#prince and physician au

[ohsleepie]

[...] Silver had such patience with him anyway. He allowed Malleus to stay by his side, to stay in his room, eating the same foods that he did — and what a treat they were, for a child who starved as long as he had! — and sleeping in his bed.

My piece for an impromptu collab with @serenescribe! They wrote an incredible fic for my Prince and Physician au so I wanted to draw something for it! Thank you again for collabing with me Ell♡

Check out the fic on AO3 & Tumblr

[serenescribe]

the once (and many) prince(s) Twisted Wonderland | 3.3k Summary: Silver is, has always been, and will always be, the crown prince of his kingdom. AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54424864 Collaboration with @ohsleepie | Potential spoilers for elements of Chapter 7

Hi everyone! @ohsleepie and I are back at it again with another collaboration based on his wonderful "The Prince and his Physician" AU! This fic is meant to act as a companion story of sorts to the Malleus-focused "the prince's physician," this time focusing on Silver within the AU! Once again, this fic features incredibly beautiful and amazing art drawn by Sleepie; please check him out and follow him, if you haven't already!

I hope you all enjoy!

The worst part of reincarnation, Silver thinks, is the constant cycle of relearning everything all over again.

Okay, perhaps it would be a bit of a stretch to call it the worst part. There are many negatives, many downsides, far too many to count, to being stuck in a loop of constantly dying and reincarnating. But this particular aspect is, in Silver’s honest opinion, one of the worst out of them all.

There is a bookshelf carved from expensive ebony that sits in his chambers, nestled against one side of the wall. There are several bookshelves in his room, but this is the only one that Silver ever uses, filled from top to bottom with centuries worth of journals — leather-bound books gilded with gold and silver, every detail immaculately painted and carved, the cover opening to expensive parchment made from calves. He tends to absentmindedly run a hand along the spines, eyes glazing over the muted leather colours, before plucking out a book, and reading it through.

Silver only lives a good seventeen years at best, always dying before crossing the pinnacle into adulthood. How much of those seventeen years consist of just… reading? There are, of course, his early years, where he is much too infantile to read and write. But he barely has a few years of reading simple children’s stories before the latest journal is pressed into his hands, and he is briefly explained about the details of his curse.

He pores over the words of those who came before him — the Silvers who came before him, his previous iterations, all dying to form the next one. Their handwriting ghost his own, not just similar but straight up identical, and if he stresses his brain hard enough, he can almost conjure up wispy, fading memories of putting a quill to paper, ink curling across the page in the same, sweeping cursive.

And yet, it is a necessity to read all of it, all over again. Because Silver remembers — but not enough.

His memories are shattered, like an ancient mirror that has been cracked right through the middle, fractured into thousands of tiny, individual pieces. It is akin to a kaleidoscope of lifetimes; when he gazes into this metaphorical mirror, a thousand Silvers stare back, each one reflecting his exact appearance, yet distinct and different in their own ways. And yet each piece is but a shard; Silver remembers only the smallest bits of each past life, the pieces coming together to form a jumbled jigsaw of sharp-edged recollections.

He has lived far too many lifetimes as Silver — the crown prince of his kingdom, the only living heir of their royal family. He has lived far too many lifetimes as a Silver — distinctly different with each rebirth, living a short number of years until the day he inevitably dies.

Silver is immortal, and yet he is not. He lives on as the royal, the prince, a beacon of hope—

But Silver the person changes, with each new looping cycle.

(And so he reads through their journals, no matter how much it exhausts him.)

Many a time, his gaze wanders to his bedroom window.

As the sole heir to the royal family, Silver resides in the largest chambers of the castle, a sprawling set of multiple rooms, from a drawing room to receive guests, to his private bedroom where he slumbers at night. What this also means is that he is privy to the best views of everything within his kingdom, from the area stretching across the castle grounds, to the rest of the kingdom beyond tall and guarded stone walls.

There are many things for him to peer at, but today, he is gazing at the soldiers’ barracks again. They have their own section of the castle, tucked out of the way, but Silver can view them from the sanctity of his study, a room where he pens his thoughts in his journal and reads through old ones.

The emotion that dwells within him is nigh imperceptible, difficult to describe. It feels as though someone has tied a rope around his ribcage, double-knotting it and pulling it tight before tugging at it, and pulling him forward. There are twinges and pangs that cross his heart, a hollow cavern yawning as his soul collapses into itself.

He feels this as he stares out the window at the soldiers training in their courtyard. His eyes fixate on the swords in their hands, at the way they slash and thwack their weapons against straw-stuffed training dummies. Occasionally, he will spot the soldiers gathering together, jumping and yelling as two of them spar with wooden swords, all of them oblivious to his peeping.

He wants this. He longs for this. He—

“Your majesty?”

Silver blinks. It takes him a split second, pulling himself out of his thoughts, shoving away the deep desires that permeate his heart, but he quickly turns around, eyes fixating on the familiar figure in the doorway.

“Malleus,” Silver greets, shoulders relaxing as a smile slips onto his face. Of course it is Malleus; there are few who have his explicit permission to enter without needing to knock, and his physician is one of them. He waves his hand, ushering him in. “How long have you been standing there? Come on in, take a seat wherever you’d like. And what have I said about the formalities?”

Malleus is here for another check-up, and Silver gladly acquiesces. He can think of no other person he trusts more with his very life and soul than Malleus himself. He allows the man to lead him through familiar routines, magic permeating his body as he searches for something Silver cannot see, before shifting to more physical methods of testing Silver’s health.

Still, as Malleus works in a near-silence, preferring to focus and get his duties done before they can relax and spend some time together, Silver cannot help his thoughts from wandering off again. His desires are not new; he has seen them expressed across multiple journals, scrawled in identical, curling scripts across expensive parchment. The desire to pick up a weapon, to learn to fight and defend, to learn how to wield a blade like a true prince — that is what he so desires.

