#folded knife and broken sword

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru x darling

TW: NSFW, noncon, fantasy au

gn reader

Thinking about hunter Gojo and the pretty little nymph that gets themselves snared in one of his traps.

You can’t get your poor leg loose, having twisted your ankle in your fall to the ground – something’s wrong with your wing too, you can feel it – the thin network’s been folded, almost broken – so even if you did manage getting loose, you wouldn’t be able to fly away.

Branches snap around you along the crunch of old leaves – and your heart’s beating out of your chest in fear of it – knowing something large and dangerous is not far behind, that whoever set the trap is not something that wishes you well.

“You’re not a rabbit.” The man says, having crept in close before you’d even heard him approach – crouching in front of you with a hunter's grace. Hawk-eyes ice-blue and piercing, hair as white as pure snow.

He’s got three daggers sleaved in his belt – a fillet knife, a gutting knife, and a larger one you imagine is meant to slice throats. He doesn’t carry a sword like most men but has a bow and sack of arrows slung on his back. Otherwise, dressed lightly – brown leather boots, brown slacks, and a blue cotton shirt. You could have mistaken him for a woodland elf if it weren’t for the thick stench of man.

“Eating creatures from the holy forest is forbidden.” You snip, despite your wide eyes and the wobble of fear evident on your lip.

He only smiles at the quip, a grin like a predator humored by prey. “You wouldn’t tell a wolf not to hunt.”

He stalks you, leaning in closer, and you try shuffling away – but the movement only makes you wince.

“I’m just another hungry animal…”

Rope gnaws into your fine skin while his breath puffs hot and dewy on your face.

“And tonight… seems lady luck has favored me once again.”

He gags you and ties you further up before redoing his snare for the next unlucky creature – then carries you over his shoulder until he’s dropping you down on a bed of furs.

Your skin flushes with goosebumps at the thought of being skinned the same way – mouthing a little prayer around the cloth he’s split your teeth and lips with. He’s cut trees down as well; you hear their pitiful screams when he lights a fire with their bodies. You mourn them, too.

At his full height, the man must be two heads taller than any male nymph you’ve ever seen and at least three heads taller than you. You hope you’re enough to satisfy him tonight, to spare the forest of further bloodshed.

You shiver and sniffle when he starts prepping you – removing your clothes and groping your tender, fleshy places with a strength you’re not used to – hands large and crass – kneading you like dough – probably to assess the quality of your meat. He has a smile on his face while at it. 

Humans make you sick – to think he’s planning on roasting then eating you despite the soul fueling your spirit and the beating heart in your chest. But you’ve long known that all death but their own matters little to them – they don’t feel the same way nymphs do – they don’t regard life with the same respect they’ve donned themselves. It must be a sad and lonely existence, you think. It even makes you feel a little sorry for him.

You yelp when his gritty fingers brush the area between your legs – shimmying when he lowers his mouth down to the same place. Oh God – does he plan on eating you raw? While your body’s still hot and pumping blood?

But the bite never comes – not yet eating but tasting it would seem – licking and slurping and sucking on you.

He takes his shirt off. Probably to avoid spilling on it, you think.

You don’t really understand what’s going on until he’s got his fat manhood pointed toward your kernel-sized hole. Eyes wide as he splits you apart slowly and unabashedly – as though it isn't as deviant as a dog mating a cat – sinking in inch after meaty inch.

You whimper at the stretch – wincing when the plush mushroom-shaped head grinds against that special place inside you. 

It doesn’t fit more than halfway, but that doesn’t seem to bother him – rolling his head back with a rusty groan, even with just the tip gaining purchase within you – pounding into you like a beast in his rut.

“What's the matter, pretty nymph? Did you think I was gonna eat you?” He laughs, bearing over you – his hands steadying your hips to meet his sharp thrust – each hit deeper than the last. “I’m the only hunter in this forest; I can eat what I want when I want – but eating you?” He scoffed and snickered. “That would just be a waste.”

The blood on his breath makes you wrinkle your nose – squeezing your eyes shut as his tongue sweeps up the tear streaks on your cheek.

“My stomach’s already full. Time to empty my balls.”

[bitchimasnake-sss]

"banter, baby!!" ft. the monster trio!

you know sometimes sexual tension turns into petty fights

ft. luffy, zoro, sanji x fem!reader

set-up: you knows and he knows and everyone on the fucking crew knows what is up between you two but instead of fucking it out (as you should), you both decide that it's banter time!

warnings: petty insults, pettier them, pettiest you

luffy:

- was luffy easygoing? yes. was he friends with almost everyone? yes. but was he also a dumbass who started to fight if he felt like it? also yes. - you're not sure how it started to be very honest, maybe you told him off and asked him to leave some food behind for the rest of the crew - that explained how the captain of the ship: strawhat luffy of the strawhat pirates, a man with an immense amount of bounty atop his head sat pouting in front of you with his arms crosses - that also explained why you also sat with your arm crossed, staring him dead in the eye - "luffy." you hiss, "stop being a baby and apologize." he looks appalled, "you stop being a baby and apologize." "you alMOST ATE ENOUGH FOOD FOR LIKE 8 PEOPLE FOR FUCKS SAKE?!" he looks solemn as he whispers, "a growing child has his needs" - what????? - you fold your arms tighter against yourself, causing your cleavage to be more prominent to his keen eyes, "you know somebody who looks at you wouldn't ever realize you're ace's brother." he pouts more, voice whiny now, "what does that mean?" "i mean he's so thoughtful and charming and a sensible human being and look at you, sharp as a butter knife!!" "YOU TAKE THAT BACK. I LIKE BUTTER!" - WHAT???? - "you're impossible." "uh-huh, uh-huh and i'm about to become more impossible now." "wha-" - dragged you to his room and showed you how impossible he can be

zoro:

- yeah, roronoa zoro was your sparring partner. yeah, one can say that you were a little bit mesmerized everytime his muscles rippled against his tight t-shirt. yeah, maybe you were drooling just a little - that shouldn't distract everyone from the fact that he was a smug, cocky asshole when sparring (its like you've been training since the age of eleven, stfu zoro) - "tch, yn. you can do better than that you know?" you hold back obscenities, narrowing your eyes, "shut up, how about that?" - he's sheathing the swords, standing against the deck with his arms crossed over his broad chest. he doesn't seem to have broken a sweat. a light hand runs through his cropped hair and he gives you a lazy smile, "you're quite weak, you know?" - he laughs a bit at your fuming state, finding some amusement in the way your cheeks burned an you held onto the dagger more tightly "you're pissing me off." your experienced hands throw the dagger at him, aiming for his head "am i?" his smile broadens as he catches the blade in his hands. he twists the blade on his palm, eying you leisurely, "maybe you should redirect all that anger into trying to land a blow on me, how about that?" - "you know, zoro." you plaster on a fake smile, "i have often heard a rumor about you" "what kind of rumor?" "ahh, just that you have a fourth sword." your smile drops, "just didn't know that sword was stuck up your ass." - his face fell for a second and then a smug smile crept across his face. his calloused hands found your wrist, leading you upto his room "how about we fact-check your rumor?" - uh lets say he does have a fourth sword. thats all.

sanji:

- honest to god, you had come here to help him prepare food. was he supposed to just be your cooking partner? yes. but were your eyes running over his flexing forearms as he hiked his shirt sleeves and cut something up? also yes. was it getting too hot here and you knew it wasn't even because of the food? also yes. - you were stirring the pot as sanji hovered behind you, his hand reached into the cabinet above you and momentarily, you were stuck between the stove and his body - and it's making you feel things - "sanji" you spoke abruptly, "get away from me, please." "huh?" he backed away, an apology ready on the tip of his tongue - maybe the blush on your cheek was evident because his expression changed from apologetic to smug. - he inched in closer, "oh, im sorry, my love" "stop it, stop getting so close to me" "oh, why? something wrong?" he drawled out "no, you just smell like fish right now. that's why, move it." - now why would you say that - he just chuckles, "you know, i am a cook, so i would smell like food. why? wanna devour me?" "no." you mumble nervously, "if anything, i am allergic to fish." - why would you say that again??? - "trust me, darling, you should give it a shot. maybe you'd like the taste?" he winked at the last statement - that night, you did give it a shot - maybe the cook is as delicious as the food he makes

a/n: listen to me, i just know sanji's banter will be straight-up flirting, i dont make the rules. hope you enjoyed lmao

[beeftony]

Blue Eye Samurai does something clever with a trope that usually annoys me in samurai fiction, and even quotes it word for word: "The sword is the soul of the samurai."

For the majority of the season, Mizu's sword comes to symbolize that special "something" that gives her an edge over everyone she meets and enables her to perservere, crafted as it was from the meteor that fell from the heavens in a near literal act of divine intervention that saved her as a child. But when she finally meets the target of her vengeance, exhausted from fighting through 9 levels of his castle, the sword is struck by a bullet and snaps in two.

In the following episode, Master Eiji points out that the steel was too pure; too brittle, and that's why it broke. He won't help Mizu keep going down the path of self destruction, and so he has no steel for her. But it's Taigen of all people who gets through to her, saying that all that junk about the sword being the soul of the samurai is just what they tell first year students, and that "the weapon doesn't matter," because Mizu's skill and determination is what gives her power, not the sword.

After failing to reforge the sword in the time between these conversations, Mizu tries again with a little encouragement from Master Eiji, and this time she adds new steel of her own: the broken blade that she made as a child, which found its way into the hands of a merciless assassin, then into the hands of Taigen, a man who swore he would kill her, but whom she saved all the same. The small knife that Akemi attacked her with at first, but later used to save her life. The bell that symbolized Ringo's service to her, that he returned after she crossed a line and he became disgusted with her choices. And finally the tongs that Master Eiji repeatedly bonked her on the head with to correct her mistakes and guide her on the path of self-improvement.

The steel she adds to the fire all comes from the friends she's made along the way, in spite of herself. She folds their words, their lessons, their beliefs into her sword, and in doing so begins to heal and strengthen her own soul.

[sailor-aviator]

Fool's Fare: Chapter Six

Fool's Fare: Chapter Six

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: Captain Jake "Hangman" Seresin had come close to swinging from the gallows more times than he would care to admit. He's stolen, cheated, even killed. The worst thing he's ever done? Broken the heart of a woman. Having broken the heart of the woman whom Davy Jones himself had fallen for six years ago, Jake is now cursed to live as something not dead, but not alive. He's doomed to live a half-life for the rest of his existence unless he manages to obtain the treasure Davy Jones deems most valuable. The problem? He has no idea what it is, and he only had seven years to obtain it.

Trigger Warning: Brief mentions of loss of loved ones, Guppy has a meltdown (justified), Talks of Curse, Talks of the supernatural, Sword Fighting, Flirting, Someone gets stabbed (like run through with a sword), Descriptions of blood, Mentions of alcohol, Swearing, Assault but not really (you'll see), Smut (knife play, dry humping, groping, dirty talk, both get off), angst, a smidge of fluff. I think that's it, but let me know if I missed anything!

Word Count: 5.8k

Series Masterlist || Moodboards || Playlist || Jake "Hangman" Seresin Tag List

It was strange how time changed everything and yet nothing all at once. Time changed the seasons and the tides, caring not for whom it affected. It changed the day to night and back again, it changed youth into age. Yes, time changed. It changed and it took.

It took stone and weathered it away. It took the air that the flame of your candle needed to breathe. It took your happy life and turned it into nothing but distant memories, and it took lives, leaving nothing but others to mourn.

Time had taken your father and then your mother, and now you had to dread the day it would take Bradley away from you too. Time was greedy, and it would take and take and take until you stopped it. Time was your greatest enemy.

“Look alive, Guppy.”

You turned to see Jake strutting across the deck, barely catching the movement of his arm as he threw something to your feet. The bundle landed with a dull clang and you glanced down from your spot at the side of the ship where you had been watching the water race past as it sailed in the open waters.

It had been two days since Jake had revealed the curse to you, and you were still coming to terms with what you now knew.

“You have less than a year to break the curse?” You had breathed, eyes growing wider at the blond’s words as they hung in the air between the two of you.

“I can’t break the curse,” Jake responded, leaning against a stack of crates. “I have less than a year to find the treasure.”

“What’s the difference?” You huffed, shooting him a glare. He rolled his eyes, scoffing as he folded his arms over his broad chest.

“The difference,” he all but spat, “is that even if I have the treasure in my hand, the curse won’t lift until Davy Jones gives his seal of approval.”

“But how are you supposed to know that you have it? What happens if you don’t have it?”

“I imagine that’s part of the punishment, Guppy,” he sighed. “I’m left to sail the ocean for seven years looking for a treasure that could quite literally be anything, and I won’t know if I’ve succeeded until the end of those seven years when I meet him back on that beach.”

“And your crew?” You asked, crossing your own arms as you stared at him, fear clutching at your stomach and forming a pit as you thought of your brother. “How does this curse affect them?”

“That depends,” Jake answered, eyes darting to yours for a brief moment before looking away.

“On what?” You pressed, irritation clawing to the surface at his dodginess.

“On how loyal they are to me.”

“What?” You balked, head jerking back at his words.

“The more loyal a man is to me,” he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face as he continued to pointedly look away from you, “the more the curse affects them. From the moment a man signs his name over in service to me, the curse will affect him until his time of service is up or until the curse is lifted.”

“But Bradley signed up with less than a year left,” you pointed out, words met with a heavy silence. You stared at the captain in front of you, his face giving nothing away as he stared out over the sea. The realization hit you all at once.

“You knew,” you breathed, a sinking feeling coming to rest in the pit of your stomach. “You knew that he would have to see it through to the end. He would either be free once the curse is lifted or he’d be doomed to sail with you for eternity.”

His eyes met yours then, mossy green swirling with a mixture of emotions that you couldn’t even begin to try and place. No, you were too angry. Angry at the man in front of you for tricking your brother into the possibility of eternal servitude. Angry at your brother for his casual recklessness by signing up for a crew he knew nothing about. Angry at how little time you had to fix all of it.

“You looked at me in that pub, knew how desperate I was for him to not go, and still you let him sign away his life to you,” you seethed, hot, angry tears gathering in your eyes. Jake had the decency to look ashamed by your words, but still you continued. “He’s all I have left, did you even stop to consider that? If something happens to him-”

A sob ripped its way through you, the harsh, ugly sound of your anguish jarring to your ears. Jake’s eyes widened as he watched you, and had you not been feeling like your world was crashing down around you, you might have laughed at the uneasy expression on his handsome features. Sucking in a breath in an attempt to calm yourself, you clutched at your skirt, fingers tensed so hard you feared they might freeze that way.

“If something happens to him,” you croaked, your breaths coming out in shuddering waves as you once again locked eyes with the blond in front of you, malice pouring from you with such vitriol, you saw him physically recoil away from you, “I will have nothing. Do you hear me? I will be all alone in this world, Jake Seresin. Nothing to my name and no one to call home. I will be forced to find some way to provide for myself, knowing that there was nothing I could do to save the only family I had left in this world.”

You took a step away from him, scrubbing furiously at your eyes and cheeks, desperately trying to pull yourself together.

“Guppy.”

Your eyes snapped open, head whipping towards the stairs leading to the galley. Bradley stood at the top step, a pained expression on his face as he watched you. Watched as you came to the realization that your lifeline, him, was slowly disappearing with nothing you could do to stop it. No, that wasn’t true. You just had to find the treasure that Davy Jones deemed worthy, and then this whole nightmare would be over. Jake already had his hands on the Soul of Polaris, which was as good a thing to place your trust in as any.

Sucking in a breath, you shot one last glare to Jake, noticing how he had schooled his features to show no hint of emotion.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Captain?” You snapped, hands clenched back at your sides, venom dripping from every word. He studied you for a second more before shaking his head slowly.

