equalizer. nobody is spared.

jen has held it together so far. eyes on the prize, no pity for anyone else involved. look at her crumble.

billy is speechless. this is the third time he has known grief in however many hours, and each time worse than the previous one. he has lost all of his innocence. and the light, the light. everything is green, it's rio, rio, rio.

remember when agatha was so afraid of Death in episode 3 that she tried to break a glass window, and everybody laughed? so funny, wasn't it?

and here she is, fucking terrified, running through green light.

and then she sees her.

your coven is shrinkiiiiiiing. oh it's so nice to finally see her with her crown. I pray and hope to see agatha wearing a crown some day.

first alice, now lilia. I love that it's so heavy, I love all the implications. it was never only about agatha trying to avoid an ex. it's what rio represents, it's what rio did to alice and lilia.

it's what she did to nicky.

except it wasn't her! she's just the ferryman! and if anyone, agatha killed alice and lilia! we just saw rio's heart ache for alice as she collected her soul! they're both lashing out at each other because they can't handle this impossible heaviness between them. agatha is being cruel because she's in pain. rio is being cruel because she's in pain. it's such a mess.

this is all I have in me tonight, fuck this show is too much. and we've just started the episode! there is a lot to unpack, the closer I look at things the sadder it gets.

go to episode 8 part 2

[barrenclan]

I don't know what you think about people asking hypotheticals, so ignore this ask if you don't like them, but what would have happened if Deepdark did decide to take Pinepaw?

Would Deepdark leave the other cats alive, maybe to keep Pinepaw compliant, or would he kill them so that Pinepaw would have no reason to leave? Would Pinepaw be kept under constant watch by others in Defiance, or maybe even Deepdark himself, to ensure he doesn't try to escape? Would he be forced to fight? Would he turn out like Rainhaze?

I feel like, no matter how the battle ended, each different possible ending could have so much potential.

Oh, here we go! I mentioned a little while ago that if I had planned for this comic to be longer, I would've written a far different story, and now I've finally remembered I can talk about that.

In another world, the Defiance attack would be the halfway point of PATFW, and it would end with most of BarrenClan dying and a few running off, Rainhaze surviving, and Deepdark capturing Pinepaw and bringing him back to Defiance. This would be a much bleaker story, and it would mostly involve Pinepaw trying to fight against his crumbling willpower and sanity trying to survive in this ultra-violent place, with both Rainhaze and Deepdark taking a liking to him and protecting him. I'm not sure how it would end, exactly... maybe Pinepaw escapes, or maybe he doesn't. Probably Cormorantpaw would survive and try to come back and rescue Pinepaw, though it could badly or not. It's a fun hypothetical to play around with.

[these-written-reveries]

Midnight Musings

‣ Pairing: Castiel x Reader (intended as romantic, but can potentially be viewed as platonic ?)

‣ Genre: Fluff, comfort

‣ Summary: A letter to you, from Castiel.

‣ Warnings: Vague reference to difficult times and poor mental/emotional wellbeing.

‣ Word Count: 671

‣ A/N: This was originally written on a whim for my bestie @jslittlebirdie, but I've decided to share it with the rest of the world as well. Perhaps other fellow Castiel lovers will appreciate what he has to say.

Y/N,

I can sense you are in need of some thoughtful reminders and perspective, as I know you’ve been going through a particularly difficult time recently that has caused you to slip into a state of jaded oblivion. It is my greatest hope that with the repetition of these words, woven into the letters I write for you while you sleep, that you will someday come to understand them to be true in the same way that I do.

Thoughts of you occupied my mind after you had drifted off to sleep tonight. I suppose that's not surprising news, as I'm always thinking of you, in some shape or form. 

This time, though, as I watched your delicate lashes flutter ever so softly in your slumber, and the way your lips remained slightly pouted while I smoothed a thumb over your furrowed brow—a reflection of the stress that haunts even your dreams of late, I was suddenly hit with a near-overwhelming wave of gratitude. I, Heaven's most abhorred angel—second only to Lucifer himself, am so immensely blessed by the opportunity of not just bearing witness to the beautiful soul and being that is you, but to truly see you, to know you, to love you, and be with you. How and why I've been so generously bestowed this blessing is beyond my realm of knowledge. I certainly don't deserve you—not after all that I've done, but I'm nonetheless grateful I'm here, experiencing every fleeting fluctuation of life by your side. 

You make me feel like all of this, all the bitterness of this world and life on Earth, is worth it. You've made me see that the harsh cruelty of existence is only outweighed by the beauty and love that lies all around and within us; some of it temporary, some everlasting. I see so much beauty and love in you, and it is one of many reasons I cherish you so dearly. 

You are a beacon of hope and solace in this world. I spend my days orbiting you like the planets do the Sun; observing you, admiring you, looking to you for the unspoken answers I've misguidedly sought in every other being, mission, and location before I finally met you. By merely existing as yourself, you answer my questions, soothe my existential woes. You help me see what really matters in this world, and that life truly is worth living, even when it seems so incredibly dismal and burdensome.

All I have to do is look to you, and I am at once reminded of how lucky I am to have a companion to trudge through the darkness with. You are my guiding light, and you are also my best friend. I strive every day to embody these roles for you, as well. I know in the deepest part of my being that as long as we have each other, we can get through anything. So keep holding on, keep fighting. If not for yourself, then for me.

Open your eyes to the beauty and love, big and small, all around and inside of you. It is always there, if you so choose to see it. Observe it, admire it, cherish it, hold onto it. That will be, what I can say with certitude, the crutch and guiding force that will get you through any dark times you may face. 

Remember, you'll always have me, whether it be physically by your side, or watching over you in spirit. I won't leave you alone, and my love for you will carry on far beyond your expiration.

In this vast, ever-changing universe, there remains a constant source of light, beauty, and love to anyone who is lucky enough to experience the magnificent soul that is you. What a blessing you are to this world. How much bleaker it would be without you. How truly lost and deficient I'd be without you. Even when you fail to see it, just know that I never will. 

I never will.

-Castiel

➼ Main Masterlist ➼ Request Info

‣Taglist: @jslittlebirdie @alittlesmartcookie

‣ If you’d like to join the taglist for Castiel, let me know by sending me an ask/message, or comment on this post!

[glamnessaau]

On the Lore of my AU

So I really like having my AU as lore-friendly as possible so I'm gonna share a concept for a bleaker, angstier sister-series that I feel would be more lore-accurate than my current rebooted GVAU.

In this one, Vanessa still possesses a STAFF bot, but the company doesn't allow her to become a glamrock animatronic because it's too much money. Instead, they refit her into a security bot. She works at the Pizzaplex 24/7 and even manages to garner a fanbase. She WILL get caught in the earthquake and then go through an alternate Ruin.

Edit: Added wires.

[astriiformes]

Some of this is an expansion of a thesis that I was prodding at in my speech and debate piece ten years ago in high school (which was an admittedly somewhat naïve exploration of the relationship between science fiction, optimism about the future, and scientific progress, though I stand by elements of it), but there really is something fascinating about the way Back to the Future, as a piece of science fiction media, engages with its own genre.

In the "better" timeline, George McFly, an avid sci-fi fan, goes on to become a science fiction writer. Doc Brown was inspired to become a scientist by the works of Jules Verne (and in the video game, has another Eureka moment when he sees the 1931 Frankenstein film for the first time); in the musical, he describes his time machine as "A car for the stars / Like Captain Kirk's." As a sickly girl, isolated from her peers, Clara Clayton fell in love with amateur astronomy and stories about traveling from the Earth to the Moon.

I'm just so enamored with the fact that, unlike some other media, Back to the Future loves being sci-fi so much. There's a consistent throughline in every piece of BttF media--even the newer ones--that science fiction is something good, and inspirational, that makes people feel less alone, and forges connections, and encourages people to learn and invent. And that throughline is absolutely in conversation with the fact that the 2015 segment of the second film presented a decidedly aspirational vision of the future, even though other contemporary portrayals on the new millennium were starting to skew bleaker and more cyberpunk. It would come across as a little self-aggrandizing if it didn't feel so genuine--and it also helps that some of the positive impacts shown are smaller, and more personal. George finds a fulfilling career. Doc and Clara fall in love. It's more like watching a work of fiction earnestly believe it has something to say than it is watching it be self-important.

"You can accomplish anything if you put your mind to it," "Your future hasn't been written yet. No one's has. Your future is whatever you make it, so make it a good one." Do you see. Do you see it.

[lottielovelace]

công chúa

(ghost x könig's-sister!reader)

summary: You're just a student trying to make through med school with your sanity intact. That last thing you needed was to be kidnapped to serve as a hostage for a half-brother you've never met.

At least the special forces operative here to help is cute.

originally posted on ao3 (wordcount: 3.8k)

Rating: T

Relationships: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader, Kate Laswell x her wife (I call her Jean), König & Reader <- PLATONIC

Ao3 Tags: meet cute! in a prison camp / First Meetings / tries to follow canon characterization / less so canon events/timeline / so some things (like the villains) are VERY vague / Past Suicide Attempt / Undercover Simon "Ghost" Riley / Unmasked Simon "Ghost" Riley / (Temporarily) / reader has a name & backstory but I tried to make it unobtrusive

this is a part of a series

Author's note: I do write this story with a specific OC (check the series masterpost if you want a full breakdown of her) in mind just so characterization is consistent, but I tried to make it possible for you to replace her with whoever you imagine. I do have to explicitly mention details unique to the OC (most obvious example here being her ethnicity and name [Elise Veidt]), but for the most part I'll try to keep things open ended (ex: using "your hair" instead of "your dark hair").

Also, as I mentioned, the OC's ethnicity (half-Vietnamese) is pretty plot relevant this chapter, but if that disrupts your reading flow, feel free to mentally replace it with whatever makes sense for your own personal read-through. I'm not used to writing in second person, so the verb tenses are kinda screwy.

Also this is in the tags but TW: DISCUSSION OF A PAST SUICIDE ATTEMPT (character has for the most part fully recovered)

công chúa:

People could be so fucking stupid sometimes. Bold and stupid. Newbies especially. New recruits—or in this case, new criminal organizations—always think they’ll be special. The exception to the rule.

Take for example, this new group who had the bloody brilliant idea of trying to control special forces (and a handful of top PMCs) by kidnapping anyone ransom-worthy they could get their grubby little hands on. Which meant a lot of missing parents, kid siblings, and SOs.

Ghost couldn’t tell if they actually thought that would work or if this was just some distraction. Perhaps an intimidation ploy or a small part of some greater plan. Either way, in reality, all they ended up with was a whole bunch of pissed-off—and very well trained—soldiers, many of whom were willing to do anything to get their loved ones back. Even allying with their greatest rivals. Ghost didn’t predict to end up working with KorTac of all bedfellows, but even their lads weren’t safe. 

