#Contradictory structure: research

[valiantunknowncrusade]

Idea 3

light dark

not sure if ill use this form of imagery as a representation of my idea. but, I do like the concept of involving the human anatomy. i haven't really indulged much on that topic. I'm leaning more into instrumental design .

[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. 

[thanaticalism]

daniil dankovsky's penmanship is excellent.

it's almost contradictory to the widespread myth that doctors write in runes, which he'll reject before giving explanations as to why that is sometimes the case.

but yes, the way he writes is in itself a pleasure to witness. precise yet elegant strokes on greeting cards, letters, prescriptions... even strongly-worded messages to those who love to oppose him seem like a love letter at first glance.

however, that is where his penmanship fails; love letters.

somehow, every language fails him when it comes to expressing what should come naturally to him as a human being; his hands fail him, his pens fail him, the paper fails him... all of which he considers a betrayal and an utter humiliation of his character. how can a mere love letter conquer him as such?

he presses the tip of his fountain pen to the paper a bit too hard on the word "Дорогой/я", leaving a large puddle of ink behind that almost seeps into the leather-bound blotting pad. he's too formal in his writing— when he manages to write anything, that is. most of the time he ends up discarding the letter, brows furrowed in frustration and ears scarlet.

then he gets up and paces, overthinking the stylistics of love letters, the methodology of expressing one's feelings. how much love is appropriate in a letter? how many lines should he dedicate to his lover? is "dear" too casual? it's just not precise enough for his liking, the whimsical nature of human emotion. this is a laboratory, for God's sake, he needs exact measurements! he's become too used to them.

after going through the agony of writing, signing and sending the letter, it reads like a classic of his. the usual structure is there and so is the flowery language. but upon further inspection, it's easy to notice the moments he had to pause and pull himself together. it's in the way the writing goes from raw, vulnerable confessions to self-chastisement: “[...] and i find myself ruminating over the shape of your mouth at the most inappropriate of times. while my benefactors await the news of a breakthrough, i am longing for a time you were all i could sense, everywhere. my dearest; this is, of course, no fault of your own. i ought to restrain this craving for you until i can deem myself a man of wit once more.”

and there's news of him and his research that read like a report, but with a pet name that he knows will catch the eye. despite his struggle to write a love letter, he does not lose his intelligence while doing so. he mostly loses his patience, and perhaps some of his pride. he wouldn't admit it, but he is gladly giving up his pride for this. there's only so much a lab can offer him, and none of it is warmth.

(inspired by this and the thread under it about him being unable to write a love letter).

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Beyond East & West Differences of Personality

The work by Markus and Kitayama (1991) has had a major effect on social, personality and developmental psychology and raised awareness for cultural considerations in psychology.

Despite the positive impact, there has been limited empirical support for independent and interdependent self-construals (Matsumoto, 1999) with some studies reporting contradictory findings.

Vignoles' & Colleagues Study

Recent research conducted by 71 researchers, across 33 countries and encompassing 55 cultural groups challenged the dichotomous view first proposed by Markus and Kitayama.

The researchers conducted a series of studies (Vignoles et al., 2016) that examined a single dimension of Independent/Interdependent, Western cultures as wholly independent, the relationship between individualist and collectivist cultures and Independent/Interdependent self-construals, as well as the role of religious heritage and socioeconomic development of cultures. 

Using data from over 7,000 adults, the authors identified:

7 dimensions that encompass both independent and interdependent self-construals

Difference

Connection

Self-Direction

Self-Reliance

Consistency

Self-Expression

Self-Interest

At the level of the individual, these 7 dimensions represent the different ways that we see ourselves (perception) and our relationships with other people.

The dimensions can also represent cultural norms about self that are reinforced and maintained by cultural practices and social structures.

Result & Implications

When the researchers tested the 7-dimension model, their results contradicted many long-held beliefs about independent, individualistic, interdependent and collectivist cultures.

First, Western cultures scored above average on five of the dimensions but were below average on the dimensions self-reliance and consistency.

Thus, the common view that Western cultures are wholly independent was not supported.

Latin American cultures had scores very similar to Western cultures on the difference and self-expression dimensions but scored higher on consistency and self-interest which also challenged the common view of Latin America as wholly interdependent.

The economically poorest samples in the study scored highest on self-interest and were negatively associated with individualism, whereas Western cultures scored high on commitment to others which challenges the view that rich Western cultures are selfish.

Religious heritage was also an important variable in the study. Muslim and Catholic samples had very distinct dimension profiles that showed high scores for consistency. This may be related to the tenets of both faiths that salvation is related to behaviors so behaving consistently – across different situations and settings would be important.

The results of Vignoles and colleagues demonstrated that self, whether measured at the individual level or cultural level, is NOT binary.

Note

Independence and interdependence is a complex interaction of heritage, socioeconomic development, settlement patterns, and ecological contexts.

By moving away from a dichotomous view of self, psychologists have an opportunity to expand our understanding of self and its relationship to culture.

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ Writing Notes & References

[blorger]

I don't think I'm saying anything earth-shatteringly new when I state that the inner workings of the Ministry of Magic aren't exactly expanded upon in the hp books. it's safe to say that Rowling herself probably didn't think too deeply about the executive, judiciary and legislative powers of the magical government since the information we do have is scant and often contradictory; nevertheless, I have attempted to compile all the relevant facts disclosed in the books.

When researching the subject, I have not used any external material (i.e. Pottermore, JKR interviews, facts gleaned from post-7th book canon) because, having been written ex post facto, they are by nature unreliable. In the time inbetween writing the original books and the disclosure of post-canon details, jkr had time to do some revisionism and fill in existing gaps (the existence of which she may have been alerted to by others) and I'm not interested in any of jkr's attempts to rewrite history, regardless of the subject.

That said, I give you

The Definitive HP Law Compendium

a) THE MINISTRY

Our most exhaustive documentation on how the Ministry of Magic is structured comes by courtesy of the ministry elevators, which helpfully list all departments floor by floor.

on level 1: Minister of Magic and Support Staff (Umbridge's offices in DH are located here)

on level 2: Department of Magical Law Enforcement (henceforth shortened to DMLE), which includes the Improper Use of Magic offices, Auror Headquarters and the Wizengamot Administrative Services.

although not specified by the lift, this is also where the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office (where Arthur Weasley works) is located, which tells us that the lift's announcements are not necessarily exhaustive.

on level 3: Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes composed of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, Obliviator Headquarters and Muggle-worthy Excuse Committee

on level 4: Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures which includes of the Beast, Being and Spirit Divisions, the Goblin liaison Office and the Pest Advisory Bureau.

on level 5: Department for International Magical Cooperation including the International Magical Trading Standards body, the International Magical Office of Law, and the British chapter of the International Confederation of Wizards (also referred to as the "International Confederation of Warlocks")

on level 6: Department of Magical Transport which includes the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, the Portkey Office and the Apparition Test Center (considering that Hogwarts student seem to take their apparition test at school, this is likely where adult wizards take and/or retake their tests)

on level 7: Department of Magical Games and Sports, which includes the British and Irish quidditch League (is magical Ireland not divided? unclear), the Headquarters of the Official Gobstones Club and, bizarrely, the Ludicrous Patents office (I'd be inclined to think this is a sports-related patent office if it wasn't the only one mentioned in the books)

on level 8 is the atrium, which Harry describes as a "very long and splendid hall" with many gilded fireplaces on both sides (left is for arrivals and right is for departures). This is also where the Fountain of Magical Brethren and the security desk are located. At the end of the hall, golden gates lead to a smaller room where the lifts (at least 20 in number) are.

on level 9: Department of Mysteries and beyond

The lift stops here but we know from OotP that there's at least one more floor that is only accessible by stairs from level 9 (which also brings up the question: are the upper floors also connected by stairs or is it an either/or scenario?). On this additional floor is Courtroom 10, which is supposedly no longer in use as of OotP but was still being used in the immediate aftermath of the first wizarding war. The courtroom's name implies the presence of at least 9 other courtrooms and, though their location is unclear, they do not seem to be located on this floor.

b) KNOWN GOVERNING BODIES

Going purely off of the only two law-adjacent departments mentioned by the ministry lifts, there's both an international and a state law department (on level 5 and 2 respectively) but seemingly no distinction between civil and criminal law.

Besides what described above by the lift, level 2 also appears to be where some offences are judged, as Harry's trial in OotP was originally scheduled to take place here, right inside the office of the head of the DMLE.

