#but merlin just. just chomping on arthur

[adhd-merlin]

I was just thinking about how canon!merlin is basically incapable of being normal about arthur. and if they ever ended up together, I think he'd do something weird at least once at some point, like. just fucking bite arthur out of the blue while they're in bed or something. I'm not talking about a sexy bite either. I'm talking an "I've succumbed to the intrusive thoughts in my head" kind of bite. tell me I'm wrong

[castiel-kline]

daily reminder that this is a toa merlin hate blog!!

[reginaofcamelot]

   “Arthur... Sweetie, I love you and I do anything for you. BUT I’M A QUEEN I AM NOT MADE FOR THIS-!” A sheep just chomps her dress and she stares blankly wondering about her life.

    “......Oh these were the sheeps Merlin was talking about wasn’t it.” she would swear if she wasn’t angry now. She definitely was at being forced to help by sheep wanting to destroy her dress.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

It’s Not That Bad Part 2

prompt: I loved your Merlin dragon fic!!! I re-read it like 5 times now. Can I be so humble as to request a small sequel? Nothings cooler than your portrayal of Merlin as a BAMF dragon and Arthur having heart eyes 😍

Yes! Moar of the bois!

Read on Ao3 Part 1!

Pairings: Merthur, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Warnings: none. Merlin’s a little shit but what did we expect

Word Count: 1578

Okay, Merlin’s gonna take the blame this time. This one’s on him. Definitely. No two ways about it. He’s big enough to admit he screwed up. He is! This one’s definitely on him. Absolutely not a question about it.

In his defense, what was he supposed to do when he saw a sorcerer with a magic circle around a dragon’s egg chanting ominously as a bunch of storm clouds formed overhead, not run into the middle and push it out?

Yeah, as if.

Gwaine whoops so loudly Merlin’s ears rattle.

 “Alright, alright,” he wants to say, even though he’s got no right to, “calm down, you’re gonna make my ears explode.”

 But he doesn’t say that, because he was no better.

 “Hey, my turn!”

 “Merlin, come down, they’re going to spot you.”

 “Don’t listen to them, Merlin, let’s just stay up here forever!”

 He can hear Gwaine’s pout as he lands back in the clearing, Percival affectionately ruffling Gwaine’s hair as he grins like a little kid. Merlin snuffles at Arthur’s cape before flopping onto his belly.

 “Come on, Merlin,” he laughs, “you can’t be that tired already.”

 “Listen, when you’re a dragon and there’s suddenly more of you, you can be as tired as you want to.”

 “Maybe if you got off your skinny arse more—“

 “Say that again and you’ll find out just how skinny my arse is right now.”

 Arthur, of course, because he’s an absolute prat, scratches behind his ears. He gets right under the section of Merlin’s scales and stays there. Every single muscle in Merlin’s body relaxes.

 “That,” he manages to grumble, “is not fair.”

 “Sure, Merlin.”

 Merlin manages to switch his tail up to bat at Arthur’s cape.

 “So what are you going to do now?” Lancelot leans against the stump in the center of camp. “We’ve not got much to do except wait until the moon.”

 “Yep.” Merlin closes his eyes. “Which means I get to take a break.”

 “A break?” Arthur rolls his eyes. “You call this a break?”

 “You can’t yell at me to do chores, I don’t have to save your arse, and I don’t have to go anywhere.” He scuffs his chin back and forth on the ground. “I can just take a nap. Right here.”

 “Merlin.”

 Merlin just yawns—not breathing fire everywhere!—and clicks his jaw, settling on the forest floor and leaning his head up against Lancelot’s tree stump. Lancelot chuckles and rests his hand on the dragon’s forehead.

 “I think he’s quite earned a rest, don’t you think, sire?” Lancelot nods back toward Camelot. “He has just saved our lives only yesterday.”

 Arthur grumbles, sitting on the log. Leon rolls his eyes good-naturedly and pats him on the shoulder.

 “Your Merlin will be back before too long, and you’ll both be your normal selves again.”

 Arthur looks up at him with a frown. “How am I not being normal?”

 Elyan coughs but it does nothing to hide the way the water sprays out of his mouth. Percival passes him a cloth.

 “You miss having your little Merlin,” Gwaine says, chomping into an apple, “which was to be expected.”

 “What?” Arthur splutters. “I—what on earth are you on about?”

 Merlin, meanwhile, is having a great time. It’s warm outside, the sun feels like a fire-warmed blanket on his scales, Lancelot’s hand keeps making little stroking motions over his forehead, and he’s pretty sure that low rumble is coming from him.

 “You’re both attached at the hip, we know. You don’t have to hide it from us.”

 “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 Oh, did he mention how much better the trees smell with a dragon nose? The scent of the pine and the slightly sweet smell of the blossoms are intoxicating. He flares his nostrils out to drink it in, is this why Arthur loves coming out to the forest so often? It’s wonderful.

 “Sire, there is no one else around. You can be honest.”

 “I am being honest!”

 “Sure, Arthur.”

 The ground is so warm. He could go to sleep right here. Right…here…never wake up again…

 “I am being completely honest! I think it’s you lot that’ve lost a marble or two.”

 “Merlin, can you believe this?”

 Go to sleep…not have to worry about anything.

 “Yeah, Merlin, you’ve been awfully quiet.”

 Can you hear something? Merlin can’t. It’s too nice outside. Perfect nap weather.

 “We can see you, Merlin, we know you’re not asleep.”

 Dragons regularly sleep with their eyes half-open. It’s a fascinating piece of information. Merlin should tell Gaius about it.

 “Merlin.”

 “Hey, that’s my thing!”

 “Merlin,” Lancelot chuckles, poking the scales between his eyes, “come on.”

 “I’m a dragon,” he mumbles, “I don’t have to do anything.”

 “I mean, if you’d like to wait for them to tease you when you can’t knock them over with barely any effort, you can.”

 Lancelot’s got a point.

 Merlin opens his eyes and lifts his head, staring at the other knights. Gwaine’s got a shit-eating grin wide enough to fit four apples. Elyan and Percival are staring at Arthur. Leon’s got his court-smirk on. And Arthur is glaring at the ground with bright red cheeks.

 “So what do you want?”

 Gwaine shrugs. “Only for you to help us get Princess here to confess that he misses having you around as you normally are.”

 “Well, I’m certainly not as easy to shove around like this.”

 “Damn right,” Arthur mumbles.

 “But you’re also not as easy to hoard protectively to himself,” Gwaine says, “or pretend you’re gonna get sent off on a massive list of chores so that we don’t get a chance to talk to you.”

 “I do not do that?”

 “Really?” Merlin frowns. “That’s not what you’re doing?”

 “Merlin!”

 “See? Even Merlin agrees!”

 Leon chuckles. “At least we’ve moved past you insisting to be the one to escort Merlin to the dungeons.”

 “Wait, wait, Princess did what?”

 “Leon, don’t you dare.”

 “What,” Leon blinks innocently, tilting his head, “is it not prudent?”

 “I—well, yes, it’s relevant, but you—why—just don’t.”

 “Come on, Leon,” Percival says, “don’t hold out on us.”

 “Yeah, Princess, shush.”

 “Perhaps Merlin should tell us this,” Leon suggests, “I believe you would be willing?”

 “I think that’s a great idea!”

 “Yeah, Merlin, you’ve been holding out on us.”

 Merlin huffs. “I would get angry and Arthur would march me downstairs. That’s it. End of story.”

 “Oh, no, my friend,” Leon says, and what did Merlin do, forget to polish his chainmail or something?— “Arthur did not simply march you downstairs. He would catch you in his arms as you tried to rush whatever noble was making an egregious overstep of personal liberties and hustle you out the door in an embrace.”

 The chunk of apple in Gwaine’s mouth flies out and hits Merlin’s snout.

 “Hey!”

 Gwaine is too busy laughing to be able to respond to an indignant dragon who did not deserve to have apple spit up at him.

 “You—you—of my lord, it’s like a ballad,” he manages through gasping cackles, “that’s so sweet!”

 “It was quite nice.”

 “Oh…that’s what you meant,” Merlin mumbles, “I think you should still, uh, not do that.”

 “Do what,” Leon blinks, “continue to tell them about things that happened?”

 “Yep.”

 Leon raises his hands. “Oh, well, if you say so, Merlin.”

 “Now why,” Arthur grumbles, “is it that you’ll listen to him and not me?”

 “We like Merlin better than you.”

 “Gwaine!”

 Gwaine shrugs innocently. “What? It’s true.”

 Yeah…whatever happened to Merlin taking a nap?

 “Merlin’s also a dragon right now, sire. I’m playing it safe.”

 “He won’t be in a day.”

 “Oh, I’m aware.”

 A twig snaps.

 The clearing hushes. Percival’s hand goes to his sword. Even Gwaine sobers and looks around.

 Movement. Behind Merlin.

 He holds still, waiting, until he feels something prick his tail.

 In a flash, he whips around and roars, jaws wide, ready to snatch the offending object out of the air. The bandit he whirls on screams before he disappears down Merlin’s throat.

 “Bandits!”

 Before th knights can make it past Merlin’s tail, he rushes forward, grabbing another bandit and hurling him across the clearing. The bandit collides with his companion and they both tumble to the ground, still. The last bandit readies a crossbow.

 “Rot in hell, foul beast.”

 Well. Merlin can’t have that.

 All that remains of the bandits are smoking pieces of armor and a few saddlebags that were too worn the burn.

 Merlin huffs, shaking his head and turning back around, intent on getting his nap, thank you very much, only to realize the knights are frozen, looking at him.

 “…what?”

 “Bloody hell, that was fantastic.”

 “Are you sure you don’t want to stay a dragon?”

 “That was impressive!”

 “Good show, mate.”

 Arthur just stares at him. Eyes wide. There’s more flush to his cheeks, but not from embarrassment. The way Arthur’s looking at him now is almost like…wonder.

 “…Arthur?”

 Arthur sheaths his sword and walks up to him, resting a hand on his snout.

 “Arthur?”

 Lancelot, bless whatever intuition the gods gave him, loudly declares that they’re going to need more firewood and hustles the rest of the knights off into the woods. Arthur barely watches them go.

 “Arthur, what’s—“

 “I miss you being as you really are,” he says softly, “because I can’t properly congratulate you for how impressive that was.”

 Merlin blinks. Oh. Well, then.

 “…it’s only until tomorrow.”

 Arthur smiles. “Then I’d better appreciate having you as a dragon until then, hmm?”

 The rest of the knights come back to Merlin sleeping in the clearing, Arthur tucked up against his chest, between his claws.

[lightningidle]

I know that the pacing was thrown off because they only had ten episodes to work with, but my biggest gripe about Wizards is that they really wanted us to side with Arthur without, y’know... giving us a reason to side with Arthur. Other than “he’s King Arthur, the legendary guy with the legendary sword!” there’s virtually no in-universe reason for him to be the one we root for. 

Douxie’s distress at Arthur’s death on the time map made the most sense to me when he said that if Arthur wasn’t present, they’d lose the battle at Killahead Bridge. They had to make sure history worked out (and in a circular way, it did-- props to the team for writing a time travel plotline that was easy to track!) But aside from his key role in an event that would shape their future, nobody really had any reason to side with Arthur. 

Merlin sucks, we all know this. His siding with Arthur seems weird because Arthur is so anti-magic, but from what we can glean in Wizards, presumably Merlin has looked into potential futures, seen the necessity of Arthur for the best overall timeline, and chosen to protect him for that reason. That said, still kind of weird for the biggest baddest sorcerer to work for a guy who won’t shut up about how much he hates sorcery. 

Even without the fact that Merlin backs him- and imo there’s not much in-universe reason to root for Merlin either but that’ll be a different post entirely- Arthur is an asshole. He embodies a lot of the English history of “I don’t understand these Different People™ so I’m going to drive them out of their homeland, take it over, and then claim they’re the aggressors for being upset about all this as an excuse to stomp them out permanently.” The Gumm-Gumms were chomping at the bit for an excuse to go to war, but so was Arthur. And his reason for this is...Guinevere/Gwen was killed by a magical creature. That’s terrible, of course, and his grief is understandable, but it’s hardly an excuse to murder an entire species. 

If the narrative didn’t have the heroes on his side, King Arthur would read beat-for-beat like a textbook tragic villain. He suffers a traumatic loss as a young adult and is propelled by his grief and anger to take it out on the group he associates with said loss, regardless of the fact that they had nothing to do with it. He breaks territorial agreements he’d made with them just because he wants to (see: his chasing Jim and the other escaped trolls into the woods.) At his best he is callous and indifferent to those around him. At his worst he threatens to murder his sister multiple times, and in a moment of conflict cuts off her hand. This dude sucks!! He is consistently more of a threat to the protagonists than Gunmar is!!! Granted, part of that is just by virtue of being more present, but part of that is how actively antagonistic he is, up until the very end when he finally caves and asks Vendel for help, which only happens with a lot of prodding anyway. 

