#soul of god form of moth | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

meownotgood · 8 months ago

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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

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

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

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

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

— V. October 29, 1618.

—

Breathe in. Breathe out.

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

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

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

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

You are going to die.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Viktor put a blissful end to your cycle of tedium.

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

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

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

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

To say you were smitten was an understatement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So why, why are you still alive?

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

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

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

Oh. That's Viktor's voice.

—

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

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

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

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

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

— V. Unknown Date, 1619.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nearly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Viktor pauses for a moment, before speaking.

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

You scoff, "Powerful magic?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Viktor-"

"Stay still."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I just missed you."

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

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

Either way, he's right.

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

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

Now, all of your life belongs solely to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gods, you would have done it all over again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you trust me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Vik," You sputter, "Touch me."

Now, it's his turn to listen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you let him take you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gasp, sounding overly shaky. "Vik-"

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

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

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

"You are in no position to make demands."

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

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

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

Thankfully, he doesn't make you wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And oh, how that excites you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But almost isn't what you need.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. But you want to push them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are-" He shudders, "Exquisite."

He fills you so, so good.

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

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

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

"Eyes open."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Viktor believes differently.

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

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

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

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

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

You've no need to hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. You are sweet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It enamored you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fall apart for me.

And you fall — fast, hard, instantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only.

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

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

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

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

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

You can't help but sob.

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

"Please," You plead, "Viktor…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Vik-" You manage, "Harder."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Viktor… Viktor, I'm-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Will you rest with me?"

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

"Yes," Viktor answers, "Of course."

—

Death's opposition dwindles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

— V. Unknown Date, 1619.

#viktor x reader #viktor x you #viktor smut #the voices..... THE VOICES...................

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smallraindrops-blog · 14 days ago

Text

Like a Moth to a Flame

Pairing: Male reader x Hades 2 Prometheus

Word count: 2.9

Warnings: Angst, abusive parent, war, implied sexual intimacy, inaccurate pottery information, Hades 2 spoilers no beta.

Summary:

When clay is placed into fire, it undergoes a chemical reaction.

This is an irreversible process.

Notes:

Trying something new to break writer’s block, normally I write my readers fic in second POV but wanted to try first person style out. Wrote this in a haze, so hopefully this fic makes sense.

Spoilers ahead!

Enjoy!

My fingers were stained by the red clay just as my Father and older brothers were.

‘Prized dirt.’ Father would scoff, sweat beaded his brow as he eyed the loaded wagon with distaste.

Father was a simple man, only understood what his own father taught him. My older brothers would chuckle, agreeing every time as they urged the overwork mules to pull.

I never responded, lest I get the sharp sting of a disapproving hand against my cheek.

Again.

It was always told late in the night. Whispered with hurried words, laced with awe like a poisoned dagger, as if the storyteller feared even speaking of the old tale would bring a similar fate upon their weak moral flesh.

Yet even as we all feared the wrath of the gods, we all still huddled around the hearth, our eyes locked on the seductive dance of the flames. Red, orange and yellow, little embers flying out as if calling to our clay forms.

The Titian was named Prometheus and he loved us mere morals. His hands had crafted the moral forms, he alone gave us fire so we might live as the gods did.

When I dreamt, I was as the earth once was. Dark and cool and peaceful. Clay had no thoughts, no feelings.

Yet.

I felt the ghostly touch of fingers against my flesh. Of promises woven bone deep, all the possibles felt in the flutter of my heart.

And…

I longed for the flames.

By pure happenstance, my Father had acquired a pottery wheel when I was a child. One of his merchants was going to toss it away and instead gifted it to Father.

He grunted as he tossed it to the side of the pitifully small house that was my childhood home, his words almost lost among the noises. ‘giving me trash. I don’t need this. I need money.’

I waited until he went inside, safe in the twilight darkness. Once I was sure it was safe I went to carefully gather up the scattered pieces. I only ever caught glimpses of this tool during deliveries, a world unknowable to me. One just as out of reach as the stars themselves.

Or so I thought.

I hid the pottery wheel away, and waited sleepless in my bed for the sunrise. Ideas unfurled from my mind, of the ways my hands might shape the red clay of my homeland.

Vases, cups and bowls. Maybe I could find some black paint, recreate the myths that bards sung, the flickering embers of the bonfire giving their stories life.

My fingers tightened into the blankets, and I exhaled. It felt like the whole world was at my fingertips. Nothing was impossible in the face of creation itself.

It was in the war torn city of Ephyra that I first laid eyes on him.

Damnation and ruin had come for the gods and for their followers alike.

And the lines between the dead and the living were so blurred, I sometimes was convinced I had been dead all along with no one polite enough to inform me of the fact.

This nightmare of ruined souls was for the promise of a new Golden Age, where morals ruled over gods, one where we no longer feared their rage for ours were just as great, if not more so.

The strange city on the mountain was wealthy, imposing statues and the stone smooth under my feet. I never saw such a place, far too used to the pastoral lands of my home.

Now it lay in ruins, rotting sheep flesh everywhere and shades lingering over torn apart morals bodies. Some weeping as they watched homes were robbed. Screams echoed then cut off suddenly as the cyclop tried to fill his forever empty belly

There was no leader here and many of the devoted morals were running like madmen through every building, stealing anything that gleamed in the firelight. Slaughtering anyone that stood in their way, Father Time’s promise lingering in their ears.

I didn’t join the men, keeping my head low as I ducked into one of the ransacked building. The harsh scent of copper followed me, making my stomach turn sour.

I never developed the bloodlust needed for war. In the past as a child, I would get nauseated at the sight of slaughtered animals, their blood pooling on the ground even though I knew their flesh would be cooked and seasoned for my own hunger later.

So I went to hide in the dark like a coward.

Only to come face to face with a titan.

I stilled, my feet rooted on the ground as I tried to force my body to breathe.

Even hunched over a pottery wheel, the Titan of Foresight was a giant, his hands alone could easily crush large golden chariots, his shoulders broad as the mountain we stood upon.

The fire that burned in the hearth behind him looked dim in comparison to the overwhelming heat and light that his presence of blue fire brought upon the humble home.

His gloved fingers ran along the wheel, his expression hidden from me.

I took a step back with a bow, intending to leave. Only for his eyes to snap up to me, his mouth in a hard line.

I tried to speak, to look away but I couldn’t. My body was no longer my own, I was caught in his gaze like an animal in a hunter net. They were like the sun itself, red with shifting orange and amber as his unnatural hair swayed with the tilt of his head.

Clay. Fire. Moral. Deity.

The harsh shadows of his face shifted, the line of his mouth softened into thoughtfulness.

“You’re one of mine.” The great Prometheus stated in a voice that rumbled like an earthquake in my head, his fingers still on the pottery wheel. “I had a premonition of this moment so very long ago. Maybe even before you or your parents were ever born. Now, here you are before me. Clay that had come to life.”

What did one say to a god? To the one that created me and every single moral?

I swallowed, fingers numb.

“Here I am, great titan. At your service.” I whispered.

With that, Prometheus spun the wheel.

Much like the eagle that still picked at his liver, Prometheus had decided to keep me by his side. Others casted me looks of narrowed eyes jealousy, my presence no longer welcomed at the nightly bonfires as it once was.

One of my comrades asked me why once, why did the Titan pick me of all people. I was no clever prince, no great warrior and I only could shrug, trying to act like I was fine with my own blind ignorance.

After all, I was used to fumbling in the dark, as a child from my father and his brutal hands and now to a Titan that created morals entirely.

I never asked. Did the ground ask why it only rains when the skies wish for it? Or did the birds question the wind where it came from?

No, of course not.

Prometheus’ reasons were his own, for he never told me why. I suspected he never told anyone. Not even his fellow titans. Not to the eagle. No one.

In the rare moments I was allowed near, his fire that kept me warm from the harsh touch of the goddess Demeter, the deadly, pale fingers of winter sharp against my skin. I longed for my own home, to feel the gentle sunshine on my face, to clay cool against my skin.