We know that, during Harry's time, the DMLE is headed by Amelia Bones, who gets quietly offed between OotP and HBP. She is succeeded by the imperiused Pius Thicknesse (who goes on to become minister of magic during the second war), who is in turn succeeded by noted Death Eater Corban Yaxley.

We further know that, prior to Amelia's tenure (though it's unknown if directly preceding), the department used to be headed by Barty Crouch sr., who later went on to head the office for International Magical Cooperation (where he was Percy Weasley's boss). This is implied to be a lateral career move at best since Sirius describes Crouch in GoF as being "shunted sideways".

The International Federation of Warlocks (part of the Office for International Cooperation) seems to be a legislative body of sorts, as we'll see later that it originated many of the laws mentioned in the books. We know that it was established prior to the advent of the Statue of Secrecy (and the subsequent creation of the Ministry of Magic) because professor Binns mentions they convened in 1289 in one of his lectures, implying that its existence precedes that date.

The books make no mention of the presence of a parliament in the wizarding world, not even in a Chamber of Lords-type fashion.

[note that Dumbledore seems to have had high positions in both the International Federation, where he was Supreme Mugwump, and the Wizengamot, where he was Chief Warlock. It's unknown what either of these titles entail]

Moving on to the judiciary branch, we know of the existence of the Wizengamot. It's described as "the wizard high court", which (to me) implies the presence of a lower court. The Council of Magical Law may be the lower court's name, as it may be the court presiding the trials Harry witnesses in Dumbledore's pensieve

(from PoA)

As we'll see later, the postwar trials of Igor Karkaroff and Ludo Bagman, and the joint trial of Rabastan Lestrange, Rodolphus Lestrange, Bellatrix Lestrange and Barty Crouch jr are described quite differently from Harry's trial before the Wizengamot, which is what led me to believe that they were presided by two different courts.

The magical world doesn't appear to have an appellate court although, if jkr modeled the wizarding judiciary after the ones present in British Law, the Wizengamot may be modeled after the Crown Court and thus also serve an appellate function.

Finally, the books make no mention of barristers, solicitors or any other type of lawyer. The trials we witness are not presided by judges but by government officials and there is no indication that the Wizengamot members (who serve the function of a jury) have any type of legal training.

The defendants in the trials we happen to witness don't appear to have counsel of any type. Dumbledore acts as a defense lawyer of sorts for Harry in OotP but he announces himself as a "witness for the defence". Seeing that Dumbledore appears to be a living exception to all magical laws and customs, this doesn't actually tell us much.

The government officials acting in the function of the prosecution and the judge both do exhibit some knowledge of wizarding laws, as does Dumbledore (who was at one point chief Warlock) although, since Dumbledore is Dumbledore and therefore omniscient, this may not be indicative of any skill requirement for the position he held.

c) KNOWN LAWS

1.1 legal documents referenced in the books (in tentatively chronological order)

the Statute of Secrecy, decreed by the International Confederation of Warlocks in 1689

unnamed law decreed by the Warlocks' Convention of 1709: it outlaws dragon Breeding (as per Ron in PS)

The Decree for the Reasonble Restriction of Underage Sorcery (1875), which partly states in clause seven that "magic may be used before Muggles in exceptional circumstances, and as those exceptional circumstances include situations that threaten the life of the wizard or witch himself, or witches, wizards, or Muggles present at the time of the..." (as quoted by Dumbledore in OotP)

unnamed law punishing the use of Unforgivables

the Code of Wand Use (mentioned in GoF), which states in part that "no non-human creature is permitted to carry or use a wand".

unnamed law delineating the purposes and limitations of the Trace

the Wizengamot charter of rights (mentioned on OotP): it partly states that an accused has the right to present defence witnesses (as stated by Dumbledore in OotP)

law fifteen B "any attack by a magical creature who is deemed to have near-human intelligence, and therefore considered responsible for its actions..." (as incompletely quoted by Dolores Umbridge in OotP)

the Decree for Justifiable Confiscation, which gives the ministry power to confiscate the contents of a will. It was created to stop wizards from passing on dark artefacts (as mentioned in DH)

the Ban on experimental Breeding (mentioned in GoF)

unnamed law written by Arthur Weasley regarding the possible legality of flying cars/ enchanted muggle vehicles (as mentioned in CoS)*

unnamed document establishing an embargo on flying carpets, implied to have been drafted by Arthur Weasley (from GoF)*

Arthur Weasley's Muggle Protection Act (proposed legislation c.a. 1992, unknown contents, unknown if put into law)*

the International Ban on Dueling, implied to be an international agreement, Transylvanians haven't signed it as of summer 1994 (from GoF)

*: it's unclear how Arthur Weasley, who is not a lawyer, an elected official or a member of the only known legislative body in the books (the International federation of wizards), is able to both draft and propose legislation

1.2 educational decrees

I am including these because they are treated like laws. They are pushed for by a minister and they need to "pass", presumably through a parliament of sorts, in order to be enacted. Prior to the events of OotP there seem to have been 21 educational decrees, the contents of which we are unaware of. The ones added in book 5 by the Fudge administration (with the help of Dolores Umbridge) are as follows:

n.22 "in the event of the current headmaster being unable to provide a candidate for a teaching post, the Ministry should select an appropriate person"

n.23, creates the new position of "Hogwarts high inquisitor"

n.24:

n25:

n.26 "teachers are hereby banned from giving students any information that is not strictly related to the subjects they are paid to teach"

n.27 "any student found in possession of the magazine The Quibbler will be expelled"

n.28 "Dolores Jane Umbridge (High Inquisitor) has replaced Albus Dumbledore as Head of Hogwarts School of Wichcraft and Wizardry"

n.29: never enacted, concerning the use of physical punishment at Hogwarts

unnamed order for the expulsion of peeves, possibly part of decree 29, also never enacted

d) HARRY'S TRIAL

In OotP, Harry is tried for underage magic following his use of the Patronus enchantment to protect both himself and his cousin Dudley from dementors.

This is Harry's second infraction of the Decree for the Reasonble Restriction of Underage Sorcery and he is being made an example of for political reasons since, in recently claiming that Voldemort had returned, he made an enemy out of the Fudge administration. It's therefore unclear if the Decree has a two strikes and you're out policy or if Harry's prosecution is just caused by the Ministry's desire to throw the book at him. By the time Harry receives the letter informing him of this upcoming trial, he'd supposedly performed underage magic outside of Hogwarts thrice but only received a written warning once (in Cos, when said magic was actually performed by Dobby). When Harry blew up his aunt Marge in PoA, Fudge himself dismissed the event as a non-issue, claiming:

The circumstances in this case being Sirius's escape from Azkaban and his presumed intention to target Harry. Of course, Harry's notoriety may have also played a factor.

Despite being a minor, Harry doesn't seem to be allowed an escort as Arthur Weasley is unable to enter the courtroom. Harry goes in alone (as does every other defendant we meet); it also appears that the trial is closed to the public.

Harry's trial is described as a "disciplinary hearing", both before it was supposed to take place in front of the Wizengamot and after:

and

Despite this, the hearing is presided by the Minister of Magic himself, (Cornelius Fudge). A Wizengamot trial seems to be, by nature, a criminal trial and Dumbledore, in his defense of Harry, implies it is highly unusual for disciplinary hearings to be tried as such. Indeed, before the trial was moved from Amelia Bones's office to Courtroom 10, the judgement of the head of DMLE was deemed to be sufficent.

The Wizengamot members act as a jury of sort, they are described to be:

The Wizengamot appears to have elders; we are introduced to only two - Griselda Marchbanks and Tiberius Ogden - so it's unclear how many there are and, furthermore, we are never informed of their function.

Wizengamot proceedings require the presence of interrogators. In Harry's trial they are Cornelius Fudge (Minister of Magic), Amelia Bones (Head of the DMLE) and Dolores Umbridge (Senior Undersecretary to the Minister).

For some reason, Percy Weasley acts as court scribe despite it not being his job title. It's unclear wether this is an extraordinary case or if stenographers really don't exist in the magical world. (also, why do they even need stenographers when wizards have quick quotes quills?)

Dumbledore describes himself as a witness for the defense, even if he takes on a role that seems more similar to that of a defense attorney. Mrs Figg is also described as a witness but, unlike Dumbledore, she was not allowed to enter the court by herself and required an escort in order to join the proceedings (Percy Weasley).

For some reason, Dumbledore was informed of the trial's change of location, which implies he was also aware of the time and location of the original hearing. At no point in time does Harry retain his services (he is in fact surprised to see Dumbledore there) despite the fact that Dumbledore speaks for Harry throughout.