“No,” he murmured, voice thicker than before. “You’re dismissed.”

Without another word, and without sparing another glance at Bradley, you stalked off towards the cabin, feeling both sets of eyes on you as you slammed the door shut behind you.

And now here you were two days later, having not talked to much of anyone save for a few clipped responses. You eyed the bundle distastefully, glancing up to see Jake shrugging off his coat, leaving him in his simple, white shirt and trousers. The top few buttons were undone on his shirt, exposing the broad expanse of his chest to the midday sun, and you tried to ignore the way you could see the hairs of his chest peeking out from behind the fabric. You would certainly never admit to how your mouth watered at the sight.

“What?” You snapped, crossing your arms as you glared at the captain. He smirked at you, green eyes twinkling as he dropped down to peel the sleeve back from the bundle. His hands wrapped around the silver hilt of a sword, the metal gleaming in the sun as he lifted it, weighing it in his hands before handing it over, the hilt side towards you.

A breeze rushed through, rippling the fabric of his shirt and revealing more skin in the process, and you could feel your cheeks heat up at the sight of more of his golden skin on display.

You were snapped out of your trance by the sound of chuckling, glaring up at the blond as he grinned lasciviously at you.

“See something you like?” He asked, a knowing gleam in his eyes as you huffed.

“Something I’d like to run through with this rapier, maybe,” you scowled, grabbing the hilt perhaps a little too forcefully.

Jake chuckled, stepping back and allowing some distance between the two of you. You stared at the sword in your hand dumbly, wondering just what exactly he wanted you to do with it. Your question was soon answered when he settled into a fighting stance, feet planted firmly on the deck while his right hand stretched out, sword pointed at you.

“What are you doing?” You asked dryly, a frown tugging at the corner of your lips as you looked at the sword in your grasp before glancing back up at him. His smirk remained steadfast as he relaxed back into a normal stance, gesturing at you with quick flicks of the metal in his hand.

“A little birdy told me that you never learned how to use a sword,” he explained, scowling slightly as he repeated the information. “That’s unacceptable from members of my crew.”

“A little birdy told you?” You repeated with a hum, eyes glancing over towards the area of the ship where you last saw Bradley. He was pointedly looking away from you, inspecting the ropes on the side of the ship, his only giveaway being the red at the tips of his ears. Looking back at Jake, you arched a brow.

“Yes, a little birdy,” he affirmed, a face of faux seriousness now stretched across his features. “It amazes me that your father never thought it wise to teach you this skill.”

“Yes, well,” you sneered, “he didn’t think it prudent that I know a great many things, as it would turn out.”

“A shame,” Jake hummed, nodding solemnly. “It’s a good thing that I’m here to rectify the situation. Imagine if word got out that the daughter of the legendary pirate captain Maverick Mitchell couldn’t even use a sword properly.”

“Legendary, huh?” You snorted, rolling your eyes with a wry smile. “Somehow I doubt that.”

Movement around you seemed to stop as the words left your lips, and you glanced around to see several members of the crew giving you odd looks. Your eyes trained back on the blond in front of you as he arched an eyebrow at you.

“You really have no idea, do you?” He hummed, chuckling at your blank expression. He took the few steps across the deck and back towards you, so close that you could feel the heat radiating off of him. “Your father is one of the most well known pirates to have ever lived. Some who fear him and others who revere him.”

“And where do you stand?” You asked him, cursing how small your voice sounded as you gazed up at him.

“Well,” he smirked, “I wasn’t on the seas long enough to fear him, so I suppose you can count me as one of his admirers.”

“Tell me about him?” You asked before you could remember the fact that you were supposed to be angry with the man in front of you. His smirk turned devilish as he looked you over from top to bottom, teeth catching his bottom lip before humming and backing up once more.

“Practice first,” he declared, shifting back into his fighting stance, arm once again outstretched towards you. “Now copy my stance.”

You eyed him, slowly moving to copy him, hoping that you were doing it right. Jake’s lips pursed as he studied you, the disapproval dashing any hopes that you had managed to copy him correctly. He let out a sigh, dropping out of the stance to walk over towards you. He circled you, stopping at your back, and you waited with bated breath. His hands slowly slid to hold your hips, causing you to nearly jump out of your skin at the unexpected contact.

“Easy, Guppy,” he chuckled, the low sound sending a shiver up your spine and heat to your cheeks.

Slowly, Jake repositioned you, and irritatingly you noticed the difference in balance as he did so.

“You want to angle your hips like this,” he murmured into your ear, his breath fanning in warm waves across your cheek. “Feel the difference?”

Not trusting yourself to speak, you gave a jerky nod, pointedly refusing to turn and meet his eyes.

“Good girl,” he hummed, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. You felt him smirk against you as you let out a gasp. His fingertips lingered on your hips for a moment before he moved to reposition your arm. Once he was satisfied, he took his spot in front of you once more.

“How’s about a deal, Guppy?” He asked, brow arching once more as he watched you. “For every hit you land on me, I’ll tell you something about your father.”

“What about when you land a hit on me?” You questioned, frowning lightly. His smirk grew as he readied himself.

“For every hit I land on you,” he drawled, lifting his sword, “I get a minute of your company.”

“That’s ridicul-”

Before you could finish, he lunged, catching you off guard and managing to land a tap at your shoulder. You blustered, staring at him with mouth agape as he smiled at you smugly.

“That doesn’t count!” You cried, glaring at him. “I wasn’t ready.”

“Rule number one of pirateering, Guppy,” he grinned, “always be prepared for the unexpected. That’s one minute of your time for me.”

You scowled at him, lunging forward with your sword, a strike he easily blocked. The clashing of metal rang out across the deck and the crew gathered to watch with growing interest.

“You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that if you want to land a blow,” he mocked, lunging forward once more. You attempted to dodge, veering right clumsily. You let out an indignant squawk as he hit your ass with the broad side of his blade, shooting him a murderous look as he laughed at you.

“That’s two minutes.”

The two of you carried on for about half an hour before you finally asked for a break. Your chest heaved with exertion, limbs and lungs burning for oxygen as you hunched over against your knees. There had been a couple of times where you could have landed a blow, but it had been too risky. The chances you had would have led to serious injury, and you weren’t keen on seriously injuring or maiming your captain just yet. Jake seemed to know what you were doing, as each time you didn’t take the shot, the smile from his face grew smaller and smaller until he was openly glaring at you.

“Again,” he commanded, whipping his blade to his side with a loud thwip as it cut through the air. “And this time act like you want to land a blow.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” You snapped, straightening up a little in indignation.

“There were twelve times where you could have landed a blow on me,” he scowled, “and you didn’t. Quit wasting opportunities to strike at me.”

“Apologies, Captain, if I’m not in the mood to take another plunge overboard for maiming you,” you sneered. Jake barked a humorless laugh, a wry smiling curling on his lips.

“Is that what this is about?” He asked, a dangerous glint in his eye. “You think you’re going to hurt me?”

You said nothing, watching him wearily as he took slow, measured steps towards you. You straightened up as he drew near, raising your sword, uncertain if he was going to strike. He paused, glancing down for a brief second before back up at you, something akin to pride sparked in his eyes before flashing back to the ire he now directed at you.

“At least you learned something,” he snickered, drawing closer, and in your uncertainty, you raised your sword higher, trying to put some distance between the two of you. His lips curled dangerously, causing your heart to race for a completely different reason now. He took another step towards you, and you pressed the tip of your sword into his stomach, cursing the small tremor in your hands.

Pausing, Jake once again glanced down at the blade before locking eyes with you. He took another step, the sharp blade piercing his skin and allowing rivulets of scarlet red to run down his golden skin in sharp contrast. You inhaled sharply as he took another step, further impaling himself on the blade. Jake let out a quiet grunt as he took yet another step, eyes never straying from yours as he did so. Finally, he stopped, and you stared with horrified fascination as the stream of blood soaked his shirt and trousers, some dripping onto the wood below him.

“Neither alive, nor dead,” he murmured, something else mixing with the anger now. “I can feel pain, but no harm will come to me while this curse ensnares my soul, Guppy.”

He reached out a hand to brush your face, and it was then that you realized that you were crying. Fingers danced across the apple of your cheek, trailing down to tilt your head back. His thumb rested on the pillow of your bottom lip, stroking slightly.

“You can’t hurt me, Guppy,” he continued, a look of solemnity now on his face as he studied you. “But things can still hurt you, and I’ll be damned if I let you continue on not being able to defend yourself.”

He stepped back, taking the sword with him as it fell from your grasp. With a hiss, he pulled it from his gut, wiping the blade down on his already ruined trousers. He glanced around at the crew, features shifting to one of annoyance before settling on cold.

“Get back to work,” he snapped, and with that the crew scurried to occupy themselves. Jake didn’t spare you another glance before stalking off towards the cabins, the door slamming shut behind him. It was the loud sound that set you in motion, whirling around to once again take purchase by the railing of the ship. You scrubbed furiously at your eyes, making a point to ignore the crew members who walked past you, shooting you sympathetic looks as they prepared to dock for the night. You settled on the railing, curling in on yourself as a figure saddled up next to you, facing the sea as the ship raced toward the shore.

“Guppy,” Bradley sighed, glancing over at you with worry clear on his face.

“What?” You mumbled miserably, refusing to meet his eyes. The two of you stayed in silence for a moment. You, wishing that you could disappear, and Bradley, waiting for you to acknowledge what happened.

“You can’t stay mad at him,” he said finally, looking back out at the water. You shot him a glare at that.

“The hell I can’t.”

“You can’t,” he said matter-of-factly. “Because he’s not the one you’re really mad at.”

“Of course I’m mad at him,” you protested, eyes shifting back to the sea. “None of this would be happening if it wasn’t for him!”

He looked back at you then, a condescending look on his face.

“Guppy,” he chided. You glanced back at him, frowning at the knowing smile on his face. “You and I both know you’re lying.”

You glared at him, pressing your face into your arms where they rested atop your knees.

“Fine,” he sighed, grasping the railing and leaning back, head tilted toward the sky. “You can pretend that he’s the one to blame, but you and I both know that the one you’re really mad at is me.”

“What?” You frowned, sitting up to look at him.

“You’re mad at me for choosing to leave,” he continued, shrugging as if it didn’t bother him. “You feel like you can’t blame me though because you think it’ll push me away and you can’t stand the thought of losing me. So instead, you focus all the anger you have for me on the next best thing, but I’m telling you, he’s not the one to blame here.”

“You want me to be mad at you?” You asked, brow furrowing in confusion. He gave a one sided shrug, peering at you past his nose.

“I want you to be honest with me about how you’re feeling,” he replied. “I want you to be mad at me if that’s what you’re feeling. It was my choice to sign up for the crew. It was my choice to leave. I made choices, Guppy, and you can’t be mad at other people for it.”

You chewed over his words silently, feeling some of the tension slip from your shoulders. Bradley gave you a soft smile, knocking his shoulder against yours.

“Anyway, he’s right,” he added, looking at you seriously. “You need to be able to protect yourself, and that’s why I picked up this at the last port.”

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small dagger, the hilt a simple brown and the metal shining in the afternoon sun. You took it from him, eyes widening with intrigue as you inspected the gift.

“Come on, kid,” he chuckled, stepping back away from the railing and gesturing for you to follow. “We’ve got work to do.”

The pub was crowded as you sat wedged in between Bradley and Mickey, several different groups singing their own shanties off key. The room smelled of stale beer and old piss, and you inspected the mug in front of you with weary eyes. Wrinkling your nose, you pushed the glass back, eyeing the room around you. Your pub back home would never be this dirty.

“Having fun yet?” Mickey called over the roar of the crowd. You rolled your eyes, giving him a half-hearted scowl as you gestured to the people around you.

“You call this having fun?” You asked him, causing his head to tip back in laughter as his dark curls bounced around his face.

“You get used to finding amusement after years of not being able to get drunk,” he explained, shrugging good-naturedly. “Besides, best to make the most of a rotten situation, right? We all have to be here to show strength as we get new recruits.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?” You frowned. “Knowing that those men have no idea what they’re signing up for?”

“Does anyone really know what they’re signing up for?” He countered. “I mean, really, truly know. Sure you have an idea, but anything can happen when you’re out at sea.”

“I suppose that’s true,” you sighed, absentmindedly rubbing at your shoulder, the muscles still sore from your impromptu sword fighting lesson from that morning. Mickey watched you for a moment, concern shining in his eyes.

“You look like you could use some rest,” he murmured, moving to stand and catching Bradley’s attention in the process. “Why don’t I take you back to the ship?”

“You’re leaving?” Bradley asked, studying you for any signs that something might be wrong. “I’ll come with you.”

“No, no,” you said, waving them off. “You two should stay. Wouldn’t want the captain getting angry that I stole two of his men away.”

“Guppy,” Bradley started, a scowl dancing across his face. You put a hand up to stop him.

“I mean it, I’ll be fine. Besides,” you chirped, pulling out the dagger that Bradley had handed you earlier that day, “I have this. If anyone tries to mess with me, I’ll just stick this where the sun doesn’t shine.”

Bradley eyes you wearily, looking like he was going to argue, but stopped when something caught his eye. He pressed his lips together before slowly nodding.

“Yeah,” he grumbled. “Yeah, okay. Just be careful, alright?”

You gave him one last smile before pushing your way through the crowd and out into the streets.

It wasn’t surprising how quiet all seemed around you given how late it was. The only sounds to be heard coming from the pub and the neighboring brothel. You began your trek back towards the docks, relishing in the cool, night air that blew around you. Humming a tune to yourself, it was a few minutes before you noticed the sound of footsteps behind you. You slowly and carefully reached for the blade at your side, wrapping your fingers around the hilt just as fingers wrapped around your upper arm, twisting you around. You sucked in a breath of air as you moved to stab your assailant in the groin, wincing as they gripped the wrist that held the dagger, pushing you up against the nearest building. You let out a grunt as your back hit the wall, closing your eyes at the sharp pain running up your back.

“Just because you can’t kill me, doesn’t mean that it won’t hurt, sweet girl.”

Your eyes snapped open to lock onto mossy green. Jake stared down at you, an amused smirk on his face as he watched you catch up to what was happening.

“You,” you breathed, brow pinching in confusion.

“Followed you out of the pub to make sure you didn’t get into any trouble, but it took me a minute to catch up with you,” he explained, sounding bored. His hands wrapped around the hilt of the dagger, taking it out of your hand and holding it up to the lamplight. “This is cute, is this new?”

You were suddenly keenly aware of the position you found yourself in. Back pressed against the wall, Jake’s hips pinning you there as he held both of your wrists in one hand, the other still examining the blade.

“Just got it today, Captain,” you huffed, scowling up at the man in question. The corner of his lips twitched as he turned his attention back to you.

“You should be careful about how you throw that word around, pretty girl,” he smirked, twirling the knife before pressing the flat of it to the tip of your nose in a quick tap. “You’d be surprised at the kind of effect it has on a man.”

You gasped as he pressed closer, the hard planes of him settling against you as his breath washed over you. Gazing up at him, you jutted your chin out in a challenge.

“How’s that, Captain?” You pressed. Jake’s smirk grew as he dragged the knife from the tip of your nose, down across your lips and chin, over the swell of your breasts, and stopping at the string that held your shirt together. He dipped the dagger under the string, pulling quickly so that the fabric cut in one, swift motion.

“Hey!” You cried indignantly, glaring at him as he did the same to the next three strands.

“I had to ruin a perfectly good shirt today in order to teach you a lesson,” he drawled, eyeing you with a purse of his lips. “Seems only fair that I get to return the favor.”