I told no one.

I tended to him, bringing him plates of food stolen from the endless tables of the Olympians, long left behind as they hid at the top of the mountain. Baring cups of fresh water, so pure that when I scooped the water into the cup, I saw every single colorful river stone on the bottom.

Once I had found honeyed wine, rich and dark as the seas. The bottle was hidden under thick layers of snow. It must have been left behind by Dionysus during the early days of the war.

I wanted a sip, for I knew I would never taste anything like it again but resisted. This would be a perfect offering to Prometheus.

However, instead of pleasing the great titan, he had taken the bottle from my hands and threw it off the mountain with a twisted sneer. I stared into the dark in genuine shock, the clacking of the eagle’s beak echoed in the snowy landscape.

Was the bird laughing?

I flinched at the sound, dropping down to my knees. My eyes snapped shut, humiliation digging into my ribcage. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know my own foolishness. Forgive me, Master Prometheus!”

Prometheus was silent, but I felt his stare on me, I always felt the scorching heat of his gaze. How could I not? I felt something cold land on my cheeks, blinking as I realized that fresh snow was falling.

“Aeros. Leave us.” His voice was a shock, breaking the stillness of the snowfall. The Eagle’s wings flapped, once, twice then took off. I followed the golden form as it took flight, sun-bright against the night skies.

It was only when I saw that Prometheus was still staring at me that I dropped my eyes.

“I had seen many things that destroyed the moral forms. Foul sickness of the body and mind. Of them tearing each other apart like wild beasts.” Prometheus spoke quietly, his breath white in the chilly air.

“Master?” I asked, not sure where he was going with this.

Prometheus sighed, steam flowing upward from his mouth. He looked like one of those terrifying dracon, capable of great destruction.

He was one of those things, greater than them in fact. More than the gods, or his fellow titans. Perhaps only Father time and chaos itself were greater than the morals creator. But I doubted that.

“Yet those horrible things were nothing in comparison of the deadly siren call of wine. Morals and gods alike flock to it like a moth to a flame. It ruins them just as well.” Prometheus smiled down at me, the curve of his lips rueful. “I don’t want that foul elixir near me.”

Then his smile dropped. “Nor do I want it near you.”

My head bowed in easy acceptance. “Yes, I won’t touch it.”

His hand, the one enveloped in living blue flames, beckoned me to follow as he began moving again. I sighed quietly as I hurried to join by his side, bumps forming on my skin in response as the welcomed warmth.

The blue flames danced along his muscular forearm, the blacked flesh didn’t hide the sinew and power in his form. I knew if I reached out, it would burn me alive.

My fingers twitched.

My first, childish attempt at a vase was a failure, the smooth clay collapsing under my fingers, even as I tried to hold it like a parent desperately grabbing a drowning child.

My foot stilled on the peddle, the wheel slowing until it stopped completely.

I stared down at my fallen creation in muted disappointment, not at the almost vase but at myself.

So I tried again and again. They both failed so I spun the wheel again and again and again-

It wasn’t until hours later, my fingernails caked in red and my back aching from my hunched position that I finally gave up. I made a frustrated cry, tears forming in my eyes, ready to toss the potter’s wheel into the fire.

I didn’t. Barely.

Instead, I sat in the darkness, staring at the wheel. I was alone in a cave of my own making and I had no light. I had nothing but dirt and the dying ember of hope in my chest.

Later after countless failures, I realized I should have taken my time. I should slow down and let the clay speak to me, not to mindlessly command it to take whatever form pleased me.

That night, with marked fingers, I gathered the red clay and tried again and again.

Sometimes, Prometheus did tell me secrets.

Even when he was on his knees, he was still imposing like the mountain itself, far taller than any moral could hoped to be.

He spoke of the world before the gods ruled, a world that sounded impossible to me. I had never existed in such a world and even with Titan of Time’s promises, I still had my doubts.

I would sit there, watching in quiet awe as he took clay and carefully worked it with one large hand. The gentle flex of his chest dawned my eyes to the ragged scar, the healed wound a deep pink.

His creations always came out perfect, ready to fulfill their purpose. Was this what it was like when he first crafted morals? So effortlessly and with such great care?

The cup came forward out of the clay, a perfect circle and smooth without finger marks. It looked ridiculously small and I bit back a smile.

He lifted the blacked hand, the fire growing stronger, the flames almost white as he held the cup in his hand, fingers curled over it.

“When I first tried my creations just fell apart on me every single time.” I offered during a moment of quiet fire crackling. “I think it took me a month before I was able to produce a lopsided bowl.”

I laughed at the memory, I had been so proud of the damn thing even though it was completely useless for anything. Prometheus didn’t laugh, it was rare for him to even smile.

I didn’t mind. I was just happy to be allowed near his presence.

“I remember when I first tried to make humans.” He said finally. “I gave you shape and souls. The goddess Athena breathed life into you, cleverness and all.”

The breath, the one that Athena had blessed me with, was sucked out me, my eyes large as his words sunk in. I was torn between begging for more information or to stay quiet and hoped he would continue without my encouragement.

Prometheus shifted, his eyes flickered over me. My cheeks flushed as his gaze lingered on me. “I think the final results have proved satisfactory.”

My lips parted but no words came out. I once again found myself speechless.

His finger unfurled from the bowl and he gave a pleased nod once he inspected it, He placed the little cup down into an unused kiln, then he shifted until his large form was looming over me. He ducked his head low, his breath a warm puff against my skin.

I swallowed, my heart drumming against my chest as I felt a dark flower uncoiled in my core, the petals spurn out into a deep heat.

“I know If I tell you this, you will never speak of it again.” He whispered, “Yet I find myself wishing to hear you promise me you will keep my secret anyway.”

I lifted my head up just enough to meet his eyes. “I promise I shall keep your secret. Beyond the grave even.”

That made him smile, genuinely so and it was so beautiful I wanted to weep. He leaned in, his mouth almost against my shoulder. My eyes dropped shut as I tried to keep my breathing steady.

“Morals gained something that I nor Athena could have imagined. I planned for greatness for all morals, clever and strong.” He intoned, sounding amazed and a touch wishful. “But they gained something we deathless never really could have.”

I gasped quietly, as his large fingers pressed into my back, the other one, the one fire devoured, held safely away from me.

“Hope.” He finished. “That's what I saw when I first laid eyes on you.”

“Prometheus.” I whispered like a prayer. It might as well be.

He sighed my name.

All I ever was and ever will be, was mere clay placed into the kiln by gentle hands and low murmured promises.

They called her Princess Melionë.

Prometheus called her an agent of change.

I called her a problem.

I cursed under my breath as I watched her tear through Hephaestus’ creations like a hot knife through butter. Ducking away from the battle, I hurried through the hidden paths of the mountain, not paying heed to the footprints I left behind.

Prometheus would be waiting for her, he always knew when she would be successful making it up to the mountain. Yet I felt the urge to run to my beloved Master and warn him anyway.

I flinched as I saw more black smoke that spilled from the battle. Something was different this time about Princess Melionë. Although she was a creature of moonlight and shadows, she burned a fire of her own.

When I finally reached my Master, he held up a hand before I could speak. With a wordless flicker of his hand, I obeyed and stayed out of sight, all I could do was watch.

Countless times, I had seen Prometheus fought the princess with an ease that perhaps even the greatest warriors would had envied. He knew everything about the Princess and she knew nothing.

Not this time.

I held my breath, horrified as Prometheus took another hit. Aeros flew through the air, a blazing comet that cried out and swoop down into the battle, his swift form lost to my moral eyes.

In the end, Prometheus won.

As he always did.

Any whispering doubts of any other outcome in my mind, I pushed aside. Prometheus saw far more than anyone else.

He would not fail.