Arthur becoming a soulless villain in the end wasn’t sad so much as inevitable. The most I felt about it was when Morgana mourned the loss of her brother, but Arthur had been terrible to everyone from his first moment onscreen and didn’t make much recovery from there. Morgana’s arc was much more compelling, and her descent into villainy made a lot of sense! There’s still that time crunch around what was probably imagined as a more deliberate transition from “trying to make peace between humans and magical creatures” to “humans suck actually, now it’s MY turn to murder,” but again, the crew is not at fault for only being given a one-season timeline. 

tl;dr-- King Arthur was a jerk who did war crimes, and we were given no reason to want him to succeed other than the preservation of the timeline

[dewitty1]

Muggle Technology and Heroism

TommyLane

Chapters: 16/16 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Pansy Parkinson Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Roommates, Pining, Squirt Gun Fights, James Bond Fanboy!Draco Malfoy, Sharing a Bed, Explicit Sexual Content, Drinking and Dancing, A Five Step Plan of Seduction, A Mysterious Absence Of Plot Outside Of Their Relationship, Dialogue Heavy, Angst and Humor Summary:

Draco Malfoy wasn’t exactly the best roommate Harry’s ever had. The man tended to watch way too much James Bond and his obsession with muggle technology not only rivaled Arthur Weasley’s but more often than not ended with Harry trying to assure him that the appliances weren’t out to get him. Then there was the little fact that Harry was hopelessly in love with him while Draco remained completely unaware, bringing nameless men home night after night.

But Harry loved his life and was somewhat (as long as he doesn’t actually think about it) content enough in the way things were going. That is until Draco’s old boyfriend comes sweeping back into town – making Draco breakfast and fixing the remote control before Harry can and forcing him to realize that if he doesn’t do something soon, that he might lose the man he loves before he even gets a chance to ever actually have him.

Excerpt:  

It was odd to think that maybe he had learned the most about the other man by watching him watch James Bond. Learned the most by the things he purchased and how he used them to relate to Harry… “Draco, the thing is…you’re a bit difficult to understand, you know. You always have been, you were always good at keeping me guessing. Even when we were young, but I think it’s worse now. Harder…to really know what you’re thinking.” Draco frowned at his drink, a deep line carved into his forehead. “It’s called having decorum Potter.” Harry shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe you just don’t know how to say what you’re thinking…what your feeling.” The blonde shifted before pulling his bottom lip between his teeth for a second, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Is this about me fucking around again? Your odd roundabout way of telling me I’m a slut with some sort of emotional complex?” “No.” “Good. I don’t much care for that word.” “Slut?” “Complex, makes me think of fucking shrinks and their idiot views on the way my mind turns.” Draco flicked the cap he had been rolling absentmindedly between his fingers into the grass, a sneer on his lips that hinted that maybe there had been psychiatrists in his past - making him lay on leather couches and trying to analyze him as he glared and told them to fuck off in a number of different languages. The mental image lurched both painful and humorous in his stomach, a small smile contending on his lips as he pictured a younger Draco with his snarky mouth and petulant air. He never would have put himself in therapy, it had to have been a part of his parole after the war. God, Harry almost felt sorry for the men and women who had been assigned to his case. But he was getting sidetracked with his hands sweating against his leg, his heart pounding in his chest, and he needed to stop mentally stalling and gather his courage and do what he should have done days ago. Weeks ago. Months ago. Years ago… He fidgeted as he fingered the bottle and cleared his throat. “Well in any case I’m not talking about all the men. Or about Ethan. I’m talking about you and…and me.” Draco silently shifted his gaze to meet Harry’s, his lips wet from the beer and his eyes heavy, his jaw sliding forward like he was physically blocking his mouth from forming any audible words. He looked determined and lost, confused and uncertain all at the same time. Harry smiled softly, his fingers reaching to lightly touch Draco’s jaw, his courage pumping stronger, pulling him deeper when the other man didn’t pull away - didn’t even look away, not for a second, his gray eyes darkening and drowning out the sound of nature around them. “Harry -” His voice quivered with uncertainly, his eyes darting down as Harry brushed his thumb along the outer swell of the other man’s bottom lip. “I still remember where we were when things changed for me. We were at Pansy’s, I think it was her birthday and you were wearing those navy robes -” “I don’t wear navy.” Draco interjected and Harry grinned as he felt his body tip nearer, his blood pumping hot through his veins and in his ears and he wondered if Draco could hear it. If he could hear the beat of his heart, the thrum in his blood. He wondered if Draco felt it rushing through his own body in a matching rush of nerves and excited anticipation. They were a match in so many things, opposites in everything else, aligning perfectly, complementing wonderfully. Where Harry lacked Draco stood strong and the same was true for the other way around….and in this, Merlin, Harry could only pray they matched. “You did. They were new, you kept tugging at the sleeve when you thought no one was looking and you unbuttoned the top collar as we were talking. You were complaining about the increased price of Chinese chomping cabbage.” The sun had been shining hot, Draco’s face had been flushed a lovely pink, his tone an exasperated huff as he batted at invisible insects and tried to not pull on the collar of his robes that Harry was pretty sure had been a gift from someone. The back garden had been crowded with few people he knew and dozens that Draco did but still the blonde sequestered himself against a tree and chose to lament his potion sells because of the damn fucking cabbage to Harry. They had ended up drinking too much and Draco had smiled sloppily over at him as they snuck round the house and into the wine cellar - where Draco preceded to unburden Pansy’s family of various bottles of prestigious vintage. It was the night Draco vowed to turn Harry into a wine aficionado (or at least not such of an uncultured plebeian who thought wine from a box was quite good). The night Harry had tasted his first Merlot that he actually liked and the night he had shown Draco his first film (Dr. No…which in hindsight probably wasn’t the wisest move). The night he finally admitted to himself as he listened to Draco huff and rant and swat at flies that he had fallen for the other man. “Chomping cabbage?” Draco murmured and Harry could have sworn that the other man’s breath was a little shallower, his cheeks just a little pinker. “That…that was years ago.” Harry nodded and lifted his gaze from Draco’s lips to his eyes. “Yes.” Draco sucked in a breath and blinked quickly, the sun sinking beneath the horizon in one last splash of dying color around them. “You’re being rather enigmatic, Potter. It’s highly unnerving.” He whispered. “No, it’s simply really.” Harry leaned closer as he repeated his words from earlier at the tailors, his thumb brushing along the blondes jaw before slipping his hand down to curve possessively around the back of the man’s neck. He tipped his head, bringing them close enough that their breath mingled and warmed the space between them as he visually traced the sharp angles of his cheeks, the slightly parted fullness of his lips, his impossible gray eyes - the flecks of blue and gold bright up close. “Don’t be with Ethan. Because things have changed. For a long time…I’ve wanted…” He trailed off and swallowed, his courage faltering even though there was no turning back - not with his hand holding his face, his gaze full of the words that weren’t coming off his tongue but with the half confession ringing loud and clear between them anyway. Not with their lips nearly brushing and Draco’s eyelashes fluttering like he couldn’t decide if he should close them or stare wide eyed at him until he inevitably went crossed eyed. “What do you want?” Draco breathed and there was nothing hard or needled about his tone - his voice flayed open and making Harry’s heart constrict as something fluttered in his stomach. “You know. You have to know already…” He murmured in a breathy gush that pushed out of him and before he could ruin it with his own fumbling stutters, Harry breathed deep and did what he’d been dying to do for years now - he leaned in and kissed him, slanting his lips over Draco’s whose parted in a breath of surprise that got muffled and lost inside him. He distantly heard and felt Draco’s drink clatter to the ground as his grip slipped and spilled beer over the ground, his pale hand pressing flat against Harry’s chest like he was going to push him away for all but a moment before his fingers curled tight into his shirt - scratching his skin and heightening his senses further. Using his free hand, Harry’s fingers found their way into Draco’s hair, twisting in the silky locks and pulling gently, his mouth opening wider as Draco’s nails sank deeper, his heart soaring with the feel and taste and reality that he wasn’t being shoved away. He pressed closer, savored Draco’s quiet gasp, his tongue sneaking out to press against his as he kissed him harder, deeper, closer - his hands trying to tug him ever nearer as Draco let out a strangled broken sound. “Harry…” He whispered in a dizzy sort of manner, his hand that wasn’t squished between them coming up to rest tentatively against Harry’s cheek - first one finger, then two, the third tapping in an offbeat rhythm. Trembling. “Don’t be with him. Or anyone else.” Harry muttered between kisses with Draco’s eyes squeezed tightly closed, his lashes dusting his cheeks. “Be with me.” There were more words on his tongue, things that needed to be said, that needed to be made clear, but the man’s lips were like a drug and he was instantly addicted - every nerve in his body catching fire as the other man tensed, let out another soft sound that cracked in the middle, and pressed closer on his own accord. Kissing him. Draco Malfoy was kissing him and for once Harry wasn’t dreaming.

♡*(ू•‧̫•ू⑅)♡⋆*ೃ:.✧

[shardminds]

silver for monsters (1/?)

pairing: emma swan/killian jones rated: e for extra (in later chapters) wc: almost 5k ish

No matter the truth, he carries the weight of her corpse like a shadow. 

also available on ao3! ♠

it's my cssns submission!

firstly, a thank you to the wonderful mods for organising and facilitating the event! where would we be without you? and also the cssns discord — you lovely humans are just fantastic.

secondly, i owe my wonderful partner-in-crime, beta and artist (this fic has art, people! coming soon!) my life. she deserves more than i could ever give her. love you, salem! give killy a cuddle from me!

now, a note about the fic. this is a witcher au, using inspiration from the witcher games, books and TV show. i have pulled inspiration from all 3. just a fair warning, considering the nature of the witcher universe, there will be gratuitous violence in some scenes. i will be adding characters and tags as they appear in the work to abstain from spoilers but i will let you know in advance that there is no major character death.

happy reading!

“Fuck!”

The cockatrice rears up, flapping its enormous wings and lunging straight for him, talons poised for attack. At full height, it’s almost three times his size—an intimidating sight, but not an unfamiliar one. Killian dodges at the last second, rolling beneath the dirt-encrusted claws and narrowly avoiding the beak that follows to impale him. If he hadn’t thrown out his palm to cast Quen in time, he’d have been thrown across the sewer, probably landing in one of the many questionable pools littering the place. The beast rights itself, elongating its sinuous throat to prepare for its next attack but Killian is faster, springing to action in its short reprieve. His blade strikes true, the sharpened silver slicing from neck to navel through leathery flesh. A choked shriek pierces the cavernous echo around them but it does nothing to hinder his attack. Killian twists his weapon deeper, severing the thick sinew in its throat with a precision only gained from decades of practice.

The draconid oil he’d prepared had done well to weaken the monster, each touch of his sword against tough hide was met with a harrowing screech, each one emanating from its maw with a sickening gurgle as Killian’s coated sword seared its innards. Good. At least the ergot seeds used in its creation hadn’t gone to waste. The common weeds don’t grow this far east of Misthaven.

One final twist is all it takes, tearing out the creature’s windpipe in all its bloody glory, falling to the filth below, darkening the murk beneath its claws. It shudders, struggling for breath, but continues to advance. The guttural gurgle of its demise falling hollow in the dank expanse. Power simmers in Killian’s fingertips as he throws out his palm to cast Aard, shunting the beast backwards and knocking it off balance.

With a heavy thud, the cockatrice falls—

Right into a puddle of shit.

“Oh, that’s bloody lovely.” He grits out, wiping the sludge from where it splattered on his trousers. He’d been planning to start the ride back west, to the familiar place he was reluctant to call anything but that. He’d been planning to take rest between contracts, among the hamlets of Velen, stopping only to deliver the head of the beast and collect his bounty before taking to the path at full speed.

Now he’d have to fork out for an inn.

And a stable.

And a drink.

Bloody lovely, indeed.

Slipping the dagger from his boot to take his trophy—evidence of a job well done—Killian kneels next to the beast’s shredded neck and begins to cut. It takes a couple of minutes, the toughened hide of the beast proving more difficult than expected, but Killian manages to decapitate the thing without too much protest. Despite being smothered in excrement, both human and ornithosaur in origin, Killian wraps up the head in a linen sheet he’d acquired from the last inn he’d visited, slinging the thing over his shoulder to attach to Smee’s saddlebag for the ride into town. It’s hefty, already seeping dark ichor through the fabric, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. Nothing he hasn’t handled a thousand times before.

Shit-stained or not, there’s little people love more than dead monsters.

In his periphery, there’s a shimmer of something long and thin and sharp beneath the ooze of the dead heap.

Feathers. Golden Feathers.

They’d sell for a fair price at any market but, with a wry smile, someone else comes to Killian’s mind. He plucks the protruding tail feathers with a delicate hand and slides them in his scabbard for later. Robin will be pleased.

Smee lingers by the sewer’s decaying entrance, chomping on the greenery of a shallow blackberry thicket without care. Seeing him brings ease to Killian’s bones. The walk to Camelot would be a lot more arduous without him. The dimming sunlight brings out the russet in his hide and he snorts as if to acknowledge the presence of his master. Smee has seen him through so much, his steed for over a decade now, and even as a colt he had stayed true to his commands. He rears his head, giving a soft huff in greeting as Killian reaches out to rub his muscular neck.

“Hello to you too, lad.” He soothes, securing the trophy with thick leather straps to Smee’s saddlebags. It thuds against his hind leg as he shifts to accommodate for the extra weight but Killian talks him through it. “You can rest tonight. We deserve it.”

Smee, ever the conversationalist, responds with a snort. Something Killian would translate as about damn time.

The hunt for the cockatrice had taken longer than he'd anticipated, the cursed beast leading them astray for days before finally returning to roost in the sewers of all places. The sorcerer in these parts—Merlin, he’d said his name was—had informed him it would. They’d sent hunters, knights, even mages to deal with their pest, but none had returned; either fleeing from the beast or succumbing to it.

