#i love some feedback

[madpatti]

So I finally finished this fan art❤️ I can't remember the last time I put so much detail into one drawing.

[starcurtain]

One thing I wish I'd see more of among Ratio fans is some thought about how he views himself as a teacher.

Like yes, of course he refuses to compromise on the quality and rigor of the education he imparts, and he would find it unforgivably unethical to lower his standards in order to pass more students who had not genuinely learned the material. This is core to his character.

However, as someone who is a teacher IRL, I know the absolutely miserable feeling setting that kind of standard can cause. There's the obvious disheartening sense of disappointment ("Are students these days really not capable of doing the work correctly? Is our future in danger, if this is the highest level of understanding our current generation of students can achieve?"), but even worse than that is the self-doubt.

"Is this somehow my fault? Am I not teaching this material in the right ways for the students to learn? Is there something I could have done differently to get through to these students? Would a better teacher have a higher passing rate?"

We know that Ratio does (or at least did) struggle with feeling inferior to the Genius Society, so I think it is also likely, as much as he absolutely will not budge on his academic standards, that he has doubts about his teaching ability as well.

This is the man who wants to educate the entire world to cure the disease of ignorance, and yet only 3% of his actual students are able to get there. How can someone who gets so few of his direct students to a state of enlightenment hope to enlighten the whole universe? If so few students are successfully learning the material of a given class, doesn't that mean the teacher is doing something wrong?Would a better teacher--would a genius, maybe--not be able to impart their knowledge more efficiently and educate even the most challenging of students?

As someone constantly struggling with that balance between keeping academic standards high while also meeting the needs of today's students, I think the passing rates of his courses must affect Dr. Ratio much more deeply than I've seen fans discuss. I think he would question himself harshly over his class success rates, and I think he must be constantly trying to push himself to become the best teacher he possibly can be.

tl;dr: I hope one day the HSR fandom will stop sleeping on the fact that Ratio is an actual practicing professor who probably has astronomical levels of teacher angst. 😂

[alienoresimagines]

Those drunk confessions are so good for clegan. What do you think of #17?

Hiii, I hope you're well <3 It's been SO long but here it is, finally, 8.9k words of Buck and Bucky yearning for each other :)

Clegan Masterlist

17 : "I’m not drunk. Can a drunk person do this?" "You’re not doing anything." "But… I sent you my love. Did you… did you not get it?" by @creativepromptsforwriting here

Are there some aces up your sleeve? (Have you no idea that you're in deep?) | Buck x Bucky (Link to AO3)

“You’re so pretty, Buck.” John’s gaze flicks up and down his face before his face softens in a way that has Gale’s knees weak and his heart kicking up. One of John’s hands comes up to his face, slow like John’s expecting him to bolt but he stays frozen in place. His breathing is ragged, and he might be on fire but then the tip of John’s forefinger gently traces a line on his cheekbone, where Gale knows his skin is dotted with beauty marks he’s never paid much attention to before this moment. They seem like the most important thing now, and something twirls in his stomach as Gale struggles to keep his gaze on John’s face without flushing bright red. John giggles gently then, his voice breathy with what can only be wonder. “You even got stars lovin’ you.” Or A night out featuring an arrogant lieutenant and a drunk Bucky might just shift Gale and John's friendship forever.

Snippet under the cut ;)

For someone for whom anger has always been the greatest fear, Gale should not feel so warm at the evidence of John being so angry on his behalf but he can’t help it. As he rises to his feet, John looks up at him with a frown etched on his face, blue eyes sharp and worried. Not reaching out to soothe the lines on his forehead with his fingers is a battle Gale worries he’ll lose, so he squeezes John’s shoulder instead as he shimmies over him out of the booth. Before he can leave though, John reaches out to loosely hold his wrist, eyebrows pinched together as his eyes flicker all over Gale’s face, drunkenness seemingly forgotten. 

“Buck, you sure about this? I’ll punch the bastard, you don’t-”

“It’s fine, Bucky. I’ve been sittin’ in this booth for so long anyway, I was starting to get restless.” John still doesn’t look convinced, halfway to a full standing position.

“Besides,” Gale grins again, feeling the wild thump of his heart and the adrenaline already flowing through his veins, “I’ve had a very good baseball teacher, and his honor being sullied just won’t do.” 

John blinks, eyes wide and searching, and Gale feels too exposed, like a dog presenting its belly. But then, just as his palms start to sweat and his shoulders tense, John makes a sound caught between a laugh and a scoff.

“You fell asleep the only time I tried teaching you the rules.” John’s mouth quirks in a soft smile, and embarrassment creeps up his neck but Gale can’t bring himself to care, not when his chest feels so light he could be floating under John’s undivided attention.

“I did not.”

John raises an eyebrow teasingly and a genuine smile pulls at Gale’s lips. 

“It’d been a long week.” He protests half-heartedly, though he’s well aware his slumber at that time had more to do with how John had felt so warm and safe next to him. Gale hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep until he’d woken up with his head on John’s shoulder as the other desperately and valiantly tried to keep still.