#Hades 2 #x male reader #hades 2 Prometheus

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arzen9 · 2 months ago

Text

Can I Be Good? Chapter 12: Beating of Wings - Astarion/Lark

pairing: Astarion/f!Tav | Astarion/f!OC 18+ MDNI word count: 9.6k tags/warnings: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Not Canon Compliant, Vampire Ascendant Astarion, Redemption, Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Mystery, Romance, Drama, Angst, Fluff, Smut, Original Female Character, Mentions of Trauma, Mentions of Past Trauma, Mentions of Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Masturbation, Blood, Blood Drinking, Alcohol summary: Centuries of pain, a ritual, (not) hunger, (not) desire, a lost soul, a search, a yearning, bodies, bodies... And a heart that changes everything.

For those of you that do not know, Lark is largely a self insert, and the conversations she has with Astarion about her mother have been very healing for me. I hope that this story makes you smile, even when Lark and Astarion are going through it lol.

On a different note- HERE COMES THE SMUT!

And on yet another different note: I will need to take a break starting next Thursday, because I have a vacation planned. Thank you for understanding! I will be back with more on around May 15th!

Here's some lyrics from the song I listened to on repeat while writing this chapter: And nothing fuels a good flirtation Like need and anger and desperation -The Moth & The Flame by Les Deux Love Orchestra

Thanks for reading, and as always, if you want to chat, my ask box & dm's are always open<3 Thank you @nerdallwritey for reading these over, always helping out, and being an amazing friend, ILY!!!

Can I Be Good? spotify playlist

Read on AO3

Astarion’s name has never sounded so precious as it does now falling from Lark’s lips in a moan.

If only he was the one causing it.

He should not be here. Not after what she said to him in the garden.

No— not after what he said to her.

For all his powers as the ascendant, though, he can’t turn back time.

So, he’s here— Lark might not know, but this is an olive branch. The way Astarion understands it, of course: one offered in secret.

But one thing about Astarion is that centuries have not been able to chip away at his avoidant nature, and when he sees Lark writhe and squirm under the covers, with his pen in her hand (he wishes she’d get rid of the covers so that he could see) and his name falling from her lips at the height of her ecstasy, all he can think of doing is to run away.

It’s too much— her scent. Her blood is something (everything) on its own already, but mixed with the unique aroma of her arousal, that slightly sweet tinge, how it grows stronger as she breathes out his name (it’s enough to make him forget his own name) is more than he can take. His pants feel way too tight all of a sudden, and if he sticks around, he knows he’ll end up doing something reckless.

So, Astarion runs away.

He can’t return to the palace fast enough. He breathes quick, moves even quicker, when he gets to the entrance and comes out of his mist form.

If he’s lucky, the others will have retreated to their chambers for the night, and he won’t have to deal with them in his current state.

But when has Astarion ever been lucky?

Karlach, Gale and Shadowheart are all up, standing around the bar with concerned expressions they’re doing nothing to hide. Noticing his arrival, they all turn towards the palace entrance, but it’s Karlach who speaks first, her worried expression quickly replaced by one of dangerous fury.

“Where in the hells were you?”

Gods, not now. “Excuse me?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Astarion? I know you can be an absolute prick, but to Lark?” Karlach’s voice booms as she walks closer to him, and Gale and Shadowheart move with her, albeit slower, more careful.

“She came running to you to complain, did she?”

Karlach looks ready to punch him. “She did no such thing, but you probably know that. I’m not an idiot, Astarion. She came back here after talking to you all teary eyed.”

Ah, yes. He was aware of that, of course.

Lark’s beautiful, pearly tears adorning the creases of her beautiful, rose-like eyes. He could smell the salt, even if she tried to hide from him that she was crying.

“And what is it that you want me to say, Karlach?”

“Oh, stop acting like a fool! I want to see that you know you hurt her! That you’ll do something about it! Anything!”

“Perhaps yelling at each other is not the best way of—” Gale tries to interject, but Shadowheart silences him by placing her hand on his arm.

Karlach ignores them entirely and continues, “I want to know that you’re not just an asshole. That you’re more than what has been done to you. More than what you’ve done.”

The room goes silent while the tiefling looks down at Astarion, searching his face. Gale and Shadowheart keep their gazes fixed straight on the floor, seemingly to avoid getting caught in the middle of whatever this is.

Astarion knows that Karlach is right, of course. He did hurt Lark— quite purposefully so. But being cornered like this is not going to produce the results Karlach might be hoping for.

“If you’re not happy with my ways, darling, you’re more than welcome to leave.”

He shouldn’t have said that. He knows it. Because he, better than anyone, knows what would happen if they left.

Karlach looks at him, and Astarion expects anger, but there’s only disappointment in her amber eyes. Glowing resin that holds only kindness. It infuriates him, how sensitive she can be.

“You never lost your cruelty, Astarion,” she says. She doesn’t move. He’s locked in her gaze, unable to look away. “You know that? Even before the ritual, you were like this. So when you go around moping about how you regret what you did, think about that.”

After looking over his face one last time, Karlach turns and leaves— without hitting him, cursing at him, nothing. As she walks away, her shoulders slump down a little, and she shakes her head side to side. Silent. Defeated.

Astarion looks at the other two of his friends, his companions from another lifetime— so long ago now. They’re still avoiding his gaze, but there’s a somber sadness to their expressions that weren’t there a moment ago.

“A little rest will do all of us wonders,” Gale says, ever the peacekeeper. Astarion thinks perhaps Lark could be happy with someone like Gale— someone who is stable, someone who faces all adversities with the same calm and collected façade, a protection from the storm of one’s own mind. Not someone like him who more often than not causes those very storms.

But he’d be damned if he let anyone even come close to her— someone other than him, that is. Is this possessiveness the curse of a vampire lord, or is it something else entirely?

Without saying anything to Shadowheart and Gale, Astarion leaves, stomping all the way to his room. Although Karlach is usually quick tempered, it’s a rare occasion for her to lose her cool— especially these days. A few centuries ago, things were different, but life is a lot more… Mundane now, and besides, Wyll seems to bring out something even softer than usual in her. If she gets this mad at Astarion on behalf of someone who is virtually a stranger, well— he must truly have struck gold at choosing someone to join his ragtag little group.

He's taking all of the credit unfairly, of course. It’s Lark who has earned the care and protection of everyone at the Crimson Palace on her own right— as painful as it is to admit. She has not left Astarion’s mind ever since that first time he saw her among the crowd, standing on the balcony. It’s no surprise that the others would be just as enamored with her— albeit in different senses.

Once in his room, all he can do is rub his face with his hands and sigh at the sight of that wretched thing still atop his pillow. Horseradish.

Still, it’s not all bad— he has something of hers with him. That will have to do, for the time being.

----

Rest has a way of avoiding Astarion— it’s been like this for a very long time. It has only gotten worse, though, now that his mind is riddled with thoughts of Lark whether he’s awake or not.

In the morning, after hours of useless tossing and turning, he finally gives up and opens his eyes. Sometimes he thinks he’s in a weird sort of dream or hallucination, that he’ll wake up with a jolt and realize he’s still being tortured by Godey in the kennels or entertaining guests in the bedroom. In these moments, he’ll tell himself— it was worth it, what I did. I deserved it. But then, it’ll just keep hurting, all the godsdamned time.

What Karlach said is true. The ritual didn’t make him cruel. If anything, it only brought out the worst parts of him and laid them under the blazing sun, and the more he tries to find a shadow to veil them under, the clock just ticks noon over and over again, in a vicious cycle. The darkest thoughts he harbors, he does his best to keep to himself, but every day that passes it gets harder, and Lark’s presence has been… Less than helpful. Because every time he’s near her, he feels weak— as if he never stopped being a mere spawn. She brings out that side of him he thought lost to the ascension— and sometimes he thinks that might be a good thing, but then the anger bubbles up to the surface and…

It's getting harder and harder to control himself.

