#Contradictory Structures: FINAL

[valiantunknowncrusade]

titled: “tools of liberation”

I made this art piece because I wanted to show my love for music and entertainment. This was initially inspired by dedication to learning the acoustic guitar. Though, it means a lot more. I’m currently studying African art for this semester and I’ve enjoy the history and art that the class has introduced me to. A lot of art history is connected Africa and was an inspiration for a lot of world famous artist such as Picasso. In fact, he developed a lot of his art from African artifacts, paintings and sculptures. This led to his introduction to the world the art style known as cubism. Whilst, I was creating this piece, my prof. Informed me that my art work emulated Picasso art piece titled “Picasso guitar”. I was amazed by this because I had no intentions of emulating his work but the idea of the history in itself, I guess, manifested on what my work came to be. Africa has been greatly brutalized and taken advantage of, from its resources, art, and land. So, it’s no surprise that their art it’s distinctly associated with freedom. I’ve come to recognize that African-Americans and Africans(blacks) have always seemed to be in a constant fight or struggle for freedom, in a sense. I mean, Ive even heard a classmate who presented a video of her sculpture on the street at night state “I felt so invisible, even when two cops driving by noticed that I was build my sculpture under this highway bridge, they didn’t do anything, they just allowed me to do my thing” I was amazed by this because she was, of course, white and I thought about what if it was a black person, would the results be the same? Why make the effort to point out something that was not necessary? what was the intent behind such a comment? I wondered… yet, I was influenced by the African drums and how they used animal skins to create them. I didn’t have antelope skins or anything so I used wood to sort of emulate the look and feel of the drum with the addition of the modern guitar as a contrast. Im happy for this piece because I’m approaching the freedom of graduation and music has been a big part of my growth and creative process. Taking a moment to not have to worry about assignments, deadlines, materials, or the obnoxious is very refreshing. Yet, my professor has been so amazing. Giving amazing advice, ideas, and means of a creative process. This has been an awesome semester.

[glowettee]

✧ how i stay productive during summer break (while still having fun!) ✧

hey lovelies! ✨

summer break is finally here and honestly? it's my favorite time to both relax and get things done. i know that sounds contradictory but trust me, finding that sweet balance between productivity and fun is totally possible! after years of either doing absolutely nothing or burning myself out, i've finally found my perfect summer rhythm.

first things first: the morning routine ✨

i've learned that my day flows so much better when i start it intentionally. i wake up around 8 or 9 (not too early because we deserve some extra sleep!), make my bed immediately (small win!), and spend 15 minutes journaling before checking my phone. this tiny habit has literally changed everything for me.

my summer morning essentials:

iced coffee with oat milk and a tiny bit of vanilla

a cute journal that makes me excited to write in it

10 minutes of stretching by my window

a super quick skincare routine (sunscreen is non-negotiable!)

creating a flexible structure 🤍

the secret to summer productivity is having just enough structure without feeling trapped. i divide my days into three parts:

morning: productive focus time (2-3 hours max) afternoon: flexible time for errands, friends, or projects evening: pure relaxation and fun

this way, i never feel like i'm missing out or falling behind. the key is being realistic about what you can actually accomplish in a day. i used to make these impossible to-do lists and then feel awful when i couldn't finish them.

my productivity non-negotiables:

i always make sure to do at least one productive thing each day, even if it's small. some of my favorites:

reading 20 pages of a book

organizing one small area of my room

working on a creative project for 30 minutes

learning something new for my blog

planning content or taking photos

balancing productivity with summer fun ✨

here's my little secret: schedule your fun just like you schedule your work! this sounds silly but it actually helps me look forward to both. some of my favorite summer activities that feel refreshing but don't derail my productivity:

morning walks with an audiobook

afternoon picnics where i can also read or brainstorm

coffee shop work dates with friends

sunset swims after a productive day

weekend day trips that recharge my creativity

my favorite productivity tools:

a paper planner (something about writing things down just works better for me)

the forest app to stay off my phone when focusing

aesthetic notion templates for organizing my projects

time blocking in my calendar with cute colors

lo-fi summer playlists that help me concentrate

remembering the why 🤍

summer isn't just about getting things done or having the perfect instagram moments. it's about growing, reflecting, and creating memories that will make you smile in december when it's freezing outside. productivity should support your joy, not replace it!

i've found that my happiest summer days are when i accomplish something meaningful in the morning and then have the freedom to be spontaneous in the afternoon and evening. balance isn't perfect every day, and that's okay too.

what are your favorite ways to stay productive during summer break? i'd love to hear your tips too!

xoxo, mindy 🤍

[meownotgood]

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

read on ao3

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

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

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

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

— V. October 29, 1618. 

— 

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

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

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

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

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

You are going to die. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Viktor put a blissful end to your cycle of tedium. 

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

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

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

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

To say you were smitten was an understatement. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So why, why are you still alive? 

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

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

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

Oh. That's Viktor's voice. 

— 

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

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

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

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

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

— V. Unknown Date, 1619. 

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nearly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Viktor pauses for a moment, before speaking. 

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

You scoff, "Powerful magic?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Viktor-"

"Stay still." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I just missed you." 

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

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

Either way, he's right. 

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

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

Now, all of your life belongs solely to him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gods, you would have done it all over again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you trust me?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Vik," You sputter, "Touch me." 

Now, it's his turn to listen. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you let him take you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gasp, sounding overly shaky. "Vik-"

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

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

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

"You are in no position to make demands." 

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

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

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

Thankfully, he doesn't make you wait. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And oh, how that excites you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But almost isn't what you need. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. But you want to push them. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are-" He shudders, "Exquisite." 

He fills you so, so good. 

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

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

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

"Eyes open." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Viktor believes differently. 

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

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

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

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

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

You've no need to hesitate. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. You are sweet. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

It enamored you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fall apart for me. 

And you fall — fast, hard, instantly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only. 

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

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

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

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

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

You can't help but sob. 

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

"Please," You plead, "Viktor…" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Vik-" You manage, "Harder." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Viktor… Viktor, I'm-" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Will you rest with me?" 

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

"Yes," Viktor answers, "Of course." 

— 

Death's opposition dwindles. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

— V. Unknown Date, 1619. 

[merakiui]

100%

yandere!malleus draconia x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, pregnancy, implied baby-trapping, captivity, very vague and slight implications of codependency, angst note - your mobile phone was at 100% when he took you away. with time, the percentage has diminished. so, too, does your hope for a brighter future.

The windowpane is spattered with rain.

Sitting cozy in a cushioned alcove, you watch the droplets slide down in regal rivulets, consolidating to form single streaks. The scenery beyond the window is bleak and dreary—a despondent landscape of gnarled, leafless trees and scratchy brambles stretching towards a dark, dismal sky. Sometimes you liken the rain to tears, wondering if Mother Nature weeps for all creatures or simply for you and your situation. Rare are the days in which the sun shines upon the craggy stone façade of your captor’s castle, and she is as benevolent as she is cruel.

For all of its sumptuous splendor, generational wealth filling the interior with priceless heirlooms and relics, it is an empty, cold structure. You’ve taken to enveloping yourself in thick furs, if only because these furs do not speak like the monster who so humbly offers his embrace. Though you’ve always considered yourself of strong, sturdy mind, your restraint is thinning. As the days pass and you shed clothing sizes like they’re second skins, you find yourself drawn to warmth.

Which is, ironically enough, contradictory to your current temperament. The windows, frigid like the grave, provide solace you cannot find anywhere else—for it is only tender warmth you receive from him. Had he not been so merciful, perhaps it would have been easier to shrink away and truly loathe him with every ounce of your being.

And yet, in order to escape the warmth which enshrouds, you seek the cold, bitter windows and their rain-weary countenance.

Lying beside you on the pillows, snoozing the afternoon away, a calico cat snores idly. She was a gift from him. You were neglectful of your mental health and thus, as per his guard’s suggestion, he sought to find a cat to cure your loneliness and inspire some form of happiness. You appreciate Silver—genuinely, you do—but the good luck a calico brings is not nearly enough to rescue you from captivity.

She was a stray, a scrawny thing with a limp and one bad eye. You took to her right away, scooping her up in your arms and lovingly naming her Cotton. Similarly, she returned your affections, rubbing her head against your palm and purring pleasantly.

Now she likes to nudge the dome that is your stomach, a great, round thing at only six months. Sometimes you think she’s more motherly than you are. You’ve never been able to care for much of anything. Plants wither under your touch, recipes spoil even when you follow them to the letter, and your electronics crack.

Your phone, more fractured than your very heart, is cold in your hands. The screen is blank; it’s dying. It was at 100% before. Now it’s been reduced to a sad 7%. There is no reception or connection to be had in Briar Valley. Your phone, once so powerful and all-knowing, is but a hollow shell. Useless. A digital photo album will expire at its final hour, and there’s no charger. He offered to use his magic to charge it, but he has never known his own strength and you couldn’t risk losing the treasured memories stored within.

Sometimes you’d return to old message logs and read through them. Now you can’t do that, lest you drain the battery quicker than intended.

“So this is where you’ve retreated,” Malleus notes, poking his head around the corner of a towering bookcase. Concern settles on his features. “Are you well? Sebek tells me you were absent for breakfast.” “I wasn’t hungry,” you mutter, watching his reflection through the stormy glass.

Malleus glances at Cotton and then at your phone as it rests in your clasp. “May I trouble you to eat just a little, if only some fruit?”