In the past month, he'd had to bear witness to his comrades and competitors getting wrecked, worried sick over their nearest and dearest. Laswell might’ve single-handedly revived the tobacco industry and he’d never seen Johnny so torn up.

Ghost himself had been spared any grief. He would’ve liked to pretend that it was because his mask had protected his identity so well, but the reality was much simpler and bleaker. He had nobody to take. Tommy and Joseph and Beth and Mum were all already six feet under. Nothing would ever change that.

That being said, the mask wasn’t useless.

The hostagers had done extensive research into all their personal lives. They needed to in order to find out who they could kidnap and how. They had become intimately familiar with every combatant their cobbled alliance could send—with one glaring exception.

They certainly knew about Ghost, but not even they knew Ghost’s face—at least according to the dossier smuggled to the Task Force.

After that was discovered, going undercover was less of a choice and more of a duty.

----------

“Jean?”

The woman’s head jerked up at the whispered sound of her name. Finding no one in front of her, she swiveled. Her eyes landed on an idle balaclava-ed guard.

“Don’t look at me,” the guard commanded. He followed his own advice, keeping his gaze trained on the horizon. His voice was low and rough. Familiar.

Jean Laswell hazarded one last glance at him. She squinted, trying to place where she'd seen him before.

A stifled gasp rang out as her eyes widened in recognition.

“Ghost?”

“Keep your voice down, I’m undercover.”

Jean tried to keep her body language innocuous, eyes now glued to her own clasped hands. The last thing she wanted was to blow Ghost's cover.

“It’s good to see your face— or er, hear your voice.” Pleasantries aside, she went straight to the first question on her mind, the one that had plagued her sleepless nights. “How’s Kate?”

"Smoking like a chimney, but otherwise holding up. She misses you."

"Are you here to…"

"Not yet. KorTac and the team are planning a mutual offensive, but we need more intel before exfil becomes viable. Intel I was tasked with collecting."

His tone didn't reassure her.

"But…"

"I ran into a little roadblock. I was supposed to receive, memorize, and orally deliver crucial information about the compound’s layout and security flaws. We’d had some limited online communication with our informant, but couldn’t get anything sensitive past the security systems. So I volunteered to get it directly. Unfortunately, we didn’t know that our informant only speaks Vietnamese, Cantonese, and some very broken Russian. The dictionary he’d been previously using isn’t complex enough for the level of detail we need. Our shared Russian skills aren’t much better. I can’t leave until I have the intel memorized and I can’t memorize it until we find a translator."

"Could you leave and come back with a translator? A digital one maybe if you can't get anyone else past the guards?"

Ghost shook his head, “They know that we're trying to infiltrate them. They’re very strict about what technology gets in and out. Besides, my cover is only so good. I should be able to get a believable excuse to leave camp, but the scrutiny required for re-entry would compromise it.”

Jean pursed her lips in thought, running over the possibilities. She paused, half thinking out loud.

“I think the princess speaks Vietnamese.”

“Princess?” Ghost’s eyes widened beneath his mask. Shit, no one told him they'd taken someone so high profile. That significantly complicated security procedure. “I thought all their targets were lowkey.”

“No, no, she’s not royalty. She’s a med student. It’s just a nickname,” Jean hastily corrected with an embarrassed laugh. “We have a lot of those here. We get kinda bored.”

Ghost silently thought back on his own POW experiences.

“Things could be a whole lot worse than boredom.”

“The perks of being a hostage," Jean responded dryly. "Need us in one piece.”

“So where’s this ‘princess’ of yours?”

“There,” Jean pointed at the upper level of the compound's eastern turret. “You can see where the nickname comes from. She’s in solitary, but she has a window that we talk to her through during yard time.”

“What'd she do?” Unless the hostage takers were worse than he thought, they wouldn’t put someone in solitary for shits and giggles.

“She’s… a special case."

“Who’s she tied to?”

“That’s the thing. We don’t know. Not even she knows.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I know I’m here because of Kate. Ritchie’s here because of his uncle. Troy because of his brother. Eileen… could be her nephew, but it’s probably Soap. But Elise—that’s her name, Elise Veidt. Do you know any Veidts in Special Forces or KorTac?”

“Not to my knowledge, no. Could it be her boyfriend?”

Jean shook her head, “No. The common theory is an uncle or half sibling. Both her parents were civilians, but her father had family and an ex-wife on the other side of the Atlantic. She has no idea where they are now or if they’re even still alive, but it seems the most likely—if not the only—possibility. Plus she was single when she was discovered.”

Ghost's brow furrowed.

“Discovered? What do you mean by that?”

“There was… an incident. It ended with her being taken into custody.”

Ghost wanted to press for more detail, but Jean flashed him a look that stopped him in his tracks. She was married to Laswell, and that doesn't happen without being able to hold her own in an argument.

“It’s not my story to tell." Her tone was measured, but Ghost could tell this was non-negotiable to her. “She’s a good kid. Just got in a bit of a rough patch. Along the way she had her blood tested and it must’ve pinged… something. Next thing she knows, she’s getting transferred. They refuse to tell her where. When she resists, she gets knocked out and wakes up here.”

“That still doesn’t explain the isolation.”

“We think that whoever she’s related to, it must be someone important. Or someone very dangerous. Someone they’re scared to anger.”

“Then why did they kidnap her if they’re so bloody afraid of pissing the bugger off?”

“Taking her was probably a calculated risk. Returning her damaged a death sentence. They wanted to make sure she doesn’t get hurt, either by her own hand or someone else’s.”

----------

Ghost cautiously approached the cell door. According to the directory, this was “Detainee #934287: VEIDT, Elisabeth.” He peered through the grate, careful not to get too close to the opening—he knew firsthand how solitary confinement could warp the mind and liked having both his eyes intact.

From what he could see, the cell had a tiny cot, stripped of its sheets on the left. On the right was a wash basin and bucket. In between was a small window—just large enough to stick your face out of. It wasn’t the worst cell Ghost had seen, but it wasn’t homey either. It also appeared to be empty.

“What the—” he muttered under his breath.

The low rumble of his voice almost made you jump from your position, sitting leaned against the door. The window was your only connection to the outside world, but it also made your cell freezing so you tried to stay as far away from it as possible when there was no one outside to talk to. You paused, confused then intrigued. You didn’t think they had a British guard. Slowly, you got up.

He was closer than you assumed. Right up against the door, you almost had to suppress the urge to jump again. You silently mourned the fact that such a pretty pair of eyes were wasted on some terrorist dipshit.

Still, you were bored enough that anything seemed intriguing.

“You’re new.”

“You’re Elise, right?”

Your lips quirked with all the cockiness of someone who knew they couldn’t be touched.

“Shouldn’t they have already debriefed you on that?”

“The only person who’s briefed me on you was Jean.”

Your eyes narrowed. You may have only been able to communicate through a tiny window, but you trusted Jean. You knew her. She wouldn't rat on you, not without a fight.

“What did you do to her?”

“Nothing,” his voice grew even gentler. Soft in a way that commanded you to hang on every word. “I’m here to help.”

Attractive voice and eyelashes aside, you were still unimpressed.

“Really?”

“I'm on a reconnaissance mission for Special Forces. I was supposed to memorize this file. I wasn’t told it was going in Vietnamese.”

You perked up at this. Finally, things were making a little sense.

“I speak Vietnamese.”

“So I’ve heard.”

You took one last look at him, trying to figure out if this was a trick or some sick game. Then again, if it was, what would they even do? Your captors didn’t seem allowed to punish you physically, and mentally there wasn’t much more they could do. Fuck it, you had nothing to lose.

You reached out your hand, “Gimme.”

He slipped you a folded up piece of paper. You unfolded it to reveal an annotated set of blueprints.

“Pen or pencil?” For all you know, he could be picky about that sort of stuff.

The man stood up to dig for something in his vest. You quietly realized that he’d been bending down to look you in the eye. This man, whoever he was, was tall.

He passed you a pen. You noticed that while his hands were gloved, a whisper of a tattoo peeked out as his sleeve rode up. It looked like it could be the bottom of a skull. Or a very small picket fence. Probably the former.

You figured he'd turn away and leave you to your work, but he doesn’t.

“Are you going to…”

“No,” he responded firmly. “If either of us get caught, at least two of us are screwed. I know I can get myself out of it, but our informant can’t. I won’t have his blood on your or my hands. So I’m going to keep watch.”

It’s slightly awkward with him just standing there, but you did your best to lay the blueprint flat against the wall and start scribbling away. Still, you couldn't help but let your eyes flit to him, now with his back to you, standing guard.

“Where are you from?”

“Hmm?”

“Your accent, where’s it from?”

“Shouldn’t you be focusing on your work?”

“I could do this with both hands tied behind my back."

He made a doubtful noise.

You let a cheeky smile grace your lips, “Pen in my mouth, paper on the floor. Handwriting might be chicken scratch, but it’d still be legible.”

If you could see his face, you would’ve noticed his eyebrows raise as he tried to picture it. You on your knees, leaned forward with your ass in the air, hands bound, tongue twisted around the p—

“So, the accent? Where?”

“That’s classified.”

You tilted your head in thought, “It’s Northern, right? British, not Scottish. You don’t sound like Eileen.”

He bristled, quiet in a way that tells you you’re on the money.

“Look, how about this. For every question you answer truthfully, I’ll do the same. I won’t ask you anything I know you can’t tell me, not even your name. I just... wouldn’t mind a little conversation. They’re kinda in short supply here.”

A beat passed.

“Manchester.”

“I knew it!”

He made another noise. You think it was a laugh. You think it sounds beautiful.

“My turn. How do you know Vietnamese?”

“My mother. She immigrated from the South when she was young. Judging from some of his vocabulary, I’d guess your informant is from the North, but the dialects aren’t all that different, especially in script. What food do you miss the most?”

“Anything that isn’t an ORP.”

“An ORP?”

“Operational ration pack.”

If your hands were free, you would’ve crossed them.

“That’s a cop out.”

“Fine,” he relented. “I could go for a Nando’s takeaway.”

“What sort of food is that?”

“Chicken. Flame grilled with this Peri-Peri sauce and—”

He groaned. It’s a noise you want to hear again.

Mimicked him in commiseration. The plates the guards slid through your food slot were pitiful, to say the least.

He starts to ask you something but seems to stop himself.

“What?” you asked.

“It’s… I shouldn’t.”

You were many things, but you weren't a coward.

“I can always choose not to answer. Hit me.”

His voice was still hesitant as he asked, “What did you get arrested for?”

You were worried that the question would be gross or embarrassing, not utterly nonsensical.

“Arrested?”

“Jean said they found you because you were taken into custody.”

“Oh,” your cheeks flushed. “It wasn’t that type of custody. I was 5150-ed. Or more accurately 5250-ed.”

“Pardon?”

“I tried to kill myself. I failed.”

The man froze. He turned around, trying to get a glimpse of you—and any wounds—through the grate.