Pushing himself up to a sitting position, Astarion glances at himself in the mirror— he looks tired. Horseradish sits on top of his pillow behind him, and if he didn’t know it was an inanimate object, Astarion would say it was almost curious, watching him look at his reflection as he has done the same way every morning for centuries— but now, there’s something different about him.

He grabs his phone from the bedside table and taps on the screen to check if he has any notifications— some e-mails that he’ll need to forward to Lark, articles from various news apps, funny videos Karlach keeps sending him (although she hasn’t sent him anything yesterday, perhaps a little predictably). Nothing from the one person he wanted a notification from.

With a sigh, he puts his phone back and stands up, stretching his limbs and walking towards the bathroom to take a shower. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, really. What was she supposed to do, send him a selfie after what happened? Ask him to apologize? He knows Lark would never do that— because he wouldn’t, either.

As hot water clouds the wide mirror in his bathroom, Astarion fantasizes about drinking from Lark again. Invite her into his room, tell her he knows what she did with his pen. He looks at the separate bathtub that sits in the middle of the room, haunted by visions of her laid bare in the water, her blood flowing like a stream over the tiles, and he would feel more like a king licking every drop from the floor than he ever did in all his immortality as the only vampire who doesn’t need to miss the sun anymore.

He’d be willing to trap himself in the shadows again, if only it meant for her to crane her neck to him and tell him that he is good.

Astarion steps into the shower and shuts the glass door behind him, and he’s so hard it hurts. He thinks of her again, how she looked under her bedsheets, eyes closed, covered only beneath her pelvic bone— it’s almost funny, how that’s where she draws the line. Even in her own home, her own room, she’s not comfortable enough to shed her layers. But Astarion can see behind his closed eyelids vividly, how her small breasts heaved with every stifled moan as she touched herself, pebbled nipples a few shades darker than her skin begging to be taken care of. But she never touched them— maybe it’s not her favorite sensation. Or maybe—

Astarion thinks it’s highly possible that Lark is right— he knew she was right in the moment she said it, but his anger is a quick, destructive thing. He knows there’s truth to her admission that she knows intimacy can be tainted. He knows, perhaps worst of all, that she understands. Maybe touching herself for the sake of her own, unbridled pleasure is an entirely new thing to her, just as it is to him, as he starts pumping himself, slowly, almost torturously— imagining what it would be like if it was her hand, instead.

He can’t stifle his moans (or doesn’t bother to) as well as Lark did, but when he comes, there’s only one image in his mind, her voice, repeating to him over and over again—

“You are good, Astarion. You are good.”

----

Astarion would be lying if he said he wasn’t at all worried about Lark simply not showing up, after their lovely little conversation from the previous day.

And he’d also be lying if he said the sigh of relief that falls from his lips was anything but genuine when, even before hearing the knock at his door, her scent filled his nostrils.

It’s an especially cold day, and her dark red sweater compliments the burgundy of her eyes. Astarion waits for her to speak— only slightly worried about the possibility of her simply… Quitting. But, if he has come to know her a little bit in the past few weeks, he senses that, if Lark was going to quit, she wouldn’t have bothered showing up in his office. It would have been her right, too— Astarion never was known for his ability to bite his tongue and swallow his especially cruel words and yesterday had been no different.

“Good morning,” she says, but doesn’t look at him. Perhaps she’s just mad at him. Or maybe, she’s thinking of what she did. Something warm and electric passes through Astarion’s body, but he doesn’t move, sitting behind his desk with the air of someone who definitely doesn’t know how the person standing in front of him used his pen to pleasure herself mere hours ago.

“Good morning,” he responds, mirroring her. He keeps his voice level, letting her take control of where the conversation will go.

“I assume you’ll want this back,” Lark says and steps closer to his desk with an extended hand— and there it is, the silver shine of the pen he gave her. Immediately he can smell a few different scents on it— her. That’s a given. Even when it’s to be expected, though, it doesn’t fail to light his nerves on fire. But something else is covering her scent, much to his dismay— did she try to wash it with soap?

Astarion holds out his hand to grab the pen from her, but Lark drops it on the desk instead. So, she’s still mad. Not mad enough, he thinks to himself. Although— anger can be a powerful fuel for desire.

“Thank you,” he says, taking the pen and sliding a finger over his initials engraved on it. Lark swallows.

“Yesterday was… Difficult for both of us, yeah?”

She’s trying to apologize. Cute.

“That’s one word for it,” he says, not unkindly. “Difficult conversations bring about difficult feelings.”

Lark nods. “I’m sorry, for what I said. Those difficult feelings got the best of me, I guess.”

Even when he’s the one in the wrong, she apologizes first.

“I should be the one extending an apology, should I not?”

She fiddles with the hem of her sweater. “You shouldn’t ask me if I deserve an apology or not.”

Because she will say no, is that it?

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. It’s been a very long time since he last apologized to someone sincerely, and it comes out weaker than he thought it would— almost as if he’s confessing a secret.

Lark just stands there, looking at him. Is she expecting something more? What can Astarion even offer her, if not his body, or—

No. She’s made it clear that she’s willing to understand. That she has used herself, too; two sides of a coin, they stand staring at each other and Astarion decides to offer her— honesty.

“I can be… Quick to get lost in the darker corners of my past,” he says, then pauses to clear his throat. “They tend to bring out the worst version of me.”

That finally earns him a small, careful smile from Lark. “We all have that, don’t we? The worst version of ourselves.”

Astarion tilts his head at her, listening.

“I can never understand everything that you’ve been through, Astarion,” she says, locking her soft gaze to his questioning one. “Just like how you won’t understand everything I’ve been through. But, I can still be there for you. Help you. If you let me.”

He shouldn’t let her, because that will make him weak.

Is that really what he thinks?

“We both have been hurt, but that doesn't mean we have to hurt each other,” Lark says, and her voice is so soft, as if she’s talking to an animal, trying to coax it out of hiding; it angers Astarion to no end, but also makes something in his chest sting.

We don’t have to hurt each other, she says. But he’s already hurt her— not just with his words, but with his teeth. He has taken her life essence, and he wants it again and again and again; she doesn’t know what she’s saying, to let him in is to invite pain. But if that’s what she wants, how could he ever deny her?

“Astarion?”

Lark’s voice brings him back to reality, and Astarion isn’t surprised to find her concerned gaze fixed on him. She has a way of saying his name that makes everything else vanish— only her voice remains in his mind, asking him to come back to the present, to stay there, with her.

“Yes, darling?”

“You seem so… Lost in thought sometimes. I always wonder where you go to. But then… Whenever I’m lost in thought, I usually don’t go anywhere good.”

“A kindred spirit,” he jokes. More truth than he would have wanted.

“Don’t hide from me,” she says.

Come out, a part of him growls. Come out of hiding, ravish her. Make her regret her softness.

If you let the right one in, Shadowheart had said.

“How can you be so sure you’ll like what you see?” he asks, and he hates that he even has to ask.

Astarion has spent centuries cultivating what he is, but he has failed to go beyond what he looks like.

“Because it’s you,” Lark says, and she’s so chirpy and cheerful as she says it that it almost makes Astarion smile.

“You don’t even know what I am.”

“A vampire. An elf. A man. What does it matter? You’re just Astarion to me.”

Just Astarion. How perfect would that be?

“You always know just what to say, don’t you?”

She smiles— she remembers how she had asked him the same thing. “A kindred spirit.”

Astarion plays with the dent his initials make on the pen with his nail, pushing in over and over again.

“Am I forgiven?” Lark asks. It makes him giggle.

“I should be the one asking you that question.”

She taps the tip of her manicured finger to her chin repeatedly. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“Don’t push yourself too hard.”

They laugh. Together. It’s easy. Almost… Natural.

“What will you have me work on today, boss?”

Astarion frowns. “What am I, a ship captain?”

“I would have called you captain, then.”

Damned poet. He rolls his eyes, which makes her grin wide. If that’s what it takes— he’s okay with acting annoyed more.