With the head of the monster firmly attached, Killian steps up into the stirrup and mounts his steed, heels tapping against his belly to spur him forward, back towards the city. With a reluctant snort and a slow start, Smee carries both the Witcher and his cargo to their destination.

It’s long past nightfall by the time they reach the oaken gates and marble paved roads leading to Camelot. It’s a damn sight better than the gravel paths back in Misthaven. The approach to the city is announced with sconces attached to grand flags bearing the sigil of the king, inlaid with gold detailing. A gaudy display of wealth if ever there was one.

Up ahead, before the city entrance, Killian can just about make out the silhouette of a man in robes of purple and gold. Power radiates off him and it trembles in the wolf head pendant resting atop Killian’s chest, even from over 100 yards away. Smee trots closer, almost lazy in his approach. He doesn’t halt until they’re stood before the man who greets them warmly, with a kind face and a gentle smile. Merlin, the sorcerer.

Killian doesn’t trust it.

“I see you’ve dealt with the beast, my friend.” Merlin starts.

“I see you don’t intend to let me in.”

The sorcerer nods at the assumption, as if reluctant to do so and holds out the pouch of coin. Killian lets it thud into his palm. It weighs about right so he doesn’t bother to question it before tucking the payment into Smee’s saddlebag. It’s more than any common contract would afford him.

“The King has requested—”

“The King can go fuck himself.” With a flick of his knife, Killian cuts free his cargo, letting the head of the beast slip to the floor. It cracks on impact, spilling the crimson gore inside, smelling only of death and decay. Iron and rot. Merlin doesn’t recoil, instead choosing to step around and inspect the shattered mass. Mages like him, in positions of power beside volatile Kings, tend to be more accustomed to such displays.

If the stories of King Arthur’s conquests are true, it’s no surprise.

“With your reputation, Witcher,” He starts, prodding the bloodied heap with his foot. It lols to the side, mottled beak clacking against the path. “Do you really think Arthur would take such a risk?”

Killian could not give less of a shit about the opinion of Kings. Especially not ones of lands that dictated their monarchy based on whoever could yank a sword from the sodden shit coated earth. If that were the universal basis for royalty, he’d be King three times over. Merlin waves his hand over the mess of brains and bone, vanishing the mound into nothing and leaving only pristine stone behind. Smee stiffens, sensing the otherness of the man so close to his rear.

With unnatural grace, Merlin steps back to his place between them and the gate, unwavering in his resolution.

“Rumours of the Golden Bride have spread further than you think.”

Of course. Ravens travel faster than horses these days. What happened back in Kovir—

People tend to trust Kings over Mutants, no matter the truth. Killian grunts, the only sign of the tension in his bones in the way he grips the worn leather reins, knuckles taught and surely white beneath his gloves.

“Next time,” He grunts, not flinching at the mention of his past. “Pay upfront. Spare me the journey back.”

Merlin opens his mouth to respond but it’s too late. With probably more force than necessary, Killian kicks Smee into action, turning him to ride away from the white brick barrier that separates him from a good night's sleep before the sorcerer can protest. His work here is done. His contract ended. If they won’t let him into the city, he has no reason to stay. Bath and a bed be damned.

There’s nothing for him here.

They ride onwards.

Killian slows his steed to a gentle trot as soon as they cross the border into Temeria, a silent apology in the calm stroke of his palm behind Smee’s ears.

Moonlight bathes the vast fields of wheat in an ethereal glow. Nekkers peer through the tall sheaves to watch him pass, following him as far as they dare. His medallion thrums with their proximity, the pendant rattling against his mail. If it were any other day, he’d have torn through the harvest, taking down the bastards with broad swoops of his blade. Not today, though. The cockatrice had drained more from him than he initially thought. There’d been no time to brew potions to remedy his weariness, and his supply of dwarven spirit was alarmingly low. The next apothecary along the path would take a beating from his coin purse, that much is certain.

Midnight comes and goes before the path widens into the well trodden roads of more populated areas and more hours pass before they even stumble across an inn shrouded in forest. It’s decrepit and musky, but an inn all the same. It’ll have to do. Killian can tell by the bray of his travelling companion that he won’t last until the next one. There’s water and hay in the mossy overhang out front, its ancient wood almost rotted through but still secure enough to attach Smee’s reins to the post. An old silver mare secured closest to the inn takes one sniff at Killian and sneezes.

“That bad?”

Smee nudges him in response. That bad.

The inside of the inn is as ancient and forgotten as the exterior; thick stone walls, cobwebbed beams, a bar made of mottled oak with ring stains of old ale covering its surface. Upon Killian’s entry, the landlord nods, his pallid skin as thin as paper. The sickness he holds will kill him, it lingers in the shadows beneath his eyes and the pale flesh of his gums as he smiles, with too much joviality.

“Room for the night, is it?”

He will not see the summer.

Killian drops fifteen crowns on the bar, watching the old man’s eyes widen at their shine. “Along with a bath and a bottle of your strongest.”

“Right away, my friend!” He shuffles along, reaching for a slender greying glass bottle that he places on the bar top, before disappearing altogether. The other bar patrons stay quiet, lulled to the edge of listless sleep by the fire crackling in the hearth and the ale in their bellies—gwent games unfinished, tankards half full. Not wanting to follow their lead in sleeping on the hard benches, Killian waits at the bar. He takes a swig, letting the liquid coat his throat in its familiar fire. There are better ways to cope. There are better ways to fend off the dark that threatens to swallow him whole but nothing works quite as well as the burn alcohol leaves behind. Well, usually that’s the case.

Minutes pass and his thoughts, however reluctantly, stray back to Merlin’s earlier words.

The Golden Bride.

Killian had killed her. Killed her, raped her, tortured her, ate her liver, stole the unborn child from her stomach as a payment to the eternally damned gods of old, used her blood for his mutations—the stories change depending on where you are. Nilfgaardians prefer the gory stuff whereas, up in Kovir, they favour the lighter tales. She was their Queen, after all.

The one he couldn’t save.

Each burning gulp helps less and less.

When the dying barkeep waves him over, brandishing a rusted key and an armful of tattered blankets, the burn has gone and only Killian’s thoughts remain.

No matter the truth, he carries the weight of her corpse like a shadow.

The room is barely bigger than a broom closet and the old man has the courtesy to look ashamed of his meagre offerings. It doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, a bed is a bed. Along the way, Killian has learnt not to make attachments to the materialistic.

In the centre of the narrow room, manoeuvred between the end of the dusty four-poster bed and the fireplace, stands a solid wooden bath. The water, lukewarm to the touch and stagnant, comes to life with a flick of his palm and a whisper of “Igni”. Killian doesn’t even bother to be neat, letting his weapons, armour, potions, and coin fall to what little floor space there is available before letting himself sink naked into the warmth. The agitated boil helps to shift the stubborn muck customary of weeks on the path.

How long had it been since his last? A few days, maybe? A week? He’d taken a brief dip in the river just outside Camelot before embarking on his quest— had it really been that long? No wonder the mare had turned her nose up. No wonder Merlin had regarded him with such polite distance.

He’d been wandering around smelling like a Necrophage’s anal gland and no one had bothered to tell him. Not that anyone could tell him. That’s the thing with always being on the path—the only things to talk to are your horse or your hunt.

Monsters aren’t always the best conversationalists.

The waters lap away the aches set deep in his bones, settling each worn muscle with its tender embrace. It’s a luxury he can nary afford, but it’s worth it when he can. When he exits, smelling of old soap and lavender, there is only black silt left behind. A dark mirror on the liquid’s surface. He won’t be able to use it again. He takes his underclothes to the small basin by the bedside to soak instead, too tired to even consider spending any more time away from the clutches of sleep.

For the first time in a long time, he’s asleep before his head hits the pillow. The exhaustion of the weeks passed weighing his bones like lead, as if they’d sink straight through the mattress and into the nether below. He wishes they would.

“Killian.”

He jerks awake—no, not awake. Further into the embrace of a dream. Oppressive darkness and silence surround him, his keenest senses rendered useless in their wake. Beneath him, a plush leather armchair. It’s painfully familiar. Precious, somewhat. Worn and comfortable and moulded to him as if he’d spent a century sat only here. This dreamscape. This void.

Oneiromancy. Perfect.

“Killian.”

A woman’s voice— her voice.

“Emma.”

“And I thought you’d forgotten about me.” She smiles, suddenly appearing in his lap, hips straddling his thighs as if it hadn’t been almost five years since they’d last parted. Five long, arduous years.

“Impossible, love. You’re not so easy to forget.” Killian can feel the steady beat of her heart as his hands take her waist. Soft, so soft.

And centuries old.

“You never thought to stop by on your travels then?”

“The path is—”

“Don’t lecture me. I know,” Pouting, she brings her arms around Killian’s neck. The thin swath of lace she’s wearing does nothing to hide her figure but its intricacies marr the details he wants very much to focus on; the blush of her breasts, the swell of her arse, what lies between those slender legs. Each time he tries to take her in, see past the veil of fabric, it shifts, obscuring his gaze once more. Fucking magic. “But I have missed you terribly.”

“Emma Swan, legendary sorceress and advisor to the throne of Misthaven, missing but a lowly Witcher?” The pale expanse of her neck calls for his kiss, so close and yet so far. “People will talk.”

With a violet flash, Emma winks. “Noise complaints, hopefully.”

His eyes slip shut, trying to maintain what little composure he has left. As disconcerting as dream magic is, he doesn’t want the spell to end. The feel of her so close is maddening. Waking to an empty bed will be torture.

Words he can’t possibly say nor mean jump to his throat, aching to be whispered against her mouth, passed to her tongue by his own as they had longed to so many times in the past. They burn.

“Come see me.”

“Emma—”

“I need you. I can’t tell you why—not here—but I need you.” There’s a silent plea hidden in her words, behind the typical bravado she always favours. He almost doesn’t catch it. She adjusts herself slightly, sitting back on his knees and letting her hands reverently trace the scars across his shoulders and chest. Ones she’s seen before and ones she hasn’t, long healed but still raw to her touch. It’s been too long. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and it takes every modicum of restraint he has not to kiss her there and then. “Come to King David’s court in Misthaven. There’s a tourney one week from now.”

“I’m sensing I don’t have a choice.”

“Of course you have a choice. It’s in your best interests to make the right one.”

Killian sighs, letting his palms slide from her middle to her thighs, taking in the phantom warmth he’s missed so greatly. Emma Swan is an enigma. She’s centuries of power wrapped in mystery and untold sorrows and it lingers beneath her skin. She’s the first kiss of morning sun, the dark chill of winter, the wild lilacs that grow along the dirt roads of Misthaven. She’s true love’s first kiss and the denial of destiny. She’s nothing and everything, the beginning and the end.

And, occasionally, his.

“One week?” He muses, hyper focused on the way her nails feel against his skin, as if she were there, as if it were real. Her eyes, green as woodland moss, captivate him in the way they always used to, but they’re not the same. A mere mimicry. Beneath his fingers, the dream begins to fall away.

There’s no depth, just a glimmer of magic below the surface.

Everything’s hollow and when he finally presses his lips to her fading visage, all he tastes is ash, dirt and the absence of all things.

“One week.”

It echoes around the cramped room, a whisper in the darkness not yet reached by morning’s soft first touches. A reminder.

Killian almost missed it. Misthaven. It’s rolling hills and wildflower meadows, deep green forests free of ill fated fiends. Well, mostly free—wraiths and rotfiends are everywhere these days, especially after the war. If they weren’t, he’d be out of a job.

In the five days on the path, across the forgotten poppy-filled battlefields and open plains of Temeria, Killian didn’t encounter much trouble. The first two days were monotonous, non-stop riding through the day and night, brief pauses for food, water and rest.

The day after that saw a kikimora rear its ugly maw as Smee cantered past its roadside hovel, swiping out with its blade-like limbs in an attempt to take out the horse’s legs — it took three swipes of his blade to take it down, the starving queen letting out a defeated whine as glinting silver pierced through her armour and into her brain. Killian left a bomb in his wake, making sure none of her spawn would see the light of day.

Day four drove him closer to the ruins of Vizima, it’s grand stone walls now bleak and crumbled. Killian had been around when it fell, only a few years beneath his belt on the path as the Nilfgaardians withdrew their tyranny. They razed the city, with fire and blood, so that the North would remember what the clutches of Emperor Emhyr var Emreis. The self-proclaimed white flame dancing on the graves of his enemies sputtered and faded just like everyone else on this mortal coil. The flames had kept him warm one night, decades ago, as the fallen city smouldered.

Misthaven greets the horizon on day five. It’s unperturbed woodland gracing his path with an archway formed of two entwined enchanted oaks, their magic forms the base of the wards that surround the city and the sheer power of it is a familiar thrum of energy that has his medallion singing as Smee trots over the border. In the thick bramble bushes beside the sheltered road, fairies shield themselves from view, their sugar plum scent hangs on the air as heavy as horse shit. There’s something he hasn’t missed. After half a mile or so, the rattle of his medallion becomes barely noticeable, a gentle simmer rather than a raucous boil.

Instead of taking the northern road at Lake Nostos towards the bustling city and the castle of King David, they turn to the east, along a too familiar, although far less trodden, path.

Smee huffs at his choices, resisting the tug of his reins.