You can find the rest here and my other Clegan fics here ! ❤️

[prismatoxic]

hey if you write in microsoft word, you should get libre office. it's free, constantly updated, doesn't use AI, and has all the features you're used to. there are lots of user guides and add-ons to make it as easy for you as possible, and it's been around for a long time now.

write in google docs instead? try ellipsus. it's in beta and free to join and use. it's being actively worked on and improved, openly opposes AI, and has all the features you need for a collaborative document tool while also being extremely easy to navigate. it's also made by fans, for fans, with a promise that anything you can write is allowed.

i've used both of these programs extensively and can vouch for them, ellipsus especially. ellipsus currently only imports .md files if you wanna move your stuff over, but gdocs can export those no problem and copy + pasting rich text also works fine. (they're also going to add more formats.) ellipsus also has an import to ao3 function that pastes your document's raw html into a new work window as long as you're logged into ao3. remember how gdocs formats weird in ao3 unless you do some html fuckery to fix it? yeah, this makes that a non-issue.

don't give big corporations your money and/or data. you can always start small, and picking a better program to write fic in is a great place to begin. i promise these programs are both way more worth your time than their mainstream counterparts.

[nyssasatelier]

My scrapped Hermes designs :

VS the one that won🏆 :

[astral-herald]

Jayce Talis' Joycean Epiphany

Tracking the textual similarities between James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Jayce's character journey, specifically in Arcane season 2, episode 7.

As time goes on, my appreciation for Jayce's arc only grows, and I think episode 7 captures the best of the showrunners' narrative concision and cohesion. Within that perfect storm I noticed a lot of similarities between Jayce and James Joyce's main character, Stephen Dedalus, who spends the 1916 classic shedding attachments to the material world in pursuit of ultimate freedom, including monikers of creed and country and friendship, captured in his famous epiphany.

This isn't a perfect mapping, but comparing Stephen's epiphany to Jayce's meeting with Mage Viktor is pretty enlightening/interesting! More below!

The Joycean Epiphany

Stephen Dedalus' epiphany occurs in the last third (ish) of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and happens as follows: Stephen, consumed with anxiety, loneliness, and confusion about his place in the world, finds himself wandering toward the ocean. He steps knee-deep inside and sees the figment of a woman out of reach, who he describes as a "strange and beautiful seabird" who awakens him to "the wild heart of life." The Bird Woman inspires Stephen to shake off material attachments to nationality and religion, as well as to break off personal relationships in order to arrive at his true self, which he must do in isolation. This is the most egregiously brief synopsis possible...

Jayce's journey in Arcane does, in fact, follow a very normal, non-epiphanic arc in general; I'm not merging Stephen and Jayce together here. Instead I want to call attention to the visual cues and specific plot points that truly give me pause and think/hope they were intentionally building this parallel.

The Irish Coastline, the Undercity Grey

In Portrait, there is great emphasis attached to the sea's physicality as Stephen enters the waters. He's permeated a barrier as the tide wrestles with him:

"In a few moments he was barefoot...and, picking a pointed salteaten stick out of the jetsam among the rock, he clambered down the slope of the breakwater."

Jayce also permeates, with a lot of struggle, pain, and anguish, a physical barrier/obstacles - the Grey, which we see as a thick green miasma throughout the Undercity in this timeline, and the Fissures he's fallen into. Interestingly enough, Jayce also has a pointed stick that's figuratively eaten by the Anomaly. Not salt, by any means, but each character takes up a damaged implement at the onset of their journey.

The Epiphanic Figures

In Portrait, Stephen is drawn into the water towards the woman who inspires his epiphany: "A girl stood before him in midstream, alone and still, gazing out to sea."

Within the Grey, Jayce encounters Viktor as the mage, staring at him with his face obscured. When he turns and leaves, he prompts Jayce into action, thus spurring the epiphany, the necessary movement through the Grey.

Upon his approach, Stephen describes his epiphanic woman: Her long fair hair was girlish, and touched with the wonder of mortal beauty, her face..."

"...and when she felt his presence and the worship of his eyes her eyes turned to him in quiet sufferance of his gaze, without shame or wantonness."

In Portrait, Stephen never reaches his Bird Woman; she remains out of reach, just like his ultimate freedom will remain until he commits to his quest for self-discovery. Similarly, Jayce and Mage Viktor never touch, despite Viktor and Jayce's established physical intimacy.

The Quest

Stephen spends the remainder of Portrait systematically shedding what he feels are restraints to his true self. If you haven't read Portrait, there is a lot, a lot, a LOT of syncretic philosophies wedged inside, Platonic, Aristotelean, Aurelian, etc., to showcase Stephen coming into his own intellectually and emotionally. But the way he describes this quest, when speaking to his best friend, Cranly, is key when comparing him to Jayce:

"You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake and perhaps as long as eternity too."

Jayce, inspired by his own Bird Woman, the Mage, sets out on his quest of ultimate solitude, wherein he traumatically relives his past mistakes.

But now, with Mage Viktor's wisdom and an understanding of what's to come, Jayce finally becomes a powerful and independent force. He doesn't rely on his betters or outside approval. He attacks Mel for her past treatment of himself and Viktor as tools/investments for her will. He will leave behind the comfort and privilege of his old life. In order to do what needs to be done to save Piltover, Jayce is willing to make those mistakes, to sustain on his own, etc., when he was never willing to do so before.