“I’m not hungry.” He nods, stalling. “Will you join me for lunch?”

“If I must.”

A small smile lifts his lips. “Are you cold? It can’t be very comfortable to sit there for such a long time. You’ll catch your death.”

“I hope.”

He tuts in disapproval and shrugs out of his cloak, draping it over you even though you’re already wearing a fleece robe. Malleus assesses you with a fleeting once-over.

“It doesn’t hurt to layer. You must understand where I’m coming from, dearest. Extreme temperatures serve to weaken those who are already so fragile.”

“I’m not fragile,” you snap, turning to scowl.

He doesn’t flinch at the heat smoldering in your eyes. “You’re human.”

“How many times did you have to practice that to come to terms with it?”

Malleus’s verdant stare narrows; his frown tightens. “It’s the truth.”

“I didn’t think you’d confront it.”

“I must if I’m to understand…” He exhales through his nose, deflating somewhat. “You’re in fine health. The physician tells me so. There’s no need to worry ourselves with ineffectual what-ifs.”

You turn your gaze on the sprawling forest next, unwilling to discuss the report and its subsequent conclusion: If she remains in good health and follows the recommended diet for an expecting mother, she’ll carry to term.

“My phone is dying, Malleus.”

“Is that not life? Lilia once said so.”

“My pictures… My everything is stored in this phone. It means so much to me.”

“Truly? Is there not a way to make physical copies of these photographs?”

“Unless Briar Valley has the technology to do so…”

“I’m afraid not.”

Malleus takes a daring step closer, endeavoring to comfort you. Cotton cracks her good eye open to peer at him. She hisses low in her throat, a protector standing small against something so tall. Pouting, clearly disheartened, Malleus heeds her warning and chooses to linger just within the bounds she deems acceptable.

“Yeah, that’s what I assumed.”

You heave a dejected sigh, your shoulders drooping. Seeking to cleanse your visual palate, you power the device on. 5% blinks back at you, an insignificant number sitting in a corner that you normally wouldn’t have paid much mind to. Now it weighs heavy, a reminder that the end is encroaching.

“I would’ve liked to keep these photos forever,” you whisper, mostly to yourself. Malleus hums his acknowledgement; you think he knows the feeling—or some variant of it, at least. “If I lose these pictures…”

“Do you not have memories?”

“I do, but it isn’t the same. One day I’ll grow old and my memory will be frail. I won’t remember nearly as much as I do now. Those memories will become ghosts and eventually I’ll—”

“You will not.” There’s a finality to the declaration—you won’t leave me; you won’t drain or die like this mobile device.

You rest your head against the window. The cool glass soothes your soul. I wonder what the others are up to right now… You place your hand upon your belly. I wonder if they’d have any good ideas for a name. I’m terrible at naming things. I can never pick something that feels right.

“I’d like to have a funeral for my phone.”

But maybe there is no right thing.

“Of course,” he agrees, perfectly serious. You will have that phone funeral, just as you will have every other request you make—however patently absurd it may seem. (Every other request except for freedom, of course.) “Materials may not have the same worth as a loved one, but the experiences they provide are just as valuable. Surely, no? Otherwise I would not feel so troubled when Roaring Drago…” Pausing to search for the placeholder, Malleus glances at your phone. “Perhaps there is no greater tragedy than existence itself.”

“It’s the most bittersweet burden,” you echo, scrolling through each picture with wistful remembrance. “But then I’d rather know the fleeting frivolity of life than endure hundreds of years of solitude. It makes me appreciate everything that much more.”

You stop at a picture of you and Malleus, a photo snapped by Lilia himself. Part of you often wonders why he chose you—why he adores you to such a degree when you, like everyone else, will inevitably perish. But therein lies the allure: That which is unobtainable is even more tempting. And because there is only one of you, a human destined to one day return to her home world, your very presence is more fleeting than a dream.

To Malleus, who has always dreamt, fond and fervent, of the unobtainable mundanity of normal life, you are a sweet, tangible blessing.

“Horns, do you think I’ll ever get another chance to have my phone at 100%?”

He softens under the nickname. It means more to him than his lofty station. “Would you like to know that joy?”

“It would be nice, yes, but then I’d just get sad when it reaches zero. I guess I should be grateful it’s stayed alive for this long. Sorry, it’s a stupid question. Just forget it.”

“Nonsense. There is no such thing.” He reaches to touch your cheek, but Cotton hisses again and so he refrains. She stands on unsteady legs and climbs into your lap, perching awkwardly in spite of your rounded belly. The sight draws a deep chuckle from him. “Your feline friend is quite taken with you.”

“It’s probably because I’m warm. She likes my belly a lot.”

“As do I.”

You roll your eyes.

“Your beauty is most beguiling. There’s a certain radiance to your person. It’s very charming. Do you not agree?”

“Flattery will get you nowhere—definitely not in Cotton’s good graces.”

“I’m simply voicing a fact.”

Your hand slides down from your stomach to pat Cotton. She purrs under your touch, and a weak approximation of a smile tugs at your lips. Amidst all of this sorrow, she is a glimmer of hope. In a way, she’s like you—a stray without a place in this world, snatched from the cobbles she once wandered and confined in a cage of royal opulence. Your similarities are striking, if not immensely devastating.

“Fact or not, I don’t care if I look pretty. It means nothing to me.”

“To be impartial towards appearances… Quite a noble mindset.”

I never once thought you were scary or strange, Horns. Even now.

You look at your phone once more. 3% flickers back.

You’re just lost, and in being lost you found me. But I was also lost. I never even belonged in this world to begin with…

“I’m not going to be a good mother.”

“You can’t know that.” 

“I can’t even take care of myself.”

“I shall care for you when you find yourself unable to.”

“I’d rather you not.”

With Cotton having curled on your lap, slumbering peacefully, Malleus chances to close the gap. His broad frame leans to make up for the difference in height, and he runs cold fingers along your cheek. He brushes away the tears you weren’t even aware you were shedding.

You grip your phone in shaky hands, your shoulders hunched. There’s a piercing ache in your chest, pain stabbing all the way through to your heart. It persists when you power it off, unable to delight in pictorial reminiscence for a moment longer. Silent like death, you sob; seismic dismay shudders through you in waves. Distantly, in a forgotten corner of your brain, you suspect this may be the last time you’ll ever use your phone. The last time you’ll ever look upon the photos you’ve amassed. Photos of friends, class notes, food. Photos snapped by mistake, blurry and unfocused. Photos taken when Ace and Grim stole your phone. Precious memories are preserved within the permanence of a photo album—an album that only remains everlasting so long as you keep your phone charged.

Your final shred of the world beyond Briar Valley vanishes in a blip, leaving you with the dark void that is an empty screen. Brutal is the agony, contorting your face, and you bawl like you’ve just witnessed the end of a life.

In a way, you have. You held it in the palm of your hands, and you watched it wither. Watched the percentages drop through numbers, double digits easing into singles. Watched every week and tried to spare your beloved phone of its fate. Watched and attempted to stall the impossible—a foolish undertaking. This was inevitable; you knew this, and yet you’re still mourning.

Perhaps that is the most tragic facet of existence. From the moment one is born, they are mourning. Humans mourn losing time—of allowing it to slip through their fingers when they should have put it to better use. Humans mourn aging even though it is celebrated yearly. Humans mourn for things that are inhuman—for robots stuck in an endless cycle of some menial task while gears grow rusted and systems shut down or trapped on a distant planet, never to return home. For the fruit that falls from trees and rots, trampled and forgotten. For the endings, good and bad, of novels. For art that will never see the light of day because it has been destroyed or stolen or silenced. For the friends they meet, have met, and will meet.

You mourn because you know it’s impending, and you spend all of your life coming to terms with it, only to break down when it finally happens because the truth of the matter is that you will never be prepared no matter how much you prepare yourself. You mourn because you’re a complex human with complex emotions, surviving in a complex world with millions of intricacies, and the only way to weather misery is to mourn.

To the little life cradled in your womb, who knows not of these difficulties yet, they cannot fathom the anguish that accompanies loss. And right now that is all you can hope for—a life without loss.

But that is impossible because loss is true to everyone’s experience. It is part of existence, and existence is inescapable.

Malleus does not gather you in his arms. He will do so if you ask, and he knows you want to ask, which is precisely why he waits. But you’re stubborn and you refuse to give in to the temptation, let alone grant him the satisfaction. It doesn’t offend him.

The windowpane is spattered with rain. So, too, is your phone, spotted with tears and snot.

Briefly, you wonder if you still look beautiful to Malleus.

Even at your ugliest, he would still cherish you. Desperately, as if he might lose you.

Knowing this does not soften the gutting grief.

[endearing-dalliance]

Arcane Team's Bias Bastardized Piltover and Zaun

I am not an LoL player, but I read up on the lore because I was that fucking disappointed in season 2. Some key points of original Piltover and Zaun lore, which the team kept parts of. Emphasis on parts.

Geography and Symbiotic Economy:

Zaun was established first. A geographic disaster literally split the earth and sunk part of the city, splitting it into what we know today. Many of the wealthier citizens and those involved in the profitable sea trade ended up on a cliffside and industrial parts of Zaun were now across a river and below. They then became separate city-states in a symbiotic relationship.

"Zaun thrives, its people vibrant and its culture rich."

Zaun has multiple levels of "good" areas like the college and Bridgewaltz market where both citizens shopped for music, food, technology in addition to progressively more polluted and dangerous lower levels.