“Do you need medical attention?”

“No,” you reassured. “I stole some valium and then drank myself silly. I was found in time and they got me help before any irrevocable damage happened. If they hadn’t spotted the note they would’ve just written me off as some foolish party animal, pumped my stomach, and let me be on my merry way.”

You haphazardly glanced at him, expecting him to be stone cold. A proper soldier. To your surprise his eyes, those stupidly beautiful eyes, are trained on you with more care than you've seen in the last three months combined.

“Were you a user… before?”

You shake your head but your eyes remain locked. You couldn't bear to break contact.

“No. Too busy with school. But then my mom died and suddenly everything was… too much. Going to med school and becoming a doctor was what she wanted. The loans, the sleepless nights, the blood, sweat, and tears. It was all for her. Not me. I wanted to make her proud. Happy. And now that will never happen. Without her, I didn’t really see the point of continuing to put myself through hell. I tried to drop out, but the program wouldn’t let me. So I figured might as well cut out all stress in my life instead.”

“Are you planning to try again?”

“No,” the answer is honest. “I’m not giving these bastards the satisfaction. Plus I need to find whoever put me in this situation in the first place and give them a piece of my mind.” You turned back to the blueprints, gently trying to shift the tone back to the comfortable rapport you had earlier. You missed it and you need him to stop looking at you like that or you might do something stupid. “That was like three extra questions. It's my turn now. Any hobbies?”

“Hobbies?”

The very word sounded foreign on his tongue.

“You know. Do you have a secret passion for knitting or something?”

“Embroidery, actually. And that’s no secret.”

“So, anything you do outside of… espionage or whatever your job is?”

“I dunno. Football. Tattoos.”

“Giving or receiving?”

“The latter, though I have been curious to learn it.”

“Got a steady hand?”

He smiled, thinking about something you know he won’t tell you.

“You could say that.”

“Anything else?”

He paused for a moment. You can tell there’s something on his mind. He just hasn’t resolved whether you’re worth it to tell to.

“There’s a bare knuckle boxing club I like to go to when I’m on leave.”

You haven’t seen him in combat, but there’s something in the coiled posture of his stance that tells you he knows how to handle himself.

“I bet you kick their asses."

He says nothing, but you swear he almost preens.

"Could you teach me?"

His lips quirked.

"How serious are you being?"

"Pretty decently. They got me this time. I won't let that happen again. Not without a fight."

"If you're ever in Town, visit Stuart’s and ask for Simon. Might be able to give you a few pointers."

You look up at him, grinning.

"Simon, eh?"

He smiled. His gaze was still intense, but its stifling mixture of pity and worry was replaced by something warmer that made your chest flutter.

"Can't promise I'll be there, but the lady at the desk should be able to tell you when I'll be back."

You folded the blueprints, neatly passing them through the cell bars.

"Well, Simon. Here's your translation. Give them hell."

----------

Chaos. Complete and other chaos.

Smoke and bombs and bullets. You agonized over whether or not to look out the window. The unknown of what was happening was almost scarier than the reality. In the few furtive glances you spared, you caught the bodies. So many bodies. The only relief was that all of the dead seemed to be guards.

You thought back on Simon, dressed in the guard’s garb. These are probably his people. He must’ve gotten out and they must’ve gotten the intel. By now he’s probably on his next recon mission. You were able to learn a little about military structure from what the other hostages told you about their families. If his specialty was infiltration they probably weren't going to waste him on a direct assault like this.

Manchester. Stuart's. Simon.

You didn't need to see him before then. You just needed him to stay alive, wherever he was.

The cacophony slowly grew closer. You didn't know whether that was a good or bad thing.

A loud buzz rang out as the power grid malfunctioned and the hallway outside your cell was plunged into darkness.

Something was happening and all you could do was sit back and listen.

There were screams. Some seemed to be of pure joy, others of painful death. Many you couldn’t tell apart.

There were gunshots. Often followed by gurgles and the sickening sound of someone falling to the ground. There were footsteps. Heavy ones. Slowly drawing nearer.

Someone jostled the cell door. You froze, holding your breath. Maybe they wouldn't even notice you.

The darkness outside your cell moved. A single blue eye peered through the grate, surrounded by black.

"Stay back," the eye commanded. You were all too happy to oblige him.

There was a quick bang and the cell door swung open, revealing a man. A large man.

He bent down to enter the cell before standing up to his full height. Clad in black with a mask you'd expect on a cartoon executioner, he unfolded like an eldritch piece of origami. He just seemed to keep on going.

“Are you Elisabeth?” Hearing it again, you realized his voice was accented. Up close, his demeanor transformed. He seemed... nervous. Incredibly so, barely even able to get the words out.

“Yes,” your voice is almost as hesitant as his.

“I— I am— Ah—” his feet shuffled about anxiously. Any bravado he had from battle has melted away, leaving him almost curled against the wall. You catch sight of a patch on his left side. Red. White. Red. The Austrian flag.

“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” ( Do you speak German? ) you asked. Maybe talking would be easier in his native language.

The man perked up, surprised but excited.

“Ja! Du auch?” ( Yes! Do you? )

You nod, “Mein Vater war Österreicher.” ( My father was Austrian. )

You knew this was a possibility. Even with the covered face and the giant height difference. Still, his next words caught you off guard.

“Ich weiß. Ich bin dein Halbbruder.” ( I know, I’m your half-brother. )

----------

The tall man, your brother, escorts you out. He promises to tell you everything and more once you’re away from this wretched place wo die Wände haben Ohren ( where the walls have ears ).

After being cooped up for so long, your legs protest the walk, but you pushed through. You were a free woman and you would never take that for granted again.

The exhaustion was worth it to step into the daylight with your own two feet.

Once your eyes adjusted, you realized that two portable camps had been set up on the perimeter. As predicted, there was no sign of Simon. You did see a couple familiar faces though, along with a plethora of heavily-armed strangers (including a man wearing a skeleton mask of all things!). Eileen was deep in conversation with a mohawk-ed man, but she threw you a warm smile as she spotted you heading to the other wolf-emblemed camp.

"Are you alright?" a voice called out at you. It was British: Northern, but rougher and gruffer than Simon's had ever been. Still, you allowed yourself to revel in the fantasy for a moment before you had to face the speaker and ruin the illusion.

You didn't know who you were expecting when you turned around, but it certainly wasn't the skull-masked man.

Up close he was even more striking. You could just barely make out his shaded eyes, alone in a void of black and white. He was shorter than your brother, but still tall by any measure. Even at that size he managed to sneak up on you two.

Your heart was racing. You didn't know why.

"Ye—yes," you managed to stammer out.

Your brother noticed your distress. It seems to give him a confidence to act that he couldn't summon for himself.

He wrapped a protective arm around you and began to lead you away.

“She’s with KorTac,” he said, like that explained everything.

During your confinement, you had plenty of time to think about what you would say to whoever got you into this mess by joining the military. You had dreams of really digging in and tearing them a new one. All of those dreams flew out the window now.

It wasn’t like you couldn’t or were afraid to antagonize someone as big as your brother. But, seeing him… you didn’t want to do that, or anything that could hurt him.

You wanted to talk to him. To get to know him. To—silly as it was—protect him.

After all, he was about the only family you had left.

[more-sonorous]

what i want to be (javey)

continuation of my transmasc canon era davey oneshot! because he is so near and dear to my heart.

tw/ for a little bit of blood and a lot a bit of davey thinking mean things about himself (and a lot a bit of jack saying nice things in return)

.....

David was not an idiot.

Or at least he tried not to be an idiot, but he found himself failing at doing so more and more as time passed. 

In his defense, it had been a rotten week. Sarah’s October birthday always reminded David of how much his parents favored his siblings over him, to put it bluntly. How could they not? Les and Sarah were golden children. Friendly social butterflies with gorgeous smiles and dimples, each with their own quirks, but nothing truly and debilitatingly strange. Not like David, who was too loud and curious as a child and too quiet and withdrawn as an adolescent, too opinionated, too awkward, with his trouble understanding expressions and tones of voice and his hatred for the skirts and dresses and pretty hairdos his mother always tried on him. Not what his parents expected from their middle child, surely. 

In a little over a month, David would turn eighteen. November. A bleak month already, but even bleaker when his birthday celebrations were compared to Sarah’s. They always had a small little party for all of Sarah’s friends, and Sarah would get a gift especially from Aba because it was no secret that she was the child he favored most. They always ranted about politics together and seemed to understand one another on a higher level-- even though Sarah denied it to David, it was no secret she was her father's child and she loved him deeply for it. Ima always gave her a present as well, usually a specially tailored dress or new blouse and skirt, because Ima loved to sew. For Sarah’s nineteenth birthday last year she’d received a real and true set of petticoats with lace and trimmings, a matter that had her pleasantly thrilled for weeks. 

David, on the other hand, received a combined present from both of his parents on account of money being rather tight around Hanukkah, and David never really liking any of the girlish things they bought him. He didn’t want new skirts or lace cuffs, and his father was awful at buying special little gifts for him. Mayer knew the brooches and political pamphlets and trinkets Sarah would enjoy, but he never seemed to understand David’s taste. It was fine. There was no house party, since David had no close friends to invite to such a thing. He’d always been too strange or odd for the other schoolchildren, and friendless-ness was something he’d learned to live with. Ima would make him rugelach and kiss him on the forehead in the morning, his father would hug him briefly and sincerely, and they’d let him have the day to himself to read or go walking or really do whatever he pleased in the solitude he’d convinced himself to prefer. Though he’d never dare complain, David hated his birthday. 

He hated comparing his birthday to Les and Sarah’s birthdays (Les was absolutely the darling of the family by far– he received the most gifts and celebration but it wasn’t quite fair to compare, since he was so much younger and meant to be spoilt while still a child) because it forced him to acknowledge how lackluster he was in comparison to his siblings.

David still loved them, of course, but birthdays were the reason October put him in a constant state of melancholy. 

The week in general had been horrible, what with Sarah’s birthday celebration and all of her presents and the love Aba showered her in. David’s depressive mood had thrown him out of his careful routine, and he found himself snapping at his family and the newsboys more often, much to his own embarrassment. He was close to breaking and maybe that was the reason why he was such a stupid idiot when he left the house that morning.

David kept meticulous track of his cycles every month. Three days before he was due to start, he always began wearing cotton padding just in case. He’d never encountered any problems and he was typically able to hide his cramping and irritability behind facades of general fatigue and teasing jabs that hit a little bit too hard.

That October morning, however, he made a very idiotic decision. Maybe it was because Sarah was admiring the socialist manifesto their father had bought her with the happiest eyes David had ever seen, or because Les refused to get out of bed and dress himself, but David did not put his cotton padding on. He was due to start in three days, after all, and he didn’t typically start early. They were in a rush. He was agitated and upset and feeling more worthless than usual. So he was an idiot about it.