"Alone, Quite Alone"

Nobody asked, but my favorite scene in Portrait is the last dialogue between Stephen and Cranly, whom Stephen frequently describes as his closest friend, and whose opposition to Stephen's departure he considers the most. Try as he might to be sympathetic, Cranly struggles to understand why Stephen can't relent and warns him of what will happen to Stephen if he takes on his quest: "And to not have any one person...who would be more than a friend, more even than the noblest and truest friend a man ever had."

Cranly tells Stephen that "you need not look upon yourself as driven away...or as a heretic or an outlaw." He invites him to stay, to return.

And Stephen is grieved by this: "A voice spoke softly to Stephen's lonely heart, bidding him go and telling him that his friendship was coming to an end..."

"...Yes; he would go. He could not strive against another. He knew his part."

In killing Viktor as the Herald, Jayce has fully accepted loneliness and the necessary suffering it incurs on others. Guided by Mage Viktor, his own Bird Woman epiphany, he plays his part in the fate set before him.

In this moment, the Herald Viktor is Jayce's Cranly: "Stephen watched [Cranly's] face for some moments in silence. A cold sadness was there..."

"...He had spoken of himself, of his own loneliness which he feared."

*To note, Stephen's epiphanic realization amounts to isolation for his own benefit, whereas Jayce endures isolation and commits these "mistakes" (killing Viktor) for the greater good - very important difference!

Regaining Cranly

This same idea comes across every time I post about Arcane season 2: subversive endings. And while my opinion of the season has been on the downturn, I will never cheapen the shock and awe of the Mage Viktor reveal, and I will always find new ways to break it down and appreciate it.

In Portrait, Stephen leaves Ireland, his religion, and his loved ones behind. Stephen asks Cranly to clarify what he means by his talk of loneliness: "'Of whom are you speaking?' Cranly did not answer." In the essential modernist way, Stephen seeks out the independent soul amidst the masses.

Jayce, meanwhile, uses his newfound autonomy and sense of self for the greater good. He followed his epiphanic figure as Stephen did, and abandoned his Cranly, for a higher goal than self actualization.

And that's where this comparison just about falls apart.

Because Jayce and Viktor are "inextricably bound," the fundamental crux of the epiphany - its independence - isn't possible. Jayce guides his Cranly away from "his own loneliness which he feared." He invites Viktor to partake in his epiphany and they complete the quest together.

the end <3

I'm excited about this comparison! And I know I'm offering a very cursory read of Portrait here. I actually wrote about it for my latest conference CFP so it's fresh on the mind. And a lot of these comparisons can be chalked up to Joyce's just General Narrative Influence, that he refined this exact mode of quest -> self discovery -> loneliness, but we're here to have fun, not to submit to a journal lol.

[laauranenn]

I cannot stress enough, how important I think this scene is for Endo and Takiishi's relationship

Because Umemiya has just told him "the trick to being with someone who'll change your world". Hes told him to start calling people by their names, to awknowledge them, to show them that he sees them. Because that is the way you let someone affect and influence you, by first awknowledging that they exist.

He then proceeds to immediately follow this advice, and in my opinion sort of test it out, and call Umemiya by name.

Now, what I think is so incredibly important, is him calling Endo by name. Him actively and consciously choosing to awknowledge him and his existence, and show him that he's looking at him.

Because he could've just, not done that. Or he could've done it later. But I think it is incredibly important that he does it immediately. He makes the decision to show Endo that he sees him, something that Endo likely hasn't experienced even once in their years together.

And I don't know, maybe I'm just stating the obvious or something..

But it's just such an important little scene, because this wasn't something Endo thought he was ever going to get. He was fully ready to keep on going as usual, doing and working towards what Takiishi wants, to find Takiishi interesting people so he can use Umemiya's advice on someone other than him.

But in just this small moment, hes validated Endo's entire existence, that he does mean something to Takiishi, and that maybe he can have the things he truly loves.

I also really don't think that Endo has expressed what he wants or needs to Takiishi, like ever. They really do not communicate well. But this scene shows us thta they're going to get better, that they are going to start understanding each other more.

[kojoty]

Temporal Apocrypha- Chapter 2

Stanford Pines has spent ten years trying to kill Bill Cipher and return home. He's given up on the latter goal. Now, with his own home-grown science-fiction machine, he has a way to catch Ciphers foolish enough to get curious from across the dimensional universe and focus on the whole 'killing' thing. Too bad for the latest Cipher, 'killing' isn't on the table.

Chapter 2! Let's get some more Bill's. Featuring. Uh. Billadillo.

[lemorgo]

[nerdyerror]

Chapter 1

Chpt. 2

   “How could you be so stupid? I will revoke the challenge,” Uther rages, pacing behind Arthur. Arthur seethes slightly, two of his men have died to the mysterious knight, “No.” He turns away from his father, he would cave if forced to look in his eyes.”The Knights’ code must be upheld. That’s what you told me.”

“This is different,” Uther insists, he lays his hand on his son’s shoulder turning Arthur to face him, “You are the Crown Prince. Someone will fight for you.” Arthur pales, he can’t lose another knight, “You want me to prove myself. I cannot do that by being a coward.” Uther opens his mouth to speak, but the door creaks open before he can, Leon pokes his head in.

“Ah, my apologies, Sire, I was not aware you were having a private conversation,” Leon says, backing out and going to close the door. “No, Sir Leon, this is perfect timing,” Uther says, beckoning him in. Leon nods.