“Shadowheart will probably need you with her cocktails again.”

“Uh-oh,” Lark says, but her smile betrays her. She takes a few steps back, but doesn’t fully turn to leave. Maybe she doesn’t want to.

Astarion surely doesn’t want her to leave.

“Guess I should go,” she says. Her eyes shift over to the pen in his hands, if only for a second.

He’d never forgive himself if he didn’t take the opportunity.

“You got good use out of it, I presume?”

“Hmm?”

“My pen.”

“I— Yes. I’ll see you later.”

She’s running away, and amusement bubbles in Astarion’s chest.

“Use unscented soap next time, will you? You know how much I adore your scent.”

Lark’s eyes widen, and she turns the exact same color as her sweater. Without a word, she turns and leaves, letting Astarion enjoy the satisfaction of teasing her.

He could never get bored of this.

----

Astarion spends the day in his office, being intentionally slow with responding to people’s e-mails— as revenge, of course; if people dare to make him wait, he’ll make them wait in return.

In truth, he’s just distracted.

How can he not be, when he can hear Lark and Shadowheart get drunker and drunker in the name of “work”?

He’s not angry that they’re slacking off or anything— he’s envious, perhaps, of the time Shadowheart gets to have with Lark.

So, he decides to do something about it.

He keeps a few bottles of wine here in his office, away from the others they keep in storage— his private collection, so to speak. He gets up from his desk and saunters over to one of the cupboards in the left corner of the room, and takes out a bottle of red, blowing off the dust that has collected on the shoulder. He’s never really had an excuse to drink one of these before. Not that he needs an excuse— immortality renders special occasions almost mute. It does feel better to hope, however.

Taking the bottle back to his desk, he retrieves a wine opener from one of the drawers and uncorks it. The wine smells rich and full, top quality. One of the good things about his office is that he has everything he needs right here— including wine glasses. He takes two out of one of the cupboards under his desk, and places them next to the bottle.

Now, the important part.

As he walks out of his office, Astarion hesitates— what does he hope to get from offering a drink to Lark? For the first time in centuries, the answer to that question comes almost instantly but not without surprise.

Nothing. He hopes to get nothing at all. Just more time with her.

This is… Most unusual. But he’ll have to deal with the complicated questions that riddle his mind later.

He makes his way downstairs in his usual gait— relaxed, nonchalant. He has both hands in his pockets as he approaches the bar. Lark and Shadowheart are trying out drinks and laughing and talking, and neither of them notice him at first.

Clearing his throat, Astarion interrupts, “Why are you testing out your creations? I thought that was Lark’s job.” To everyone’s surprise, Astarion included, there’s no annoyance in his voice.

Lark turns and her eyes crinkle with a goopy smile when he sees him. Sensing the ease between them, Shadowheart raises an amused eyebrow.

“I thought you guys weren’t playing together anymore.”

“What can I say? It’s hard not to forgive him,” Lark tries to joke, but it’s more honest than she intended, apparent from the way she blushes and looks away, earning an eye roll from Shadowheart.

“I hope that’s the drinks I’ve been piling on you talking.”

“How is that going, by the way?” Astarion asks. “The actual choosing the drinks part, of course. Everything else seems… Entertaining, to say the least.”

Lark snorts. “Ah, yes. We are thoroughly entertained.”

Shadowheart swats at her arm, but misses. “I think we might have our final menu picked out.”

“Wonderful,” he says. One less task to worry about. “If that’s taken care of, I’d like you to join me in my office, Lark, if you will.”

“And leave me to clean up all this mess by myself?” Shadowheart whines.

“Call Lae’zel to help you out,” Lark snorts again, as if imagining her friend helping out with dishes is too funny to think about. Astarion doesn’t know much about Lae’zel, but from what he’s seen, he’s inclined to agree.

“You know what,” Shadowheart says, hiding her giddiness behind the act of dramatically reaching for her phone in her back pocket. “I might just do that.”

“We’ll leave you to it,” Astarion tells her, and gestures at Lark to lead the way.

On the way back to his office, they’re relatively silent, and their silence makes the distance feel more substantial than it actually is. Perhaps it’s because she’s tipsy, but there’s a new, unfamiliar energy in her. Astarion can feel her magic, almost a separate entity; alive, right under her skin.

“You’re not going to blow me up, are you?”

She turns to look at him, a little startled. “Why, are you afraid of me?”

“Ha!” he laughs, louder than he intended. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“No, actually,” she says, barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t push.

When they reach his office, he holds the door open for Lark, and she laughs when she sees the wine bottle, and the glasses.

“Am I getting paid to just drink for you guys?”

Astarion laughs with her. “Sounds like a great job to me.”

He pours wine for them as she watches. Instead of taking a seat behind his desk, he sits on one of the chairs placed in front of it, and Lark sits on the other. Astarion hands one of the glasses to her, and she clinks it to his.

“To forgiveness,” she says. He cocks a brow at her. Her dark burgundy eyes go wide when she takes her first sip.

“Are we celebrating something? This wine tastes way too expensive.”

It’s not like Astarion to get flustered, but he looks away nonetheless. “Oh, you know.”

“Is this your way of apologizing?” She leans forward, placing her arm on her knee and resting her chin on top of her open palm.

No, he wants to say. My way of apologizing would be to make myself useful. But that’s not what either of them wants, is it?

Sensing his thoughts starting to wonder, Lark leans back in her chair again, saying, “Thank you, Astarion. It’s good.”

That makes him preen. “I’m glad it’s to your liking.”

She rests her head on the back of the chair, looking at the ceiling. “Sometimes I think none of this is real.”

“You’re not completely drunk, are you?”

She snickers. “No, I’m not. I just never had a lot of people around me that made me feel… Happy. Valued. Wyll and Lae’zel are like family to me, don’t get me wrong. But since I’ve started working for you, I feel like I’ve found a place for myself in this city, finally.”

Astarion doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s never given anyone a sense of belonging before. “Where are you from, originally?”

“Hartlands…” she intonated dramatically.

“Ah, the fawn,” Astarion says, and takes a sip from his wine. “A bit vague, though.”

“I’m from Athkatla. Although, if I never go there again, I wouldn’t miss it.”

“On account of your mother, I assume.”

Lark nods. “You’re stronger than I am. I left her house, and the city as soon as I could. But you’re… Here. You’ve made this place into something of your own.”

Speaking of his past has never been easy for Astarion— proven to even him, once again, by the argument he had with Lark the day prior. But she’s not judging him— in fact, she’s complimenting his strength, even.

“Did you ever think of staying? Not with her, necessarily. Just… There.”

She sips her wine and swishes it around her mouth before answering, as if prepping her words with the liquid. “Maybe, at one point. It’s a little weird now that I know she’s killed herself in there.”

“How do you feel about that? The fact that she killed herself?” It surprises Astarion how easily these questions come out of him— it surprises him even more, that he finds himself caring about the answers.

Lark shrugs. “She’d always say she wanted to die. She tried, once before. I was in college.” She sips her wine again. Her soft lips take on the dark red color of it. “I filtered out most of what she said. How she wanted to die, how she wanted me to die, how she wanted my dad to die… It just became white noise after a while.”

“Did you ever want to kill her?”

She smiles a little. “I most certainly did. I was never as brave as you, though. How did you feel, when you finally got rid of your master?”

It was glorious, Astarion wants to say. The power he felt surging into him during the ritual. But he looks away and swallows.

“Time has taken most of its joy away, if I’m honest. But I don’t regret killing him, of course. The bastard got what was coming for him.”

“I know you absolutely despise being praised, but,” Lark interjects, sarcasm dripping from her deep voice, “I’m really fucking proud of you. You took matters into your own hands and saved yourself. That’s huge.”

And doomed a few thousand others. Not as huge.

“Yes,” he purrs, surveying his nails. “Who needs praise when you know you look this good?”