“David.” Les hissed, tugging on his arm as they walked back towards the lodging house with Jack, arms free of papers and pockets a bit heavier with their daily earnings. He tugged again, stumbling along and whisper-grumbling like he didn’t want Jack to hear. “David.”

“What?” He snapped, coming to a halt and curling his hands into fists. He’d been feeling cruddy all day and Les begging him to buy a candy or stare into a shop window was the last thing he needed. David and Jack had been walking side by side in companionable silence, two of Jack’s fingers caught in the loop of David’s belt. He was very preoccupied with enjoying the way their hips and arms brushed together as they walked, and he did not have the time, energy, or patience to deal with any Leshem Jacobs shenanigans. 

Jack strolled to a halt as well, arms crossed loosely and brow furrowed in confusion. Les’s wide, brown eyes glanced between David and Jack, and he worried his bottom lip anxiously.

“What?” David tried again, through gritted teeth this time. 

His little brother tugged him down by the tie, until he stumbled into a crouch. Les was at the perfect height to cup his hands around his own mouth and lean in to press himself close to David, whispering right up in his ear. David tried to flare his own agitation as he caught his balance, hoping and praying that Les wasn’t about to ask him to play some stupid prank on Jack. 

Les’s voice was hardly even audible, a barely-there whisper that somehow carried notes of anxiety within it. “You’re bleeding.”

“Where?” He rolled his eyes and checked his palms for any sort of cut– but Les was very serious as he tugged on David’s pant leg. David raised an eyebrow, getting awfully tired of repeating himself. “Where, Leshem?”

“You know.” His little brother whispered pointedly, dark eyebrows raised and face creased with worry. “Down… um… down there.”

A moment of confusion passed before horror took over completely, spawning a tight sort of panic that made David feel tense from the soles of his feet to his shoulders. He wasn’t due for at least three days but apparently this was happening there and then and oh, God, a subtle glance down proved that Les was right. His gray trousers were darkened just between his legs and somehow he hadn’t noticed– probably too distracted by Jack.

Jack. 

This could not be happening in front of Jack. The panic really began to set in and David thanked God above that he hadn’t tied his bandages too tightly because he could feel his breathing picking up already. What the hell was he supposed to do? He’d been an idiot and left all of his padding at the apartment, and Jack was right there and he could notice at any minute and then David’s entire life would be over, and he spiraled into a frenzy as he jolted to his feet and grabbed Les tightly by the collar.

“Les and I have to go home now.” He snapped at Jack, barely able to hear his own voice over the rushing of blood in his ears.

“What?” Jack’s confused expression only got more confused as he stared at the brothers. David knew he and Les’s panicked expressions were almost laughably similar because their faces got red and their eyes got very big, but even Jack didn’t seem to think that this was a laughing matter. “Hey, what in the world is goin’ on? Way to leave a guy out of the loop–”

“Sorry, Jack, have a nice day. I hope the poker tournament at the lodging house goes well! See you tomorrow! 

Determined to flee as quickly as possible, David grabbed Les by the suspenders and steered him forward, heart thumping wildly against his ribcage. Of course, Jack was a stubborn little bastard when he wanted to be, and he jogged right up to Davey’s side. “Davey, what the hell?”

“I forgot we have… um… chores.”

Even Les rolled his eyes at David’s horrible lying abilities as Jack raised both of his perfect eyebrows. “Yeah, you wanna try that again?”

“No. I want you to turn around right now and go back to the Lodging House and pretend like this didn’t happen.” He gritted out, eyes plastered directly forward and tone clipped. David’s anxiety was cutting into the typical irritability he felt during this hellish week, when his own body betrayed him and reminded him that he’d never be who he wanted to be. 

“Excuse me?” Jack laughed almost incredulously, mouth dropping open. 

“You’re excused.” David snarled, trying to show Jack that he meant to be taken seriously and praying that his anxiety didn’t come across as obviously as he felt it. His fingers were trembling around his brother and now he could feel the uncomfortable dampness between his legs, ever-present and taunting. "Now go away.

“You ain’t doin’ yourself any fuckin’ favors, Davey, you’re only scarin’ me more–”

He couldn’t stop a noise of frustration from bubbling up. “Jack, when are you ever going to learn how to take a hint? Everything is fine, but we need to go home right now. So leave me alone. We’ll see you tomorrow.” 

David took the opportunity to shove Les through a tightly packed group of pedestrians, trying not to cringe at all of the strangers shoving and bumping against him. He felt about an inch or two away from retching all over the sidewalk as he tried to lose Jack in the throng of people, Les taking his hand and wordlessly speeding up their pace. David could scarcely breathe as they rounded the corner, clutching onto his little brother’s hand like a lifeline. This was bad. It was really bad, bordering on horrible, because Jack would be upset with him in the morning. But at least there was one good sign– Jack never chased after anyone except for Katherine. He was too comfortable with himself, too confident to go running after other people. Only her, and he loved her religiously. David felt a sick sort of happiness as he acknowledged the fact that Jack didn’t care for him in any manner other than a fleeting surface level friendship. He cradled that reassurance close to his chest as he and Les shouldered past other pedestrians, weaving through the most complicated path possible. He’d pretty much convinced himself that they were in the clear when a thickly accented voice cut through the space behind them.

“Davey– que carajo, Dave can you just– is that blood? Jesus fuckin’ Christ are you bleeding?” Rough arms grabbed him by the shoulders and David’s heart practically stopped in his chest as he wheeled around to face Jack, who had defied all logic and chased them through the crowds. Panicked honey-brown eyes stared down, down there, and Davey seized up like a stopped clock, no ticking in his brain or chest or heart. He wanted to freeze, melt, die, maybe. “Are you hurt– what happened– hold on a second– you– you– oh.”

Then Jack’s eyes got big and flicked right up to meet David’s. Maybe it was because he’d been feeling lethargic and sick and pained all day, maybe it was his previously sour mood, maybe it was the fact that the understanding dawning on Jack’s face was the most sickening thing David had ever seen– but his bottom lip was already wobbling as he shoved the other boy away. “Just– just don’t.”

If he ever thought he had a chance with Jack, his hopes were crushed and crumbled into nothing now. His eyes were stinging and he could barely breathe as he squeezed Les’s hand tight and turned on his heel, stumbling into a nearby alleyway. Remarkably, Jack was still on his tail and Davey had no idea how to explain this sudden annoying pursuit, other than the fact that Jack wanted to beat the shit out of him and he just couldn’t let that happen in front of Les.

“Davey, Davey would you just slow down for one goddamn second–” 

“Les,” David choked out through tears, “Would you wait by the lamppost for me?”

“But–”

He was already pushing the younger boy towards the aforementioned lamppost, trying his very hardest not to cry. “We'll just be a second.”

Then, steeling himself up for the worst soaking of his life, he marched resolutely into the alleyway and parked himself, standing straight and tall. Then Jack rounded the corner looking incredibly concerned and all of David’s half-assed plans to remain resilient and tough as the person he considered to be his best friend tore him apart all fell to shit. He was crying before he could stop himself.

“P– can you just wait to do this when my little brother isn’t with me? I can’t– I don’t want him to see me losing a fight.” He sobbed, the very idea of Les having to walk him home all battered and bruised by Jack’s hands absolutely tearing him apart. “Please. I w- I won’t ever step foot in the circulation yard again, Jack, I just– I really– I’m begging you not to, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if he had to watch you h- hit–”

“Watch me– God, Davey, oh my God, you think I want to hurt you?” Jack breathed, a look of unbridled terror taking over his gorgeous face. “Oh, Dave, Davey-mine, God, no. Mierda.”

Within moments, Jack was gathering him up into a tight hug, almost trembling with forced gentleness. David had no earthly clue what was happening, but he tucked his nose into Jack’s shoulder and let tears streak his cheeks as he breathed in the smells of cigarette smoke and sweat. The calloused fingers of one tanned hand threaded through David’s curls. “You just– it’s what anyone would–”

“Let’s shut this shit down right now, ‘cause I would never lay a hand on you. Never. Do you understand me?” He’d never heard Jack’s voice so firm and simultaneously anxious at the same time, and it wrenched a guttural little noise from him. Then Jack’s hands were cupping his cheeks and he stared at those resolute brown eyes, wanting to melt away and hide forever. “Davey. I need ta’ hear you say it. If I had to choose between dyin’ and hurtin’ you then I’m dead, do you get that?”

“But–” His chest shook and he squeezed Jack’s wrists almost desperately. “You know why I’m bleeding, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah, I gathered that much but I– fuck, I’m just surprised, cariño, not angry. I don’ think I’ve ever been that angry with you. I mean– you know a guy for four months, and this ain’t exactly the shit you expect to find out about him. A’course, that don’t mean it ain’t okay with me, it just… caught me off guard.” Jack dragged one of his rough thumbs over David’s cheekbone and he felt that same sense of ridiculous awe and relief all over again, just like he had in that alleyway with Race back in August. “I ain’t ever gonna lay a finger on you. Understood? David. Come on and tell me you understand, cielito.”

“I understand.” His words warbled with emotion. 

Jack just looked at him like he was seeing right through his eyes and straight into his soul. David wanted to scream. “Good. Nothin’ is ever gonna change that.”

David couldn’t handle it. He was just too homosexual. Too goddamn homosexual to stare into Jack’s understanding brown eyes and feel his warm touch, too goddamn homosexual to believe the fact that Jack was standing here accepting him, not wanting to pummel the life out of him but instead aching to comfort him. He pulled himself out of Jack’s grasp and rubbed his hands over his face, tension making his shoulders hurt with rigidity.

Anxious footsteps carefully trailed behind him. “Davey?”

“You’re not… this isn’t how you’re supposed to react.” He whispered, shoving his hands into his pockets and staring down at his shoes. “You’re supposed to be angry.”

“Why’s that? Because some stupid rich folk and the stupid rules they created want me to be angry? Bullshit.” Jack reached for him, obviously wanting to touch, and David shrugged him off nearly instantly. He couldn’t take it. 

“Not just that. I’ve been lying to you. And… and the fact that you’re accepting it and not trying to put me in my place is just going to make it worse.” He whispered, hoarse and miserable and past the point of caring about his ruined trousers. “You’re egging it on.”

After a moment of hesitation, Jack settled with leaning up against the wall next to David. He was less than an inch away, reclined effortlessly against the bricks with his lovely black hair falling in curtains over his forehead. David could just barely feel his warmth, could sense the tension radiating off of him. “Egging what on?”

“My… my strangeness.” He gestured to himself. The clothes he’d sewn so carefully, his awkward, lanky proportions and the uncomfortable stain that had started this whole mess. His hair, recently cropped again, because he’d never ever be able to live with it long again after the freeing euphoria of having it short. The weirdness. The person that had been lurking under the surface of pressed skirts and waist-length curls of chocolate brown for all his life, scaring everyone away for years. His true self, hesitantly peeking out in bits and pieces, strange and different. “This. Whatever it is. I… I shouldn’t be doing it. I should be going by– you should be calling me–”

He couldn’t even say the name. It felt like poison on his tongue. He hated it. 