“You’ve returned from patrol early?” Uther says; it is more a formality than actual interest. Leon holds out a pile of papers, “Yes, I came to deliver my report.” 

“Yes, yes,” Uther says, “I have another assignment for you.” Leon hesitates, his brow furrowed slightly, his eyes glance between the prince and king, “What is it, my lord?” 

“Arthur has foolishly challenged a foreign knight to a duel. One he is not prepared to face. Leon, you are one of my most skilled knights, would you take his place?” Arthur stares for a moment, it’s true Leon is perhaps the greatest knight of Camelot, skilled, and dedicated. They cannot afford to let this knight kill him, it would be a greater loss to Camelot than Arthur’s own death, at least in Arthur’s opinion. Leon only blinks for a moment, “Who is this opponent?” Arthur’s stomach drops, Leon is accepting or preparing to accept. 

Arthur suddenly wishes to leave the room, but he feels rooted to the floor. He doesn’t listen to Uther’s next words, nor Leon’s response. How can he? Leon is Arthur’s cousin, more than that, his friend. And Leon has always been there, steady and sure as the sunrise, the knight that Arthur admires most, (sometimes even more than his father- but that is a private thought he would not admit,) someone who is loyal and kind and gentle. Leon has always treated Arthur well, allowed him to win duels when he should not have, offered advice, and taught him to wield a blade well. The thought that steady sure Leon could quite possibly die in only a day’s time was- (world ending-) impossible. 

Leon observes his soon-to-be opponent with careful dread, he knows the armor well, he knows the crest upon the shield, he knows what Uther dares not to admit. Tristan DuBois, Leon’s father, dead for nearly twenty years. How he was here was unimportant; no, what was important was that he was unlikely to lose, to be capable of being felled. Leon could not face his father, or whatever was left, a wraith, he suspected. It is amusing perhaps, in that sick twisted way, that Uther has knowingly faced Leon against the remains of his father. Remains that Uther had caused. There was an ache in his chest, an ache he knew all too well. He turned his head, he must prepare, and rest was likely the best thing he could do. 

As Leon walks to his room, his thoughts return to the oppressive feeling in his chest. He knows what it is, hate. Hate is the only word for it, a soft dull thing, like the fading embers of a fire, or an old wound, the cause is distant but the pain is alive and well- after all embers still burn and old wounds can kill. Leon has long since lost the energy for righteous fury; it died with his brother, a decade ago. He sighs stopping, right in front of the heavy wooden door to his room, he has kept this room for a decade, his feet know the way. He allows his hands to trace the lines of the wood, before opening it and going to sit on his bed. 

He looks around, his room is as bare and plain as always. The other knights thought him modest or spartan. Too busy with his duties to decorate his room or to befriend. A more cynical man would realize that Leon’s room was as unadorned as Leon was, a purposeful act. He had done it out of fear, never shown who he was, never shown himself in his rooms, or made close friends of the knights. He regrets it now, with the promise of death awaiting him. Which is funny because he had never feared death. It was the one thing Leon did not fear. He shuts his eyes. 

His old desk only holds the various papers he must work on, a quill, and an even older inkwell. His bed has only the plain sheets provided. All of him is in his closet. There is a knapsack tucked away, next to it an ancient family heirloom sheathed and never to be used. The knapsack contains his knick-knacks, the things that identify him as Leon. A small Lion figurine his father had carved for him when he was a newborn, a necklace that had belonged to his mother and then his sister, and a portrait of his family when they were all together. The heirloom- the sword, had been passed down in his mother’s family for generations. It was a work of art and a magical artifact. The sword, by its proper name the Glas Sword, had been burnished in a dragon’s breath. He could not use it for it would reveal his magic. He opens his eyes, standing he opens the closet door, and reaches for the knapsack, pulling out the small rolled canvas. Unfurling it, he looked upon the portrait. 

He traces the figures with his eyes. Starting from the left, Uncle Balinor, his mother’s brother, his hand is on his sister’s shoulder, who sits in a chair in front of him. Mother sits in an elegant chair, her right hand in her lap, her left on the armrest. Father is to the right of Uncle Balinor, one hand covers his wife’s. Uncle and Mother both have a mischievous glint in their eyes. Sitting next to Mother are her parents, Caractos and Adhan. Grandfather Caractos holds an infant, Eleanor, Leon’s sister, her eyes are open and a tuft of blonde hair is visible from underneath her swaddle. Leon is next to them, sitting atop his grandmother’s lap. She has a hand on his shoulder, he was about two and a half at the time, but when he looks at this picture he swears he can remember the feel of her hand. Then to the right of his grandmother is his paternal grandfather, Amlawdd, hands folded in the center of his lap. Behind Grandfather Amlawdd, are his two younger children. Uncle Agravaine, he is much younger than Leon has ever remembered him to be, still stuck with peach fuzz rather than stubble, though he already must’ve been into his late twenties, and Aunt Ygraine, she is smiling, in Leon’s memory she is always smiling, her hands are sat on the corner of her father’s chair, though she looks at the painter. His elder brothers sit on the ground, Patrick is beside Mother, directly below Uncle Balinor, and Andre sits before Grandfather Amlawdd. Uther was not in this portrait, he had not accompanied his wife to the DuBois estate, Leon did not know the reason, nor did he care. 