Piltover’s wealth has allowed Zaun to develop in tandem

Zaun's issues like the Gray were attributed to their own factories and labs that benefitted their own people

Culture and Relationship:

Zaunities collectively take great pride in themselves and their thriving city. Many choose to live there, especially scientists and inventors who find Piltover too restricted, because "their right to do as they please is what makes Zaun the freest city-state on Runeterra"

"A citizen of Piltover is typically self-reliant, does not expect handouts, and always aspires to do better."

Piltover has an elected "very empathic and progressive" government and is "one of the least militarized city-states"

Zaun's technological progress and academic institutions are described as being Piltover's only technological and academic rival. 

Both cities' citizens augment their bodies. Piltover's are more flamboyant and display their wealth, even if they are originally necessary; Zaun's are more practical and "necessity is the mother of invention" very much applies.

So this was what they had to work with. I can understand why many people would prefer to live in Piltover, but Zaun is treated as an equal place to be, with its own distinct and proud culture, complex structure, and thriving economy.

Moving on to Arcane (finally lol) and the now infamous original Arcane pitch. Either Christian posted that while every sane person was asleep, or none of them realized how profoundly terrible it makes them look. 

There's a lot in here that's problematic. Piltover is a gleaming wonder, a pure and magical place while conveniently leaving out why its this flourishing utopia. The next bit frames the entire conflict as Piltover's decision. It screams "Mommy and Daddy need to punish the naughty kids or they'll wreck the house." Except the starving kids are locked in the moldy basement and trying to break the door down to escape.

Now about Zaun...here its called the underground district. This becomes more important later, when you realize how many different and contradictory labels they give Zaun. Its an undercity, sister city, part of Piltover, wannabe Nation of Zaun. It establishes again the underlying superiority of Piltover. And of course it is, because Zaun's people are boiled down to dangerous, manipulative criminals (bonus points for an antisemetic reference!) with no morality.

I firmly believe this team has a fundamental deliberate misinterpretation of what LoL Piltover and Zaun are, and it is due to their own biases and privileges of a team that is primarily white, middle/upper class, able-bodied, and mostly male. It is abundantly clear that they see as Zaun is objectively lesser and that its their own fault. They're just a foil for Piltover and source of enemies. Three quotes from Arnaud-Lois Baudry:

"My role as a Production Designer was to make sure we don't negatively impact other teams at Riot Games and contribute to adding value and enriching the worldbuilding of those cities."

"Once we figured out the shape language of the wealthy city of Piltover, Zaun needed to be its dark mirror. We started by combining Victorian architectural pieces and some old industrial elements and added some asymmetrical flourish ornaments made from handcrafted upcycled pieces."

"Canonically Zaun is supposed to be super-dark, oily, and dirty with green smoke everywhere." Dude it is literally called The Gray. Zaun's marketplace, college, and an example of their architectural style from the LoL website:

Zaun is literally an afterthought. And I think its very telling that once again, Piltover was the priority. Magical, pure Piltover with its moral code...and Zaun was literally just designed to be its opposite. They claim that the show was designed to show the good and bad parts of both, but they failed to include any direct evidence that the problems in Zaun are entirely due to Piltover's treatment of them. They literally just took LoL Zaun, scooped the top (more prosperous) levels off, and buried it under Piltover. Piltover was enriched, and even benefited by inspiration from Eastern European culture like Nikola Tesla and Czech artist Alphonse Mucha. And then gave Viktor the only "foreign" accent in the show to further emphasize his disadvantaged upbringing and displacement in Piltover society. As someone with an Eastern European/Slavic background, I cannot emphasize this enough: fuck. every. last. one. of. you.

*sigh* Moving on to the "value and enrichment" given to Zaun:

cities described as "dissonant halves of the a greater whole" rather than symbiotic

Piltover came first, and the undercity later develops into Zaun. No mention of historical or present-day Zaun having anything to do with Piltover's success. Literally nothing is explicitly connected, though we do get Cait committing war crimes using tech her Mom installed to help the Zaunites from suffering the effects of pollution.

Speaking of pollution, AoA explictly states neither city has "big industry, there are no factories". Uhh then where is the pollution coming from?

It is portrayed unflatteringly with two notable exceptions (the Last Drop and Firelight tree), specifically in the ways that are in real life associated with racism, classism, body shaming, and cultural shaming. Its subtle at times, but a constant theme in their book, interviews, and the show itself.

In AoA, the Piltie extras are "understudies" and the Zaunites are "a motely crew".

Piltover has “normal” food like tea and sandwiches, while Zaun has what appears to be slugs in a muddy sauce from an unsanitary food stall that also displays drooling animal heads and tentacles.

All the Pilties are thin; the only overweight people (who are also usually morbidly obese) are from Zaun.

In Art of Arcane (AoA) they talk about how they specifically chose to design the Chem-Barons "more cartoony than grotesque" and that they made sure to have "a few landmarks, like the bridge, so it doesn't feel too cartoony" when designing Piltover.

Only the Zaunites use augmentation. Its a defining characteristic and objectively "bad". AoA explicitly correlates Viktor fixing his leg and spine with losing parts of his humanity. Lord know what they think of the multitude of augmented-out-of-necessity Zaunites. Coincidentally, the other character most associated with augments is Smeech, the cartoony drowned-rat-looking antagonistic Yordle, whose fight serves as a humorous scene endearing Jinx to the viewers.

They created the Piltover Council and then decided to make the Chem-Barons their direct counterparts, because DUALITY! Seriously, is anyone in Zaun NOT somehow just a "worse" version of a Piltie?

[slowd1ving]

Hi could you write a (platonic) Yoo Joonghyuk x Constellation M!Reader

Reader is Secretive Plotter's husband and he helps KimCom for a scenario, I hope I don't ask you too much, I wish you a good day/night 🌸

LORD OF THE MYSTERIES * ★ ₊ ⋆ SECRETIVE PLOTTER

The foreign stars that cluster the night sky like vultures preying on the demise of humans are hard to equate to the protostar that had been born in this particular round.  * ★ ₊ ⋆    HELLO ANONN!!! listen I was going to do the requests sooner but I was swamped with a work and a larger project, so I'm apologising preemptively to the requests still in my inbox and post-emptively to the ones that have waited for TIME without further ado, I shall be working on completing the other requests (and yes the name of the constellation was intentional, no I have not read the lotm novel fully though I have tried) art credits: hellmirrart on X pairing: secretive plotter x male constellation reader, '3rd round' yoo joonghyuk x reader (platonic) warnings: none, except spoilers for orv wc: 1.8k

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

There are many tales that make up a person. 

First, there are the superficial adjectives lingering just outside the dermis: little epithets mentioned in passing. Stoic. Quiet. Stone-faced. These words are shared between humans: surface-level stories that allow one to select a person in a line, yet ultimately fail when confronted with the amorphous, exponentially-growing mass that is humanity. 

Next are the anecdotes: the involvement of various characters, that can’t exactly be surmised just by looking at them. He swung a sword at me. He glared at me. He was rude to me. These lurk below the skin, forming an impression, yet not a complete picture: as a few congruent curves are to a fingerprint, as a shadow is to the object. 

Finally, deep under sinew and flesh, located in the very marrow of the matter are true stories. These encompass many things. The particularities of somebody’s disgusted expression. The precise gestures of their hands when they are nervous. The order of emotions one displays on their face as they receive good news. Stories—each microscopic detail is a tale that forms the very structure of a person, which can never truly be replicated.

Except, of course, when it can. 

“Look, he’s just like you.” These syllables are murmured into your palm: a sentence he should feel insulted by, yet he’s more preoccupied with how you’re lying on the bed—leaning on your elbow with a smug number 41 on your right side, and a more reticent 999 curled up on your left. It becomes disproportionately difficult to comprehend whatever’s going on when the man in the doorway is greeted with such a rarely peaceful, picturesque scene in front of him: so utterly removed from the mess that is indubitably occurring in each wing of the house. It’s… domestic, really, in a way he doesn’t quite feel he deserves. 

“Of course he’s like me,” he finally retorts. “Why would he not be?”

He rarely feels childish—or at least, he should rarely feel childish. He’s lived through hundreds of millenia, seen the falls of countless constellations, died thousands of times, yet still, his steps petulantly take him to your side to see just exactly what you’re finding so fascinating. 

Predictably, Yoo Joonghyuk is on the screen that 41 is propping up for your leisure. As if winning over the squabbling, stubborn kkomas that roam this place wasn’t enough, you’re now observing yet another variant. A face identical to the one on your phone scoffs. 

[Secretive Plotter is becoming increasingly irate.]

[Secretive Plotter donates 1,000 coins.]

These contradictory ‘tales’ are, naturally, owed to the man behind you beginning to seethe, while number 41 paws at the screen whimsically to adjust it to your sight better. A few stray donations here and there when the not-so-dexterous kkoma hand slips, and thus the contradiction forms. 

It does not help the simmering annoyance he feels when you’re so busy, as you had put it earlier. 

[Lord of the Mysteries donates 3,000 coins.]

[Lord of the Mysteries waves his hands towards the portrait, motioning with growing frustration.]

The man behind you wouldn’t have been so generous to give any hints in this fiendishly difficult escape room, but you always did have a soft spot when it came to the hims of this world and all his companions. 

[Lord of the Mysteries donates another 4,000 coins, telling the Incarnations to turn the frame rather than gawk at the paint strokes.]