Interestingly, though the trial also serves to determine wether Harry is going to be expelled from Hogwarts, Dumbledore's judgement in his role as Headmaster is not required. The Ministry, it appears, can decide to expel students without the approval of the school's headmaster (can the headmaster expel students without ministry approval? unclear).

The proceedings seem to be very formal, as Harry is being interrogated with yes and no questions and is given no time for elucidations. Despite this, Dumbledore is allowed to have multiple very informal conversations with the minister of magic himself and at no point does he use court lingo, in complete opposition to how Umbridge, an interrogator, is treated.

Harry observes that, in order to speak, she has to lean forward, at which point the Minister states

This is the only time in all of the books that this happens. The other interrogator, head of DMLE Amelia Bones, appears to speak whenever she pleases, as she interrupts Harry mid-sentence and addresses the Minister like a peer.

It's quite likely that Dumbledore was allowed free rein on account if his status and fame and his presence likely threw a wrench in what were otherwise going to be very strict bureaucratic proceedings.

Finally, Wizengamot rulings are made by show of hands and it doesn't look like they need to be initiated by the person heading the proceedings. For Harry's trial, it's Amelia Bones that calls onto the jury's decision and not Fudge.

e) OTHER TRIALS

The first trial we see in the books happens at least six months after the first wizarding war, since that's the time it took for Alastor Moody to track down the defendant, Igor Karkaroff.

What Harry witnesses (by wading through Dumbledore's pensieve memories) is not, however, Karkaroff's sentencing but a follow-up hearing to determine wether he is in possession of information that may lead to the capture of more Death Eaters. Karkaroff is taken from Azkaban in order to do so and he is accompanied/carried by dementors.

The case takes place in open court, as Harry sees that "rows and rows of witches and wizards were seated around every wall on what seemed to be benches rising in levels"; these proceedings, in stark difference to Harry's, are open to the public (possible proof n.1 that this is not taking place in front of the Wizengamot but in a different court).

At this moment in time, Dumbledore could very well be chief warlock of the wizengamot (we don't know when he was instated) but he sits among the spectators (possible proof n.2 ). Despite being a member of the public, Dumbledore is seen interrupting proceedings without permission (to defend Snape, whom Karkaroff implicates). Because it's Dumbledore doing it, it's again unclear wether this is permitted or if the court is making an exception for him.

This first trial is, like all the trials Harry witnesses indirectly, presided by Barty Crouch sr., who at this point in time heads the DMLE. (possible proof n.3, maybe all wizengamot trials are presided by the minister and all council trials are headed by the DMLE chief?)

The Second trial Harry sees in Dumbledore's memories is that of Ludo Bagman (for passing information to Rockwood, whom Karkaroff implicated in the first memory). Dumbledore is once again not there in any official capacity and is sitting among the public; the proceedings are implied to take place at a later date, as Harry remarks that Crouch's appearance has changed.

We join Ludo in his trial's sentencing phase and indeed Harry notices the presence of a jury, which is not described as having the monogrammed plum robes of Wizengamot members (possible proof n.4 although, since the events take place in GoF and Harry's trial occurs in OotP, jkr may have simply done an oopsie).

This trial seems to be more informal, as the crowd appears to behave quite rowdily (with no intervention) and a member of the jury waylays the proceedings in order to compliment Ludo's flying at his most recent Quidditch match. This is most likely because of both public sentiment and the perceived innocence of the defendant.

Notably, Ludo's trial is the only one that we know for sure was attended by the press, as Harry notices a young Rita Skeeter sitting near Dumbledore.

The final trial witnessed by Harry appears to once again be a sentencing, that of Barty Crouch jr, Bellatrix Lestrange and the brothers Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange (who were seemingly all tried together and received a single sentence). Harry once again remarks that Crouch Sr's looks have changed, helping us determine that time has passed between the memories. This sentencing is once again done through show of hands by a jury (who, again, is not described as wearing Wizengamot robes) and Dumbledore is still sitting among the public.

Despite it being another sentencing, it appears that the defendants were already being detained in Azkaban as they are accompanied by six dementors, unlike Ludo Bagman, though this may be due to the difference in the severity of their actions; Bagman was seemingly a free man when he entered the courtroom as he'd participated in a quidditch match not one week before.

It's during his trial that the Council of Magical Law is mentioned by name (the only time in the books). Since all three of the pensieve trials share multiple similarities - way more than they do with Harry's- this, together with the evidence shown above, leads me to conclude that

1 All three trials take place before the same court

2 the Council of Magical Law is not necessarily another the name for the Wizengamot and therefore

3 there's at least two different courts codified in the magical law system

Of course, these discrepancies may very well be oopsies on jkr's part. Although Dumbledore's role as chief Warlock can be ascertained as early as PS (thanks to the header on Harry's acceptance letter), the Wizengamot doesn't get mentioned by name until OotP. Furthermore, the pensieve trials and Harry's take place in different books which means jkr may have added on to the concept in the interim.

f) CONCLUSION

There is none, I have nothing else to say. Class is dismissed, I need to go have a lie-down.

[sanzaibian]

The last few people who were on break were now back in their seats. We might not be a lot in this meeting room-like conference room, but for a seminar of linguistics and philosophy, I guess we’re in good numbers. It’s only the second seminar like that that I’ve attended, having merely started my master’s degree, but even though not everything was in my area of interest, it still seemed interesting… if I understood what those researchers were saying correctly…

“So, welcome back everyone to the second session of the seminar ‘Identity in Language and Thought’, this afternoon we welcome Matthew Zubair from the University of Southern California who will talk to us about Identity, Identification and Coreference.”

As the speaker stopped, a great-looking young man in suit took place at the center of the room. He really came in overdressed, as if he was at a business meeting, not a seminar in a small city…

As he took place, sitting on one of the tables, he started :

“So, I guess we’ll start !”

He has a slight Indian accent, but most importantly the demeanor and tone of a business promoter. I guess even researchers in philosophy of all thingscan look cool, unlike skinny me with my short hair… Even an afro I can’t style it...

“We talked about this morning about copular sentences, so sentences with a copula, in English ‘be’, a word that has no meaning besides putting in relation the subject and the object, and more precisely, ascribing a property to the subject. We also saw that there are multiple types of copular sentences, Predications like ‘John is an actor’, Specifications like ‘The best candidate is John’, Identification like ‘This is John’ and Identity like ‘Superman is Clark Kent’.”

Matthew’s currently only retreading what we talked about this morning. I guess he finds it important to go back to the basics…

“My area of interest are the Identity and the Identification sentences. So, before anything, a bit of history. Frege is the first one to ask questions about these kinds of sentences. He enunciates two puzzles, which look at sentences which are virtually identical yet are received quite differently. For example, if I say ‘Matthew Zubair is Matthew Zubair’, it seems like a useless sentence. Yet, it’s identical in structure to ‘Matthew Zubair is Matt Zubair’, which is informative.”

I nod. What Matt’s stating might be obvious, yet it means that there is a difference under that.

“So, what’s different between those two sentences so that we find the second good, but the first bad ? In both circumstances, we are talking twice about the same person. Yet, in the second sentence, we are actually talking about two modes of presentation. In short, while in both sentences we are identifying a same referent, in the second there are actually two references. ‘Matthew Zubair’ and ‘Matt Zubair’ are two references that are distinct, but they point to the same person – me. Therefore, the second sentence is informative because we are learning that two references are actually references to a same referent. Therefore, an identity sentence is a sentence that shows that two references belong to the same referent.”

It might be a bit finicky a definition, but it’s actually logical. Basically, someone might be known by different ways, and while it’s useless to learn a name we know, it’s useful to learn a name we don’t.

“However, you might know that a name is not the only thing someone is. Indeed, a name is only a property that someone possesses, and we can possess others. For example, ‘Matt Zubair is cool’ is also an identity sentence.”

Everyone chuckles. But he’s right, cool is indeed a property Matt Zubair possesses !

“But then, something very interesting happens. The properties don’t actually attach to the referent, they actually attach to the reference. This means that we might even attach some properties that are contradictory to two references, while they’re actually referring to the same person. Say you have a stage name, and you’re well known. People who know that stage name may say ‘That person is cool’, but when they see you in real life, they might say ‘That person isn’t cool’, even though they are sane and don’t tend to contradict themselves ! Yet they just said something illogical, and that’s because they attributed qualities to your references, not to you yourself.”

Yeah, I guess there are aliases I’m more well known with. Back in my day, I wrote some stories that were actually well-liked, you know. People might even have thought that I was cool – though it’s obviously untrue.

