#beast daring was like the epitome of ‘you almost had it’

[sleepie-birdie]

Monsieur Knight

Rating: Gen Summary: A dashing knight dares to save the trapped princess from the clutches of a vile dragon.

As I, the illustrious and indomitable Monsieur Filibert the Magnificent rode forth upon my noble steed, Dame Blanc, the very earth trembled beneath the weight of my valor as sand marked my travels in its golden glow.  Its bright hue was almost as valiant as my task. What is my mission, you ask? To liberate the fair Princess Furina from the clutches of a fearsome dragon that had plagued the land for centuries, of course! Who else but I, the epitome of chivalry and gallantry, the most dashing in the land could undertake such a perilous quest and win the heart of the fair maiden? A maiden I have seen from afar months ago. With her delicate hand pressed against her delicate brow, she heaved a dainty sigh at her plight. I knew then what I must do. A woman so beautiful, so kind, that was worthy to stand next to someone such as me. 

With my sword in hand and the sun beating upon my broad manly back, I the esteemed and unrivaled Monsieur Filibert the Unyielding, ventured forth into the quaint little town on the outskirts of the kingdom for Fontaine I could feel the weight of their gazes upon me as I strut to town. Oh yes, the good people of this hamlet had no doubt heard of my valiant quest to vanquish the dragon and rescue the fair Princess Furina. Yet, instead of the admiration and awe I had grown accustomed to, I was met with... incredulity. Nay, it could not be! Perhaps these natives know not the language on my tongue? For why else would they shake their head when I divulge to them my noble calling? Or perhaps this is their earnest attempt to save me from what they assume is my untimely demise.

These sweet citizens need not fear, for I am the best there is. The top of my rotation, the titled knight crowned by the gods themselves! A mere dragon will not kill me. No. It is his fate to die! Undeterred by the skeptical glances and murmurs that followed in my wake, I strode through the cobblestone streets with all the confidence befitting a knight of my caliber. "Fear not, good people!" I proclaimed, my voice ringing out like a lion’s roar. "For I, Knight Filibert the Fearless shall rid your lands of the dreaded dragon that plagues you and your beautiful princess!" But instead of cheers and applause, all I received were raised eyebrows and exchanged glances. Puzzled, I forged ahead, convinced that my noble cause would surely win over the hearts of these simple folk. Their poor hearts must have been clouded by their worry.

As I approached the local stall, I was met with a sight that nearly gave me pause. The innkeeper, a burly fellow with a bushy beard, regarded me with a mixture of amusement and concern. "Sir Knight," he said, his tone laced with a hint of skepticism, "are you quite sure about this... mission of yours?"

"Of course, good sir! Fret not for my safety." I replied, clapping him on the back with a hearty thud. "Why, it is my sworn duty to protect the kingdom and its fair maidens from all manner of perilous beasts!"

The storekeeper exchanged a knowing glance with his wife, who shook her head in disbelief. "Very well, Sir Knight," he said with a shrug, "but I must warn you, no one has ever returned from the dragon's tower without a harrowing tale to share." 

These sweet souls! “No creature, no matter how fearsome, shall stand in the way of my quest!”

“It’s not the dragon you need to fear.” The man’s wife muttered. My brow rose.

“Ah, are there perhaps traps?” I was trained to best them!

“Ye can say something like that.”

“Then no trap shall best me. For I have labored intensively beneath the tutelage of Archduke Barthmeow the Excellent, my skill and agility know no bounds. For I am the great wind.”

With a hearty chuckle, I bid adieu to the skeptical couple, their doubts no match for the radiance of my noble spirit. With every stride of my steed and every glint of my armor, I forged ahead, my heart brimming with determination and my head held so high I feared it might scrape the sky! For I, the one and only Sir Filibert, the Unwavering had a dragon to tickle and a princess to rescue, and not even the wildest doubts of a few misguided peasants could dampen my fiery resolve!

And so, before long, my trusty mount had whisked me away to the dark and eerie forest of Erryines. Why, you might ask? Because nestled within its twisted embrace lay the very tower where our fair maiden was imprisoned! The dastardly dragon had sequestered the princess by a lake, no doubt hoping to keep her from the world's gaze. But fear not, for where others saw darkness, I saw the opportunity for valor! As I ventured deeper into the forest, the dappled sunlight filtering through the emerald canopy above, I couldn't help but marvel at the tranquility that surrounded me. The gentle rustle of leaves, the melodic chirping of birds - surely, these woodland creatures recognized the presence of a true hero in their midst and bowed to my unmatched prowess.

At long last, I reached the edge of the lake, the calm waters mirroring the azure sky above. There, standing tall and foreboding against the horizon, was the dragon's tower. Its ancient stones seemed to groan with malice, warning any foolish enough to approach. But I, Sir Filibert the Unflinching, was not one to heed warnings - for my courage was a blazing fire that consumed all doubt in its path! With a steely glint in my eye and Dame Blanc snorting with determination beneath me, I urged her forward toward the tower.

As we drew nearer, a sudden movement caught my eye - a glimmer of white scales and a glow of blue mane. It was the dragon! It emerged from the shadows of the tower, its massive form casting a daunting shadow over the landscape. But I did not falter. With a swift flourish of my sword, I called out to the beast in a voice that rang out like thunder.

"FOUL MONSTER! I demand you release your maiden captive and face me like a man!”

The beast eyed me, its amethyst eyes glowed with malice.

“Begone human, there is no maiden that needs saving here.” It huffed at me a watery plume which I dodged with utmost grace.

“Wretched creature. I believe not your utter lies.” The beast dared snort at me.

Undeterred by the dragon's dismissive attitude, I squared my shoulders and raised my sword high, the light glinting off its finely honed blade.

"I care not for your trickery, foul, ugly, beast! For I have seen the tears of the fair Princess Furina and heard her cries for freedom. It is I, Sir Filibert the Valiant, who shall vanquish you and set her free and win her hand!"

The dragon let out a low rumble, its eyes narrowing in an icy glare that sent shivers down my spine. But I stood my ground, unwavering in my resolve to rescue the princess and bring justice to this cursed land.

Just as the tension between us reached its peak, a melodious voice rang out from the top of the tower. All eyes turned to behold the sight of Princess Furina herself, her pale hair cascading like a waterfall down her svelte form.

"Cease this senseless quarrel at once!" she commanded, her voice laced with authority. She disappeared from my sight for a mere moment but as she reemerged from the tower of stone, she rushed to my arms in eagerness! Yet propriety won as she skidded to a stop, her gaze burned me with its intensity.

“How dare you call my dragon a foul, ugly, beast! His name is Neuvillette and you will leave us alone.” I was aghast! The princess had been bewitched by this sinful creature.

“But princess! He is a beast!”

“He is my friend !” What kind of sorcery is this?! I raised my sword as the dragon huffed.

"Put your sword away, Sir Knight," Princess Furina commanded, her eyes flashing with fierce determination. But I did not allow myself to be swayed by her false and honeyed words. I had to find a way to sway the creature’s hold on her.

“But how can he be a friend! This senseless creature with no thoughts. Think my lady, would a friend kidnap you and —”

I could only gasp as the princess raised her dainty feet and pressed them to the ground. Her sacred ankles!

“I insist that you stop your insolent mouth right this instant. I do not stand for any slander against Neuvillette and he did not kidnap me. I walked here.” How strong was this hold on her mind? My heart ached for her as I raised my sword.

“Fret not dear maiden, this curse on your mind will cease once he is slain. It is my honor-bound duty to slay this wretched creature.” My words seemed to have an effect as a shadow crossed the pale-haired princess's visage.

“Then you must go through me if you want to hurt Neuvillette.”

The dragon in its arrogance did not deign to look at me! Instead, it turned towards the princess and opened its giant maw. To my horror she reached inside and pulled out…a blade, fashioned from the very fang of the dragon! I feel sweat bead on the back of my neck as she stabs her blade towards me. I take the blow with my chest held up high. Unwavering is her hit but I must bear it.

“If you do not cease this foolishness, I will be forced to hit—”

()xxxxx[[{:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::>

“I swear, is it because it is summer, there are quite a lot more knights coming our way.” Furina huffed as she brushed away the dirt on her favorite dress. When she woke up early this morning, fighting dotty boys sent her way was not on her list of to-dos. Alas, that had been her task ever since she moved into the tower with her dearest Neuvillette.

Speaking of her dragon…

The petite princess rounded on her heels as she watched him uncover the stone slab they had engraved just a week ago. The smile on her face grew as she watched him pick up the knocked-out knight like he was a moldy dish and toss him through the newly activated portal. The dragon was silent, tail dragging across the loamy soil of the lakeside as he moved to cover the stone once more.

“Neuvillette?” There was a huff and a low hum as the hulking creature slunk closer to the water's edge.

“Neuvillette, what’s wrong? Did what the knight say affect you?” Even as she spoke, she knew it was not true. Neuvillette cared not for what the humans thought about him. He never had and he never would. It was simply how he was. Her feet tapped along the ground as she scuttled after him. Her short legs had to work double just to keep up with his longer stride. Just what had gotten him into such a huff. If she recalled, the last few times they had dealt with an interloper he had been quite…enthusiastic after. She watched as he slipped into the lake with a wet plop. Her mind coursed through their recent scuffle.

Just what had upset him? Normally, they would have been bantering by now. Normally he would have lauded her skills just a tad but today…today was different.

The knight had been just like any other. She had defended her dragon once more…like always.

He had let her handle it herself too! It was just like always.

So what? What had upset her dragon so? Her love. Her frien–

Furina’s cheeks warmed. Her silly, silly, sweet, dragon. Giggling, the princess stepped off the shore and waded deeper into their lake.

“Neuvillette…are you upset that I called you a friend? ” Was that all? He was after all her friend first and foremost but…

A scaled tail wrapped around her waist. “But you are my friend.” There was another chuckle as she felt his hold loosen enough for her to wade waist-deep into their lake. “My best friend~”  She watched as the lake rippled. “My f r i e n d–”

As Furina recovered from the unexpected plunge into the cool waters of the lake, she couldn't help but emit a dramatic gasp, followed by a less-than-dignified whine as she elbowed the dragon responsible for her aquatic surprise. The dragon, Neuvillette, emitted a gruff chuckle as he wrapped his sturdy claws around her, holding her close with a strength that could crush boulders... but gently, of course.

"I am not just your friend," Neuvillette growled, his voice a curious mix of stubbornness and affection that only Furina could decipher after years of companionship. And without missing a beat, Furina relaxed into his embrace, a smile spreading across her face, bright like the sunrise.

"No... no you are not," Furina replied with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "You are my dearest love, my heart. My husband. My mate."

She laughed as he purred. This silly, silly, heart of hers. Furina's eyes, mismatched in color but perfectly matched in adoration, softened as she ran her palms against his scales, feeling the beat of his pulse beneath her touch. She truly loved this dragon of hers so much. He was the one who understood her the most, the one who held her hand and let her escape the stifling world that was her royal position. Here in their watery home, she had never been happier. The world around her disappeared, replaced by a curtain of silky grey. Blue tinged and much more human hands slid between hers.

Blue eyes met amethyst ones. She felt the pressure of his lips on her forehead. “You’re are my heart.” His voice rang clear. Furina’s heart squeezed. His lips ghosted over the bridge of her nose, “my dearest,” her eyes closed as he pressed his mouth across her brows, “my princess,” across her cheek, “my all.” She felt herself melt as she continued to pepper adoration across every inch of her face before settling over her lips. “My life, my mate.” Her cheeks hurt from the force of her smile. The world once more spun for her. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing.

“Eek! W-wait put me down!”

“I will when we reach our nest.”

In the heart of the lake, laughter rang clear. In the glimmer of the summer sun, their rings shone.

()xxxxx[[{:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::>

“Ah…you should have stayed away. Everyone here knows Monsieur Neuvillette and Princess Furina are very much in love!” The barkeeper slid the pint of whiskey over to the hunched form of a once brave knight.

“B-but he’s a dragon!” There was an empathetic nod and a round of snickers.

“He is, that is probably why the princess fancys him. What was the popular saying last year? A beast in the sheets or sum’n like that?” A drunken man slurred somewhere to the bruised knight's left.

Sir Filibert heaved a sigh as he inhaled his liquor. Nothing in his long arduous practices had prepared him for that. The utter humiliation dealt.

“Lemme guess, ya got your face pummeled and coat sliced by the princey herself?”

He did not answer but that was all the crowd of the bar needed.

“Ay, add another tally to the chart! The princess is on a streak.” Confusion filled his gaze as he watched them slide coins across the table.

A warm hand smacked against his back. The armor echoed, low and hollow like his soul.

“Cheer up, yous neva coulda beat ‘em anyways.” The comfort was not felt by the knight. The bartender snorted before handing him another pint.

“She’s right, chin-up, look eh, if it's any consolation, another poor soul is bout to take yer place.” He turned towards the door, where a hooded figure barely hid the gleam of armor.

A chipper voice echoed through the tavern.

“Excuse me! I, Dame Birdie would like to attempt my luck at wresting Princess Furina away from the evil dragon. Please direct me to the lake.”

This poor, poor…soul.

He turned back to the bartender as he slid him a worn-out sheet.

“Wanna bet, who she’ll get beat up by? Dragon or Princess.” He turned his head to listen to the absolute ardor in the woman’s voice as she twirled her hair. His mind drifted back to the flicker of ice in draconic eyes.

“Dragon. Place my mora on the dragon.”

[sunny-sings-sooth]

Daphne

Words: 4.5k

TW: Sexual assault, abuse

Here's my retelling of the myth of Apollo and Daphne! Highly experimental, as I usually write in first person and not so poetically. Hope you enjoy, and if anything doesn't make sense lemme know and I will add some context here. (Also FYI some of the dialogues are pulled directly from Homer's narration)

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Phoebus Apollonas had been alive too long.

He was young by god standards, barely over a millenia old, and still one of the youngest Olympians. And yet he had grown exhausted. He’d been suffering the curse of life long enough to see the boy he used to be -- Phoebus -- die. The demise of the boy began when, in attempt to protect his sister Artemis, he had committed his first murder and thereby lost her forever. The boy decayed further when he’d held the corpses of his sons in his arms. And he’d finally killed the boy with his own hands when he turned his grief-fueled wrath on mortals. Phoebus, the bright, the innocent, the golden prince of Olympus, was dead. All that remained was Apollonas, the destroyer, the terror, the monstrous god of plague.

Except he no longer wished to be Apollonas. Apollonas was addicted to alcohol, drowning himself in it so that he wouldn’t have to face the memories that had murdered Phoebus. Apollonas had struck his younger brother Hermes, the only friend he had left, in drunken rage. Apollonas was despicable and deserved death. He could never be Phoebus again; that he knew and had accepted. But perhaps he could rid himself of Apollonas and become just Apollo. That did not mean erasing Apollonas; he had too many crimes to pay for, and running away would be a dishonor to all those who had suffered at his hands. He would repent for everything he had done as Apollonas, and thereby recreate himself as Apollo.

The first thing he needed to do was to break alcohol’s hold on him, which meant distancing himself from Dionysus. He didn’t want to abandon his youngest brother, but the temptation to drink was too strong in his presence. He hoped Dionysus would understand, and that he would one day be strong enough to bridge the gap of his creation.

He had been clean for three whole days. It didn’t seem like much -- blink of an eye in the lengthy lives of gods -- but that alone had taken him all his willpower. In the absence of the gallons of drink he had been consuming daily, not only was he plagued by memories and sheer self-hatred, he suddenly became highly attuned to the gossip that trailed him. Every moment on Olympus, hundreds of eyes were trained on him, and the whispers never escaped his sharp ears. It wasn’t that he was not used to being the center of attention, but rather the harsh truth of their statements. Phoebus Apollonas is a murderer. He flayed Marsyas alive for daring to challenge him. He curses anyone who questions his authority. He has killed thousands with his plague arrows. He is a monster. He knew these were all true and that he deserved to be pierced by such words, but the anxiousness caused by his withdrawal made them unbearable, and he had to escape to the woods. Here he found solace. Here he could work to slowly put himself together again until he was strong enough to face those who he wronged.

If he hadn’t been so lost in thought, then perhaps he would’ve heard the flap of wings before Eros was standing before him. He nearly dropped the silver bow that he’d been restringing and looked up to meet the other god’s gaze. Eros was the only man Apollonas considered a possible competitor in terms of beauty; his fair skin was smooth as a pearl, his wings the color of one, his features the aspiration of every artist’s portrait. And yet there was something unnerving about the other god. Perhaps it was his hair that, while comparable to a young maiden’s blush, was also the same shade as blood. Perhaps it was the deep red hue of his eyes, made of crushed hearts and rubies. And perhaps it wasn’t his appearance at all, but the mystique that surrounded him; he was the fourth being to come into existence and was old as time itself, and that was one of the only two things Apollonas knew about him.

“Phoebus Apollona,” Eros stated in greeting, and Apollonas hated how wrong it sounded, though he couldn’t tell if it was the names themselves or simply the one who spoke them.

“What do you want?” He couldn’t hide his irritation. The other thing he knew about Eros was that he was the god of love, and love had only ever caused Apollonas pain. He had no reason to like the god nor felt the need to veil his displeasure. All he wanted was the solitude necessary to rework himself.

“I was simply admiring your bow, oh He Who Shoots From Afar.” There was no missing the mockery in Eros’s voice, and his eyes gleamed as he gazed at the weapon. “Why, your skill is almost comparable to my own! Perhaps with some effort, you can become the greatest archer in the land.”

“Are you implying that you are the greatest archer?” Eros nodded, and one glance at the winged god’s slim arms and the modest bow slung across his back sent Apollonas into a fit of laughter. It was many moments before he could calm himself enough to speak. “What have you to do with the arms of men, you feeble thing?”

“I am merely suggesting I may be god of archery as you are god of plague.” Apollonas’s head snapped up at the idea, and his hands curled into fists as he stood, towering over the shorter god. If Eros was a painter’s fantasy, then Apollonas was a sculptor’s. His toned body was the epitome of perfection, the ideal balance between strength and beauty. He was well aware of this fact, and though he rarely preferred to use his appearance for intimidation purposes, Eros’s insult necessitated such action.

“Do not lay claim to my honors,” he hissed, his sky blue eyes glinting with divine power. Archery was the one constant he could always rely on. With his bow and arrows, he could protect and punish, wound and save. It was the one part of him that stayed no matter if he was Phoebus or Apollonas or whoever, and he’d be damned if he allowed this worthless winged wretch to even suggest taking that from him.

“Let us put it to test, then,” Eros declared, unfazed by the archer’s anger. What would the ancient deity have to fear from the youth? He was well aware of his capability, and little did Apollonas know he was falling into another trap, his emotions and naivety deceiving him once more. He was but a pawn in Eros’s game. “What say you to a battle of skill?”

Apollonas did not grace the other with an answer, lifting his weapon and drawing an arrow from his golden quiver in response. The toned muscles of his back flexed as he pulled back the string and released, and the arrow had barely gone forth an inch before he sent forward another, and then yet another. His arms were but a blur as arrow after arrow went flying, striking the most minuscule of targets: the pupil of a fly’s eye, the thread of a spider’s web, the stem of a single olive. Apollonas did not stop until his quiver lay empty, and he took in the perfect shots before him that seemed almost artistic by his hand. No matter how low he may have descended in these past years, there was no denying the masterpiece he created from the most basic of weapons. This was his domain. He couldn’t keep his lips from curling in conceit as he turned to Eros.

“That gear becomes my shoulders best,” he declared, setting his bow back beside his quiver to draw emphasis to the weapons that had adorned him for centuries. “I wound my enemies; I wound wild beasts. My countless arrows slew the bloated Python, whose vast coils across so many acres spread their blight. You and your loves!” Apollonas couldn’t hold back his scoff at the mention of Eros’s inferior work. “You have your torch to light them. Let that content you. Never claim my fame!”

“Your bow, Phoebus Apollona, may vanquish all, but mine shall vanquish you. As every creature yields to power divine, shall your glory yield to mine.” At Eros’s threat, an enraged response was making its way up Apollonas’s throat, but before it could spill off his tongue, the love god drew his own golden-tipped arrow. In the blink of an eye, he shot it forth right into the other god’s heart before taking flight.

Apollonas stumbled back, a gasp more of shock than pain escaping him as he clasped his hands over his chest, fingers fumbling for the arrow. However, it had already dissolved into him, its magic making its home in his body. He felt something ooze into his heart and bloodstream, shoot up his spine, ensnare his mind. He turned his attention inward, trying to identify the invader, but he could not locate it, nor could he compare it to anything he had ever felt before. What had Eros done? He lifted his head, searching for the god, but instead his gaze fell upon another figure altogether.

There, a few feet away, stood the sweet river nymph Daphne. He knew her -- he knew the names of many of the nymphs that resided in these woods -- but beyond a passing glance and a murmured greeting, she had never caught his attention. But now… he couldn’t seem to look away, his lips parting in awe as he stared at her, dumbfounded. Had she always been so breathtaking? How could he have missed such a beauty? Her dark locks flowed down like a waterfall of ink. What it would be to hold that silky hair between his fingers, to braid it and adorn it with flowers and beads! Her eyes were a startling shade of not blue, not green, but something between the two, and he could spend hours drowning in their depths. Her figure had the slightest curve to it, the outline of a river, and he imagined that her body had been crafted to fit against his perfectly. He saw her, loved her, wanted her.

“Daphne.” Apollonas whispered her name, marvelling at the nectar-like flavor that coated his tongue. If just her name was so sweet, then how must her lips taste? Looking was not enough. The urge to find out was unbearable, the earlier argument stolen from his mind entirely as he found himself tossing aside his bow and quiver. What did archery matter when he could master the bow of her lips instead? He would claim it, make it and the rest of her his and his alone. He took a step forth, a giddy smile alighting his features.