“What do you want to be called?” Jack asked delicately, his gaze searing the side of David’s face. “‘Cause I’m calling you that. Not what you think I should be calling you. Or not what your parents think, or society, or whatever. What do you want?”

“David. Davey, Dave, all of the other things you call me.” He buried his face in his hands as memories of Spanish endearments and his favorite, Davey-mine, all echoed in his head. That was what he wanted. 

“Then that’s what I’m calling you. That’s your name. David. Plain and simple.” Jack’s worn-out leather work boot inched slightly to the right, bumping against David’s badly-shined lace up boot. Jack’s laces didn’t match. David’s shoes  were stolen from his parents’ wardrobe, specifically from within a box of his father’s old clothes his parents were keeping for Les. “And you’re a man, if you want to be.”

His eyes stung with tears as he rolled that question around in his head. The ever-present pit in his chest finally seemed to have an explanation, and as he said it aloud for the first time, his heart broke a little bit. Now he understood himself. ”I really want to be." 

Maybe even needed to be, but he didn’t say that piece aloud. He couldn’t imagine going back to his old life. Not when he’d tasted the sweetness of being one of the newsies, unabashedly himself. Locking himself in that cage once more would be an indescribable torture.

“You are a man, Davey. To me and all of the other guys. David Jacobs, smartest guy I know. Prob’ly the best-looking, too.” His voice honeyed with the tease as he bumped their shoulders together, melting David bit by bit with the endless kindness and love he seemed to possess. “I never saw you as anyone else and I never will, neither.” 

A tear or two slipped as he nodded, tilting his head down and to his left to awkwardly press against Jack’s shoulder. Jack pressed an actual kiss to his hair before wrapping him up in a soft, gentle sort of embrace. “Jack. You’re… you’re a really good person.”

His firm chest rumbled with a chuckle. “Nah, this is the bare minimum of what the world owes you, Dave.”

That made him cry, really and truly, and he was just lucky to have Jack rocking him back and forth in a sturdy embrace. David had never felt so loved before. 

They spent a while lingering together, letting David work through all of his conflicting emotions while Jack stood firmly by. Their roles had swapped, usually firm and unwavering David was there for Jack, who had never known stability, to lean on for support. This was a strange departure from their usual dynamic, especially for David and his bone-deep hatred of vulnerability. Honesty reminded him of those childhood evenings when his parents would sit him on the couch and lecture him gently (with undisguised fear and anxiety in their eyes) about how the things he liked weren’t quite acceptable. Honesty reminded him of bad, miserable things. Of feeling like too much within his own skin or too little too. Still, it was more than lovely to have a shoulder to cry on. After a long enough time passed, Les came racing in, brandishing a metal pipe which he seemed intent on bashing Jack’s knees in.

Once he was convinced that no one was going to hurt his brother, Les was subdued and begrudgingly decided to trust Jack again. So they walked Les back to the lodging house and left him in Crutchie’s capable hands. Then, Jack took Davey to Medda’s theatre and he found himself in a washroom, carefully wiping his legs clean. 

It seemed that Jack only got more lovely with every passing day. In that alleyway, David fell hopelessly and irreparably in love with him. How could he not? Jack had found out about his lies and deceit and still cared for him. He was even scrounging about in costume storage looking for a new pair of trousers while David cleaned himself up. He was just wonderful, plain and simply, and that made the fact that David couldn’t have him hurt even more. A little knife, twisting into that hollow beneath his ribcage, teasing that Jack was both accepting and unavailable.

Still, David thought of Katherine. He never stood a chance– not against a woman of her caliber. Rich, intelligent, a perfect flirty spitfire to match Jack step for step. One day Jack was going to marry her and disappear into New York’s upper crust, leaving David stranded as just about everyone tended to do.

He’d gotten used to the loneliness. Didn’t mean he liked it any.

Feeling fully and entirely dejected with his entire lower abdomen twisted into nasty, debilitating cramps, he curled up on the tile floor of the washroom and let the chill sink into his skin. Somehow this had become his life. Vacillating between the happiest he’d ever been and the most miserable. A future of corsets and petticoats and no Jack Kelly was making him sick to his stomach.

What could’ve been an hour or just five minutes later found a gentle knocking on the door. He forced himself onto his feet and peaked just his head out the crack of the door. Jack stood, gorgeous and smiling and holding a folded pair of trousers. He also had one of those sanitary belts the rich girls wore. 

“Miss Medda gave me this thing.” Jack held it up, looking adorably confused. “I, uh, I told her Smalls needed some stuff back at the lodging house, so you don’t need to worry.”

“Thanks.” David whispered, unable to muster up much joy with his thoughts spiraling in such a way.

Right before he could close the door, Jack caught it. He looked hesitant, a furrow between his brows. Hesitance was not a look David often saw on the fearless Jack Kelly. “Can I come in? Once you’re dressed? Just wanna… gotta make sure you’re okay.”

He felt himself softening into a puddle of lovesick goop at the sight of Jack’s face, hopeful and sweet and uncharacteristically childlike. “Okay. Gimme a minute.”

Once he was sufficiently clean and covered, wearing the sanitary belt beneath his clothes with one of his father’s leather belts holding the too-baggy trousers ‘round his waist, David sunk to the floor once more and dropped his exhausted forehead against his knees. Silence. This was not how he’d expected his day to go. He beckoned Jack in and soon found himself sitting opposite the other boy, fixed with a look of concerned care. Their legs tangled together and Jack wrapped one warm hand around David’s ankle, searching his expression as if looking for something. Maybe finding his words. His hand glided up and down, skin pushing at the dark hairs there.

Eventually Jack settled on something. “You didn’t tell me.”

“No.” He looked down at his lap. “I thought you’d hate me. My family barely tolerates me, as it is… even Sarah doesn’t support this, and I’d been hoping that she’d be my person through it all. She thinks it’s some sort of abandonment, I think. Like I’m trying to be a man to get away from being a woman– like, to get the right to vote or own property or something– but that isn’t it at all. It’s just– people not wanting this version of me is all I’ve ever known. Les is the only one who’s kind about it. Him and Racetrack.”

Jack’s eyes widened and he pouted almost comically. “Wh– Racer found out before me?”

“Sure.” David couldn’t help his own teasing smile. “Remember back in August when we nearly got mugged in Brooklyn? We had to run back and I did my bandages too tight.”

“Bandages?”

Jack wasn’t attracted to him in any way whatsoever so David had no problem unbuttoning his own shirt and lifting his undershirt to show Jack the careful wrappings that kept his chest flat. He wanted to laugh at Jack’s awestruck impression, cheeks darkening beneath his tan and eyes wide. He was probably shocked by the idea that David had been selling papers for hours every single day in such restraints. 

“Keeps my chest flat.” David explained simply, smoothing his undershirt back down over his stomach. 

Jack swallowed hard. “Yep.”

“But sometimes I tie them too tight,” He continued, unable to stop blabbering around Jack. It was a bad habit, but Jack made him feel comfortable and listened to, which was a rare occurrence, so David had gotten into the routine of yammering endlessly whenever Jack was willing to listen. “Which is what I did that day. I was panicked and overheated and I just convinced myself I couldn’t breathe, even though I probably could’ve if I was calm. Race was great about it. He’s been great since then, of course. He’s always checking up on me. The other day–”

“I would never hate you.” Jack cut him off very suddenly and very intensely, his hand flexing where it still sat, now cupping the back of David’s calf, beneath his pant leg. “You’re… I dunno how, but you’ve become the person I go to for everything. I can’t lose that. Can’t lose you, I mean, Davey-mine.”

Struck by the sudden sincerity, David felt his chest flutter happily beneath the praise. He felt stupid and stripped of his words. “Oh. I… um… yes, I feel the same way, Jackie.”

Jack nodded, glancing over David’s posture. The way he was holding his cramping lower stomach, tight with pain, was probably obvious. But he didn’t care. Jack had seen enough already. And somehow, with an artist’s observational eye and a lover’s gentle attentiveness, Jack knew just what to do and slid his hand up to Davey’s knee. “What’s gonna make you feel less sick? Water? Smalls likes to bundle up and lay in bed, and I know Kath’s always craving salty food…”

“Honestly, um…” He glanced up at Jack, who was leaning in like he actually cared what David would say. David had already made one idiotic decision, and it had ended surprisingly well. He settled on a second one after careful deliberation, and cleared his throat. “I… can you play with my hair?”

A tiny smile took over Jack’s features. “‘Course I can. C’mere.”

Jack’s hands molded him like some sort of sculpture, guiding him to lay with his head pillowed upon Jack’s lap. David’s insides were screaming giddily as he relished in the coolness of the bathroom tile, Jack’s muscles firm and cotton-covered beneath him. Then those hands weaved their way into his hair and gently scraped against his scalp, and David was weak. Done for. Absolutely head over ass in love. 

It was easy to pretend, laying on that bathroom floor with Jack’s hands in his hair and his brown eyes carefully scanning over David’s face. It was easy to convince himself that maybe Jack loved as deeply as he did. To pretend that this would become a regular occurrence, that this was a lifetime in which he was Jack’s and Jack was his, and they weren’t lying on the water closet floor in a theater, but instead on a couch in an apartment of their own. In that world, David was comfortable and happy and his parents and Sarah loved him for it, and Jack loved him even harder. In that perfect, wonderful world, he got to be with Jack every morning. He had devotion and love and loneliness was a distant, unrecognizable beast.

This, though? It was halfway there. David was sure it was as close to heaven as he’d get in his lifetime, and he savored every second.

[lilacxquartz]

Those Late Summer Nights | Chapter 8

satoru gojo x f!reader × suguru geto

plot: you moved to tokyo over the summer to take a teaching job. as you get settled in, you find yourself entangled in a toxic dynamic.

chapter summary: your father celebrated his birthday while Satoru kept up appearances. after the celebration, an unwelcome face shows up in your life again.

< Previous Chapter • Next Chapter >

8. Reunions

The next morning had finally arrived and it was time to get through one of your least favourite time of the year; a family celebration.

You dreaded spending time with your family during certain types of events. Birthdays, celebrations and national holidays all made up those times and each moment spent with your folks felt all the more bleaker than the last.

It was never a simple congratulations with a gift parted away, but it was rather taken seriously, as though you had a script to follow along and play your part right, lest it all came undone.

Just as you had feared also, your parents momentarily paused in their tracks when they spotted you exiting the guest house along with Satoru in tow but they never once referenced it when you were back inside the family home.

This both relieved you, but also scared you.

Satoru immediately found himself separated from you as the two of you were given things to do right away. Both you and your mother took on the bulk of the responsibilities as your father sat himself down with Satoru in his company, curious to talk to the guy.