“Now, what are these references, or modes of presentation ? How are they structured ? If we go to the root of concept, we find that by someone’s identity, we actually mean someone’s role. Therefore, everybody is a conjunction of multiple roles, names and properties, that we regroup in what we call a ‘mental folder’. A mental folder, in this view, is an amalgamation of multiple traits that someone has, and you may open folders when you hear of a new individual that you meet. However, this is not entirely true, as an amalgamation of properties and roles can actually fit multiple people. Say you’re cool people. If there was a mental folder with only the property ‘cool’, it could be referring to any of you, which goes against the very fact that a mode of presentation anchors to a specific person. Therefore, a mental folder is an actual thing who’s linked to an actual referent, and it’s that link that defines it.”

It’s logical, everyone of us can be considered cool, yet we’re all very different. If someone only knew one of us by one of our aliases, they could theoretically mistake for example me for the one sitting to the right of me, yet it doesn’t happen.

“The reality of the mental folders can be explained by the fact that identical folders can actually exist. For example, take a slow night in which you just wander on Tiktok. You see a video from a content creator that you really like, but for some reason you forget to save it. After a good while, you forget everything about that content creator, except that you really liked that one video, and then you stumble onto another of their videos that you really like. You open another mental folder, and, same thing, you forget most of the things about that video, except that you really liked it. Now, you’re left with two identical folder, that refer to the same person, yet you’re certain that they are two content creators.”

Yeah, I guess I can imagine that. I’ve spent way too much time on Tiktok, and don’t really bother liking the videos… I look around, and the one on the left of me is looking at his phone. When I nudge, I see Tiktok. Should have guessed.

“Therefore, mental folders are identities, someone that exists in the eyes of another. We may even go further and say that the only way someone is aware that there are things of interest is through mental folders. Every time a new item of interest is discovered, a folder is opened for it. However, even though those folders can be redundant, it doesn’t mean that those two folders that have been opened with the same referent aren’t two complete identities. In fact, quite the opposite. You all have multiple identities, and therefore are seen as multiple people by some others. Therefore, there is your cool stage name identity, and your normal regular person identity, which are both real people in the eyes of those who have two different mental folders.”

Yeah, that’s for sure. The one I am on Tiktok is very different to the one I am in real life. That’s why I don’t really show myself in what I produce. I don’t want people to associate me with my real self and harass me…

“But, now that we have the mental folders sorted out, let’s go back to the very beginning and talk about identity sentences : what happens when one learns that two mental folders are the same ? In theory, anything could happen, but Strawson is kind enough to tell us that two mental folders who refer to the same subject must merge.” Everyone has a small laugh. “Therefore, when one says ‘Superman is Clark Kent’, it is a sentence that means ‘The mental folders of Superman and Clark Kent should be merged’. This is what, deep down, identity sentences are, an invitation for a mental shuffling. It also means that we can finally thoroughly prove why ‘Matthew Zubair is Matthew Zubair’ is an ill-formed sentence : it invites us to merge two mental folders which aren’t separate, therefore to do nothing, which is not informative.”

I guess it’s quite fucked up how I maintain that difference between me and that identity on Tiktok, I’m not being very truthful… I should really be clear and honest with all my followers…

“So, now, how do the two mental folders merge ? There are multiple ways to imagine it, and we are reaching the limits of our knowledge, here. Either we create a new mental folder that encompasses both of the old mental folders, or we make it so that one mental folder is subsumed into the other. I’m more partial to the second option, because the first option means that we create a new folder that doesn’t have any direct reference to its referent, which to me goes against the very foundation of the concept. However, the second option also means that there is a ‘true’ identity, which is theoretically dubious.”

I push back my dreadlocks. Even though I wasn’t sure when I decided to wear them, it’s become my best decision ever. Yeah, I might be a bit of a different person outside the camera, but I feel like I’m showing my real, goofier self on rather than off…

“Let’s finish this talk with Coreferences. These are a topic our linguists friends might be more familiar with, but basically, it’s the phenomenon in which two different words refer to the same object. Basically, I could talk about ‘a Tiktok celebrity’ and then talk about ‘you’, and even though they are two different expression, they are referring to the same referent. To formalize it with the mental folders, a coreference is when there are two expression that refer back to the same referent, or to be more precise, two modes of presentation. Therefore, in identity sentences, we are making a coreference of a single referent, that refer to two different mental folders in the listener. Say a listener has ‘the philosophy lecturer’ and ‘my agent’ as two different mental folders, but I say ‘The philosophy lecturer is your agent’. I’m making a coreference out of the philosophy lecturer and your agent, therefore showing you that they are the same referent, therefore urging you to merge the two folders.”

As I saw my agent finishing his lecture quickly, talking a bit about different kinds of coreference, he asked us if the lecture was good enough for his class next week, and I held my finger up – I love doing that, it flexes my forearm just right – though the others mostly stayed dumbfounded. You know, I started my career with writing help, so these kind of discussions weren’t that rare. Back then, I didn’t even show my face, how ridiculous I was !

“Matt, ya good now, can we finish that fucking business meeting ? I wanna visit our new content mansion, bro !” Said someone with big fluffy hair. I somehow feel like they were the speaker… yeah, of course, the best lip-sinker !

- Don’t worry, you’re going to make a lot of money, you lot ! I’m investing in you ! Now, do you want to take a group photo to commemorate the event ?”

Everyone cries of joy, as we gather in front of the meeting room. The big life we all worked for so long is finally at our doorstep ! We all posed, I did my special grimace, and we posted that photo on Instagram.

The #IdentityHouse is finally #opening ! Come watch our #live on our #Tiktok !

[aronarchy]

broke: i can armchair anyone with cluster b pds just because they’re abusive/manipulative/unpleasant/i don’t like them, lol.

woke: only professionals should diagnose, if you’re a layperson you’re uneducated on the topic and don’t have sufficient understanding to be accurate and unbiased. disorders are a very serious thing you should take very seriously, not just throw around randomly whenever.

bespoke: the psychiatric field is institutionally corrupt as a result of its historical and ongoing construction as an apparatus of oppression. this leads to major blind spots in their ability to understand the experience of marginalized people, including mentally ill and neurodivergent people. much of psychiatric research, not to mention practice, is politically motivated and systematically incentivized to serve the interests of power. thus, many people are wrongly or inaccurately diagnosed with cluster b pds to demonize them or reinforce ideas about criminality, fundamental pathology contributing to their problematicness, justifying oppression, claiming struggles which are results of oppression are actually inherent and biological, etc. on the other hand, many people are underdiagnosed, unidentified, denied help when they’re struggling with a certain illness because psychiatrists are often incompetent and wrong, and with cluster b’s this may apply along a gendered line. this applies for any diagnostic practice, and even for other doctors who are part of the medical-industrial complex. psychiatrists are also disproportionately abusive, and some of this is baked into the cultural norms, intended purposes, and rules and regulations and privileges regarding psychiatric practice. you cannot trust an oppressor class to have the last and most accurate say on the oppressed’s subjectivities and interiorities. furthermore, part of the structure of the institution of academia itself ensures an elitist and hierarchical epistemology. dismantling this and other intersecting oppressions means reaffirming the right of the individual themself to either self-diagnose or self-(non/un)diagnose. existing information or medical professionals should be helpful for doing this better and to improve individual being, and acknowledging the significance or accuracy of their or others’ information accurately is obviously important, but professionals should not be treated as authorities who have the right to wholesale override self-understandings instead of supporting, or to control patients. this is in no way contradictory to opposing armchair diagnoses by underinformed or malicious laypeople who trivialize or misunderstand disorders. however, the problem with such behavior must be located correctly. the inaccuracy is a problem, but that means inaccuracy from actual psychiatrists is also a problem (and it certainly does exist). additionally it might perhaps be helpful to identify saneist armchair-diagnosing laypeople as engaging in behavior similar to that of psychiatrists and both wrong, rather than trying to position them as opposed. the same kind of epistemic overriding and even absurdity is often done by many psychs (and in fact the practice and framework has in large part originated or at least been spread starting from the psychiatric institution itself).

[dino--draws]

TL-5956 Survival Headcanons

Involving: Some bending of the rules to make it more likely for these guys to have survived for 12+ years and counting, the likelihood I misread at least one part of how this all works so please don’t kill me, various overthinking shenanigans, me being a lil mean to characters, and my unabashed mental illness

and a sizable amount of text under the read more (not even kidding it’s like 1,500+ words LMAO)

THE PARADOX

Exclusively red monochromacy. This is not a visual filter sort of effect, everything has turned red. This actually isn’t a head canon it’s something Harry told me and it fucks me up. Actually a lot of this specific section is shit from the article itself that I’m emphasizing for fun.