“St-stay back,” the nymph stammered, icy fear coiling in the depths of her stomach. She could read his intentions clearly on his face, from the crazed look in his eyes to the wolfish grin he wore to the way his hands reached towards her. Daphne knew all too well what this man planned to do with her, and that should she fall into his grasp, she would not be able to stop him from having his way. So when he took another step forward, she turned and ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Apollonas gaped only a moment before rushing after her, an arrow released from its bow.

“Daphne, please wait! I am no foe! You don’t need to fear me!” he cried out after her. Daphne did not answer him, her thoughts only on escaping. Thorns and brambles tore at the bare skin of her calves, yet she refused to slow down. “You run as if I am a wolf and you a lamb, but that is not so! It is love that spurs me! Don’t fly so fast, lest you fall and wound yourself!”

“Leave me be, you horrid man!” she shrieked, not stopping even as her dress got caught on the surrounding plants and began to tear, revealing her to him little by little. Apollonas’s brows furrowed in worry at the sight of bloodied cuts on her legs. From within him a voice called out: What are you doing, Apollona? Why are you tormenting this poor girl? Leave her be! You will not have your way with her! But before the voice could say more, he caught a glimpse of the bare skin of her thigh, and everything left his mind. His conscience was once more bound and gagged by Eros’s power, forced to watch it all in horror. Speaking of the god of love, he also watched, flying unnoticed above them, yet he felt only amusement from the sight. The sheer terror that had contorted Daphne’s face and drawn panicked tears from her eyes made him smirk, and Apollonas’s frantic yelling drew out peals of laughter. They had both bent to his will so easily, and he was eager to see how this played out.

“You run because you do not know. I am no peasant, no shepherd!” Apollonas called out to her again. She was only afraid because he didn’t know who he was. He knew the moment she realized his true identity, she would stop and turn to him with a blessed smile. “I am the son of Zeus, prince of Olympus, lord of Delphi. By me things future, past and present are revealed. I shape the harmony of songs and strings. You will be happy as my bride, dear Daphne! I will see that your every wish is granted and that no desire goes unfulfilled. Please stay!”

“No! My only desire is to escape you!” Yet this would not be granted, as her body was beginning to fail her. Try as she might, she could not outrun Apollonas; he was strong from years of training and battle, and though she was swift and sure-footed, she had used up all her limited mortal strength. Her legs trembled with every step, her lungs two pits of fire in her chest. And so her traitorous body came to a stop as she gasped for breath, and Apollonas finally had her. He held her hip tightly, freezing her in place. Had he been in his senses and had control over his own body, he’d never have done this, and his conscience screamed within him. But he was deaf to it, the lust coursing through him silencing all else. His eyes soaked in her bare skin when he would’ve shielded them, his hands pulled her closer when he would’ve let her go, and he was ready to claim her when he would’ve done anything but this crime.

“My love.” His warm breath brushed against her ear as he leaned down, pressing his lips against the pale column of her neck. Daphne gasped and tried to pull herself away, but his grip was too strong, utterly unbreakable. How could she escape a god? She was helpless and frail, trapped and alone. There was no one to aid her, no one to stop Apollonas from running his hands down her body and forcing himself against her. And then he was turning her around, wishing to taste her lips, and a final plea escaped her.

“Help me, Peneus!” she screamed for her father. She knew her father could do nothing against an Olympian, but perhaps he could do something to her, and she would accept any escape from this fate. “Open the earth to enclose me, or change my form, which has brought me into this danger! Let me be free of this man from this moment forward!”

Daphne’s prayer was answered, and she was changing.

A stiffness had taken over her body, the swiftness that had protected her for so long sacrificed to escape Apollonas. Her arms lifted of their own accord, her fingers elongating up and her feet rooting into the ground. The dark waterfall split into a hundred streams that lightened to a soft green. Her curved figure fell away as her body thinned into a single arc, her legs fusing and her hands reaching higher and higher. Bark was creeping up from her extremities, down what were now branches and up what had transformed into a trunk. It conquered her shoulders, her chest, her neck. A soft sigh, her last breath, escaped her just as her lips were encased.

Apollonas’s lips met rough bark that cut at his soft skin. With a small gasp, his eyes flew open and he looked straight into Daphne’s piercing eyes. The waves in them had finally calmed, as the storm that had tormented them could no longer ripple its waters. He stared into those beautiful orbs, breathing her name, and watched as they shut forever.

Apollonas couldn’t tear his gaze away, his mind still unable to process the transformation that had unfolded before him. His hand trembled as he raised it, placing flat against the trunk of the tree. A steady pulse graced his fingertips -- a heartbeat. Daphne’s heartbeat. She was this tree, this sorrowful laurel tree, lost from him forever. His legs gave out beneath him as he wept, wrapping his arms around her and leaning his head against her bark. And yet the lust hadn’t left him, and he was kissing the wood over and over, whispering her name and an endless string of apologies as the skin of his lips tore and blood dripped down his chin.

“Oh, Daphne. My Daphne,” he cried, yearning what could’ve been. He thought the image of her smiling sweetly at him, kissing his cheek and calling him ‘husband’, was a vision, a prophecy promising that he could be the source of her happiness until the end of time. But he was wrong. It had been a fantasy, a dream that had slipped out of his grasp. And now she was gone. His sobs doubled in intensity as grief wracked him, and he didn’t notice Eros approaching until he spoke.

“Isn’t this a beautiful sight?” the god of love asked, his lips twisting into a smirk. “Phoebus Apollonas, broken and filthy inside and out. A slave to his desires. Do you accept defeat, oh lustful one?”

Apollonas turned to the other god, and the grief in him sharpened to rage. His beautiful Daphne, the love of his life, had been stolen from him, snatched right out of his hands, and the cause of it all was simply standing there, taking amusement in his loss. He reached for his bow only to find it missing, and so he lunged forth and tackled Eros to the ground, wrapping his hands around the smaller man’s thin neck.

“You monster,” Apollonas growled, his sky blue eyes glowing with divine power. This horrid creature had taken his Daphne from him and deserved nothing less than death. Apollonas would deliver him to the gates of Tartarus himself if necessary. The man must pay for his crimes. He increased the pressure, causing the other god to choke under his iron grip. “You did this!”

“Oh no, Apollona. I merely gave you a nudge. The rest was all you,” Eros gasped out, managing to laugh even as his windpipe threatened to collapse altogether. The sun god’s brows furrowed at the statement, and Eros subtly waved his hand, calming the effects of his magic. “And who knows what you’ll do next if I keep nudging you forth? You’ll be giving your father quite the competition, won’t you?”

The spell finally broke, and Apollonas’s grip slackened as the lust drained out of him and the truth became clear. He had chased Daphne. He had chased Daphne with the intention to force himself on her. He had tried to kiss her and claim her as his own with no care for her terror. He pushed her so far that she thought it better to lose her humanity than to be his. Oh Fates, what had he done? You are the most wicked person to live, Phoebus Apollona. You are no better than your father. You did this to that poor girl. You ruined her.

“N-no,” he whispered, backing away from Eros and clamping his hands over his ears, but it was in vain. The voice came not from outside but from within, where his conscience was finally free to reclaim its owner. And so Apollonas relived the incident that had just taken place. He saw himself chase after her just as Python had chased him and his family, heard his plans to ruin her just as he believed Orion had intended with Artemis, felt himself force himself upon her just as Zeus did to his mother Leto. Never in his life had something been so achingly clear to him as this truth: while he had spent his whole life painting others as wicked, he had been the most terrible monster all along. Apollonas doubled over, spilling his insides onto the earth as though he could purge the maliciousness from his body. But alas, he could not; he was born the destroyer, and he had truly lived up to his name. He could not tell if his scream remained in his soul or ripped out of him. He didn’t know if it was tears or fire spilling from his eyes. All he knew was the terrible truth that he has been blind to all his life.

“You are weak, boy. But I can make you strong,” Eros declared, towering over the hysterical god. He wondered how Olympus would react to seeing their golden heir broken on the ground, sobbing like a spoiled child. He could only imagine they’d be just as entertained as he. Still, the time for games was over. Making sure to avoid the pool of vomit, he crouched down and placed a thin finger under Apollonas’s chin, forcing the young god to meet his gaze. “Here is my offer to you: vow to me on the river Styx that you will follow my every command, and I will save you from further humiliation and heartbreak.”

“What, so I can spend my life blind and deaf, a mindless slave to a heartless man?” A dry, humorless laugh slipped out of Apollonas’s lips. He had seen and tasted truth, and he would not give that up to become Eros’s puppet. He scowled and spat at the love god’s feet, glaring into those blood-red eyes. “That is what I think of your offer.”

“I expected the god of intellect to be wiser than this, but I now see the difference between you and Athena.” Eros sneered, wrinkling his nose at the sorry display. “Do not be hasty, godling, and ponder my words carefully. I am offering you invulnerability. I will harden your heart to stone so that none may hurt you. Without your greatest weakness, you will be unstoppable. You will never have to feel such pain again.”

Apollonas paused for a moment, considering Eros’s claim. To never feel this soul-tearing agony again? To be free of the organ that rebelled against his mind at every moment? Now that he contemplated it, the offer was quite tempting. Without his heart, he would only have to rely on his body and mind, both of which were immaculate. He would indeed be unstoppable, finally the golden heir of Olympus he was expected to be. And yet… his gaze moved to the laurel tree, and a single leaf drifted down before him. Apollonas caught it in the palm of his hand, carefully tracing its pale green veins. If he were to remove his heart, to lose his ability to feel, would that not be a dishonor to Daphne? After all he had put her through, did she not deserve to be mourned and remembered? And what about all the others, every mortal that had suffered at his hand? He would be spitting on their graves by choosing to run away from the pain that, in the face of what torment they had lived through, was nothing. And so Apollonas rose to his feet, stretching to full height and then kneeling down so that his face was merely inches from the love god’s. “Rot. In. Tartarus.”

“You really should have chosen the easy path,” Eros muttered, the smirk sliding off his face as he grit his teeth. Apollonas wanted to regret? Then he’d give him reason to regret. His hands flew to Apollonas’s temples, freezing the younger god in place. Eros’s eyes glowed, twin pits of lava, and his voice boomed as he invoked his ancient power. “I curse you, Phoebus Apollona. May love be your enemy and your heart a traitor. May you be powerless to control the whims of your desire, and may you be the cause of pain to those you love, over and over until the end of time itself.”

Apollonas fell to the ground once more, struggling as the curse rooted itself deep in his soul, at the very essence of his being. By the time his throat had grown too raw for him to continue screaming, Eros had already flown away, leaving behind nothing but punishment. He found himself crawling back to the laurel tree, to Daphne, leaning his forehead against her trunk as he wept. He wept for her, for those before her, and for those after her.

“I’m sorry, Daphne,” he whispered, holding on so tightly the bark dug into his skin and realizing how powerless he really was. “I’d change you back if I could, sweet nymph, but I cannot. Instead, I swear by the river Styx, I won’t let you be forgotten. I bless you so that your leaves are never shed and instead will be woven in wreaths that will become a symbol of honor, the very thing I tried to steal from you. Let mankind see me to be the monster I am if that means your memory will live on. And even if your name no longer forms on the lips of men, they will live on eternally upon my own. This I vow to you.”

With this, he lay one last touch upon the tree before turning away, trudging his leaden feet back to Olympus. He heard the whispers as he arrived in the city, but he paid them no mind and made way to his house. Barely moments after he entered, his fingers scurried over the wall until they found the loose brick that he yanked out and tossed aside. His hands trembled in a moment of hesitation before reaching in. He grasped the bottle of his poison, his secret, his solace. Apollonas lifted it to his lips, tears running down his face, and drank his worries away.

[bloodycassian]

Enemies and Allies - Reader + Night court. the concept:

enemies forced together in alliance to save their courts. Politics, tension, "Once we're done here I will be the one to kill you." slow burn reader x an Illyrian? Not sure who yet

Part 1 of a possibly reoccurring fic.

You never liked dealing with other courts, but Rhysand and Tamlin were possibly the two worst high lords to deal with. Helion would have been up there too if he wasn't so damn charming. And Beron didn't even count, considering he was your uncle. He was annoying automatically. And a damned fool for not showing up to the funeral. Tamlin was a brute shoved into power much too early. You could tell just from the way he carried himself. No nobility, no grace. Just the brutal beast that lurked under his skin. The way he didn't bother leaving any flowers along the coast line was further proof of his childish ways.   Rhysand was the polar opposite. The epitome of arrogance, grace, poise and political power. All words and strategy, enough to make you double take every time he opened his mouth. Constantly on the lookout for hidden meaning or loopholes in his word choice. He made your heart race with stress.  His spymaster and general though, were like two neutral, yet menacing gargoyles on either side of him. They were unsettling, especially with the shadows that crept over the spy. You tried not to stare at those curling around his shoulders, or the dull siphons that laid on each of their hands. Or the wings.  The wings would have been the worst part if there weren't other winged generals at the funeral. Peregryns guarded their high lord, one at each side much like Rhysand. Only they radiated sunshine, and light and goodness. Still terrifyingly deadly, though. Their polished armor and ceremonial scepters glinting from the overcast skies.  "A funeral should be a celebration... of the life that was. Please, join us." Tarquin said, voice thick. His mate's lip quivered. The ocean crashed against the sand, scooping up the flowers left to honor his son. Your heart squeezed at the tone change in his voice. The way he struggled to hold himself together for his court.  Vivienne turned from the crowd, and Tarquin followed. Her dark hair moved like water over her thin frame. They held each other for a long moment while the Summer court guards ushered guests to the large open beach house. You hesitated, looking out towards the ocean as it roiled. The dark water churned, seagulls overhead made no sound as they passed.  "Its been a long time, Autumn." The sultry voice was enough to make your skin crawl. He had kept the nickname since he'd met you. And in the two hundred years since. He did not forget such a remarkable introduction. Especially of someone who had your kind of power in an opposing court.  His eyes flashed with amusement when you turned, plastering on a charming smile. "I would have preferred longer, but the Cauldron works in strange ways sometimes." You retorted, and began walking away from him, grinding your teeth when he followed with ease.  He laughed and nodded. "Indeed it does, with the passing of Tarquin's only child." the not question was leading, looking to see if you knew anything of the murder. Anger spread though you at the subtle accusation. You couldnt let it show.  You had to keep your calm. Or he would surely suspect something of you. You could practically see the accusation scene play out when Night court invaded Autumn on Summer's behalf. Claiming that Autumn had killed the boy. "A parent should never outlive their own child." You said mournfully. You knew from experience how it ruined families after such a loss.  When you snuck a glance at his face, you could have swore you saw pain there. A longing that you didnt understand coming from him. It almost made you feel bad for him. You jolted yourself, forcing your mind to focus upon on your steps in the sand.  He paused for just a second before opening the bungalow door for you, inviting you to the wake. All courts dressed in mute tones of their colors, not one dared to raise their voice above the hushed murmurs. Rhysand gave a nod to his two generals in the corner, standing like statues. "I'll be seeing you then, Autumn." His eyes met yours and you swore you saw something linger there.  Before you could tell him to knock it off with the nickname, he was weaving his way across the room to the two Illyrians. Stopping every so often to give grim smiles to the families of Summer Court. His actions seemed genuine in nature. You dared not reach out a mental hand to him though, knowing you might not return with it intact.  + "And what of Night court?" Beron's slurred words were familiar. The old man had been wasting away in his own filth for years. After the Lady of Autumn disappeared, he had nothing left to keep him in line. His sons - Eris namely- made the important decisions in the court, but he still acted as ruler. The figurehead for important events and nothing more.  He had also become obsessed with the innate abilities of all the other high lords. Constantly comparing his own lingering power with the others. In two hundred years, his body had seemed to begin to wither. Directly after your birth, some said. And cursed you for their ruler's demise. After the shame of being one of the few courts to refuse to help win the war, Beron had given up completely. Still power hungry, but no longer driven.  "Night court seems to be fine. Not shaken by the murders." You surmised as best you could after your short interaction with the High Lord.  "Was it's high Lady there?" He asked with a grunt of a laugh. He was always undermining the role, laughing whenever you mentioned seeing the lady of Night. "She was not. I believe she was taking care of the babe, as the two generals were there." He shook his head, his gray hair falling in his face. "As a female should." You fought not to cringe or bite back at him. Even if he was your uncle, Beron would be a fantastic target if there was, in fact a murderer loose in Prythian. You shooed the tratirous thought away.  "Tarquin and Vivienne send their regards." You said, hoping he would allow you to take your leave. You glanced around to the cavernous space that encapsulated the dark throne room. The banners on the wall seemed lacking in color. Years of dust likely growing on them. The cracked stone floor showed its age as well, moss growing in the corners. He refused to let anyone touch up the dim room after his wife had gone.  Echoing steps sounded behind you. You turned on your heel calmly, but gripped your sword. Ready to defend your High Lord if needed.  Your mouth fell open at the sight of The Morrigan striding down the long hall. Eris on her heels behind her. She was a beacon of light among the dull ancient stone walls. Eris had a wicked grin on, eyes locked on his father.  +  "The Queens have been killed." She announced, no wavering in her tone. Your stomach hit the floor. Beron said nothing, didnt show any reaction in the slightest. As if he already knew. "And they sent you so I could be assured the court of Nightmares isnt lying?"  "They sent me because I saw to their end personally." Eris even glanced at her with the tone she used. She leveled a look at Beron.  He waved a hand, as if the Night court commander hadn't just announced that the biggest enemies to Prythian were dead."Cut off the head of the snake and more appear." He coughed after the shrug, his breathing labored. Eris hid a pained look that you knew all too well. The denial of his father's life coming to an end in front of him. You could have balked at him for the outright insult but kept your mouth shut. "High Lord.." you began, wanting to consult him on the weight of the situation. He glared at you, that familiar piercing stare that told you to stop whatever you were doing. As a child, that stare was enough to make you behave. You didn't dare think of what more than a stare Eris had to go through during his childhood.  Eris' jaw clenched before he began "Father, the Queens no longer pose a threat. This would be the perfect op-"  "Enough, boy!" Beron's voice echoed in the hall. Your cousin's face went red with shame. Fear settled in your stomach. If Beron  had no plan for moving forces to the continent to stablaise, there would be a power struggle. Even you knew that. "You assume I dont have a plan. We can discuss this when there are no wandering eyes or ears present." His tone was softer, but still laced with that High Lord's authority.  Mor's eyes could have killed them if she had the ability.  She snorted, and turned on a heel to leave. Her footsteps echoing in the long hall. "The Night Court's whore, going back to where she belongs." Beron mused to himself. She stopped dead in her tracks. Eris' face went pale when she turned. Your palms went sweaty at her eyes, like two daggers looking at him. She held up a hand. Light flashed, and suddenly there was a razor thin spear flying through the air.  You ran at The Morrigan before you knew what you were doing. Your hands were a flurry of movement as you tried to keep her down. Eris just watched, unable to move as he watched death race for his father.  A wet splatter, and Beron's chest was punctured by that golden spear. His mouth leaked blood, his eyes closing. Eris was rooted to the spot. Your body locked up, and Mor shoved you off of her with a grunt. She wasnt trying to win the fight, she could have obliterated you in a second if she was. You felt like you weren't in your body. She stood, wiping the blood from her face. You didnt remember hitting her that hard. Your mouth was dry, mind buzzing. Mor waved her hand again and the spear was gone.  "Have all the power you want, Eris. Our deal has been struck. Send your forces to Rask by next week." She scowled at the body on the throne. The male you had just wished death upon. The reality of it made everything fuzzy. Eris was still pale, his eyes not looking away from his father. "We will see you there." He said, voice weak. Distant.  You could only faintly hear Mor Winnow away. The roaring in your head was overwhelming. Your uncle dead on his throne. A hysterical laugh bubbled from Eris' chest. Only one, before you could catch his gaze and see the silent tears streaming down his cheeks. + "You killed the Queens and my father without consulting me first. I hardly think our deal was struck." Eris had been strange after his father's funeral. But for the first time since, you saw a glimpse of the old him. On the move to Rask, he had been that hollow shell he seemed like. Btu as soon as he laid eyes on Morrigan waiting at that tent, he seemed to put on more of a show.  Inside the tent seemed too small. It was enormous, but with everyone inside it was too hot. Too cramped. The sun beating down did not help. The two Illyrians in the corner leering at you and Eris was not helping either. "A deal's a deal young Lord. I suggest you choose your words more carefully next time." Rhys winked. You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to hold back your tone. "You murdered him. I am being blamed for not guarding him well enough." Your reputation in the court had fallen.  Several Royal court members had been rumoured of your position inside the court, if you should be banished because of the death. None of them knew what actually happened. You and Eris had agreed on a believable story though, whoever had murdered Tarquin's son also reached Beron the night of the funeral. "I did not murder him. My lovely cousin however, did." Rhys drawled with a cat-like grin. It made you see red. Azriel grinned behind him. Those creepy shadows of his seemed more transparent in the sun. Mor glanced to you, her eyes not betraying anything she felt of the kill. You were hoping she would show some remorse for the death. Heat roiled in your stomach at the lack of care.  "Dont act so upset, Autumn." Rhys waved a hand, and you felt those clawd mental hands whisk across your shields. You snarled at him, reaching for your sword. You knew you couldnt win, even on your best of days. That didnt stop you though. Eris placed a hand on your arm. The two Illyrians had their siphon shields glowing in front of their high lord instantly. Rhys laughed calmly despite the tension in the room.  "You did give Mor quite the cut however, and burn it seems. Call it revenge." He folded his hand on the desk, wiping away dirt that wasnt there. Azriel's siphons burned brighter. His wings tightened behind his back. Mor still showed nothing, only looking from her cousin to Eris. Tense, her shoulders and posture radiated the worry. The tension of the room. Eris' jaw locked. He pulled you, willing you to let it go. You weren't proud of the fight with Mor. You wanted Beron to have at least died in an honorable way. But in the recent years with him hardly leaving his seat at the throne or his room at the castle, it made the chance of him seeing battle again nearly impossible.  "Maybe I should have done more." You muttered, sheathing your sword. The shadowsinger stepped forward, chest pushed out. His lips pulled back in a snarl, "Do not-" He began, voice a low threatening growl. "Azriel." Rhys said calmly, voice like honey. You grinned at the Shadowed one.  Rhys sighed and waved his tattooed hand in the air. Wine glasses appeared on the table he sat at. "Let's begin the real discussion at hand." He said calmly, pouring a glass. You glanced to Eris. He hesitated, but strode forward, taking a glass and downing it. + Eris was nearly drunk by the time you helped him out of the tent. After the long hours of dribble and stale conversation about diving resources, you couldnt blame him for having a few extra glasses of wine. He tripped on the rug going out. You caught him, but noticed shadows lingering around his torso.  "Get. Off."  You hissed, Not looking back. The shadows lingered for just a moment, then skittered away. You heard something like a sigh come from one of them as you led your cousin to his tent.