But he is frail, and the council insists that he stays in, that he can learn to fight once they break the curse. So never, Silver thinks bitterly, eyelids slipping shut as he feels cold claws brush against his forehead. Never in this lifetime, and not while I’m alive.

Malleus is many things.

To the populace, he has many names, many signifiers, viewed in many different ways. He is a blessing and a curse, for his magic is by far the only thing that can cure their prince, but all of it comes at the cost of his very existence itself: A fae; a deplorable, wicked creature; a monster that is the very scum of the earth itself. The history of their kingdom is written in the blood of their ancestors, shed through grievous wounds inflicted by the sharp claws and gleaming maws of the fae that slaughtered them all.

To the nobles, the members of the council who govern over the kingdom in Silver’s stead, making decisions on his behest, Malleus is something they tolerate. They do not speak of what will happen after the curse is broken and Silver is cured, but Silver knows, from their whispers and sly glances, from the words penned by the others who came before him, that they wish for nothing more than to rid the world of the last of the wicked — not, and never, fair — fae.

Humans gaze upon Malleus with distrust, wariness, abject hatred.

But for Silver, Malleus is one simple thing alone.

To him, Malleus is his friend.

There are two distinct points in the history of Silver’s incarnations: Before Malleus, and After Malleus.

The difference is like night and day. The journals of before are dismal and depressing, imbued with a bone-deep loneliness that carried all the way through into the parchment pages, stained in the very ink used to scrawl thoughts across the pages. The Silvers of that time tried — truly, they did — to cling to hope, to believe in what their people believed: that one day, their prince would be freed from the shackles of his horrific curse.

But with the passing decades, the many years, the many Silvers that lived and died, they all seemed to suffer from the same truth: there was no cure in sight.

And then there was Malleus.

The guards found a young fae child today, lurking in the borders between what remains of the valley and the kingdom, his own handwriting reads, the parchment yellowed with age, the ink long-since dried. This, Silver knows, is the first point at which Malleus is mentioned, though not yet by name, tucked away in a notebook he recognises by the distinct fern-green colour of its cover. Even now, as I write this, I still cannot believe the abysmal state he was in upon meeting him. No child, whether human or otherwise, should have that many injuries on their body, and though I have had a stern word with those who found him, I fear for his safety.

He shall remain with me for the time being.

Though Silver does not have favourite journals — for such a concept is lost on him when all the journals are such a drag to read, recounting the day-to-day experiences of his past selves, a depressing fog seeming to permeate every page of words — this one is perhaps the closest one to such a concept. Because this journal is different — he clings to every word, phantom feelings of a fierce protectiveness flaring within him, as though this particular incarnation has stirred somewhere deep within him and seized his soul.

It is so painfully obvious how much his past self had cared for Malleus — taking care of him, granting him such patience and endless kindness, spending time with him teaching him the human tongue, of how to read and write. There is a page filled with endless delight upon learning the fae’s name, ink smudged together where the page reads Malleus. Their activities did not end at the crude essentials; there are sweeping recounts of games played together, of crayon drawings and delicious platters of sweet treats — and Silver aches when he reads every word of it, possessed by a longing to return to those simpler times, when Malleus was not his physician, and was merely his friend.

And this care is made so apparent by the last few pages, the cursive made shaky by the cold, approaching winds of Death. To the next Silver, it reads, take care of Malleus. If there is any hope of breaking this curse that ails me, it lies within the powers of the fair folk. And yet, the rest of the page is filled with sentiments, rather than explaining how Malleus is the key to breaking the curse:

I wish this could last forever, these sweet days of playing together. For much of my life, I have been haunted by a bleak loneliness, isolated by my circumstances, and haunted by the weight of all our pasts. I have never had any companions my age, and I know from my readings that all of my predecessors shared the same lonely fate. To indulge in such fleeting luxuries, to have someone to speak to as though we were on the same level, intimately so— it is a happiness unlike anything I have ever felt before.

Blotchy circles stain the pages, the ink smeared in places.

Things may be different from now on. I understand that the council wishes for him to begin his work when the next cycle begins. And it is with that knowledge that I must remind the next Silver: Malleus may be our physician, and he may be tasked with breaking our curse—

But before that, before any of that, he is our friend.

Never forget that, for as long as we may live.

“Thank you for joining me today.”

Wispy trails of steam rise from two cups of tea, sitting in elegant saucers. Before Silver, and in the middle of the round tea table, is a small spread of sweet delicacies: scones accompanied by small glass jars of jam; finger sandwiches, some filled with goat’s cheese and roasted pepper, others filled with cucumber and salmon; and a small, round cake, tiny enough that it’s perfect for just the two of them.

“Of course,” Malleus replies, his voice smooth as usual. He raises his head slightly, slitted-eyes roaming over the tea-time spread before them, before he dips his head. “I thank you for the invitation, your majesty.”

“We have been over this many times, Malleus,” Silver says, unable to hide the exhaustion that spills into his voice. “You need not refer to me by such formalities.”

He knows why Malleus does so, of course. The answer is written across several different journals — It is difficult for him to reacquaint himself with us in each new cycle, and I truly cannot blame him. How alienating must it be, to witness someone you grow close to, time and time again, look upon you with no familiarity in his eyes? There is another reason too, though one of mere speculation, for Malleus has never confessed the truth by his own tongue — Earlier today, I witnessed a council member chide Malleus for regarding me with such familiarity during our meeting. I do wonder if this may be another factor into those needless formalities.

Thankfully, Malleus always obliges whenever Silver asks this of him — though whether it is because Silver is his prince, or because Silver is his friend, he never knows. “Is there any occasion for this meeting, Prince Silver?” Malleus asks, as Silver beckons for him to help himself, unwilling to dig in first when the fae’s eyes are flickering over the food, glinting with hunger. I wonder if he has forgotten to eat again, Silver thinks. Malleus carries over a scone and a sandwich with his utensils, leaving the cake intact. “Not that I mind it, by any means; it is always a pleasure to spend time with you.”