The sky has become pitch black, and the horizon is rimmed by red like a macabre sunset. There is no difference between night and day. The sun will never rise here again.

Site-43 remains the single most stable area in the wake of the K-Class Paradox, and is considered the last bastion of human civilization. The rest of the world is left a nonsensical, contradictory wasteland due to spatial and temporal damages. Any entity you find roaming those reddened wastes are no longer what they once were. Do not engage, for those who wander are lost.

Randomized increases and decreases in the number of perceivable temporal dimensions results in visual distortion of surroundings. Added extrasensory perceptions may increase this disorientation in survivors. It takes a lot of getting used to, that constant bombardment.

Due to condensation of vaporous substances, there has been a sharp global temperature increase. Everything is humid.

Site-43 Condition

The following parts of the Site are lost/heavily damaged: 

Euclid and Keter Class Wings of the Security and Containment Sections [Detonated, First Sublevel is functionally abandoned due to instability]

Applied Occultism [Second Sublevel, damaged by detonation and other breach occurances]

Archives and Revisions Section [Burned]

All underwater site facilities and utilities. [Completely destroyed] 

With each instance of the breach, all areas that were previously destroyed become reverted to their 2002 states, then re-destroyed. This results in these locations being able to be scrapped and harvested for functionally renewable supplies after each amelioration of the breach. These salvaged supplies only vanish with the causal loop’s reset if they are left within their original area. 

Due to the heavy damage done to the First Sublevel of the site, the Second Sublevel is left similarly unstable structurally and partially collapsed. Both Sublevels are abandoned sans annual gathering of supplies. 

The Third Sublevel of the Site remains the most structurally stable and safest part of Site-43, the surviving personnel remain here. 

The Inner-Sectional Subway System is no longer in operation due to sustained damages during the breach, but its tunnels are still utilized for transportation to different areas of the Site by foot. 

Site’s power remains in operation, requires vigorous upkeep.

Food/Water

Meal, Ready-to-Eat (MRE) rations were the primary food source for several years as research was directed towards the creation of a renewable food supply. They have a metric fuck ton of rations to work with, but it's always smart to look for alternatives Just In Case, y'know?

Due to the fact that everything is red, and there is a notable lack of a sun, growing traditional plants is out of the equation because I don’t think we’re photosynthesizing in these conditions. However, what they can grow and cultivate is things such as mushrooms and algaes! Utilizing waste from the site as fertilizer, gathering soil, and perhaps a bit of GE to make sure they’re not eating anything toxic and getting the right vitamins — they can grow food. It’ll take work, but can be done with enough care. Keeping out mold will be a nightmare but god love 'em they're trying.

A handful of stray storage closets and part of the Hiring and Regulation Section have been converted into spaces for food growing

There is probably a whole bunch of shit they could science their way through when it comes to synthesizing food that isnt just mushroom farming tbh. Like turning petroleum and CO2 into food

Bottled water stores ran out swiftly. Water is primarily gathered through the usage of moisture traps (see: increased humidity). Due to SCP-001-A the harvesting of these traps are risky endeavors, and require a pre-setup of dilution equipment to ensure a lack of reflectivity. This harvested liquid is then abated to reduce risk of anomalous effects, and stored/distributed to personnel. Prior to his death in 2023, Dougall Deering would accompany those harvesting to ensure 001-A’s pacification. 

Any and all site wastewater is subjected to purification processes to acquire as much drinkable water as possible. Nothing goes to waste.  

Lake Huron itself and any groundwater adjacent to the site is unreachable and unusable due to SCP-001-B and SCP-001-C. 

There’s probably a vending machine or two that’s caught up in the 2002 causal loop reset that they can loot each year. They can have some treats, as a treat. 

For all I know this is one of those weird space-time situations where no one actually needs to eat or drink but sshhhhh it's fun to think about

Supplies

After each causal loop, the areas of the Site that are restored and re-destroyed are functionally “refreshed”. Though still heavily damaged and destroyed, these areas can be looted each year for materials -- copper wiring, plating, materials to repair other parts of the site, possible acquisition of rations and water.

Clothing from transmogrified personnel annually slain in the Archives and Revision and Applied Occultism can sometimes be recovered for use in repairing existing clothing, or as medical bandaging. 

Sections and faculties of the Site that go unused in the wake of the Paradox have been stripped; materials moved elsewhere for post-breach repairs and general maintenance of vital site functions.

Excursions outside of the Site are risky and dangerous -- though as successful containments of the breach have occurred, stability around Site-43 has begun to increase and grow safer. Nearby areas are occasionally scouted for any usable materials that remain, or were brought about by spatial/temporal distortions. 

The building of the REISNO Cannon was a nightmare to build in spite of its small size -- due to the amount of brute-forcing they had to do with its construction. When PHMD build the PXE alone, it took far more supplies to build.

Medical Care

To aid individuals wounded by SCP-001-A, able bodied personnel are encouraged to donate blood. 

These guys are working overtime due to the inherent dangers of the Paradox, doing the best they can to ration out their supplies and create what they can to help others.

Some members of personnel need to undergo treatment for sialorrhea, as the excessive production of saliva can put them at risk of both SCP-001-A and dehydration.

Medical personnel worked with the Memetics and Countermemetics Section to create Solution 001-A.

SCP-001-A

All reflective surfaces have either been destroyed, scuffed and scratched so that they are no longer reflective, or treated with Solution 001-A.

Application of Solution 001-A results in a clouding of the eyes and an impairment of vision. In light of added perceptions due to SCP-001, this is considered a blessing in disguise. 

Any personnel who had glasses has either had them destroyed, or took out the lenses from the frames.

Individuals wounded by -A are often given two options — needing to rigorously clean their wounds and be given bi-monthly blood transfusion to counteract the inability of the wound to heal and the risk of infection; or undergo amputation to completely rid themselves of the injury. For individuals whose injuries are not localized to their limbs, amputation cannot be done and the wounds simply must be taken care of. Seeing personnel with always bloody bandages, amputated limbs and prosthesis are not uncommon sights.

Bandages for -A wounds must be prior soaked in Solution 001-A, and wrapped tight, as to avoid the risk of the blood’s reflection. This is preferably done by medical staff, who have recordkeeping of all individuals wounded by -A.

SCP-001-B

Keepers of 001-B cannot communicate and over time grow conceptually vague, but the cycling of -B occurs while individuals are still recognizable. The Memetics and Countermemetics Section is in charge of the recordkeeping of Keepers.

Keepers can still interact with others and show their presence through physical touch and facial expressions. 

I don’t know if they are capable of writing, but it’d be cool if they devised a non-verbal and non-words series of drawn symbols and gestures for Keepers to utilize as a way to quasi-get around the anomaly. However “cannot communicate” could extend to “writing and sign language”

SCP-001-C

Lake Huron is to be avoided at all costs. Any individual attempting an excursion outside of Site-43 (typically for the gathering of biological materials from dead trees/foliage/etc) is not to approach due to the risk of the water rising again.

SCP-001-D

Respiration from the anomaly sometimes results in structural damage to the Site, or tremors, which requires repair.

The Survivors

The Site’s original population has been cleaved -- both by the initial breach’s heavy losses, and subsequent accidents. Only a little over 100 people remain come the 2030s, and Site-43 functions on a stretched-thin skeleton crew. 

Agent Radcliffe -- A bit torn up here and there from encounters with spectral and temporal entities, but is mostly okay. 

Agent Gwilhem -- Has a bad shoulder due a shrapnel injury. She has taken charge of the remaining members of MTFs Alpha-43, Beta-43 and Delta-43.

Technician Markey -- One of many individuals issuing repairs and maintenance to Site-43, he has sustained various small injuries to his hands due to his work. Lost a finger when it was crushed in a collapsing pipe. 

Dr. Wirth -- Has become pockmarked by various burn scars across his face and hands over the breaches. He received deep wounds across his stomach from SCP-001-A in 2027. Will never forgive himself. 

Chief Mukami -- Has taken major charge within the Site, primary maintainer of reports and processing of incidents. She has a few sparse injuries from an instance in which the bulkhead jammed during one of the loops, and she was injured by shrapnel. 

Technician Ambrogi -- Another individual who aids in site repairs, he would lose his leg in the aftermath of the initial breach due to structural damage caused by the detonation of the Keter and Euclid Wings, resulting in a small collapse of a hallway. Now utilizes a ramshackle leg prosthesis. 