Killian rolls his eyes. “Don’t you start.”

The Rabbit Hole is, in Killian’s eyes, better than most. Being just outside the city, tucked up against the eastern entrance’s vine smothered portcullis, not many people stumble through its doors by accident. However, with its vast stone hearth, sturdy oak beams and a half decent cellar, the place could weather the harshest Skellige storm with nary but a draught. Ale, food, music and good company. It’s… nice, for lack of a better word.

And, despite the nature of his work, it’s somewhere Killian keeps coming back to. Regardless of the years between his visits.

Smee, ever the dramatic, saunters over to the water-filled trough cemented to the tavern's stable, eagerly eyeing up the hay-filled feedbag beside it. At least, he’ll get a chance to rest as Killian gets his own fill. Haphazardly, he knots Smee’s reins to the hitching post, leaving just enough slack for him to be able to reach his amenities and socialise with the unsaddled gelding tied up on the other side of the post.

Killian pulls his coin purse from his steed’s saddlebags, knowing full well he’ll spend it one way or another. The door swings open before he can even tap the shit off his boots.

“You took your time, Captain.” Will Scarlet, with his signature troublesome smirk, is upon him in an instant, arms thrown around Killian’s shoulders, squeezing tightly as his skinny arms allow. He’d never been one for heavy lifting, more interested in wielding a lyre than a sword, and it shows in the way he greets his old friend as if it hasn’t been almost five years since Killian left him in Toussaint in the bed of a baroness whose husband had not been best pleased to find him there. The stench of Mahakaman mead on the bard’s breath permeates the air. The half-decade has barely touched him.

It hasn’t touched Killian either but, then again, mutations will do that to a man.

“Is that what they’re calling me now?”

Will peels himself away, stumbling back into the oak door frame that knocks the air right out of him with an oof. His brow furrows ever so slightly and someone from the other side of the dimly lit pub chortles at his discomfort. Will throws an obscene gesture his way before coming to Killian’s side instead.

“Just roll with it mate, you wouldn’t like the alternative.”

Killian shrugs. Murderer, Mutant, Devil— “I have been called worse.”

The bard nods in agreement, letting Killian step over the threshold and into the dark innards of the inn. They both have. Back when they travelled together, there was nary a day that insults weren’t hurled their way. Killian never had the chance to apologise back then, and it doesn’t seem right to bring it up now.

Will looks… happy.

“Anyway,” He starts, falling back on his chipper tone and catching Killian off guard as he hops over the bar top with ease, grabbing a tankard on his way. “To what do I owe the pleasure?

“I’m not too sure of that myself.”

Will places the tankard before him, full of a sweet smelling dark ale. “No contract?”

Killian knocks back the mug in one, letting the slightly soured brew flavour his tongue. It’s better than the pig swill he’s settled for along the Path. Then again, Will always was one with good taste; always the finest inns, the grandest company, lining his pockets with the gold of diplomats and dukes alike. Despite all that, The Rabbit Hole suits him, dust and dirt be damned. He hum’s, considering how to answer, before settling for the simplest one. “No.”

“No valiant quest?”

Killian shrugs.

“Ah,” Eyeing him knowingly while taking a sip from his own cup with a smug smile, Will hums. They’ve known each other long enough now for him to be able to read between the lines. “A summons then.”

“Can’t I just stop by and visit an old friend?”

“Theoretically, yes. But that’s not in your nature is it, mate.” There’s a pause. Someone laughs from the other side of the room, lit only by a handful of candles to fend off the dark even in the daylight. Will doesn’t even blink, drumming out a rhythm on the countertop, wearing an ever present smile. “Especially knowing that there’s a certain sorceress within the city walls.”

Killian had no idea what he was here for, not really. One dream and he’d come running like a well trained dog, a pet. He can’t even feel shame about it. Emma could’ve asked him to pick daisies in the grand gardens of King David and he’d have come running, a prisoner to his emotions. His mutations should have rid him of them decades ago and yet—

He lets himself be seen, letting his posture slip to a slouch. The ride was harder on him than he’d anticipated and his limbs call for sleep, the ache of it weighing him down. Will is, above all else, his oldest friend. If he can trust anyone, it's him.

“What’s going on, Killian?”

Lilac and gooseberries, touched with cinnamon and the undeniable scar of power. It singes the air with its grace and sets Killian’s medallion ablaze with activity before he can even register the draught behind him hadn’t come from the door. Will looks up, eyes rapidly widening in a mix of familiarity and surprise, but Killian doesn’t have to. He knows. She must have sensed him when he passed the kingdom's wards, followed the sing of his own power to find him, greet him.

Killian turns and lets a smirk tug at his lips as silence hangs like a criminal, the whole inn rendered mute by her entrance. In awe. In fear.

Emma.

Time hasn’t dared touch her. It hasn’t in aeons. In the years Killian has known her, she has always looked this radiant. Hair curled loosely over her shoulders and a dress of lace laid over silk, bright and beautiful and absolutely incredible. An aura of light surrounds her, bringing illumination to the dim room. From her very core, she is beautiful.

Killian has missed her.

She smiles, knowingly.

"I haven't told him yet."

[bgnmagic]

Finding Peace - a/b/o Merlin Fanfic

Crying out in pain as he fell, Merlin could only clutch at his ankle and pray it wasn’t broken. Desperate to escape the group of alpha bandits he’d encountered Merlin had run as fast as his long legs would take him. However, running through the forest was always a dangerous game.  Now he was out of breath, in pain, and about to be found by people that most likely meant to do him harm.

Pushing his tired body up, Merlin positioned his back against a large tree trunk and watched as four men came running over. They were all alphas based off the wretched scent they were emitting.

“Thought you could outrun us omega? Not very smart are ya?” One of the men raged as he stepped closer.

“He’ll get us a good price, just grab him and let’s go!” Another added.

“I want to have some fun first, he made me work harder than necessary,” the first man sneered as he unsheathed a knife and crouched down as if ready to strike. “Jared, hold him down while I see what he’s hiding underneath those ratty clothes.”

Merlin had heard enough, these men were not going to leave him alone. The man with the knife edged closer and Merlin wasted no time in throwing his hand out. The blast of magic he let loose sent the two men closest to him flying a good twenty feet back; they did not get up again. His magic was always more powerful when Merlin felt threatened.

Of the other two men, one went wide eyed and turned running away. Unfortunately, the one remaining alpha didn’t need to run, he had a crossbow. Alphas disliked being belittled by omegas, and it seemed this alpha was very upset at what had just transpired.

“You’ll pay for that!” he hollered as he aimed the crossbow.

With only a second to react Merlin again used his magic and sent the man hurtling backward. It was only when Merlin attempted to curl in on himself that he noticed an odd stinging sensation that was steadily growing in intensity. Already in shock from the brutal encounter Merlin began to panic, he’d been struck. Looking to his right revealed the end of a bolt lodged in the meat of his shoulder.

Flinching at the sight of the wound Merlin cried out in pain, again he tried to move but realized he couldn’t. Dear gods, the bolt had gone straight through his shoulder and gotten stuck fast to the tree trunk. The loose grip Merlin had on his sanity was slipping. A twisted ankle and now this! If the other bandit came back and Merlin was passed out, he’d be a sitting duck.

Unable to think of the best course of action Merlin distantly wondered if he would die here, alone in the forest.

--

The sight of a grown man running through the woods in utter fear should have been enough to make Arthur turn around. The man in question was an alpha and simply changed course to avoid them as he continued on like a bat out of hell.

“Sire, we’d best be on guard,” Leon commented right before he drew his sword.

Arthur was going to grace his first knight with an opinion on the matter when a faint scent hit him. The aroma was unmistakable, a distressed omega. “Right, of course, let’s go investigate.”

“Are you sure that is a wise idea, that man was an alpha and he looked absolutely terrified.”

“There’s an omega nearby, we need to check,” Arthur added while urging his horse forward. “Besides if bandits are in the woods this close to Camelot then we need to gather more information.”

“How do you know there is an omega? I can’t smell anything.” Leon asked quickly.

Arthur furrowed his brow in confusion, how could Leon not smell it? “I smell it plain as day, and it’s getting stronger; they may be hurt we need to check,” replied Arthur while drawing his own sword.

Leon nodded but didn’t say anything more as they rode in the direction the man came from.  The scent only increased as they pushed onward. The subtle hints of something sweet had been harshly covered by a sharp burning smell. The urge to find the omega and offer help was overwhelming. Arthur had never felt a pull like this before. His inner alpha was chomping at the bit to call out to this omega even though they’d seen no sign of them.

The sound of harsh panting reached Arthur’s ears before he noticed the bodies. Then in a rush his world stopped. All Arthur could hear was his blood pumping and his own ragged breath at the discovery of the omega. There in amongst the trees was the most perfect omega Arthur had ever seen. The shock of black hair and vibrant blue eyes staring him down were magnificent. Leon’s frantic calls were the only thing that broke his stupor a moment later.

“Arthur! Careful with that one, he may be a sorcerer,” Leon worried as he dismounted and held out his sword in defense. “These men didn’t die naturally.”

Seeing Leon aim his weapon towards the omega made Arthur’s blood run cold. His father’s view on magic being purely evil was being roughly suppressed by his inner alpha’s need to protect this omega. The scene surrounding them looked more like self-defense versus an unprompted magical attack. Jumping off his own horse Arthur went to stand in between the two when the omega raised his hand and took a shuddering breath.

Having seen enough attacks from magic users Arthur recognized what was about to happen. Rushing to face the omega he threw his sword aside and held his hands up in surrender. “We mean you no harm,” Arthur spit out hoping to avoid a battle. From the looks of it the omega was in a bad way. His shoulder had a bolt sticking out of it, and his breathing was labored.  

The momentary pause the omega made gave Arthur hope. “Leon put down your sword,” he ordered. Leon made some sort of strangled noise behind him, but Arthur could tell from the way the omega’s arm fell slightly that Leon had done as instructed.

“What are you doing?!” Came next from the knight, “Arthur, this is dangerous, he’s a sorcerer.”

Arthur answered right away and was even surprised by his own reply. “I don’t care if he knows magic; he’s my omega I have to help him!”

“What?!” was the resounding shout that echoed through the forest. This time though, both Leon and the omega had said it.

“Ignoring the shocked look from the omega Arthur tried to get closer, “Can I treat your wound?”

The omega shook his head and winced, “You’re an alpha, get away from me.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, let me help.”

“No! Get away.”

Hearing the omega, who clearly needed help, reject the offer made Arthur angry. “Why can’t I help? I’m not going to hurt you, I’ve just said so!” The omega simply shook his head again and glared at Arthur. Deciding to risk his wellbeing Arthur slowly began walking forward. “I’m going to help you whether you like it or not, and then we’re going back to my home so I can take care of you.”

“Do I not – do I not get a say in the matter?” The omega panted, obviously in pain.

“What is there to question?” Arthur exclaimed still moving closer. A few more steps and he’d be close enough to inspect the bolt wound.

“Just because I’m – I’m an omega doesn’t mean – you can order me around!”

“I’m not ordering you I’m only trying to help you!” Arthur was sure with each step he edged closer that this omega was his mate. The thing his father said he would never find because he was too good for such follies. Arthur was to wed for political gains not love. However, the bond he already felt just from the scent alone was driving Arthur mad. How could he ignore this feeling, this utter and complete urge to protect?

The omega was about to say something more but Arthur quickly interrupted, “Just shut up, and let me help.” By now Arthur had gotten close enough that all he had to do was reach out an arm to be able to touch the injured man. Slowly raising his arms he hovered them above the bolt waiting for the omega to protest. When no such words came Arthur gently touched the omega’s shoulder. The skin was hot under the tunic and the sensation left Arthur’s fingertips feeling tingly. “What do I call you?” Arthur asked softly, trying to be as non-threatening as he could.  

The omega swallowed hard and seemed to be considering his options. After a long few minutes he answered, “Merlin.”

Hearing his omega’s name spoken aloud only cemented the idea that Arthur had in fact found his true mate. “I’m Arthur and that’s Leon,” he responded in turn. Merlin simply sighed heavily in response; it appeared his energy was waning fast. “Trust me when I say no harm will come to you,” Arthur added when he caught Merlin eyeing him warily.

“Even if you wish -- to kidnap me and take -- take me to your home?” Merlin rasped in between pained breaths.

“It’s not – you’re twisting my words! Can’t you feel the bond between us?” Arthur asked with a hint of desperation. Merlin went to respond but stopped and slumped down as much as his body would allow. Watching intently Arthur felt a pang of relief when Merlin nodded minutely. “Let’s get to work on bandaging this wound, if we work fast I can get you patched up and have our physician Gaius che--.”

“Gaius?!” Merlin spluttered.  “Are you from Camelot? I know him – of him.”

“Yes, I’m Prince Arthur and this is my first knight Sir Leon.”

Merlin paled at the mention of his full title, “I wasn’t meant – I didn’t mean – shit. My mother told me to be careful there, magic is outlawed and now – now, fuck I’m a dead man,” Merlin whispered, looking that much closer to passing out. “Why are you helping me?” he asked with wide eyes.

“Whoa, whoa I’ve already said I won’t hurt you. Don’t panic, we need to get this wound attended to before we continue,” Arthur pleaded.

“I’m magic – I’m not supposed to let – to let others know,” Merlin gasped. “You’ll only kill me later!” he groaned.