“There is no special occasion,” Silver answers, finally reaching for the spread as Malleus cuts into his meal. “I… only wished to spend time with my friend.”

Their relationship is a strange, tenuous thing. There is undoubtedly a bond there, from the way that Silver always feels so safe and secure in Malleus’ presence, and the gentle way that Malleus treats him, always appearing whenever Silver calls for him. There are even some rare occasions where the facade of dutiful physician slips, a careful veneer crafted for the sake of survival in the court, and Silver relishes those times, watching as Malleus’ expression sours, the stinging barbs that spit from his mouth more endearing than his usual regal elegance.

But all the same, compared to the earlier journals after Malleus’ appearance, filled with much more warmth and life — even as he learnt his role, Malleus would still happily chat with those Silvers, accept his offers to play games, spend the night with him on many occasions — there is a gap between them now. Driven by age, driven by time, and driven by the eternal, scathing judgement of the many humans of this kingdom, who cycle in and out of life and death, but are all fuelled by the same spiteful hatred and prejudice, taking it out on the only fae they know.

Still, Silver tries his best. He knows Malleus does too.

He sees it in the way the fae’s shoulders relax, expression smoothing out at the edges. “In that case,” Malleus says, after a moment’s pause, “let us indulge. How have you been lately… Silver?”

It is a good day for the two of them, Silver reflects. They drink their cups of tea and drain the pot of its excess drink, and the tray of delicacies are filled with nothing but crumbs by the time they’re done.

Even the cake, a dessert regarded with conflicting feelings by Malleus, is finished by the end of it. For once, Malleus eats his slices with a small smile, both their forks scraping the bottom of the plate as they help themselves to their fill.

Death no longer scares him, unlike everyone else. Death, in its own way, is a comfort, an inevitability: Silver knows he will reach his demise at the same time, at the same age. Very few people can ever be privy to such knowledge, going through their lives not knowing if they will pass on at age fifteen or fifty.

In that vein, what does it matter if Silver chooses to speed up the process?

He is not allowed proper access to weaponry. The council states that it is because there is no need for him to pick up a blade when he has guardsmen patrolling the halls around his room at all times, but Silver knows better. This is not the first time he has longed to die earlier than he usually does; he can count the other occasions on two of his hands, based on cryptic journal endings dated months earlier than they usually do.

To an extent, a part of him wonders what the point of it is. He will die, inevitably; why inflict such pain and suffering if he knows he’s going to come back? What is the point of it all?

The point, Silver tells himself, is that there isn’t one. He’ll always come back. He’ll always return — and so why should he languish and rot in his bed as his body slowly gives out on him? Why waste those months feeling his muscles weaken and his grasp on reality slip?

Why not do everyone the honour of ending it early, ending it now?

(The silver blade of the dagger, requested from some rookie soldier who knows no better than to deny this particular request from the prince, is cold against the flesh covering his heart.)

Silver is so, so tired. His life is stagnant, unchanging; he lives and he dies the same person, the same name, the same cursed prince of the same bloody kingdom, every childhood filled with days of reading the same handwritten journals signed with the same, stupid name.

When will he be allowed to rest? The weight of a legacy, the weight of his people’s hopes and dreams, drag him down, like impossibly heavy weights that are shackled to his limbs, pulling and pulling until he’s flat against the ground. He never asked for this — and god, it’s so selfish to even think of that, but it’s true.

Nobody ever thinks about him, Silver the person. They are only ever concerned with Silver the prince, Silver their saviour.

Except—

A memory flashes to mind, unbidden — of twisting, dark horns and raven-spun hair, and slitted green eyes that crinkle at the corners as he smiles at him.

(His hands tremble.)

Malleus.

The name fills him with an ache. If there is anything Silver can take comfort in as he straddles the line between life and death, it is simply that Malleus will always be there. Malleus is a constant throughline throughout Silver’s life, and while Silver may ebb and flow, weaving in and out of the many, many years of a fae’s long lifespan, Malleus will always be there.

And though the thought of that face, rendered a child once more in its shock and sadness, causes his chest to knot itself with hesitance and reluctance, Silver steadies himself.

The humans may come and go, live and die, but Malleus will always remain.

(And the blade plunges down.)

[poet-to-none]

Magnus' new autobiography is on the shelves, titled 'Surviving Tyrants', published and prefaced with a foreward by his fledgling and lover, Lestat De Lioncourt, who began the rumor of his suicide to the vampire community both in the 1780s and again in the early 1980s, thereby giving him freedom from the infamy that had been by all other means immovable three centuries

[sixeyesonathiel]

a treatise on inconvenient attraction — teaser.

pairing — undercover prince satoru x servant reader

synopsis : satoru is many things: a crown prince in disguise, a so-called eunuch draped in silk and secrets, and entirely too clever for his own good. but when you appear in the middle of palace chaos—calm, competent, and wholly unimpressed—satoru finds himself watching a little too closely. you cure what the court physicians couldn’t, ask the wrong questions with the right kind of precision, and somehow manage to look like you belong everywhere and nowhere at once. he tells himself it’s curiosity. it’s duty. it’s absolutely not personal.

but then again, inconvenient things rarely are.

tags — oneshot, apothecary diaries au, fluff, humor, slow burn, sexual tension, secret identities, enemies to lovers, royal court politics, witty banter, eventual smut

a/n: dropping this 3.2k teaser before finals devours me like a cursed koi in a reflecting pond. i am but a humble court scribe flinging words into the wind before academia drags me kicking and screaming into its gilded dungeon. this week will be pain. this week will be suffering. this week will be caffeine, tears, and the haunting echo of “you should’ve started studying earlier.”

to my beloved bbs—my ride-or-dies, my imperial council of enablers—i will miss you terribly. i’ll crawl back next week, dehydrated but victorious. until then… read well, thirst responsibly. TAGLIST IS OPEN, COMMENT IF U WANT TO BE ADDED

a calamity of cosmic proportions had just befallen the imperial court—or so the wrenching sobs reverberating through the silk-draped pavilion would have you believe. 

a hairpin, delicate as a poet’s ego, had snapped clean in two, its jade heart fractured like the dreams of a dynasty on the wane. the air thrummed with tragedy, thick with the scent of jasmine oil and the faint, acrid tang of ink from a nearby scholar’s overturned pot, as if the universe itself had taken offense at the ornament’s demise.

at the pavilion’s heart, satoru held court like the star of an imperial opera, his presence a spectacle of calculated excess. 