He doesn’t look at this picture often, he tells himself it is a fruitless thing to live in the past. Most of the people in this portrait are dead now. His paternal grandfather was the first to die, it was when he was a child, and Leon’s memory of him is foggy at best. He supposes that he was technically a child when all of them died, assuming his Uncle Balinor is still alive, though he didn’t feel like a child for most of them. He stopped being a child after his Aunt’s death because that’s when everything changed. Then his mother died, she was already ill when this was painted, she had struggled with Eleanor, and her health had slowly declined. Leon was four when his mother died, but he remembers her with awful clarity. When his Aunt died, Leon was seven, she had only held her son for a moment, naming him Arthur, and then she was gone. Leon had been close with his aunt; she had spent much of her time with her nephews and niece after her sister-in-law had died. He remembers seeing his father cry. A month later Uther announces his plan to start the purge. Father rides to Camelot, Leon slips away from his siblings and follows him. Leon doesn’t see the duel, doesn’t see the fight that preceded it, no he only saw the end of the duel, only saw the sword plunged into his father’s belly. There are ten days before the purge starts in full force. It starts with the murder of the dragonlords, it starts with the death of his grandparents because his grandfather was a dragonlord and his wife had insisted on following him. Leon is eight when his sister dies, she is six years old. And she dies because she wasn’t willing to stand by and watch as Patrick was dying. She had used healing magic, and been discovered. It is a long time till the next death. Andre died protecting Leon, using magic. He had jumped in front of an arrow intended for Leon and was only able to do so using magic to slow time. He was seventeen then, just knighted, on his first patrol as a knight.

He puts down the portrait, he looks at the sword, a blade like this could destroy the Wraith, but the Wraith is of his father and he can’t. Besides the blade is spelled to wield a dragon-knight’s magic, Leon’s magic. He is tired, he should rest.

Merlin has to find a solution before Leon faces the wraith. And he thinks he has, but where convincing Gwen to give him a sword was easy enough, convincing the dragon will be far more difficult. He sneaks down the long staircase, and into the dragon's cavern. He is waiting.

“Merlin!”

“Do you know why I’m here?” He called. “It may surprise you, Merlin, but my knowledge of your life is not universal,” the dragon sassed. “It’s to do with Leon, his life’s in danger, he will die. Unless I can make a weapon that will kill the dead.”

“Leon, hmm?” the dragon said, “So what do you come to ask of me?” Merlin drew the sword, the sound echoing in the cavern. 

“Will you burnish it? To save my friend.” 

“The dead do not return without reason, who has he come for?” 

“Uther,” Merlin said. He knew this would make the dragon less likely to help him, but the dragon would know if he lied.

“Then let him take his vengeance, the wraith will die without my aid.”

“But it’s Leon who’s going to fight him, you have to save him,” he pleaded. 

“And why, young warlock, should I aid him?” the Dragon spoke, he wasn’t really asking, Merlin could tell. Merlin scrunches his face, frustrated, “Leon is the best of the knights, he’s one of the people that makes Arthur less of a prat, if he dies, then Arthur would be changed. Arthur looks up to him, cares about him.” ‘So do I,’ remains silent. The dragon weighs his head, and shockingly, “You make a good point, but if I burnish this sword for the young knight, he must not keep it. It is not his destiny.”

“I’ll give it to Arthur,” Merlin agrees quickly, too desperate to save his friend than to question why Leon too has a destiny. 

With the sword burnished, he runs to the physician's quarters needing to formulate a plan about how exactly to get Leon to fight with the sword. He is shocked to find Leon already sitting there. “Leon! I need to talk to you!” Merlin exclaimed, he doesn’t think as he says his next words, “This sword can kill the wraith, you have to use it!” Leon’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, then his expression is smoothed over before he gently smiles, “Merlin, thank you.” Leon stands, the knight’s hand comes to the servant’s shoulder, “But I cannot use that sword.” 

“What! But-” Merlin says, cutting himself off when Leon raises his hand, “I wanted to talk to you before it’s too late.” 

“Leon, don’t talk like that,” Merlin frowns. “Just listen to me, please, my friend,” Leon says. Leon goes back to his seat, gesturing for Merlin to sit next to him. There is a pause as Leon seems to think; as if he’s about to broach a difficult topic. 

“I know,” he says, “About your magic.” Merlin is shocked but Leon’s eyes are gentle and comforting, he allows Merlin to process the information, before continuing, “I’ve known since we met,” he sighs, “That’s not all. I have magic too. Nowhere near as powerful as yours but that’s how I know. I’ve known. And it’s not just shown me things like that. You’re my cousin. My uncle’s son.” 

“You know who my father is?” Merlin says, barely processing what Leon just said, it seems impossible, “Who was he? I mean what was he like?” Leon smiles, “His name was Balinor Glastos, he was a dragon-lord, and he was a lot like you.” 

“What’s a dragon-lord?” Merlin asks. Leon begins to explain, “A dragon-lord is the human term for what we are. ‘Man-faced dragons’ is what we call ourselves. We are dragons with human bodies, there’s actually not much more to it. And if you’re the child of a dragon-lord you’re a dragon-lord or a dragon-knight, and vice versa.” Merlin has a million questions, one that Leon had already answered, but he had to stay on track, “I have a ton of questions, but more importantly why won’t you take this sword?” Leon looks away, “I can’t destroy the wraith, even with that sword, I wouldn’t be able to do it.” Merlin wants to protest, Leon is one of the best knights he knows, he could totally beat the wraith, but Leon talks again before Merlin can begin. 