[fipindustries]

it was worth it

so here we go, one more of what im sure will be half a dozen essays on the ending of worth the candle, hopefully ill be able to say something sufficently distinct from what other people are saying that this is worth reading. truly we have to than that i had been liveblogging this story because if i had to put everything i thought about this story right here right now, it would probably be longer than the 1.6 million words of the book itself

every so often you come across those works of fiction, those works after which the entire genre feels pointless because all there was to say was already said and done there. worm comes to mind, a lot of people have said that they just couldnt engage with superhero fiction any more after reading that because everything felt so stale and pedestrian. this feels much the same for the isekai genre, and for geeky fantasy kitchen sink worlds in general.

alexander wales, through his successive avatars sprinkled all around this story, through the dm and juniper and everyone else, feels like an archetype. @itsbenedict​ at one point said something to the effect that he was amazed by how every desition the characters would make and the specific reasoning behind it all felt like what he would have done and i agree with this. i dont think there was any other book that showed such a perfect, in real time, display of my thoughts as i was having them while reading the book. this book, more like any other captures a very specific type of mentality, a very particular way of engaging with fiction and fantasy, an incredibly specific philosophy when it comes to imagination and storytelling. it feels like a beacon, a conceptual circumbscribing of a type of personality and a way of looking at the world that i would truly consider my kin, as shown by the fandom of this novel. 

wales, madman that he is, went and did it, he wrote the story that i feel we all wanted to write our entire lives, the gigantic, sprawling tale of someone in a granular detailed expansive and rich fantasy world, munchkinning their way into godood with one weird trick, no tricks, no traps, no short cuts, just one guy and his group of friends being very clever and making good choices. solving problems as they come with actual problem solving skills. with actual thought put into it. fantasy understood as a great puzzle to put together, a mathematical equation, commiting to go wherever the logic of the story may take us, no hedging, no items, fox only, final destination.

but there is even more to this archetype i mentioned. juniper is not just a geek, he is a very specific kind of geek. he is the classical version. he is the epitome of the gen X nerd. this subculture evolved a lot through the years, and the millenial nerd is a far different beast from its previous iteration. webcomics through the 2000′s and the 2010′s are if anything the long chronicle of that evolution, from the greasy loser of the past to quirky catgirls of today. but joon and his world feel like the last great hurrah of this character, its final tribute.

now, going back to wales, the real actual wales and not the hall of mirrors that he set up all around himself, this story proved to me more candid than i ever imagined. all fiction is ultimatly the author talking about themselves in one way or the other, we all put a bit of our lives and our sould into our tales. some times the lines can get blurry but, unless the author comes out and outrights spells it out for you, there is always some degree of plausible daniability. 

well, as a matter of fact wales himself does come out at the very end and outright spells it and the amount of borderline one to one correlations with his actual life are, dare i say it? brave. doesnt help that he more or less confirms that a part of him (that is not quite him but still a significant part) would gladly have sex with a cactus person, an otter girl and an octopus, or at least would get a kick out of fantasizing about it.

but wacky fetishes aside (we never really got to see what was in flesh.txt did we?) there are some suggestions that the characters in this story may be distantly based if not in actual people, at the very least in the feeling that certain people he knew sucitated in him. which leads one to wonder was there something analogous to a “real” amarylllis??? perhaps some girl he had a crush on when he was a teenager that at the time seemed like the perfect girl and that he couldnt help but idolize and put on a pedestal, much like the readers of this story, me included, did with amaryllis. truly the last chapter invites you, almost dares you to go back and try to psychoanalize wales and figure out who he is by the veiled clues sprinkled all through out this self admitted metaphorical autobography.

as a way for me to take a deep breath, cleanse my mouth and slowly dial my self back into the rest of my life without this story ill comment on some of its flaws, mainly the final leg of the story where the emotional tugs just werent all there. where the plot sags a bit and where you can feel that the story is mainly rushing a bunch of stuff wales was just not interested in exploring but that he had commited himself to see through. so much so that through the entire arc of the long stairs all the other characters felt like they were just not really there much and the final tearful goodbye with arthur doesnt completly land, at least for me. a lot of it feels like going through the motions to just get things done, but the final take away here is that it sticks the landing, sure it might have blown its load a bit early leaving the rest of the story deflated but who am i to complain? didnt i get the load at the end of the day? and wasnt it fantastic, beyond fantastic even, transcendental? this is a good book, is my main takeaway here.

incredible, amazing, perfect, superlatives galore, i loved it and i am heartbroken that is done and i cant wait to see what alexander wales comes up with next. go fucking read it.

[deans-baby-momma]

Truth or Dare-Part 6/20

Summary: The Winchester sibling trio has been through so much in the last decade. From the night of their parents’ 30th wedding anniversary party where Sam and Dean eased Y/N from her innocence to Sam becoming a happily married lawyer with a kickass nurse of wife to the three of them now living in the same town they grew up in under the same roof where each of them came of age.  Y/N is a working mother of three,  her days spent helping the townsfolk make proper and suitable financial decisions while bustling about escorting her two oldest to school and her youngest, Mary Ellen, to daycare; Dean’s garage is the premiere body shop for classic restorations and  car maintenance; people from other state’s bring their vehicles to them to be repaired. Business at Winchester Wheels  is booming; Sam is the legal council for Winchester Wheels and has been since he moved back home almost 5 years ago. He has his work cut out for him dealing with the people Dean pisses off and threatens to sue the garage on at least a monthly basis.

After one lust-filled night, the siblings become more than family.  They become lovers. The three of them, together and separately.

One big loving family.

So when Y/N’s boss calls for her to take a much needed vacation, the six of them hit the road. What will happen? Will it bring them closer together or break them apart?

W/C: 1115

Warnings:  more jealousy, ACTUAL jealousy, Lisa, pissed off reader

"Dean?" Y/N questions as he opens the passenger side door of the rented Tahoe. "Why are we taking the vehicle? Aren't we just gonna walk down to Miss Kitty's?"

"Nope," is the only answer he gives her until he is seated behind the wheel. "Our first date deserves something a little more special."

Y/N looks over at him, stunned.  'He had really put some thought into this,' she thinks to herself as they pull out of the hotel's parking lot.

Dean places his left hand on the steering wheel to guide the car then grabs her hand with his right, lacing their fingers together before resting their joined hands on the console.

When they pull into the Dodge House Restaurant and Saloon, Y/N's smile widens. The sign above the building indicates that they offer 'the biggest buffet north of the Mason-Dixon'. Leave it to Dean to find a place with an unlimited supply of food.

After they park, Dean gets out and rushes around the car to open Y/N's door. She smiles brightly at him as she exits the vehicle. He is definitely pulling out all the stops to make her feel special and cherished. 

After getting their fill of steak, chicken and anything else you can think of, Dean drives them to their next stop, The 8 Seconds Bar.

"Where are we going now?" Y/N giggles as she takes in the establishment.  "Eight seconds for what?"

Her question is answered as soon as they enter. High top tables are placed sporadically around the room with more private booths along the wall to the right. To their left was a long wooden bar top with stools perched in front. 

The place was pretty hopping, country Western music heard under the din of the patrons' conversations. 

What stood out to her was the large mechanical bull in the middle of the room surrounded by a large cushioned area. The name of the bar finally made sense.

"Are you going to…?" She asks, nodding toward the beast.

"Hell yea," Dean smiles as he lays an arm around her shoulders and leads her toward the bar. "Two Jacks and Cokes, easy on the Coke," Dean orders as they settle on two stools at the bar.

Once the bartender returns with their drinks, Y/N sips as she turns on her stool to people watch.

"You having fun so far?" Dean leans in so she can hear him.

"Of course. This is the best first date ever. You might even get lucky later," she tells him with a wink.

Dean smiles and chuckles. "Putting out on the first date eh?"

"Maybe. If you play your cards right."

Sadly, after a few hours and one bull ride later, it looked as if Dean had folded and had no chance of getting back into the action.

It all started going downhill shortly after Dean conquered Tucker the Bucker, he began acquiring the attention of another patron at the bar, a woman they both quickly learn is named Lisa.

Lisa is almost as tall as Y/N but has the body of an athlete, muscular arms and a narrow tiny waist that is all showcased in the flowered halter top she is wearing. The shorts she is sporting barely make it to the top of her thighs, making her tanned legs look miles long. She is the epitome of what Y/N is not!

Y/N watches as Dean blushes at the attention she is giving him, offering to buy him drinks and touching him on his arm or shoulder.

Y/N glares at the bitch each time but Lisa just ignores it. 'How dare that whore thinks she has a chance with my man!' she thinks as she watches Dean try to shrug off her advances. 

After a half-hour, Lisa is practically hanging on to his every word and always has her hand on him. Y/N is getting fed up and livid.

'Why doesn't she take a hint? Why doesn't Dean tell her he is taken? Wait, is he enjoying the attention? Is she someone Dean could see himself fucking? Is he tired of me? We have been together for almost a decade and I'm pretty sure Dean has been faithful and loyal during that time. Does he want another pussy to get his dick wet?'

Sure, Dean had been on dates before-to keep up appearances, of course-but now Y/N wonders if her assumption that he hadn’t slept with any of the girls he’d taken out was correct. Had he been fucking them too?

The self-deprecating thoughts keep coming as Y/N sits there watching the scene in front of her, holding back the tears burning behind her eyelids.

When the song that's playing stops and before the next one begins, she hears Lisa proposition Dean.

"Why don't we get out of here and I'll ride you better than you rode Ole Tuck?"

That does it! Y/N jumps up and pushes her way in between her brother and the slut in front of him.

"Why don't you go find someone else to fuck? My boyfriend isn't interested in a whore like you."

"You-your boyfriend?" Lisa asks, wide-eyed and shocked.  "I-I thought you were his sister or something. The resemblance is uncanny."

"I'm not his sister," Y/N proclaims. "I am his girlfriend, his lover, the mother of his kids. Yea honey, that's right. We have three beautiful children. So run on along and leave us alone!"

Lisa turns and takes off across the bar before Y/N can blink. She turns to look at Dean, who is smiling ear to ear,  a look of pride coloring his face.

"That was awesome," he chuckles.

Y/N rolls her eyes and stomps toward the door, not really caring if Dean is following her or not.

She doesn't have to wait long before Dean joins her outside, unlocking the car as he walks toward it. She rips the door open and climbs in, slamming it shut. She is fuming!

Dean slides in behind the wheel and just sits there, staring straight ahead. 

"If you want to go back in there and take her up on her offer, go," Y/N seethes. 

Dean sighs and puts the key in the ignition turning the engine on.

"I don't."

As they head back toward the hotel, Y/N is trembling with rage. When he pulls into a spot, before he even puts it in Park, Y/N jumps out and slams the door again.

Dean sits and watches through the windshield as Y/N unlocks the room and storms in. 

'Fuck!' he thinks to himself. 'What have I done?'

A/N: Uh-oh!!! Their first date isn’t going to end well is it???

@lostinaseaoffictionalbliss @spnbaby-67 @tftumblin @sea040561 @delightfullykrispypeach @larajadeschmidt13 @atc74 @vicariouslythruspn @squirrelnotsam @death-unbecomes-you @sandlee44 @blacktithe7 @hoboal87 @mogaruke @deanwanddamons @onethirstyunicorn @supraveng @deandreamernp​

[kaiparker-avengerssmut]

CURSED: CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Accusing, Denying”

Kai Parker x OC!Mack Grace

Series synopsis: "We're both cursed, in a way."

We all know the story of Kai Parker, but he once lived in a very different life. Do you ever wonder what that life looked like?

Chapter summary: a new person arrives, Kai gets jealous

Warnings: swearing, mentions of death

Masterlist | series Masterlist

School was starting again, and Mack was loosing her shit. It was the first time that the reality of Ben's death had truly dawned on her.

But not in the way you'd expect - she wasn't guilty, nor was she upset. No, she was anxious and terrified about people finding out what she had done. They would notice, after all - who doesn't show up for the first day of school when every student either wants to be them or fears them? There's no logical reason as to why Ben wouldn't be there, Mack thought.

Except he's dead, she thought.

Mack took a deep breath, composing herself as she pushed open the front door, shouting a goodbye to her dad before letting the door slam shut behind her. The rumble of Kai's car engine echoed in the chilly January morning air, Mack's breath forming a little cloud before her at how cold it really was. She reached the black Jeep, wrapping her fingers around the handle and pulling the door open.

"Nice car - I see you've really done a lot to it over the Chris holidays!" Mack drawled and Kai smirked.

"Thank you for noticing! I went to this new place - I think it's called something like 'my girlfriend is a raging bitch who turns into a werewolf' or something like that." Kai smiled brightly back, sarcasm dripping from their words like syrup. Mack shook her head with a little smile, rolling her eyes as she plugged her seatbelt and dumped her bag on the floor by her feet.

"Whatever." She laughed, smiling happily against Kai's lips as he pulled her in for a languid kiss.

"Good morning." He mumbled against her lips as he pulled back, voice still slightly rasping and making a small shiver rattle its way down her spine and straight there.

"Morning." She murmured back, barely aware of Kai's amused smirk as he figured out what happened.

"I'm warning you now, Malachai Parker - this month will be one hell of a ride." Mack mused.

"And why is that, Princess?" Kai asked with a sickly sweet grin.

"I thought I told you no to call me princess." Mack deadpanned and Kai smirked.

"And I thought I told you not to call me Malachai." He shot back and Mack huffed. "So why is this month going to be one 'hell of a ride'?" Kai asked again and Mack smirked at him this time, causing one of Kai's brows to shoot up.

"I was checking dates, and it turns out - the full moon isn't the only cycle you'll have to worry about this month." Mack grinned and Kai's eyes widened, a hollow groan emitting from his plump lips.

"They're happening at the same time?" His eyes bugged and Mack nodded, smugness plastered on her face.

"Yep." She countered, popping the 'p'.

"Fucking cycles." Kai muttered under his breath, begging to pull out of Mack's drive way and making her laugh. Mack's head snapped up at the sound of rustling and she instantly rolled her eyes.

"Pork rinds? Really? It's fucking 8am!" She exclaimed as Kai popped one into his mouth, chewing nonchalantly threw a smile. "God, you are unbelievable sometimes." Mack scoffed, leaning back into her seat and listening to Kai crunching the rest of the drive to school.

...

Mack and Kai wandered to their lockers once they reached the school, Kai leant against his while Mack rummaged through hers - clearly trying to find something.

"What have you lost?" Kai asked, trying to hide his amusement as Mack nearly threw some book on the floor in frustration. She groaned, slamming her locker door shut and looking at Kai.

"My sketches! The book filled with everything I was going to use to get a scholarship!" She exclaimed, rubbing her forehead with stress. Kai stood up at this, now concerned because he knew how much she cared about going to college.

"Well maybe you took them home?" He suggested and she shook her head.

"No, I definitely left them here." She mumbled, now looking around them to see if someone had stolen the book or something. She froze when a whisper reached her ears though.

"Have you seen Ben? He hasn't contacted me since before Christmas." Someone Mack recognised to be one of Ben's friends asked another guy worriedly.

"Don't worry yourself, man. He's probably black out drunk somewhere or hanging out with some chick. Chill." The other guy responded, grabbing a book out his locker before letting it swing shut, and Mack let out a heavy sight of relic as the walked off. Then her eyes landed on something and she seethed.

Mack stormed over to the clearly obnoxious boy, fists clenched and face red as she walked over to him.

The guy was tall - nearly taller than Kai - with wisps of curly blonde hair fluttering over his forehead and the rest piled messily on top of his head like a mop of curly wool. His eyes were dark, so dark the nearly looked black (a stark contrast to Kai). But even from where she was Mack could see he was muscly, with thick arms and most likely a toned stomach, but for now he was clad in baggy jeans, a lose fitting t-shirt and a faded blue denim jacket - with pulled out and distressed seems. Overall he was the opposite of Kai, who had darker, straight hair; deep steel-blue eyes, and was quite scrawny and slim (that didn't mean he wasn't still a beast in bed). Kai also opted for leather jackets, much darker jeans, often black, not blue, and band t-shirts - AC/DC, Nirvana etc.

When she reached him Mack slammed her hand into the lock beside him, the metal door slamming shut and catching the distracted boy's attention.

"Hey, you have something mine." Mack demanded bluntly, eyes narrowed at the large sketch book clutched in his left hand. The guy looked down - following her gaze - and held the book up.

"Oh, this? I didn't know it belonged to anyone. It was only ok the floor when I found it." The guy shrugged, before leaning in. "But I'm sure we could arrange something so you could get it back." He said, almost seductively, but Mack merely snorted.

"That's won't be necessary. You're going to give me my book back and I'm going to go back over there to my boyfriend, while you piss off and find another girl to bother." Mack said with a sweet smile, pointing behind her to Kai who was still stood at their lockers, jealousy in his eyes as he watched the whole thing from afar.

"I think you should give me a kiss first, after all, I did pick up your book, rather than let it be trampled on." The guy smirked, leaning down again so that his lips her beside Mack's ear and his eyes were on Kai. "And if you're lucky maybe I'll have you screaming later." He whipped and Mack pulled back, a shiver going through her.

"Give it back." She demanded, but he held it above her head.

"Not until you give me a kiss, sweetheart." The guy chided and Mack sighed a frustrated groan.  She leant up quickly on her toes, pecking the guy's lips so quickly before grabbing her book from his hand and instantly grimacing, wiping her lips and turning back to face Kai.

What she saw scared her, his nostrils flared and face red as he watched the scene before him.

"I think your boyfriend's a little jealous." The guy mused in Mack's ear, head at the side of hers as they both watched Kai slam his locker shut.

"Come with me." Mack demanded, grabbing the guy's bicep and dragging him along with her.

Mack pulled the boy into the first empty room she found, hand clasping his wrist tightly as she pushed past the tables and chairs before forcing him to sit.

"What the hell was that?" She seethed, a dangerous glint running her eyes. The boy laughed, smirking nonchalantly.

"What? I was saving you! That punk doesn't deserve an ounce of your respect, damn it!" The guy defended, raising his hands in surrender when Mack tried to hit him.

"Save me? Of for God's sake! I don't need saving, Kai isn't going to hurt me!" Mack was doing everything in her power not to rip the boy's head off.

"That's not the was Kim explained it!" He exclaimed and Mack groaned.

"So Kim sent you?" Mack seethed and the boy nodded. "Who are you? What's your name?" Mack demanded and he chuckled.

"Feisty one, you are." He mused and Mack's gaze darkened.

"What's. Your. Name?" She spat through gritted teeth.

"Shawn." He said and Mack nodded.

"Well, Shawn, you can tell my sister that I don't need watching-"

"So that you can kill another of her boyfriends? I don't think you." Shawn said and Mack rolled her eyes.

"I didnt kill anyone!"

"You and I both know that's a lie." Shawn whispered, now stood up and caging Mack against the desk, his breath fanning over her cheeks as he spoke.

"Kenz?" Kai's voice grabbed her attention and Mack's head snapped up, looking at Kai her eyes soften.

"Kai!" He slowly made his way into the room and Shawn snooped off, slipping past Kai.

"I'll leave you two alone then." He commented before Kai help up a hand.

"You're not going anywhere." Kai's eyes were burning, he looked like the epitome of rage. "And you." Kai said pointedly, looking straight into Mack's eyes, "better explain who the fuck that is, right now." He seethed, pointing at Shawn but not taking his eyes off of Mack and she glanced never pushy between them.

"He's um, a friend of Kim's..." Mack stuttered and Kai scoffed.

"Yeah, right. Who is he?!" Kai demanded, slamming his hand on the desk next to Mack and making her jump.

"No one!" She yelled and Kai's nostrils flared, his face red.

"Oh really." He replied bluntly and Mack looked at him in shock.

"Yes really! If you have a problem, then tell me!" She dared and kai stared her down, his gaze flitting to Shawn momentarily.

"I'd better not keep you, your boyfriend's waiting." Kai spat, a dark glare overcoming him as he glanced at Shawn, who was loitering awkwardly in the door way, not really sure what to do. Mack followed his gaze for scoffing.

"He's not my boyfriend! I hate him!" Mack claimed and Kai looked away, rolling his eyes.

"Whatever." Kai dismissed.

"Kai!" Mack exclaimed.

"What?" He shot back dryly.

"Stop!" She shouted as he began to walk towards the door, ready to shoulder past Shawn.

"Why?" He bit back, pausing but not turning to face her.

"Because I love you, you idiot!" Mack's words made Kai's jaw clench, his eyes cloud with anger as he looked from Shawn and back to Mack again.