“Merlin you need to shut up, and we need to get this bolt out. I swear on my mother’s honor I will not hurt you.” Arthur suspected that if Merlin hadn’t been literally pinned to the tree he would have already attempted to run away. His immobility was forcing the topic of what happened to magic users in Camelot, which was something Arthur hadn’t wanted to talk about either.

“Listen, I know you don’t want me helping but you have to trust me, ask Leon, I never go back on my word.”

Merlin’s eyes darted from Arthur to Leon who was still standing near his horse. His labored breathing was only getting worse, they needed to act fast. “Leon is going to come over here and we are going to get you patched up,” Arthur paused when Merlin whimpered from the pain. “Will you let us do that?”

The omega nodded and only marginally flinched with Leon approached. After a few minutes of intense conversation about how best to remove the bolt it was decided that Leon and Arthur would quickly pull Merlin away from the tree, leaving the bolt stuck instead. Once the end of had been shortened and removed of any splinters Merlin was freed of the horrid thing. The omega cried out in pain when they pulled him forward, but quickly quieted once he’d been drug away from the tree base.

The first attempt to access the wound to dress it resulted in Merlin pushing Arthur’s hands away. “Don’t -- touch me,” he hissed with a wince.

“I have to in order to staunch the bleeding, you idiot!” Arthur shot back. Merlin made another weak attempt at shoving Arthur away but gave up when an apparent wave of pain swept through his lithe frame. “Now, be still and let us handle this. I swear no harm will come to you.”

“So says – so says the alpha prat,” Merlin gasped as he tried curling into a ball.

Arthur had never felt so conflicted in all his life. This man was an omega with magic, Arthur should have wanted to run the other way, but instead he wanted nothing more than to protect Merlin until his dying breath. They didn’t even know each other! Arthur was trying not to dwell on the magic part too much, that was a whole other bucket of worms he couldn’t process.

Frustrated with the lack of progress Arthur was unable to hold his temper, “Do you want me to leave you here to bleed out?!”

“No!” Merlin yelled equally as angry, “Why can’t you –you understand? I’m scared!”

Hearing the omega admit his fear out loud broke Arthur’s inner alpha. Merlin must have noticed his internal struggles because he calmed almost immediately or maybe it was his pheromones. Arthur wasn’t trying to mask his emotions at all; Merlin had to know how he felt.

Taking a deep breath Arthur very carefully took hold of Merlin’s good shoulder. “I’m going to help you take your shirt off now, so we can dress this wound and then we are riding back to Camelot so Gaius can treat you properly.”

Either Merlin felt light headed or he was finally willing to believe Arthur, but after a second he allowed them to treat his injury. Any longer and Merlin would have lost even more blood, risking his recovery. Once Merlin’s shoulder had been tightly wrapped and his arm put in a sling to minimize movement Arthur went to help the omega stand.

“My ankle got twisted,” Merlin ground out as Arthur tried to right him.

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” Arthur replied hugging Merlin close. The places where Arthur’s bare hand gripped Merlin’s exposed skin nearly burned. Pushing aside the thoughts of what the rest of Merlin would feel like under his touch Arthur hobbled over toward his horse. He had no idea that an alpha omega bond could be so strong. Distantly wondering if Merlin felt the same thing Arthur quickly shoved the thought aside. This was no time to get distracted. Merlin still needed help.

When Arthur was about to get Merlin up into the saddle the omega began pulling away. “I can’t go with you, I’ll get burned alive,” Merlin exclaimed. “Please let me go.”

“You can barely stand up on your own, and you want me to leave you here alone?!” Arthur asked in disbelief. “There is no way I’m doing that; it’s my duty to take care of you.”

“But the laws of Camelot,” Merlin whined pathetically. “I was born with magic; I won’t be able to simply cast it aside if that’s what you think. Maybe we aren’t supposed to be together,” he adds worriedly.

“Damn the laws! I won’t let anyone touch you!” Arthur seethed. “I’m your alpha, I just know it. Why else would I feel this way?!” Stopping to really look at Merlin, Arthur considered what the omega had admitted. No one was born with magic, were they? Maybe Merlin was lying, but Arthur had a sinking feeling there was a lot more to magic then he’d been lead to believe. “Merlin, I’ve been raised to hate magic in all its forms, but I cannot turn away from you now, especially if we are meant to be together. I promise I won’t harm you.” Arthur finished with conviction.

“Yet,” Merlin mumbled.

“Gods save me,” Arthur grumbled. “Leon help me, we are riding out now!” Arthur could tell that Leon was struggling with the current line of events. He’d been subjected to Uther’s teachings on how terrible magic was and here they were aiding a sorcerer. The implications that one could be born with magic, sent bile crawling up Arthur’s throat, how could they have not known? Remembering the raid he’d done when he was younger, against the druids, Arthur realized some of them may not have had a choice in their practice of magic, and he’d slaughtered them by order of his king.

The ride back to the castle was nearly silent aside for a few quiet whimpers from Merlin. Arthur had ended up wrapping his red cloak around the younger man, since his shirt was bloodied and in tatters from the bolt. Arthur had to lean back away from the omega at least twice to keep from rubbing his neck all over Merlin’s scent gland.

Suddenly a thought struck him, and Arthur worried he’d been enchanted, but that was stupid, Merlin had done nothing but try to get away since the moment they met. So no enchantment, this was real. Arthur had found his mate. Next, he had to get his father to accept the truth of the matter. Magic was coming back to Camelot whether he liked it or not.  

--

Merlin awoke to shouting, when had he even fallen asleep? Moving to sit up brought with it a wave of pain that sent him back down on the bed he was currently tucked into. Sucking in a harsh breath Merlin worked to remember what had happened. However, he didn’t have a chance to ruminate for long before Merlin heard footsteps getting closer. The door to the oddly well-appointed room he was in burst open and there was Arthur.

All of his memories came flooding back, the attack, the bolt in his shoulder, meeting Arthur, and finding out he had a mate, a prince no less, that could kill him should he decide to. “Don’t hurt me!” Merlin blurted on instinct.

Arthur looked upset by the very thought, “I’d never do that, I told you remember?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued on. “Your scent is strong, what’s wrong? Are you in pain?”  

Relaxing slightly Merlin tried to figure out what had occurred since they’d gotten on the horses to ride to Camelot. Before he was able to comment another person came into the room behind Arthur, an older gentleman who looked angry enough to spit nails.

“Is this him?!” The man angrily said. “I can see why you’ve seen fit to hide him from me Arthur! If you think I’m going to let you throw your life away on some omega whore you find in the woods then you are sorely mistaken!”

Merlin was not going to let that slide, he didn’t care who this man was no one talked about him that way. “I’m not a whore!” he shouted.

“Don’t talk unless spoken to boy.”

“I’ll do no such thing; you can’t accuse me of such things without any proof. I’m not a whore!”

“Listen, you horrid imp, I can say whatever I wish. Do not speak to me again!”

“Father, don’t address him that way,” Arthur growled.

“Arthur, don’t start with me, this ends now. Cast him out in the streets immediately or I’ll have the guards do it.”

Merlin watched as Arthur took up a fighting stance between them, even though he was unarmed. Perhaps having an alpha wasn’t such a bad thing. The king however, didn’t like that turn of events and in a blink of the eye had drawn his own sword. Only able to react to what Merlin thought was his impending death, he outstretched his hand and prepared to defend himself. His magic came bubbling to the surface and was seconds away from unleashing a strike against Arthur’s father.

Arthur’s body was there a split second later, pressed into his hugging him tightly, the wound from the bolt twinged painfully but Merlin couldn’t seem to care about that in the heat of the moment.

“You’ll have to kill us both father,” Arthur exclaimed. “I will not let you harm him so long as I have breath in my body.”

The king had stopped frozen in place with a look of utter shock. “He’s a damned sorcerer, Arthur you fool, you’ve been enchanted by this whore! He just tried to use magic on me, I saw his eyes glow!”

Arthur only hugged Merlin tighter, the contact was the only thing grounding Merlin so he opted to wrap his good arm around his alpha’s back and pray for a swift death. When Arthur began to pull away a moment later Merlin whined involuntarily. The safety he was promised was slipping away.

“I’ve not been enchanted father, believe me Merlin didn’t want to even come here, I had to convince him,” said Arthur as he looked up at the king. “He’s also not a whore, so please stop calling him that.”

“Merlin, eh, what a lovely little name,” the king spit out sarcastically. “Get him out of here; I will not tolerate this any longer.”

Arthur took a deep breath and growled menacingly at his father, “I will not let you separate us either kill us both now or accept this for what it is. I’ve found my true mate.” The prince was still shielding Merlin from the king and it seemed that he had every intention of dying with him.

“I’ll go!” Merlin exclaimed, “I don’t want to be the reason you can’t live your life. You don’t deserve to die because of me.”

“No! I will not let you go, not after I just found you!” Arthur shouted.  

“Are you telling me that you’d willingly die for this omega?” the king asked in disbelief.

“Didn’t you love my mother once?” Arthur returned with a fiery expression.

That comment seemed to deflate the anger out of the king in an instant. “Arthur I’m warning you, once you make up your mind there is no going back.”

“If you are willing to kill your only son then I think I’d rather not be a part of your legacy.”

The king stumbled back a few paces and let his sword hang limply by his side. “You would cross me for this, this omega?”

“He’s my mate, father. I can feel our bond. Why can’t I have what you and mother did?”

“No, this can’t be happening. After all I’ve done to protect you from the wiles of evil and magic. You go and find a sorcerer for a mate.”

“He was born with it father, he doesn’t have a choice.”

“I cannot accept this, I won’t.”

“Why?!” Arthur all but shouted. “How are you able to do as you please but others cannot have their free will?”

“Magic is evil that is why.”

“Not all of it, I’m sure of it,” Arthur defended. “Why would the gods fate me to be with someone evil?”

“I don’t care, this cannot be so!”

“Well it is, so what are you going to do about it?” Arthur demanded.

The king shook his head and continued to back away. “I must think on these things, I suggest you keep your pet locked up until we’ve reached a decision.”

Merlin wanted to argue that he was no pet, but staying silent had worked better so far. He really didn’t want to get run through and hopefully if things came down to it Arthur could request a quick death for him instead of the pyre.

“The only decision I see in the future is Merlin becoming my bonded mate, father,” Arthur answered vehemently.

The king didn’t respond but simply shook his head again and slowly walked out of the room. Merlin was sure he could hear the older man mumbling something about why magic had corrupted his only son. There was something much deeper about the king’s hatred of magic. Merlin knew a hatred like that wasn’t created over something small. A catastrophe had occurred at some point, one that most likely featured magic.

Arthur sprang up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of the bed and slammed the door shut bolting it securely. Spinning around he rushed back over and fell to his knees beside the bed. “I swear to you I won’t let my father hurt you. I’ll sneak away with you if we have to. Can you magic us out the window if the guards come?”

Merlin was a little surprised by the turn of events. “Um I think I can, but will your father really try and kill us?” he asked worriedly.

Arthur frowned and shrugged. “I hope not but he’s not known for being lenient.”

“Oh,” Merlin managed weakly. “I don’t feel so good,”

“Shit, I’m sorry did I hurt you earlier when I hugged you, what do you need? How can I help?”

“What have you gotten me mixed up with? I’m a lone peasant boy trying to avoid problems and now I might be killed all for finding my mate.”

Arthur’s face softened at the comment, “So you believe we’re meant for each other now?”

“Considering I was about to start crying a second ago when you went to lock the door that might be the case. I thought you were leaving me.”

“I was serious Merlin, now that I’ve found you; I’m not leaving you ever again. I’ve dreamed about finding my mate for years. Now that it’s finally happened I won’t let that opportunity pass by without a fight.”  

Merlin could only sigh in relief at hearing Arthur’s confession. “Um, do you think I could have another hug,” Merlin asked quietly. “I think I might need another one after waking up to that.”  

Arthur offered him a genuine smile for the first time since they’d met and went to move up onto the bed. “Let me know if I hurt you, I was a little bit in a rush the last time, I thought my father was about to run you through.”

“Don’t remind me Arthur, I’ll be reliving that moment in my nightmares for a while.”

Arthur quirked an embarrassed smile at the admission, “Sorry about that, I did mean what I said earlier. I’ll protect you.” Arthur then gently scooped Merlin upright to hold him.

The hug was warm and solid and Merlin felt himself melting into the alpha’s embrace. How could they be so comfortable with each other only after just meeting? The power of their bond must be strong for there to be such emotions. “I can’t believe I’m about to ask this considering what’s happened, but can you hold me while I rest?”

The blinding smile Arthur flashed him made Merlin laugh. “Anything for my omega, I promise Merlin we’ll get through this together, no matter what.”

Merlin had the pleasure of drifting to sleep with Arthur cradling him against his chest. This moment of peace alone was worth it, even if they didn’t survive this ordeal. Merlin had never felt so cherished in his whole life.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/33447787

[snowbellewells]

Face to Face in the Broad Daylight:  Chapter Four

I really can’t apologize enough for the long wait between chapters here.  There all sorts of plausible excuses, but I’ve basically just fallen behind with starting back to school and getting into the teaching routine again. Hopefully, I won’t keep you waiting on this story so long again, and that you will still enjoy what I’ve cooked up this time around...

Also, I still don’t think it quite needs an M rating, but fair warning, Emma and Killian do get up to a bit of mischief on a stakeout...