“The wraith is my father. I can’t kill him, even if he’s already dead,” Leon turns his head back looking Merlin in the eyes, “I’m sorry.” Merlin doesn’t know exactly what Leon is apologizing for but, “It’s okay.” 

Leon spends the rest of the night telling Merlin all about his father. And what it means to be a dragon-lord. 

“Then Uncle Balinor set Gorlois’ socks on fire, and he…”

“...Well I’m a dragon-knight, not a dragon-lord, the magic I have is more related to the physical aspects of a dragon’s magic, rather than the intellectual like yours.” 

Leon patiently answered Merlin’s questions, they laughed at old stories and pretended like Leon was not to face his death tomorrow. It was wonderful. But tomorrow came anyway.

Leon put on his armor for the last time. He sheathed the sword, put on his helmet, and stepped out to face his father’s wraith. There is a large audience but the crowd was silent as Leon walked forward. It felt as if all of Camelot was holding its breath. He faced the Black Knight, and the two drew their swords. 

The wraith immediately went in on the offensive, hacking his sword at Leon. Leon parried easily, trying to pretend like this wasn’t the walking corpse of his father. Leon refused to attack, it would waste his energy, it takes five minutes for the cycle of attack and parry to end. The Wraith lands a particularly hard blow knocking Leon to the ground, his sword skips along the arena grounds and the Wraith discards its shield. He scrambles working on pure instinct as he hides behind his shield. He manages to dodge a blow and use his shield to deflect the next. The wraith lands a foot on Leon’s shield, locking its position into place, the wraith raises his sword above his head and- “LEON!” Someone shouts it sounds like Arthur, but Arthur hadn’t been in the stands. The Black Knight is frozen in place. “Leon,” it whispers, its voice a hair louder than a breath. The wraith moves his sword to one hand and uses the other to pull Leon’s helmet off. Leon has lost his grip on his shield, shocked and confused. The wraith hisses, throwing its sword to the side, and then it repeats, in his father’s voice, “Leon.” 

His father moves backward before reaching out and enveloping Leon in his arms, 

“My Son.” 

Leon’s eyes began to water. His father removes his own helmet, looking the exact same as the day he died, “Oh my baby boy, my darling son, my little light! Look at you! Look how you’ve grown!” There are tears streaming down Leon’s cheeks and there are tears on his father’s as well. And then Gaius is there, and so is Merlin, and Arthur, and Gwen, and Morgana. And it’s alright, and Leon is half sure he’s dead, but- 

“Let’s get you two to my quarters,” Gaius interrupted his thoughts, “Make sure you’re alright.” 

[lustrecannon]

fuck it. formal time

[joffyworld]

Dead Lamb's Hand

Two aces and eights.

Two twine covered fates.

'Neath the lights and the gates, the rhinestones do gaze;

They follow the haze, the mist and the daze,

As they waltz on in, with a crafted fake face,

Two eights and two aces,

In here of all places,

The starlet's sweet naissence, into rich patrons graces.

They stride with such patience, their face never changes,

No matter the cards dealt, it's off to the races

The red queen of our hearts,

They rise, so they part,

The times come at last; One final dance.

With a move of the wrist, the dealer does flick,

The cards on the table, they wager the risk.

Declared with a grin, "I'm going all in"

The cat's astonished but sings,

"So am I my sweet thing,

The casino is yours if you win,

I'm all in."

Two pairs of two pairs,

The crowd is silent and stares,

The winner undecided, the kicker declares,

The cat has a six,

The lamb has a queen,

Stunned silences fill the casino to the seam,

The ewe's debonair but it drops fast as a hare:

She cheated her way, manipulated with care,

In order to be the winner of this sordid affair.

Now crowned the leader, the winner,

The cat's cause of despair.

The cat straightens her back almost sharp as a diamond,

Begins with a laugh, her eyes struck with lightning:

"Very well my dear Ines, I see no point in fighting.

You've won the game as I feared, it is luck you were striking.

But I will return, one day when you yearn,

For what's rightfully yours, my heart I'll confer."

The cat turned with a pace, and so struck up the band,

To sing the tale and the story,

Of the Dead Lamb's Hand

(Based on @lagomorphics's Lucky Card au)

[toli-bl00m]

Both dresses are from @surely-sims and the pose is by @antiquatedsimmer!💕

[quarriart]

The Darkroom. Part 5. End. (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4)

[voidboymads]

Hi! Love your writing! For the Steter prompts: 5 Times Peter wasn’t so sure Stiles was Left Hand material + 1 Time he was sure (and aroused by it). Hope it’s not too long to write! Cheers 🖤

hoooooo I apologize for the long wait but here it is! this was my first time writing a 5 + 1 fic so I hope it's good >.<!

--

When the pack files into the loft a few hours after leaving to deal with the threat in the forest, they look sullen and downtrodden.

It’s not difficult to see why when a few of them, the humans mostly, look pretty banged up and broken. “Trouble out in the woods?” Peter comments, casually leaning back on the spiral stairway. He doesn’t mean to be an ass, but if they’re stupid enough to come back in pieces, it feels only natural to rub salt in both their literal and metaphorical wounds.