But this. This is too far: ignoring his rhetorical, sarcastic comment while you continue to spoil the Kim Dokja Company rotten in this sub scenario. Outer gods forbid you save your tendencies for main scenarios. 

There isn’t even a time limit for this room! 

The bed dips under the weight of another constellation as he joins you, and to his strange, vindictive satisfaction, the wayward kkomas scatter; in their stead, three eyes glare at him (though, it’s difficult to take palm-sized beings seriously, as a rule of thumb). 

“Scram,” he utters triumphantly (though, it’s equally as difficult to take him seriously—a constellation who has gone through hundreds of millenia, who looks like he’s melting in your presence). It is quite obvious that they don’t listen to him—999 is helped over your body to your right side by the traitorous 41, and you let them, much like you let him sink into your left side, breathing in the scent that carries tales of both your life and his. 

The ink you write with. The food that he cooks for you, and only you. The faint traces of books, mingling with the vestiges of clean soap. 

A heavy arm wraps around your waist, while an impatient face buries itself into your neck. Yet, despite his obvious preoccupation, he still makes the time to shoot the kkomas a look that they have unfortunately become quite familiar with when it comes to you and your time. They cannot do the same things he does: namely, hold you like this. 

I win. 

It is as he has said. Seldom does he act childishly, but he can’t refrain from having capricious whims when he is faced with your presence. 

Pay attention to me, my love. This is the look the kkomas now read on their Plotter’s face—no, not merely his face, his body. It’s pathetically pathetic, yet they can’t help but understand. 

“See there,” you comment laconically, and despite his growing aversion to the distraction in your hands, he is compelled to observe, just like you have asked him to do. “He is far more cautious than the third. Without knowing it, he is a shadow away from you.”

He is faced with a mirror of himself, glaring up at wherever the omnipresent cameras are—though he merely looks perplexed when he is faced with the screen displaying your name. 

It makes sense. 

You are a perplexing entity, and one that this particular Yoo Joonghyuk would not have encountered before. 

He sheaths his sword, and just like that, the Plotter who breathes you in recognises the telltale glimmer of trust in his eyes that the Yoo Joonghyuks of the worlds have towards your existence. 

He’s not for you, he chastises silently, though the him in the screen will never hear him.  

The Plotter presses a chaste kiss to your shoulder, and finally, finally, you turn your gaze to meet his own, fervent one. 

“Where is the time you’ve reserved for me?” He knows he’s being far too jealous. He can hear it in the sluggish pulse that only ever seems to quicken whenever you’re around—he can feel it in the heavy tension in his sternum. 

I win. 

He’s taken the victory once again when he feels you shift to switch the offending device off; a rare smile paints his face, just as a frown breaks out on the face of the Yoo Joonghyuk still within the scenario. 

[Lord of the Mysteries has temporarily disconnected from the channel.]

* ★ ₊ ⋆ 

“For a Lord of the Mysteries, he sure doesn’t act like he likes them.” 

Jihye’s confused voice is the first to reach his ears as his sword slices through the particular barrel the constellation warned them about mere moments ago. Before he left, that is. 

The man known as Yoo Joonghyuk, going strong in his third round, is perhaps even more confused than his disciple—and that never happens. Never. He could blame it on the walking bucket of bad luck that is Kim Dokja, but this is still too unusual to pin it solely on that man. 

In purely pragmatic terms, it could be said that Yoo Joonghyuk’s memory is impeccable. It has to be, if he ever had hope of escaping the cursed cycle he has been trapped in. 

When event after event that he knows from two previous rounds go awry, it is uncannily easily to point Dokja as the culprit—yet, these familiar eyes that watch him were present from the very moment he awoke in that compartment on the train, eyes that were strangely empathetic for a constellation. 

It is easy to feel pity for lesser beings: a cloying, disturbing emotion to witness when lives are purchased with arbitrary coins. 

It is not easy for a constellation to seem so human. 

Amongst the entities that crowd the channels of the third round, he recognises many names. All were ones he had witnessed in the past two rounds—bickering amongst themselves like he had predicted, bidding on the struggles and turmoils of humans with an apathy akin to monsters. 

All… but one. 

The foreign stars that cluster the night sky like vultures preying on the demise of humans are hard to equate to the protostar that had been born in this particular round. 

[The Lord of the Mysteries hints at the Incarnations that they have already passed the right path.]

[The Lord of the Mysteries agrees to the bet proposed by the Incarnations.]

[The Lord of the Mysteries votes in favour of the formation of the Kim Dokja Company.]

Favour doesn’t seem to be currency when it comes to this particular star; rather, favour is endowed freely amongst those he likes, without asking for anything in return. It’s disturbing: complex in a way he doesn’t quite know how to deal with, much like he doesn’t quite know how to deal with Kim Dokja, and all the anomalies that seemed incessantly tied to that man. 

[The Lord of the Mysteries assumes what appears to be the night watch.]

It’s bizarre. He can’t quite trust the constellation. He can’t even begin to comprehend what goes on inside his head. Though, what’s perhaps the most perplexing of all was the fact that he can’t sense any trace of malevolence in the constellation’s actions. 

He’s shady, his intuition screams at him. He makes no sense, his Sage’s eye confirms. He’s fattening us up for the final slaughter, his gut proclaims. 

Yet, unfathomably, both eyes flutter shut. It wouldn’t hurt, his heart murmurs against the turmoil.

The sword slips from his tight grasp and clatters against the floor, but the man doesn’t stir from his upright slumber against the wall. A lone draught carries its songs through the abandoned building, but his breathing remains calm and undisturbed. 

For once, the tempestuous landscape of his mind has stilled: nightmares grinding to a gradual halt, clammy skin drying in the gentle evening breeze. For once, the stories that make up his dreams are doused in balmy tranquility: the smell of sunlight in a field, the warmth of a song playing in the distance, the taste of literature while turning a page. 

Under the watchful eyes of a singularity in the heavens, the 1864th Yoo Joonghyuk sleeps peacefully for a night.

* ★ ₊ ⋆

[hellooobees]

I'm so impressed by the writing of Thamepo just in general but this is specifically about something I love about the writing around Thame and Po growing closer.

So in the first episode, the time that Po was hired to photograph Mars at an event is brought up three times right? First when Po is interviewing for the job at ONER and embellishes the truth about that event. Second when Thame reveals that he remembers Po from that event and has evidence that proves Po lied about not being a fan/sasaeng. And third when Po convinces Thame that he's not a fan in secret and Thame in turn reveals that he remembers Po out of everyone there because Po did something kind for a young fan and it stood out to him. @thebroccolination has written this fantastic breakdown on the layered writing of the first episode around that scene.

In the third episode, we see Thame and Po exchanging phone numbers three times. @btwinlines points out how every successive instance is growing more personal from Thame entering his phone number into Po's phone because they need to be in touch for their plan, to Thame being worried about Po when he's with Jun and finding he has no way to contact him, to Thame memorising Po's number because he doesn't want to risk losing it again.

At this point, I wondered about the number three showing up again and again in relation to Thame and Po and whether there was something similar in episode two as well, as it wasn't something I noticed immediately on first watch as I did with ep 1 and 3. And at least in my opinion there is? It's in Thame's interview for the documentary.

First we open with the staff at the company try to manufacture a meaningful moment for Thame and the rest of Mars, with fake polaroids, a script for exactly what Thame needs to say, even the gifts that Thame will present to them as goodbye. However, none of the other members show up and the interview falls through. The next day they try again, this time with just Thame in front of the camera till Po interrupts him, pointing out his contradictory actions between obediently following the script to a T and the very thoughtful gifts that Thame himself brought for Mars. Finally, Po turns the camera on again, asking Thame to say what he really wants to say to Mars and all Thame can do is say he's sorry and break down from the grief he's carrying around his decision to leave.

I wanted to see if they keep this theme up with the fourth episode too, and well, kind of. It's definitely not as clean as 1 and 3, but at the beginning of the episode Thame texts Po to which Po replies immediately and asks what's up - which goes unanswered. Po shows up to the club, after finding and putting together the shredded pieces of paper with the song Thame and Jun had asked him to help them find, just to realize it wasn't needed anymore and goes back home wordlessly so as not to intrude on the band's reconciliation with Dylan. At the end of the day while Po is stewing in insecurity over the day's events, he receives a call from Thame who validates his feelings and emphasises he doesn't want miscommunication to come in the middle of any more relationships, not while he's trying to fix the consequences from when he did let it. And they stay on the call for nine and a half hours talking about anything and everything, at the end of which Thame serenades Po with the song he said he likes when he wakes up.

Thamepo is very clearly made for TV in the way every episode has an individual arc to it along with the overarching arc of the show itself, but that little detail of Thame and Po's relationship was so endearing to me. I might be wrong here but it's reminiscent of the three act structure of storytelling to me? It sort of makes sense to me for each example to think of the three parts of it as the set up, the confrontation, and the resolution, if that makes sense? I don't know if this similar structure will show up in the following episodes as well and while I don't think it's likely I'll definitely keep an eye out.

I don't know, I just like the writing in this show a lot. Miscommunication is the crux of the plot, that's what causes the break down between Mars and what is weaponised by the CEO of ONER to convince Thame that leaving is the best decision. And I adore that communication then takes centre stage in not just bringing the band back together but also the romance. I love that their first few meetings dealt with Thame and Po both projecting on each other and then details being revealed that made them think differently. I love the way Thame asks for Po's help to bring the other members back to Mars and what convinces Thame to stay is a silent gesture of offering him the second sandwich as a juxtaposition to the CEO convincing Thame to leave by misrepresenting details about the other members. I love that what we've seen of Thame and Po building their relationship so far has been deliberate attempts to open a line of communication and then learning about every small and mundane detail about each other. Yeah, that's all, I just love this show a whole lot already.