“I think this is hardly an equal punishment,” you gritted, squirming against him as a flush of heat rose to your cheeks. Your shirt did little to cover you from any eyes that might see you in that moment, but that was a thought that twitted at the back of your mind. No, you were too focused on the way Jake’s own eyes roamed over you, hunger growing with every swipe over your exposed skin.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he murmured, eyes locking back onto yours. He leaned forward, his lips grazing yours, smirking as he pulled back slightly only for you to chase him. “But, I do have thirty minutes of your company to claim.”

His lips were on yours before you could respond, molding against yours as you moaned at his touch. His free hand dragged up your side before groping your breast through the scraps of your newly destroyed shirt. Squeezing, his tongue dove into your mouth as you gasped into him, practically devouring you whole. You arched into his touch, using your now free hands to run through his surprisingly soft, blond locks and dragging him closer to you. You were barely aware of him tucking the dagger into the band of his pants as he grabbed the back of your thighs, hoisting your legs up and around his waist.

His lips left yours then, hot open-mouthed kisses placed furiously across your jaw and down your neck. You tilted your head to the side, giving him more access that he freely used to nip and suck at the skin you offered him.

“So soft,” he breathed, nuzzling your shoulder as his right hand came up to squeeze your breast once again. “Never felt anyone so soft.”

You let out a loud cry as he gave a rather harsh bite to your shoulder, your hands tugging on the strands of his hair in a manner you were sure had to be painful.

“Make the prettiest, little noises, pretty girl,” he hummed, looking up at you long enough to see the devilish smirk that worked its way onto his handsome face. “Don’t even have you around my cock yet, and you already look this fucked out.”

“Jake,” you breathed, gasping as he pressed his hips further into you. You could feel the hard length of him through his trousers and from where your skirt had ridden up.

“You feel what you do to me?” He asked. “You’ve been doing this since the first moment I laid eyes on you. Been thinking about how tight your pussy is going to feel wrapped around me. Been fucking my hand at the very thought of you milking me dry.”

You moaned at his words, rolling your hips into his as you peppered kisses across his face. Jake closed his eyes, seeming to relish in the attention you were bestowing upon him, one hand moving around to grab your ass as the other lavished attention at your nipple. He hauled you against him, grinding you down onto the prominent bulge.

“You like the sound of that?” He murmured, ducking his head back down to your neck, biting a particularly sensitive patch of skin then quickly laving it with his tongue. “Like the sound of me filling you up? Dirty girl, I bet you love the idea that anyone could see us right now. See how you’re falling apart for me even though I’m barely touching you.”

His teeth dug into the juncture of your shoulder and neck, and your cry of pain quickly dissolved into a moan of pleasure. Jake hummed, running his nose up and down the length of your neck.

“My pretty girl likes pain, huh?” He hummed. You were too lost in the sensations of pleasure he was pulling from you to notice his hand letting go of your ass to reach for his trousers. You jumped as the cool sensation of metal once again dragged across the swell of your breasts, your eyes popping open to stare down at where Jake ran the tip of the dagger across your skin. Not hard enough to cut, but enough for you to feel the pressure.

You hissed as he pressed the tip of the blade into the skin of your left breast, the sting quickly giving way to a wave of pleasure as he placed his lips over the cut, his tongue swirling over the skin. Your head hit the wall behind you as you let out a wanton cry of pleasure, feeling Jake smirk against you.

“My dirty girl likes that, huh?” He crooned, tossing the dagger to the ground and using the same hand to wrap in your hair as he forced you to look at him. He ground his bulge into your beating core, moaning at the heat radiating off of you as he crashed his lips to yours.

“Such a good girl for me, Guppy,” he moaned as he pulled away, bringing his right hand up from your breast. His thumb rested on your bottom lip before pushing the tip into your mouth. You suckled at it on instinct, never breaking eye contact as he groaned at the feel of your tongue laving over the digit.

“Fuck,” he hissed, picking up his pace. You let out quiet cries as the coil in your abdomen began to tighten, Fingers falling to his shoulders and leaving angry, red welts in their wake.

“That’s it,” he groaned, rutting into you. “Mark me, sweet girl. Show everyone who I belong to. Wanna wear your marks for days.”

You sucked harder at his thumb as you attempted to meet his thrusts, chest heaving with exertion. Jake saw the look on your face, taking his thumb out of your mouth to push your hair back.

“Come on, Guppy,” he crooned, losing himself in the sensations of you as he chased both of your highs. “Be a good girl for me, yeah? I can see how close you are, can practically feel your pretty little cunt fluttering against me. Can’t wait to be buried balls deep inside of you, feel you squeezing around me. Feel me leaking out of you. I’s okay though, I’d just push it back into you, and then I’d fill you up again and again until you’re swelling with me.”

You moaned at his words, jerking when a particularly hard thrust hit the sensitive nub at the juncture of your thighs, sending you over the edge with a loud cry. Jake thrust against you a few more times before stilling, sinking his teeth into the skin of your neck as he panted his release.

His hands rested on your thighs, smoothing up and down the exposed skin in gentle strokes as the two of you calmed down. Your hands ran through his hair gently, humming your content as you placed soft kisses to his temple.

“I’m sorry.”

Your brow furrowed as you glanced down at him, fingers stilling in his hair.

“For what?” You asked. His fingers stilled at your hips, gripping a little tighter as he stayed wrapped in your embrace.

“For all of it,” he whispered, pressing his face tighter to you. “For being an ass. For tricking Bradley into signing. For not saying something sooner about the curse. For being the reason you might be all alone.”

He trailed off near the end, and for a minute, neither of you said anything. Instead, you scratched the back of his head, earning a contented hum that almost sounded like a purr. Sighing, you rested your cheek against the top of his head, holding him closer.

“Bradley made his own choices,” you whispered, closing your eyes. 

A/N: I don't think this is my best smut, which is disappointing considering this was supposed to be alley scene 2.0, but alas, it is what it is. As always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! You can also find my works on AO3 under the username sailor_aviator.

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[tobiasdrake]

I expected to be dead by now and that locked door is starting to make me curious. So I guess I'll just go jump on a timedrop.

Using made-up words for an openphrase is a pretty good idea, but I've been told it's best to include numbers and symbols too. Have you considered "stostorage roomoom five ampersand"?

See, that's why you should always change your openphrase away from the default. Now malefactors of unclear intent have complete access to this person's shed. I could be stealing their personal information to sell to the shoshop keepeeper right now and they'd have no idea.

But I'm not that wicked, so I'll just take whatever this is instead.

Length implies value. This seems more than valuable enough to burgle. I will take this and be on my way.

Let's see, what else do I want to do in town? Oh, right. The flower.

First time, I panicked, flung it at Mira for being a great team leader, and fled for my life.

Second time, I tried to use it to bury the hatchet with Bonnie and only succeeded in weirding them out and making things awkward.

This time. This time, I have a plan. I'm going to pry Isa's secret love confession out of him. Right in front of the Favor Tree. Where my Lemonfriend is stalking me. Hm.

...

CAUTION TO THE WIND!

Oh my god he's so goddamn precious

Yeah. I didn't spoil my appetite with pain du chocolat this time so I was ravenous and prepared!

Then I got up to refill my drink and suddenly I hear a sickening CRRRKKK and then the goddamn bread was broken in half. How!? How do you people always know that I'm watching for that!? Which one of you is temporally screwing with me!?

I feel like I'm losing my mind. This is literally worse than dying. I will find you, Breadripper.

But I gave you a pretty flower and everything. Come on, man. Find your nerve!

*sigh* I'm going back to sleep. Enjoy your face pillow.

Good night, Isa.

That feels like it's going to be important to remember for later. Typically, if trying to read it causes physical pain, it's probably some sort of horrifying eldritch text from beyond time and space. Which usually means it's definitely worth the effort to figure out how to read it! It might hold the secret to unlimited happiness.

It means a person of slim characterization and very limited expressiveness, designed to allow the audience to easily project themselves.

Our reality's principle form of violence is playing Rock-Paper-Scissors. What are you even supposed to do with a spear?

...I mean. I guess I have this knife I use to form Scissors. Mira's got a rapier for the same purpose. Isa gets Rock out of his punching gloves while Madame Odile's Tome makes Paper.

Not sure how Mirabelle's doing Paper attacks with a sword, though. That's kind of weird. Mira, where are you getting the Paper from? Do you have a motivational brochure for the Change religion as a sidearm?

Oh my god she uses a rapier.

Mira's weapon is a blade made from thin folded steel. That's where the Paper comes from. That's genius. Mira, you're a goddamn genius.

Okay. I get it now. I understand how weaponcraft in our world of Jankenpon Combat works. So yes, this spear would be a Scissors weapon. But since it's a spear, you could also use it as a bo staff. Would it then qualify as Scissors/Rock?

Hmm....

I appreciate your pragmatism. Contextually speaking, in times of crisis, it's not stealing. It's requisitioning.

Now let's requisition whatever isn't nailed down.

Oh shit, that's the traditional Rider-Waite Eight of Pentacles.

The Pentacles sign typically pertains to commerce, labor, and material affairs. This particular card usually symbolizes slow and steady skill progression at a menial craft. The man depicted is practicing his trade, carrying out the repetitive but necessary task of crafting his wares - and in so doing, developing his skill and becoming more capable in the production of his craft.

It's not hard to see the relationship between this card and the timey-wimey mission we're on right now.

There it is. We've found the key with diagnosed and well understood gender dysphoria.

Just because the egg has cracked, that doesn't mean this key is necessarily comfortable with announcing itself yet. Cracking the egg and coming out are very different experiences. If the key doesn't feel safe or ready to do the latter then it's fine for it to remain in the drawer for however long it needs.

...

Or it would be fine except we need to unlock a door. So. Uh. We'll just ignore that for the purposes of the metaphor.

Do not force people out of their closet even if the world is in danger.

[factorialsotherfandoms]

So um I wrote about xcom!Chayanne yesterday and I don't have the energy to do his whole rescue and I'm not in the mood to hurt him as much as something before that would need, but also idk about you but **I** need some follow up from that. Get the baby a hug.

TW: badly injured child, referenced child abuse, hospital setting, talk about a child very nearly dying (in the past)

Philza knew it wasn't good - he'd seen the poor kid pass out, for fuck's sake - but he had not quite realised how bad it was. He hadn't been working with the sort of tech the infirmary has, too focused on keeping the two kids alive to think about the implications of their injuries.

The tablet Doctor Ruiz hands him, though... One kid - the one currently curled up with Roier as they both sleep off their injuries - he knew about. The broken bones about match what he predicted, looking at the poor sod. There's a worrying amount of head trauma, yes, but bar an inability to talk the kid had seemed alert and aware. Bit hard to tell with children, but he'll hopefully be fine.

It's the second he worries about; he had not even realised the kid was injured until he passed out in Missa's arms and, fuck, Philza doesn't think he'll ever be able to forgive himself for that. The scars, the cuts... the last of their splash potions hadn't woken him, but had at least closed up the wounds and bought some colour back to the kid's cheeks.

He'd known it was bad, he had, he swears, but this... The scar pattern, the slightly sticky marks on his chest, the breaks in his ribs... Not just current ones, either, but on the x-rays he can see evidence of them having been broken before. Similar places, too.

There are other scans, too, ones of a sort that Philza does not understand. They show the child's organs, presumably damage to them, but he really wouldn't know.

They still don't scare him as much as the x-rays of his ribs, if only because he only understands the latter; he flicks back to them, and stares in horror.

"Is that...?" he hands the tablet back to her - he isn't a doctor, he could be wrong, he just picks shit up here and there.

Her face is grim as she nods.

"Fucking hell," he breathes the word out; it makes a lot of sense, now, why she had insisted on this boy being on a bed alone, surrounded by wires and monitors instead of letting Missa hold him. "Do we know what happened?"

"I was hoping you could tell me," she says, folding her arms around the tablet and clinging to it. "If I had to guess, shock from one of the scarring injuries. His biology is... Strange, though - human blood is compatible, at least, and his vitals are stable. I have no idea if they are /good/, but they are stable."

"Will he be okay?" he asks.

"I..." it's never a good thing when the doctor fucking hesitates to answer that question. "If he heals like a human and my guess is correct? Yes. If not, it is outside my expertise."

Philza takes a deep breath, calms himself, and nods, "thanks for the update."

She nods, "I'll get started on the reports; I just thought you'd like to know."

"Oh I fucking hate it," he replies. "But it's better than not knowing; you handle the reports, I'll keep an eye on the kid."

She nods, and vanishes.

And, fuck, how is he going to tell Missa? The man's already attached, and it's not an easy thing to tell someone - 'oh, yeah, that kid we rescued? His heart stopped recently enough his ribs have barely started healing from being broken during CPR, and he still had gunk from a fucking heart monitor on him. Also? Not the first time it's happened'.

Philza runs his hands over his face and, fuck, he wishes he had made that bitch /suffer/. For all her talk of honour, she'd done her fucking best to murder a /child/.

It's too late now, already dead under Jaiden's knife, but fuck he wants her to suffer more. The kids are, what, ten? Something like that?

And don't try tell him that it wasn't the Assassin - Philza /knows/ swords, and hers are a perfect match for the scars and wounds littered all over the poor boy's skin.

Given the chance to fight her again, he'd rip her apart with his bare fucking hands. Or, let Cellbit do it at least. He does have more the talent for it these days.

But, there's not much to be done, not now. The Assassin is dead, and the kid is in an actual fucking infirmary. Jaiden and Roier both need to stay, to the concern and delight of the other little boy, while after getting patched up Missa and Philza elected to stay with this one. Cellbit's off somewhere - probably struggling to pull things from the archive with one arm in a cast - and Etoiles elected to get some fucking sleep.

It seems like a good idea.

Philza doesn't think he can, not without nightmares of a little boy bleeding to death, alone and scared, in a prison cell.

Or stabbed again - Missa did say both boys had tried to fight the Assassin; for all Philza admires their persistence, fighting back on the wounds they have, he's fucking terrified for them.

And, thinking of Missa, the man is waking up. Philza turns his attention there, watching him get up.

"Hey Missa," he smiles over, but he knows it looks thin.

He gets a smile back, as Missa scoots himself up to sitting.

The smile falls as soon as Missa lays eyes on the kid in the bed.

"How is he?"

"He had to be resuscitated."

Philza realises his mistake as he sees absolute terror consume Missa's features, and a terrified whine.

"Not today!" he clarifies, quickly, loudly. "Jesus fuck, I would have woken you if it was today. Sorry, sorry - recently, though, his ribs are still fucked up. Maybe a few days ago? Week at most?"

The whine turns from terror to heartbreak, Missa scrambling over with his too-long limbs. He picks up the boy's hand, clinging to it and muttering rapidly in Spanish.

Philza doesn't try to translate, not when the kid is obviously the one addressed - if anyone at all.

"Fuck, Missa, it wasn't even the first time either. Doc says he'll be fine so long as he heals like a human - and he's got human blood and human organs so we should be okay - but, fucking hell mate, I just..."

What does Philza even say? He permits the words to vanish into Missa's whine.

He reaches across, resting his hand atop Missa's. It takes the man a little bit to stop whining and ask "do we know why?"

"Not really," Philza feels his grimace. "We're hoping shock from the other injuries. It's bad, but now they're healed or healing... Easiest shit to fix, out of the options. Can't see anything else, doesn't mean there isn't."

There's another pained noise from Missa. Philza reaches up, absently wiping at his tears as he looks away to the boy's face. It takes a bit for Missa to collect himself up, clinging to the boy's hand and brushing his hair from his face.

"He's safe now?" Missa asks.

"He's safe," Philza confirms. "And once he's better, we'll find somewhere safe for him to stay."

It's a long shot, but they have some ideas of places safer than an airship full of the government's most wanted, at least.