“it is truly a heartbreak of craftsmanship,” he intoned, cradling the broken shard as if it were a soldier felled in a war only he had the imagination to mourn. the jade caught the morning light, refracting it into mournful glints that danced across the lacquered floor—enough sorrowful symbolism to inspire three ballads, a minor diplomatic incident, and at least one overwrought ode penned by a lovesick scribe. “this was no mere ornament, madam. this—this was a poem carved in bone and stone, an elegy to elegance itself.”

the concubine, lady mei, sniffled with the fervor of a stage heroine, her silk sleeves fluttering like moth wings as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief monogrammed in gold thread. each sob was a performance, perfectly pitched, as if she’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror. her powdered cheeks glistened with artfully placed tears, and the faintest smudge of kohl at her eyes suggested she’d mastered the art of crying without ruining her face.

satoru sighed, the sound heartfelt and entirely performative, a maestro playing to an audience of one. he tilted his head just so, pale hair spilling over his shoulder like moonlight cascading over porcelain, catching the light with a shimmer that felt choreographed.

a breeze curled through the open lattice, lifting the hem of his embroidered robes with such enviable timing it seemed less nature’s doing and more the work of a bribed servant sliding a screen open at precisely the right second. with satoru, either was plausible—nay, probable.

behind him loomed suguru, a study in austere black, hands clasped behind his back with the rigidity of a man bracing for chaos. his expression was carved from stone, all sharp angles and weary resignation, as if he’d been sculpted to endure satoru’s theatrics for eternity. his hair, tied with habitual neatness, let a few rogue strands graze his cheek, like even his appearance knew better than to fully relax in such company. 

his gaze skimmed the scene, heavy with the exhaustion of a man who’d watched this exact farce, with only slight variations in props, more times than the palace cats had stolen fish from the kitchens.

“perhaps,” satoru declared, raising the jade fragment aloft as if offering it to the heavens for judgment, “we must mourn it properly. a vigil, steeped in moonlight? a commemorative tea ceremony, with cups etched in sorrow?”

“a funeral pyre,” suguru muttered, voice dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs. “i’ll fetch the kindling. maybe some incense to mask the absurdity.”

satoru ignored him with the serene grace of a man who’d long since perfected the art of selective hearing, his eyes never leaving lady mei’s trembling form.

“fear not, my lady,” he vowed, dropping to one knee with the flourish of a knight swearing fealty in a tale spun by drunken bards. he clasped her hands, his fingers cool and deliberate, adorned with a single ring that glinted like a conspirator’s promise. “i shall find a replacement—more exquisite, more divine, more… unbreakable. yes, even if i must scour every silk merchant, every jade carver, every whispering bazaar between here and the red cliffs, where the winds themselves sing of lost treasures.”

he let the silence stretch, heavy with portent, as if the gods themselves were taking notes. lady mei gasped, her breath catching like a plucked zither string. a single tear traced her cheek, glistening like a dew-drop on a lotus petal—a prop so perfectly placed it deserved its own stanza.

mission accomplished. satoru’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk, gone before anyone but the narrator could catch it.

behind them, suguru pinched the bridge of his nose with the slow, methodical frustration of a man who knew it would do nothing but give his fingers something to do. his sigh was a silent prayer to deities who’d clearly abandoned him long ago.

when the theatrics finally subsided—lady mei comforted, her handkerchief sodden, the jade fragments swaddled in silk like relics of a forgotten saint—satoru glided from the pavilion with the poise of a swan who knew exactly how devastatingly beautiful he looked mid-stride. he trailed perfume, a heady blend of sandalwood and smug self-satisfaction, curling behind him like incense smoke in a temple to his own ego.

suguru followed, a silent shadow with a scowl etched so deeply it might’ve been carved by a jade artisan. his boots clicked against the stone tiles, each step a muted protest against the absurdity he was forced to endure.

once they slipped beneath a carved archway into a quieter corridor, the performance peeled away like silk robes sliding over lacquered floors. satoru’s spine straightened, the exaggerated flourishes vanished, and he walked with the easy, unyielding grace of a man born to command palaces and bend power to his will. 

the air here was cooler, scented with wisteria and the faint, medicinal bite of herbs drying in a distant courtyard, their bitterness a sharp counterpoint to the corridor’s polished serenity.

“what?” satoru asked, eyes gleaming with faux innocence as he adjusted the sapphire-studded sash at his waist, the fabric whispering against his fingers. “i was being helpful.”

“you were being ridiculous,” suguru replied, his voice flat as the surface of a frozen lake, though a faint twitch at his jaw betrayed the effort it took to keep it that way.

“ridiculously helpful,” satoru corrected, flashing a grin that could outshine the emperor’s polished jade throne. he flicked open his fan with a snap, the painted silk catching the light like a peacock’s tail, waved it twice, then forgot it entirely, leaving it to dangle like an afterthought.

suguru shot him a sidelong glance, more sigh than stare, the kind of look that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken retorts. 

now that the mask had fallen, subtle details sharpened into focus: the glint of satoru’s ceremonial earrings, small but forged from gold so pure they whispered of plundered kingdoms; the way his sleeves, just a touch too long, brushed the corridor’s tiles with a soft, deliberate drag, like a painter’s final stroke; his hair, nearly waist-length, swaying like a silk banner unfurled for a procession, catching the latticed sunlight in a cascade of silver.

“a hairpin emergency,” suguru deadpanned, his voice slicing through the air like a blade through silk. “you skipped a logistics meeting—where, might i add, we were discussing grain shortages—for a hairpin emergency.”