Dr. Del Olmo -- Has sustained two injuries from SCP-001-A, a clawmark to the upper thigh, and one to the shoulder. Initially had turned down the offer of amputation due to their locations, but would have his leg amputated after severe infection years later. 

Dr. Deering -- Unscathed until the day he died. While everyone around him was hurt and bleeding and dying, he was always fine. It’s unclear if this is out of luck, or punishment. He thinks the latter. 

PHMD -- Injured by SCP-001-A shortly upon retrieval, receiving claw marks to the face and lower arm. Turned down amputation of the arm, claiming he needed both hands for his work. Wounds had become severely infected by the time he went missing due to neglect. 

Dr. Ngo --  Had a tendency to throw herself into danger to help others, was never wounded by SCP-001-A, but was a bit scuffed up due to other small scale accidents. Was practically the backbone of the Site for some people, as the only remaining psychologist, a lodestar of hope against this nightmare. Her death is still mourned. 

Dr. Reynders -- Mostly unscathed, aside from a few injuries -- notably one to her cheek from a temporal entity. Has gone missing.

Chronological reversions seem to have odd effects on those still alive. The running theory is that SCP-001 has severely slowed their aging to preserve their lives.

The See You In Hell PTF members are all friend-adjacent in my heart of hearts. Breach containment solidarity. Maybe a bit rough against the edges but we gotta tough it out together. All we’ve got is each other now, yknow?

jesus christ ok I think that's it I think that's all the thoughts in my brain if anyone actually reads this whole thing i heart you forever ok? i fffffucking love TL-5956-X 'n how fucked up it is I hope we get to see it again at sometime. regardless i will be thinking about it forever

[eternal-echoes]

“Then, in 2011, researchers published new findings that studied individuals who identified as trans, but who had not yet taken cross-sex hormones.(10) In it, they found that the white matter microstructure of women who identified as trans was more similar to males than females. Three years later, other neurologists discovered that the white matter microstructure of some who identify as trans was somewhere in between that of men and woman.(11) Still other studies have shown that the brains of people who identify as trans are aligned with their biological sex rather than their gender identity.(12)

Drs. Lawrence Mayer and Paul McHugh summed up the current state of research on the subject, writing, "[T]he current studies on associations between brain structure and transgender identity are small, methodologically limited, inconclusive, and sometimes contradictory."(13) They added that the studies to date "demonstrated weak correlations between brain structure and cross-gender identification. These correlations do not provide any evidence for a neurobiological basis for cross-gender identification."(14) Numerous limitations within the current body research led the American College of Pediatricians to conclude:

A properly designed brain difference study needs to be prospective and longitudinal; it would require a large randomly selected population-based sample of a fixed set of individuals, would follow them with serial brain imaging from infancy through adulthood, and would have to be replicated. Not one brain study to date meets a single one of these requirements to be considered rigorous research design.(15)

-Jason Evert, Male, Female, or Other: A Catholic Guide to Understanding Gender

—

Work cited:

10) Cf. G. Rametti, et al. "White Matter Microstructure in Female to Male Transsexuals Before Cross-Sex Hormonal Treatment. A Diffusion Tensor Imaging Study," Journal of Psychiatric Research 45 (2011), 199-204.

11) Cf. Kranz GS, et al. "White Matter Microstructure in Transsexuals and Controls Investigated by Diffusion Tensor Imaging," Journal of Neuroscience 34:46 (2014): 15466-15475.

12) Cf. E. Santarnecchi et al., "Intrinsic Cerebral Connectivity Analysis in an Untreated Female-to-Male Transsexual Subject: A First Attempt Using Resting State fMRI," Neuroendocrinology 96:3 (2012), 188-193; I. Savic and S. Arver, "Sex Dimorphism of the Brain in Male-to-Female Transsexuals," Cerebral Cortex 21:11 (2011), 2525-2533.

13) Lawrence S. Mayer, and Paul R. McHugh, "Sexuality and Gender Findings from the Biological, Psychological, and Social Sciences," New Atlantis 50 (Fall 2016), Part 3.

14) L. Mayer and P. McHugh, "Sexuality and Gender Findings from the Biological, Psychological, and Social Sciences," New Atlantis 50 (Fall 2016), Executive Summary.

15) “Gender Dysphoria in Children," American College of Pediatricians (November 2018).

—

For more recommended resources on gender dysphoria, click here.

[ancientforgcd]

"Whether you live or die is a matter of relevance, not sentiment."

-Aureleia

General Info:

Name: Aureleia Title: Heavenly Alchemist Age: N/A Birthday: N/A Race: Human(?) Gender: Female Occupation: Alchemist Height: 178 cm Eye Color: Green Hair Color: Light Green

Personality:

Aureleia is focused. She doesn’t waste time thinking about whether something is good or bad. If something works, she keeps it. If it doesn’t, she fixes it or throws it out. People fall into the same category. She observes them, breaks them down, and decides if they’re worth her attention. Her sense of morality is quiet. She understands it exists for others, but it doesn’t factor into how she makes decisions.

She speaks with confidence, but never loudly. She knows what she’s capable of and sees no reason to prove it. Most of the time, she comes off as detached. If someone is panicking or emotional, she’ll watch and wait for it to pass. She’s not cruel, just uninterested in dealing with things she finds inefficient. If she helps someone, it’s usually because their survival benefits her research or adds a new piece to something she’s trying to understand.

There’s a part of her that enjoys the process. When she discovers something new, she’ll smile. When something fails, she’ll still take notes. She doesn’t see mistakes as setbacks, just results she didn’t predict. Her version of joy is quiet and internal. The only time she acts excited is when she’s deep into her work, surrounded by materials no one else knows how to use. In those moments, she’ll talk to herself or hum while working.

She doesn’t see herself as better than others, but she doesn’t see many as equals either. Most people bore her. She listens, but rarely responds unless there’s something worth discussing. When she does speak, it’s usually to ask a question that puts someone on the spot. She’s not trying to be mean, but she likes watching how people react when their ideas fall apart.

She doesn't form attachments easily. She can spend years around someone and still speak to them the same way she did on day one. But if she decides someone is valuable, she will protect them. Not emotionally, just practically. She will make sure they aren’t wasted. That’s the closest she gets to care. And she won’t explain it.

At her core, Aureleia is always working. Even when she’s still, her mind is moving. She’s not trying to rule the world or destroy it. She just wants to reshape it into something cleaner. Something that makes sense. If that means stepping over a few lines or ignoring what others call right and wrong, so be it

Backstory:

Aureleia wasn’t born into power, legacy, or recognition. No one remembers her original name, and she never offers it. Her earliest records are scattered, often contradictory. Some say she appeared during a war, offering alchemical solutions before vanishing. Others claim she was once part of a research guild but left after a disagreement. She never confirms any version. In her own words, history is irrelevant once the formula is correct.

She started with conventional alchemy. Restoration, enhancement, and material refinement. It was enough to get her in the door, but she didn’t stay long. Most alchemists worked to improve the present. Aureleia was focused on rewriting the entire structure behind it. She replaced flawed systems with her own methods and ignored anything that slowed her progress. She wasn’t interested in collaboration or reputation. She wanted results.

The shift came when she began producing Philosopher’s Stones without the usual sacrifices. What others called legendary, she treated as a stepping stone. Scholars called her a liar. Clerics called her unnatural. The few who tried to replicate her methods failed, and some disappeared entirely. She refused to publish anything. She believed that if a concept had to be explained to someone, they weren’t ready to use it.

She walked away from institutions. Not because they rejected her, but because she no longer needed them. From that point on, she worked alone. The title "Heavenly Alchemist" came from a former student, one of the few people she had ever allowed to observe her process. The student is now gone. Whether they were discarded or elevated is unclear. The name stuck, and she never bothered to correct it.

Her work evolved beyond what anyone could trace. She created synthetic life, altered elemental compositions, and bent natural laws to serve her needs. Most of it was stored or sealed away when she lost interest. She has no desire to unleash her creations or sell her findings. To her, those things are unfinished. If someone finds them and gets harmed, she considers that part of the experiment.

Immortality came naturally after that. She never explained how. Some think she transmuted her own body beyond decay. Others believe she abandoned her physical form entirely. She appears unchanged across centuries. Her voice, posture, and presence remain consistent. She does not eat in public, does not sleep where others can see, and never mentions the past unless it directly relates to the present.

Aureleia does not seek power. She does not claim territory or build followings. She moves from place to place, studies what she finds, and leaves when the environment becomes too noisy. If someone approaches her with honesty, she may listen. If they bring lies, she will remove them like rot. Her purpose is singular. She wants to reach the end of her equation, whatever it is. Everything else is noise.