Missa's fussing also seems to have awoken the boy; Missa startles, and turns to him, and when Philza's eyes follow he sees the little red flames in place of eyes watching them both.

Missa speaks something soothing in Spanish; Philza is still too furious to speak calmly enough for an injured and probably scared child.

The boy tries to sit up, only to flinch; Philza catches him, and helps him back down. Across the room he catches Doctor Ruiz's eye - she just gestures for him to go ahead and returns to her paperwork.

"Hey now," he tries to be gentle, but his voice is not really having it. "Lay back down. Your friend is just over there, see?"

The kid turns his head, and does relax a little when he spots the other boy. He still does not speak, glancing around but always returning to Philza and Missa.

"You're safe here," Missa promises. "Philza and I won't let anyone hurt you."

The kid glances between them; Philza tries to back Missa up with a nod.

He looks... confused, more than anything, glancing back at the other child, then at the adults. It takes a little bit, before he raises his arms and...

"Oh..." Philza whispers.

Missa leans down first, doing his best to avoid any of the wires or tubes surrounding the boy.

Philza follows a bit later, putting one arm across Missa's back and, with a lack of space, brushes a the child's hair with the other.

"We fucked her up," Philza promises. "She won't be hurting anyone again."

The boy does not stay awake long, his body brutalised and exhausted. Within moments of the hug starting he has fallen back asleep. Both Philza and Missa are reluctant to let go, but know that they must.

Missa sings lullabys, the music keeping Philza more to the present. He does not have much of a singing voice, so he fetches blankets instead, hoping the pressure will be comforting to the boy.

"He just wanted a hug," Missa's voice is broken. "Phil, Phil, he just- just a hug..."

Philza's own heart is a ruin, too; he opens his own arms up, and gestures Missa over. He wraps his friend in his arms, lets him cry into his shoulder.

If he also cries into Missa's hair, then it is his secret to tell.

[themsource]

Circus BSP AU

Soooo...had an idea that's been on my mind a while. Decided to share it because I know I haven't updated anything in a bit and I've been so busy with Secret Santas x_x

Anyways it's a long ramble from my ideas folder, not a real written piece, but I'm placing it below a cut ^^ This idea came to me while listening to Panic! At The Disco's cover of The Greatest Show a while back. I don't know if this has been done before but meh, just wanted to post my take on a circus au with the baddies

Rating: M

TWs: Mentions of torture, Kidnapping, Enslavement, Near Drowning

Nightmare and Dream own their own opposing circus rings. Dream recruits willing participants and their shows are always about love and positivity with graceful displays of athletics like ribbon dancing and aerial silk suspension, baton twirling and contortion, even godly fast speed painting with neon glowing soul magic to show an individual's ultimate dream even if they don’t know it themselves and store it in a personalized orb to take home as a memento for personalized viewing whenever you please. 

Nothing risky or seemingly life threatening/daredevil stunted. 

No, that’s Nightmare’s theme. 

In contrast he doesn’t recruit, he steals and binds individuals into contracts that can only be broken at his word or their untimely death should it occur. His ring has all the horrifying and thrilling shows that leave the audience anxious and on their toes, like sword swallowing/knife throwing/nail walking/fire breathing (Killer), Lions and Tigers - many dangerous animal performances (Horror), highwire/cannonball (Dust), and Motorcycle acts like the Wall of death and globe of terror (Cross). 

Nets and other safety precautions are ignored, this is the highlight and draw of Nightmare’s circus alongside the ability for one of your “nightmares” to be engraved on a stone tablet using soul magic so you never have to experience them again once the show is over.

Whereas Dream gives away positivity to spread through the worlds, Nightmare collects negativity in a personal vault for his own sustenance (the stone tablets) while still supplementing what he takes with the experiences his circus gives. 

This is the point of contention with the brothers. Dream doesn’t like how Nightmare still puts out negativity while also taking it away - it’s a selfish redundancy in his mind and perceived as unbalance, and Nightmare feels the same about how Dream puts out positivity with his circus but doesn’t take any away not only making his job more difficult to keep the flows even but causing him more suffering with how positive a world will be once Dream holds a performance.

The brother’s once owned a circus together but it broke apart with Nightmare’s downfall. 

Everyone was eager to see Dream perform but didn’t care for Nightmare’s escape acts and often boo’d and shamed him leaving the worlds they tried to equally balance always too filled with positivity. One day Nightmare almost died attempting to perform a dangerous escape stunt that he’d concocted to try and gain the audience’s approval, and just when it seemed to be working he ran out of magic (having not slept or ate well as he should’ve the night before when he’d been practicing) and nearly drowned. 

Dream was able to pull him free and save him but it took the last of their dead mother’s apples which proved too powerful and shattered Nightmare who was left horrified at what he’d become - a true reflection of ‘a demon’ as people called him, and led to him abandoning Dream to go his own way as the too much positivity started causing him pain and to go into frenzied breakdowns that he’d frequently black out through.

Since then Nightmare has not performed an escape act again and now solely plays ringleader. His innate trauma when it comes to performing is what led to him deciding to bring others into his fold to accomplish his goals, though he doesn’t let anyone know that. 

He contracted Killer, Dust, Horror, and then Cross in that order. Stealing them away from their own personal hells he found them in when noticing how fearless they were in the face of horrors far worse than what he had devised, and how equally terrifying their own appearances and auras were and would contribute to the overall effect he was going for. To get them to sign, he tortured them in never ending loops of nightmares, uncaring for how it affected them until they agreed. 

Killer was forced to experience going numb and filling with emotion on and off again repeatedly, the pain of switching so rapidly sending him into a spiral until he begged to be freed. 

Horror was forced to watch his fellow monsters dust and suffer the insanity inducing hunger wracking his frame as if fresh over and over as his brother kept mutating before his eyes. 

Dust had to watch his brother dust before his eyes repeatedly at his own hand no matter how much he fought against it, the pain of which was always too much each reset he experienced in his own world but in the nightmare without the time to breathe between each death and no goal of stopping the human in mind Dust cracked. 

Cross was sent into isolation, only it was so much worse as he didn’t have the ability to communicate with himself (even trying to think to himself and hold an imaginary conversation didn’t work) and could only experience the slow crawling of time as a sharp cutting sensation across his bones.

At first the gang all understandably despise Nightmare and what he forces them to do but he’s uncaring of it. However slowly the boys begin to find actual enjoyment in their work and bonding together as they come up with new routine ideas which they loathsomely try to share with Nightmare. 

Nightmare begins to feel impressed, even enthused though he doesn’t show it at their forwardness and makes recommendations for how to better execute their ideas while approving them. This causes the boys to begin feeling a sense of freedom and control they haven’t felt in years even before being stolen away but they still don’t soften to Nightmare even as Nightmare begins to soften just a bit to them at their willingness.

It isn’t until Nightmare and his trope encounter Dream and his that the boys end up feeling anything at all other than hate to the dark lord. 

They witness the exchange between Dream and Nightmare, the hostility Nightmare has when he and Dream argue over who has the right to be in this world first as Dream speaks in passive aggressive words about Nightmare’s awful decision making and unbalanced influence which Nightmare scoffs at before turning the argument petty as he remarks over Dream’s soft and impassioned performances. 

The second Dream comments about how his trope is a work of art while Nightmare’s is nothing more than ‘a glorified torture show’ the boy’s hackles raise - offended, not liking how Dream assumes they hate what they do (not anymore at least) which makes his trope’s performances more genuine and better since they’re willing. 

The boys witness the face Dream makes of regret at Nightmare’s bitter parting (dream’s words having surprisingly irked him) but don’t say a word. Instead they sneak in that night to watch Dream’s so called ‘better performances’ and are left feeling bored, and commenting on how it’s too bright, too sparkly and how they can do so much better. 

‘at least with us the crowd are actually on their feet.’ Killer huffs. ‘yeah, screaming too.’ Horror drawls. ‘I like the ribbons, not gonna lie.’ as Cross tosses back a handful of popcorn and earns amused scoffs from the others. Dust gives a rare smirk. ‘i have an idea.’ 

Nightmare is in his room, staring down at an old faded paper article that looks as if it might crumble into ash at the faintest breeze while he tries to ignore the pain in his chest from the positivity flooding the air. It’s a headline advertising his old act, the one that led to his transformation, when Killer walks in. Killer notices the article before Nightmare manages to fold it up and slip it into a breast pocket. It twinges something in him as he asks about it and Nightmare feeling a rare moment of openness blandly tells him of what happened. 

Killer is surprised and sudden understanding clicks but Nightmare dismisses it with ‘nothing more than childish hopes and pointless memories, what is it you want killer?’ 

Killer smiles.

It’s the first time Nightmare has seen that expression on Killer’s face and his socket widens. He feels something precariously close to a thrill race his spine as Killer hums, ‘me and the guys were talking…”

Dream and his friends are beginning to perform the big finale when suddenly the lights go off and Killer comes on over the intercom, ‘well as much as i love that hello kitty and fluffy rainbow shit like the next guy, how about we get a real party started?’ and the lights strobe back on in a kaleidoscope of flashing colors as Nightmare’s gang appear round the top of the stage. 

Killer flipping a jewel encrusted knife, Dust spinning an iron balancing rod as if it were a small plastic baton, Horror posed tall and looming with his one ear’d white lion and black tiger, and Cross on his sterling silver colored motorcycle revving the engine.

‘UH, DREAM? WHAT IS–” Before Blue can finish the boys are descending and taking the stage. Horror crowds them off with his animals as Cross races around the arena pulling shocked awes from the crowd and Killer blows fire setting the hanging ribbons up into a blaze of glory, Dust using his balancing rod to propel himself into the air and land on the lighting supports much to many surprised shouts of awe and worry. 

Dream can’t help but stare silently along with Blue and Ink as the show is stolen from them and negativity begins to seep in from the shocked and concerned onlookers who can’t bring themselves to look away, even clapping as Horror narrowly dodges being attacked by his own lion to allow the beast to burst through one of Ink’s paintings.

Nightmare watches in stunned surprise, amusement, and dare he even think it…

Endearment.

When all is said and done the crowd goes home excited and raving about the unexpected twist and Dream is left fuming as he goes off about how childish and inappropriate that was. Nightmare shrugs him off as he glances over his shoulder at his smug trope and comments about how it was no decision of his own making. Sure he knew, but he didn’t tell Killer no, but Dream doesn’t need to know that. 

When they go home Killer and the boys all gain a new bit of respect for their ring leader, and even a bit of fondness at how he let them do as they pleased. It’s a slow crawl from there. Each of them taking the time to get to know Nightmare a little better after also being told by Killer about his past, even asking him to join them for dinner one day where Nightmare finds enjoyment watching and listening to them go back and forth like a bunch of rowdy roommates. 

Horror introduces him to the animals, and manages to calm the tiger enough to let Nightmare pet it. ‘her name’s mira.’

‘...You named her?’ 

‘yep, her and bosco.’ 

‘Is Bosco the lion?’ 

Horror looks oddly fond. ‘heh, no, he’s the gator. the lion is kimba, killer named him.’  

Dust invites him to help him as he works on repairing and calibrating his canon, handing him tools and reciting blueprints. ‘need better bolts, these are starting to strip.’ 

‘I never knew you were so…hands on, Dust.’ 

‘cross’ fault. i saw him babying that bike of his and got tired of having nothing to do.’ 

‘I see.’ 

There’s silence, an uncertainty. ‘...i want to repaint it. i don’t like the colors.’ 

Nightmare considers. ‘...Alright, what colors would you like?’ 

Dust’s smile reminds him of Killer’s. ‘heh.’

Cross takes him for a ride and shows him just how fast his bike can go. ‘SLOW DOWN YOU HEATHEN! THIS IS NOT A SHOW!’ 

‘c’mon nightmare! live a little!’ 

Nightmare shivers at feeling Cross’s hand guide his to his waist, his voice reminiscent of a whisper into his acoustics. ‘i won’t let you fall.’ 

Nightmare averts his gaze. ‘Falling is not the point!’ 

Killer…killer brings him outside and sets him on a blanket beneath the only tree for miles as he sharpens his blades, handing nightmare one after the other and telling him what kind they are like a teenager. ‘and this is a messer! it’s german for knife but looks more like a dagger.’ 

‘Interesting. You’ve taken care of these well.’ 

Killer smirks. ‘i take care of the things i care about.’ 

Nightmare raises a brow as he echos. ‘Care about.’ 

‘i don’t have to feel it to know that i care about it.’ The shrug he gives is indifferent, but the look is another matter entirely, one that brings a foreign heat to Nightmare’s cheeks. It feels like a flirtation, but it can’t be, he knows where he stands with him - with all of them. 

‘An even more interesting notion.’ he whispers.

It isn’t until he stumbles upon Horror pining Dust to a wall in a small forgotten hallway with Dust’s legs around Horror’s hips as they kiss that Nightmare realizes there’s a deeper bond between the members of his trope that he never noticed. One that they’re starting to willingly let him see as he spots Cross and Killer not long after training together with Cross pinned to the knife board as Killer sensually traces patterns across his bones with the tip of a finely oiled blade. It’s shocking how they managed to get away with this, hiding the fluctuations in their emotions from his notice.

The understanding spurs something in him that’s…genuine. 

On equal footing.

Killer notices his staring and holds eye contact just out of Cross’ line of sight as he kisses the other skeleton. The emotions are there now, raw and unfiltered. Desire, want…teasing. 

It’s an invitation.

Nightmare turns away and hides in his room thinking. He doesn’t know what he feels, not yet. But he does find himself wanting to, maybe, get a little closer to them. To know them, just as they’re obviously trying to do with him. 

He likes watching Horror train his pets, he enjoys seeing Cross flip over ramps and twirl his bike beneath him mid-leap, he finds amusement in Killer trying to paint the sky with words made of fire, and he can’t resist staring as Dust pretends multiple times as if he’s going to fall only to stand back upright confidently and with poise. He can’t help wondering if this is what friendship is, companionship. He thought he’d known that once with his brother but he’d been wrong. The feelings are too different.

So he…takes the risk. 

The dinners continue, the quality time, with him contributing by inviting them to let him read aloud of his books and going out to explore the worlds now before performing, but it all starts to weigh heavy on him and this manifests in him one day suggesting as Killer and Dust put forth a duet idea to suggest they use netting…in case of an accident.

The boys go silent, staring at him. 

Nightmare feels judged, and it’s made clear that he is when Killer says rather carelessly, ‘since when do you care about our safety?’ It’s then made clear to Nightmare that no matter how hard he tries, and no matter what they open up to him and he them, that he can’t be more or get closer. 

They will always see him as nothing more than their owner, their master. 

‘Forget I said anything.’

Nightmare is left torn, does he put everything on the line by offering to release their contracts in the hopes that they’ll stay when it’s far more likely they’ll run if given the chance? Or does he hold on, and get left standing alone to watch as an outsider on the bond between them just as he’s always been to the universe at large.

He tried to run before he could walk. This is the obstacle between them and the first step that he knows has to be taken, the rest of the moments they share are empty so long as the contracts exist. And not only that but the leagues he’ll have to go to make up for what he put them through when he first found them, if they dare to even give him the chance.

There’s a bitter, terrifying, decision to reach. 

Nightmare is in unfamiliar waters as he feels the sting of indecisiveness that he hasn’t felt since he was a child.

[srorgana1]

Invocation

Paring: Vampire Kylo/Hunter Rey

Warnings: Dark Themes (apporaching Dead Dove, you have been warned), Supernatural/Paranormal, Blood, Violence, Gore, Death, NSFW 18+, Sexual Content, Psychological and Physical Torture, Kidnapping, Hatred towards organized religion, Pain, Major/Minor character death/injury, Demonic Possession

Chapter Nine

His breath is ragged as he wipes the blood from his eyes. His wound on his face burns as he can drops his sword to the ground. He can feel the Devil’s dark influence fade as his body disintegrates into ash before all their eyes. He cannot rest though, as he hears her sniffles and moans of pain. He turns and joins the small group surrounding her. Luke is holding her, running his singed hand through her mussed hair. He is whispering to her in an angelic language as she shook in his arms.