“it was tragic. deeply symbolic. that hairpin was the fragility of desire itself, suguru,” satoru said, his tone lofty, as if lecturing a particularly dense pupil. he gestured with the fan, now remembered, its arc as grand as a courtier’s bow. “a metaphor for the fleeting nature of beauty, shattered in an instant.”

suguru glanced skyward, seeking divine intervention from a heavens that had long since stopped answering. 

the corridor stretched before them, vermilion pillars rising in regal procession, their surfaces carved with dragons that seemed to smirk at the absurdity below. sunlight filtered through the screens, painting latticed shadows that danced over the tiles like a secret script only the palace walls could read.

“and your grand plan to unravel the true nature of court politics,” suguru said, each word measured, “involves… hosting interpretive grief sessions for concubines over broken accessories?”

“the best disguises become second nature,” satoru replied, winking with the confidence of a man who’d never doubted himself a day in his life. “besides, would you rather i play the stuffy prince, droning on about grain quotas and tax ledgers?”

suguru didn’t respond, which, to satoru, was as good as a standing ovation.

they turned a corner, the air shifting as they passed a courtyard where a fountain burbled, its water catching the light like scattered pearls. a pair of palace cats, sleek as whispers, darted across their path, their eyes glinting with the smugness of creatures who answered to no one. 

a servant, her robes the muted gray of dawn, bowed deeply as they passed, her gaze fixed on the floor, though the faintest tremble in her hands suggested she’d heard the hairpin saga and was bracing for its inevitable sequel.

and beneath it all, beyond the red walls and silk screens, something stirred. not fate—not yet. but close, like the first ripple on a still pond, or the faintest creak of a palace gate left ajar. 

for now, there was only satoru, strutting like a peacock in the emperor’s garden, his voice lilting, his feathers flashing in the sunlight—and suguru, the poor bastard doomed to trail him, shoulders squared, expression grim, half a pace behind like the world’s most disapproving shadow, forever caught in the orbit of a star that burned too bright to ever dim.

the palace hummed with a frenetic buzz—not the charming, festival-lanterns-and-rice-wine kind, where moonlight glints off sake cups and laughter spills like cherry blossoms, but the swarming, fretful, everyone’s-talking-and-no-one’s-hearing kind that screamed someone important was either sick, scandalized, or both. 

lucky for the court, it was a two-for-one special: the emperor’s favored concubine, lady hua, had taken ill, and the whispers swirling through the vermilion halls were ripe with intrigue sharp enough to cut silk.

it began with fainting spells, delicate as a willow branch snapping under snow. then came the headaches, each one described with the reverence of a poet lamenting lost love.

by the time rumors slithered to satoru’s ears, the court physicians had added skin lesions to the list—delicate ones, naturally, because heaven forbid a woman of the inner court suffer anything less than poetic. “female temperament,” the physicians declared with the smugness of men who’d never questioned their own brilliance, waving it off as a trifle. “probably just the summer heat, thickened by her delicate constitution.”

maybe it was. maybe it wasn’t. but satoru was bored—a state as dangerous as a spark in a lacquered pavilion when paired with his curiosity and the kind of power that hid beneath shimmering silk like a blade in a jeweled sheath.

he sprawled across a divan like a cat claiming its throne, pale hair spilling over the brocade cushion in a cascade that caught the lantern light like spun silver. “i want to see her,” he said lazily, one hand dangling over the edge, fingers brushing the cool jade inlay of the table beside him.

the air carried the faint sweetness of osmanthus from a nearby brazier, undercut by the sharp bite of ink drying on a discarded scroll.

suguru didn’t look up from the scroll he was pretending to read, arms crossed over his dark robes like a disapproving older sibling teetering on the edge of committing murder by eye-roll alone. his hair, tied with a cord of black silk, gleamed faintly in the slanted light, as if even it resented being dragged into satoru’s orbit.

“the emperor hasn’t summoned you,” he said, voice flat, though the faintest twitch of his brow betrayed his dwindling patience.

“that’s the beauty of being a fake eunuch,” satoru replied, already rising with the fluid grace of a dancer who knew every eye was on him. his robes—silver threaded with blue embroidery, obnoxiously tasteful—shimmered like moonlight on a still pond, the hem brushing the polished floor with a whisper. “every door swings open if you smile just right and flash a bit of charm.”

suguru exhaled through his nose, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken curses. “your highness, court gossip is beneath your station.”

“nothing is beneath my station when i’m playing eunuch,” satoru chirped, swiping a rice cake from a lacquered tray as he sauntered toward the door. he popped it into his mouth, the sesame seeds crunching faintly, and shot suguru a grin that was equal parts mischief and menace. “in fact, it’s half the fun.”

and just like that, he was gone, robes flaring behind him like a comet’s tail, leaving a trail of sandalwood perfume and impending chaos. 

suguru muttered a curse under his breath—something about peacocks and their inevitable reckoning—and followed, because someone had to keep the idiot from plummeting headfirst into disaster.

what they found at lady hua’s quarters was chaos distilled into a single, suffocating room. maids scurried like ants fleeing a crushed nest, their silk slippers whispering frantically against the floor. 

physicians argued in hushed but venomous tones, their sleeves flapping like indignant birds, while someone—likely a junior attendant—sobbed into a brass basin, the sound muffled but piercing. the air reeked of camphor, sharp and medicinal, tangled with the cloying sweetness of sandalwood incense and the sour undercurrent of barely-contained hysteria. 

a breeze from an open screen carried the faint tang of lotus blossoms from the courtyard, but it did little to ease the oppressive weight of the room.

satoru leaned against the doorframe, one hand languidly fanning himself with a jade-inlaid fan, its painted silk fluttering like a butterfly’s wing. the other hand rested lightly on the fan’s hilt, fingers tracing the carved dragon as if it might whisper secrets.

he looked like a man at the theater, idly amused by a tragedy he had no stake in—and to be fair, he was. his eyes, sharp as a hawk’s beneath their lazy half-lids, scanned the room with the casual precision of someone who missed nothing.

then his gaze snagged on something—or rather, someone.

you.

in the heart of the maelstrom, you were an island of calm, steady and still as a stone in a raging river.

you weren’t dressed like a physician—no embroidered insignia, no silk badge pinned to your belt like the pompous healers squawking nearby. your robe was simple, utilitarian, the color of weathered slate, its sleeves pinned up past your elbows to reveal forearms smudged with the faint green of crushed herbs. 

you crouched beside lady hua, movements quick, efficient, precise, as if the chaos around you was merely background noise to be tuned out. the room bent around you, maids and physicians alike giving you a wide berth, like you were the eye of a storm they dared not cross.

satoru straightened, just a fraction, the motion so subtle it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone but suguru. his fan slowed, the silk shivering in the pause.