Every time it came to celebrating anything at all, your father would resign his responsibilities and hand them all off to the women of the household, a certain type of repeated condition that cycled through your mother’s birthday as well as your own.

Opting out of celebrating either was not an option.

As such, you grew to resent your father for his continued silence within the house. Whether it was proven by words or actions, it remained abundantly clear just how he viewed the family dynamic.

Satoru, otherwise to his credit, did offer to help out as he claimed to be skillful when it came to preparing at least sweet things if that’s something that needed help but your father was quick to whisk him away, reminding him of the important of a well maintained household balance.

You wanted to say something about that but you found yourself biting your tongue as you resisted the urge to tell your father off for being too old fashioned.

You knew that Satoru’s mind wouldn’t be swayed so easily, but you still worried about how this all looked for you. On you.

It was a thought that quickly went away as you prepared the food with your mother instead in a strained albeit comfortable silence. Your relationship with your mother wasn’t the best, but you were a reflection of her in many ways. It left you wondering if you had similar dreams, stifled away by a common hindrance.

Occasional small talk would surface but beyond that point, the conversation remained dry. At times she would attempt to thread through the seams by asking you how you’re settling into the city, how you’re finding life by yourself—only for the string to never seal itself off again, leaving a lot left unsaid instead.

And after everything was finally ready and prepped to go, you excused yourself upstairs to change into something a little more suitable for the occasion. Satoru had also been encouraged to do the exact same.

You wore a dress for the event; it was a lot different than the one that Suguru gave you but it was much better fitting for the occasion at hand. A dusty sage green midi dress with semi long sleeves capping at the elbows, decorative buttons and cinching along the waist with long flowy skirting.

Satoru didn’t have to comment, he could have kept as quiet as Suguru did but he couldn’t resist in doing so anyway. His eyes scrolled over your body in a similar sort of way to his friend, but it didn’t feel as strangely looming.

“You look good,” he simply said as he sported something slightly more formal himself. His smile felt genuine as his tone possessed something flirty, however keeping himself in check around the company of your parents.

It didn’t take too long for the rest of your relatives to arrive either, quickly filling out the once quiet house with the drone of chatter instead. A combination of rarely seen aunts and uncles along with the nieces and nephews that scurried around the house as well as your one remaining grandparent.

In total, it was a crowd of an additional eight.

Satoru continued to play his part as he promised; borrowing the spotlight away from you and standing within it instead. He got along criminally well with the chattier aunts, gifting you some breathing room in the process.

He didn’t really mind doing so either, it’s what he promised you, after all.

The relief continued to settle as the dinner finally passed with the relatives that now made their way back home. The secondary comfort being that the worst to come was now finally over and you could be back in the city quite soon again.

Satoru quickly reunited with you as the day came to an end, not saying much to your parents as they retreated back upstairs for the evening.

“We should probably go and find that plum wine for Shoko, right?” he asked, pausing a little as he spoke, it was evening by now and this wasn’t a big town so he wondered if there was any time to begin with, “…If the shops aren’t closed, that is?”

“It’s the brewery in town that sells it,” you replied to him, “everything else is closed but they’re open up quite late.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do.” he smiled, feeling comfortable once again. He hoped to lift your spirits even if you were on the verge of feeling burnt out, grabbing onto your wrist and leading you outside.