Kylo feels a pang of guilt as he looks at her broken body. At the two gaping bloody wounds where her wings once were. He wipes his long hair out of his face again as Vicrul and the others join him, all covered in the evidence of battle. They had done it. They had turned their backs on the Devil and staged a coup along with Luke and the other Ethereals. But it didn’t go exactly to plan, as evidence of the scene before him. If he had only…

“Kylo” she voice pulls him out of the memory. He opens his eyes and finally meets hers. She looks about the same; same ageless beautiful face surrounded by long auburn hair. Her emerald eyes deep and full of the knowledge of the universe. She smiles softly at him as she waves a hand at him, sending the a wave a calmness his way. “Mara” he grits out, his shame and guilt alighting anew.

“It was not your fault Kylo. It never was. It was mine and Luke’s.” she says. His face crumples, his chin quivering at her mention of that night. “We were overconfident in our plan and didn’t expect him to have as much power as he did. I paid the price for our hubris, but we learned something and that’s all that matters”. She shuts her eyes and send him another calming wave. “You saved me Kylo. Luke and I will never forget that”.

He clinches his jaw tightly, his fangs pricking at his gums. “Drop the glamour. You are safe here. Plus it will be easier for me to read the signature” she says softly but forcefully. He sighs, pulling himself together. He drops the glamour, his eyes glowing red as his magick roars free.

“There you are” she says softly as others behind him let out sounds of surprise at the volume of his power. He feels his magical bonds loosen as he sits up, stretching and popping his neck. “The mighty Kylo Ren, the great defender of the balance” she says slowly, her voice growing more otherworldly. His red eyes meet her whited out ones as she allows the magick to take over.

His mind is suddenly brought somewhere else. He looks around at the dark barren landscape, his bare feet meeting the rough course sand as the dark starry sky above swirls and twinkles. He hears Mara say his name as he turns to face her. She is whole here; her wide majestic dove gray wings fold gracefully over her shoulders and white dress as she hovers just above the ground.

Flashes of that night pass by his eyes again. “You have suffered so” she says calmly “you and the others didn’t deserve that. I am sorry.” He shakes his head, willing those memories away. “It doesn’t matter now. I have accepted my fate. I just want to find out what is happening” he says, taking a step forward towards her. She nods, looking away from him. “Shall we begin?”

Kylo nods, preparing himself for pain. The Devil routinely rummaged through his mind as a torture tactic, making sure his warriors remained loyal. It would feel like a hot knife ripping through. He squeezed his eyes shut at the first prod into his mind.

“Calm yourself Kylo” she says softly as she extracts the victim’s signature from his mind. Mara was gentle with him, her magick soft and light. She doesn’t linger, leaving quickly not to cause him discomfort. She mumbles something as he opens his eyes. She is looking at him sympathetically as she flicks her hand, allowing the signature to become visual.

It hovers over the black sand in a hazy orb, the edges sparking and swirling. The front clears to show the young Witch and her day to day activities and thoughts. They hear her worries about her lack of control with her powers, how her ex had cheated on her. They watch her walk into the same pub Kylo had that night to wallow in her sorrow. They watch her silently cry into her pint glass as she struggles to keep items from levitating around her.

His jaw tightens as he watches her pay for her over priced drink and walk out the familiar back door. She cries into her hands as she started walking back to the tube station. The snow swirled around her as she suddenly looked back at the two large men who appeared out of thin air. Her fear spikes as she raises her hands, her magic sparking purple around her fingertips.

One of the men smiles maliciously, his fangs and claws lengthening as he walks towards her. She is so focused on the one man she doesn’t see the one behind her grab her, injecting some substance into her neck. She screams as her veins start to turn black around the puncture sight. The demon holding her nods to the one in front of him as his finger hits her pressure point, causing her to go unconscious.

Kylo watches Mara’s eyes narrow as she freezes the vision, focusing on the poor girls neck. The poison has spread up her face and down to her chest. “Interesting” she murmurs as she lets the vision continue. The one demon scoops her up over his shoulder as the other taps his hidden earpiece. “#11 obtained” he growls. He lets go and touches the wall magicking a portal. The two men enter it as it disappears behind them leaving no trace except random footprints in the snow.

The orb pulses, the vision becoming more and more staticky. Mara focuses on it and the picture changes. Wherever the victim is dimly lit, made of dark stone. She huddled in a corner, dirty and bleeding. Her fingers claw at the stone. She’s crying from what looks like pain as she grabs at her legs. The poison continues to spread throughout her system.

She hears something and looks up. Her eyes widen in fear as she screams again. But this time he catches something. “Stop” he says. Mara freezes the vision. “Zoom into her eyes” Mara does so, focusing on the girl’s dark brown eyes and blown pupils.

He learned long ago you can see another’s magick in their eyes. It’s the basis of the human saying of “the eyes are windows to the soul”. He can tell her magick is weakening, the glow dampening. Almost like it was being sucked out of her.

Mara’s breath catches as she realizes it as well. “Those beasts” she hisses as she lets the vision play to the end, which concludes with her passing out again. Mara raises her hand placing the orb in stasis as she turns to Kylo. “This is worse than I imagined” she says as she floats to him. “His followers are attempting to resurrect him using other’s magick. Those monsters probably have his Grimoire as well.”

Kylo can feel his anger rising. “How is this possible? You and Luke both said he was gone after we banished him, and at great cost to you…” “I know” she says interrupting him “we didn’t know at the time how powerful him and his guards had become. I only realized it when I was captured. There are only so many ways to restore the banished and they are using the most profane way…”

He watches a tear roll down her flawless cheek. “Luke and I used the balance to disarm him so you could finish him off. If we can catch him before he becomes his fully corporal form we can do it again and this time finish the job for good” she says sternly. Kylo looks at her confused “but who has the power to…” “You and your match do. It has been foretold that two will become one and finish off the darkness and keep the balance…” she says as the environment fides away and they are sitting in their chairs again.

He blinks his eyes, sharpening his vision. The witches swarm Mara. “What did you see my mistress? Is it more then we feared?” the blonde one said. “Yes, Cassandra it is. We must prepare and find a way to find his followers so we can save these people. He will have to keep them alive for transference so we must act in hast. Selene, my seeing stones please…” Mara says, igniting a flurry of activity.

Kylo cracks his neck again as he stands. “Ah she’s here” Mara says lowly as candles and various objects are placed before her. Kylo looks at her “Who?” “Your match, your future” she says staring past him. He follows her line of sight and his breath hitches to see Rey standing there.

Her eyes are wide and sparkling, her soft mouth agape as she stares at the glowing gold pattern of lines going down her arm. Her power crackles causing a shiver to go down Kylo’s back. Her hazel eyes widen, full of questions. She’s afraid, he thinks as Mara waves a hand towards her. “Come Reyna” Mara says “it’s time for you to learn who you really are.”

[exultedshores]

the animal gets what the animal needs

A little piece I wrote for High Chaos Week 2022! I want to expand on this later so I’m not posting it to AO3 yet, but have this scene featuring Corvo the Black and Thomas in the aftermath of Dishonored 2 ^-^

The auditions for the position of Royal Protector are a farce.

Thomas knows this, knew it from the moment he caught the announcement crackling over one of the few loudspeakers not yet destroyed. Emperor Corvo the Black does not require protection, not with his skills and his Mark and his very legend dissuading any would-be assassins from entertaining the thought of going after him. There is no one who could best him.

Not anymore, at least.

And yet, here he is, waiting outside the throne room with a handful of others to see the Emperor.

Three men went in before them. None have come out.

When the door creaks open and the Emperor’s voice bids the next candidate to enter, no one is eager to step forward. The fear is palpable in the very air; these men are highborn, each and every one of them, flocking here in the hopes of elevating their undoubtedly devastated noble houses through gaining the prestigious rank of Lord Protector. Ridiculous, how they cling to the notion of aristocracy even now. The best anyone can do in Corvo the Black’s rotten carcass of a city is survive.

Thomas shoulders his way past a man he’s almost certain is a Brimsley, and steps through the doors.

It’s dark inside the throne room, the scent of dust and decay heavy in the stale air. Rotting flowers encircle the crumbling pillars, and broken bits of stone and wood are scattered across the floor; the one perfectly intact object is an eerily lifelike statue of the Emperor’s daughter guarding the steps up to the dais. All is overseen by a partially burnt banner of Jessamine Kaldwin hanging proudly above the throne in a mockery of a memorial.

And resting on a throne adorned with corrupted runes, its very fabric steeped in the darkness of the Void, is Emperor Corvo the Black himself.

Thomas halts at the base of the dais and bows stiffly at the waist, as is custom. “Your Majesty.”

The Emperor twirls his infamous folding sword in his hands. Thomas does not fail to note it is coated in what appears to be fresh blood. “Name?”

“Thomas Carmine, Your Majesty.”

The moniker is a lie; Thomas forewent his family name so long ago he can scarce remember it now, and he never was part of the upper echelon of society. But the Carmines are an old noble house, struggling to survive since the days of the rat plague, and Thomas shares their distinctive blond hair and aquiline nose. It makes for a convincing enough ruse.

Better the Emperor believe he is here for the same paltry reasons as the other candidates.

“Do you think you are capable of safeguarding an Empire?” The Emperor’s tone is dull, uninterested; his eyes glisten like onyx in the darkness of the room.

Thomas straightens his back. “I believe I’m better qualified than most.”

The Emperor bares his teeth in a mockery of a smile. “We’ll see.”

Thomas hits the ground.

The Emperor’s sword strikes air.

He laughs, the sound echoing eerily through the empty throne room. “You dodged,” he says, delighted. “That’s a first.”

He lunges again, and Thomas jumps back with a curse as he fumbles for the sword at his belt. He brought one of the gilded aristocrat’s swords the Whalers claimed as trophies rather than his trusted broad-bladed cleaver, and it ill serves him now. But he was not chosen to serve as the Knife of Dunwall’s second-in-command for nothing – he can adapt. He damn well has to, if he wants to keep his head attached to his shoulders.

The brawl is short but intense, and chaotic. The Emperor holds nothing back, and it is so easy to imagine the young man he used to be, who tore his way through the Blade Verbana with frightening ruthlessness. Age has not slowed him one iota; Thomas ducks and weaves and parries as best he can, but he is always on the defensive, always one step behind.

He blocks another blow, and the Emperor grins. A flicker of golden-green is all the warning Thomas gets before he is slammed into the nearest pillar with a force that steals his breath, and his sword slips from his grip, falling to the ground with a deafening clatter.

The Emperor pins Thomas’ blade under his boot. “A pity,” he drawls, looking down at Thomas as though he, too, belongs at the Emperor’s feet. “I had some hopes for you.”

He brings down his sword.

The clang of metal on metal rings in Thomas’ ears.

The Emperor’s eyes widen, and Thomas uses the surprise to his advantage. With a push of the small dagger he keeps in his boot exactly for situations like this, he has the Emperor unbalanced; Thomas is on his feet immediately, swinging his knife in a wide arch to give himself room to manoeuvre, and –

The Emperor vanishes in a flash of blue and reappears at the foot of his throne. Blood drips down his arm.

Thomas snatches his sword off the floor, but the Emperor does not attack again. He remains where he is, his bloody hand resting on the outstretched arm of his daughter’s statue. His gaze is fixed firmly on Jessamine Kaldwin’s visage.

Thomas retains his combat stance until his muscles begin to ache, and even then he only hesitantly lowers his sword.

When that is not punished, he dares approach.

“Your Majesty?”

The Emperor breathes deeply. When he turns to face Thomas, he looks his age. “You’re hired.”

It is times like this he misses his old mask. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I shall not disappoint.”

The Emperor waves him off. “Take care of the mess outside.”

Thomas wishes he did not understand exactly what the Emperor means. He hides his distaste by bowing low. “As His Majesty commands.”

He turns on his heel and strides out of the throne room. Four men and one woman are still waiting there for their chance to see the Emperor; only two of them are vigilant enough to notice the blood-stained sword clutched in Thomas’ fist.

“Apologies,” Thomas says pleasantly, “but the position has been filled.”

Three go down before they even know what’s happening; one loses his sword in two strikes, and his head in another; the last puts up a half-decent struggle, for a noble, but she cannot match a trained assassin. The whole confrontation lasts little much more than a minute.

When the Emperor joins him, he looks pleased. “Good work,” he says, and the Mark of the Outsider flares as he waves his hand. Hundreds upon hundreds of rats fill the space, running straight for the fresh corpses.

Thomas understands now why the Emperor’s sword was bloody, yet there were no bodies to be found in the throne room.

He wonders, idly, how long it will take for the rats to feast on his flesh.

When the Emperor flicks his wrist again, the vestibule is empty, cold, and deathly quiet.

“Come on then, Carmine,” he says, not bothering to avoid the blood still staining the expensive carpet. “I have matters to attend to.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Thomas sheathes his sword and falls into step half a pace behind his Emperor.

Every breath he takes sits heavy in his lungs, yet it feels like a twisted sort of victory. He still draws breath, unlike so many others in this decomposing Empire.

Now all he has to do is keep breathing.

[reallivewire]

Been thinking about mmitmom dbd lobby idle animations.

Grim: Stands still, unfazed and uncaring, all too used to - and frankly, all too happy - being here in this awful, fucked-up situation. Does not move nor break his line of sight, ever. Huge, ugly, silent bastard. We know this, and we love him for it (unless you're esteemed tumblr user riphimopen).

Thorn: Constantly clenches and unclenches the fist not holding the surgical machete. Clutches his right wrist every now and then in apparent pain or agitation before shaking it out. Occasionally stands up straighter to glare directly at the player before slouching just slightly and looking irritably away. Definitely the most visibly upset, but whatever he's actually the most angry about is not entirely clear.

Ghost: Head constantly twitches. It falls off every now and then and he has to put it back on. Rocks back and forth often. Occasionally holds either the bottle opener, the knife, or the broken flagpole up to stare blankly at it. Gives off the impression he's not quite all there, except for rare but not at all brief moments of lucidity, in which he stares directly at the player for a full sixty seconds uninterrupted... and then immediately sneezes his head off again.

Giant: Looks around every now and then. Occasionally turns to the side to hide his face from the player when lifting his mask to tug at his hair. Often folds and unfolds his arms, then readjusts his grip on the fire axe, giving it a few practice swings. Seems to be the most on edge.

Old Man: Does a full-bodied sigh every few minutes. Occasionally holds his left hand up level with his eyes and slowly flexes all three fingers, then readjusts his grip on the halligan bar, slapping the hooked/spiked end in his left palm before settling. Rolls his shoulders back and cricks his neck every now and then, briefly makes eye contact with the player, then glances away in what could almost be resignation. Definitely the most weary, though arguably the most vicious when actively in the midst of a trial.

Creature: Constantly twisting his neck left, right, and occasionally one hundred and eighty degrees to look around. Lifts his head and bares his teeth every now and then. Occasionally paws at the ground and sharpens his nails on a stone. Sits somewhere in the uncanny valley due to his more animalistic nature clashing with what is clearly still a human mind... more or less.

Socks: Puts his left pointer finger through his mask's left eye hole to scratch his nose every now and then. Regularly tests the taser by clicking it on, poking at it, and accidentally shocking himself. Occasionally takes out the bag of wonderbread and waves it around like one would twirl a sword. Lifting his arms leads him to sniff his armpit and he recoils, shaking his head in disgust and embarrassment. He's... enthusiastic about being here, at the very least.