“who’s that?” he murmured, voice low, the words curling like smoke as he tilted his head, pale hair slipping over his shoulder like a waterfall of moonlight.

suguru had already clocked you, his arms now crossed tighter over his chest, the dark fabric of his robes creasing under the pressure. his jaw tightened, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. “not a court physician. not officially,” he said, each word clipped, as if he resented having to state the obvious.

“well,” satoru said, his lips curving into a smile that was equal parts intrigue and trouble, “now she’s interesting.”

you were wrapping lady hua’s wrist in linen soaked in something pungent—fangfeng root, if satoru’s nose didn’t betray him, mixed with the bitter bite of yanhusuo and a faint trace of ginseng. old-school herbs, the kind not dispensed in the palace’s pristine apothecary but ground by hand in shadowed apothecaries far from the emperor’s gaze. 

your fingers moved with the deftness of a musician, tying the linen with a knot so precise it could’ve shamed a sailor. beside you sat a worn wooden box, its corners scuffed from years of travel, but its contents were meticulously organized—vials labeled in a script too small to read from the door, tools gleaming faintly in the lantern light.

satoru’s eyes narrowed as he watched you work. your movements were too clean, too practiced, like someone who’d stitched wounds in the dark long before stepping into a palace. 

lady hua groaned softly, her face pale as the moon, and you pressed your fingers to her pulse, murmuring something under your breath. there was no softness in it, no coddling, just the calm precision of someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and didn’t care who saw.

and then—your eyes.

they flicked up, not to the patient, not to the bickering physicians, but to the room’s edges. to the guards in their lacquered armor, their spears glinting like threats in the corner. to the doors, half-open, where shadows shifted in the corridor. to the windows, where the lattice cast jagged shadows across the floor. 

your gaze moved like a soldier’s, mapping exits, calculating distances, noting every potential threat with a speed that was almost instinctual.

satoru felt a thrill crawl up his spine, sharp and electric, like the first crack of thunder before a storm.

“she flinched when the guards shifted,” he whispered, his fan now still, its silk drooping like a forgotten prop.

suguru’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened, a storm cloud gathering behind them. “trauma?” he asked, voice low, testing the word like it might bite.

“training,” satoru replied, folding his fan with a slow, deliberate snap, the sound cutting through the room’s din like a blade. “she’s not afraid of chaos. she’s afraid of uniforms. of order that isn’t hers.”

he glanced at you again, and this time, you felt it. your shoulders stiffened, just for a heartbeat, as if you’d sensed a predator in the room. 

you didn’t look up, didn’t meet his eyes, but the way you angled your body—back to the wall, never cornered, one hand hovering near your box like it held more than herbs—told him everything. 

your kit was no mere healer’s tool; it was a survivor’s arsenal, scuffed and worn but as familiar to you as your own skin. the faint scar on your knuckle, barely visible, gleamed like a silent boast of battles won.

“is that why you’re smiling?” suguru asked, his voice bone-dry, cutting through satoru’s thoughts like a knife through silk.

satoru didn’t answer. not aloud. but oh, yes, he was smiling, lips curved like a crescent moon, because the emperor’s concubine might be fading, her breath shallow as a winter breeze.

but you?

you were alive—vibrantly, dangerously alive, a spark in a room full of smoke. your every movement screamed secrets, and your eyes held a story no one in this palace had the guts to read. 

lady hua’s illness might’ve been the court’s obsession, but you were something else entirely—a puzzle, a threat, a flame flickering just out of reach.

and satoru, with his boredom and his power and his peacock’s flair, had just found a problem worth solving. the air thrummed with it, heavy with the scent of camphor and intrigue, as the palace walls seemed to lean in, whispering of the chaos yet to come.

[angelfishe]

>> 𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑

>> zhongli x reader ( manhwa AU )

You were reincarnated as the wicked stepmother of the male lead prince xiao in the novel "Whispers of the Celestial Wind" Prince xiao biological mother the former empress passed away due to Illness during his infant days, and the emperor zhongli his father remarried a noble woman and soon become xiao step mother which is the character you were reincarnated.

Warning : may contain child abuse and implied nsfw themes

You were reincarnated as the wicked stepmother of the male lead, in the popular novel whisper of the celestial wind. The male lead prince xiao was the son of the former empress guizhou and emperor zhongli.

Sadly his biological mother and former empress passed away when he was 5 years old and his father was pressured to marry another noble woman soon become his stepmother.

In the novel his stepmother was a cruel person as well being the antagonist of the story, finding pleasure in abusing him as well being very jealous of his mother and would try to erase every memory of her, as well being obsessed with emperor zhongli. In the end the step mother was executed and the story ended.

You woke up in a luxurious bedroom filled with gold and blue decorations, you were confused at first until a nervous approach to your bed saying it's time to wake up, you ask for her to bring a mirror and that's when you realize you were reincarnated as the wicked stepmother who destined to die.

You immediately get dressed in a blue hanfu and walk towards the courtyard with maids following in the back, you look and there is prince xiao playing in the field with his nanny standing by.