Abilities:

Transmutation by Touch: She alters anything she touches instantly. No circles, no chanting. If she understands the structure, she can reshape it on the spot.

Alchemical Vision: She sees the inner composition of matter, energy, and living beings in real time. Weak points, instability, potential outcomes—all visible to her.

Living Constructs: She builds short-lived creatures or tools from nearby matter. Each one has a fixed purpose and dissolves after use.

Serpentine Form: Her body can break into a flowing, alchemical state. She moves like liquid, bypasses solid barriers, and can reform from any piece.

Equation Rewrite: She can change how properties behave. Weight becomes buoyancy, heat resistance becomes pain response. Changes are temporary but disruptive.

Philosopher’s Core: Her body is powered by a stable Philosopher’s Stone. It handles energy regulation, regeneration, and immunity to most interference.

Concept Extraction: She removes a single trait from a target—like motion, sound, heat, or emotion. It’s temporary but complete while active.

Formula Cascade: She chains multiple transmutations in an area. The terrain and materials keep shifting until she stops the process.

Divine Synthesis: She fuses two incompatible things into one. Could be materials, organisms, or energies. Always functions, never stable.

Self-Transmutation: Her body is modified. Bones are reinforced, skin resists cutting, limbs can shift into tools or weapons mid-fight.

Mind Isolation: Her mind is sealed. Telepathy, illusions, and memory-based attacks fail or return static. She calculates constantly but shows nothing.

The Sealed Lab: A personal pocket dimension made of failed experiments and abandoned constructs. She can open it briefly to summon tools, creatures, or drag enemies inside for testing. Time passes differently within.

Trivia:

She doesn’t eat unless required for a test. When she does, she prefers food with high mineral content so she can analyze it mid-consumption.

She has no known homeland or allegiance. No flag, no family, no documented origin. Most global archives list her as “neutral untracked.

She has personally created over a dozen Philosopher’s Stones. Most were destroyed or sealed after she lost interest in them.

She keeps no permanent base. Every lab she builds is temporary and dismantled or erased once she’s finished with the location.

She writes in a self-invented notation system that no one else has been able to decode. Attempting to read it often causes unstable reactions.

Her voice never shifts. It's always calm, monotone, and consistent, no matter the situation or audience.

She rarely uses names. Unless someone proves useful or relevant, she refers to them by function, condition, or classification.

Animals avoid her. Even trained or enhanced creatures react with discomfort or confusion in her presence.

She’s immune to alcohol and most toxins. Her body breaks them down instantly or turns them into something harmless.

She has destroyed her own creations without hesitation. If something she made deviates from its purpose, she considers it a failed experiment.

She’s been banned from multiple academic and magical institutions. None of the bans were enforced. Most people just avoid invoking her name at all.

Her breath doesn't fog in the cold. Some believe she no longer breathes, only mimics the act out of habit.

Her shadow sometimes moves out of sync when she’s thinking too fast. She’s aware of it and doesn’t care to fix it.

[a-bottle-of-tyelenol]

hello hello I am the my hero agere anon! I deleted tiktok like a FOOL so I cannot see the tiktok ☹️☹️

And

(😗👉👈 if you wanna do Hermes regression headcanons I certainly won’t stop youuuu)

Also

What’re your thoughts on stories from styx? I know you’re already a fan of epic, but I wonder how you feel about it from a HelPol perspective as it’s a retelling of Hades’ myths!

Here u go friend! I thought you could open tiktoks even without an account so sorry abt that but hopefully this works for you!!

As for stories from styx, I’m always going to appreciate a retelling and support indie musicals because that’s just how I am with art in general. I can see what Casper was going for and I like the structure of it, but I’m just personally not a big fan of a lot of it lyrically/instrumentally. I like certain parts of it, though, like the VAs for Persephone and Demeter popped off!

As for it from HelPol perspective, I still will always appreciate retellings regardless of how accurate they are. I’m someone that personally sees accuracy as the least important thing in a story about the gods (for me, respect/intent is far more important because there are so many myths and so many contradictory source materials and just because one is older than the other doesn’t mean that both were not just as equally created by man). I really enjoyed how soft spoken Hades is portrayed to be as opposed to the more common harshness we see from him as a representative of death in most media. I also liked the song explaining judgment because ngl I’ve been researching greek mythology for years atp and how the underworld works in its entirety is still super confusing to me lololol so I appreciated the attempt to make it easier for people to understand.

I don’t really like the Hades/Persephone romance most of the time in general. This myth always represented the unfairness of death to me, and how a mother can lose her child in a moment’s notice, and I find that interpretation hard to have if Persephone chooses to be with him, instead of being kidnapped. There’s a world where someone writes it within the frame of her being suicidal that I could see being appealing to me, but I’m only ever going to be like “eh yeah alright” when it comes to a legitimate romance like in SfS. I feel very similarly when it comes to versions of the myth where Helen is in love with Paris and runs away with him, which starts the Trojan War. I just think that making the love reciprocated takes away some of the layers I most enjoy from the story.

That said, I really do like what SfS did with Demeter and her song. It’s probably my favorite song of the ones out so far and has my favorite lyrics of all of them. I think using those posts about how there’s no term for a parent that’s lost their child is really clever in this context and enforces the idea that this is a representation of actual child death for a parent. Demeter’s grief is not something that many medias take that seriously and it’s nice that this one seems to!

TLDR: not in my musical rotation that I regularly listen to out of style preference but I respect what Casper is going for and I probably will tune in to the next drop of songs.

[valiantunknowncrusade]

Idea 2

Organic/inorganic

not completely committed to doing something like organic and inorganic. maybe something that will involve what ive learned in the semester. not sure. I can consider using funtionality and the not functional as a concept.

[marcos-gonzalez]

Final Index

13. QCQ #3: The Gravity of Levity 

14. Contradictory Structures: Research

15. Contradictory Structures: Final

16. QCQ #4: X Marks the Spot

17. Lost Statements: Research

18. Lost Statements: Final

19. Self-Directed Manifesto: Final

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

Asteroid Ceres is a former ocean world that slowly formed into a giant, murky icy orb

Since the first sighting of the first-discovered and largest asteroid in our solar system was made in 1801 by Giuseppe Piazzi, astronomers and planetary scientists have pondered the make-up of this asteroid/dwarf planet. Its heavily battered and dimpled surface is covered in impact craters. Scientists have long argued that visible craters on the surface meant that Ceres could not be very icy.

Researchers at Purdue University and the NASA's Jet Propulsion Lab (JPL) now believe Ceres is a very icy object that possibly was once a muddy ocean world. This discovery that Ceres has a dirty ice crust is led by Ian Pamerleau, Ph.D. student, and Mike Sori, assistant professor in Purdue's Department of Earth, Atmospheric, and Planetary Sciences who published their findings in Nature Astronomy. The duo along with Jennifer Scully, research scientist with JPL, used computer simulations of how craters on Ceres deform over billions of years.

"We think that there's lots of water-ice near Ceres surface, and that it gets gradually less icy as you go deeper and deeper," Sori said. "People used to think that if Ceres was very icy, the craters would deform quickly over time, like glaciers flowing on Earth, or like gooey flowing honey. However, we've shown through our simulations that ice can be much stronger in conditions on Ceres than previously predicted if you mix in just a little bit of solid rock."

The team's discovery is contradictory to the previous belief that Ceres was relatively dry. The common assumption was that Ceres was less than 30% ice, but Sori's team now believes the surface is more like 90% ice.

"Our interpretation of all this is that Ceres used to be an 'ocean world' like Europa (one of Jupiter's moons), but with a dirty, muddy ocean,'" Sori said. "As that muddy ocean froze over time, it created an icy crust with a little bit of rocky material trapped in it."

Pamerleau explained how they used computer simulations to model how relaxation occurs for craters on Ceres over billions of years.

"Even solids will flow over long timescales, and ice flows more readily than rock. Craters have deep bowls which produce high stresses that then relax to a lower stress state, resulting in a shallower bowl via solid state flow," he said. "So the conclusion after NASA's Dawn mission was that due to the lack of relaxed, shallow craters, the crust could not be that icy. Our computer simulations account for a new way that ice can flow with only a little bit of non-ice impurities mixed in, which would allow for a very ice-rich crust to barely flow even over billions of years. Therefore, we could get an ice-rich Ceres that still matches the observed lack of crater relaxation. We tested different crustal structures in these simulations and found that a gradational crust with a high ice content near the surface that grades down to lower ice with depth was the best way to limit relaxation of Cerean craters."