[magnuspanoptes]

and when i say jon, elias, and gertrude were basically playing out du maurier's rebecca—

Sally Beauman, Afterword to Rebecca Rebecca is the story of two women, one man, and a house. Of the four, as Hitchcock once observed, the house, Manderley, is the dominant presence.

Heta Pyrhönen, Bluebeard's Accomplice: "Rebecca" as a Masochistic Fantasy First, however, she [Bluebeard's Wife] must pass a test of obedience: she must not visit Bluebeard's locked room. In Rebecca, the protagonist must not seek knowledge about Maxim's past, a past that has spatial correlates in Rebecca's bedroom and boathouse.

Heta Pyrhönen, Bluebeard's Accomplice: "Rebecca" as a Masochistic Fantasy According to the contradictory logic of the "Bluebeard" tale, the husband ensures that the stated goal of obedience is never reached. In Rebecca, Manderley continues to run according to Rebecca's instructions; no changes are made in the environs she designed; her study, bedroom, and wardrobe are left intact; and even the fancy dress ball follows her arrangements. By continuing his life at Manderley as if nothing has changed, Maxim prompts his second wife to ferret out his secret. When she seeks knowledge about Rebecca and imitates her, she acts according to his covert script.

Du Maurier's addition to the "Bluebeard" intertext is the dead first wife's participation, first by proxy

and then as a water-eaten body, in the drama being played at Bluebeard's house.

Sally Beauman, Afterword to Rebecca The first wife, Rebecca, is vivid and vengeful and, though dead, indestructible: her name lives on in the book’s title.

The second wife, the drab shadowy creature who narrates this story, remains nameless. We learn that she has a “lovely and unusual” name, and that it was her father who gave it her. The only other identity she has, was also bestowed by a man—she is a wife, she is Mrs. de Winter.

Sally Beauman, Afterword to Rebecca There is a final twist to Rebecca and it is a covert one. Maxim de Winter kills not one wife, but two. He murders the first with a gun,

and the second by slower, more insidious methods. The second Mrs. de Winter’s fate, for which she prepares herself throughout the novel, is to be subsumed by her husband.

in rebecca the narrator remaining nameless is meant to contrast rebecca's defiance of maxim with the narrator's acceptance of him. in the magnus archives, the obvious point being made re gertrude and jon's different recording signatures (simply her name vs his beholding title) is that unlike jon, gertrude refused to let herself be consumed by the eye and in turn, assist jonah with his plans (no, i'm not blaming jon for being manipulated by elias). also, jon's role as jonah's archivist results in his identity as an individual slowly being subsumed in a very literal sense as he gradually gives himself up to beholding. throughout season four he resembles elias more and more as he displays his powers. and then in the finale, mag 160 - "the eye opens", he becomes jonah/elias as he assumes his voice inflection, experiences his fear, speaks his words, and fulfills his goal of summoning the entities into their world.

+

Heta Pyrhönen, Bluebeard's Accomplice: "Rebecca" as a Masochistic Fantasy By confessing (to Rebecca's murder and his past), Maxim achieves his covert goal: he finds himself in the same marital structure as before. He places himself in the protagonist's hands, for now she has the power to destroy him. Du Maurier's Bluebeard is in the same situation with his second wife as with his first, for both can bring him the public humiliation he fears. Unlike Bluebeard's wives, they have the power to undo him.

MAG 1 - "Anglerfish" // MAG 67 - "Burning Desire" // MAG 152 - "A Gravedigger's Entry" // MAG 4 - "Pageturner" // MAG 40 - "Human Remains" // MAG 44 - "Tightrope" // MAG 122 - "Zombie" // MAG MAG 158 - "Panopticon" // MAG 160 - "The Eye Opens" // MAG 161 - "Dwelling" // MAG 200 - "Last Words"

[lonestardust]

Do you see racist things? If you ever feel like speaking out I would love a chance to make sure I'm not accidentally doing or agreeing with anything harmful.

i really appreciate your kindness anon and i know your intentions are good but if you want, bear with me this long answer because this is exactly my issue; people not realizing there is a wrong foundation dominating these kinds of online spaces we're on. people falling for anything as long as it has a nice sounding veneer that softens the fallacy of it. and this is not (just) about fandom. people need to start treating political education and being principled as a fundamental duty we're fully accountable for and not just something we just want to make sure we're not getting wrong.

it's a labour that requires sacrifice of time and effort on daily basis. it's our responsibility to study, to understand the structures of oppression, to be able to point out all the contradictory positions people take and especially from lazy audience who just endorse anything by clicking a 'share' button.

Don't wait for someone to speak out or wait until someone tells you what has been harming them for too long. Acts that perpetuate oppression don't happen inside our bodies and it's only me who can tell that my stomach is hurting, the symptoms and patterns of harmful positions and acts are out there all the time they just fly under the radar for those who don't do the work to see them as a systematic behaviour, in the wider scope, that's how the privileged, the protected and the politically illiterate/indoctrinated maintain the status quo; by leaving everything on the back of the struggling people to fix, without reaching the stage of maturity of being finally capable of understanding and combating those tools of imperialism on their own (choice of words, language, ideologies, actions, online behaviour etc), people are just too lazy to lead with correct principles that's my issue. liberalism just never graduates from that school, it retreats back to individualism right after telling you its willing to care about the collective in an actual effective way. and during that period it just keeps on inflicting piles of harm for us, the principled, to undo and label as ideological hazard.

I'm just so tired.. I've seen so much betrayal and sustained so many moral injuries from so called communities on here (lgbt circles, fandoms, people with their nice sounding liberal zionist shit and harmful normalization positions on the Palestinian struggle and the current ongoing Genocide etc etc) that pinpointing individual incidents feels in vain.

the term 'community' has been reduced to some depoliticised liberal abstraction where individuals conflate indulging in sexual consumerism and fun activities with collective work. and it points to a larger contradiction where selfish pursuits are masked as liberating and empowering (people who say shit like joy is resistance from the comfort of their couch. i see you), at the expense of emergency mobilisation, investing labour in political education and cultivating real connections based off shared values and struggles. especially now... just the levels of self gratification on here.. the people who treat politics/people's lives as an secondary backdrop to their blogs to show off moral integrity between their usual content. the romanticising of colonial violence or the total negligence of it, the reduction of the global south struggles to english ready made appealing content. all the selective celebrity culture garbage, etc.

I don't speak out here because for most people, politics is about appearing radical online from time to time and not about being able to defend a position with conviction and sacrifice a lot for it.

and because academics, western degree holders, big blogs (often run by a white person), the english-speaking diaspora voices, are more preferred, promoted and listened to

because articulation in english, layered with academic jargon, is constantly mistaken for sound politics.

I don't speak here because myopic victim narratives are centered over structural critique.

because identity wins over principled politics - every single time.

and I'm not interesting in pandering in front of a people here who selfishly give all their time to hobbies and self indulgence and cause harm by endorsing and agreeing on things they think they comprehend from the moral perspective. they don't listen let alone put labour into being responsible individuals. idk that's why i said before i feel like a hypocrite for being here in the first place. I have my other online circles where i find the sound political ground i seek so here I just try to stick to fandom content and nothing more, i just can't help sometimes the way i get angry at the things i see, but again, that's on me for choosing a space where performativity dominates, I'm responsible for that I'm very aware.

Apologies for the long reply Xx

[goblincow]

CATS or What Is This RPG or Setting The Table

So I just heard about CATS courtesy of the good folks in the PlusOneExp discord server. CATS was written by Patrick O'Leary for the 2016 200 Word RPG Challenge.

It's nice and short (200 words even) and it's a compelling formula for the classic What Is This TTRPG segment that warrants a page at the front of every good RPG book.

I find it particularly interesting that this is imagined as a micro-RPG in its own right, a table activity for the start of game night that sets out to address what I have always found to be the most painful aspect of playing any TTRPG (besides tedious and arcane character creation rituals – I'm looking at you 5e PHB 👀): the friction that arises from players having discordant, conflicting, contradictory or incompatible expectations during play.

We can formulate the basic strucure of CATS in a variety of ways: Concept/Aim/Tone/Subject Matter, What/Where/When/Who/Why/How, Premise/Overview/Goals/What You Need, etc. all of which can be applied in two immediate directions:

In a What Is This RPG section, these are just codified methods for teaching the player/reader (more of my thoughts on the player/reader here) how to read and communicate everything that comes next in a way that's both more focused than a blurb (which might basically constitute the Concept/Premise/Hook) and more comprehensive than an elevator pitch.

As a launchpad for table play, these structures guide the conversation to establish the pillars of the shared fiction, and I especially appreciate CATS for the fact that it ends on Subject Matter. It could be the consequence of a tortured acronym, but having set the stage in every other way it seems appropriate to hop into safety tools as the final as the final negotiation before play, once all context is provided but nothing is yet set in stone.

That's all he wrote on CATS.

In THE PERILOUS PEAR & PLUM PIES OF PUDWICK I wrote a conversation guide to the meat of the adventure on pg. 11, following an introductory segment of the game that functions as a session 1 prologue of sorts before delving into the hexflower "dungeon" microsetting, inciting incident et al. It's interesting for me to look back at the way I structured this from the perspective of CATS.