You approach him, at first his reaction was immediately stand up and bow quickly as well as his maid, when you were about to reach your hand to pet him, he flinched as if he expected you to hit him why would anyone find pleasure in hitting this adorable baby.

You started to spend time with xiao, even tho he was always nervous expecting you to hit him but he started to melt towards you, you as well apologizing for how you used to treat him, he believed your changing a new lead and started to see you as his mother always seeking your present.

This sudden change of behavior becomes noticeable in the court, the cruel empress suddenly becomes a gentle soul. Volunteering in charities also started to form friendships with the servants of the palace. Is something the empress wouldn't do.

Suspension rise and a physician came and did a check up and found nothing wrong with you and soon the court started to believe you're changing into a new lead.

Emperor zhongli as well his closest advisor finds your change in personality very suspicious and keeps their guard up around you but by far you've been proven innocent not doing anything at all just spending time with his royal crown highness.

Emperor zhongli as well is very cold with you, distancing himself from you but since you're always near his son, he started to see his son less. But one day Xiao approaches him and asks him to spend the afternoon with him.

And low behold you were there and the afternoon was very awkward none of you started a conversation with each other the only noise is you playing with baby xiao.

One day, he asks for your presence, in the throne room with his advisors standing as if you're on trial, he asks why you had changed and what's your objective.

You answer with an honest answer saying you want xiao to have the best childhood, knowing you're unable to undid your previous crimes to the court, royal family and former empress. You promise to change into a new route even if no one forgives you.

This answer stunt the entire court and you immediately made your exit out of the throne room and immediately went to meet up with xiao to play.

That night zhongli visits you to apologize towards you for doubting your actions as well your character. And soon he also started to warm up to you.

One time you and him under disguise as peasants and visit the lantern festival usually he always has to take care of the matter but thanks to you he got his schedule free and have a fun time together in the lantern festival.

You guys walk together hands embracing each other afraid to let each other, and the other of his hand holding a lantern walking thru the peaceful bamboo forest. The moon shines down on you and he stops and gives you a passionate kiss. Time stops and you guys embrace each other's warmth that night

Throughout the years, you and him would walk towards the bamboo forest and spend the night together. Xiao is also getting bigger every year and he started to take lessons on how to be an emperor and he's quite skilled with the pole arm.

Zhongli felt complete again after guizhong left, her presence left a large hole in his heart until you walked in and that hole started to fill up, your presence and your love is something new to him something he never experienced with his first love and felt more completed with you.

The entire kingdom started to have a more stable and more prosperous than ever, with your knowledge of the plot you manage to avoid major plot events making the kingdom more prosperous. You would be invited in zhongli discussion about the kingdom with his advisors, especially advisor xianyun having a daughter and you suggest having a play date

The citizens and servants as well admired you seeing you as a dutiful and kind hearted empress, many citizens started to have better lives thanks to you.

For the nobles couldn't say the same thing some might respect you, but most of them see you as someone that engages with the commoners and see you as filth.

For the past 10 years everything has been going so smoothly, it's almost time for xiao to meet the female lead and it's his 15th birthday.

Gold is displayed everywhere with the color of green, you and zhongli sitting on the throne side by side as well as him holding your hand, you were drinking wine suddenly you fill a painful pang on your stomach and zhongli notices it and asks if you're okay.

You vomit a pile of blood and your body falls on the floor, zhongli quickly holds your body and shaking you and xiao soon shows up and holds your arm asking you what's wrong. The wine was Poison and zhongli immediately yelled for a healer quickly.

The last time you see before your vision fades to black was zhongli yelling your name while tears filled his beautiful golden eyes falling towards your face as well as xiao tears falling from his eyes and it all turned to black....

To be continued...

[babkaboy]

one of the requests was a medieval au with dragon!anakin and physician!obi-wan and naturally i cheated and drew targaryen prince anakin and grand maestre obi-wan

[larluce]

Arthur and Merlin travel back in time without knowing the other is from the future too AU

Tagging @aceauthorcatqueen , @fallenxjas , @smileytrinity ,@lucifertookmyshoe , @an-entity-i-think , @thecornerofbelu , @griffonskies , @odinjm , @cinnabon-sweetroll-tiramisu , @thelady-mary , @bennedict , @nightninjaboy , @st8-of-grace , @star-rie , @error-username-not-available , @dogberryrowan , @jamieweasley13 , @tansyuduri , @tercais , @robynnemrys , @evadne01 , @serasvictoria02 The tag list is increasing! I'm crying 🤧. Again thank you so much for all the love. I've been sick in bed, all depressed cause I couldn't speak or sing (I'm a musical theater student) and reading your comments cheer me up ^^.

LINKS TO THE OTHER PARTS OF THIS AU HERE: PART 1 , PART 2 , PART 3 , PART 4 , PART 5 , PART 6 , PART 7 , PART 8 , PART 9 , PART 10 , PART 11 , PART 12 , PART 13 , PART 14 (You're here) , PART 15

In "Remedy to Cure All Ills"

Arthur pacing around in his chambers after Morgana fell sick and he encountered Edwin.

Arthur: (thinking, trying to convince himself) She's evil, she's going to become evil, it's okay if she dies. She's evil, she's going to become evil, she must die. She's evil, she's going to- (Shouts and throws a lamp againts a wall, furious with himself)¡AAARRGH!(sinks in a couch an covers his face, thinking miserably) Why can't I let her die? I watched her take her last breath before my eyes before, damn it! This shouldn't hurt this much.

Merlin: (enters) Arthur?

Arthur: (sighs and takes his hands out of his face, exhausted) Don't you know how to knock?

Merlin: (with a comforting smile) You know I never do that. (gets close and puts himself infront of Arthur, bending down to be at his height) She's going to be alright, Arthur. She's strong. You'll see.

Arthur: (smiles back, but it doesn't reach his eyes) A man came to the castle this morning. He claims he can cure her. (thinking) Of course he can, he was the one who did this to her.

Merlin: (thinking, wary) Edwin... (says) How could he? Not even Gaius knows what's wrong with her.