Scott is the first to roll his eyes, and then Lydia and yada yada yada - down the line it goes until Stiles. Stiles doesn’t roll his eyes, though. Instead, he stares at Peter a second longer than he normally affords him, and something in the way his disjointed gaze glides away from him tells Peter that he was right in telling them that taking on the big baddie directly was a mistake.

Derek strolls in, looking a little worse for wear - and a little peeved, but otherwise relatively unscathed. “Thanks for the help,” He grumbles sarcastically, crashing on his couch with an attitude and a huff.

“You’re welcome,” Peter chimes, pulling himself up and off the stairs. There’s no reason to gloat or toss in an ‘I told you so’ but he does it anyway. “If you had just listened - ”

Stiles groans nearby, rotating a shoulder until something clicks. “Why didn’t you just do it then, mister ‘I know everything’? Hm?” He’s strung out and possibly feeling the worst of the embarrassment for the fumble that was tonight. As he should. Peter doesn’t just speak out of his ass when it concerns the pack and he expects a little bit more from Stiles. He’s supposed to be the clever one.

“If I did everything around here, none of you would learn that my way is always the most efficient way.”

———

“Can I help you?” Peter leans against the threshold of his front door. It’s unusual for a member of the pack to visit him at home, so he hopes he’s conveying the proper amount of annoyance at finding one standing before him.

Even if it’s Stiles Stilinski.

“I need help,” Stiles mumbles, surveying the hallway on both sides. There’s no threat, but Peter patiently waits for those beautiful brown eyes to find him again.

He grins. “Sorry, didn’t catch that.”

Those same brown eyes roll so far back in Stiles’ head that he’s close to losing them, but they roll back just fine as he finds the ability to speak up after a lengthy, heavy sigh. “I said, I need some help.”

“Well, then you’ve come to the right place. Please, come on in.” It’s supposed to sound as threatening as it should, but Peter almost immediately distances himself from Stiles as they pass into the apartment.

The door shuts quietly behind him, but it spikes Stiles’ anxiety to the ceiling. Good.

“Derek won’t listen to me about this guy, and I figured you’d be able to talk some sense into him.”

Peter hums, watching Stiles awkwardly shuffle beyond the foyer. “I’m not sure I’ll get anywhere close to convincing him. You all have a point of not listening to me.”

Stiles turns on his heel, an angry but eager look on his face. “I’m listening now.”

“And that’s a very good first step. But really, it’s the next step you keep tripping over.” He chooses to take a few steps towards Stiles, watching as the young man straightens his posture in an act to seem bigger.

In the years he’s been watching the members of the pack age, Stiles Stilinski finally grew into some impressive twink muscles. It still doesn’t help, though. All of them just look so small to Peter.

“Murder can’t just be the end all to our problems.” That eagerness is slowly slipping into frustration, but Peter still finds this amusing.

He grins again. “Yes, it is. It’s actually a very effective end all because once they’re dead, the threat is gone.”

Stiles makes some noise between a scoff and a disbelieving squawk. “And the after effects?”

“If you’re good at it, there shouldn’t be any.” It’s really quite simple. Peter can see that Stiles understands, but there’s something else there that’s holding him back. Presumably, a bratty best friend and a stubborn alpha.

“Ugh, never mind. I shouldn’t have come here in the first place.” Stiles makes for the door, hand on the knob before he turns around. “This was the biggest mistake I could have made,” He says over his shoulder.

“Give it a few hours. I’m sure you’ll find some other way to fuck this one up.” Peter waves him off, an amusing smirk on his lips as the door slams behind Stiles’ retreating form.

———

“You have a problem.” Peter picks at a fluff on his shirt, tossing it aside as he languishes across Derek’s couch. His own furniture is far more comfortable than Derek’s, but if he wants to be able to bend the other’s ear, he has to suffer with mediocrity for a little while longer.

“And that would be?” Derek sighs, pouring himself over a map laid out on his table. He’s been intensely staring at it for a few hours, hardly even looking up to acknowledge Peter when he walked in earlier.

Peter looks up at the ceiling of the loft, his fingers drumming an unknown beat on his stomach. “You have a weak spoke in your wheel.”

For a minute, there’s silence. Peter wonders if he’s going to get a response at all but then Derek turns around, curiosity peaked with a cocked, thick brow. “What are you talking about?”

“Stiles.” He shouldn’t have to elaborate, but Derek is looking at him like he requires more information, so Peter huffs a burdened sigh and sits up. “You’re letting him go to waste with all this morality you and Derek Jr. are touting.”

Derek’s gaze narrows at Peter, pointedly conveying that this isn’t something Derek wants to talk about. It’s no surprise to Peter. Broaching a subject such as this wasn’t exactly on his bingo card for things he desired for the pack. Stuff like this is meant to be kept in the shadows. A place a wolf has no qualms occupying. But Stiles isn’t a wolf, yet wasted all the same for his potential. “Peter, there are rules - stipulations to belonging to this pack. You know that, and you’ve known that since I let you back in.”

Peter scoffs, a smarmy smile plastered on his face as he shakes his head. “Right.” He stands, eyeing the large metal door. “How could I forget the distance an arm’s length with you is. Practically a football field between us.” Derek doesn’t bother to say anything else, and that’s all Peter needs to take his leave.

