Trick or treat 🍭tma, if you don't mind? Or kingsman
From this ask game |
🕸️ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛ ɪs…! 👁️🗨️
A Beholding’s Own Drabble!
(set after the events in chapter 36, aka, Jon Got Better)
“What did it feel like?” Jonah rests his cheek over Jon’s heart. It’s still beating fast from their lovemaking. Their skin is tacky, and the air is muggy, window cranked open to the night sounds of Edinburgh.
Dying, he means, but doesn’t clarify. Not when he can feel his thoughts stretched thin like spider silk, like instead of the reality of Jon petting his hair, Jon is instead drawing out the threads and spinning then between his fingers, fondly examining the contents of his mind and soul in an effortless show of power.
(Jon loathes comparisons between him and the Mother, so Jonah tucks that analogy away into a deeper recess that Jon won’t probe at without good reason.)
“Cold,” says Jon. His tone is flat. “Cold and vast and empty. Like I was every atom between the stars, every grain of sand on every planet, but I was also the in-between, the nothingness that separates everything.”
“An abstraction,” Jonah suggests.
“No; an absolute, unrelenting reality.”
There’s a shift, and Jon’s palm smooths down to cup Jonah’s nape, his thumb digging into bone, sending little flames of pleasure and pain radiating from the point of contact until there’s a bonfire behind Jonah’s closed eyelids. “I was in the air you breathed as you walked the hallways of Rayner’s mansion, I was in the drops of blood a dying mother shed on the other side of the world. I was there, and I was nowhere. Contained and ever-present.”
Jonah contemplates that. His flesh crawls with goosebumps. “No dreams, no vagueness, no respite. No you.”
“No me,” agrees Jon, still in a monotone, as if every death-tinged memory and sentiment has been wiped bare of color, leaving a stark chiaroscuro where passion should have thrived.
There’s a reason they don’t speak much on the matter of Jon’s death.
But never again. The stage is set, and the Watcher’s Crown is waiting. The Eye is opening.
Death has ruled for long enough.
!["stabbing as a penetration metaphor is so old and predicatable [rolling eyes emoji]" oh yeah i forgot that's why everyone things that butter on bread is trite and passe and not one of the monst fundamentally fulfillying and comforting culinary combinations known to man. You idiot. You fucking rube.](../../../media/3b7b1e8135251483f9a2fcd188bd8488d473334b.jpg)