"Maybe you should've thought of that before you got yourself a little lap-dog, huh?" Kai sneered before pushing past Shawn and put into the throws of students busily shuffling through the crowed halls, disappearing into the mass of people.

Mack set her jaw, tears staining her eyes and she looked over a Shawn. A dark look was in her eyes as she walked past him, too.

"Mack, wait!" He called after her but the girl was already gone.

...

Mack's fingers drummed against the tabled restlessly, head turned away from Kai who sat beside her. He would huff every thirty seconds, shorting her a dirty glance before looking away again.

The door opening made Mack sit up straight in her chair, as nothing interesting ever happened in this class. Normally her and Kai would entertain each other but as the boy refused to speak to Mack, it was proving a very dull lesson.

Three men in uniform strode in, guns in the belts at their hips and walkie-talkies strapped over their chests. "POLICE" was written in white over their backs and the word made everyone switch on, murmurs and whispers floating around the room like a wave. Mack noticed Kai straighten up at this too, Mack's stomach dropping as she tried to swallow the guilt.

The tallest of the three men cleared his throat, turning to face the class while his two colleagues spoke quietly to their teacher.

"Hello, students. I am Officer Moore," he spoke authoritatively, "and today I am here to tell you something that may be...shocking." There were whispers floating about. "So," he said a little louder - grabbing the students' attention, "if you all quiet down, we'll get to business."

Mack's leg was bouncing furiously under the table, hand clenched into a tight fist and she bit her lips to stop herself letting out a sharp gasp at the pain of her nails digging into her sweaty palm. Kai reached out for her hand, uncurling it and holding it tight in his own, clearly not bothered about the little crescent-shaped cuts that were now leaking blood. The gesture calmed Mack, and she soon settled, the feeling of Kai's skin on hers comforting.

"We are here to tell you that Ben McCoy," he paused, murmurs erupting around the room at the mention of Ben, "has been declared a missing person."

[breathings-of-the-heart]

To Love Another

Levi Ackerman x Reader

A/N: Hey guys!! Back after a long hiatus, sorry hehe. I know y’all must hear this a lot and be sick of it, but there was a lot going on in my personal life that I needed to deal with. (I.E. an parent custody issues and succession of court cases) But everything has been settled in my favor so I’m back and excited!! 

Anyway, this is a part two I promised like years ago which can stand by itself kinda so u don’t have to go back and read part one lol. I wrote so much that I’m dividing it in two; part three will be out most likely by tomorrow. If you want to read part one, link for it is here: Imagine Relating to Mikasa about Loving someone in the Military

(requested by @a-single-uwo @dracq and @little-diva-gurl and to you three specifically, so sorry for the wait! But I didn’t forget :3)

“He loves you, more than he’s ever loved anyone. Surely you know that,” Hange tried to plead, taking (Y/N)’s small hands into her own.

With an inability to overlook the throbbing in her chest, the girl simply met her gaze with a sorrowful smile. Her friend’s expression was sympathetic, conveying her sentiment with a sense of urgency and conviction; such a gesture was appreciated, but considering the events of today leading the broken girl thus far, easy to brush off. Levi’s own harsh words and hard-set countenance were forever etched into (Y/N)’s memory-- speaking louder than any other subconscious that told her he didn’t mean the things he’d spoken. All she could see now was the Captain’s anger trumping all the blinding endearment she thought the two of them to shared. There was no room in her brain for two such vastly different images… the young woman viewed herself an idiot.

(Y/N) was barely able to speak, a thousand words at once caught in behind her pursed lips as she shook her head, wishing Hange’s statement was true.

“With all do respect, Section Commander…” weak voice trailing off, the petite beauty cleared her throat and willed herself not to cry. “I don’t believe you. I was a fool to think of myself as more than my true worth to Levi.”

Said man of the conversation stood on the other side of the door, a whole world away, fist lifted mid-knock. He stilled, gray orbs downcast as he heard the girl’s reply echoing in his ears. 

The documents in his hand fell from his fingertips as his body slacked, the pages fluttering in the air and settling with the ambiance. He hadn’t realized he dropped them, and when he did, Levi could not bring himself to care. His eyelids squeezed shut painfully and the stoic male turned heel, footsteps rhythmically sounding off the lacquer floor as he shuffled away in defeat and heartache.

And only when the stoic man reached the privacy of his room did he realize his fingernails were dug so tightly into his palms that crescent moon scars would indent the skin for life.

A cruel, constant reminder. A testimony to his greatest pain--- your heartbreak.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Commander Erwin sat at the head of the office table of one of the many meeting rooms littered along the castle, a serious expression cast on his defined face. There was a tired yet determined look fixed on his shadowed face; deceptively aged with worry lines creased across his forehead: a tell to the stress and conflicting passion his position required. Untold horrors must have crossed the man’s mind on the daily, yet, the disciplined, solemn facade did well to suggest otherwise.

Even in another dim scenario such as this one, he remained the epitome of strength.

As Erwin studied a long paper in front of him, there was a flicker of deep thought that passed just as quickly as it came. The thought grew smaller in his eyes, and the put-together authority figure stroked his freshly kempt chin.

Having not seen the Scouts since their rescue mission to save Eren, you were shocked at the change in the head of the regiment. With an arm lost and the deceptively young-looking appearance faded, it was only then when you realized his hair told stories as well-- speckled with select gray strands, the stress-revealers hid amongst a thicket of slicked away blondes.

Things seem to have shifted. From what I’ve read in the reports… Eren controlled the Titans with his scream without knowing how. It feels like we’re moving forwards and backwards at the same time.

You touched the bandaging around your torso, wincing a tad as you pressed too hard.

If I’d been more careful last mission I would’ve seen it all for myself.

A map was spread out across the wooden surface of the ancient worktable, the parchment’s top ends brushing against your fingertips. It gave off a beige hue with ink blended in a thoughtful, delicately beautiful layout of Wall Maria’s charted territory. Sunlight filtered through the window shades and illuminated the figurines representing another formation of the Commander’s. Clusters creating an almost horseshoe shape laid out in front of the spectators in the room, squads labeled accordingly. The symbols representing the Special Operations Squad were located on the innermost circle, standing out in bright yellow.

You took a moment to gaze up and break away from the lull of the deafening silence.

You were painfully aware of Captain Levi’s presence next to you. Eren sat on your other side, with another squad leader directly across. Hange was at Erwin’s left side, and Moblit peered past Mikasa’s shoulder in order to see properly as the head of the Survey Corps spoke, finally leaving the separate worlds of his own mind. Armin and stood behind the blonde man, absorbing each of his words carefully.

“There’s many obstacles to be dealt with, naturally” Erwin intoned, officially beginning the meeting. “For starters, we cannot risk any casualties on the journey to Shiganshina. Knowing the enemy, they will be prepared for our arrival and not a single soldier can be spared until we get to the battle field.”

Erwin brought up a lingering, troubling issue that already started to make your head hurt. As a key strategist and extension of the Brain Trust, however, your mind was your strongest weapon. There had to be a way to work around it all.

“Traveling at night is yet another risk,” you relayed, resting your weight on your forearms. “Considering the events experienced the night of the Beast Titan’s appearance.”

The light of the full moon must have been bright enough to give the titans energy.

“How are we supposed to work our way around that?” Eren groaned in exasperation.

You wracked your brain, biting your lip in frustration as all came up blank. All motion came to a halt, though, as you felt a hand grip your knee firmly. Electricity shot through your body as you met the penetrating gaze.

Levi.

“Calm down, brat. Tapping incessantly will only piss me off.”

You hadn’t even known you’d been doing it, but the second the Captain touched you, you were frozen.

Your eyes met his, fully, for the first time in months. And from that instant on, they were trapped in the blue-gray you had drowned in so many times before. You couldn’t help but absorb the sight and engrave it to memory, the art of Levi himself a blessing you had nearly forgotten. But he was different from last time. Maybe it was the illusion fading, or your distant memory. Of him, never.

He looked tired, like you, the fire in those orbs dulled into dying embers. Was that the mission’s doing? The loss of nearly half the regiment?

Or was it something else entirely?

Then your focus shifted to his hand, which dared to travel the smallest bit upwards. Levi kept it there, as if stuck in his own trance. A minute, hour, day could have passed and still, in that moment, you wouldn’t have noticed.

Until reality hit and you remembered everything anew.  

As if he had been burned, Levi retracted his hand as quickly as you looked away. The illusion faded once more, just as tragic as last time.

Breath, (Y/N). This is bigger than you.

“I suspect,” you sighed, regaining yourself, “the indirect source of sunlight the moon reflects, is enough to generate energy for these new titans. The solution is simple.”

“We can initiate the expedition next new moon!” Armin exclaimed, pointing at you excitedly.

“Mhmm, that is our most promising option. But I doubt it will be safe doing it on horseback. We need to be quiet, stealthy, and aware of our surroundings considering the dangers of the dark. Our vision will be limited,” Hange pointed out. “We’ll need to walk them and our supplies, and find a better source of light.”

Erwin nodded, looking slightly impressed.

And as your nonchalant front solidified, you realized it was becoming easier to smile than to remember the hurt. It seemed that way for Levi too, who took an elegant sip of tea as if nothing fazed him at all.

There are more important things, clearly.

[moonchildsaurora]

The Hercules of a Weapons Master/Mechanic

»»—— Crew Member #8 of Space Pirates ATEEZ ——««

all aboard The Perihelion, welcome to the co-pilot’s log system! here you’ll be able to access the crew’s profiles should you wish to read about their journeys: (no nsfw content)

[CAPTAIN] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8]

“so you want me…to break them? As in literally or figuratively?”  

is the baby of the crew but actually the eldest in his own family

epitome of ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’. With a well-grounded and balanced mindset along with a great sense of independence and self-discipline

is a native Draerair born and raised on Corebos, a relatively peaceful planet where several clans co-exist across the different regions specialising in agricultural and metal work

[database file: Draerairs are shape-shifters by ancestral blood, however not every individual are born with the ability to shift into their bestial forms (though they retain some of their inhumane strength and traits). Each clan’s lineage has a specific beast they’re associated with. Individuals with the ability to shift can do so at will, be it partially or fully]

Jongho and his family are descendants of the Silverclaw clan, their associated beast is that of a bear. He’s the only one currently in his family that was born with the shifters ability, his grandmother was the previous individual with the ability

in his human form his hair is dark like the coals in his father’s workshop, honey tanned skin from hours of work under the sun and a gentle shade of hazel for eyes        

when partially shifted he gains a good 2 and half feet in height as bones and muscle mass expands, nails are elongated into claws, canines sharpened and eyes become more of an amber gold colour. Faint markings appear around his eyes as well as down his arms. Fur of black-brown shade emerge the closer he shifts into his beastial form

his strength is renowned throughout his clan, at the tender age of 5 he shocked the souls out of his parents after they found that he’s managed to bend the metal bars of his youngling playpen simply to get out so he could go on a mini adventure to find an afternoon snack

“oh sweet Zeus, we’ve lost the baby!”

they found out very quickly that he particularly liked snacking on fruits especially apples and sometimes would have to hide extras from him, otherwise they’d have none left

Jongho had always looked up to his father and his speciality with weapons forging. During his youngling years he’d be allowed to sit at a safe distance and observe, wide eyes with wonder when he looked at his father welding ambthanite metal together or carving a blade from crystalline emeyl

it was no surprise that Jongho followed in his footsteps and begun his apprenticeship by his 12th summer, his immense strength was a sure advantage when it came to being efficient and how easily some techniques were mastered 

“who needs a machine when you can just bend it with your bare hands?”

his younger siblings adored watching their older brother (it felt like déjà vu) build anything as small as a hunter’s dagger to fixing up parts of visiting ships. It’s also an extra treat for them whenever Jongho would crush fruity snacks single-handedly, because he loves hearing their joyous laughter and applause

The Perihelion had actually made a supply stop within the region that Jongho resided in to trade for food and energy cells. Under the recommendation from some of the market farmers, the crew were led to the Chois’ smithing workshop to fix up minor damages on the ship’s hull and to assess if any defence upgrades were available to be installed on such short notice  

“…I can’t tell if that’s Hercules or a beast hammering away in there”

the expressions on half the crew’s faces were priceless once they met Jongho, right after they saw him heave a 7 tonne slab of frerhil iron [database file: a common metal for heavy duty spears used by barbarians & warmasters] on to the bench without batting an eyelid

“you sure are one strong baby!”

“MINGI SHUT YO-“

“oh don’t worry, I get that. A lot”

and if it wasn’t for the overly toothy smile that Jongho sent their way that made the crew slightly nervous, it would’ve been the way his muscles flexed tauntingly as he gripped Mingi’s hand in a handshake during introductions Seonghwa nearly sweated out his worries just wearily watching that exchange

“I think what our lovely tech engineer meant was that you have a bab-ahh youthful face, yeah, youthful appearance! Not that you’re a baby at age”

“of course, I just passed my 15th summer not too long ago actually. So what can I do for you lot today?”

Hongjoong didn’t even try to hide how impressed he already was, he hadn’t come across too many shifters before and knew very little of their nature and abilities so this was great insight for him. He couldn’t care less with Wooyoung snickering in the background when his chest puffed out proudly after Jongho complimented his ship

Jongho was genuinely amazed that The Perihelion had managed to hold out until now (after hearing brief stories as to how the damages were acquired), without even having a ship’s mechanic for regular maintenance. His awe elevated when Hongjoong told him that he, a self-taught, was the one who worked and spruced the ship up from its near-scrap stage

Jongho’s father made similar comments when he came round to check up on his son and the workshop, even helping a bit with fitting in newer protective panels around the engines and windows. It wasn’t anything fancy, but Jongho did promise should the crew make another stop by in the future he’d have some better upgrades for them

it wouldn’t be till nearly 4 years later where their paths would cross once again in the city of Acreon. Jongho having made the decision to leave his home planet to start living life a little more, though he’d still pick up smithing-mechanic work along the way of his travels. Probably not the most ideal way to reunite with the crew, especially amidst a bar brawl of all things    

having not fought in his entire life (unless you count sand wrestling during his youngling days), Jongho was running entirely on pure adrenaline when he recognised Hongjoong and swiftly grabbed him out of the way – seconds before a stool came smashing down

“what th-OH hey! It’s you!”

the crew witnessed Jongho partially shift that time, almost bowling the entire crowd over with his solid mass to get Wooyoung and San out of the fray. Throwing them over his shoulders and bolting with the rest out the back door of the bar (Wooyoung’s shrieking could be heard down the street)

“thank you for that, really, we owe you one”

“do your evenings out usually end up like this? Never would’ve pinned you lot as the type to throw punches at a bar”

“listen here, that slimy loathsome spawn of a troll deserved it for inappropriate treatment of the dancer”

well at least Jongho couldn’t fault them for having good morals and standing up for it, though he wouldn’t be able to live it down come the following day when news spread throughout the city of ‘a beast from the nether realms’ being involved in the incident at The Illusion he dreaded getting an earful from his parents should his family ever catch wind of the news

Hongjoong invited him to tag along with the crew for the rest of their time in Acreon (highkey hoping this time Jongho would stick around more permanently), which allowed him time to evaluate the state of The Perihelion since it’s been a long while

Jongho officially became a member of the crew after he convinced Hongjoong to head over to Vostrilles, a place he knew had supplies of the latest ship weaponry and mechanical resources, and stuck by long enough to help with the upgrades that the crew pretty much adopted him into their wholesome chaotic family

he grew to thoroughly enjoy their company and now have the luxury of being doted on by his older sibling figures (he’d still deck anyone who dares call him a baby with the exception of mumma Seonghwa)

“watch your language! There are children on board”

the crew realised just how much they needed a proper weapon smith/mechanic on board after a few close-calls with a rival crews – Jongho’s newly installed point-defence canons had given the ship an advantage on its durability and defensive structure that it could withstand enemy attacks enough to make an escape

no one would openly admit that they cannot stay angry at Jongho for longer than 2 minutes, even when he was being in an argumentative mood

not to mention that everyone is extremely protective of their baby bro  

ends up being closest to Mingi, Wooyoung and Yeosang, the latter having a calming presence when he needs some downtime and he appreciates the other chaotic duo when they join in singing random duets with him (a habit he does whenever he’s in his workshop)

recently Jongho found some quality metal paint, he pitched the idea of giving The Perihelion a proper makeover – Hongjoong and others could customise the colour palette they’d like and finally give the ship the glo-up she deserves (no one noticed Yeosang’s little character doodles he so sneakily painted at random spots/corners of the ship hehet)              

(moodboard made with love, by @s1ardusk​ ♡)

[writerbyaccident]

Negotiations (Yandere Kylo Ren/Ben SoloxReader)

Author’s note: this takes place before The Force Awakens

           Rage was a fairly common emotion for Kylo Ren to feel. Oftentimes it was background noise to him, like the hum of a Star Destroyer or of his saber. His rage could almost be comforting, grounding him in the darkness and away from the temptation of the light. But at other times, times like this, when he was forced to hold back his rage like some barely contained beast, there was no comfort to be had. He didn’t see why the Supreme Leader was having him meet with the arrogant merchants of Canto Bight. Surely this was a task better suited for someone like Hux, Kylo could hardly stand having to do it himself.

           These merchants, he thought bitterly to himself, they were all fools. None of them truly believed in the First Order or in the legacy of the Empire. No, they were only trying to make money off of his cause. Yet the First Order needed them, needed their resources and the weapons they built.  And so Kylo was forced to make these infuriating trips to frivolous planets to make deals with frivolous people like Aldous Lundor. Wanting to get this whole thing over with, Kylo stalked down the hallway, bypassing the guards and using the Force to open the door to Lundor’s private room. He wasn’t interested in being polite and, glowering under his mask as strongly as he was, that was the aura he gave off.

           “Ah, welcome!” Lundor exclaimed, the very epitome of slimy charisma. “Welcome, I am so glad to finally meet the premier member of the First Order. Please, sit.”

           Kylo sat without a word, glaring into Lundor’s limpid blue eyes and already wanting to choke the air out of him. The room, much like the man who owned it, radiated ugly opulence, with its walls of gilded gold and furniture of white fur. Kylo’s hand twitched for his saber, wishing he could tear the room and the man in it to pieces.

           “Would you like something to drink? I have a wonderful wine from one of the moons of Cato Neimoidia.”

           “No,” Kylo answered, his voice deep and foreboding as it echoed from the mask. “I would rather just begin negotiations.”

           “There, now that is why I requested to meet with you personally,” Lundor simpered. “I always appreciate being direct and staying focused. Although, I hope you don’t mind if I have some wine.” When Kylo didn’t answer, Lundor simply smiled and snapped his fingers, turning his attention to a curtain that covered the doorway to what Kylo assumed was a side room. Kylo glared at the curtain too, just as he had done with everything in the room, impatient as he was to finish things here. But—although no one could tell—his glare disappeared the moment you walked into the room.

           Carrying in a bottle of wine and a glass for Lundor, you were clearly some sort of servant. No, Kylo corrected himself as he noticed the silver collar on your throat, you were a slave. As you set the glass down on the crystal table and began to pour the golden wine, you carefully avoided even glancing at Kylo Ren. It was fairly obvious that you knew who he was, and you knew at least part of his reputation. Kylo could sense your fear, could feel the way that the whole room practically trembled with it. And while your fear thrilled him, he couldn’t help but wish that you would look at him, if only for a moment. But even though you refused to look at him, Kylo gladly gazed at you, devouring each new detail that he saw. Your skin practically glowed in the warm light of the room. It appeared so vulnerable that Kylo had to fight the temptation to touch it and see if it was as delicate as it looked. And your body, substantially exposed by the few wisps of clothing that made up your uniform, looked positively luscious. Finishing pouring your master’s drink, you began to step away from the table, only to pause, finally raising your eyes to Kylo.

           “Would you like any refreshments, my lord?” you practically whispered to him. At first, Kylo hardly even heard your question, far too focused in taking your eyes. He could see the terror and the sadness and the hardship in them, yes. But within them he could also sense a warmth that he hadn’t felt for a very long time. And your voice, oh, your voice. Despite the fear that was woven into every word you had so softly spoken, you had still spoken to him. With everything you must have been through, there was still a bravery to you.

           “Imbecile,” Lundor spat before Kylo could gather his thoughts to answer. “You do not speak unless spoken to. And if he wanted something to drink, I would have ordered you to give him something.” Standing roughly, Lundor stalked toward you, raising his hand as he did so. With practiced composure, you set the wine bottle down and braced yourself for the blow.

           “Actually, I will sample some of your wine.”

           Blinking in surprise, Lundor turned the merchant’s mouth twisting at the way Kylo had dared to interject before he could discipline you. As much as it irked him though, the merchant knew better than to object, and so Lundor forced his sickly smile back into place. Once your master took his seat again, Kylo turned his attention back to you. Without so much as a pause, you walked through the curtain again, returning a moment later with another glass. Setting it before him, you poured his wine, and with you so close to him, Kylo had to curse his mask for preventing him from taking in your scent. His wine poured, you retreated to the corner of the room with the bottle, ready to refill either glass at a moment’s notice. Kylo knew that this was what you had been trained to do, yet he couldn’t help the rage that threatened to choke him as you stepped away. The temptation to call on the Force and simply drag you back to his side was almost too much to bear, and through the rest of the meeting, the glorious image of doing so stayed in his head.

           The rest of the negotiations passed by in a blur, with Kylo responding on instinct as his attention remained on you. Although your fear had subsided after Kylo had kept Lundor from striking you, he could sense that it was still there. It practically radiated from you, spiking each time your master made a sudden movement. Rage swelled within Kylo once again, hissing in his blood and cracking through his bones. You shouldn’t be sparing a single thought towards that fool, Kylo thought fiercely. No, only he was worthy of your fear. Only he was worthy of your terror, of your worry, of your devotion. And so, as the negotiations came to a close, he decided to throw in one more caveat.