Thanks again to @branlovestowrite for the gorgeous story banner; I continue to just love it and smile every time I add it to the chapter post.  And to @cssns for inspiring so many wonderful stories and such a fun community outlet. I’m so glad it gave my little werewolf story an outlet and a reason for me to finally get down to business and commit to it the page!

~chapter four: sinister stirrings, signs of life

Gold did not allow his accomplice’s taunt to hang in the air for long; instead, speculation lit his serpentine eyes with cunning curiosity. “And just what is your price, Morgana? What is it that a powerful witch like you cannot simply conjure for yourself with ease?”

“I seek vengeance,” she bit out, tone icy cold with the fierce utterance. “For my father’s life, for my mother’s pain… and what I have lost to that ingrate King… Arthur of Camelot.” She spat the famed appellation, which most spoke in reverence, with a venom that momentarily surprised even the Dark One.

A knowing, secretive smile crept over his sharp face; no other words necessary for him to understand what drove her. He had after all seen the quest for revenge bring many a man and woman to his door, willing to take his wretched deals whatever the cost, and then meet their doom, or at least soul’s ruin. He and the would-have-been Duchess of Cornwall had much in common, and always had. Both believed the world to have slighted them, and both plotting, scheming, grasping every bit of what they felt was their due wherever they could. Perhaps she would grow a bit too desperate, and he could then be certain of the upper hand in their arrangement. He would simply watch and wait to see.

Morgana, on the other hand, was not idle, even as she finally handed the contained hat over to Gold and began to move around his shop with mild interest as he examined the token ravenously. Just as her former mentor sensed her fervent desire and impatience, the seething rage pushing her forward, she could also read his extreme confidence, his discounting of the worthy mind and abilities she had cultivated since the time he had known her well. He thought she would be easy to manipulate; powerful enough to provide the assistance he needed, but not a true threat to his own mastery of the exchange. 

He misjudged both her magical strength - and her loyalty. She had learned that no one could be trusted but herself. Though she was willing to side with him while it proved beneficial, she would not sacrifice her own goal, nor confuse a healthy respect with true devotion. Rumplestiltskin foolishly believed her indebted to him, simply because he had discovered where to summon the hat from Merlin’s safekeeping. That mattered little when she was the one who had retrieved it; she was the one he had needed to complete his task. Their purposes were not truthfully as aligned as he thought, yet she felt no qualms at playing along until it was too late for even the Dark One himself to stop her or ruin her plans. He saw her as a willing and able pawn, and she would let him do so for the time being. As long as he gave her the hat as promised when he was done, and she could increase her power, take it back to Camelot, usurp Arthur, and gain her revenge, she cared little how Gold’s plan worked out.  His power would be the first she would harness for her own devices - his and all the other Dark Ones who had come before - once the time was right.

“That seems only fair,” Rumplestiltskin spoke in his slick, indulgent tones that might fool someone who didn’t know him as well as Morgana did. Though neither fully trusted the other - nor any beyond themselves - the sorceror before her did seem near tittering with subdued malevolent glee. He really was an imp to his core, delighting in the fall of those who took might and control by vicious means, even if that downfall was not of his own making. “King Uther, Arthur’s father, did indeed wrong your family greatly.”

“I know that,” she snapped, eyes burning as they swung to his in sudden anger. “You needn’t recount the injustices! I remember them well.” Her fine, white hands clenched and unclenched, as her deceptively thin shoulders heaved. She was practically seething from every pore.

Unfazed, the Dark One stepped nearer, cradling his precious talisman in one hand as he wagged his forefinger at her teasingly. She wanted to snap the digit at its joint, but instead held her tongue stonily. “Easy there, Dearie,” Gold chided in his infuriating manner of jest. “Flying off the handle like that can lead to dangerous mistakes.”  He winked at her before turning to leave, clearly unconcerned with her alone in his shop to wreck it if the desire took her.

Morgana’s voice rang out quickly, before he could vanish in a puff of his magic, stopping him with the sort of ringing command he couldn’t ignore. “Midnight, a week from now, when the moon is at its fullest… If you wish for my help, you will bring the Sorceror’s Hat to the lakeside when the lunar orbit reaches the zenith. We will perform the ceremony, and then the hat will be mine once it has served its purpose for you. Do we have an accord?”

“Certainly, certainly,” Gold chimed, and though his tone was soft and sibilant, Morgana could hear the eagerness, the urgency for his full freedom and command of his power running beneath. She wasn’t the only one whose need for retribution had them chomping at the bit.

All that remained, she considered saying as the bell tinkled after Rumplestiltskin’s exit, was to see who would allow their quest to be their undoing. Then, without another moment’s hesitation, she vanished from the spot as well in her own column of cobalt blue smoke.

~~***~~***~~***~~

Once again nighttime darkness reigned over the quiet streets of Storybrooke. The main street, lined with storefronts, the Sheriff’s station, and the cheerily butter-yellow Town Hall, was so still and calm by 9:30 that one might think the place either deserted or inhabited entirely by senior citizens, Emma thought with a wry shake of her head and exhaled breath as she sat watching the scene before them from her usual work parking space. Apparently, fairy tale characters exiled in the “real world” adhered to a similar early bird schedule.  She was in the more roomy back seat of her Bug, not expecting to see much of anything that would require her to pull out quickly, and needing to sit somewhat turned in the seat to keep her eyes on Gold’s shop, a Thermos of hot chocolate on hand to warm her insides as the night grew more chilled, and Killian cuddled against her side assuringly, something in his lupine makeup keeping him always a few degrees warmer than the average human.

Reading her mild amusement as easily as he seemed to do with all her changes in mood and emotion, Killian leaned in to whisper against her ear, his scruffy whiskers raking deliciously across her cheek and neck. “What is it, Swan? Did I miss something humorous?”

Emma shook her head with a chuckle, swiveling a bit to look at his quirked brow and curious face more clearly. His crystalline, sea-blue eyes twinkled as if he could already anticipate her answer, and in that moment, Emma genuinely wanted nothing more than to kiss him senseless, plant little pecks all over his forehead and cheeks and chin, just for sitting there with her, for always being by her side, and for being her ridiculous, handsome, dependable companion, whatever new surprise or danger came their way. Though she managed to hold back the outburst of affection, she still couldn’t help the frisson of awareness that ran through her veins at his nearness, even while proceeding to answer his simple question. “No, nothing funny really, just thinking how there truly is no night life here. It’s not even ten o’clock, and there’s no one out on the street!”

“Aye,” Killian nodded conversationally in agreement. “You’ve a point there. Any port town in which the Jolly ever docked - regardless of how small or remote - was more lively than our little town currently.”

Both fell silent once more, eyes unavoidably drawn to the entrance of the darkened pawn shop, looking deceptively closed and shuttered,but nevertheless the reason they were sitting on the street in a stakeout and wondering whether or not they should trust the seeming peace of the night around them.  “Exactly,” she smirked at his comment, against her better judgement leaning closer as she did. She could feel that the spark always burning between them, fanned by both recent interrupted assignations, was still simmering hotly, barely banked by more pressing concerns, and knew that the right sort of look or touch might well be all that was needed to set it aflame once more. And yet, she couldn’t find it in herself to resist.

Killian reacted just as she had hoped, his response to her invitation almost immediate, hand balancing him on the seat beside her as he leaned even closer than they had already been seated, his breath warming her forehead as he exhaled and his hook tracing a purposeful path up her jean-clad thigh. “Looking for a bit more excitement, are you Darling?” he questioned devilishly, his lips and tongue pronouncing each sound and syllable of the words in a manner that left tingles racing up and down her spine. 

The intentional progress of his metal appendage swung inward to trace along her pants inseam, ever closer to the goal, and Emma swallowed hard, irrationally embarrassed that he might already feel the heat radiating from her center and how her pulse seemed to be throbbing there noticeably. It was all she could do not to start shedding layers and crawl into his lap. She could only nod eagerly for several tensely heated seconds before finally affirming breathily. “What if I am, Pirate? Are you gonna do something about it?”

Killian’s heavy, dark eyebrows practically danced across his forehead merrily, as if she’d given him a present with her challenge. The tip of his wicked tongue poked from between his full, tempting lips before tracing along the lower one as if he had just glimpsed a meal her wanted to devour. “Oh, you know I will, Emma. Don’t you even doubt it.”

In the next instant, he seemed to pounce, his warm weight pressing her back against the leather upholstery of the Bug’s rear bench seat, as that tongue swept into her mouth to lay claim. The curved edge of his hook found its goal at last, putting delicious cool pressure against her still-clothed heated core and making her moan shamelessly into his mouth in return.

“Oh...Ki - Killian!... Please…. Ummm…” she raised her hips almost unconsciously, bucking toward his questing hook, and the added stimulation of his hand, which had now managed to slip under her shirt, up her side to her heaving chest. Emma forgot all about Gold, the newcomer, and why they were outside in her car at all, between the way his hand and hook were making her feel and his lips suddenly veering from her own to wander along her jaw back to the sensitive spot behind her ear, driving her even more out of her mind. She would swear under oath that she shouldn’t be held responsible when her desperately clutching hands pulled so hard at his shirt in her haste to touch him too and hold onto something to ground herself that she heard the sound of ripping fabric over her own gasp and whimper of need.

Not in the least disturbed by wardrobe damage - he had lost count of how many shirts and pants his wolf had destroyed in transformation ages ago - Killian merely chuckled with indulgent pride at the effect he was clearly having on his usually cool and collected girlfriend. It wasn’t lost on him that Emma rarely allowed herself to let go of control so completely. Splayed before him openly, eyes half-closed in bliss, Emma was offering him the trust and vulnerability few others received from her, and it awed him all the more beyond what her beauty had already accomplished. Not wanting the swell of emotion to derail them, now that they had at last managed to preserve a long enough moment alone, he bent his head back to the task before him. He nearly lost a handful of hair when a few seconds later he caught the lobe of her ear between his teeth and bit down playfully, not expecting the force with which Emma grasped the dark strands between her fingers as she keened breathlessly.

The wicked smile that quirked his lips as he murmured into her neck, “Feeling lively enough now?” was entirely unavoidable, if he did say so himself. For a moment, he allowed his mind to gloat inwardly as her pants seemed to indicate his Swan incapable of speech from his pleasurable ministrations.

Letting down one’s guard around Emma was never wise, however, as he was soon letting out an indecently loud and tormented groan of his own satisfaction. Somehow, while he had been occupied with tracing patterns over her collarbone with teeth and tongue, she had worked a clever hand into his tight jeans and dealt him more than enough taste of his own medicine.

“Ah!  Wh- Swan…” he choked, his own head falling forward to rest on her shoulder as she squeezed and pumped delicately in the limited space she had to work with.  “Mmm, love...easy does it,” he finally managed to grind out after riding the sensation for a minute. “Much more of that and you’ll bring the night to completion before I can finish what I started.”

Reluctantly his bold lass did release him and pull back slightly, one sculpted eyebrow arched in what could only be the beguilingly feminine equivalent of the look he had given her so many times before. “Can’t have that now, can we?” she teased gently, stroking along his stomach muscles, which quivered in response to her touch and practically smirking up at him.

“Certainly not, Love. It would be poor form indeed to leave a lady such as yourself unsatisfied.” He licked his lips salaciously, but meant every word, and the way she threw back her head with a wholehearted guffaw of laughter made him certain she knew it too.

“Well then, Captain,” she purred, pulling him in once more by the charms that hung around his neck. “Let’s see you make good on your word.”

Pressing forward with a deep, almost feral sounding growl, part his own desire and part his wolf within howling to break free, he lay her back unresistingly on the seat beneath them, spread out before him like a delectable banquet feast.