[venusiansilk]

꒰ one day you'll kill satoru, but tonight you'll fuck him instead. ꒱

ᴍᴅɴɪ. canon div au. angst. smut. enemies with benefits? lol. reader is an assassin. 0.8k. nsfw.

somewhere in the depths of himself, satoru knows he should have never let you get close to him. you’re a black widow parading around as a person, wit as sharp as the blade you wield, the sword you smith out of your pearly bones and hold the tip of to his throat. in this stage of his delusion, murdering him would be a mercy killing. his illness is the catalyst of all his suffering. at the root of all his problems is you. loving you is an incurable sickness, a fatal disease that percolates slowly into his bones, mingling with his blood. if you look down in the core of him, all that’ll be found is you smirking in every cavern as you weave your whims into the base of all his notions so shamelessly. he simply can’t resist you; the quiet truth is he doesn’t want to. you’re an infection, really, the way you make the thinnest cuts and seep into them all. love-laced and haunting, decaying in his wounds and leaving the sweetness of your rot behind. cut him open. love him while he bleeds. fuck him until he heals. leave him until he forgets. rinse, repeat. rinse, repeat. “is it too tight?” you ask, sultry voice wispy and dripping in allure. “do you think i don’t know what you’re here for?” satoru rasps, ignoring your question, hips bucking up as he whimpers, movements restricted by his new restraints and your thighs. “you’re not fooling me.” “but you let me come back.” you sing with a sweet laugh, something he should note as menacing but only hears and finds the beauty of you in. “you even let me tie you up like this.”

you straddle his lap, bare-bodied and leaving a trail of slick behind on the underside of his length as you rock yourself back and forth along the surface of him, thick girth made slippery between your folds, aroused by the way you always have him at your mercy, he’s sure. inwardly, he tells himself he’s going to stop letting you do this to him. he’s going to stop letting you push him to the brink of death and only bring him back to make him show you what the pinnacle of pleasure feels like. moonlight reflects on the surface of gleaming silver as you grip the intricately carved hilt in a tight fist. you smirk down at him, watching him writhe underneath you with delight as he strains to buck his hips again, begging for more friction, the head of his thick cock weeping for attention and searching for something to sink all the way into. you keep yourself mounted on him, lazily rocking to let him feel just how wet you are. satoru does feel it and he aches for you, twitching involuntarily as he tries desperately to find something for himself to grind into. his breathing is erratic and broken; he’s so close to begging you to slide down on it. all the way. no more teasing. right now he thinks he’ll die from the need alone. and when you drag the tip of a knife along the seam of his neck, his breath hitches. he feels the bead of pre that gathers spill over the head of his cock, sensitive to every sensation, even the cool air that brushes against his soft and flushed body, exposed and constrained by you. "what if i carve my name right...here? not enough to kill you, just enough to ruin you for anyone else." you say, dragging the spired weapon along his throat, the sting of a cut only familiar to him at your hands. breathing strained and chest heaving, satoru asks, “y-you think no one will want me after you?" "no, i just don't think you'll ever want anyone else." a smirk as he hisses at the sensation of it piercing skin and puncturing flesh. "i figured out something interesting about the strongest...he's desperate to be a masochist. you want so badly to feel pain but no one's been able to touch you until me. isn’t that right?” all of it goes right to his head: the blood in his body, the pride of your words, the indignity he feels flustered by. satoru can’t help the wet, pathetic moan he lets out followed by the shaky plea. “p-please, baby. please. i-i…”

“the answer is probably no.” you tell him, the tip of your dagger scratching down the middle of his chest. “baby, you are a little foolish. you do know one of these days i’ll actually kill you, don’t you?” satoru’s whimpers shape into pants, overwhelmed by both his arousal and his shame as ropes of cum sputter messily from the head of his cock to his tummy and between your thighs, smeared into the seam of your cunt from your movements.

he's dragged to bliss by your threats and a knife to his throat — all of it sounding like a promise to see each other again.

© 2024 venusiansilk. all rights reserved.

[inun4ki]

lift

'reasons to cup a face' prompts / accepting

"Ah, maybe I was a little too careless," Kaede murmured to himself.

Careful fingers swept over the edge of a chipped blade, scrutinizing gaze catching on superficial scratches, the slight bend at the tip, blunted edge...

He let out a sigh, pursing his lips, and dropped his arm, pressing the little knife against his whetstone and slowly, methodically beginning to drag it across. This wasn't the first nor would it be the last of his tending, idly sharpening damaged weapons in the hopes that his next trip to some backwater hellhole would prove easier than the last - at the very least. He was as unwilling as any to play at being curse-food, or to be possessed of broken, useless tools in any scenario that could result in an untimely end - or timely, depending on who one asks.

The silence was comfortable, little more than the scrape of metal against stone filling his ears - and, perhaps, the occasional and obviously bored puffs of air coming from Gojo to break the monotony. Admittedly, it was nice having someone else in the room - nice having company. Pleasant, even, despite the intermittent interruption of his concentration. That is to say, he didn't mind at all, content to simply be in the absence of work, special orders, and the like.

He often thought of moments such as these as times to catch up, even though he rarely ever did much talking. Opening his mouth was a double-edged sword - nothing good came out, friendly compliments twisting into petty teases, playfulness morphing into awkward (and stupid) displays of social ineptitude, embarrassment consistently reigning supreme over intention... But every once in a while, he was afforded the opportunity not to come across as a complete and utter fool - like now, in the warm afternoon light where idle hands could occupy themselves and the need for conversation wouldn't pervade. Quiet times to get caught up on that which needed it, be it meticulously guiding a blade across stone or hanging out with...well, a coworker. He didn't really know what to call Gojo, but that was neither here nor there, he supposed.

"Think if I can work out the kinks, it'll do better next time," he said, once more to himself, gaze fixing on a divot along the knife-edge. More effort than a mere few minutes of work would be required, and he was really quite lucky he'd been able to manage thus far, a cool tingle at his fingertips as cursed energy bled into the blade. Folding, compressing, filling, until at last it would again be optimally useful should he find himself entrenched in the worst possible scenario - as had so often come to pass. Still, for a moment, he set his knife aside, flexing his hands and rolling his wrists in an effort to work out any stiffness or soreness. "Nothing like a good knife to change the tide in combat - provided it's properly cared for. I'm not eager to meet death, after all."

He drew his knee up and pressed his cheek into the cap, long hair spooling over his shoulder as a faint breeze fluttered in through the open window. Rubbing his palms, massaging small muscles, he'd become too focused to notice the footsteps tacitly pounding into the hardwood, drawing ever closer. In fact, he'd already picked the knife up again when a shadow was cast, looming over him - but he'd thought a passing cloud had been responsible, writing it off as something natural altogether. He shifted again, folding his other leg in a half-formed criss-cross, but his knife wouldn't again touch the whetstone.

Instead, it loudly clattered to the floor.

Long fingers brushed against his cheek where others hooked underneath his chin, steadily yet insistantly guiding his head upward and off his knee - to look up - warm yet cold all at once, as if clammy from having been balled up for too long. At first, he was surprised, breath catching in his throat from the contact alone, but such was made doubly worse when he couldn't parse the expression Gojo was making. Masked placidity, teasing, a playful edge to something he simply couldn't fathom, too many unknowns wrapped up in one pale face framed in black cloth and white hair-- He nearly recoiled, some small part of him only too happy to almost lean into the touch, twin cornflowers wide open with confusion, curiosity, and the vague need to run the fuck away.

Why was he so close? Why was he touching him, lifting his head, gently urging him to look up and pay attention? Had he missed something, tuned him out and accidentally ignored anything he said? Did Gojo say anything...? Did it even matter? It wasn't as if he could conceal the warmth bitterly staining his skin with shades of pink, nor the miserably transparent quiver of his lip as he gnawed into it, praying to whatever gods may exist that he would not be called out on the storm suddenly overtaking his mind, or the boyish gasp that'd escaped him long before he could regain the wherewithall to choke it down.

"A-ara, Gojo-senpai...? Is there something on my face? Or did you say something...? I-I apologize if you think I've been ignoring you," he rasped softly, blinking in quick succession as one hand rose to cautiously slip around Gojo's wrist. He didn't push nor pull, resist nor encourage, arrested by the proximity. Enough thought whirled through his head to put event he most anxiously thoughtful mind to shame, all in a vain attempt to make sense of what was happening, deconstruct it and piece it all back together. But there were no adequate explanations, no silly excuses he could handwave away - just a persistent enough touch and an imperceptible smile.

Glancing away, he swallowed thinly, free hand tucking a lock of his hair behind an ear. He was nervous.

"Even though I'm not particularly kind to you, you would still... and gently...?"

[oscars-dumbass-central]

Chapter Eighteen: And I thought that I maybe should wait to tell you that I like you // But I don’t have much time to lose

Martyn’s head felt like it was filled with cotton as he opened his eyes and immediately regretted it as the overly bright light filled his vision. Fuck, what the hels was going on? Groaning, he pressed his hands against his head and forced himself up to his feet, tightly gripping the cold metal table next to him.

Words: 1739

( Masterpost | Chapter One | Chapter Seventeen )

Martyn’s head felt like it was filled with cotton as he opened his eyes and immediately regretted it as the overly bright light filled his vision. Fuck, what the hels was going on? Groaning, he pressed his hands against his head and forced himself up to his feet, tightly gripping the cold metal table next to him. As he finally started looking around the room he jumped hearing a loud shout from outside of the far too-cramped room. 

“What’s going on?” He glanced over to Skizz who held what might’ve been a bone saw who hadn’t noticed that he was awake just yet. 

His face lit up when he saw him standing, “Martyn! You’re awake!” 

“Yeah yeah, I figured that on my own,” he rolled his eyes and hissed in pain as he leant against the wall with a heavily bruised shoulder. “But like”— he gestured to the door and the commotion happening outside —“what’s going on out there?” 

“No clue,” Skizz edged a half-step closer to the door which seemed to loom over all of them like some dark spectre haunting them. “I think the Circus is getting attacked.” 

“Wait.” 

“What?” 

“I got nabbed by the fucking Circus?” He could’ve almost laughed, this whole situation was so fucked, “We’re dead! We’re fucking dead!” 

“Martyn—”

“We aren’t getting out of here!” 

“Martyn,” Skizz repeated, his hand pressing down on his shoulder heavily. “I don’t know what’s going on out there, but something tells me that whoever is out there is on our side and that we’re gonna get out of this.” 

Breathing quietly, Martyn closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Skizz’s, “We got this.” 

“When do we not?” 

.

Staring down at the crumpled body at his feet, he breathed in and out slowly, focusing on the roar of the crowd and the promises that it brought him. He focused on what was waiting for him just around the corner, but still the sight of the blood-stained sand and the broken and bent body was what drilled into his eyes. 

Their right arm was missing, just a burnt broken stump left, their left bent halfway down the forearm at too sharp of an angle. They were almost folded in half, the sword which entered between their ribs stuck into one of their thighs. 

He didn’t bother to try and remove it, the sharp spikes on the blade would’ve made it near impossible anyways. So with a small nod of apology— small enough to avoid note from those watching the scene play out —he turned on his heel and stalked out of the arena, blood sticking to his clothing and skin and soul. 

So he retreated, to the safety of numbness which welcomed him with open arms and a needle sliding under his skin. 

.

Jimmy’s boots pounded against the cold metal floors of the hallways which seemed to stretch on forever, winding and overlapping and all looking the exact fucking same. His breathing was laboured and heavy as he continued to run, ignoring the throbbing pain in his shoulder and the blood which stung in his eye. 

He heard shouting behind him and turned around in just enough time to dodge a knife thrown at him. Sliding on his knees he drew his rifle and shot down one of them before he even lined up the sights. Another fell within a heartbeat’s worth of time. As the third man ducked around a corner he swore under his breath as the bullet clipped the edge of the concrete wall. 

“Patience, just give it some time,” he murmured under his breath, crouching down and focusing on the chipped wall. He could wait all day if that man was insistent on it. 

And, just as predicted, the man leant around the corner, his gun drawn and aiming for where Jimmy had been a moment before. The man’s shot went wild and slammed into the ceiling as he fell, the bullet ripping through his throat and spraying blood on the dull grey walls. 

He stood, pulling the strap of his rifle around until it sat against his back right between his wings. Looking around the hallways one last time he headed off further into the compound. He would find Martyn, he had to find him. 

.

“Don’t rush me,” Martyn glared at Skizz who took an awkward step away from him, finally giving him enough room to work the lock. “These things are annoyingly precise,” the wire shook in his hand but he commanded it to be still as he got the next few notches in place. 

Skizz went to ask something— probably how long this would take —when he was cut off by the satisfying click of the lock and the door swinging a hair’s breadth open. 

“That’s the great thing about these old fashioned locks,” His smile was full of teeth, “Fucking easy to open compared to the techy ones.” 

“Why did you even learn to pick locks?” Skizz shook his head, handing Martyn a length of metal pipe he’d managed to break off the wall. 

Shrugging, Martyn pulled open the door and stepped to the deserted corridor, bright flashing red lights overhead, “Place I grew up in didn’t have tech locks and you kinda need to be able to pick a lock to rob someone.” 

“Oh, right, I forgot about that.” 

As the two of them continued down the corridor, makeshift weapons held tightly they glanced down every near-identical hallway bathed in deep red lights. Far off in the distance they could hear yelling and the occasional gunshot, glancing over at Skizz he nodded towards the sound and was met with a similar nod. The only sound as they walked further towards whatever was going on was their breathing, uneven and heavy. Martyn tried to breathe quietly, but he found himself taking short and shallow breaths while Skizz seemed to struggle with each inhale any deep ones leaving him flinching. He tried to hide the pain, but no-one had ever congratulated him on his acting. 

Before Martyn had started asking if he was okay, they were cut off by frantic footsteps much closer than they had earlier. He slid a foot back, the heavy lead pipe down low as he crouched between the turn in the hallway and Skizz who stood behind him. He said something quiet under his breath, but all Martyn could hear were the footsteps coming closer and closer until suddenly someone burst into the hallway slamming against the opposite wall as they turned sharply. 

Adjusting the swing of the pipe, Martyn turned and hit the Circus member with all the force he had. Their head crunched as they collapsed onto the floor, blood and brain splattering on the already far-too stained metal floor. “I almost hit you,” he spoke quietly, turning to face Jimmy who was leaning heavily against the wall, chest heaving. 

“Good thing you didn’t, cause last time I checked you were rather fond of my face,” Jimmy smiled, “Wouldn’t want to ruin it.” 

“I almost hit you,” he repeated even softer than before, but then he shifted the shock and worry disappearing underneath the mild annoyance he always seemed to display. “Why the fuck are you here?” 

The smile wide on Jimmy’s face vanished, “I’m saving you, you fucking idiot,” he reached out and grabbed Martyn’s wrist with a quick squeeze, “Now let’s get out of this place, okay?” 

“Wait, Jimmy?” Skizz interrupted, stepping closer to them, “You two know each other?” 

“Skizz?” Jimmy blinked a few times, almost making sure what he was seeing was real. He looked at Skizz closer, something shifting in his expression as he saw his singular wing. “We are getting out of here, now,” he added the last word as he stared at Martyn. 

Martyn didn’t respond, but also didn’t protest as Jimmy began dragging him through the tunnels past the slumped bodies of more Circus workers. The three of them kept a steady pace through the tunnels only light by dim emergency lighting— and the occasional small fire —Skizz lingering at the back of the group and glancing back every could of seconds while Jimmy confidently navigated his way through the identical tunnels back to the entrance.