           “Supreme Leader Snoke and the rest of the First Order thanks you for your allegiance,” Kylo forced out. “But to make this deal complete, I need a show of your loyalty.”

           “Oh? And what does that entail?” Lundor asked with eyebrows raised.

           “I will be taking your slave as a gift.”

           Still gazing intimidatingly at the merchant, Kylo felt rather than saw your shock. The way that it struck you though, along with the horror that soon followed, sent his blood humming. Even as Lundor hesitated with his answer, Kylo was comforted by the feeling of your gaze and by the feeling of the Force at his fingertips, knowing that he would gladly use it to take what was rightfully his.

           “Of course,” Lundor finally answered with a slight bow, figuring that one slave was not worth the risk of the painful death that Kylo could provide him.

And so, Kylo Ren dragged you back to his ship, his grip on your wrist unflinchingly tight. Kylo Ren was your master now, and he would ensure that he was the only one you would ever serve again.

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[lusie-king]

Atone

This

Is the story

Of

A demon

With a halo

And an angel

Seeking sin

 Those who believe hell to be a wicked place never grew up there. It’s hard to see your origins as evil when they’re all you’ve ever known. It’s difficult to be afraid of the night creatures and dark monsters when they’re howls lulled you to sleep every night. It’s impossible not to crave the warmth of hellfire and scent of souls burning when, to you, they’re reminders of your upbringing. Of the only things in existence that have ever cared for you.

I was different from the start. My brothers and sisters would sneer at me with their sharp teeth and dark eyes, sneer at the glowing wisp atop my head between little horns. They’d mock my lack of wings and a pointed tail, though I liked not having a tail once I realized how they yanked on each other’s as a means of torment. I never let it get to me, though. Not the beatings nor the laughing nor the torment. I was always content with how the world made me, and though they teased me, I was the one who felt pity for them, and so I knew my differences did not stop at the surface. They were rooted deep within me. And it made me feel special. It made me feel unique.

He couldn’t believe how different he was by the end. A creature most holy in the beginning, with white feathers running along his back and robes of pure light covering his innocent form. His sisters and brothers and even his own father frowned upon the lack of aureole sitting softly above tufts of mousy hair. His appearance reminded them too much of mortality, and with mortality came sin. They never ridiculed him out loud, not like my family did, and that was somehow worse. At least I knew exactly what my siblings thought. He spent everyday wondering if they’d ever love him. He cursed the way the world made him, vowing with each sunrise to find his purpose and be the epitome of righteousness he thought he was meant to be. He never felt special. But he was unique.

The day he fell I remember like my own name. Never had I seen something so beautiful, so sacred grace this planet where I bided my time like I had an eternity of it. He claimed he’d find meaning here but I knew, as soon as I saw his face, I knew he didn’t come here on his own. And he couldn’t go back. I knew for the way he immediately threw himself to his knees and folded his hands in prayer, though I was certain no one was listening. No one but me.

I kept my distance, tucked behind a tree, watching with flitting eyes, staying absolutely still until he had run out of tears and his feathers drooped. Then, I emerged. The moment he sensed me, I slammed into the tree, his hand around my throat, my pointed teeth baring in the most sadistic way. His hand burned when it touched my body.

“How dare you look upon something so holy.” He spoke with a hiss.

I gripped his wrist, enjoying how his face twitched in pain. My touch burned too. His wrathful eyes softened when he saw what hovered above my head. What didn’t hover above his.

“What the…what is that?” His dark eyes searched me, realizing there were certain things missing. “What are you?”

“Exactly what you suspect.”

“Why are you here? You don’t belong here.”

“Neither do you.” I wriggled out from under his grasp. “I guess we have that in common.”

“You and I are nothing alike.” He didn’t touch me again.

“True.” I tilted my head. “The difference being, I can go home whenever I want.”

The rage returned. But I wasn’t afraid. Even when he grabbed me by the horn and dragged me away.

“As a soldier of heaven, it is my sworn duty to protect this mortal world from the likes of you.”

“Oh?” I crossed my arms, smirking as he pulled. “Why?”

“Why?” He scoffed. “What do you mean why? You know why, soulless beast!”

“I do not. I come up here to read. Things below get noisy like you wouldn’t believe. Up here, all is quiet. All is peaceful.”

“Peaceful?” His tone became bitter. “This place is anything but peaceful.” He let me go so he could look into my eyes. “This place is bloodshed and brutality and sin.”

“Sounds like Hell.”

“That…that…” Oh, he was furious.  “You know not of what you speak!”

I couldn’t keep the smug look from my face. “I do. And I know this place is also bright and calm and full of joy. Full of hope.”

“Sounds…” His voice softened. “Sounds like heaven.”

“Now that, I would not know.” I sat back down, a book materializing in my hands.

“You—you are not like the others I have encountered.”

“Nor are you.” I felt him staring at me.

He was quiet for a while, many racing thoughts brewing behind those dark eyes. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“You could make the best of it.”

He crouched beside me. “How?”

I thought for a moment. “Come with me.”

He hesitated, gazing down at me with wary eyes.

“Or remain alone in this field. Your choice.”

Reluctantly, he followed, suspicious glare never leaving the back of my head.

City lights were prettier than the stars, I thought. The way they twinkled so close, each a beacon to someone’s life. To a moment in time. We walked along the mortals, me a figment of their imagination melting in and out of the shadows, he a flash of light moving faster than their eyes could perceive.

“They’re disgusting, even you must agree!”

“I do not.” I shot him a sly look. “Nor do I think you truly believe that.”

The way he stared at them, taking every detail. Listening to their voices. To their pain.

“Nature is messy. But she doesn’t make mistakes.”

His fingers subconsciously ran through his hair, as if expecting something to dance over his head.

“Everything has balance,” I went on. “It’s magnificent.”

We watched a mother coo to her infant. We watched a boy push his sister into a puddle. We watched a scrawny dog graciously accept a handout. We watched a man steal from someone who had nothing.

“I don’t understand,” he growled.

“That’s the problem.” I shook my head. “You keep trying to understand but you can’t because no one can. This world is complicated, as it deserves to be. And those who try to fully comprehend it will drive themselves mad.”

“So what do I do?” He was begging. Desperate. Confused and hurt and my own heart, which I sometimes forgot I had, wrenched.

“Don’t try.” I looked into his innocent eyes. “Just do.”

I took his hand and pressed it to the cold building, letting him take in the marble. That was the beginning.

Gardenias. Purple clouds. Raspberries. Mortal laughter. Tights gowns and clacking heels. Pearls strung along exposed necks. Jewels dancing in chandelier light. Perfect sculptures, the ones where texture defies material.

Screams of pain. Damned souls. Old books. I bit my lip. A moonlit lake. Glittering fish. The smell of death. Flies around a carcass. Pomegranates and dirt blacker than charcoal. Mortal skulls. Hot tears. All this chaos, all this agony, and I still got to see his smile.

Coconut milk. The smell of oil paint. Green tea. Horseshoes on cobblestone sidewalks. Silver chains. He closed his eyes.

Neon lights. Throbbing music. Curling smoke and cigarette buds. Jean jackets. Bloodshot eyes and greasy hair. Doubts. Insomnia. Ecstasy, both kinds. Shaking restlessness. The sharpness of my horns. Scraped knees.

White shells. Footprints in wet sand. Boardwalks and docks. Ferris wheels. Worn down carousels. A swaying sailboat. White curtains fluttering around a windowsill. Shimmering ocean waves. Salt and seaweed sticky on the skin.

A sweet blonde mortal. Her soft lips against his skin. The way his breathing hitched. Glossy makeup. Streaks of shadow streaming down my face. Silk sheets. Whiskey and rum, hot in the throat. A tan-skinned boy. Rough hands running along immortal flesh, calling me a pretty thing, hating my pointed teeth.

Obsidian blades. Bruised knuckles. Split lips. Lost memories. Forgotten dreams. He said he’d never go back, given the chance. Sad smiles. The taste of blood. Clinking glasses. Sparkling champagne. I smiled and his eyes never left my face.

Wool shawls. Racing through the forest. I said they’d have to drag me back. Red and orange leaves fluttering around us. Hot apple cider. Cinnamon donuts. The ground crunched. Meaningless apologies. Bottled sunshine. He spread his wings, mismatched feathers fluttering in the breeze, towering over me. My heartbeat quickened.

He touched my hand and inhaled once when his skin burned. Then he touched me again, holy palms running down my face, down my neck, down my back, leaving ash in their wake. Panting. Dark eyes stared into mine, into the soul newly formed. He looked haunting, hair in his face. Red scratches stretched across his chiseled muscles. My claws skimmed his wings. They were softer than I imagined. My lips found his. He tasted of sin. Quiet moans. Squeezing flesh. Our fingers aligned. I no longer wondered what Heaven was like.

 I laid in his arms, far from the first time. Shadow against light. I never felt so real.

“I was touch starved all my life.” His voice was low. His fingers absentmindedly ran through my hair. “Meanwhile others couldn’t keep their hands off you.”

I tilted my head up. “And look at us now.”

“And look at us now.” He paused, deep in thought. “Is this a happy ending? Do we deserve that?”

“Why not?” I hugged him closer. He was almost found. “If you decide everything always had meaning, you no longer have to search for it.”

His cheek pressed against my temple. “You are hellfire with a halo. Something sacred in the most unholy way. There's nothing soft about your stone-cold heart and yet you hold me with the gentlest hands. When your lips, damp with blood and eyes, dark with sin, set themselves upon me I feel saved. I don't care about the taste of iron or solid black of your irises. All I know is I'd take your bruised knuckles over smooth flesh any day.” His voice trembled as he spoke, laying down all his cards. “Your demons are vast, but they do not exceed my own.”

“Everyone is fucked up in their own way,” I murmured, head on his chest. “And I think that’s beautiful.”

Time went on. His feathers frayed. The light between my horns faded. Neither of us cared. We walked among the mortals until mortality took over. Until his pure light dimmed and disappeared. Until my horns withered away. Until my claws softened and his wings became scars. My heart beat vigorously, in sync with his own. Our touch no longer burned. We were different. We were unique. We were something magnificent and foul. We were mortal. And I wanted those dark eyes to be all I’d ever known.

[imma-talk-back]

Yesterday, I was called a Nigger.  Within mere minutes of being in my favorite store, it happened.  Without warning, a gentleman bisected my path and seemingly reflexively blurted it out.  It was if the word had a life of its own and was pushing forth from his mouth at a full sprint. I say this not to emphasize the innocence of the man, but to shed light on the immense power of that word. 

Yeah... I thought that’d get your attention. 

Frankly, I’ve always been one to prefer Target to Walmart.  I appreciate the structure and organization of the store, and though I am a person who thrives in areas of “organized chaos”, I’m afraid, I find Walmart to be a little too chaotic for my liking.  As someone who suffers from The Big Bad Beast that is Anxiety, I experience a visceral uneasiness in certain environments, but generally speaking Target is one of few places I nearly always feel safe in.  There are of course the antsy customers who brush past me on occasion or ride my tail too closely in the checkout, but for the most part, to me, Target represents the epitome of comfortable shopping experiences.  It’s almost as if the structure demands it’s patrons to be on their best behavior.  Unfortunately, not everyone heed these demands... 

Please allow me to begin by laying the ground work; let me explain just how much effort I put into a simple trip to the market.  You see, one of the many awful things about this lovely condition that is Anxiety is that it has the potential to make even the most mundane tasks feel insurmountable.  A quick errand run the average person puts little thought into, can for someone like me, be a delicate tightrope walk; from the moment I leave the safety of my car and began my trek though the aimless herds of self-focused patrons, to the exact position of my body in accordance to yours, while in line.  I see you in a straight line, but I take several steps to the right or left, creating a meticulously crafted triangle between you and the person in front of me; all with the intention to grant me just a bit more security.  You see, I’ve been socially distancing since before COVID made it cool.  

Well, it’s about time I get to the point, isn’t it?  So, here goes...

So here I am.. and on top of dealing with my typical feelings of sporadic and unannounced paralyzing panic that may rise at any moment during my routine errand, whilst in the midst of none other than The Zombie Apocalypse that is 2020, I am the victim of an unprovoked physical attack in on of my few “safe” public spaces.  Notice, I consider this a physical attack, because of slew of negative bio-mechanical implications it presented me with, after all the word Nigger cannot be compared to that of Bitch, or Asshole. No, when spat with the right amount of hatred, the word surge through your veins like a poison. 

Thus, I instinctively stopped dead in my tracks and felt the heat of pain and rage radiate through my body.  I shook my head, dropped my gaze, and took several steps forward before stopping.  Rather than metaphorically quietly quivering in the corner, I decided to act. 

I turned around, sought out an employee, mustered up all the poise I could find, and collectedly said something along the lines of: “Hi, I just walked into the store, and within moments upon entering, a gentleman wearing a white blazer called me a Nigger.  I would very much like for him to be escorted out of the store”.  It was important that I used the full word to convey the level of discomfort I felt in having it thrown at me.  Perhaps that did the trick because the woman responded with a look of genuine shock, without hesitation confirmed the direction the man was walking towards, and urgently called for security. I said my peace and entrusted my safety in the store to the woman’s follow-through.  

It wasn’t the first time and I knew it wouldn’t be the last. I tried my best to continue on my journey as if he “hadn’t gotten to me”, but he had, I rush through the store, in search of whatever had prompted me to enter.  I can’t for the life of me remember, I imagine because I moved through the store in what can only be likened to a fear-induced haze.  I walked through the isles wondering if the gentleman would return and found myself looking at every Black passer-by, wondering if they had, or would soon experience the same. 

I power walked through the store with a combination of sorrow, profound fear, inexplicable anger, and incredible gratitude.  It instantly pained my heart to hear that a complete stranger could have so much hate in their’s for me, it still does.   Although I don’t imagine the N-word is typically equated with fear for non-Black people, for someone like me, it can be terrifying.  Despite the ever-so-obvious gravitas of that word, I know it hardly represents the tip of the iceberg of the hatred that lies below the surface.  As such, I feared retaliation from the moment I reported the gentleman, throughout the store, to my stop at the gym where I went through my daily workout routine, to the moment I drove home, parked my car, and double-checked the locks to all the doors at my house.  

Though this wasn’t the first time I’ve experienced this sort of overt display of hatred in a public setting, it was without a doubt, the first time I have ever felt seen enough to report it.  The death of George Floyd exposed just how serious the issue of racial injustice in this country is, and made it unmistakably clear just how prevalent, not to mention perilous it is.  After 34 years of just taking it, and doing everything in my power to “not let it get to me” or knowing “it’s just the way it is”, I finally feel seen enough to say; look this just happened, and you have the power to make it so this isn’t just how it is. 

You see prior to May 25, 2020, we could all live with a degree of ignorance in the matter; you could deny my life was actually different because of my skin tone and I could feign my perception of equality, but that shield has been lifted.  We have awakened from our socio-normative unconsciousness... That was deep, I know, but rather or not we choose to stay woke is up to us. The US needs a reckoning, regardless of if recent demands for equality stemming from the death of Mr. Floyd, Ms. Taylor, and Mr. Arbery can transition this moment into a movement, I am here to remind you of its importance.  You see, I was Black before you ever heard of those names and will continue to be such even when they began to fade from your memory.  I am here to remind you just how vital that demand for equality is.  

The fact of the matter is that the woman who essentially “came to my rescue” by respecting the seriousness of the matter was in shock not only the verbal brutality spewed, but also in part I imagine from simply awakening the reality that such an incident actually happened.  This brings me to my anger... you see I am beyond grateful for the fact that I can finally stand up for myself and declare something like this has happened and be taken seriously, but I am equally as enraged that in order to be taken as such, the entire world had to witness a man be crushed to death.  It goes without saying that, the level of enlightenment that the entire non POC (people of color) world is having right now is just as appreciated as it is enraging. 

On a final note, I want to draw your attention to the fact that I referred to the man who accosted me, as a gentleman.  There is certainly two contributing factors to consider in this; one I was simply raised right- with manners and respect for everyone, and I knew this man couldn’t have been in his right mind, and two, I knew the importance of remaining composed in even the most daring of times, to counter the very real likelihood of simply being written off as an Angry Black Woman.  Think about that... even in an assault, I must maintain my composure, because society says an emotional Black woman is an Angry Black woman, society doesn’t question her countless motives for said anger; no, it merely writes her off.  

Well... let this first blog entry be a testament to my Eloquent Black Rage--sitting posed, with perfect posture, well read, well spoken, highly educated in fact... with well manicured fingernails and an accented middle finger nodding to a less than subtle, “fuck you”. 

In close, I hope in writing this I have helped to explain the depth of feelings that stem from such a verbal attack, the long term impact it has, and that I have drawn your attention to just how often injustice occurs even when they are not spoken of or otherwise exposed. 

This is my very first Blog-entry, it originally started out as a wordy Facebook post, but decided I needed a more appropriate venue for my voice.  I sincerely thank you for reading and hope you continue to peek into my mind from time to time.  Congratulations, you’ve earned 10 Friend Points and good karma! 

[wordsablaze]

The Witchfinder’s Legacy

Things often come back to haunt Merlin but people with a vendetta make it all the more painful and Arthur struggles to step in before Merlin's suffered... from my whumptober adventures, enjoy!

A/N: Several chapters of my whumptober fic were linked and people suggested posting them as their own fic so here we are ^.^

-

Merlin was usually careful enough.

He knew he wasn't the most subtle with his magic - especially since Gaius never stopped lecturing him about it - but he rarely ever exposed it. Which meant that, for the most part, nobody would think to call him, the clumsy but joyful and loyal manservant, a sorcerer.

For the most part.

Every so often, someone would accuse Merlin of practising magic and there’d be a risk of jeopardising his destiny.

This time, however, it was a little more serious.

This time, it was a witchfinder.

And a fraud of a witchfinder at that.

Merlin catches Gaius’ eye as the witchfinder drags him into an audience with the King. The physician is doing a terrible job of hiding his concern, in Merlin’s opinion.

“What is the meaning of this?” Uther demands, raising an angry eyebrow at the witchfinder.

“The boy cast a spell on my horses!” The witchfinder declares, shoving Merlin forward.

Barely catching himself, Merlin shakes his head at the King. “I wasn’t, I swear-”

“All due respect, My Lord,” the witchfinder interrupts, “but surely you wouldn’t trust the word of a mere serving boy over mine.”

Uther frowns, clearly torn between what he wants to believe and wanting to save his reputation. If it comes down to his reputation, Merlin knows he’s doomed.

“Do you have any proof of this accusation?” Uther asks.

“You can’t have missed that my horses rampaged through the city as if possessed!” The witchfinder has the audacity to look offended, as if he hadn’t been the one to cause them to do so.

Gaius steps forward before Merlin can try to argue again. “Sire, I think we should remember what happened with Aredian before you pass any judgement.”

The witchfinder stiffens at the name and Merlin groans to himself because, if the two witchfinders are somehow related, there’s no way he’s going to let this go before Merlin is dead, or worse.

“Aredian, My Lord?” the witchfinder asks, his voice the epitome of innocence.

Uther’s silence acts as a cue for the witchfinder to grab Merlin again. “If there are, as you say, multiple who have accused the boy, perhaps there is good reason for it?” he suggests, tightening his grip on Merlin as if daring him to argue.

There’s a silence in which Merlin mouths an apology to Gaius.

Then Uther nods solemnly. “Very well. You may question the boy for three nights. If he then confesses to me, I will let you do as you wish.”

Merlin’s eyes widen but Gaius and Gwen - who seems to have appeared from nowhere - look more hopeful than before. Apparently they haven’t heard of how witchfinders force confessions from people and expect Merlin to easily survive his interrogations.

Once Uther's word is finalised, the first thing the witchfinder does is drag Merlin along and throw him into the small cage that lives on his cart, securing heavy metal shackles around his wrists.

He thinks he’s gotten lucky but no, as soon as the metal clamps around his wrists, something breaks inside of him, smothering him from the inside. Just his luck to be accused by a witchfinder that knows what kind of shackles can suppress magic.

Despite the pain, Merlin glares at him once he’s done. “I know you’re framing me.”

The witchfinder laughs as he spurs his new horses on and they start moving. “Just as you framed my father.”

A small gasp escapes Merlin. “You’re Aredian’s son?”

“Aren’t you a smart one?”

He doesn’t have a chance to answer because Aredian’s vengeful son turns a corner and he’s painfully thrown against the side of the cage. He ends up focusing on trying not to cry out every time Aredian’s son makes the journey more difficult for him, which is almost continuously.

It doesn’t help that it feels like someone is slicing into his soul with every passing minute, the shackles effectively dampening his strength entirely. By the time they stop, Merlin is sure he’s gained a dozen bruises, if not more.

He exhales softly as he hears Aredian’s son climb down and walk round to him. “I take it you won’t be ready to confess yet?” he asks languidly, clearly happy with this situation.

“I can’t confess to a crime you committed,” Merlin replies, not even trying to hide the venom in his voice.

“Oh, but you will…” Aredian’s son laughs. ��But since we have three nights and I rarely require more than one, how about you enjoy a quiet night under the stars for today?”

“What?” Merlin finds himself asking before he can stop himself. It’s only then that he takes a moment to look past the pain and at his surroundings, seeing nothing but trees.

Aredian's son unlocks the cage and unhooks the chain from the side of the cart, yanking Merlin out of the cage and forcing him to tumble onto the ground. With a groan, Merlin pulls himself to his feet and stumbles after the witchfinder, who doesn’t even look back as he pulls on the chain that links Merlin’s shackles together.