That makes her laugh. A high-pitched, strong sound. Astarion wants to hear it again, and again.

“Right, I’ve seen the mirror in your room. I bet you watch yourself fall asleep in that thing.” Lark lowers her gaze to her glass, perhaps suddenly shy with the mention of his room. The last time she was there, he was deeply lost in her neck, after all.

“It can come in handy.”

She tilts her head and stops right as she’s about to take a sip of her wine. Narrowing her eyes, she asks, “Does it? What do your veritable list of lovers think of it?”

“My veritable list of lovers?”

“I assume, of course.”

“Of course.”

Lark leans forward in her chair, bringing her face closer to him. “Do you have that, then? A veritable list of lovers?”

Astarion mirrors her and leans forward— it’s worth doing if only to hear how her heart speeds up. “I thought you didn’t want to be one of them.”

“I said I didn’t want to be one of your toys. I didn’t say anything about lovers.”

He likes it when she gets bold like this. If it’s the alcohol, or their closeness, he can’t be sure. They’re so close to each other now, Astarion can feel the warmth of her short breaths, hear her pulse, louder and louder—

His voice is a growly whisper when he says, “You want to be my lover?”

The corner of her lip tugs upward, and it’s hard for him to not return the expression. It’s easy, with her— having fun. He moves just a bit more forward, pulling the chair with him, just an inch, to graze her lips with his, when he hears the sound of something crackling—

Lark pulls away suddenly with a lurch, and it’s right on time as her wine glass shatters in her hand. She’s breathless, and Astarion can feel the heat that vibrates from her body. Smell her desire, mixed in with frustration— at her magic, at herself, he doesn’t know.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, defeated. Then, a different smell—

“You’ve cut yourself.”

She looks down at her hand, a little pinprick in her palm, nothing bad. It’s enough to make Astarion dizzy.

“Well, that explains the wild look in your eyes.”

He tries to look away. It’s harder said than done.

“I should go,” she blurts out, closing her hand and holding it to her chest, bending down to pick up pieces of the wine glass.

“I can do it,” he says, and reaching out, brushes against her.

Electricity. This must be how it’s produced.

Lark’s a scared, flighty little thing— a cornered fawn, away from its mother. She must have felt it too, the electricity. As she stands up, Astarion sees her tremble.

“I— I’d offer you some, but—”

“What?”

“My blood. I’m just— I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you. I’m sorry,” she keeps mumbling as she leaves his office with quick steps.

Astarion takes a deep breath when she’s gone. There’s a drop of her blood on the floor, by a few pieces of broken glass. He reaches out and collects it on the tip of his finger, then brings it to his mouth, enveloping it with his tongue, slowly and deliberately, trying to hold on to the taste as long as possible.

Everything in him aches.

----

Lark

Everything in Lark is aching. Burning and aching. Aching and burning.

She paces her living room, tapping at the band aid on her palm. It’s a delicious pain. Her skin is ablaze, hairs on the back of her neck standing up, her heart beating like she’s been running a marathon.

She wants him. There’s no use denying it anymore.

Judging by him almost kissing her, he just might want her too.

And that’s terrifying.

Because Lark knows that this is not just about sex, for her. She longs to just be with him, and sex is certainly part of it, but they’re both wounded in that department, and she’s afraid.

She’s afraid that this might be just sex for him. Or blood and sex. If it’s only that— She doesn’t want to think about it.

Her magic has never felt so… Strong before. Granted, she’s never been so aware of her powers before practicing with Gale, and she definitely has more control over them now.

And yet, every time she’s with Astarion, she feels unpredictable. Contrary to what he might believe, she does not want to blow him up.

Maybe just blow him.

“Ha ha,” she rolls her eyes to herself. A comedic genius even in the face of adversity.

Desperate, she grabs her phone and finds Lae’zel’s number from her Favorites tab. It rings and rings, but she doesn’t pick up. She tries Wyll, too, but his line goes straight to voicemail.

“Damn you both,” she mumbles. “And Shadowheart and Karlach too.”

Lark looks at her phone.

If she’s honest, she’s just scared. Scared of hurting him, yes; but scared of getting hurt as well, not physically— she’s scared that Astarion will break her heart.

It’s highly probable.

But…

Opening up their text chain, she types:

Can you come over?

“That sounds too serious,” she says, and deletes the message.

Do you want to come over?

Slightly better.

She hits send.

Almost immediately, two checkmarks appear under her message, signaling that he’s read it.

Lark waits for about two minutes, never looking away from the screen, but he doesn’t respond.

Maybe it’s better that he doesn’t. Maybe this is his way of saving her from himself. Or saving himself from her.

She keeps pacing the length of the room for a few more minutes but finally decides to try and calm down a little. From the kitchen, she pours herself a glass of water, and swishing a big gulp around her mouth, sits down on her couch, folding her legs underneath herself.

Maybe it’s not too late to change her name a second time and find a new city to move to.

Wyll would laugh his ass off at her right now. Probably. Lae’zel would do worse.

Looking at her phone is out of question. Calling him? A death sentence. She should toss the damn thing in the toilet and flush it.

Where’s Horseradish when you need it?

Lark wonders what her dad would say. In the past, whenever she’s told him about potential lovers, he’s always said the same thing: “Let them deserve you, my sun. Don’t open up your heart so easily.”

She imagines how the conversation would go— both of them hate phone calls, so it would probably be over text, and would probably look something like:

Hi, dad, I think I’m in love

Lark, are you sure? With whom?

Oh, you know. Some guy. My boss. A vampire.

But then— there’s a knock on her door.

Did he fly over here?

Lark wouldn’t be surprised.

Not that it was gone in the first place, but that thumping in her chest is back. The cut on her hand stings under the band-aid.

Lowering her eyes, she looks at herself to see if there’s anything out of place. She likes keeping her place cozy, so the heater is on, which makes it possible for her to wear her favorite outfits to lounge in— right now, that’s a pair of knee-length shorts that say Baldur’s Gate on the hem of one leg, and a black tank top with spaghetti straps. She sighs. Whatever she wears, she will never be as gorgeous as Astarion is.

Remembering the presence waiting at the door, she almost leaps toward it— she feels like she could tear it right off of its hinges if she really tried.

It’s weird. The moment she opens the door and sees Astarion’s suave smirk, fangs and all— it’s like something slots into place in her chest.

“Hello, darling,” he says. He’s changed into one of his black shirts and a pair of jeans that sit on him snugly. Even with just a pair of jeans, he manages to look like the king of a faraway land.

Lark tries not to ogle. “I’m sorry for… Well. Inviting you on such short notice,” she gestures at him to come inside. “And for freaking out on you. And for bleeding in your office. Again.”

He scoffs. “I want to be notified at least two business days in advance, next time.” He pauses as he passes the threshold, then looking back at her over his shoulder he says, “For when you invite me over, and for when you bleed.”

What a freak. Lark smiles.

Astarion holds up the bottle of wine he’s been carrying. “I brought the rest of our wine. You do owe me a wine glass, though.”

She takes the bottle from him and walks toward the kitchen. “Can’t you deduct it from my paycheck or something?”

He laughs at that. “True, I can do that. I forget that you work for me.”

“Astarion! And here I thought, we were going to prepare for the masquerade.”

“Hmm. What a diligent worker you are.”

“Of course,” she grins, pouring wine for them both. “Why else would I invite you over?”

Astarion comes to stand next to her by the kitchen counter and taps a finger on the laminated surface. “Let me guess— you didn’t invite me here to have sex.”

She hands him his glass of wine. He remembers what she told him the first time she asked him to come upstairs.

“Of course not,” she says, and it’s partly true— she didn’t invite him just for that. “But it’s not totally off the table.”

He raises both eyebrows in surprise, wrinkling his forehead— it makes Lark want to caress his face. “Lark Promise, are you flirting with me?”