��——

“What did you do? Peter! What did - ”

Stiles is red in the face - and everywhere else. It can’t be helped since he was in the splash zone, but Stiles is so angry that it just looks like the Kool-Aid man is yelling at him.

Peter can’t help but huff a chuckle. The fight wasn’t too difficult, but it certainly was tiring. Even after years of training, of always being prepared for a rough rumble, it still knocks the wind out of Peter occasionally. Maybe he’s getting too old for this. Which is precisely why he dragged Stiles along with him.

“If you have time to stand there and gawk, you have time to help me bury the body.” He moves to grab the shoulders of the lifeless corpse at his feet, unbothered and uninterested in what a dead fairy looks like. It definitely loses its glow when it loses its life, but who cares? It wasn’t a nice fellow by all means and after tracking it for about a few days while it tracked unsuspecting townspeople, it was time to slit its throat.

“Is this why you called me out here!?” It’s funny that Stiles is whispering because there’s no one else around but the three of them. Well - the two of them now. He ends up moving to help Peter lift the body anyway, but they don’t move very far, just far enough that there’s room to dig.

Peter drops the body near the spot he’s picked and quickly gets to work digging with his bare hands. “Think of it as a training exercise.” He grabs handfuls of dirt and breaks the ground until it’s a sizable enough hole. Stiles is fidgeting something awful above ground, glancing around him like the law is on their heels. “You’re father isn’t going to find you here.”

Stiles kicks dirt over the edge. “How the fuck would you know? Hurry up before someone sees.” By someone, he means Derek, but Derek is busy dealing with another issue on the other side of town. One that is unavoidable. It made the perfect distraction for this.

“Here.” Peter reaches up. “Slide it over here.”

“I’m pretty sure ‘it’ has a name.” But Stiles is dragging it over to the pit all the same. Peter grabs an arm and pulls it down. He doesn’t need to finesse it - it’s not like the fairy is going to wake up and be offended for being dumped in a hole in the forest.

Peter sighs, climbing up and out of the pit. “Why didn’t I think to ask that before I slashed their vocal cords?” Stiles shudders next to him, so Peter rolls his eyes in response. “Honestly, this is getting annoying. Stay and help me cover it up, or leave and run to Daddy Derek. I don’t care.” He doesn’t bother wasting time watching Stiles make a choice. He has dirt to shovel back into place.

Quietly, Stiles inches near him and starts shoving dirt over the edge with his foot. He’s grumbling, but at least he’s making an effort.

———

It’s impressive, really, that Stiles hasn’t said one word to Derek about their little murder-cover-up tryst in the woods. It’s been a few hours, and even though Stiles appears not to have gotten much sleep over it, he doesn’t look ready to spill the beans.

“Stiles, you should have been there!” Scott exclaims as the pack divulges their recent fight. “A whole pack of them and Derek managed to make them stand down and turn away with their tails between their legs.”

“How formidable,” Peter comments, and while it earns him a few heads turning in his direction, it goes mostly uncared for by the rest of them. Except for Stiles, who is glancing at him a few seconds longer than anyone else again. Peter shoots a grin at him, but then Stiles turns away and ignores him for the rest of the meeting.

Derek catches his eye at some point, but Peter doesn’t say a thing. Even if Derek senses something off - an uptick in Stiles’ heartbeat or smell the sweat just beginning to push through Stiles’ pores - he won’t say a thing about it. Derek can remind Peter of the rules of the pack but there’s only so much the hypocrite will enforce. Not when it gives results and everyone else is none the wiser.

It’s only later, when Peter is leaving the building, that Stiles confronts him near where his jeep is parked. Normally, Peter wouldn’t stop to listen, except something tells him that Stiles has something important to say.

“You were right,” Stiles mumbles and damn if that doesn’t stir something inside of Peter. Call it excitement, arousal, or just an incredibly high-piqued interest, but Peter smirks all the same and crowds Stiles near the driver’s side door.

“I love those words. Makes my teeth tingle.” Stiles is looking up at him like his fangs might drop, and maybe they should for emphasis, but Peter likes the anxiety rising in Stiles at the anticipation. “Say them again.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, but that’s typical. Despite the flush beneath his cheeks and the hammering of his heart, Peter doesn’t expect to win Stiles over completely to the grey side. It takes time, and Peter is patient. Horny. But also patient. “Omitting the truth is still lying. It doesn’t matter if you’re right; it doesn’t feel right to keep this from the others.”

Peter shrugs and takes an experimental step forward. “Guys like us weren’t made for the big leagues, Stiles.” Stiles presses up against the door to the Jeep. “Maybe once I had aspirations of being top dog, but I like riding the bench. It’s much safer, and I get to see the bigger picture.”

“I’d rather be short-sighted if it meant I wouldn’t have to be alone.” Hm. Wise words. No less should be expected of Stiles Stilinski. So Peter takes another step, and another until there’s barely any room between the two now. Mere inches sit in the thin line Peter has created, and Stiles can’t seem to regulate his breathing the closer Peter gets.

Fuck. They could banter back and forth for a millennium, and Peter wouldn't mind sporting a hard-on the entire time if it meant eternity with this quick-witted fool. “You won’t be, darling. You’ll have me.” And before the little protege can do more than open his mouth to protest, Peter grabs a handful of plaid and pulls Stiles in for a very heated exchange.

[the-lonelyshepherd]

jackieshauna drives me insane btw