They don’t stop walking until they reach a quiet, secluded clearing, where Aredian's son unlinks one of the shackles long enough for him to push Merlin in front of a tree and wrap the chain around the trunk so Merlin ends up effectively tied to it.

He’s too tired by the suppression of his magic to even fight back and the witchfinder takes this as a sign of him being in control of this situation.  

“They’re going to discover you’re a fraud, you know,” Merlin warns, testing how far he can go and realising he literally cannot step away from the tree without uncomfortably pulling his arms backwards.

“No, they’re going to discover you’re a sorcerer,” Aredian’s son replies, harshly kicking Merlin’s knee so his legs buckle and he ends up on the floor yet again, groaning softly.

“Now, I’d avoid sleeping if I were you… what with all the snakes and that.”

He has the nerve to wink as he walks off, dropping petals behind him that Merlin can tell will attract the snakes that may have otherwise left him alone. Sometimes, it’s truly a curse to be Gaius’ ward and know so much about which plants attract which species.

Merlin stretches his legs out and winces as his knee starts throbbing but he can’t do anything about it, especially since he can’t use magic.

“This cannot be happening,” he mumbles to himself as he tries and fails to get comfortable, the tree digging into his back and the shackles feeling as though they’re digging into his bones.

Attempts to slide his wrists out of them only result in him breaking the skin there, leaving it more painful than before. Sighing, Merlin gives in and simply closes his eyes, preferring to be asleep than awake and in pain.

It doesn’t last long.

He wakes to a burning sensation.

He’s not sure what’s causing it at first but it’s not hard to figure out the source when his arms feel like they’re on fire, his wrists feel like they’re about to fall off, and the shackles feel as heavy as the burdens of his destiny as Emrys.

Biting his lip to stop himself from crying out and giving his magic away, Merlin curls into himself and struggles with the shackles, the dull clinks of the metal barely registering to his ears as he finds it harder and harder to breathe.

“Stupid Uther…” Merlin mutters through gritted teeth, somehow finding himself wishing that Arthur had been there to negotiate on his behalf.

With half a sob, Merlin gives up on the shackles, his wrists stinging from the myriad of cuts caused by the uneven metal and his head pounding as his magic screams at him from where it's being cruelly forced down.

It’s a small mercy that no snakes attempt to approach him despite a few having appeared, lured in by the scent of the petals. He's content to have survived what the witchfinder had attempted to throw at him, just like he'll have to survive anything else thrown his way.

By the time Aredian’s son returns, Merlin is exhausted.

“Well, well, well. It looks like someone foolishly did themselves a fair amount of damage overnight,” Aredian’s son drawls, laughing at the state of Merlin’s wrists.

Merlin just glares at him, too tired to argue or defend himself.

“If this is what happens before I even touch you, I can’t wait to actually get started…”

Something inside Merlin, something that feels a lot like hope, dies at the very thought.

But he’s too busy trying not to cry to care.

He has to get through his. To prove Aredian and his twisted son wrong. To prove to Gaius and Gwen and anyone else that believes in him that he won’t let them down. To make sure he’s there to protect and serve Arthur.

So when Aredian’s son unwraps the chain from the tree and roughly pulls Merlin back towards the cage on his cart, Merlin stays silent and focuses on breathing, on hiding the agony burning inside him, on staying alive for destiny's sake.

Out of everything, witchfinder shackles will not get the better of him.

He can’t let that happen.

-

Arthur's worrying is of no help.

Unfortunately.

He'd argued with his father until he’d been sent to his room, he’d paced the polish right off his floor, and he’d thrown enough objects around for his room to look like it'd been attacked by a beast of some sort.

But none of it had helped to get Merlin back.

None of it could undo his sentence with the witchfinder.

The sentence that, while Arthur was busy worrying, Merlin was suffering through.

“No,” Merlin repeats, his voice barely some sort of hushed whisper.

He’d tried not to talk at first and, in a way, he’d succeeded.

He hadn’t confessed, but he’d whimpered.

He’d whimpered and moaned and eventually cried out when the superficial pain on his skin had started to match the oppressive pain in his very bones.

Aredian’s son was fond of blades.

“Confess!” the witchfinder snarls again, cruelly dragging the small dagger down Merlin’s arm yet again.

“Not until you do,” Merlin bites back, but his defiance is weakened by the whimper that escapes him next.

He’s not sure he can handle any more slicing into his skin, he’s not even sure he should be awake with the amount of blood that seems to be spilling out of him. The constant agony of the shackles suppressing his magic doesn’t help either.

Aredian’s son groans, throwing the dagger to the corner of the room that Merlin had been brought to earlier that morning. Apparently, surviving the night outside was a double-edged success and had only lead to more severe interrogation ‘techniques’.

Merlin winces as the metal clangs against the stone walls, letting his eyes fall shut as he leans against the cold wall. At least it provides some relief from the way his magic is literally burning to be set free inside him.

He hasn’t moved away from the wall since he’d been roughly thrown there and the chain connecting his shackles had been fixed into a bolt on the wall. There’d been no reason to aggravate Aredian’s son; his only goal is to survive, to get back to Gaius, and to carry out his duty of protecting Arthur.

He can vividly feel all of the cuts littering his unfortunate skin, all the blood that falls over his fingers and slides down his torso. It hurts in a way that he can’t describe.

“I am not without mercy,” the witchfinder declares unexpectedly.

A broken laugh escapes Merlin as he shakes his head in disbelief, not bothering to open his tired eyes. He can’t see any mercy in such a cruel kind of torture.

“I will give you one more chance to confess,” he continues, his footsteps getting louder until he stops and crouches in front of Merlin, uncomfortably close, “before I take this to the next level.”

Something infinitely sharper than any of the blades that had been used on him throughout the day touches the back of Merlin’s hand and his eyes shoot open reflexively.

No.

He must have said that out loud because the witchfinder laughs. “I can’t have you bleeding out, now, can I?”

“No, please…” Merlin mumbles, finding a little strength in the newfound fear that shoots through him and shuffling away, as far away as possible. Not far enough.

“Is that a confession?”

No.

It’s a needle.

Merlin shakes his head weakly, biting his lip as Aredian’s son scowls darkly before sighing and arranging himself better, pulling Merlin’s arm towards himself in a firm grip.

“Well, then, I’ll have to make sure you don’t die so I can continue.”

Merlin whimpers softly and squeezes his eyes shut as the needle is pressed to his arm, into his arm, into the skin right at the edge of a cut, and then pushed, pushed, painfully pushed deeper until the thread is pulled through.

He cries out immediately, trying to get his hand free, but there’s no use, the witchfinder is stronger. He makes a mockery of stitching the wound back together, unfathomable jolts of pain sparking along Merlin’s arm as he bites his lip hard enough to make it bleed.

By the time the wound is stitched back together, the witchfinder is grinning and Merlin is close to crying.

He yanks his arm back as soon as it's released and whimpers, knowing the wound could have done with a simple bandage instead. It’s almost alarming how neat the unnecessary stitches are, almost a parody of when Gaius has done the same for him in the past.

“There, see, that wasn’t so bad…” Aredian’s son drawls, close to sounding like he actually cares about keeping Merlin alive.

A small part of his brain is telling him that this is all for show, that it’s all being done so the King can’t complain and accuse the witchfinder of anything, but he’s blinded by the throbbing in his new stitches.

“You seem relieved…”

Merlin looks up sharply, cradling his arm.

Aredian’s son smirks at him. “Come on now, don’t give me that look. We’ve only just started, after all.”

“No, no, no,” Merlin breathes, shaking his head, trying to move away, failing to move away because of the shackles, his eyes widening at the implication.

Before he can make sense of anything, Aredian’s son has pushed him to the floor and is hovering above him, pressing down on his chest and brushing the needle against the gash in his side.

That one does need stitches, Merlin can admit. But he wants Gaius to do it, he doesn’t want this, he can’t handle this, please-

The needle pushes in.

Merlin screams.

His thrashing is weak because his soul feels drained but he’s aware of himself crying as the witchfinder just laughs above him, using the thread to pull his skin back together as if this is all a game, as if Merlin’s pain is nothing more than background music.

He feels himself starting to lose consciousness halfway through but he doesn’t get the mercy of staying unconscious, his magic forcing him to stay awake, to stay alert.

So he just screams, his hands curling into his fists and his teeth starting to ache from being clenched together too hard. He can’t move, he’s pinned down by the weight of the witchfinder, but his free leg kicks at the witchfinder desperately, uselessly.

It hurts.

Merlin can feel his resolve crumbling; this is something new, something no spell or book could have prepared him for. This is pure evil and he can’t do anything, he can’t find a way to stop it, he can’t figure out how to handle it.

“Please!” he finds himself whimpering, wishing it would stop.

It doesn’t.

Not until the knot is tied and the gash has been closed in the most awful way possible.

Only then does he breathe, every breath tugging slightly on the stitches but letting him exhale his pain away. Or rather, imagine that he’s exhaling some of his pain away.

“One more, I think…” Aredian’s son muses, glancing over Merlin.

He shakes his head again, silently pleading for him to stop.

Aredian’s son clicks his tongue as his eye catches the wound on Merlin’s shoulder; Merlin watches as the idea forms in his mind but he’s too exhausted to even try and defend himself this time.

He’s rolled over so that the cold floor is pressed to his face and he can see nothing but stone and blood, the shackles digging into his wrists painfully and Aredian’s son settling into place above him, pinning him down again even though he wouldn’t have the strength to move anyway.

Merlin screams again as he starts stitching.

This one hurts the most.

He can’t stop the tears escaping from his eyes as the needle is pulled through his skin, weaving away the wound but leaving behind unmeasurable agony in its wake.

He slumps into the stone below him, letting his tears fall as soft sobs leave his tired, bleeding lips. If he didn’t have magic, he’d have been mercifully unaware by now, but it’s just his luck to be plagued by the reminder of his destiny, his responsibility, his duty to fulfil the expectations looming above him.

“Puh- Please…” Merlin manages to plead as the witchfinder harshly yanks the thread at one point and sends a whole new wave of pain down his spine.

“I don’t know what you’re made of that’s keeping you awake,” Aredian’s son mutters, something like concern flashing in his voice for half a second. It disappears as soon as he adds, “But you could just take this chance to confess.”

Despite everything, Merlin shakes his head, letting his eyes close once more.

He’s so tired that he wouldn’t even have the energy to form a confession if he’d have wanted to. Not that he does. He never will. Not even if it kills him.

And as the third gash is finally stitched up and Aredian kicks him back into the corner, agony from all three wounds flaring up enough to entice yet another broken sob from his lips, Merlin thinks it just might.

-

Merlin rarely screams.

He’s so used to being quiet and hiding his pain to maintain his reputation as a bubbly manservant who always smiles at everything and cracks endless jokes. Even in front of Gaius.

The last couple of days have made up for all of that.

He easily loses count of how many times he’s screamed in pain during his sentence with the witchfinder, both due to internal agony related to the magic-suppressing shackles and the inflicted external wounds.

And the third day’s morning sees him screaming yet again, albeit weakly this time, as freezing water is unkindly poured over him; it’s a shock and a half.

“I thought you might be dehydrated,” the witchfinder explains, even though it’s more of a taunt.

Merlin just glares up at him, not even bothering to try and straighten his posture from where he’s awkwardly slumped against the wall because his limbs feel like the mud he usually has to clean off the horses after it’s been raining.

“What? No thanks?” Aredian’s son crouches down and lifts Merlin’s chin with his hand, smirking. “Do you need more incentive to show your gratitude?”

Naturally, Merlin doesn’t reply.

He’s too busy trying to figure out if he’s now freezing because of the unwanted shower or if the burning in every atom of his magical being is just so intense that it only feels as though his soul has frozen over and is now shattering into tiny fragments, fragments that are slowly piercing his organs.

Within seconds, the witchfinder’s other hand presses down onto the stitched wound on his arm, eliciting a sharp, broken whimper from Merlin, who can’t help but also flinch away from the pain.

“Much better!” Aredian’s son beams brightly, as if he were a child getting his way.

A lack of sleep means Merlin doesn’t even have the energy to mentally form a comeback to that, never mind actually say one out loud. He just waits until Aredian’s son is satisfied and lets go of him again so he can exhale softly, pulling his arm closer to his chest protectively.

“I had so many fun things planned for today but I might have to change them if you’re so unwilling to talk,” Aredian’s son announces.

Merlin just waits, blinking water out of his eyes.

“I think we’ll go for a ride,” he announces eventually, making Merlin groan.

He knows what’s coming but it still hurts - it hurts so, so much - when Aredian’s son unfastens the chain and yanks him to his unsteady feet, not bothering to let him steady himself before starting to march towards the door.

Merlin almost falls over in his haste to stumble after Aredian’s son, his numb feet just about managing not to let him fall until they arrive back at the cart. Only then does he stumble and end up on the ground, groaning softly as the witchfinder grins down at him.

“Pathetic,” he comments gleefully.

Merlin flinches from the word, using his less injured arm - that is, the one without the stitches - to push himself upright as he bites down on his lip to stop himself crying out.

Aredian’s son just grabs his ruined t-shirt and hauls him up, practically tossing him back into the cage before securing the chains to the cart once more. He’d lost his jacket and necktie at some point, probably when all those blades had gotten involved, so he can’t stop himself from shivering when his skin touches the cold metal of the cage.

“Comfortable?”

Merlin lets his eyes shut and refuses to acknowledge the question, but regrets that when Aredian’s son bangs on the cage, the reverberation echoing through his bones and drawing out yet another whimper.

He feels himself slide down until he’s not touching the bars anymore, curling into himself to make himself smaller, less noticeable, less of a target.

Aredian’s son just angrily grumbles something about a confession and, soon enough, the cart starts moving. Hitting as many rocks and bumps in the road as possible, it seems.

When they stop, Merlin doesn’t notice.

What he does notice, however, is the chains rattling and the shackles rubbing against his bruised wrists, where the skin is raw from when he’d found the energy to struggle.

He hisses softly, his eyes blearily blinking themselves open.

“Merlin?”

Arthur.

Merlin gasps, pulling himself upright with newfound strength, carelessly lifting a hand to rub his eyes, ignoring the pain that shoots down his arm.

“I can’t- Merlin, stop moving!”

Definitely Arthur.

But Merlin obeys anyway, his gaze finally focusing on a familiar face as Arthur draws out his sword. Despite the familiar face, however, Merlin flinches as light glints of the sword, pulling himself into the opposite corner.

“No, Merlin, I wasn’t-” Arthur cuts himself off, sighing sadly, and swallows before sheathing his sword almost guiltily and turning to the menacing chains once more.

Merlin lets his eyes fall shut again regardless of how much he wants to see Arthur, how much he wants to see if Arthur will stay.

He’s missed Arthur.

There’s about a minute’s silence before an almighty, metallic noise rings out and Merlin abruptly feels alive.

He gasps, ducking his head to hide his eyes as they widen because he can feel, actually feel the powerful golden glow that radiates from them. He covers his head with his arms as his heart blooms again, as his soul finally starts to thaw and comfort him again, as his magic roams free under his skin again.

He breathes.

Inhales.

Exhales.

Simply breathing.

He’d forgotten how liberating it feels to be able to breathe normally.

He waits until he feels his magic settle, nestle inside him where it can’t be found, before looking up.

Arthur’s tears greet him.

He frowns but no, he’s not hallucinating, Arthur Pendragon is in front of him, is crying in front of him.

“Arthur…” Merlin breathes, a small smile blooming on his face.

Arthur looks conflicted but he beams as Merlin smiles, letting them share their relief for a moment before clambering onto the cart and unfastening the bolt on the cage, practically throwing the door open.

“Come on, Merlin, I have to get you out of here,” he says quickly, hushed.

Merlin nods, pushing himself towards Arthur and letting himself be swiftly but kindly guided off the cart.

Instantly, there are arms around him.

Merlin’s smile only lasts a second before Arthur’s hand brushes the stitched wound on his shoulder and he cries out, wincing enough for Arthur to pull back in concern. “Merlin?”

“S- sorry,” he manages, unable to stop smiling despite the pain.

“Oh, Merlin. I’m so sorry,” Arthur tells him sincerely.

Someone starts yelling somewhere behind them - apparently, Aredian’s son hadn’t missed the commotion - and Arthur’s eyes widen, glancing around frantically before settling back on Merlin. “I’m sorry if this hurts,” he whispers.

Then Merlin’s feet are leaving the ground and his head is suddenly on Arthur’s shoulder.

He whimpers but clings to Arthur as he bites down on his lip, forcing himself to stay quiet, focusing on his magic, trying to see how much of it he can use to help them escape, to help prevent Arthur having to face the witchfinder too.

Not much, apparently.

But just enough.

With the help of Arthur’s strength and a sprinkling of Merlin’s magic, they manage to make it far away enough that they can’t even hear whoever it was chasing them anymore. Only then does Arthur stop and let Merlin down, making sure there’s a tree behind him that he can lean on.

“I’m so glad you’re alive.” Arthur smiles.

When he doesn’t continue with how he’d be losing someone to use as target practice or something of the like, Merlin lets himself smile properly for the first time in days.

“Why… I mean, how did you…?” Merlin stops suddenly, unsure of what exactly he should be asking.

Arthur understands anyway.

He shrugs. “I persuaded my father that three nights was far too long to result in a genuine confession and then I simply followed the tracks to find you.”

“You followed the tracks?” Merlin echoes, unsure where his energy is coming from but unable to resist an opportunity to tease Arthur.

Arthur clears his throat pointedly. “I may have, uhm, asked… everyone… if they’d seen a witchfinder.”

Something soft, something like happiness, spreads through Merlin as he imagines Arthur questioning so many people just to look for him. It means more to him than he can care to admit and it makes his suffering at the hands of the witchfinder just a little more tolerable.

“Arthur, we can’t stay here,” Merlin finds himself saying, despite his heart wanting to do just that.

Arthur nods solemnly. “I know, we have to get you back home- Uh, that is, to Gaius. So he can heal you. Because you don’t look good at all.”

Merlin has questions but he makes a note of and saves them for another time.

When Arthur moves to pick him up again, Merlin holds up a hand and steps back just enough to prove a point. He ignores the way Arthur looks horrified at the bruising on his wrist and swallows. “I can walk.”

“Merlin…”

“We’ll be faster this way,” Merlin argues.

Arthur takes a moment but nods once more, pausing briefly before grabbing Merlin’s hand and starting to run.

“I only said I could walk, Arthur!” Merlin yells as they start moving.

“You also said you wanted to go faster!” Arthur yells back, his voice laced with equal amounts of amusement and concern.

Merlin had anticipated himself falling but he does nothing of the sort, a strange sort of strength pushing him forward, allowing him to keep up with Arthur as they sprint their way towards Camelot.

They don’t speak but they don’t need to.

If Arthur’s hand wasn’t firmly gripping Merlin’s as they ran, Merlin would have thought he was imagining this as some kind of fever dream. It just seems unreal that Arthur would search so desperately for him but he’s not complaining; if this is the reward for maintaining his end of destiny’s bargain, he’ll gladly accept it.

“Are you okay?” Arthur asks breathlessly at one point, glancing sideways.

Merlin nods, not even lying when he manages to reply, “Never been better!”

They carry on, through the forests and over the mostly deserted roads, stopping for nothing and no-one as they move, their fingers firmly intertwined as if their lives depend on it.

Eventually, the castle comes into view and the two of them share a slightly exhausted but still exhilarated grin as they somewhat carelessly navigate their way through the streets until they burst into the courtyard.

Coming to a stop, Arthur looks over to Merlin, pure relief in his expression.

Merlin sends him a lopsided grin in return.

But then the blistering pain of the last few days catches up to him and he whimpers again, his hand falling from Arthur’s as he doubles over, his body aching all over.

Agony burns and dances across his skin, creating nonsensical patterns between his wounds and connecting the dots of all his bruises. It hurts and although it's slightly better than before because his magic is trying its best to help dull his pain, it still hurts a little too much for him to bear.

“Merlin!”

He can hear Arthur’s concern but it seems that his adrenaline could only last so long.

Satisfied that he’s back in Camelot, back where he’s safe, back home, Merlin offers Arthur a soft smile before letting the soothing comfort of darkness take over, take away his pain.

He just about registers himself collapsing before he sinks into unconsciousness.

At least Arthur's there to catch him this time.

-

Arthur was no stranger to scars.

A knight’s duty is to battle and continue to battle even when injured.

Naturally, not every battle can be won and often, Knights would return home with more injuries than victories, injuries that slowly but surely healed into scars of memory and experience.

Having scars should have been a trait reserved solely for Knights.

Merin shouldn’t have scars.

A strange kind of fury blossoms in Arthur’s heart every time he’s reminded that his manservant and his - dare he say it - his friend had been injured, tortured, and left with scars.

He knew Merlin would scar as soon as he’d seen him, there’d been far too much blood smudged on his bruised skin and soaked into his rags of clothes for anything otherwise. And then they’d started moving and Merlin had winced and flinched but pushed through and his hand had smeared blood into Arthur’s skin while their fingers had been intertwined.

Merlin had been his responsibility and he’d failed him and that blood can never truly be washed off his hands.

Just like the witchfinder’s cruelty will never truly leave Merlin.

Arthur doesn’t even get to see Merlin for what feels like an eternity after they return to Camelot because Gaius forbids it and not even Arthur would dare to interfere with a court physician’s love for his son.

But not seeing Merlin doesn’t mean he’s not constantly reminded of him.

It seems that everything he does is somehow connected to Merlin so even waking up in the morning without their usual exchange of meaningless teasing feels strange, disjointed. If people didn’t respect his position as Crown Prince or First Knight, he’s certain they would have pointed out his general lack of enthusiasm, lack of spirit, lack of life.

And they’d be right; he misses Merlin.