If you're curious about TPPAPPOP and want a sneak peak of what you can expect, here's that segment from pg. 11, Inside The Tree:

Resources: the insects of the tree live in darkness and have varying weird diets – you might decide that tracking resources like light and food is important, or maybe at this scale adventurers can survive on the honeydew, leaves and strange meats that the insects eat. Sights and Sounds: footsteps might sound like earthquakes, voices like distant thunder. What are the twitches and mannerisms of the chittering language of insects? How does artificial light disturb the denizens of the tree? Setting and Tone: to adjust the game to your group's preference, you might lean into the existential conflict of intruding on and potentially dooming these fledgling societies, or downplay the crawling horror of an insect world to allow its cuter side to shine through.

[eretzyisrael]

by Melanie Phillips

The reality of Masafer Yatta, however, is radically different. The area was never under Palestinian Arab control. The only people with any legal or historical claim to it are the Jews.

In the 1920s, the Jews alone were promised a homeland by the League of Nations throughout what is now Israel, the disputed territories and the Gaza Strip—a binding treaty obligation that has never been abrogated.

In 1999, Arabs illegally erected homes in Masafer Yatta but failed to obtain building permits from Israel’s civil administration. This violated the Israel and Arab agreed-upon Oslo Accords that gave Israel full control over this area.

In 2022, Israel’s High Court ruled that these homes must be demolished. As a result, the residents moved into nearby alternative dwellings. Many of these condemned structures, however, remained in place in order to provide the illusion of a permanent Arab presence.

None of these facts, of course, was mentioned in the film because they would instantly destroy the lie of helpless Arabs victimized by cruel Israeli oppression.

Masafer Yatta has produced numerous terrorists who have murdered Israeli civilians. Moreover, with the connivance or backing of NGOs such as B’Tselem and Amnesty, its activists harass Jews living in the area by trespassing, damaging property and provoking fights that they film and post online with titles like “settler violence” and “Jewish supremacy.”

In 2021, during a violent incident in Masafer Yatta, an Israeli Defense Forces officer filmed a young Arab setting fire to Arab structures and shouting: “The Jews did it.”

The Jewish Voice reported that this young Arab was none other than the future Oscar-winner Basel Adra, whom it described as a B’Tselem activist and “a known provocateur in the Hebron mountains.” In a succession of contradictory claims, Adra later denied that he had committed arson.

The mythology that has developed around Masafa Yatta is one of many lies that have shaped support for the Palestinian cause throughout the West, investing it with the status of a heroic fight for justice. Obscenely, this big lie has come to define the claim by Western “progressives” to moral and centrist attitudes.

In Britain, the BBC, whose endemic animus against Israel has caused it for decades to transmit Palestinian propaganda demonizing Israel as entirely credible, has finally been caught in such an egregious abuse of its duty to tell the truth that even the Palestinian-supporting Labour government is demanding an explanation.

Last month, BBC TV aired a documentary entitled “Gaza: How to Survive a Warzone.” This was directed by a production company in London that relied on two cameramen based in Gaza.

The synopsis described the documentary as “following the lives of four young people trying to survive the Israel-Hamas war as they hope for a ceasefire—a vivid and unflinching view of life in a war zone.”

It took the indefatigable pro-Israel blogger David Collier just three hours to discover that Abdullah, the 14-year-old narrator who had been schooled as a Palestinian child propagandist for years, was the son of a senior Hamas government minister in Gaza who had supported the murder of Israelis by Hamas terrorists.

Collier revealed that the BBC show was “one of the worst Palestinian propaganda pantomimes you will ever get to see.” One of the co-directors in London was a Palestinian propagandist. One of the cameramen had saluted the Oct. 7 massacres and in 2021 had shared “resistance” videos full of terrorists, rockets and Israeli funerals. Two girls who took part in the film were the daughters of a Hamas police officer. Another child was pictured standing next to a Hamas terrorist holding weapons.

[fanhackers]

An Intimate Sound–Podfic and Confluence

This week, I’ve been thinking a lot about podfic, i.e.., audio versions of fanfic, read out aloud. Podfic, as an audio-based medium, sits at the confluence of disability accessibility, performance, and of course, simply being a new form of narrative text.

In the first ever published article on podfic, Olivia Riley states:

“Audiobooks, another auditory predecessor of podfic, share podfic's emphasis on fictional narrative and vocal performance as well as other qualities typical to all the audio mediums so far discussed, including portability and ease of access. The comparison of podfic to audiobooks is particularly important because in my investigation I ran across numerous instances of listeners explicitly comparing the podfic experience to that of an audiobook, while only one referenced podcasts in relation to these audio narratives; thus, we must take into account how fans theorize their own texts and experiences.”

This particular comparison between audiobooks and podfics interests me; podcasts, whether fictional or non-fictional, arguably may be more intimate, in so much as we may get to listen to the speakers’ personal opinions, thoughts, ideas, etc. And yet, podfic finds itself standing more with audiobooks, despite sharing half its name with podcasts. I’d like to complicate this further, drawing from my own experience of both running zines with audio components, as well as interacting with fellow fans who make podfic, and who have had podfic made off their own work: fans are sometimes hesitant to provide permission to have their work read out aloud, concerned about the voice and audio work “exposing” perceived flaws in their written texts.

There’s a certain intimacy involved in the process, certainly, more than just that of getting a work beta-ed, or proof-read. It’s similar to the collaborative nature of fanart for fanfic, except fanart is welcomed with a lot less hesitance.

In the same article, Riley further goes on to explore this very intimacy:

“The audio performances of podfic produce a queer network of relations between the performer, the text, and the listener. To begin with, the text itself is an actor in podfic. All the podfics examined for this article were explicitly queer in their content, featuring queer(ed) characters, queer themes, romance, and often explicit sexuality. The characters in these podfics carry variously transformed and reimagined genders and sexualities. These podfics are palimpsests of many texts and authors, including the fan fic being read aloud, the source text the fan fic was inspired by, the contemporary fanon and fan community that shaped the fic's production, the various music and sound effects often used in these recordings, and the labor of all the creators who made these media. Further, through the reader's performance, listeners receive a unique interpretation of the fan fic being read, conveyed through the intonations and other subtleties that emphasize and elide various textual significances. This profusion of overlapping and sometimes contradictory layers of meaning impact how a listener understands a character's gender and sexuality, refusing the simplicity of heteronormative binaries.” RILEY, OLIVIA JOHNSTON. 2020. “PODFIC: QUEER STRUCTURES OF SOUND.” TRANSFORMATIVE WORKS AND CULTURES, NO. 34. HTTPS://DOI.ORG/10.3983/TWC.2020.1933.

There is, then, a definite sense of vulnerability in getting podfic made off one’s work. But podfic, I’d argue, is almost the most celebratory fan-object fandom has ever produced—it sits again on a confluence, not just of medium and accessibility, but of multiple creatives, all of whom have a singular contribution in making the final product. Podfic is, in many ways, a community object, more so than most fan-objects, simply by its nature of needing multiple inputs. 

What are your thoughts on podfic?

[dollsahoy]

I really didn't intend to have a mostly home made wardrobe--I genuinely enjoyed finding random stuff at the thrift store (especially in the "this has been here for a month and not sold so now the price is reduced significantly" selections), and figuring out combinations of that

then the early days of covid happened, along with some weight loss, and my desire for new clothes could not be met by going thrifting

So! I turned to my large stash of fabric and patterns, collected over the decades, and started finally using it

...which also led to understanding what I would never use, so I was eventually able to let a lot go, especially because I could donate it to the craft thrift store instead of a 'normal' thrift store.

Of course, this also meant that I brought home many more patterns and fabrics from the craft thrift store, but I was able to use the criteria employed in deciding what to let go to help me curate what I took in.

And I have sewn a lot of things from a lot of the craft thrift store fabric, because I've managed to shift my thinking from "I can't use this will-never-be-seen-again fabric for just anything, it has to be for something special!" to "If I use this fabulous fabric, the thing made will be much more likely to be fabulous itself."

I have also gotten over my old inclination to never repeat a pattern. I have a few patterns that I have used incredibly much, and that means the things I make from them are likely to turn out well. This also helps me approach a new-to-me pattern with what I know about making the usual patterns.

Curiously, I am still managing to make somewhat random things, and I can still have that challenge of figuring out new combinations. It seems contradictory that home made things--with the time and effort and resources that involves--can still feel random (for me, at least. I'm sure a lot of people are far more intentional XD)

(and once I finally ventured back out to thrift stores, the quality and pricing structure had changed significantly, losing a lot of the appeal for me)

Anyway. This post brought to you by looking at the OOTD photos I started sporadically taking, in 2009.

[divinegrowing]

I want to take a moment to explain my spiritual beliefs, not to convince anyone of anything, but to avoid confusion. A lot of what I say, reblog, or reflect on can sound contradictory from the outside. People see references to Jesus, the Quran, Kabbalah, Taoism, Islam, Buddhism, spirit work, or animal soul memory, and understandably ask: “So… what do you actually believe?”

The short answer: I’m a syncretist, a spiritual therian, and someone who doesn’t believe organized religion can carry God’s truth without distorting it. I’ve built my own spiritual path; one that comes from years of personal gnosis, mystical experiences, study, and prayer. It’s not a religion. It’s a relationship with the Divine, in a language that fits my soul.