“How do you know where to go?” Skizz asked, catching up a couple steps closer to him. 

Shrugging, Jimmy looked back at him. “Following the bodies I left on my way to you guys.” 

“Oh.” 

.

They were close to the entrance, Jimmy could almost see the light from street lamps and neon signs pouring in through the door that had been ripped off its hinges. Hope blossomed in his chest like a flower reaching out into warm, bright sunlight. But it withered as soon as it appeared, as soon as a bullet embedded itself in the floor an inch from his feet. Turning around his breath caught in his throat as he saw who was there. Half a dozen people stood there, one of them held a gun loosely like it was a decoration on her perfectly pressed outfit and the rest had a mishmash of different weapons— swords, metal bats, someone had a set of throwing knives. 

“If you come back now we can find you good places to send you,” the woman standing at the front of the group said, her gun lazily pointing towards the ground in a show of false peace. “If not then maybe we send you to some rather eccentric researchers,” she shrugged, “It’s all up to you.” 

Martyn looked down at Jimmy who was still staring in shock at the people standing there, squeezing his hand gently he got him to look up. Leaning in he kissed him softly, just a brush of lips, “I love you.” 

“I— Martyn…” he trailed off, not fighting as Martyn’s hand slipped out his grip. “Don’t, please.” 

“Get him out of here, okay?” He asked Skizz who nodded quietly in return. 

“Martyn, please,” Jimmy took a step forward, but was stopped by Skizz’s heavy hand on his shoulder, “Please, don’t do this,” his voice broke, tears welling up in his eyes. But before he could ask again, Skizz was dragging him off and he was stumbling to catch up not wanting to look back, not wanting to know just what was causing the horrible noises behind him. 

He only realised he didn’t say that he loved him too when they were already halfway to the next system. 

[prometheusinitiative]

[2/4] Chapter 4 Execution | ANGER

Wren blinks, staring at the now-empty bedroll, now neatly made as if never occupied to begin with. Rus’s scarf and pendant are folded neatly in its center, the newspaper clipping of his death held in place by a perfectly round stone. 

With what little remains of himself, he screams.

Death is kinder than this. 

The vengeful sound echoes into the twilight for the world to hear. The earth rumbles and shakes each time he slams his fist into the ground, his grief a knife that rends every part of him into unrecognizable shreds. 

Every part of him bleeds, and when all Wren can muster with the last of his strength is a sob that leaves his throat like the thorns that seized him from before, the first trace of regret etches itself into his heart.

Love is a double-edged sword. We’ll both suffer for it.

A hand goes to his broken arm to hold it in place as he waits for the unseen, impending presence to finally reveal itself in a place where there’s nowhere to hide. 

What do you think will happen if you keep it drawn?

Royce, wherever he is watching from, waits patiently for an answer.

No sound comes when Wren initially tries to speak, only a quiet hiss between his teeth. When the silence around him persists, he tries again: “Sooner or later, someone is going to get cut.”

An eternity seems to pass as he waits for a response, no indication if the answer was correct, satisfactory, or anything that would pull a reaction at all. 

Flecks of sand scratch against Wren’s hands as the hot wind meets his face, sweeping his attention toward a faint light in the distance, a single flicker of inviting warmth against the barren wilderness crowning a steep hill.

Wren dreads. Wren hopes.

The fingers of his good hand reach out to brush along the flowering branches of dry creosote bushes and other scrub grass as he wanders toward it, completely undisturbed along the way until he scales the hill, calves burning by the time he reaches the crackling campfire waiting at the top. The same thorny tendrils holding him in place as Morph’s domain collapsed urge him away from the edge of the slope as he catches his breath. 

There is no unspeakable horror waiting for Wren as he staggers closer on legs that threaten to give way at any moment, no towering cryptic that seeks to acquaint him with the end of all things— only the realization that he’s closer to the stars than he’s ever been before.

Instead, there is only a man in a plain white shirt and a bulletproof vest who stares into the valley below and the great wall that surrounds a town lost to time. There isn’t a single light to be seen among the dozens of buildings inside, no flicker of lamps… But in the darkness, something shuffles about and scratches through sand and gravel roads, searching.

Wren’s heart pounds. He fails to find words. 

Royce glances wordlessly over his shoulder before his eyes fall to a roasting pot of coffee and skewered prickly pear fruit, an invitation. 

Embers leave the fire in excited whispers, clustering around each other until they take form as gangly desert hares that tear off down the hill and illuminate the field of evening primrose blooming in the valley below. Each one is a thought, a dream, a spark of hope; overlapping voices that have gone away, gone away, gone away:

—the name is j̶u̶p̸i̶t̵e̸r̶, from the galaxy, i c̶a̴m̷e̸ ̸t̴o̴ ̷m̸e̴e̶t̷ ̸you, to make you free—it hurts—t̷a̴k̸e̷ ̴c̸a̵r̷e̵ ̵of yourself, for you cannot help anyone if you are run ragged—why?—i just w̵a̶n̸t̴ ̵m̶y̸ ̴f̷r̸i̴e̷n̸d̷ ̴to stay—maybe losing it hurts s̷o̴ ̸m̵u̵c̶h̷ ̶because having it is so wonderful—you’re more useful alive than dead, okay?—p̴l̵e̶a̷s̷e̵ ̷don’t hurt her—get down tonight, woo!—to a p̸l̸a̷c̷e̴ ̴b̸e̸h̵i̶n̷d̸ ̵the sun—i don’t want anyone botherin’ ‘em ‘bout me—there is a man on the board who killed his own son, s̸o̵m̷e̸o̴n̴e̵ ̶i̶ ̸l̸o̴v̷e̴d̵—losing him felt like the sky had crashed upon me—part of me m̶i̴s̵s̸e̸s̷ ̵you all—t̴e̸l̶l̵ ̴me about him—then why didn’t you die?—if i kept it all up, n̶o̷b̵o̸d̵y̴ ̴w̶o̷u̷l̸d̶ ̸k̸n̵o̵w̶ ̷me—everything hurts—will you m̶a̶r̷r̵y̵ ̷m̷e̵?—e-en. en…!—i just want to create, i want to l̸e̶a̷r̴n̵, i want to do, i want to see!—i’m getting you the nicest fuckin’ tape player i can find—so whatever is in that box… as m̷u̸c̸h̴ ̶a̶s̷ ̸i miss her—goodnight, kid—you m̵a̵k̸e̵ ̶m̸e̵ ̶h̴a̶p̴p̸y̸, even if we’ve only just met—there’s no trace (tell my h̴e̷a̷r̵t̴)—i will cry for you—i don’t, haha, know w̴h̶a̶t̵ ̸t̷o̶ ̶do with myself when i don’t feel scared—he got hurt a̷g̷a̴i̵n̴ ̴because of me—what if they see?—everyone saw it—so i’ll just live my life of d̵r̴e̷a̴m̴s̵ ̵of yesterday—zion went to h̸e̷a̶v̶e̶n̸—now paint a pair of eyes, let’s watch as it dries—but it’s special to me, so i t̴h̸o̷u̴g̸h̶t̷ ̶m̶a̴y̴b̷e̶ ̸it’d be special to you too—i’m afraid of the way that i live my life, i’m afraid of the way i don’t—my h̷a̶t̶r̷e̴d̷ ̴t̷u̶r̸n̵e̷d̸ ̶t̸o̵ ̶p̷i̴t̶y̶, my resentment blossomed flowers—it hurt because it m̷e̵a̸n̵t̶ ̵something—even though i only knew you for a little while—no more jumping in the water, okay?—because i thought it was my o̴n̸l̵y̸ ̸c̶h̷a̶n̷c̵e̶—just because i didn’t get to do any of those things or get what i wanted—is she s̸a̶f̴e̷?—i wanted to walk a trail with no end in sight—but we just met—the d̷i̵s̷o̵b̵e̴d̸i̶e̸n̶c̴e̴ ̴that holds us together—s̷o̵m̷e̸o̸n̴e̸ ̷who’s worth hell—then why do you get to t̶a̴k̷e̸ ̷someone i love?—

Each one erupts in another cloud of sparks that fizzle up into the air toward the stars. Thundering silence follows.

Royce waits.

[theboxfort]

Pink your sword collection is menacing

I like weapons and violemce >:3cc

Also, don't hold a sword like that, that's dangerous.

[bitsandbobsofwriting]

Another Warlock?

Leon cries a lot, Merlin is protective, and Arthur has to confront the cruelty of his Kingdom’s justice system.

To say that Gaius was surprised when Sir Leon burst into the Physician’s chambers late one evening, pale and sweaty and shaking, one hand shielding his eyes and one hand supporting himself on the door frame, would be a VAST understatement.

He goes to rush forward, not able to recall a single time he’s ever seen the normally incredibly put together man look so shaken, but the way Leon almost falls back in his effort to keep his distance stops him in his tracks.

His breathing is deep and dangerously fast, but before Gaius can call for help or demand the knight tell him what’s wrong, his voice comes out, rushed and cracking and desperate:

“Merlin?? Gaius, where’s Merlin, I... I need Merlin.”

In his shock, both at Leon’s whole terrified demeanour, and the tears he can now see dripping down the other man’s cheeks, he answers without thinking:

“At this time he’ll be in The King’s chambers. My boy are you sure there’s nothing I can-”

Before the physician can finish, Leon bolts from the room, the door swinging shut behind him as he stumbles his way down the corridor as quickly as he can, thinking of nothing but how much he needs Merlin.

His brain fails to make the connection between “The King’s chambers” and “Arthur”, and the knight sprints through the halls, bruising shoulders and elbows on doorframes as his sight is blurred by tears and a shaking hand.

Gaius considers following to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself, but the man is very private, the type to never share his troubles. The physician decides to check in on Arthur’s chambers in a candle mark or so, just to make sure that no one needs any treatment or enforced bedrest; he settles back onto the bench, resuming his previous task with half his mind focused on how terrified Sir Leon had looked, and trying not to worry too much.

~

Arthur was sat at his desk, forehead resting on his hand as he tried to force himself into reading just one more page of the month’s food inventory report. It was boring stuff, but he was King, this had to be done. Uther had never bothered, but Arthur’s head had been filled with ideas on how to better redistribute food since long before he became King, so he never gave up an opportunity to double-check the reports.

Merlin was settled at his dining table across the room, carefully polishing each of Arthur’s many blades. His sword was the first to be done, but Arthur had rather pettily demanded that Merlin also see to the various daggers and knives that The King usually kept hidden around his room, despite the fact that none of the had been used in the three months since Merlin had last cleaned them.

Frankly, Arthur had started to find Merlin’s quiet grumbling a pleasant background noise; he always seemed to be able to concentrate better when in the other man’s presence. Despite Arthur’s boredom and headache, and Merlin’s exhaustion and aching hands, there’s nowhere else either of them would rather be.

The King had just about given up on getting anymore work done; it was late, and he had to give in to the idea that his headache was only going to get worse, so he organised the papers into rough piles on the desk and lent back in his chair, hands folded in his lap as he blinks up at the ceiling. He looks down just in time to make eye contact with Merlin, and he returns the man’s soft smile before he can stop himself.

Merlin raises an eyebrow, almost certainly about to say something scathing about Arthur’s Kingly Mask slipping in the evening, but before he can utter even a word, the main door slams open with a crash, bouncing off the wall loudly.

Arthur stands quickly, tensing when he realises that the sword normally hidden under his desk is currently on the other side of the room with Merlin. The servant already has a dagger expertly held in one of his hands as he moves around the table to see who had burst in, and Arthur makes a mental note to make sure Merlin knows how to use it properly at later date.

The King goes to rush around the desk, but a sharp intake of breath from Merlin as he drops the knife on the table and holds a firm hand out to him, undoubtedly telling him to stay where he is, stops him in his tracks. Arthur trusts Merlin, despite not being able to see whoever it was that had practically broken the door down.

Arthur blinks in surprise when he sees an unarmoured Leon stumble round the corner, hand over his eyes and shaking as he calls Merlin’s name, his voice cracking as tears stream down his pale cheeks. Arthur gulps and goes to move towards him, but finds himself frozen when Leon collapses to his knees, both hands now clamped tightly over his eyes as his sobs become audible. Merlin rushes to him, falling to the floor in front of the knight and taking his wrists in soft hands, not even bothering to look to Arthur as he focuses all of his attention on the distraught man.

“Leon? Leon you need to tell me what’s wrong, I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Arthur marvels at the way Merlin’s voice wavers only slightly, though quickly reminds himself that the now fully-fledged physician was used to dealing with panicking patients, it’s just Leon that he’s not used to panicking.

Leon’s breathing is deep and uneven, and Merlin moves one of his hands to the back of the knight’s head as he stutters out a frantic:

“Merlin, I... please- I need help... please make it stop, I don’t- I don’t know how to make it stop, please.”

Merlin frowns, trying to calm his own breathing as he runs his desperate gaze over the knight’s body, trying to figure out what was wrong, but it’s Arthur’s sharp gasp and muttered "what the fuck...” that has him look up.

What he sees makes it decidedly harder to keep calm.

The pillow that Arthur had thrown at him that morning was floating a few feet off the ground, as was a vase of flowers by the (thankfully swung shut) door. The flames in the lit hearth were colourful and jumping, filling with odd shapes and seeming to shiver in time with Leon’s panicked wheezing, and the curtains were shaking in a wind that wasn’t there.

Merlin gulps and curses to himself quietly before looking back down to Leon, grabbing his wrists and trying to pry his hands away from his eyes:

“Leon, I need you to look at me. Everything’s going to be ok, but I need you to look at me right now.”

Arthur is still frozen in place, hand twitching by his hip as he subconsciously reaches for his absent sword. 

Merlin still ignores him, rubbing his thumbs over Leon’s wrists softly as he carefully pulls his hands forward. Leon finally gives in, letting Merlin hold his hands close to his chest, shutting his eyes tightly and struggling to draw breath:

“Open your eyes, Leon. I promise that you're safe, ok? I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you, but I need to see.”

Leon shakes his head slightly and whimpers, and Merlin glances over the knight’s shoulder as a loud pop sounds from the fire. The servant moves one of his hands back to Leon’s hair, stroking slightly as he asks him to open his eyes again, trying to keep his voice soft even in his panic. The older man finally complies, and Merlin clenches his jaw to stop himself from gasping at the gold of Leon’s irises.

Merlin glances behind him briefly, but is grateful to see Arthur’s bewildered gaze focused on the floating pillow rather than Leon, and looks back to him with a soft smile on his face, laying the knight’s hand flat over his chest as he speaks:

“I need you to calm down, ok? Everything’s going to be ok, there’s nothing wrong with you, and I won’t let anyone come anywhere near you. We’ll figure it out, but I need you to take deep breaths ok? Can you manage that?-”

Leon nods slightly, leaning forward and pressing his hand into Merlin’s chest as he pushes his forehead into the servant’s shoulder. His breathing slows slightly, and Merlin is grateful to feel the hitches in his breath grow less erratic:

“-That’s it, just one breath after another, ok? You’re absolutely fine, Leon, I’ll keep you safe, just breathe.”

It takes a few minutes of Merlin’s soft words and quiet encouragement, but he’s grateful to see the fire die down to a normal size, the curtains stilling, and everything that had been floating drop to the floor. He’s relieved when the vase lands softly, knowing that a loud crash at this point would probably just set the shaking knight off again.

Though he definitely tenses at Arthur’s outburst:

“What the fuck?!”

Leon falls back onto his hands, scrambling back and staring in terror over Merlin’s shoulder towards the befuddled King. Arthur recoils slightly at the fear on Leon's face, but before he can react, Merlin jumps up, leaping forward to grab Arthur’s sword from the table and twirling it expertly in his hand as he moves in to a defensive position in front of Leon’s still-cowering form:

“I won’t let you hurt him, Arthur. You'd have to kill me before I let you lay a hand on him.”