You didn’t protest this a second time, figuring that some fresh air would be good for you.

~~~

The walk to the brewery took a little longer and by the time you got closer to the town square, the sun had already started to set, leaving the settlement basking in a warm orange glow as a thick floral scent wafted in the air.

Satoru personally found himself enjoying the quieter parts of your personality, walking alongside you just because. It was because of the comfort he felt around you that he stopped himself taking things too far, too soon.

Upon reaching the inner town where the supposed bustle usually was, it now seemed closer to being a ghost town rather than what you were used to further down in the country.

You guided Satoru into the brewery, leading him into an almost out of place looking interior—large wooden barrels filling out the interior with decorative dark beams sloping against the roof creating a rustic look.

His eyes wandered around the building as he took it all in, finally settling at the menu just over the counter. The speciality looked like it was beer currently although plum wine did have a spot on there too.

There was a choice to either order to take home or drink out of glasses in the beer garden just outside.

You initially had offered to pay for the bottle because it was something Shoko asked from you specifically, but Satoru quickly stepped in on your behalf and with the bottle in tow, you decided to at least make an effort to tour him around the town while time still remained.

Not that there was much left to show off.

The most that the town had going for it was its greenery; a lush nature backdrop that grew between the cracks and seams with a few traditional buildings scattered throughout. It was pretty typical for rural Japan. Nostalgia unintentionally hit you as you walked through the streets, throwing you back to when you walked around all alone, those many years ago.

Satoru didn’t seem to mind all too much, never once showing discomfort around you as you led him in and out of the many neighbourhoods.

“You know, this place is very calm, actually,” he said, filling out a moment of silence, “but it is boring, I do have to admit that much.”

“I guess it isn’t that bad if you’re either really young or really old, but just not so much in between,” you replied in agreement with him.

“I’m just mostly surprised that you didn’t go insane living here,” he laughed a little, hoping to lighten things up with you. He liked seeing you smile.

“I mean, I did to an extent,” you replied with a bitter smile, “the town itself is fine, it’s just the people in-“

You then froze.

It was as if you had manifested the devil herself; the brief peace that you had experienced seeming to have quickly evaporated—something, someone familiar approaching you to take you back to hell.

You gulped as you surrendered, suddenly shying away and attempting to take a different route down the road instead. This however was quickly caught on by Satoru who had a different idea in mind, not wanting for you to hide from your problems for once.

Maybe the way he was going about it was wrong, since this was your battle to figure out, but he wanted to help in the ways he knew he could.

As a teacher, he wasn’t all that unfamiliar with bullying from an outside perspective, even if he did turn a blind eye to it as a teen and while you were his equal, not a student, he still felt as though it was something better to face than just ignore.

Standing up to Yui might not have been in your cards, forcing her to acknowledge her past might not work, but maybe teaching you that you could just move on from your past?

Not that it was his place but…

It wasn’t as though you were about face someone he didn’t know about, either. He could tell from your body language alone that this was the bully that you spoke of from when you had first met.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” he assured you in a softer voice, patting your back to reinforce your folded posture once again, “nothing will happen, I won’t let it.”

In truth, he found the situation almost a little… amusing? He wasn’t a total stranger to the sway of influencial families and how they’d bend the public to their will by abusing their status in life. Seeing similar inner politics being reflected in regular civilian clans was a little strange to him, leaving him wondering exactly what type of mess this other woman was caught up in.

In the cities, sorcerer clans dominated the population. He speculated that in villages and towns, it must have been financial, some type of dominating business or simply just old money.

With that in mind, he thought that the bully in question therefore was overcompensating for something. It was likely that it was a lack of control in her life, so he she took it out on someone who had a history of not fighting back—not that he blamed you for it or anything.

The more he thought about it, the more petty he found it but he at least did get it, even if he couldn’t help but find the whole thing a little funny. For such an irrelevant town, one that he didn’t even know existed until you pointed it out on the map, to drive away its own people was hilarious to him.

What a joke.

And when this woman began to speak, he had to go the extra way to hold back stifled laughter.

“[name]! It’s been so long, hasn’t it?” Yui announced to you in a higher pitched tone, emulating some shred of care as her words feigned politeness. You wondered why this was happening, but upon seeing her eyes flick over to Satoru, you quickly understood why.

Satoru saw through this too, being completely used to this sort of person and situation. He liked attention, but he didn’t like it at the expense of others.

“Hi Yui,” you greeted in a resigned tone.

“Back in town so soon?” she asked in a forced polite voice, she wasn’t going to do anything that got her into trouble, not after the incident anyway.

“Yeah, uh, just visiting because-“ you mumbled, not wanting to indulge but you were cut off anyway.

“—sorry, but can you speak up? You’re so quiet.” she interrupted.

You swallowed away your last remaining shred of sanity, still not understanding why Satoru didn’t allow for you to just take a detour.

“It’s my dad’s birthday, so I’m in town for the weekend,” you replied with some strained added volume.

“Oh, the construction worker, right?”

“Actually he works in a facto—“

“—so, who’s your friend?” Yui asked, cutting you off once again as her intentions were finally made abundantly clear. You were the opening act for her to get closer to Satoru, thinking that a half-assed attempt of small talk would be enough to garner the attention of him.

You paused momentarily, unsure of how to actually introduce him. It was easier to go off on implications with your parents because that’s something you mulled over in your mind for a whole week, however suddenly doing so around your tormentor was a whole different story.

“He’s uh, a close friend,” you replied at long last; he was a fabricated lover, and while he did promise to play his part for you while he was here, you just couldn’t say it to her.

Satoru watched this happen from the sidelines, not wanting to interrupt unless he absolutely had to do so. He considered that he would have to talk to her soon, because his involvement was made clear.

He did find it a little disappointing that you didn’t use the boyfriend line for him though because he would have put on his best act for you.

“Oh, really…?” Yui replied, sounding almost disappointed as her eyes lit up with a new sort of flare, maintaining her friendly smile.

Yui seemed to be completely ignoring you now which you felt was strangely petty given the ages you were all currently in, since you weren’t teenagers anymore like before.

“Just a close friend?” she asked, setting her sights on Satoru next, “well if you’re ever craving some company that’s more suited to your liking, then-“

“Not a chance,” Satoru said, shutting down the attempt right away, not wanting to indulge in it any further. He could admit to being amused by the whole situation, but he didn’t harbour any interest in it all the same.

He dragged you past her as he settled on ignoring the bully instead. In his mind, you two weren’t at school anymore so regardless of what happened back then should be left behind in the past. Had Yui been more aggressive though, then maybe—but it was simple enough to just stifle her ego for now.

He could have gone further, but he didn’t.

As he walked by with you, you were left behind with some type of lingering confusion in the aftermath of things. He didn’t quite put an end to the problem at hand, but he didn’t let you dwell on it any further.

Something about this experience did manage to awake something else for him though, a sudden burst need of responsibility—feelings that were too confusing to understand right away but they were there.

What started off as him putting off his clan duties and showing off to a town he didn’t care about now simmered off into a realisation of wanting to keep you close, no matter what.

It sure felt complicated, though.

“You’re fine, right?” he spoke up after a while now that you both were far gone from the scene; feeling partial regret from making you face your past. He no longer wanted you to do so—wanting for you to move on, instead.

He didn’t like how he felt right now, it felt too familiar, almost. It was like looking into a parallel mirror as he finally understood why you hated this place so damn much.

It was a reminder that things had to be a certain way—just as his own family name emphasised the same point.

At least however, he could change the course of your life by interfering in the same way he was determined to give his students a chance at a more carefree life in spite of the life they’re forced to lead.

“Y-yeah, sorry, I-I just didn’t think I’d run into her here so soon,” you stammered in response, feeling stressed beyond belief from the encounter, thankful that you didn’t have to brave it alone, “I thought I could avoid her, but, I guess not…”

“Don’t sweat it,” he continued, forcing a smile to spread across his face as he pondered his own feelings, “nothing happened anyway, so we can just move on, right?”

“R-right,” you replied, nodding along.

Satoru sighed, he never thought anything would happen anyway. Teenagers could be needlessly cruel, but if Yui belonged to an influential family, then she would be unwise to stain the reputation in adulthood.

Feeling a little protective, he challenged an idea, not quite caring how it sounded.

“In fact,” he spoke just a little quieter than before as he drew you in by wrapping his arm around your shoulder, “she’s so irrelevant, hell, this whole town is so irrelevant that you don’t even need to think about it all again after you’re back.”

You responded with a nervous laugh in response, feeling unsure in which direction he was going exactly.

“I’m being serious, [name],” he said again, although moving away from you to gain some distance away from him, “you don’t need anyone else, not when you have me, Shoko and Suguru, so just forget about this place and never look back again.”

(And if you tried to go back, he’d stop you.)

“And my parents…?” you added to the list, still thinking he was joking.

“Nobody else,” he corrected you, feeling a little protective. He wasn’t always like this, so he felt like he really had to emphasise his point since he wasn’t joking around for once.

“I guess you might be right,” you replied as you thought about it some more; it wasn’t like you got anything out of this trip by coming to see your family, all it did was strain your relationship with your parents further.

Then again, this whole progression felt too soon—too fast, to abandon your old life in order to cling onto your new life felt unrealistic as well, no matter how much reassurance you’d get from the trio.

Was this level of attachment normal?

As you considered the implications in your mind, you slowly got used to the idea. To Satoru it seemed simple enough because you didn’t have to leave behind any crucial responsibilities, so the choice to move on was something you’d a fool to not take advantage of.

By the time you were both back at your family home, he led you back inside the guest house and didn’t do a single thing near you because he had you right where he wanted you; where he had his own hopes secured vicariously through your decision.

It wasn’t a malicious action he thought, unlike what you were feeling. This was just him looking out for you, keeping away from a place that was bad for you.

So come the next day, he rushed you out of the town as he barely gave you enough time to pack your things and to say goodbye to your very own parents, eager to get you back to what he thought to be a better life back in Tokyo.

You weren’t going to actually cut off your parents though, even if you had promised so under the spur of the moment. You were going to reduce contact instead and let them influence your decisions less.

As you sat back into the passenger seat of his car, you weren’t quite sure what you were feeling just yet.

It wasn’t quite entrapment as you felt with Suguru when he pushed your boundaries, but it wasn’t quite freedom either.

Regardless of where you went, it felt like the decision to do so was never truly your own.

So, have you managed to change at all?

Or were you still trapped in that shell?

(Is this how your mother also felt at times?)

[runnning-outof-time]

More Than Charm | Tommy Shelby x Reader

Request: no - part two of Actions Speak Louder … inspired by a comment from @holacia3

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Tommy’s got a lot of making up to do, both to (Y/N) and her parents. To anyone else, this would be a challenging feat….but Tommy Shelby isn’t anyone else.

Warnings: drinking, language

Word Count: 2493

A/N: I’m sorry it took so long for this second part to be written. If you’re still interested enough to see what happens next, thanks so much for sticking around. I’m not 100% sure it came out how I wanted it to, but I’m happy with it nonetheless. Enjoy! :)

A/N 2: oh and what a better time to post this than on the day they got married? - thank you to @eatdirt420 for suggesting I pick a day in between the two seasons that won…I hope this day is considered to be that!

I’D LOVE TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! - YOUR COMMENTS & REBLOGS HELP ME WRITE!

Comment/Message me if you’d like to be tagged in future stories similar to this one!

- December 12th, 1920 -

If you told (Y/N) that this day would finally come around, she probably would have laughed in your face.

Tommy proposed to her in October of 1913. They were planning to have their wedding in August of the next year. But no one had anticipated the fact that Tommy and his brothers would have been shipped out to fight a war in France just one month prior.

The wedding had to be postponed due to the conflict, and it stayed postponed for seven long years - both due to the war continuing longer than anyone could have imagined, and also because of the ‘mess’ that Tommy and the family business got themselves into just shortly after they returned from the Western Front in 1919.

(Y/N) thought it’d be better to wait, to allow their wedding to have the spotlight that she felt it deserved. But she’d by lying if she said that the prospect of her walking down the aisle got bleaker with every year that passed.

But today it finally happened. She finally walked down the aisle, took her fiancé’s hands, and vowed herself to him for the rest of her life. He, in return, vowed the same for her, and she and Tommy then walked back down the aisle as husband and wife.

Now it was time for the reception.

Tommy and (Y/N) decided to take a moment to themselves before going out and greeting all of the people who joined them on their special day.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her as he shut the door behind them, making sure they were alone in one of the rooms just of off the large banquet hall. He noticed that something had been eating at his wife since the ceremony was finished.

“Nothing,” she quickly responded, noticing instantly after she’d answered him that her haste had given her true feelings away.

“You’re picking at your nails, love,” he nodded at her hands, catching her in the act, “something’s bothering you. What is it?”

(Y/N) took a deep breath and let it out as a sigh. “My parents, Tommy,” she answered, her response only scratching the surface of what she wanted to say.

“What about ‘em?” he asked with furrowed brows.

“I’m worried what they’re thinking…how they’re taking this,” she divulged.

“Fuck what they’re thinking,” he was quick to brush it off, and he promptly earned a glare from his wife in response.

“Seriously? You can’t just say that,” she said, looking at him with wide eyes. Tommy stayed silent. (Y/N) turned from him with a huff, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes in hopes to alleviate some of the stress and worry she was feeling. “You can be so crass sometimes, Thomas,” she sighed, shaking her head as she looked at the ground.

“I’ve got this covered, love,” he responded, moving to stand behind her.

“I’ve heard that before,” she remarked, snorting after she spoke.

“I’ve got it covered,” he assured her, wrapping his arms around her midriff so he could pull her flush against him.

“Please don’t mess this up,” she whispered as she placed her hands atop his forearms.

“I won’t,” he mumbled as he pressed his lips to her neck.