I believe in God. One Source, Infinite, formless and beyond comprehension. This Being is called by many names: Yahweh, Allah, El, Elohim, Ein Sof, the Tao, the Real. All the Abrahamic religions worship this One, though their views about Him differ. I believe He has sent many messengers, not just one.

I do not believe Jesus is the literal Son of God. To me, Jesus (Yeshua) is a prophet, like Muhammad (PBUH), like Moses, like many others. He was granted miracles by God, given spiritual insight, and brought a message of compassion, justice, and inner transformation. He was not divine in essence, but deeply connected to the Divine.

Similarly, I see Muhammad as a prophet and final lawgiver in the Abrahamic stream. One who restored the pure monotheism of earlier messengers. And I see Buddha (Siddhartha Gautama) as an awakened teacher, sent to reveal truths about suffering, impermanence, and liberation. Different times, different languages, same underlying wisdom.

I don’t pick and choose based on aesthetics or convenience. I choose what aligns deeply with my spiritual experience and beliefs. What emerges is a path that blends several systems of faith.

I respect Jesus deeply as a prophet, healer, and revealer of inner truth. I reject the divinization of Jesus and the Trinity. God is One, without equal. I find beauty in the Gnostic Gospels and the writings of Christian mystics who emphasized inner transformation, humility, and direct communion with the Divine. I believe Jesus came not to start a religion, but to awaken hearts.

I resonate with Tawheed; the radical Oneness of God. I deeply admire the discipline and reverence within Islam. Sufi writings (like those of Rumi and Hafiz) helped me fall in love with God. I say La ilaha illallah (“There is no god but God”) in my own prayers.

Kabbalah shaped my entire understanding of how the cosmos is structured. I see God as Ein Sof; the Infinite, and creation as a fractal reflection of that infinity. The idea of Tzimtzum (God contracting to make space for creation) resonates with how I experience divine absence and longing. I don’t claim Jewish identity, but I respect and study its sacred texts with reverence.

The Four Noble Truths and Eightfold Path are core tools in my daily life. I strive for mindfulness, compassion, and liberation from ego. I see samsara as real, not just metaphorically, but spiritually. Buddha to me is another teacher in the prophetic lineage, guiding souls through compassion and clarity.

The Tao is another name for the Divine: flowing, formless, and all-encompassing. Taoist texts like the Tao Te Ching teach me how to yield, rest, and return to my nature. I believe the natural world reflects sacred patterns, and that resisting those patterns causes suffering. Wu wei (non-forcing) is not passivity, it’s spiritual alignment.

“As above, so below” is more than a motto, it’s the blueprint of existence. I practice spiritual alchemy: transforming the dense, base experiences of life into light and growth. I believe in correspondences, symbols, archetypes, and layers of reality. Hermetic thought taught me that God is not just transcendent, but immanent in everything.

I have deep reverence for saints and angels. I don’t view them as passive, distant beings, but as active presences who walk with us, whisper to us, and protect us. I venerate and pray to saints; saints are souls who have completed great work, transcended the cycle of self, and now act as intercessors and companions. I believe in guardian angels, as well as the archangels (Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel). They are not distant bureaucrats, they are radiant intelligences who serve the Divine and speak to us in silence, synchronicity, and shadow. And yes, I work with Santa Muerte, the Holy Death. She is a mother, a protector of the marginalized, a comforter of the suffering. She is not evil. She is not Satanic. She is Death as Love, inevitable, tender, and just. I do not fear her. I honor her.

I identify as a spiritual therian, not because it’s trendy or escapist, but because it’s the most honest way I can describe my soul. My connection to animal spirit is lifelong, visceral, and sacred. It shows up in dreams, instincts, visions, and a deep feeling that part of me remembers something older, other, wilder. Therianthropy isn’t a belief system in itself, but it’s part of my spiritual being. And it influences how I view embodiment, reincarnation, and sacred ecology.

I believe that all major religions began with divine light, but human nature, over time, dimmed that light with control, power, and ego. Every institution is vulnerable to corruption. Every text has been edited. Every doctrine has been debated. I don’t trust middlemen. What I do trust is direct experience, revelation, prayer, inner vision, dreams, intuition. God still speaks. I don’t need a church, a mosque, or a synagogue to hear Him. I just need stillness, honesty, and a willingness to listen.

On another note, as a trans person, I don’t just believe we are valid, I believe we are sacred. I believe trans people are made in the image of God, not despite our transitions, but through them. God’s image is not a fixed statue. It’s a living, dynamic, evolving mystery. And when a trans person walks the path of transition, they are walking a divinely imaginative journey. A sacred unfolding toward their truest self.

To transition, socially, spiritually, physically, or in any form, is not rebellion against nature. It is co-creation with the Divine. God, in Their infinite creativity, made room in this world for beings who move between, beyond, and outside rigid binaries. God imagined us, and called us good.

We are living myths, walking miracles, embodied prayers. Trans existence reveals that identity is not static. The soul is not bound by meat or matter alone. And to become oneself, especially when it defies expectation or cultural norms, is one of the holiest acts I can imagine.

I pray to the One God and to angels and saints. I meditate and practice mindfulness in the Buddhist and Taoist sense. I journal, dream-walk, and explore personal gnosis through visions and symbolic work. I study sacred texts, not to be a scholar, but to understand the voices that came before me. I offer respect to the prophets and teachers of many traditions. I try to live with humility, empathy, and curiosity, knowing I don’t have all the answers, but I am willing to seek them.

My beliefs are complex because reality is complex. I believe the Divine speaks many languages. I believe no single religion has the full map, but each has sacred pieces of the puzzle. To those on similar paths: you are not broken. You are not “wrong” for not fitting into one mold. You’re walking a path carved with intention and soul.

If you’ve ever felt like your faith was too weird, too mixed, or too contradictory, just know you’re not alone. Syncretism is ancient. Personal gnosis is valid, and if God is infinite, it only makes sense that the ways we approach Them would be infinite too.

May your seeking be blessed, and your journey be lit with truth.

A FINAL NOTE ON DEATH:

My cosmology includes both reincarnation and an afterlife. I don’t see them as contradictory. Some souls reincarnate to complete lessons, repay karmic debts, heal wounds, or fulfill vows. We return to balance things, to deepen wisdom, to continue what wasn’t finished. Other souls may move on, to the higher planes, to dwell with the Divine in forms we can’t comprehend.

I believe that after death, we are met by guides, ancestors, and angels. We are shown our life with clarity. We are asked if we are ready to rest, or if we need to return. I don’t believe in eternal damnation. I believe in growth, in correction, in mercy. Even Hell, as I understand it, is not a torture chamber, it’s a place of purification, reckoning, or rebirth.

The afterlife is not one place. It’s a landscape of the soul, a continuum of planes and possibilities. Where we go depends on who we are, and what we carry.

[gear-project]

Tolkien's Dilemma

I'm often reminded, based on my observations of the story of Guilty Gear, and how it has changed positions throughout its history, that the morality and standards of the authors does not always represent the morality and standards expressed by the story and world they wrote for.

This isn't exclusive to Ishiwatari. It applies to nearly any author (even doujinshi authors) who have made the attempt at expanding Guilty Gear's world.

If you're not familiar with it, please do read up on J.R.R. Tolkien's Moral Dilemma.

While the world of Guilty Gear does not have Orcs per se... it does have other very similar beings: Valentines, Demihumans, and even Gears are represented in a grey area that is expressed as morally ambiguous.

You could also say that "modern thinking" that has been applied (more specifically to Guilty Gear Strive) has also changed the nature of the discussion to also include Human Beliefs.

Controversy surrounding characters like Testament, Bridget, Dizzy, Kum Haehyun, and so on... brings us in to a space where we question the source material, question the reasoning behind changes made, and why things exist as they do.

Does the story contradict itself? Yes, in many ways it has.

Do the authors contradict the story? Probably, but they might not frequently admit it unless cornered in discussion.

Does this dilute interest in the story or the quality of the writing?

Well that's an opinion that differs from person to person.

I do not personally agree that Guilty Gear's story is any less of a story now that some elements have changed in the writing.

I do not personally agree that because some elements are contradictory, that the story cannot potentially become better than the sum of its parts.

I do agree, however, that you have to take an external view on many elements the story has provided, and think about why such have been established, as well as the context (not just of the writing itself, but the context the writer was in when they wrote it).

I think the building blocks of a good story are just as valuable to the story as the final structure itself would be, though I sometimes think that the final structure won't always be as good as the foundation.

[horse-girl-anthy]

Prince/Princess: The Gendered Landscape of Revolutionary Girl Utena

below the cut, I discuss how the prince/princess structure relates to gender, how the dichotomy plays out in the relationships between Utena, Anthy, and Akio, and how the film takes the themes of the show to the next level.

Prince/Princess as Metaphor for Gender

prince and princess are incredibly important categories in the world of RGU, and yet, they are difficult to pin down, making them a good parallel for gender itself. "prince," a simple term at first glance, takes on different meanings throughout the story. to list some of the most important ones that come to mind, prince can mean the desirable male, wielder of power, patriarch, actor, savior, and martyr. equally, princess can have many different meanings or expressions. it has often been remarked that prince and princess require each other, so for each definition of prince, there is a matching definition of princess: the desirable female, possession, spectator, subordinate, valued, saved, protected.

none of these meanings are individually bad. the dynamic of oppressor/oppressed is certainly not good, but it is still helpful to have language to describe it. however, therein lies the true problem of the prince/princess structure: it is totalizing, collapsing contradictory meanings into each other.

like gender in the real world, then, prince/princess are important, all-encompassing categories which shape social systems, and yet, it is almost impossible to make an ontologically true statement about them; they vary by situation. making a claim about their meaning creates a false reality or dissonance.

for instance, both the "male" and the "prince" are defined as active, while the "female" and the "princess" are defined as passive. however, these definitions do not often hold up in reality. what is important is that the definitions are nonetheless accepted within society. in the real world, a man may be classified as feminine for perceived passivity and then punished for stepping outside his social role. in the system of RGU, Dios failed to be a perfect, selfless savior. his punishment was rerouted to Anthy, a girl who made a choice to save someone she loved. the system, unable to handle an active princess, created a third category of "witch." although the social roles of prince and princess were unfit to capture the lived experience of Dios and Anthy, this contradiction was resolved by scapegoating an individual.