He misses him more than he can explain. More than he can express. More than he can handle.

So he waits.

He waits and waits and pretends that he’s not suffering with his guilt and his concern and what seems to be his affection for Merlin.

It feels like years later when Gaius finally summons him.

Arthur’s never run so fast.

He thunders through the castle corridors until he reaches the physician’s study, composing himself enough to knock once, twice, thrice.

“Come in,” Gaius calls from inside.

Taking a breath, Arthur pushes the door open.

Only to be hit with something.

“Ow!” he exclaims, rubbing his head and glaring at the lowly twig that had bounced off him.

“What took you so long, clotpole?” Merlin teases.

Oh, how he's missed that voice.

Arthur feels himself laugh before he looks up, catching Merlin’s eye immediately, his feet pushing him forwards before he can think about it but his brain quickly catching up and making him freeze just before he gets round to embracing his manservant.

“Can I…?”

Merlin grins and pushes himself off the bench, wrapping his arms around Arthur.

It’s just about the happiest Arthur has felt in his life.

“Merlin…” he breathes, taking care not to press too hard as he wraps his own arms around Merlin, a relieved smile taking over his face.

They stay wrapped within the moment and each other, neither of them wanting to ruin their reunion in any way, anything they’d previously planned to say forgotten in favour of savouring one another’s presence.

“At least sit down, will you?” Gaius scolds, but not unkindly.

Sighing, Arthur pulls back so they can both take a seat on the bench, refusing to take his eyes off Merlin, noticing the way he holds himself tighter, as if afraid of falling apart.

“I’m sorry, I tried-” Arthur begins, only to be cut off as Merlin lifts a hand.

“I know, Arthur. It’s okay… You came for me, didn’t you?” The soft smile on Merlin’s face is so pure, it makes Arthur want to scream.

He doesn’t, of course.

He just takes Merlin’s hand, frowning at the small, almost invisible marks on his skin that he knows he should have prevented.

Merlin clears his throat after the silence stretches between them. “My face is up here, you know?” he jokes.

Arthur looks up slowly, unable to stop his gaze wandering over the rest of Merlin, the bandages peeking out from under his shirt, the few bruises that have failed to fade even after so long, and the way he seems to be smaller, more vulnerable, more fragile.

He knows Merlin is far from fragile, he knows that.

But he can’t help himself.

“Arthur, please,” Merlin says quietly.

Guilt flashes through Arthur again as he finally meets Merlin’s eyes and notices the almost-healed cut on his jaw and the healed but not entirely invisible scar on his forehead.

But he smiles nonetheless. “It’s good to have you back, Merlin,” he admits.

“It’s good to be back,” Merlin replies as he stretches a little, “but I’ve been in this room for so long, I’ve just about forgotten what wildflowers are like.”

It takes Arthur a second to register what Merlin’s said but then he bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “Surely you’d see the herbs and such that Gaius uses in his potions?”

Merlin makes an incredulous face. “Do you really think crushed remedy ingredients are anything alike?”

“I don’t know Merlin, I don’t often spend my time admiring flowers like a girl.” Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Ah but you do sometimes?” Merlin raises an eyebrow and Arthur scoffs, gently shoving his arm.

Wrong arm.

A stifled gasp escapes Merlin as he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. He reopens them almost instantly but it’s too late to pretend that nothing had happened, that he's alright.

“I’m so sorry,” Arthur blurts, awkwardly jerking back and pushing himself off the bench to stand upright, not even trusting himself not to hurt Merlin anymore.

“It’s not your fault,” Merlin murmurs in response, sighing.

But it is.

It’s Arthur’s job to protect Merlin and here he is further aggravating his wounds. Maybe Gaius was right to keep them apart, at least until Merlin was stronger, better, back to his old self.

But he can’t ever truly be back to his old self because he’ll have to carry the scars of his time with the witchfinder on his skin for the rest of his life.

“Please- Arthur, don’t… leave.”

Merlin’s voice breaks through his guilt-fueled doubts.

He doesn’t even have to think about it before sitting back down, shuffling as close to Merlin as he physically can, offering him a reassuring but apologetic smile.

“I won’t,” he promises.

It’s an easy promise to make.

Merlin’s loyalty is unbelievable, unrepayable, and if he’s willing to let Arthur stay near him- if he’s asking for Arthur to stay with him even after such an ordeal, Arthur will gladly honour that promise with his life.

He knows it won’t be too difficult for Merlin’s endlessly, hopelessly kind heart to forgive him but until he feels as though he’s kept this promise for as long as he’s able to, he’ll never quite forgive himself for letting Merlin have to bear the burden of his scars.

-

Merlin wakes up crying.

He’s not sure why at first but flashes of blades and chains and indifferent smirks are enough to let him guess that, apparently, he’s not recovering as well as he’d thought.

And if that wasn’t enough, he could easily have guessed because lately, it was common for him to lose out on sleep and end up experiencing his past pains all over again. It seems that, unfortunately, he’ll never quite get used to it.

Angrily, he wipes the tears from his eyes and pulls himself out of bed because the sun seems to be peaking through his window anyway so there’d be no point in getting back to sleep.

He’s still a little disorientated by the time Gaius wakes up and serves them breakfast so he says nothing, keeping his troubles to himself, not wanting to worry the man he considers to be his father.

“Are you feeling alright, Merlin?” Gaius frowns at him once they’re both finished and Merlin’s halfway out of the door.

He briefly considers replying truthfully.

“Of course, Gaius!” he smiles widely before closing the door behind him and making his way to Arthur’s chambers.

Arthur’s still fast asleep, no surprise there.

Rather than immediately waking him, though, Merlin sets up the armour for later, tidies away what he can, and sets the table for breakfast before attempting to rouse him.

“Arthur, come on, you’re going to be late!” Merlin all but yells at said prince, yanking the covers off him and chuckling when Arthur grumbles in response.

“So rude,” Arthur comments as Merlin kindly manhandles him upright.

For a second, he sounds just like Aredian’s son, right before a dagger had been plunged into his skin because he’d refused to make a sound. For a second, he’s back in a hollow, stone room with no escape and no refuge from the cruelty of someone out for revenge. For a second, he forgets where he is.

“Merlin, you do have to move,” Arthur says impatiently, breaking the spell.

“Right.” Merlin clears his throat, pushing away his memories and focusing on getting Arthur into a more respectable outfit for his meeting.

They’re both quiet until Arthur sits down to eat, at which point the silence seems to be suffocating Merlin and he finally speaks up:  “I need to, uh, feed the horses. Unless there’s anything else?”

Arthur frowns before shaking his head. “No, that’ll be all. But make sure you’re back here after lunch to get me ready for training.”

“Of course,” Merlin promises before sprinting from the room, his feet taking him towards the stables even though it’s not actually his turn to feed the horses and he’d just used the first excuse he could think of.

When he gets to the stables, he turns and takes the path that leads into the woods, walking until he knows he hasn’t been followed before sinking down into the leaves under a particularly tall tree and sighing sadly.

He lets his head fall onto his knees once he’s pulled them up to his chest, keeping his eyes open so that he doesn’t fall asleep but letting himself slump back against the tree trunk, too tired to hold himself upright.

And he cries.

He doesn’t mean to but he can’t get the scent of metal and blood and badly hidden hatred out of his mind and it’s driving him crazy.

Silent sobs ripple through his frame as he tries to breathe, tries not to fall into unpleasant flashbacks, tries and fails to stay composed.

Only when he knows he can’t stay any longer without risking being late and letting Arthur down does he push himself to his feet, wiping the tear-tracks off his face and breaking into a soft run.

“You’re late, as usual,” Arthur scolds as he bursts through the door.

“You’re ungrateful, as usual,” Merlin retorts, scoffing.

He swiftly goes over to the armour and starts getting Arthur ready, letting himself stay focused on securing the clasps rather than securing his emotions.

“You smell bizarre, Merlin. What were you feeding those horses?”

Merlin blinks in confusion before pausing. “Um… I wasn’t… Someone else already had so I went to collect herbs for Gaius instead.”

Arthur hums in acknowledgement, the two of them lapsing into a hushed quiet once more before making their way to the field so Arthur can embarrass the new recruits with his ego.

He must be having a bad day because Merlin doesn’t even know what happens between handing Arthur his sword and the end of the training session. He’s dimly aware that he’d been gathering weapons and assisting the Knights but he can’t focus on any of it.

“Merlin, get your head out of the clouds,” Arthur yells at him eventually.

It’s only then that he realises the sky has gone dark.

“Wh- what?” Merlin asks, blinking as Arthur walks over to him.

“Did you get hit in the head?”

Merlin nods without thinking, then frowns. “Wait, no. I don’t know.”

After a beat, a matching frown appears on Arthur’s face. It disappears before Merlin can comment on it and then Arthur is pulling him back to his chambers, his grip on Merlin’s arm soft and gentle but firm enough to hold.

“Help me with my armour,” Arthur orders him once they’re both back inside.

Merlin does so, without question.

He steps back once all the armour has been taken off, picking up the gauntlet and readying himself for having to clean it all before the next dawn.

But Arthur just shakes his head. “No, Merlin, they don’t need cleaning yet.”

“Then what do you need?” Merlin asks, dumping everything in the chest near the door so he remembers to clean it another time.

Arthur opens his mouth and closes it again, then repeats the process.

Merlin would laugh if he weren’t so curious. “Arthur?”

“Stay with me?”

It takes Merlin a second to process the request because Arthur had blurted it out as if it were trying to run away from him.

“What?” is all he can reply.

Arthur walks over to him and smiles knowingly, something he doesn’t do very often. “I know that something’s troubling you, Merlin. Perhaps if you stay with me tonight, I can help.”

Oh.

Merlin’s heart grins as he understands why Arthur had been acting so nervous: he was just worried. But it’s not like Arthur can fight Merlin’s own mind for him, especially when he has no idea what goes on in there.

“Arthur, I appreciate it, but-”

“I know,” Arthur interrupts, “that I don’t understand entirely. But it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

Even if he’d have wanted to, Merlin couldn’t argue with that.

“If you wish,” he mumbles.

Arthur’s explicit concern is almost surreal but Merlin lets himself have it, lets himself fall asleep in the presence of another despite the risk of his nightmares being a nuisance, lets himself be the subject of someone else’s help for once.

He sleeps soundly.

-

In case anyone's interested and hasn’t seen my whumptober fic, the prompts for each segment were 'shackled', 'stitches', 'adrenaline', 'scars', and 'stay with me' :)

-

like/reblog but please don’t repost, thanks! masterlist

[loftyexecutor]

venatio

characters; arme, apos, lusa, esper pairing; LPDE wc; 4280 au; demon au cws; blood, injuries, fighting notes; lets play spot the iconic line by michael jones chucked in here

ao3 mirror

The scent of a demon is so pungent in the air that it's right on that edge of getting him sick. Arme's lips curl into a thin frown, doing his best to keep the bile from forcing its way up his throat.

"We must be close," Apostasia quips, ever the observant.

He's looking around with those blank eyes of his, no inch of his face betraying what he's thinking, feeling. Not that that's out of the ordinary with him, but it almost makes Arme self-conscious about how badly the scent is affecting him.

Almost.

"Maybe you're just smelling yourself," he says, soldiering his way through the thick trees. They've been in this forest for days now, tracing the scent and clues left of it all over the place.

Apostasia doesn't grace him with an answer. Not sure what Arme had expected -- he is, after all, not affected by provocation easily. He's so unlike Erbluhen, who all but bears his heart on the sleeve.

Maybe it's the demon blood pumping in his veins making him like this. Arme can hazily remember the past, when he'd been different, even the time when he'd been scared of the blood overtaking him. Not anymore; but even Arme has to admit, however begrudgingly, that it makes their chases a little easier to have someone with the abilities similar to their preys.

The stifling silence stretches until they reach a clearing, a quaint place with a river flowing through it. The dark oaks give way to shorter underbushes, scattered along the edge of the flowing water, grass trampled in obvious paths by the animals frequenting the spot.

And it's there that the scent intensifies to an almost unbearable level.

Their eyes flick automatically to the source. And they're both somehow surprised to find a figure leaned by the river bank, slumped and washing lengths of animal hide like it was the most natural thing.

Their white hair is short and wet, sticking to their neck and shining in the light from overhead. And they're completely steeped in that awful, awful smell.

Arme's hand is gripping a glowing blade in the matter of microseconds, but the projection comes alive with a crackle. And by the time he lunges himself at the figure, they've whipped around, already on their feet and parrying his attack with a small knife gripped in one hand.

Their speed in commendable, but Arme doesn't have the time for such trivial things. The person's blade slides against his and they're jumping out of the way when they disconnect.

It's a man, barely shorter than Arme or Apostasia themselves, broad shoulders squared for a fight as he exchanges the knife to the other hand. His knees bent, his posture reads ready for a fight.

"Who're you?" he growls out, magenta eyes narrowing in suspicion as he looks between them. "Demon hunters…" he tacks on when he sees Arme's uniform, the crisp white of his cloak. Even if Apostasia isn't dressed in anything similar, mostly blending in with the treeline, there's no mistake they're together.

Arme lunges again, an arc of his blade swooping down in a violent slash, but the man dodges to the side, tucking into a roll with an arm braced against the ground.

"Stay still and let yourself get purified, you monster," Arme hisses, holding a hand out and calling forth spears from the ground. With shattering noises they come up, break the soil and follow after the man as he stays just a hair's breadth ahead of them.

"In your dreams!" the man calls, throwing the small blade in Arme's direction. It's embarrassingly easy to swat it away with just a flick of his sword.

"Follow up," Apostasia announces. He's standing to the side, letting Arme quarrel it out like usual. It's not often he offers any kind of advice, so Arme doesn't catch on fast enough.

The man comes right after the knife, punching Arme square in the jaw and sending him tumbling back a few steps. The muscles in his jaw hurt when he grits his teeth, but he thrusts the sword forward again, half blindly, and the man narrowly avoids behind speared on it.

Instead Arme just nicks his side, a large chunk of his top falling down in tatters and blood soaking the rest of the purple cloth from the gash leftover.

The man hisses in pain, eyes blazing with anger as he holds onto the injury. Arme hadn't seen such a look of utter hatred many times, but the fire within this man's eyes is unmistakable. It's a look he sometimes sends Apostasia himself.

"Like hell I'll let ya!"

The man springs forward to deliver another punch, and another, and another, knuckles bleeding as they hit the blunt edge of Arme's glowing weapon over and over.

Then there's a foot surging forward, hooking around one of Arme's ankles and pulling, tripping him and sending them both toppling to the ground with a loud thud. Arme's projection falls from his fingers, flickering out of existence a few feet away from them.

Apostasia looks ready to finally join the scuffle, arms previously folded over his chest falling to his sides, but Arme stops him with a single glare, flipping the man over and holding him down with an arm against his throat, calling forth another projection to replace his previous sword.

"Lusa!" comes a shout from within the forest, loud and questioning. "Lusa, what's the hold u--"

A slighter man comes from between two thick trees, treading the undergrowth with caution due to the long yukata he's clad in.

He stops with a hand against the rough bark of one, looking over the scene with unbidden surprise. And then anger, when his eyes fall to the ground, to Arme pinning down the man with a sword in his hand.

Eyes that are dark as the night, narrowed into a glare that could freeze hell over twice.

"Get away from Lusa," he says, chest rising with the deep inhale he takes. "Get away from him!"

The smell seeped into the place increases exponentially, Arme's breath getting stuck in his throat before he's pushed off the man with force greater than he could've expected. Whatever had slammed into him was nothing but a blur, but when he regains his composure, he can see it had been the newcomer, now standing between him and the other man who's nursing his throat now, small coughs leaving his lips.

The new man -- no. When Arme looks closer he can clearly see this being had been the real source of the stench, demonic power covering him so thickly it's almost palpable as he moves. This demon had been their target.

And he's pissed.

Arme braces a foot back to jump forward and stab the demon to ribbons, but the other is faster, on him in the matter of a blink, clawed hands grabbing his sword and shattering it into glimmering pieces. They're face to face now, the demon's sharp teeth bared in a snarl.

"How dare you!" it cries, lunging at Arme and clawing its way up his torso, reducing his uniform to tatters. Arme pushes back, gripping another projected weapon tightly. He'd dreamt of cutting this beast down for days, and by the Goddess' name, he's going to do it.

He swings, catching the demon's outstretched arm and digging straight into it. The blood that pours out is a vile black, seeping into the thing's yukata and spattering the ground. The roar it lets out is animalistic at best, guttural and loud.

Arme falls back, breathing hard as he looks the creature over where it stands, slumped back and holding onto its gash. It takes only a second to call forth the spears again, hitting the creature from everywhich side, piercing into its skin and impaling it where it stands.

Apostasia sighs at the display, averting his eyes to look at the man half-sitting, half-laying on the ground. His face is the epitome of fear, eyes wide as they look at his… Apostasia doesn't know what they were, he'd probably just been the demon's toy.

"Run," the man grits out, voice choked as he pushes himself up to his feet, swaying a little and favoring his right side.

Apostasia would laugh at that simple command, but when he looks over at the demon again, sees it pulling out Arme's spears one by one out of itself, he feels the urge to tell Arme the very same thing.

His breath catches in his throat, though, the pressure of demonic power surrounding them making his esophagus tight.

The demon howls as it pulls out the last spear, flicking blood everywhere as it throws the weapon aside like a toy. It floats up, air cracking around it like glass. Purple seeps from its form, filling the cracks like a spiderweb in midair.

And when it lifts its arms, Apostasia knows it's too late to warm Arme of anything.

Energy forms around the demon, condensing itself into balls that only hover for a moment before raining down upon Arme, a shower of searing hot energy that hits Arme like a meteorite, or a whole bunch of them.

The sleeves of his uniform get singed off as he tries guarding, not even his projected shield enough to stop the barrage of attacks raining upon him.

"Esper, stop it!"

Apostasia flashes to Arme's side, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and pulling him out of the range. But there isn't any range. The meteorites just follow him like the demon's eyes do, no matter where he dodges. One hits him in his exposed side, but he's too slow with Arme's dead weight in his arms.

The man rushes up to the demon, desperately pulling it back down to the ground. Apostasia can catch him saying nonsense to it, 'stop it's and 'thats enough's until the space around it reforms itself and the purple fades back into the usual green of the forest.

The man slings the now limp demon over his shoulder with nary a flinch, and turns to look at him with furrowed brows. Apostasia isn't sure what he expects him to do, but it isn't shaking his head and disappearing into the trees, lugging around a demon who had just almost killed Arme like nothing.

Apostasia looks down to the fallen warrior slumping in his lap and calls forth for Henir. They've severely underestimated this demon.

----

Lusa pants as he runs, feet dragging over fallen branches and exposed roots. He adjusts his hold on Esper to check up on him, one hand brushing aside his fringe. He almost looks like he's just sleeping, but he's so pale…

The hunter had gotten him like a Swiss fucking cheese! Goddamn it!

He can't tell if they're being followed, but he can't keep going with a clear conscience. He stops by a large tree, gently propping Esper's back against it.

One hand against his chest tells him Esper's heart is doing its best to keep him alive, but it's too quiet even despite his own loud breathing.

"Es," he breathes, leaning his forehead against Esper's as he grits his teeth, fighting the onslaught of tears prickling the corners of his eyes. "Don't you dare die. Don't you dare…!"

He rolls up one of his sleeves, lamenting the dirtied fabric for only a moment before he's forcing Esper's jaw open and pushing his face against the pale flesh. He pushes his jaw closed and winces as Esper's sharp teeth puncture his skin.

He's about to panic when nothing happens for long, too long seconds, but eventually Esper starts drinking, tongue lapping at the wounds on instinct, throat working as he swallows the blood given to him.

Lusa heaves a sigh of relief, bracing his empty hand against the tree. He isn't sure how long passes. It could be minutes, it could be an hour, but his vision blanks into black here and there, and Esper's wounds close themselves little by little.

He's dizzy by the time Esper's eyes crack open, a haze clouding the usual pink irises. Esper looks up at him, and then his eyes fall down to the arm held by his mouth. He's pushing Lusa away like he'd been burned.

"Lusa!" he cries, arms holding onto his shoulders before he could even think about falling backwards. He blinks tiredly, lack of blood affecting him more than usual. It's to be expected, coupled with the untended injury on his side.

"You idiot…" Esper mutters, brushing the back of his fingers over Lusa's cheek, looking at him like he'd just done something dumb. Or maybe like he'd put the stars onto the night sky, like Esper usually does. He isn't sure.

Esper has them reversed, extremely gentle as he lays Lusa back by the tree, slinging his bag off his shoulder. He digs in it as Lusa watches impassively, barely keeping his eyes open. He's cold, now that Esper isn't touching him. He shivers, feeling all that his previous adrenaline let him overlook, every muscle that screams in exertion, every bolt of pain rushing outwards from his side.

He groans.

Esper's eyes flick to him with concern lacing his eyebrows together, reaching out to keep him still as he shudders.

"How are you feeling?" Esper asks, and Lusa, were he of his usual mind, would laugh at that.

Like shit, he would say.

Esper seems to understand even without him saying anything, and something softens in his expression.

"I'll patch you up, okay? Don't move." A gentle command, like the fingers that help pull his shirt off, the soaked, stained garment ending up on the ground nearby.

Esper winces himself when Lusa's injury comes to view, nasty and deep. He drops down to Lusa's stomach and hovers just above it, looking up with apology on his lips.

"I'll clean you up," he says, and Lusa finds himself nodding, muscles clenching as Esper's tongue touches the edge of the cut, carefully licking all the half-dried blood off until only ivory skin is left. He relaxes into the ministrations, but they're over a little too quick for his liking.

Then Esper pulls off and takes a roll of bandages from his pack, guiding Lusa forward so he can start wrapping them around the gash, apologizing every single time Lusa hisses or winces.