When they surfaced some time later, bare and skin glistening with sweat from their enjoyable activities, they had already missed both clouds of magic and the reappearance outside the shop of their new female nemesis - the reason they had been waiting in the car in the first place. Still, even if they had been less than purposeful, as they rested together, sated and entwined in each other’s arms, neither Emma nor Killian could bring themselves to mind.

~~~**~~~**~~~**~~~

After checking in with Emma and Killian at the station - and gathering a much clearer picture of how his deputy and her beau were progressing as a couple than he had needed or wished to have - making sure they had been alerted about the strange woman he had seen at daybreak, Graham was more than anxious to see his own lady love once more. Firstly, because he longed to be at her side, to see her happy, every second of each day that it was reasonably possible; a truly jarring sensation for a man who had up until that point led a quiet, solitary life and thought himself reasonably satisfied, but a sensation he had warmed to and treasured all the same. And secondly, knowing that she carried their pup - a child conceived of their love for each other - in her womb made the normal protective urges he already struggled to manage at normal levels exponentially stronger. To think that Gold still lurked around town and must wish to win - or coerce or steal - Belle back to himself worried Graham enough on a daily basis, but the attack on Granny and this obviously magical stranger’s appearance had him all the more on edge. No, Belle might argue that she was quite alright and could take care of herself, but he intended to stick quite close by whenever his duties as Sheriff allowed, and he might just speak to David and Snow about seeing if someone could stay nearby, just in case, when he could not. He would simply bear her annoyance and exasperation with his fussing as best he could; it was much better than seeing any harm come to her.

Letting his mind return to that morning, Graham thought back on how, after sighting the cloaked woman by the lake, he had hastened back to his cabin with extra speed, shifting on the porch back into his lanky human form so as to let himself in with ease and check on Belle where he had left her sleeping. The sight of her peaceful in repose beneath the moss-green cotton sheets upon the bed, her auburn hair spread out across the pillow, and the softest little purr of a snore escaping her pretty lips, had made him loathe to wake her.

Shirtless and barefoot, clad only in the grey sweatpants he slipped on for decency once human again, he padded across the smooth hardwood floor simply watching her sleep for a few seconds longer with an adoring smile on his face. He had never seen her look so serene, stunning in her sweet fragility, her petite beauty and kind nature concealing what he knew to be a backbone of strongest steel. Still, however much he hated to rouse her from much-needed rest, she had made him promise to take her with him back into town this morning. She was not content to hide out and wait passively until all was safe. And even if it was only researching information that might help prepare the rest of them for the storm they all knew was coming, or finding any accounts which might might better inform the two of them on the little one they were awaiting, she would not settle for anything less than doing her part, in her library, surrounded and aided by her beloved books.

Perching lightly on the mattress near her hip, Graham reached out a large, calloused hand, with a gentleness he hadn’t even known he possessed (having never known a tender touch until this tiny spitfire of a woman came into his life) lifted a loose strand of hair from her velvet-soft cheek and tucked it behind her ear. As he had known it would, even such a light touch had her stirring, beginning to stretch and slowly wake.

Now that his duties for the day were mostly complete, it eased his soul to once more slip into the cool, enveloping shadows and hushed, welcoming space of the town library. He could feel the taunt hunch of his shoulders relax within seconds of entering his love’s hallowed space, at the sound of Belle’s voice farther within the stacks, directing someone he could not yet see. Perhaps one of their friends had already had the same thoughts he did and undertaken to keep her company.

Venturing on silent feet, long accustomed to moving swiftly and without sound on the forest floors and castle courtyards of their old world, Graham stepped into one of the larger conference rooms toward the back of the library, one appointed with a large study table and numerous chairs for large groups. He leaned against the doorframe there, happy just to watch and enjoy the comfort and relief of once more being in her presence and seeing her in her element.

The Hatter in their world - Jefferson, Graham believed he went by here, was the first other person he saw. He recalled with a wince that this man had also been painfully manipulated by Regina - both in the Enchanted Forest past and their small town present. He knew with the same guilt-ridden certainty that he had realized Belle could have been freed from her imprisonment sooner if he had been quicker to awaken and act, that he had probably passed Jefferson on the steps of the mayoral mansion or in the frigid labyrinths of the Town Hall, but both had been too ashamed at being ensnared or indebted, or in some way under the command of the Evil Queen, to look up and meet the other’s eyes, to see a fellow sufferer or brother-in-arms. If nothing else, he reminded himself pushing off the doorjamb and moving into the well-lit and enlivened conversation humming around him, at least now he was beginning to see just how many friends there truly were here, as well as foes. Good people who could be relied upon and were hoping for the chance to regain their lives, just as much as he and Belle were.

His adorable librarian was chatting happily with both Jefferson’s daughter Grace and Henry, who were all too content with darting back and forth from the stacks for any book Belle could think of to request - all of them trying to keep her seated and off her feet. Coming to her side eagerly, Graham leaned over to kiss her cheek, even as she turned her head upward to greet him with a welcoming grin.

“It’s good to see you,” he whispered in her ear, letting his scruff tickle along her skin slightly, making her giggle and tuck her chin toward her chest.

Still, she caught his hand and squeezed it back affectionately, holding on and pulling it down to rest his palm over her still-flat stomach.

His brow furrowed, confused, even as she beamed at him to wait and be patient. It was much to early for him to be feeling any sort of movement from their little one; Belle wasn’t even showing. He was more than a little puzzled, and a bit concerned if the truth were told, but willing to humor her, and so stilled dutifully, waiting for he knew not what.

Then, abruptly, a definite jolt jarred his large hand from where it rested against Belle’s stomach. Eyes widening almost comically as they darted up to her face, he felt as much as saw Belle suck in an excited breath as she nodded her head in enthusiastic affirmation.

“Wait, but, it can’t be… It’s too soon…” he sputtered. “Are you sure?  Should we take you to Whale?  Are you hurting at all, Darling?”

The flow of words was almost more than she had ever heard her gentle huntsman say at once, but no more than she expected. Still, she tried to implore him in her gaze and the steady pressure on his hand to calm, that she had learned some things about her particular pregnancy and she would fill him in, but she wasn’t in pain, and she wasn’t concerned or frightened - though she had known he would be, for her. Guiding his hand still, she brought it to her lips to gently kiss the back of it, hoping to soothe him. She merely wanted to share this miracle with this precious man, the depth of her joy causing tears to well in her eyes.

They were still for several grounding moments, and when she lifted her gaze to meet Graham’s once more, she saw that same welling of love and astonishment in his eyes as well.

Tagging: @cssns @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @therooksshiningknight  @hollyethecurious @winterbaby89 @resident-of-storybrooke @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @gingerchangeling @ilovemesomekillianjones @spartanguard @whimsicallyenchantedrose @searchingwardrobes @laschatzi @darkcolinodonorgasm

[irregularjohnnywiggins]

So I watched the Doctor Who episode ‘Battlefield’ and now you have to suffer my opinions

So THAT’S where the clip from Day of the Doctor is from.

As an Arthurian fan I sat down to watch this because Doctor Who meets King Arthur

As a Doctor Who fan I stayed rooted to my seat because BRIGADIER!

To get through my Doctor Who thoughts first:

Thing I forgot was a thing in Seventh Doctor stories: Ace’s Girls and Boys of the Week. What a bicon.

Things I need in NuWho at some point: Brigadier Winifred Bambera.

Also: UNIT having anti-everything they’ve ever fought bullets, including gold bullets for Cybermen and silver bullets just in case they’ll ever meet werewolves.

Also Also: Can someone please capitalise on the Doctor being Merlin?

There was some almost Steven Moffat levels of wibbly wobly timey wimey shit going on here: like, the Doctor is finishing half of a story a future version of himself has done the first half of.

Prime reaction of Who: The Doctor slowly sitting up, putting his hand under his chin, and just saying 'Ace?’

Some fucknugget: The PC direction of Doctor Who is a betrayal of everything that came before it. Battlefield: The Doctor does not like nuclear weapons and he wants you to know that.

Onto the King Arthur stuff:

The image of a guy in a suit of armour dual wielding a sword and a laser gun did things to me.

TvTropes says Ancelyn is the Celtic version of Lancelot and Winifred was a German version of Guinevere and I l’m not sure if that’s true but if it is I think Doctor Who managed to get me to ship Lancelot/Guinevere and I’m not sure how to cope with that.

Mordred’s entire characterisation was 'whiny bitch who keeps getting slapped down by his mum’ and I loved that.

Speaking of which, I really wish I had watched this before I did the Thirty Days of Arthurian Characters on Morgan, because GODDAMMIT Morgaine was awesome in this.

Like, yeah, she’s a) evil and b) Mordred’s mum, so ordinarily I would insist she be counted as Morgause as opposed to Morgan, but the rest of her characterization was brilliant.

Like, for a character whose last name literally translates to 'The Fairy’, evil versions of Morgan are often just pure evil, but this one will call a ceasefire and publicly berate Mordred for not honouring the dead soldiers of England, will casually kill and liquidate someone to extract information from them, but will then cure a woman’s blindness to pay Mordred’s bar tab. Sure, she’ll happily kill anyone who gets in her way, but she’s got layers, is all I’m saying.

The synopsis of the episodes I read made it seem like Morgaine works for the Destroyer, and I’m remarkably glad it instead went the route of Morgaine not trusting the thing that wants to kill the world as far as she could throw him. Again, it’s refreshing to see a Morgan who’s evil but not stupid.

Also Morgaine went from chomping at the bit to kill Arthur to being absolutely devestated that he was dead in a few seconds and that basically says everything I would want to say about their relationship.

I need something that’s just Merlin and Morgan playing chess and Morgan winning, and I may be planning to put it in my Merlin 2008 AU.

[dollopheadsandclotpoles]

Hi. Could you do Merthur and 22 please?

Have a Hogwarts AU. Just cause. 

“I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

Arthur had too many problems in his life. 

First and foremost was the fact that he was one of the champions selected to participate in the Triwizard Tournament. Honour and Glory was his if he won, yes, but years ago a kid had died during the last task, and frankly the very real possibly of death had been somewhat weighing on his mind. 

His second problem was that his father expected him to win the whole damn shebang, which meant that if he didn’t win, he’d probably be wishing he had died. 

The worst problem of all, however, was that the Yule Ball was coming up and the thought of asking who he really, desperately wanted to ask made Arthur consider jumping into the Great Lake and letting the Giant Squid eat him. 

Merlin would probably take this moment to point out that the Giant Squid was in fact, quite docile, and would not eat Arthur, to which Arthur would tell him to shut up, even though he secretly found Merlin’s knowledge of magical creatures terribly endearing. 

Bloody hell. Arthur was so fucked. 

Arthur sat on the Gryffindor Table in the Great Hall, a fist pressed against his cheek as he watched Merlin on the Slytherin table, laughing at something Morgana was saying, his eyes bright, showing off those adorable dimples of his. 

“You gonna eat that toast, princess?” 

Arthur jerked out of his reverie to find Gwaine looking expectantly at him. Arthur grunted and pushed his plate towards Gwaine. He watched with derision as Gwaine chomped down Arthur’s leftovers. 

“So,” Gwaine said, his mouth full, “who are you going to ask to the Yule Ball?” 

“I don’t know,” Arthur said, looking at the table. “Why does it matter?” 

“You’re one of the champions, that’s why! You can’t go stag!” 

Arthur made a guttural sound and took a sip of his tea. It was cold. Gwaine was looking at him in a way that was utterly infuriating. 

“What?” Arthur demanded. 

“Oh you know,” Gwaine said. “I was thinking maybe you were going to ask Merlin.” 

Arthur choked on his tea. “What?” he spluttered. “Why would I do that?” 

Gwaine shrugged, taking another bite of toast. “You two spend a lot of time together.” 

“Just because we’re friends now doesn’t change the fact that he’s an idiot. Anyway, think of the scandal of me taking a Slytherin to the Yule Ball.” 

“Eh. I don’t care about all that.” Gwaine scratched at his beard. “So you won’t mind if I ask him then?” 

Arthur froze, the tea turning bitter on his tongue. He tried to think of something scathing to say, but panic was coursing through him and the words evaded him. 

“You know, I don’t… he’s probably… I mean, he’s… that’s a bad idea, don’t you think?” 

He looked up to find Gwaine smirking at him. 

“Yeah, just as I thought,” Gwaine said, grinning. Arthur felt his cheeks growing hot. Gwaine grabbed the coffee jug and poured himself a cup. “Really though, if you don’t do it soon, I will. So you better get your arse up there and ask him.”

Arthur curled his lip at Gwaine, but stood up in a huff. “Fine.” 

“Fine,” Gwaine said, cheerily. 

Arthur stormed over to the Slytherin table. Merlin, Morgana and their little group of Slytherin friends were having a lively discussion that was in full-swing.  Morgana was waving her arms about as she told a story, the rest enraptured and giving her their complete attention. Merlin grinned as he saw Arthur approaching, and Arthur’s stomach fluttered when he saw those dimples that he hated so much. 

“Arthur,” Morgana said, her story falling to the wayside, “to what do we owe this enormous pleasure?” 

“If that dragon had eaten me during the first task, you would have been in tears right now.” 

“Well it didn’t, and unfortunately we’re still stuck with you,” Morgana said, but she was grinning.  She grabbed him, pulling him down for a quick kiss on the cheek. 

Arthur made a face and wiped his cheek. 

“Don’t reject my sisterly affection,” Morgana said, affronted. 

“I’m actually here for Merlin,” Arthur said, before he could lose his nerve. 

Morgana quirked an eyebrow at him. Merlin looked at Arthur, eyes wide. Seeing how baffled he looked, Arthur felt another wave of apprehension wash over him. 

“We have potions now, don’t we?” Arthur said, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Oh yes,” Merlin said, “I’d almost forgotten.” 

“I’m surprised you remembered to wear shoes this morning.” 