Leon stands on shaky legs, desperate to stop Merlin from putting himself in any danger, but his fear stops him from doing anything other than grip the back of the servant’s tunic in shivering hands. Arthur just looks even more confused, his wide-eyed stare moving between the terrified knight and angry servant:

“What are you talking about?? Will one of you please tell me what just happened?!”

Leon sniffles quietly, tugging on Merlin’s shirt lightly, but Merlin just holds a hand out to the side, gesturing for Leon to stay behind him and keep quiet as he strengthens the grip on his sword:

“It would seem, Sire, that Leon was born with a touch of magic, and it’s just made its first appearance. Like I said, You’d have to kill me before I let you hurt him just for existing.”

Arthur takes in a sharp breath and Leon whimpers slightly, but Merlin just squares his shoulders even more and adjusts his grip, glancing to the other weapons on the table. He knows he probably couldn’t take Arthur in a swordfight, but he rapidly comes to the conclusion that he would happily out his own magic if it was the only way to protect his friend.

Arthur holds his hands out placatingly, but doesn’t make any moves towards the table or Merlin and Leon, speaking slowly, despite the clear worry and suspicion in his voice:

“Merlin, you can’t be born with magic. So just explain what’s happening, the truth this time. If he’s been cursed or something, then we’ll fix it, no one’s going to hurt him.”

Merlin snarls slightly. Before, when Arthur’s backwards views and misunderstandings about magic had just affected him, it just made him sad. Now they were putting Leon in danger, doing nothing but making his friend even more scared, he found that they made him angry:

“With all due resect, Arthur, are you really going to trust whatever shit Uther told you about magic?? Has it never occurred to you that any and all information on sorcery in this Godforsaken Kingdom is censored, or just straight up wrong? I’m telling you, it is entirely possible to be born with magic.”

Arthur’s expression morphs to one of anger, and Leon pulls on Merlin’s tunic again, trying to get him to step back. The servant just reaches behind him, squeezing Leon’s wrist briefly and holding his position as Arthur grinds out:

“Magic is evil, Merlin, it corrupts.”

Merlin just rolls his eyes harshly, tightening his grip on the sword once again as he argues:

“Yeah? Well this magic has been inside Leon his entire life. Do you think it possible to be born evil? Do you think Leon was born evil? Do you think he’s been evil all his life and just not known it? Or do you think he suddenly, a few minutes ago when his magic first manifested itself, made the switch from good to evil? Look at him, Arthur,-”

Merlin steps to the side slightly, gesturing vaguely at an almost-hyperventilating, still-crying Leon behind him:

“-he’s fucking terrified because his head has been filled with lies and he thinks one of his closest friends is going to strap him to a pyre just for existing. At which point I feel the need to remind you that if you want to burn Leon, you’re going to have to burn me right alongside him.”

Leon’s teary eyes widen and he tugs on Merlin’s shirt again, his voice quiet and cracking:

“Merlin, no, you can’t-”

Merlin shakes his head, not looking away from the shocked King as he strongly says:

“I can, and I will. I promised you I would keep you safe, and that’s what I intend to do. I think it’s time Arthur learns the truth.”

Arthur is taken aback at Merlin’s protectiveness at first, but quickly bristles at his words, tensing and narrowing his eyes as he says:

“And how would you know all about magic, Merlin, you’ve never seemed to take an interest in it before, never bothered correcting me before.”

Merlin looks at The King like he’s an idiot, eyebrows raised and mouth open, freezing like that for a moment of two before he speaks incredulously:

“Are you serious?? I grew up outside of Camelot, where accurate information about magic is far more readily available. I know a hell of a lot more about sorcery than you, I just don’t talk about it because your head is full of lies and you’re a stubborn prat.”

Arthur takes in a deep breath, his face falling into a worrying mix of confusion and sadness. His eyes dart around slightly and his hands twitch as he thinks, obviously trying to come to some sort of conclusion that makes sense in his head.

He looks up suddenly, freezing once again as he stares at Leon, only just now seeming to notice how terrified he looks. How terrified Leon, the only swordsman Arthur has ever met who can consistently beat him, one of his closest friends and most trust advisors, a man seven years his senior who had always supported him and offered advice... how terrified that man looks. Of Arthur.

Merlin relaxes his posture slightly, lowering the sword as he stares at Arthur with a slight suspicious frown on his face. Leon breaks Arthur’s stare, gaze darting to the weapons on the table before he glances briefly to the door.

Arthur’s face falls even further, looking just a tad horrified that Leon thought Arthur was going to attack him, that Leon though he might have to make a run for it. The King finally looks over to Merlin, his eyes wide and tears gathering as he takes a staggered step back, his voice barely above a whisper:

“How... how was my father so....”

His words trail off and Merlin lowers his sword fully, letting out a gentle huff of air as he raises a mournful eyebrow:

“Wrong?”

Arthur nods, and Merlin takes in a deep breath, sighing as he tries to decide just how truthful to be:

“Magic... magic killed his wife. He ignored the warnings, didn’t consider the consequences, and was blinded by fear and hatred and a need for revenge, a need for someone to blame.”

Leon takes in a surprised breath at the same time as Arthur, and The King takes another step back, leaning tiredly against his desk as he stares at the floor, muttering:

“The apparition of my mother was real, then?”

Merlin shakes his head, taking a step towards him but still keeping his distance, hyper aware of Leon still stood behind him:

“I don’t know whether the apparition was real or fake, but it... it was telling the truth, I think.”

Arthur nods absent-mindedly, frowning at his feet for a few moments, the silence heavy and tense on everyone’s shoulders. Merlin can’t help but feel a spark of hope in his chest; was this it?? Was this when things changed?

The King looks up again, hands clenched tightly and tears still gathering in his eyes as he stares at Merlin:

“Merlin... how many- if people can be born with magic, if it isn’t actually evil, if it just... is, how many... how many innocent people have died, have been hunted, burned?-”

Arthur takes a few steps towards his friends, letting out an incredulous, almost manic laugh as he runs his hands through his hair roughly:

“-How many innocent people have I killed, just for existing?”

Merlin sighs and shakes his head, finally dropping the sword back onto the table and closing the gap between the two of them, putting a strong hand on The King’s shoulder:

“You can’t think like that, Arthur, you were just following orders, you didn’t know any better.”

Arthur meets Merlin’s gaze, rapidly blinking away the tears as he mumbles:

“You managed, Leon evidently managed.”

Merlin frowns again and shakes his head, looking back to Leon in confusion:

“Hmm. I grew up outside of Camelot, remember. Leon however... the magic inside Witches and Warlocks tends to manifest in the teen years. I mean, it can happen earlier or later, but you’re, what? Thirty?”

Leon gives him a weak smile and raises an eyebrow:

“Thirty-five.”

Merlin’s frown just deepens as he looks Leon up and down. The knight drops his smile and gulps, not understanding the problem as Arthur sidesteps the servant:

“Witches and Warlocks?”

Merlin hums absent-mindedly, still staring at Leon:

“People with natural, instinctive magic. Sorcerers and sorceresses are people who study it, they’re taught it from scratch, like you were taught how to use a sword. Witches and Warlocks are born with an innate ability.”

Arthur nods, but finally notices Merlin’s confused stare and Leon’s uneasy frown:

“What is it, Merlin? Is Leon... ok?”

Merlin shakes himself out of his stupor, blinking in surprise and looking between the two concerned men:

“Oh! Yeah, I’m just... why now?? For your first outburst, that was pretty weak, especially considering how freaked out you were, so you obviously don’t have all that much natural magic, so why did it take an extra twenty years to make itself known?”

Leon just shrugs his shoulders slightly but Arthur blinks his eyes in surprise and steps away slightly:

“You really do know a lot about magic, don’t you?”

Merlin nods again, looking just a little embarrassed as he shrugs and runs a hand through his hair before turning back to Leon and pushing him to sit at the table. Merlin sits next to him, twisting in his chair slightly to face the still tense knight, and Arthur sits slowly opposite him, clearly waiting for some sort of explanation or... something. 

Merlin continues to stare at Leon, evidently trying to figure something out, and he takes a deep breath before slowly mumbling:

“Something must’ve changed.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow, gesturing vaguely for Merlin to continue:

“I mean... magic has strict rules, even seemingly random instinctive magic works in specific ways. There has to be a reason that yours has suddenly decided to come out and play. So... what changed? Why did your magic stop hiding?”

Leon scoffs slightly and sits back in his chair, all of a sudden realising how tired he is but still being unable to untense:

“I... you talk about... magic, as if it’s sentient.”

Merlin smiles slightly, fondly almost:

“It is, in a way. Not so much for regular sorcerers, but for people with instinctive magic, you don’t... control it, you ask it, you work with it. It will react to your needs and wants and emotions, it’s part of you, but it’s also... separate. It will try and protect you and the people you care about, without you even realising sometimes. Maybe... maybe that’s what happened.”

Leon fiddles with his hands in his lap roughly, picking the skin at his nails as he gulps:

“What do you mean, maybe what happened?”

Merlin smiles, taking Leon’s hands in his own and raising a disapproving eyebrow at the blood just started to seep through old scabs:

“Maybe it was protecting you, keeping you safe. Held itself inside until... I don’t know, it was safer?”

Arthur finally pipes in then, interrupting Merlin’s verbalised stream of thought:

“But it wasn’t. Granted, I haven’t executed many people, but I’ve been King for years, and up until five minutes ago I was still under the impression that magic was evil.”

Merlin shook his head:

“No, not safety from you... safety from Leon.-”

Leon recoils slightly and Arthur frowns in confusion:

“-Something about you changed. Your... views on magic?”

Merlin tilts his head as he says it, obviously asking, and the knight bites his lip, gaze darting between the two men nervously. Arthur just gives him a smile and nods encouragingly. Leon shuffles in his seat uncomfortably, not making eye contact with either of them as he quietly speaks:

“A few months ago I... saw someone do magic, in the castle. I was angry at first, but it seemed so... innocent. It didn’t hurt anyone, it had no consequence, it was just... it looked natural.”

The knight finally looks up again and Merlin nods knowingly, making a mental note to find out who was stupid enough to use magic in the-

...

He notices the pointed way Leon is looking at him, and he scraps that mental note in favour of making a new one, reminding himself to thank Leon later for not immediately killing him.

Merlin bites his lip and Leon rolls his eyes slightly, but before either of them can say anything, Arthur leans across the table, patting Leon on the shoulder comfortingly before sitting back and nodding to himself. He clears his throat and bites his lip as the two of them look to him nervously:

“I’m... curious. Of all people.... why Merlin? You had no idea that he knew so much about magic, you discover that you have magic, and the first person you rush to, you trust, you believe will protect you in a Kingdom that would see you burn... is Merlin. Why?”

Leon gulps, his gaze darting to the young servant, and Merlin widens his eyes slightly before setting his face into well-practiced neutrality and looking back to Arthur:

“Well, like I said, I grew up outside of Camelot’s propaganda.”

Arthur tilts his head and furrows his brows:

“Yes... but so did Percival and Gwaine and Lancelot. And he grew up with Elyan and Gwen, so...”

Merlin clenches his jaw, his brain running through all the possible lies he could tell. Depending on how the rest of this conversation goes, now may or may not be the time to out his own magic:

“Well... look at me-”

He throws his arms up loosely:

“-I’m one of the only people he knows who couldn’t actually do much damage to him if I turned on him. He’s a Camelot Noble Arthur, pretty much all of his friends and family would run him through in an instant if they found out what was happening to him.”

Arthur frowns mournfully, but his nod is understanding as he stares at the table for a few moments. He squares his shoulders and looks up again, his voice strong and Kingly:

“We have some laws to revise. Tomorrow, the three of us are going to visit the Druids, we can leave Leon there for a little while so he can learn to control it at least. I’m sure we can come up with some sort of excuse.”

Leon nods, but Merlin takes a deep breath before shaking his head:

“That... that won’t be necessary.”

Arthur just frowns at him in confusion, but Leon’s eyes go wide as he stares at the servant, taking his wrist in a tight grip; a clear warning. Merlin just gives him a weak smile before sitting up straight and looking to Arthur, his face blank:

“I can teach him.”

Arthur just looks even more confused, before he huffs and rolls his eyes:

“Merlin you may have an odd amount of knowledge in that big head of yours, but it would still be better for someone who was born with magic like him to help.”

Merlin doesn’t even hesitate in his response:

“Exactly.”

Arthur looks up at him sharply, taking in a deep breath and straightening his back when he notices the gold of Merlin’s eyes. It takes him a few moments to respond, and Merlin’s eyes have faded back to their bright blue before Arthur sighs and nods, not looking away as he mumbles:

“I think... that somehow I should’ve expected that.-”

The King leans forwards and puts his head in his hands, leaning his elbows on the table; he lets out a short, humourless laugh, and Merlin and Leon share a worried glance. Before they can say anything, he looks up again, a disbelieving smile on his face:

“-I’m desperate to be angry, furious, even. But after everything I’ve said, done, directly to you and in general, I really don’t think I have the right.”

Merlin shakes his head, anxiety and guilt swelling in his stomach:

“No Arthur, I lied to you for over ten years, you’re allowed to be angry.”

Arthur shakes his head again, but before he can say anything, Leon pipes up, his voice strong and no longer cracking and shaking, despite his obvious nervousness:

“That... No. With all due respect, Sire, you’re right.-”

He turns to a dumbfounded Merlin:

“-You lied because it was the only way to protect yourself. By Camelot’s laws, you- both of us, should have had death sentences from the moment we were born. Lying to save yourself torture by pyre... that isn’t selfish, or cruel, it’s... justice.”

Merlin looks like he wants to argue, but Arthur just shrugs his shoulders and nods, giving his servant a pointed glare before going back to looking curiously confused, and settling an assessing gaze on Leon:

“Can you... feel it? The magic?”

Leon shuffles uncomfortably in his seat, and squeezes Merlin’s hand in his subconscious search for comfort:

“Uh... yeah sort of. Honestly, I’m trying not to, it... it scares me.”

Merlin squeezes back before swivelling in his seat and pulling Leon to do the same, so they’re sat facing each other; Arthur leans forward so he can see what Merlin was fiddling with. The servant cups his hands and rests them under Leon’s own cupped hands, looking up to the older man with a smile:

“It’s not something to be afraid of, Leon, it’s a gift. Let go, feel it. I promise I won’t let anything bad happen. Just... feel it.”

Leon gulps, but lets out a breath and relaxes as he closes his eyes. Merlin’s grin grows, and Arthur stares in wonder at the golden glow of his eyes, his gaze darting to Leon’s face when the man begins to softly smile. Merlin’s next words come out as barely a whisper:

“Open your eyes, look.”

Leon takes another deep breath before opening his golden eyes and looking down at his hands, letting out a surprised laugh when he sees a miniature blue flame, floating a few inches above his palms. He can feel it’s warmth, feel the new odd sensation in his chest feeding it, sparking down his arms and into the flame, mixing with something that feels so very... Merlin. He looks up at the grinning servant, not able to persuade himself to look towards the King even when he hears the other man mutter, his voice quiet and full of wonder:

“A gift indeed.”

~

THE END!!!

Ok so I might write a part 2 to this, basically about Merlin teaching Leon in secret (with Gwaine and Lancelot getting jealous because how the fuck did boring, rule following, 8 years older than him Leon end up becoming Merlin’s best friend??) and a visit to the Druids and a ban repeal and a proper reveal.

BUT it isn’t a definite, and if it does happen it won’t be any time soon, so I guess just consider this done?

I hope y’all enjoyed it!! Same as always, you wanna write it up, let me know and credit and tag me!! :D