When that is done as well, Esper moves to his arm and wraps the bite marks as well, holding the arm close even when finished.

"I'm so sorry," he repeats; Lusa had lost track of how many times he'd said that today.

His free hand, trembling, reaches out and burrows in Esper's hair, caressing and pulling him closer until he can press a kiss to his forehead.

"We're fine," he says, quietly. "We'll be fine."

"Yeah," Esper echoes, hugging the arm he's still holding close to his chest. "I'll get us home, okay? You need to rest. I'll... I won't let this happen again."

Lusa scoffs at the promise. He doesn't want Esper to blame himself. He'd been worse off than Lusa is, honestly, and it'll only take a few days tops for him to get healed.

He doesn't voice any of it, instead lets Esper pick him up, presses himself close to his chest as he's held there.

"Don't use your power carelessly again," he says, begs, almost. "You know it takes too much of a toll on you..."

Esper bites at his bottom lip, holding Lusa just a little tighter. "I won't let them hurt you again," he tells Lusa instead, and the man just sighs.

"I know you won't."

He's aware of Esper grabbing his bag and then of nothing more, finally letting himself succumb to the fatigue.

---

Esper is slow in his trek back to the cottage, making sure he doesn't jostle Lusa at all. He knows the forest like the back of his hand, knows just which path to take not to deal with obstacles or larger animals that could catch onto the scent of blood.

Lusa…

He's sleeping in Esper's arms like nothing had happened, a peaceful expression etched into his features like he's having the most pleasant of dreams right now. Esper's heart pangs when he sees it and he makes extra sure he isn't being followed.

Every rabbit at the edge of his vision is treated like a threat. He can't -- he won't -- allow Lusa to be hurt again.

The hunters are after him, and him dragging Lusa into a scuffle like that is just… unfair. He'd already robbed Lusa of so much, a normal life he could've been leading had they not met all those years ago.

"You're a demon, aren't you?" Lusa had said when seeing him the first time, words etched so deep in his memory it's like he can hear him saying them now.

He'd been a kid back then, face round and hair cut much less choppily than it is now. He's found Esper at the edge of the village, huddling in a bush after being pelted with stones by other kids.

'Demon, demon!!' they'd yelled at him when he'd tried playing with them, and he thought Lusa wouldn't be any different. Instead the boy sat down next to him and asked him, "Do you really drink blood?" in a tone more curious than anything.

Esper had nodded stiffly, shoulders pulled back and ready to be made fun of.

"Would drinking my blood make you hurt less?" Lusa asked, offering his arm without a beat of hesitation.

Lusa's blood had tasted better than anything Esper had put in his mouth before, or even after. He drank and drank until Lusa pulled his arm away, swaying on the balls of his feet, and Esper had helped him get back home to rest.

He'd felt better than ever before then, any injury caused by the kids long gone from his skin, and he'd been surprised when Lusa had searched him out after that.

He'd made a friend by drinking their blood. How laughable.

That had been years ago. So much had happened after that, like the whole village learning of his… condition, like his father trying to dissect him for experiments, like Lusa holding his hand and running off into the woods where they'd gotten lost for weeks on end. Like them becoming each other's right hands, like them traveling the world with nothing but two bags of necessities. Like them laughing and sharing meals they've caught themselves with traps perfected out of need, like them sharing their first kiss next to a roaring fire, like them falling in love and knowing each other better than themselves.

Sometimes he can't help wonder what Lusa's life would be like had he never met him, whether he'd find himself popular with other humans and settle down with a nice, human husband. Or maybe a wife. Everyone always seemed to like him on the occasions of them visiting villages and towns to sell game and pelts they'd caught, trading for new clothes and food they couldn't get on their own.

But Lusa always tells him he's happy with him, that he doesn't regret anything he'd done because it led them to this point. Esper had made a vow to do his very best to keep him happy, to make sure to keep Lusa safe.

And now he'd gotten hurt by hunters after Esper. They must've attacked Lusa because he looks eerily similar to him. Sometimes they poised as brothers when in a city, when Esper made his eyes a normal, human color to blend in.

It takes a lot out of him to do just that simple thing, so he only does so rarely. Lusa had told him his real eyes look more beautiful, and he'd cried then, hearing such a thing for the first time. Lusa held him close until he calmed down, wiped his dark tears without a comment.

"I'll keep you safe," he says aloud, fingers digging into the cloth of Lusa's pants. "I'll be prepared this time."

He leans down and presses a kiss to Lusa's lips.

---

Lusa's eyes flutter open when he feels something soft against his lips and he cranes his neck forward to chase it when it pulls away.

The first thing he sees is Esper's eyes looking down at him, crinkled at the corners with the smile curling his lips. There's not really a better way to wake up than being kissed like that.

Maybe except when the kiss lingers and doesn't pull away. He reaches up and cups the curve of Esper's neck, beckoning him back down silently.

Esper obliges, their lips meeting in another soft kiss, melding together like they were created for that sole purpose. And maybe they were. They complete each other; there's not a part of Lusa's life that doesn't include the frail-looking demon.

"I'm so glad you're okay," Esper breathes, words so soft, so quiet they could've just been imagined. But they weren't.

"You got speared like a meat skewer," Lusa huffs back, halfway to chuckling. Esper is intact, no trace of the incident left on his skin.

"You made me drink."

It sounds accusatory. Though not much different than Esper's usual tone, Lusa had long learned to spot any and all differences in his inflection.

"I don't regret it," he says, honest to a T.

Esper frowns, sits down next to him on the rickety bed. They're back in their hut, the hut they'd found abandoned in the middle of the forest and took for theirs for the time being. It's not like anyone came to throw them out, so they decided it was okay.

"You could've died from the blood loss."

"But I didn't. I'm fine," Lusa reflects, proving himself by sitting up as well. His joints pop from lack of use, but otherwise he feels good. He's sure the stab wound on his side, covered by bandages, is no longer there. "How long was I out for?"

Esper hesitates for a split second, but it isn't like him to lie to Lusa, so he says, "A whole day."

Lusa wants to make a joke, lighten the dark mood that seems to linger around Esper like a rain cloud, but as soon as he opens his mouth, Esper stands up and makes his way to the roaring fireplace. There's a cauldron set on the flames, its innards bubbling merrily.

"I made stew. You must be starving," Esper says.

"You've got no idea," Lusa grins back. Esper throws him a look over his shoulder, an amused glimmer in his eyes, only heightened by the lights flickering in them from the fire.

Esper knows a thing or two about starving.

"I caught a few rabbits." There's the hidden inflection, an unvoiced 'I was afraid of leaving to hunt something bigger and leave you alone while hurt,' but Lusa knows it's there and he knows Esper knows he knows.

It's convoluted.

"Your rabbit stew is the best," Lusa tells him instead, following so he can wrap his arms around Esper's midriff from behind, resting his chin on the demon's shoulder. He stays like that while Esper loads a large portion of the delicious smelling meal into a bowl for him. Only after Lusa whispers into his ear, "What about you?" does he grab a second bowl, filling it halfway.

It's better than nothing, better than some days when Esper doesn't touch real food with a ten foot pole.

They settle back on the bed, the mattress creaking under their combined weight, and Lusa wraps one of the warm hides they use for blankets around both of them. Esper rests against his side, bringing small spoonfuls to his mouth and chewing the meat slowly.

"I left the new hides by the river," Lusa says suddenly, when he remembers he'd been washing them. Esper snorts from besides him, his spoon clinking against the edge of the bowl as his hand goes lax.

"That's what you're worried about?"

"You worked hard to catch those bears."

Esper curls up into himself, trembling the barest amount against Lusa's shoulder.

"Do you want to leave this place?" Lusa asks instead, placing his spoon down as well in favor of wrapping an arm around Esper's frame, holding him even closer. Closer, closer, it's never enough.

"God," Esper exhales, "yeah."

"We can leave after we eat, how about that?" Lusa rubs his shoulder, warming the skin under a clean yukata sleeve. It's almost absentminded, so natural he doesn't realize he does it half the time. Esper never comments on it. Lusa knows he likes it.

"I'll pack."

"We'll be okay," Lusa says, words he knows Esper needs to hear. Being a demon doesn't detract from fear, a feeling so primal it transcends mortal species. "I won't let them -- any hunters -- get you."

And Esper bursts into laughter at that. He presses a kiss to the side of Lusa's neck, holding the bowl steady in his lap lest he spill it all over the both of them. How come Lusa, the human half of them, is always the braver, the stronger of the two?

"I know you won't. And I won't let you get hurt like that ever again either."

"I know, Es. I know."

Lusa brings a spoonful up to not his own mouth, but Esper's instead.

"We'll leave when the sun sets. I hear the Eastern prairies are nice."

"I hope we find a place like this."

"I'll build you a hut myself if that's what you want."

"You're a dumbass. I love you."

There's that unspoken next part again. Lusa squeezes Esper with the arm he still has around him.

"I live for you too."

[iwantasecretgarden]

Dear Misty,

@mercedeslackeyblog​ - please print this for her in the hospital! I want her to know we all love her and are rooting for her.

You have been one of the icons in my life for as long as I’ve been reading. Seriously. I picked up “Arrows of the Queen” when I was twelve and fell dizzyingly in love. So in love, in fact, that my father bought me the set of them leatherbound. It was one of the last things he ever bought me. They sit on my shelf with me wherever I move to (and I have moved a lot). They are the epitome of my childhood.

How do I even begin to explain what you have meant to me? I wrote you a fan letter in my teens, but I don’t think it ever reached you. Websites were less...polished then. I tried to find a copy to see what I had said, but I don’t have it anymore, so I’ll write this from scratch.

First off, for someone growing up in the 90s, sexuality was a difficult topic. My father was Catholic about it. My mother was liberal about acceptance, but not very liberal about giving us the tools to recognize it. I didn’t really accept the fact I was bi until I was 26 (last year). It was an embarrassing realization, because I had always been conditioned to already think women were interesting and cool and beautiful. But I honestly and truly believe one of the reasons I grew up being so tolerant of sexuality wasn’t my mother’s liberal attitude, but because of the fantasy I read, which didn’t use sexuality as a dramatic plot device. Your books, especially, in depicting queer relationships, poly relationships, and interracial relationships in such an ordinary light, in such a non-complaining, non special, non interesting way (as it should be!) that to me it became ordinary. I didn’t understand the big fuss when people started coming out in eighth and ninth grade. Well of course Brett could like boys. Silverfox did, and he’s one of my favorite characters, a fictional hero who I use to help combat my own anxiety and work through impossible situations. I didn’t understand why liking girls was so shocking. Keren was the impossibly cooler most perfect big sister/coach figure. I was into horse back riding until 16 (when, unfortunately, my horse died). Keren has a lot of the surly riding instructor in her, and it was a far more interesting aspect of her personality than her relationship with Sheri. Keren had even assured Sheri she would have been welcome as their third. As a kid, it hadn’t even occurred to me to make an argument against it. I - Talia’s age - agreed with her. When life gives you child brides and weird cult compounds, it’s better to find love where you can. Genuine love. Regardless of anything else.

Secondly, it was a book I needed when I didn’t know I would need it. A lot of fiction - especially geared at children - skates lightly over topics of depression, anxiety, and loss. Don’t get me wrong, I love Harry Potter with my soul. But even at the age I read it I felt the shallowness of their reactions when Sirius died. I felt my own reaction even crying while reading the book to be stronger. It would infuriate me that the next book they sort of conveniently forgot it had only been a few weeks/months. That Harry was “sad but manageable.” For context, my dad contracted Lou Gehrig’s disease at 44. They told him he had likely already had the disease 10 years. He lost everything; his temper, his dignity, bits of his mind at a time. Any filter between his brain and his mouth. His fine motor control, like holding a spoon. His major motor control, like being able to stand up. He was in a powerchair within the year. As the oldest daughter, it was expected that I would help turn him, change his catheter, and answer his shrill screams in the night. I was fourteen years old. 

Dad and I were inseparable. Father-daughter relationship compounded by the fact he had, in essence with a flexible work schedule, been a stay at home dad. He had been my primary caregiver, my confidante, my chef, my advisor, my everything. And now I was his punching bag as he lost a bit of himself at a time. “My friend, who’s a psychiatrist,” Mom always said it this way, to make sure we knew she wasn’t so weak as to need therapy. A challenge to dare us to say we did. “He says that he’s hardest on you, because he’s most assured of your love. That he can abuse you and scream at you and curse at you because he knows you’ll go back the next day. A moth to a flame.” And me staring blankly at her: “Of course I will.” Because even if it was my worst fear - it was, always had been - even if it hurt worse than I could have ever imagined - his death would have broken me, but only in half. His suffering crushed the pieces of me into dust and left me a gaping black thing sucking in the world - “I love him too much to miss a moment of this.” Even if every minute - every possible second - was me reminding myself I had to breathe and feeling my lungs on fire, my head was on the edge of a migraine, it was impossible to interact, but I had to. I had to smile. To go to high school. To turn in assignments on time regardless of the cost between going to bed at 2 and hearing him scream at 3. 

Your books, though, weren’t fake. I held onto them with the assurance of that one quote: life is the scream into the void; art is the answer you are not alone. I held onto the depression and grief and trauma of your characters and felt sane. If I hadn’t, I might have thought I was losing my mind. I was, of course. And I had been conditioned Catholically to think of mental health as a weakness, a secret shame. I had been told by my mother psychologists and medication were wonderful advancements for those people; sick people. Sick in their mind, she would say smugly. Her adamant assurance was: “We have to go on like usual. We can’t let people know we’re struggling.” And so we did. Social events. Big smiles. Sleepovers (somewhere else, my friends explained, your dad bums us out). People didn’t find out he was dying until prom of my senior year. I was on the receiving end of a lot of horror from teachers (why didn’t you tell us? Ask for an extension?) I had to be normal I wanted to tell them, but I didn’t even know how to begin to explain.

Once a pediatrician told my mom I was deeply angry and tired; I was losing my father. I was fifteen. I needed to see a counselor. My mom went ballistic in a public waiting room. She aggressively turned to me and asked if this was true? There was no chance, of course, for me to disagree. I didn’t even want to. My loyalty to my family was (is) so strong that seeing anyone upset her so badly had put my back against the wall and made me bare my teeth. I reflect a lot on it now; how poorly that doctor handled it, the way she would have bungled it much worse if it had been physical abuse. You never confront the person in front of the child. Never don’t have a safety plan in place. 

“She said you were so young,” my mother snarled on the way home. “When we both know you haven’t been young in years. I watched you. Watched you go from fifteen to twenty in months instead of years. Don’t you think?”

I could only nod, and when I covered my mouth, fingertips touched wet skin. I hadn’t been young in years. 

Darkwind was someone I identified heavily with. Someone who changed his name, cut his hair, let his grief consume him. Someone who shied away from Silverfox’s help. Someone who was glad when his father still got some. The day of my dad’s funeral, I cut off my hair. I was 19. The nightmare had lasted five years. I had stayed home to go to a local college so I could keep living at home, keep shielding my younger sisters, keep driving them to school and viola practice and karate. I had to give up my extracurriculars early on (and lie, of course, on my applications). It was actually a disaster at the hair cutting place (not important, but the lady called the police thinking I had stolen her cell phone which had fallen behind some tools). I went home. My mother took one look at my hair and told me it made my face look fat. “It’s for Dad,” I said steadily. In my mind, I was howling like Darkwind. I wondered if I could break my name into grief and sorrow, but it was too hard to think of the name I might have been, since the person I had been was as dead as dad was. 

On days where my two younger sisters were scared and confused (the youngest was 13 when he died), I read them The Fairy Godmother and One Good Knight. They liked that one especially well. I went on to absorb almost all of your works (I think it’s impossible though, to be honest. There are just so many that either you’re a witch or I keep reading the same ones again and thinking I’ve never read them. For instance, I have a Bard Song on my nightstand right now from a bargain bin. Never read it before. Recently read Four and Twenty Blackbirds). Of course, my favorite series was Valdemar. I know all those characters the best, having reread most of them over again several times. I liked Elemental Masters, 700 Kingdoms (some). I was sad that the Beauty & the Beast stories in both weren’t my favorites (The Fire Rose, Beauty and the Werewolf, since it’s my favorite Disney film (but as your stories follow the traditional fairytale a little closer, and that tale is a bit gross, I understand). I think my favorites were The Firebird, Phoenix and Ashes, Reserved from the Cat, The Wizard of London).

Honestly, I may be a tiny minority, but I ADORE Joust. I was sad there weren’t more of them. I spent much of the time I read them inventing my own dragon egg, my own falling through time and space. My own female girl rider takes on the Team without being just a sidekick who talked to animals. It is hard to recommend or talk about it without people laughing, and I appreciate it IS an incredibly hard-core nerd fantasy genre (ancient Egypt, jousting, dragons). It feels a lot like Anne McCaffery crossed with a Naomi Novik story (since Temeraire and Napoleonic Wars are equally hard-core nerd stories. I was lucky to stumble on that line recently - I feel like there’s not enough of the true blue 80s/90s fantasy voice anymore. Sometimes it feels all too dark and plot driven, lacking the characters and slice of life that your works have nestled in my heart, places like the Palace Compound that I know as well as I knew my middle and high schools. A place as real to me as they are, including my own room. My own Companion. My own Heraldic Whites when I turned 18 and took the leatherbound books from my father in an eyestinging rush of love. 

Even now when I was looking up a list of your work, I’m amazed and appalled to see I haven’t caught any of your works since 2009 or so. HOW MANY ARE THERE 100? 200? I thought there were 70 something, but no, you’ve far outstripped yourself. I usually pick up the books in secondhand shops. I’ll go straight for “L” and then just tip all of them into my arms if I haven’t read them. It’s one of my favorite rainyday activities. I noticed you even have a book out this year! CRAP! It should not be POSSIBLE you can write faster than I can read! I’m 27 and I still read a lot of the books that came out when I was born or in diapers. Sometimes I wonder which books you’ve written are your favorites. If there are books you’ve written you skim through like “hmmm I don’t even remember this” and read it with the same laughing intensity as the rest of us, resting your thumb on “oh yes, this was when I was...”

Anyway. I know this letter is long. You’ve been a saint for even getting this far. So let me say this. When I think of the BEST writers of fantasy in the 20th and 21st centuries, your name is among the greats. I’ll say something like: Anne McCaffery’s Dragonriders of Pern; Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Game; Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time; Mercedes Lackey’s Valdemar...and EVERYTHING ELSE. A lot more people know the names of George R.R. Martin, of J.K. Rowling, of Neil Gaiman. But none of them have put out the solid, unending stream of work that literally POPULATES what most people consider “fantasy.” Your ideas, your work, your world-building influence television, influence Dungeons & Dragons, other works. You are a Giant in your field, and even if you don’t feel it, you have laid the groundwork for an entire generation to lay themselves reverently on the altar of your sacrifice, your reflection of relationships, and taught young girls like me what it was to embrace themselves, in all shapes - black tar and bi pride. 

I know you probably tire of hearing this, but I want to be an author. And I’m a good writer. I don’t say it boastfully. I say it as something I’ve always heard, from teachers and friends and magazines. But mom said being an author was like being an actor - a pipe dream, a thing to do “on the side” and “as a hobby.” And it is a hobby of mine, for now. I did the Responsible Thing and became a lawyer. It was quite horrible. But I did it. For Dad, you know. Legacy and all that. 

But don’t you DARE die before I’m published. I’m not talking about the hospital right now. I’m talking about choking on a banana; slipping on the sidewalk; getting mobbed by adoring fans. It is literally my bucketlist to publish a book, to meet you, to dedicate the book to a woman who I’ve never met, who I’ve never known, but who had influenced and impacted my life SO profoundly I consider her characters as pieces of myself. Her worlds as places of safety when I’m sad. The helping hand she held out to a twelve year old girl, and fifteen years later the one I’m still gripping tightly. 

YOU are one of the best women in my life, and one of the best role models I’ve ever known. Even if we’ve never met, knowing that you could be a deeply nerdy human who loves horses and magic and reading every day and still be “successful” when the world outside told me I dressed wrong and looked wrong and felt wrong. That I needed to pick up a magazine, or watch sitcoms, or generally stop making them feel pitying and uncomfortable because of the things I liked. You made me proud to be a feminist, an ally, a writer, a dreamer, a reader, and maybe only lately of my sexuality, but still growing and going forward. 

So, here’s lots of love and adoration and gratitude flooding your way from:

One herald (whose companion was someone she knew in real life reincarnated too early, obviously grove born, with mindspeech, with magic, of course and lifebonded with a Kestra'chern. Predictably, I fought the lifebonding every step of the way, and consider him a great nuisance).

One dragon rider in the jousting wars (with a dragon named Altaira (high flying) who is such a deep dark color she seems black but ripples cobalt and violet).

One grateful apprentice to the Fairy Godmother, who herself was saved from one of a great many plots by the impetus of her father’s illness/death.

And of course, from one persnickety lawyer in DC, drowning in student loan debt and of course too many books, one cat too pretty to be a boy named Gandalf, and his Greyhounds (yes, two, who are very lowkey and I think you would like. They’re like large sleeping cats more than dogs, but very friendly with horses). Of course I named the cat Gandalf simply for the introduction of “Gandalf, the Greyhounds.” Originally I wanted to name a dog “Gandalf...the Greyhound” but because of who I am I went to the shelter and asked for the dog least likely to get adopted and sort of came out with a bonded pair and then it seemed they needed twin names so they’re named Fred & George after Harry Potter. 

But rambling aside, I adore you. I adore your books. I adore the world you’ve given freely for us to play in. Get well soon, and lots, lots, and lots of love. I’ll be playing in my worlds today especially a lot, thinking of you.

All the best,

Kaylee