Merlin made a face at Arthur, and Arthur felt his chest constrict. “Come on, you idiot, Arthur groused. “I don’t want to lose house points.” 

He waited as Merlin gathered up his books, and then the two of them walked through the corridors and down the stairs. Merlin chattered on about the breakfast and the tournament and Morgana’s story. Arthur struggled to listen, his nervous thoughts buzzing so loudly he could barely hear what Merlin was saying. What if Merlin was appalled at the idea of going with him? What if he thought it was a joke? 

“Merlin,” Arthur said, suddenly. Merlin stopped talking, surprised that Arthur was interrupting. “Uh… I was actually thinking… I mean… I thought that… maybe you…” 

Merlin was watching him expectantly, his expression earnest. He looked so adorable, it made Arthur’s stomach clench. 

He couldn’t do it. 

“Maybe you could stop talking so much. You’re making my ears bleed.” Arthur ducked his head and kept walking, silently cursing himself. 

“You love it,” Merlin said, unaffected. “When I don’t talk, it worries you.” 

“It does not.” 

“It does.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin.” 

They stopped outside the potions classroom. Arthur gestured to the doorway. Merlin started walking towards it, but then stopped and turned towards Arthur. 

“Oh,” he said, “before I forget... yes, I’ll go with you.” 

Arthur’s heart stuttered in his chest. “Huh?” 

“The Yule Ball,” Merlin said. “I’d love to go with you.” 

Arthur tried to speak, but words didn’t come out. His throat felt as dry as paper. “How did you…?” 

Merlin smiled, a soft, gentle smile that made warmth spill over Arthur’s skin. “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

Arthur swallowed thickly. “Was it that obvious?” 

Merlin grinned and shook his head, affection shining in his eyes. “Clotpole.” 

[motleymoose]

Woad to Ruin

Challenge: @mamaredd123 ‘s Mama’s 1K/Birthday Challenge

Prompt: King Arthur (2004), King Arthur soundtrack by Hans Zimmer

Characters: Reader, Donna Hanscum (Guinevere), Dean Winchester (Arthur), Sam Winchester (Gawain), Charlie Bradbury (Tristran), Bobby Singer (Merlin), Crowley (Cerdic) (did I miss anybody?)

Words: 2,400+

Warnings: ANGST, GORE & BLOOD & DEATH, language, slight taste of fluff

Summary: Y/N and Dean’s knights fight the Saxons.

A/N: This happened to be one of my favorite movies back when it came out. This is a recreation of the siege at Hadrian’s Wall. Feedback is always appreciated!

*gif not mine

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Thick, oily smoke rolled lazily over the wet greenness of the open field. A single line of warhorses with armored riders stood in front of waving banners as the great gates of Hadrian’s Wall were pulled open, allowing a swarm of Saxon invaders through.

Dean looked to Charlie, who shifted in her saddle and let loose an arrow from her longbow. It flew silently, cutting through the heavy air with ease. A breath later, they heard a muffled thwok and a grunt as the arrow met a target.

“Signal a volley from the woads,” Dean ordered.

Charlie held up a fist and whistled, and the sky turned dark with bolts. An uproar followed as the arrows hit their marks.

A humorless smile spread across Sam’s face as he shifted forward in the saddle. “Let’s go take care of the rest, shall we?”

……………….

Atop the hill, hidden among the trees with the rest of her clan, Y/N watched as the Roman knights charged into the dense smoke. Even with her keen eyesight, she was finding it difficult to locate Charlie in the black fog. She was so focused on finding the redheaded knight that she didn’t hear Donna approach.

“Do not worry, sister. You too will have your fill of Saxon blood.”

“I do not think there is enough of it to quench my thirst,” Y/N replied with a grim smirk. Invaders from the North had left her orphaned at a young age, and it was proving to be impossible to fight the berserker blood that flowed in her veins. The flames wanted to consume her, to unleash her fury upon the Northmen and avenge her family’s murders. Her hands were itching to cleave an axe through her enemies skulls, and her tongue yearned for the taste of Saxon blood. The berserker rage was pulling her deeper and deeper into its embrace, slowly eating away at the walls she had built to control it.

Donna lightly touched Y/N’s shoulder, giving her a worried glance before unsheathing her daggers. “The battle will soon be upon us.”

The small band of riders broke through the thinning smokescreen, the success of the first attack evident in their postures. Dean split from the group and rode to confer with Bobby while the others fell into formation, awaiting for the next stage of battle. Their horses were chomping their bits, tossing sod as they pawed violently at the earth. Blood and gore splattered their chests and sides, and their eyes were white with excitement. The knights themselves seemed calm and collected. There was a strange quietness hanging between them, though, and all of the joviality and exhilaration had dissipated.

In the distance, a marching cadence had started. All along the edge of the forest, the warriors nocked arrows and drew weapons. Y/N could feel the flames of her berserker rage expanding greedily within her chest as red edged her vision.

“Not long now,” Donna whispered.

.............................

Y/N lost one of her short battle axes when she joined the fray. The crush of bodies made it all but impossible to get a good swing, so she left it buried in a Northman’s chest in exchange for his short sword. Another fur-clad warrior was upon her in a heartbeat, and she had just yanked the sword free from his neck when she saw Donna collapse.

“Donna!” she shrieked, darting through the bedlam towards her sister, felling anyone who crossed her path. A red haze all but consumed her vision as she fought to get outside of the chaos, her axe and short sword a blur of sharp steel and death.

………………………..

The Saxon stood over Donna triumphantly as he raised his broadsword to deal a final blow. Donna dragged herself backwards, lips curled as she growled menacingly, her hands blindly searching for anything she could use to defend herself. Her fingertips grazed the head of a crossbow bolt, and she desperately palmed it as she pulled herself into a crouch.

The Norseman laughed and took a step closer. “Filthy woad scum! We will rid this la-oof!”

From out of nowhere, Y/N tackled the Saxon soldier, driving her shoulder solidly into the middle of his back. Almost at the exact same instant, Donna had flung herself at him, stabbing at his neck with the bolt while clawing at his eyes with her free hand.

Roaring curses at the two warriors, the man stumbled, landing heavily on his face with Y/N and Donna striking his head and neck.

“Y/N, that’s enough!” Donna shouted as she backed away from the dead Northman.

Y/N was beginning to froth at the mouth, her eyes wide with madness as the rage overtook her. Her vision completely washed in crimson, Y/N’s only instinct was to kill, to destroy the man that lay under her. She ignored the ache in her shoulders and chest as she repeatedly stabbed at the enemy with her dagger.

Kill them… kill them all….

“Enough!” With what little strength she could muster, Donna grabbed Y/N by the shoulders and hauled her off of the body. Y/N hissed, diving back towards the dead man. Enraged, Donna caught her by her hair, using the momentum to slam her to the ground.

Gasping, Y/N stared at her sister in shock. The anger began to ebb, and her eyes cleared somewhat. Trembling with exhaustion, she glanced to what was left of the Saxon and swallowed back bile. Very little of what was left of him was recognizable. Slowly, she picked herself up and sighed in relief. “Thank you, sister.”

“It’s what I do,” Donna coughed, leaning gratefully upon Y/N’s outstretched hand as she rose from her knees.

Handing her sister the short sword, she nodded as she quickly surveyed the battle. Not far from where they stood, she spotted Charlie and Sam back to back, fending off a dozen armed enemy soldiers. “Are you good?”

“I’ll survive.” Donna followed her gaze to the knights. “Go, they need you.”

Squeezing Donna’s hand in farewell, Y/N threw herself back into the chaos, her axe claiming as much blood as it could.

…………………………...

Y/N never made it to Charlie and Sam.

As soon as she re-entered the melee, she was set upon by two Saxons. One jabbed his pike at her gut while the other swung at her with a short sword. She was able dodge the sword and knock the pike aside, but not before the head of it grazed her hip, leaving a long, violent gash.

Y/N snarled and then laughed as the berserk rage came roaring to the surface, drowning out the pain.

Fueled by bloodlust, she spun, gripping the swordsman’s outstretched arm and tumbling him into his partner. She yanked the pike from the other Northman and took him out at the knees with the shaft before driving the head home into his stomach. Blood bubbled from this mouth as his hands automatically gripped the shaft of the pike. Y/N immediately whirled from him, blocking another attack from the swordsman as she pulled a hunting knife from her belt.

“Bitch!” he spat, lunging at her.

Y/N leapt aside at the last moment, sending him headfirst to the earth. Snarling, the Saxon sprung to his feet and froze, the large hunting knife burying itself into his chest. Gasping, he fell to his knees, mouth agape as Y/N approached. She took a fistful of his long hair, forcing his head back until he was staring up at the gray sky.

“Please,” he rasped, blood staining his teeth.

“My pleasure,” she sneered. Yanking the knife from his chest, she drew it swiftly across his throat. The Northman gave one last gurgle before falling backwards.

Laughing triumphantly, Y/N reclaimed her single short axe and the Saxon sword. Flourishing it to test the balance, she smiled menacingly at the Briton warrior standing in awe beside her, his own foe still writhing on the turf. “Come, brother. Let’s finish this.”

The clansman crouched low, his twin rapiers at the ready. Y/N followed suit, her back to his, as she beckoned to an enemy soldier bearing a mace.

“Want to play?”

……………………….

Four Northmen later, Y/N had lost sight of Charlie. She darted to and fro, helping out where she was needed. The Saxon numbers were dwindling, but they still had an army larger than Bobby’s own. For every woad they killed, two Northmen would join them. It was now a contest to see which side could survive the longest.

She was in the midst of a fight with Crowley, the leader of the Saxons, when an arrow came from out of nowhere, embedding itself in her leg. Another hissed after it, slicing her ear as it zipped by. Shrieking in pain and outrage, Y/N fell to one knee as she tried to keep her sword on guard and assess the damage.

Crowley cocked his head, watching Y/N with vulture-like intent. Y/N eyed him warily as she prodded the area around the leg wound, biting back cries when she found a tender spot.

“I am in no hurry to kill you,” Crowley drawled as he tapped the toe of his boot with the flat of his broadsword. “You’ve proven to be a fine warrior.”

Struggling to stand upright, Y/N faced the Saxon chief. Blood slowly oozed from around the arrow in her thigh, staining her leather trousers. She gripped her sword and gritted her teeth, ready to spring at the first sign of movement. “You’re awfully full of yourself.”

Crowley smiled benignly, his own broadsword now resting casually against his leg. “Did you really think your little band of tree-dwellers had much of chance against me?”

Spitting a gob of blood, Y/N returned the smirk. “Did you really think you could take our homes so easily?”

Furrowing his brows, the Saxon leader took a step forward, gesturing lazily with his sword. “This land, it is nothing to us. We just enjoy killing everything in our path.”

Y/N quivered angrily. Eyes locked on Crowley, she bellowed in fury, wildly swinging at him with her sword. He easily dodged her attack, smacking the blade from her grasp as his elbow slammed into her face. Falling to one knee, Y/N could feel doubt and fear at the edges of her berserker rage as the weariness and the pain hit her. She wiped at her bloodied face with a hand, eyes searching hopelessly for a weapon.

Taking a few ambling steps to her left, Crowley picked up her lost sword, appraising it. With a shrug, he tossed it in front of her and waited.

Befuddled for a moment, Y/N quirked an eyebrow at Crowley. She didn’t trust him any farther than she could throw him, but something about the way he was patiently awaiting for her to decide her fate seemed true. Gritting her teeth, Y/N broke off the arrow’s shaft as close to the skin as she could. Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she slowly reached forward, snagging the hilt of the sword with her fingertips. She bit back a scream as she pulled it to her and used it to lever herself to her feet.

“Let’s finish this,” she growled. Her arms trembled as she raised the sword. Willing herself to move, Y/N stumbled sideways as she tested her legs. The arrowhead still deep within her thigh shifted slightly, causing searing pain to explode behind her eyes. A dark corona was overtaking her vision as she fought to stay upright and conscious.

Smirking mirthlessly, Crowley circled with her, keeping in step and watching her like a hawk. He noted the way she was swaying and how her blade dipped every time she took a step. There was little pleasure for him to kill someone who couldn’t fight back, but he could see there was still a spark of life in her.

Y/N cringed once more as she placed her foot wrong, jarring the arrowhead. She needed to act quickly, or Crowley would surely claim the upper hand. Inhaling deeply, Y/N steeled herself for the final assault.

Roaring her clan’s battle cry, Y/N launched herself at Crowley, the sword cleaving downward in a desperate attempt to disarm him.

Mildly shocked at her ferocity, Crowley swung his blade up to meet hers. Shoving forward, he forced her sword down, locking them together. He elbowed her hard in the sternum. Y/N grunted, dropping her sword as she staggered back. She was worn to her bones, and it was a miracle she was still was on her feet.

It would be so easy to give up, to let the bastard end it….

Suddenly, the berserker fury flared, giving Y/N renewed energy. Bellowing thunderously, she plowed into him and sent him sprawling on the muddy earth. As Crowley floundered, Y/N picked up his broadsword, weighing it expertly in her hands.

“Such a fine blade, maybe I should keep it” she mused.

Crowley mutely watched her as she limped closer, her eyes burning with an otherworldly flame.

Resting the point of it on his heart, she cocked her head. “Oh, but I’m sure you want it back.”

…………….

Most of the smoke had cleared by the time the battle ended. Two of the Roman knights had fallen during the siege, and their remaining brothers had prepared their bodies for burial. Charlie was among them, saying her last respects to the knights she considered family.

Y/N watched the small procession as she sat underneath a towering elm, a jug of mulled wine resting against her uninjured leg. She quietly waited for the ceremony to end, taking a pull every now and then from the jug. There was a muffled crunch behind her, and Donna emerged from the forest, a warm smile tugging at her lips.

“Sister, I hoped I would find you up here.”

“I thought I would bid my farewells before rejoining Father. I hear most of the knights are returning to their homelands in a fortnight?” Y/N lifted the jug to her lips again, letting the warm liquid flow over her tongue.

Arching an eyebrow, Donna nudged her sister’s shoulder. “I know you aren’t here just for that.” She winked mischievously. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you and Charlie pine for one another.”

Shaking her head, Y/N laughed in disbelief. “Charlie? No, she can’t be.”

“I’ve heard talk between Dean and Sam. She definitely is interested.”

Y/N blushed, trying to fight back a grin. Peering at the small group surrounding the graves, she caught a glimpse of Charlie’s red hair shining brightly in the high sun. A warm, fluttery feeling spread through her belly and chest, and she sighed. “Maybe… maybe I’ll stay for a little while longer.”