She just laughs and walks over to her couch, and he follows her. There’s something hungry in his gaze when they sit on opposite ends, and he looks at her— all over her. It doesn’t make her feel vulnerable, though— just seen. Just as she wants to be.

“Thank you,” she says, maintaining eye contact.

He leans his head on one hand, swirling the wine in his glass with the other. “What for?”

“For coming.”

“A bit early to say that, isn’t it?”

They both chortle at his innuendo— like two teenagers. Lark has to cover her mouth to stop herself from snorting. “You’re sweet. And sillier than I thought.”

He hums an approving sound, then turns to look at the ceiling. “How drunk are you?”

“Not at all. Why?”

“I’d much rather if you remember the first time I kiss you.”

Lark’s breath catches, and she has to look away from him for a moment.

Then— “I just… I want to say something.”

He turns to face her again. Those crimson eyes. Lark worries her bottom lip with the blunt of her teeth. “I… If my magic— if I do something to hurt you, you should stop me.”

Astarion’s face falls, suddenly somber. He takes a sip of wine, then places the glass in front of him on the coffee table. “I’ve had my fangs buried in your neck. You’re worried about hurting me?”

“You saw in my memories, when you drank my blood,” she says. “I’ve hurt people before.”

“Yes. People who were abusing you, torturing you, taking advantage of you. Give your powers a little more credit, darling. Perhaps all this time, they were just trying to protect you.”

Before Lark has time to grapple with that, he takes her glass out of her hand, and places it on the table, next to his. Moving closer to her, he grabs her chin and lifts gently, to make her meet his gaze. “You’ll be good for me, Lark Promise, won’t you?”

She could cry. Her voice is a whimper when she says, “I’ll be good for you.”

And then, Astarion kisses her.

Almost immediately, Lark sighs a sigh of relief, and he takes a deep breath before giving a lick at the parting of her mouth, tentative, careful. She parts her lips further, an invitation. Come in, taste me. Let me taste you.

Astarion tastes like wine, cold and expensive— but his tongue is soft as it enters Lark’s mouth, exploring, discovering. She does the same— hesitant at first. When her tongue grazes at the tip of one of his fangs, an almost-moan rips itself out of his throat.

He moves his hand grabbing her chin, and places it on the side of her face instead, and she melts into his touch. Meanwhile, Lark buries her hand in his curls, and they’re just as soft as she remembers. And his scent, oh, his scent— she can almost taste it now, sharp and herbaceous, surrounding all of her senses.

There it is— the crackling, right beneath her fingers. She tries to pull away, but Astarion holds her and doesn’t let her, kissing her more feverishly, as if to test her. It’s under her hands, her fingertips, that electric feeling, if she doesn’t move—

In her panic, as she tries to move her hand away, she lands on his bare forearm instead, and her magic connects, but opening her eyes to see the damage, she only finds Astarion looking at her with a smirk.

“I— Did I hurt you?”

He breathes deep, once, then twice. His pupils are blown out, face glistening with warmth.

If Lark was to die now, she’d be ecstatic that this was the last thing she saw.

“No,” he says. “That— It felt good. Unique.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” he says, and places a kiss on the corner of her lips. He moves on to the other corner, to her chin, and she lifts it for him, revealing her neck. He mouths at the column of her throat, and she whines.

Placing one hand on the small of her back, Astarion guides her to lay down, and straddling her hips, he lowers himself down to continue kissing her, each one more passionate, desperate, until both of them are reduced to whines and moans that fill Lark’s apartment.

Astarion pulls back to look at her, and Lark feels breathless. He places his thumb on her lower lip, pressing down just slightly, opening her up. She gives a kitten lick at the coolness of it and he smiles. His teeth glint in the dark. A threat. Or a promise.

Lark tries to rub her thighs together, to relieve the wetness at her center. Astarion must sense her neediness as he moves one of his legs between hers, angling it just right so that it presses at her core. It almost makes her eyes roll back.

“I can smell how soaked you are,” he says, and there’s no disgust in his voice, no trace of bad memories climbing up to the surface. Just pure, unadulterated desire.

He pushes his thumb further into her mouth, and she gladly takes it, welcoming it by sucking in her cheeks. He moves his leg away from her core, and Lark mourns the contact, but he’s quick to replace it— he places a hand under her thigh, and she lifts it up so that he can wrap it around his waist, granting him access.

When he rolls his hips, they moan in unison at the sensation. Lark can feel how hard he is against the thin fabric of her shorts and through his pants. Her moan vibrates against his thumb, and he removes it from her mouth slowly just to bring it to his own, as if to taste her on his skin. Then, he takes her hand up to his face, the one with the band-aid on— and inhales.

Everything he does sets Lark aflame.

“Please,” she says, not knowing what she’s begging for.

“Please what, sweet girl?” Astarion asks with another roll of his hips and without his thumb in her mouth, Lark moans even louder— stopping herself by biting down on her lip. Bending down over her, Astarion grabs her chin again, a little more forceful this time. “None of that. Let me hear you.”

She nods, hypnotized by his unrelenting gaze, his desire for her.

She’s never felt every inch of her skin on fire like this. It makes her want him more— to touch him, however way possible.

Moving her leg a little, she pulls him against herself more, and he laughs. Lark smiles, too— their desires for each other mingling, combining into one thing, so separate from the world that contains them, as if only a dream.

Lark clumsily paws at the buttons of his shirt, and he lets her— with a hesitant eye. Noticing his expression, Lark pauses. “Is this okay?”

“It’s… Hard to explain. Better to show you, perhaps,” he says, taking over and unbuttoning his shirt quickly.

Lark’s not sure yet of what he means, but she can’t help watching him take his shirt off, how perfect his body is laid out in front of her, strong and smooth, as if carved out of marble.

There’s a look in his eye that he’s not sure about something— it softens when Lark reaches her hand out to him, without touching, only reminding. He takes her hand, and suddenly pulls away a little, making Lark’s leg unwrap itself from his waist. Once he’s a bit further away, he turns his back to Lark, never letting go of her hand.

“You’re a poet, aren’t you?” he says, voice dripping with hostile sarcasm— not aimed at her. “Here’s a poem for you.”

Lark doesn’t speak infernal, but she’s seen it before, studying poetry in college. She recognizes the etched script on Astarion’s ivory skin, even though she doesn’t know what it means.

She squeezes his hand with hers, and he returns the gesture. “Astarion,” she says.

He turns back to face her. “Lark.”

“Did he do this to you?”

“I might have mentioned him to be a rather cruel master.”

“What does it say?”

His voice is not as distant as his eyes are, when he says, “It’s one part of a contract with the devil Mephistopheles.”

Lark doesn’t know what to say. Instead, she sits up, bringing the hand that isn’t holding Astarion’s to his face, always pausing before touching, asking. Reminding. He cranes his neck and brings himself closer to her touch.

“You said it yourself, but just to reiterate,” she says. “The bastard got what was coming to him.”

Astarion smiles. It’s a slightly pained one, but a smile, nonetheless. “Yes. I’m glad you agree.”

As she softly caresses his cheekbone with her thumb, Lark says, “We don’t have to have sex.”

“Of course we don’t,” he says, and laughs. “But I want to.”

His admission makes Lark’s heart flutter. She reaches forward to cover his mouth with hers, and he drinks her in.

“Thank you for showing me,” she says between kisses. Astarion’s jaw clenches— only for a second. He hums but doesn’t say anything.

Lark climbs into his lap, and he stretches his legs to make room for her. “He can’t hurt you anymore,” she says before lowering her mouth to him again. Astarion sucks her bottom lip, eliciting a raspy whine.

“Will you protect me from the big bad wolves, Lark Promise?”

She laughs, but it’s cut short when he places both hands over her ass and gives it a squeeze. “I’ll— I’ll do anything for you.”

“Hmm. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I promise.”

“I’m sure you do,” he says, and one of his fangs pricks the inside of Lark’s mouth. She tastes the irony tang of blood.