(Y/N) couldn’t help but lean into his touch, her eyes slowly closing as she got lost in the feeling of his lips pressed to her skin. “We’ve gotta get out there, Tommy,” she finally spoke after a few moments had passed.

“They’ll be fine for a few more minutes,” he disregarded her statement, continuing his ministrations.

“Tommy,” the repeating of his name came as a breath this time.

“Just wanna spend some time with me wife,” he mumbled before spinning her around so that he could kiss her lips.

The reception was in full swing now. Tommy and (Y/N) had been playing host, going around to all of the guests and thanking them for being part of their big day. (Y/N) was so happy to see Tommy back to acting like his old self. Usually his smiles and lighthearted behavior were reserved for her eyes only but today, while in front of family and friends, his guard had been completely lowered.

Her parents hadn’t yet made a scene, which (Y/N) was thankful for because they very well could have if they wanted to. They stood off to the side and watched with smiles as their daughter celebrated her wedding day. (Y/N) wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or worried that Tommy hadn’t gone over to them yet.

“Don’t look now, (Y/N),” (Y/N)’s sister, Josephine, started while looking over the younger woman’s shoulder, “but Tommy’s on his way over to mum.”

(Y/N) looked as soon as her sister finished speaking. Sure enough, Tommy was now talking to her mother. She held her breath as she watched the two conversate.

“What is he going to do?” she wondered aloud, frozen as she silently hoped that this wouldn’t be the time where the train got derailed.

The two talked for a moment longer before Tommy offered his hand to her. Time seemed to go slow as (Y/N) watched a smile form on her mother’s face before she accepted Tommy’s hand and allowed him to lead her to to the dance floor.

“He got her to dance,” Josephine pointed out, grabbing hold of her sister’s arm as a look of shock formed on her face, “no one gets mum to dance.”

“And it looks like she’s enjoying it,” (Y/N) remarked, feeling an immense relief wash over her as she caught the wide smile that was present on her mother’s face.

“Leave it up to Tommy Shelby, right?” Josephine grinned as she looked over at her sister.

(Y/N) couldn’t help but blush. She tried to play it off, but the fact that Josie’s grin grew made it obvious that she had caught her initial reaction. “Yeah,” she conceded with a slight nod before adding, “but mum’s the easier of the two to convince. I’m interested to see what he’s got planned for dad.”

The evening had gone as swimmingly as it could have. There were many laughs and smiles, and the love could practically be felt in the room.

The dance seemed to do the trick: (Y/N)’s mother had decided to put her feelings of hesitance in the past and accepted Tommy as her son-in-law. Her only qualm now was that the two hadn’t gotten married sooner.

Much like (Y/N) predicted though, her father was going to be a harder person to sway. He stayed at the table for most of the evening, watching the event happen around him. She tried to get him involved a few times, but to no avail. The only time he stepped away from his seat was for the father-daughter dance.

“Is your father still here?” Tommy asked (Y/N) as the evening was drawing to a close.

“Let me see…” she trailed off, peering around his shoulder to find the table her parents had been sitting at, “he is,” she affirmed when she found him in the same seat he’d been occupying all evening. “Why do you ask?” she couldn’t help but question the reasoning behind his concern.

“I’ve not gotten to talk to him yet,” he answered.

“He’s not going to be as easy to sway as my mother was,” (Y/N) warned.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t try, eh?” he cracked a grin. (Y/N) couldn’t help but smile at his determination.

“Please don’t make things worse,” she said before he could leave her side.

“I won’t,” he assured her, leaning in and pressing his lips to her forehead before he turned and walked away from her.

“(Y/N)!” she then heard from behind her. She turned to find Ada approaching her with Freddie in tow. There went the plan of watching Tommy try to smooth-talk her father. “I’ve been looking for you,” the Shelby woman stated as she pulled her new sister-in-law into a hug.

“You’ve found me,” (Y/N) smiled once the two ladies pulled away. She made sure to also acknowledge Freddie, who sent a smile back.

“I wanted to let you know that we’re leaving. It’s getting late and we don’t want to keep Karl’s sitter for too long,” Ada informed her.

“Oh that’s fine. Thank you both for coming,” (Y/N) smiled.

“It was absolutely lovely! We’re thrilled to have you as part of the family now,” Ada said with a smile before asking, “would you happen to know where my brother has run off to?”

“He trying to have a word with my father,” (Y/N) answered, watching as Ada’s eyes widened slightly.

“Best of luck with that,” she stated, “but knowing Tommy, he’ll be able to settle the score.”

“I can hope,” (Y/N) smiled softly, hoping it hid her true emotions. “Thanks again for coming tonight.”

“We wouldn’t have missed it for anything,” Ada smiled before pulling the other woman into one last hug.

By the time the Thornes had left her side, (Y/N) turned again to find Tommy sitting at the same table as her father. They were talking, and by the looks of it, her father seemed to actually be interested in the conversation. (Y/N) felt a smile creep onto her lips as they both lifted their glasses in unison for a drink.

“Whiskey…it sure does help men forget their differences,” the voice of her mother came from beside her, making (Y/N) jump at the sudden company.

“Mum,” she couldn’t help but gasp, her reaction making the other woman laugh. She shook her head and let out a sigh, her smile returning as her mother pulled her into her side. “Tommy really brought whiskey over for him?” she asked.

“He did,” her mum answered with a nod, “was really polite in asking if he could talk with him privately.”

“I can only imagine what they’re talking about,” (Y/N) stated, silently hoping that whatever it was wouldn’t ruin their chances at married life before it even began.

“Oh horses and betting, I’m sure,” her mother threw out a few ideas. “So long as he doesn’t coax him down to Watery Lane, we’ll be grand,” she then added in a nonchalant manner.

(Y/N)’s eyes widened as they found her mother’s. She’d never explicitly told her about the business that Tommy and his family ran. Right now she felt like a child who’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to. That was why the smile that formed on her mother’s face made confusion wash over her. Why is she smiling? she couldn’t help but think to herself.

“The Shelby name is spoken all around Small Heath, darling. It’s hard not to know about the business they’re involved in,” her mother explained her reaction, making her daughter immediately go into panic mode.

“You’re not upset about that, are you?” (Y/N) asked in a weary tone.

“I’m not,” the older woman started, shaking her head softly, “you’ve been with him for a long time now, and he’s not once shown that he wants to be anywhere other than by your side. He’s a good man to you, (Y/N), anyone can see that. I’m happy that he’s the one you married because I know that you’ll be safe with him.”

“I’m so happy to hear that you think that, mum,” (Y/N) said with a wide smile. She couldn’t help but wrap her arms around the older woman and hug her tightly. All of the worries she was harboring had now vanished.

“You’re going to have a lovely life with him,” her mother whispered as she held her daughter tighter.

“I’m not sure what you did, but you made them love you, Tommy,” (Y/N) said as she worked on making sure all of her jewelry was removed.

“You should have trusted me,” he responded, standing from the bed after he’d taken his shoes off. He then moved over to where she was standing so that he could wrap his arms around her waist from behind.

“I should have,” (Y/N) mumbled as she tried to fight the smile that was threatening to form on her face.

“What was that?” Tommy asked as he lifted his chin from her shoulder so that he could look her in the eyes through the mirror. His eyes were wide now and there was a grin teetering on his lips also. He definitely caught what she said…he just wanted to hear it again.

“Oh nothing…” (Y/N) trailed off, playing coy as she bit on her bottom lip.

“Did you just say that I was right?” he tried to coax the answer out of her.

“I said nothing,” (Y/N) held steadfast, although her grin was peeking through despite her attempts to keep it hidden.

“Fine…I’ll just have to use another means of getting it out of you,” Tommy decided, not giving her a moment to process what he said before he was dragging her backwards and - gently - pushing her onto the bed. “What was it you said, love?” he questioned between the kisses he was peppering all over her face, his hands finding the sensitive spots on her sides.

“Tommy!” she shrieked, trying so hard to catch her breath through her giggles. Despite her attempts to either stop his hands or take hold of his face, Tommy continued his barrage of kisses and tickles. “I should have trusted you!”

“What was that?” he stopped all at once, holding himself above her as their eyes met.

“I should have trusted you,” (Y/N) repeated herself once she caught her breath. She took hold of his cheeks with both of her hands and searched his eyes for a moment before adding, “I must’ve forgotten how much of a charmer you are.” She couldn’t help but smile as she watched a grin crack through his composure. If only she could have photographed this moment or found a way to freeze time.

“I managed to keep you for all these years somehow, didn’t I?” he countered, his grin growing, “that wasn’t because of luck alone.”

“I think it was more than your charm that made me stay, Tommy,” she admitted, her smile widening.

“Oh yeah?” his question sounded like he was challenging her.

“Yeah,” her quick response told him what she was up for the challenge.

“Wanna tell me all of those other reasons?” he asked then, one of his eyebrows raising as he spoke.

“Gladly,” (Y/N)’s smile grew more, if that was even possible. Her eyes then flitted down to his lips before returning to his again. “I think I’ll start with your kisses,” she stated, leaving him with no time to respond before she pulled his lips down to match hers in a passionate kiss.

Tagged: @mystcldydrms @the-anxious-youth @cloudofdisney @look-at-the-soul @elenavampire21 @mrsalwayswrite @julkaamazing @evita-shelby @lilyrachelcassidy @notyour-valentine @shelbydelrey @theshelbyslimited @peakyswritings @just-a-blackhole @watercolorskyy @strayrockette @peakyduchesss @alexxavicry @captivatedbycillianmurphy @yummycastiel @dark-academia-slut @tommystargirl @emotionalcadaver @stevie75 @lyarr24 @signorellisantichrist @zablife @anotherblinder @cillmequick @dandelionprints @letal-y-poetica @gypsy-girl-08 @insanitybyanothername @depxiety @raincoffeeandfandoms @dragons-are-my-favorite @acewritesfics @forgottenpeakywriter @cljordan-imperium @brummiereader @areyenotfondofmelobster @everythingelseisextra @little-diable @thomashelbyswife @shaddixlife

MASTERLIST

[randomgurl2326]

Andromeda and Perseus: Destined

Prologue

Harry Potter Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Moodboards

Welcome to the first part of Andromeda and Perseus: Destined!!!! I am SO excited to start this and see where this goes. Thank you to everyone who took a chance on this fic. Really, from the bottom of my heart, thank you💚💜 Now, on with the show…

P.S.: please tell me what you think about this and if I should improve it and republish it later. If you can’t already scared, I’m scared out of my mind😭

May 29th, 1986

Outside Malfoy Manor

“Tag! You’re it!” The sound of the four children playing outside Malfoy Manor, not a care in the world. While inside the Manor, more nefarious dealings are going on…

Theodore Nott, Y/N Riddle, Mattheo Riddle, and Draco Malfoy were inseparable for their age, though each had their favorite. Y/N aside Theodore and Mattheo aside Draco. Neither of the four was rarely seen far from the other, the group causing mischief when their parents weren’t looking (or in the twins’ case, their caretakers, the Malfoy’s).

As time sees it currently, the Core Four as they so deemed themselves, were playing tag. Currently, the older of the twins–Mattheo–was the tagger, heading straight for his sister, laughing maniacally.

“Come on, Y/N/N! Give your big brother a hug,” the Riddle boy tumbles towards his sister (who currently is using Theodore as a shield), arms wide open.

Y/N laughs, shielding herself from her brother, “Teddy, save me!”

“Don’t worry! I got you,” the curly-haired Nott boy shields the tiny girl from her bumbling brother.

Mattheo comes barreling into Theo saying, “You’re it, Theo!”

Y/N quickly lets go of the boy and runs with the other two, laughing and yelling. Mattheo and Y/N go running to Draco trying to sway Theodore to go towards him instead. Though making the mistake of looking back, Y/N runs into her brother, making him fall onto the Malfoy boy. Theodore, not seeing what had occurred between the three, preceded to fall onto all three.

For a split second, everything goes quiet between the four. Each eyeing the other intently. Suddenly, a chorus of laughs erupts from the Core Four. The laughs were the loudest and the hardest they had ever shared (though not saying much as they were all of six at the time).

None of the children knew it, but this would be one of the last times they would ever laugh nearly as hard until they reached their mid-twenties. Because in a few years time, things would take a drastic turn for the worse. The stars would seem darker, memories would seem bleaker, and happiness would feel as if a thing of the past.

Another thing none of the children knew was what dealings were currently unfolding inside the house between Lucius Malfoy and Theodore Nott Sr., nor what was brewing between two certain children currently staring at each other intently with happiness within their eyes. Not knowing how much truth the nicknames they had deemed each other with would hold…

The three boys stood, Y/N still lying content on the drive of Malfoy Manor.

Theo held out his tiny hand smiling the biggest smile he ever smiled, “Ready, Andromeda?”

Y/N grabbed his tiny hand with her own, the same infectious smile gracing her face, “Ready, Perseus.”

They were in fact NOT READY…

May 29th, 1986

Inside Malfoy Manor

“That settles it then.” The strict voice of Lucius Malfoy emanates through the room, “Your boy and the sole daughter of the Dark Lord will be wed in the summer of their sixth year.”

Theodore Nott Sr. nods stiffly, his Italian accent prominent as he voices, “A match of the Dark Lord himself.”

The wives of the two Death Eaters–Narcissa Malfoy and Circe Nott, best friends–look at each other in trepidation, already aware of their husband’s intentions beforehand. The knowing look they gave each other calmed and confirmed their worried thoughts of their husband’s business dealings. Wishes for the children to be able to choose their own destinies (although, both knew that the younger Riddle twin and the Nott boy would end up in each other's arms either way) swirling unsaid through the air.

Outside, the rain starts. The children rush inside in, hushed whispers dissipating as they reach the eyes of the adults sensing the serious atmosphere, smiles still apparent on their faces.

Narcissa and Circe give each other one last glance before they turn to the Core Four and smile. “Come here little ones,” the voice of Narcissa rang out through the lounge room, opening her arms. The children rush towards their respective mother figures, going on about their day of tag.

Lucius and Nott Sr. reenter the room calling the attention of the children. Theodore Sr. clears his throat, “Theodore, Y/N. Would you please join us?”

The brown-haired boy and the h/c girl look to each other and join Theo’s father and Y/N’s temporary father figure inside the large, dark office.

Malfoy gestures to two seats before the best friends, “Sit. We have much to discuss…”

That evening, the Nott boy and the Riddle girl lost the first piece of their innocence, learning as to what was to be expected of them. At the age of six, both betrothed to each other for an eternity.

At least they would always be each other’s Perseus and Andromeda…

Next Chapter…

———————————————————————————-

I CANT believe it, first chapter of Perseus and Andromeda: Destined already out! I truly cannot believe it! This is my first real fic, and I am absolutely besotted for it to actually come to fruition. Thank you to ALL of you whether you’re new or old.

I’m sure you guys are just as excited as I am to join Theo and Y/N on their journey of love, heart-break, and everything in-between. (Little spoiler alert: they both receive the happy ending they deserve.)

As always, advice is ALWAYS appreciated, along with comments, likes, and of course: reblogs.

Again, THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!!!💚💜 I love you all!! Always feel free to talk to me, whether you need to get something off your mind or talk about something totally insane, I WILL BE THERE!

Taglist:

@elsie-bells @cinderellawithashoe @niktwazny303 @claranunez @desiray562 @jetblackpayne @fandom-life-12 @hanversace @trshngyn @silencionyx @c-dizzle99 @starmansirius @ssc7514 @amwhy