"You Could Never Be My Prince, Because You're My Brother"

Dios never answers Utena's question in the above exchange, yet to the audience, the answer is obvious, especially after the Shadow Girl play from earlier in the episode: Dios is Anthy's brother.

as with many sibling relationships in RGU, Anthy and Akio's sexual development created a rift between them. there may have been a time when their mutual care made Dios feel like a prince and Anthy feel like a princess; children don't need to consider the implications of prince/princess to the same extent that adults do. once they grow up, they find that another facet of prince/princess is sexuality, specifically heterosexuality.

infamously, Anthy tells Utena in the final episode of the show that she could never have been her prince, because she's a girl. was a similar cruel reality imparted to Dios? although Anthy does not need a fairy tale prince, a romantic partner, in order to be saved, "male lover" is nonetheless an inextricable part of the prince.

according to Dios, Anthy needs a prince to be freed from eternal torment, and yet "prince" is an impossibility. not only would a person attempting to be a prince be held to inhuman standards, but they would also face the contradictions in meaning inherent to the category. in a twisted way, perhaps the incest between Akio and Anthy is born from this very fact. Akio, in trying to be her prince, becomes her entire world, her brother and her lover, her patriarch and her champion.

however, it is obvious that he is not only doomed for failure but is also doing her harm. Akio is not someone capable of pushing against the system, defining himself and his relationships. his weakness became his princehood.

The Girl Who Wanted To Be a Princess and the Girl Who Wanted To Be a Prince

RGU never answers the question that it asked in the very first episode of the show: whether it was really such a good idea for Utena to try to become a prince. similarly, whether Dios's claim that only a prince can save Anthy is left open, ambiguous.

to examine this issue, it's important to consider what prince/princess mean to Utena and Anthy, in the confines of their relationship. Utena's motivation for the entire show is to be a prince, but she doesn't seem to know exactly what she means by it. when asked to explain in the first episode, she states that she "wants to be a noble prince who saves princesses." she will be tested on this claim throughout the narrative.

Anthy is more opaque than Utena. however, it's clear that, as disillusioned and dead inside as she may be, "prince" still holds a great deal of meaning for her, and the character is designed to be the obvious "princess." in his episode 2 commentary, Ikuhara wrote:

Anthy is another Utena. In the initial stages of planning, I thought of the main character as someone who wanted to be a prince, but at the same time also wanted to remain a princess. However, I decided to divide that personality into two different characters. What did “also wanting to remain a princess” mean? I would agonize over the expression of Anthy for the entire series.

Anthy's desire to be a princess is a rarely commented on aspect of her character. she may not believe that she will ever get what she wants, but she still wants it. in fact, the entire structure of Ohtori could be viewed as a way to maintain her status as (false) princess, as much as it maintains Akio's status as (false) prince.

to be a princess, Anthy needs a prince. what exactly would she hope to gain from a prince? in an interview, Ikuhara and Takemiya Keiko had the following exchange:

Takemiya: What is a prince, for a girl? Ikuhara: Someone you can entrust your core self to.

this quote helps to narrow down Anthy's motivation to be a princess. I view Anthy as a character very aware of the workings of the system. the best way I can put it is that she is aware of this fact: in the world of Ohtori, a princess is the only kind of girl worthy of being saved. she needs a "prince she can believe in," and crucially, her prince needs to see her as "worthy of protection."

Utena and Anthy's backstory in episode 34 sets up these themes perfectly. for Utena, being a prince meant being "a person capable of saving others," specifically Anthy. to Anthy, being a princess meant someone being horrified by her suffering and trying to stop it.

however, even from this beginning, the story is not so simple as prince/princess. although Utena is certainly enamoured with Dios, the person who truly inspires her to become a prince is Anthy herself. she is shocked out of her despair by Anthy's suffering and moved to tears by her selfless sacrifice. sacrifice, itself, is on the "prince" side of the equation. as stated previously, Anthy was punished for her transgression, but this is exactly what Utena chooses to emulate.

The Foolish Pursuit of Ideals

prince and princess are amorphous categories that are impossible to embody; they are ideals which do not exist in reality. that is precisely why Utena's drive to be a prince is so foolish. and yet, creator Ikuhara praised this foolishness, saying that those close-minded adults who judge her as childish are actually the foolish ones.

considering this issue, it's interesting to ask if it's possible to live without ideals. an ideal is a concept, a human method of understanding reality, but all too often, our ideals replace the world around us; we watch the shadows on the wall of the cave and take them for reality.

various religions and philosophies instruct their followers to cast off concepts and live only in the real world. the problem is, it's not that simple. characters like Akio, Juri, or Anthy, who supposedly don't believe in ideals, are still ruled by them. there's a kind of false maturity in pretending to be above the rest of humanity, who are still caught up in illusions.

ideals tend to be very important in Ikuhara's works, not because they're necessarily good or real, but because the reactionaries who eschew them have nothing better to offer, and there is something to be gained by pursuing them.

Utena striving to become a prince is the driving force of the entire narrative. although the ideal is already defined by the world around her, she attempts to decide for herself what it means. in doing this, she is maintaining her right to be herself, not someone dictated by the system. by testing out her ideals in reality, she gains insight and is able to try new approaches which allow her to effect change.

thus, even if Utena is chasing after an ideal, she is chasing one of her own choosing. after falling into spiritual darkness when faced with mortality, she is reborn through her desire to save Anthy. that is the core of herself she tries to hold on to throughout the series.

in episode 12, Anthy is moved by Utena's nobility, briefly seeing Dios in her. however, the same shot of her eye widening reoccurs in episode 38, this time without Dios. Utena manages to shine through the veil of the ideal through her own reckless pursuit of it.

however, that's not to say that Utena's idealism is "correct." whatever personal meaning prince and princess hold to Utena and Anthy, they still exist in a wider social system. even if Utena's intentions are good, she ends up falling into the paternalistic, egoistic aspects of the prince.

"prince" wasn't the right word for what Utena and Anthy were seeking (and maybe there were never any right words; language is, after all, a system of meaning which rests on symbolic representations of reality). Anthy may have needed a prince in the sense of "person she can believe in," but prince comes a lot of other baggage. as Anthy informs Utena in the final episode, it's impossible for a girl to be a prince, as prince is defined as male. equally, it's impossible for Anthy to be a princess, since she has been deemed a witch.

however, despite Anthy making it very clear to Utena that she is a witch, Utena still choses to approach her as someone worthy of being saved. and even though Utena fails at being a prince when she lets Anthy fall from the heavens, she does become someone Anthy can believe in. one way of looking at it is that Utena and Anthy made each other prince and princess in that moment, causing a contradiction which shattered the system. but they didn't meet as prince and princess--they met as human beings and equals.

Adolescence of Utena: Escape from Concepts

in the show, Utena goes to her metaphorical grave still apologizing for not being a prince. Anthy is freed of her social role and sets out in search of Utena, but the audience is given relatively little insight into what might come next. the film picks up where the show left off; while the show explored the importance of ideals as much as their dangers, the film casts them off fully, heading out into a brave new world.

a crucial difference between the film and the show is that in the film, the prince holds no power outside the minds of Utena and Anthy. as in, there is nothing holding them in Ohtori but their own decision to walk out. in the show, that option was not open to Anthy until the end, and Utena was not going to leave without Anthy.

the show's extended meditation on ideals and systems allowed for the film to start with a clean slate. its social landscape is surreal and unmaterialistic to the extreme, focusing solely on the internal worlds of the characters. at the start of the film, Utena and Anthy are not ready to graduate, as it were, because they have not accepted the death of the prince. after Akio's body is exhumed, Utena descends into the underworld, meeting the ghost of Touga. of the scene, Ikuhara said:

The reason why Utena thinks she killed the prince is because Utena realized that Touga was dead. By realizing that Touga was dead, Utena realized that she no longer needed a prince. And that was her departure from the girl's world of dependence (on the prince) into a grownup's world.

the prince never existed, was dead the whole time, and there is no life in continuing to pursue that ideal. Utena puts to rest her desire to have and to be the prince, while Anthy's eyes are opened to the world beyond Ohtori. her relationship with Utena empowers her to defy Akio, and the two race away into a pathless land. dummies bearing their names take their place in Ohtori, implying that they have left behind even their names, their identities. they are no longer prince or princess, masculine or feminine, male or female; those categories have ceased to hold meaning. they are heading into a world without concepts, where nothing is preordained.

many of the characters in show want to "return to a place they came from." however, what they want is to return to a point in time, a memory which may not even be accurate. at the end of the film, Utena and Anthy are not regressing back into childhood, but reclaiming their true selves, the core of their being which exists regardless of socialization, free from the past and open to the future.