Astarion does too, judging by the way his eyes roll back and his hands forcefully pull at her shorts. He sucks at the small cut, moaning that beautiful way that he does— Lark doesn’t think she’s ever heard of a sound so beautiful.

Once he removes himself from her, Lark asks, “Are you hungry, Astarion?”

“Yes.” His answer is quick. “But not just for your blood.” He tugs at her shorts, asking for permission. She nods, and he pulls them down. She wiggles and helps him out so that the fabric is done away with, leaving her with just her absolutely soaked through panties.

“Please touch me,” she whines, a moth beating its wings by the fire.

“Show me where.”

Lark takes his hand and guides it to her core, closing her eyes at his touch.

“Keep looking at me,” he says, and Lark can tell his control is dwindling. It would be a wondrous sight, she thinks, to see an unrestrained Astarion.

She knows she won’t last long— unraveling to Astarion’s touch is a wholly new experience, one that Lark will never be able to tire of.

Pulling her panties to the side, he dips a finger between her folds, and chuckles darkly when he feels her slick. “All for me,” he says, and brings his finger to his mouth, never taking his eyes away from hers.

Lark could come right then and there, as he tastes her, closing his eyes and moaning.

But he doesn’t leave her untouched for long. This time he pushes a finger in, slowly at first. She has to hold on to his broad, strong shoulders to not topple over.

“Good girl,” he praises. Lark moans. “Will you take my cock this well too?”

He certainly has a way with words. “I will,” she whimpers. “I’ll be good for you, Astarion.”

Just as she’s at the precipice of exploding, he removes his finger, and Lark whines at the emptiness.

“Don’t worry,” Astarion whispers. He pulls her down, so that she sits facing him, and hooks a finger under the straps of her tank top. “Let’s get rid of this, shall we?”

He could ask her to melt the whole entire universe, and she would do it for him.

Lark lifts her arms up so that Astarion can remove her top. Now she’s fully exposed to him— interestingly, though, she doesn’t feel embarrassed under his gaze. His beautiful ruby eyes drink her form in, and she only wants more.

“Can I?” she asks, placing a hand on his knee, gesturing at his pants.

His gaze is soft when he nods. He helps her unbuckle his belt and undo his zipper, then moves his hands away to let her pull the pants down, leaning back to make it easy for her. Lark pulls down his boxers along with them, and Astarion sucks air through his teeth with a sharp sound.

“You’re beautiful,” she says, but to Astarion’s surprise, she’s looking just at his face when she says it.

He narrows his eyes at her. “I know. Now will you please get over here?”

They laugh. Lark climbs over his body, skin over skin, her magic crackling and fizzing each time she comes into contact with him. As she kisses him, she wraps one hand around his cock, and he moans into her mouth. His skin is cool to her warm touch, full of contrasts— he’s impossibly hard in her palm, but his skin is so smooth, like velvet. She pumps him, once, twice— then feels the familiar humming vibration of magic again, and instinctively goes to pull away, but just like before Astarion stops her, placing his hand on top of hers.

“Don’t be scared,” he says against her lips.

She presses her forehead to his, and looking at his eyes, lets him guide her movements. Her fingertips ache with magic, threatening to pour over—

Astarion moans again, louder this time. “That— do that again,” he whines.

Oh, she could listen to him forever.

This time, it’s Lark who calls her magic to the surface— because she wants to make him feel good. His back arches off of the couch, Lark presses her chest to his, as he thrusts his hips forward.

She presses another soft kiss to his lips, moaning in tandem, and he suddenly turns them around so that he’s on top of her instead. She looks at him breathlessly, how perfect he is— from head to toe. She can feel her chest heaving with each breath, newfound strength in her magic buzzing through her blood and making her dizzy.

Astarion flicks her nipple with one finger, pulling a wanton moan out of her. He watches her reactions like he’s god, and she’s his one and only creation— with reverence, with devotion, with something close to… Love.

“Perfect,” he whispers. With one swift move, he lifts one of her legs up over his shoulder, pulling her down towards him. His length rests on the soft hairs of her mound, leaking precum on her belly. Lark runs a finger over his tip and brings it to her mouth to taste him, and he bites his lip, one fang sticking out, sharp and glinting.

Taking himself in his hand, Astarion gathers her wetness and rubs against her clit a couple of times— it’s enough to make Lark lose all logical thought.

“Do you want it?” he asks.

She thinks it’s obvious. But under his Casanova smile and quirked eyebrow, she hears a different question— Do you want me, even though I hurt you? Do you want me even though I will hurt you again?

“Yes,” she says. “Please, Astarion.”

He’s slow and gentle at first— but the more he pushes himself inside her warmth, the more intense their pleasure grows. Lark digs her nails on the pillow under her head, while Astarion places sloppy kisses on the sole of her feet, resting on his shoulder.

It makes her shudder.

Once he’s filled her to the hilt, he starts pushing her leg back towards herself, and the stretch is delicious, as his body comes to cover hers, and he presses a kiss on her forehead, then—

Astarion pulls his hips back, just to drive into her again, setting a rhythm that fills her up with each thrust. She moans each time his cock grazes her walls, and it’s perfect, the fit of him, like a—

“You fit me like a glove,” he says with a soft, innocent chuckle. She joins him.

It’s perfect. They’re perfect.

With his next thrust, Astarion hits that spot inside her that makes her see stars, and she whimpers in his ear—

“I’m— Astarion, I’m so close, please—”

“Wait,” he says, seizing all movement. She clenches on his cock, making him hiss.

“What— What is it?”

“Let me taste you,” he says, lips pressed to her ear, her temple, anywhere he can find. “Please.”

Lark nods. He starts moving again— She’s about to—

“Where do you want me to bite you?”

She can’t push the words out of her mouth, so she tilts her head to the side instead, revealing the same spot he had bitten just days before. What she wants to say is: I want you to reopen my wounds.

And he does.

As soon as Astarion bites her, Lark flutters, writhing under him like a dying star, coming, coming, coming—

Her magic, thrumming right at the edge of every single nerve in her body, the almost transparent glow that first showed itself as Astarion stood next to her in this very room enveloping them, taking them higher, where heaven is supposed to be.

Her moans get louder, with each pull of her blood that he takes, and he fucks her through her earth-shattering orgasm, placing one of his hands on her waist. She can feel his cock throb and swell inside her, as he nears his end, and he digs his hand into her skin hard enough to bruise.

Lark buries her hands in his hair, kissing and nibbling on his ear, listening to his growly moans as he drinks from her, she whispers to him: “You’re so good, Astarion, ah—”

With that, he comes inside her, spilling himself and pushing in with as much force as he can.

He retracts his fangs, lapping at the remaining blood on her neck as Lark continues to scrape his scalp softly with her nails.

Astarion pulls away slightly, letting go of her waist and steadying himself on that hand, cock still buried inside her cunt.

“You’re a messy eater,” she says, dizzy with ecstasy.

He lowers himself down to kiss her, and Lark tastes herself in his mouth. All of her— her blood, her arousal, the wine they drank.

Astarion breaks the kiss first, looking at her with something wholly new in his eyes. He looks pensive but blissed out. “You… You’re a surprise. A gift.”

Lark feels like she could cry— she’s heard that this is something that could happen due to hormones. A voice inside tells her, though— this is more than that.

“I could say the same thing for you, Astarion.”

“Say it again.”

“What?”

“My name.”

“Astarion,” she says, and feels him twitch inside her. “Astarion. Astarion.”

“Hmm,” he hums, and lays down on her naked chest, both of their breathing slowing down. Lark places absent-minded kisses on his head, his hair, playing with his curls with her fingers, thinking—

“Will you stay?”

He doesn’t respond— only draws lazy circles on the top of her thigh, right where the worst of her scars reside.

She takes that as a yes.

He doesn’t know yet— or maybe he does— but Lark doesn’t mean just for the night.

Lying there, on top of her, is the star that brought the sun to life.

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