Sori is a planetary scientist whose focus is planetary geophysics. His team addresses questions about the planetary interiors, the connections between planetary interiors and surfaces, and those questions might be resolved with spacecraft missions. His work spans many solid bodies in the solar system, from the Moon and Mars to icy objects in the outer solar system.

"Ceres is the largest object in the asteroid belt, and a dwarf planet. I think sometimes people think of small, lumpy things as asteroids (and most of them are!), but Ceres really looks more like a planet," Sori said. "It is a big sphere, diameter 950 kilometers or so, and has surface features like craters, volcanoes, and landslides."

On Sept. 27, 2007, NASA launched the Dawn mission. This mission was the first and only spacecraft to orbit two extraterrestrial destinations—the protoplanet Vesta and Ceres. Although it was launched in 2007, Dawn didn't reach Ceres until 2015. It orbited the dwarf planet until 2018.

"We used multiple observations made with Dawn data as motivation for finding an ice-rich crust that resisted crater relaxation on Ceres. Different surface features (e.g., pits, domes and landslides, etc.) suggest the near subsurface of Ceres contains a lot of ice," Pamerleau said. "Spectrographic data also shows that there should be ice beneath the regolith on the dwarf planet and gravity data yields a density value very near that of ice, specifically impure ice. We also took a topographic profile of an actual complex crater on Ceres and used it to construct the geometry for some of our simulations."

Sori says that because Ceres is the largest asteroid there was suspicion that it could have been any icy object based on some estimates of its mass made from the Earth. those factors made it a great choice for a spacecraft visit.

"To me the exciting part of all this, if we're right, is that we have a frozen ocean world pretty close to Earth. Ceres may be a valuable point of comparison for the ocean-hosting icy moons of the outer solar system, like Jupiter's moon Europa and Saturn's moon Enceladus," Sori said. "Ceres, we think, is therefore the most accessible icy world in the universe. That makes it a great target for future spacecraft missions. Some of the bright features we see at Ceres' surface are the remnants of Ceres' muddy ocean, now mostly or entirely frozen, erupted onto the surface. So we have a place to collect samples from the ocean of an ancient ocean world that is not too difficult to send a spacecraft to."

[the-fae-folk]

You’ve said much of the world of faerie, fascinating things few people have seen. But what of humans? Humanity is fascinating. How do they survive in a world like this? How do they not know?

You would be absolutely astounded by the sheer number of things that humans do not know. In fact, I believe that I could safely say that the number of things we don't know outnumber the things we do in the same way that the grand totality of the universe is much more vast than a single walnut. And humans have an utterly fascinating set of capabilities whose primary purpose appears to be to preserve their life and sanity so that they can continue doing necessary and useful things such as gathering food, having families, and generally trying to make life better for all those who come after them. However, those capabilities also sometimes prevent them from seeing things as they are. Cognitive Dissonance is what happens when humans have ideas, beliefs, or actions that are inconsistent with other ideas, beliefs, and actions. It is an uncomfortable feeling, but more than that... it is a state that is actually quite a lot of hard work for the human brain to handle. So the brain will try to find the most efficient way in which to resolve the dissonance. Now an ideal way to deal with the problem would be to do some careful research on the matter, process and logically parse through all of the information, and finally adapt the new information into your existing worldview in order to form a more comprehensive cognitive state that is free of the bothersome dissonance. Unfortunately, this scenario is a lot more rare and more difficult to achieve than anyone would really like. You see, a great number of our decisions on a daily basis are made entirely within the subconscious. We make those trillions upon trillions of tiny decisions without even thinking about them in our conscious brain. When decisions that are significantly more important are made without the input of the conscious brain they can go unnoticed for a very long time until dissonance forces them forward into the focus of your attention. Everything you do is fueled by your motivations and instincts, and even your conscious logical reasoning can be affected by it too. So even when you're finally made aware of some sort of dissonance in your own mind, it's not actually an easy task to stop and truly think through the full scope of the problem. For example: without even realizing it, a person whose unknowing motivation is to maintain their positive self-regard can discount information that is unflattering or troubling if it contradicts their self-image. This is the brain's attempt to shortcut its way past the dissonance; it takes less energy for it to dismiss the contradictory information than to carefully reexamine and adapt the existing framework. This sort of problem effects everyone, and interestingly the effect becomes magnified when concerning any subject to which the person's self-identity is directly connected to. One might be tempted to believe that only the highly educated can elude the grasp of this unintentional survival skill gone wrong, however that would not be the case. In fact, there is a good deal of evidence that suggests that the highly educated might be MORE susceptible to this phenomenon in general due to their more comprehensive and structured worldviews. It is, of course, a useful survival tool, and it is possible to work around the inclination, but it always requires a significant amount of effort against the tendencies of one's own brain. Why do I mention all this? Well think, if someone going about their everyday life happened to see or hear something that went against all of their fundamental conclusions about how reality worked, it would be very easy indeed for their brain to simply... dismiss it or find some logical way to explain it out of existence, or simply to forget it because it doesn't fit. Who knows what wonders we might have missed because our minds couldn't make sense of them?

[nuu-art-blog]

spoiler warning for Last note of the Golden Witch

1: Me, happy that I get to experience Last note of the Golden Witch for the first time through the nezumiva streams, since I hadn't gotten around to seeking it out for myself yet

2: My darling beloved dearest who I liveblogged Umineko to when I first read it so they sort of know everything that happens but didn't read it themselves, however, likes reading wiki pages: "No way, Asumu had a witchsona"

1: "Huh, must be a manga thing, cause I don't remember that."

2: sends me a Dot Jpeg

1: Me, who had seen the character before but had escaped knowledge of the character's name before now: "THAT'S ASUMU????"

2: "Nooooo she's not Asumu shhhhhh, I must've read that wrong,"

1: "Once something is learned it cannot be unlearned..."

[more stuff under the cut]

Okay, first here I want to introduce a new Witch OC of mine; Zero, the Witch of Chaos

[Witch Description: When most witches discuss fragments, though there are infinitely many, they are mainly focused on fragments that follow the same rules as each other. Zero, the Witch of Chaos, exists outside of those rules and structures. They can see fragments of infinitely many different rules, and of each ruleset, infinitely many scenarios. Zero fights by creating noise and confusion around the truth by using the tool they call the Magenta Truth- statements that have the level of red truth in at least one fragment. Though the Magenta Truth is easily possible to disprove if it does not apply to the fragment taking place, it is more akin to creating a haystack to cover a needle. Some witches dislike Zero, viewing their inclusion of fragments with contradictory rules as disrespectful to the rules of an individual fragment; however, from Zero's perspective, every fragment is true to itself, and thus all hold equal value to each other.]

And now after rambling about all that, I'd also like to talk about the design process too. Their name is obviously the number, 0, and I chose it because 0 is both a real number and an imaginary number.

Their design also incorporates a lot of magenta because the color magenta technically doesn't exist either- there is no wavelength of light for magenta.

Then, with the magenta, I also employed a bit of the magenta-cyan-yellow color wheel, where the left half of the shirt on their design is a darker cyan and the right half of their shirt is a lighter yellow. Even if it might be on theme, I didn't want to use pure cyan and pure yellow because it would have felt too noisy to me.

Of course, speaking about noise in the design, there's a lot of asymmetry. Mismatched hair and mismatched attire and mismatched earrings

To be honest, the idea for the theme originated in joke continuation of the theme from the last time I did art for the stream, that being the Sonic crossover stuff, so the thought process was like Chaos emeralds, Chaos control -> witch of Chaos, but despite that I'm actually really happy with how this oc turned out? I feel like they can stand on their own, even outside of the joke.

However, I am hopelessly and endlessly committed to the bit, so-

Last time I did art and related memes, one of the included things was this,

and now that some time has passed I can say that I have done this Further Research and I'd like to report my findings;

Kanon is not Shadow, but Somebody Else Is. Consider the following traits.

Of course, one of the very defining things for Shadow's character is that he lost Maria and Gerald, who are family to his eyes, and this tragedy changed him

When he's brought back, all he can think about is getting revenge for the family he lost

His mission is the only thing that matters to him at this point

Eventually comes to realize this isn't what Maria wanted for him at all and spends the last act of the game helping to avert the disaster he set up

And with all this laid out, obviously the real Shadow The Hedgehog parallel is Ange Ushiromiya, and though this also started as a joke I've thought about this way too much now. If Ange and Shadow aren't the same characters then um what's this?

Checkmate. So I also drew Ange in the pose from the beginning of SA2 where Sonic sees Shadow for the first time.

"It all starts with this... a Book containing the Single Truth!"