Arthur: He says he has a remedy to cure all ills.

Merlin: That doesn't exist. It's impossible.

Arthur: I know that! But what other option do we have? Morgana is dying and we are farther from close to find a cure! We don't lose anything by trying (thinking) And we gain everything by doing it. Once he cures her I can kill him.

Merlin: (puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, hesitantly, but relaxes when Arthur doesn't reject the touch) You really love her a lot, don't you?

Arthur: (with unshed tears) We grow up together. She's like a sister to me. I can't let her die. (Thinking) Even when she doesn't share the same sentiment. I just can't.

Merlin: Wait till tomorrow. If she doesn't get better, you can fetch the man.

Arthur: I'm the prince, Merlin. You can't tell me what to do.

Merlin: But?

Arthur: It's too late the fetch the man now. I'll wait till tomorrow.

Merlin: (smiles) Wise as always, my lord.

Arthur: (caresses the hand on his shoulder, lovinly) Thank you, Merlin.

Merlin: (blushes, nervous) 😳 I... I didn't do anything.

Arthur: You did. (Looks at Merlin's eyes intendly) Thank you. (They stare a each other, faces inches from the other).

Merlin: (snaps out of it and moves away) I-I need to go 😅 (smiles nervously and walks backwards) Eh... Physician apprentice things to do- (collides whit the table and some things fall and he picks them up quickly) Sorry!

Arthur: (laughs softly) Don't stay awake late. Rest.

Merlin: Right... you too. I'll be back to dress you in a minute, so don't sleep until I get back! 😅 (Leaves, thinking) 'Don't sleep until I get back'? Really? 😳😖🤦‍♂️

Arthur: (Sighs, thinking) Sleep. If only I could.

It's rare the times Arthur has a good night of sleep. Nightmares or rather memories of the time Merlin was a tree always assault his mind. Specially the time Merlin was turned before his eyes and he couldn't do anything about it, too weak from his wound, too useless. It's better now that Merlin sleeps in the antechambers. He just has to open the door and watch him sleep there peacefully, human and alive, and his heart is at easy again. Now with Morgana at death's door there's no way he's going to catch any sleep at all.

Arthur: (whispers to himself) I still have time. Tomorrow. Just wait until tomorrow.

Time skip. For everyone's surprise, Morgana wakes in the morning all cured, like she has never been ill in the first place.

Uther: (happy and relieved) Morgana! (Goes to her) This is truly a miracle. I thought... I really thought...

Morgana: (smiles) Oh, you won't get rid of me that easily.

Arthur: We certainly won't. (Just as realived and happy, puts hand on her shoulder, unconsciously) I'm glad you're alright, Gana.

Morgana: (surprised he's showing affection to her again, but touched) Gana... You haven't called me like that since we were kids.

Arthur: (realising he put a hand on her shoulder and puts it away) Right. Sorry, I know you don't like it.

Morgana: (messing with him) Oh, you can call me like that if you want. If you let me call you... Art? Arthie?

Arthur: Don't you dare! (He threatens but then they both laugh and look at each other fondly)

Gaius: I still need to make a few tests to see if she is really out of danger, but for what I can see, she'll be fully recovered in no time, sire.

Uther: Of course. Thank you, Gaius.

Gaius: I don't consider this was exactly my doing (looks at Merlin significantly and Merlin makes himself small in his place). But I'm glad to be of service as always, your majesty. I'll prepare some concoctions to prevent any outbrake just in case. (Makes a bow and it's about to leave, but then turns to Merlin sternly) Merlin?

Merlin: (sighs) Coming (bows quickly and leaves with him)

Uther: (frowns, thinking) Is it my idea or did he vow in the direction of Arthur alone?

Arthur: (who saw all the exchange between mentor and ward) I'll go to inform everyone the good news. Morgana, father (smiles politely makes a bow to both of them and leaves too)

Morgana: (sighs, a little sad, thinking) And cold Arthur is back.

Time skip. In Gaius Tower. Gaius scolding Merlin.

Gaius: You used magic on the king's ward?! What were you thinking?!

Merlin: I was thinking that I didn't want her to die! She's my friend and she's very dear to Arthur-

Gaius: Arthur, Arthur. Is what all this is about isn't it? I know he's the prince and you care for him. But let me remind you, he's still the prince of a kingdom that bans magic. Do you have any idea of what would have happened to you if someone discovered you? if someone have seen you?

Merlin: (explodes) Yes I know! Of course I know! Every time a wake up, every time I breathe, I know I could be killed at any moment. I watch every pyre that is made fearing maybe I could be next. I watch every friendly face, knowing that if they knew, if they only knew, they'll see me like a monster. I have to look at Uther, the man that would have me executed, the murderer of all my kind, and I have to serve him and smile at him trying to no throw up every day. So yes I perfectly fucking know, Gaius!

Gaius: ...

Merlin: (with teary eyes and his voice breaks) But I can't stop doing it, I can't separate myself from it. And I tried, believe me I tried, but I can't. Magic is part of me, is who I am. So I'll use it however I see fit, whenever I can, because no one knows the risks of using magic in a kingdom that forbids my very existence better than I do!

Silence...

Gaius: You're right. I don't understand it. I will never understand it. Magic was never to me what it is to you. I'm sorry I didn't see it before.

Merlin: It's alright. I know you only worry about me.

Gaius: It's more than that. (puts both of his hands on Merlin's shoulders) Merlin, in this short time I've known you, you've become like a son to me. I can't bare to lose you.

Merlin: (smiles) You won't lose me. I'm sorry, I didn't want to upset you.

Gaius: Then for the sake of this old man, stop doing these things behind my back.

Merlin: Only of you promise to help me rather than forbid me of doing things. I still need guidance, I still need you.

Gaius: Alright (he hugs him close and then pulls away). Lets start with how you cured Lady Morgana. I don't recall giving you any healing magic classes.

Merlin: I didn't have to, I just had to call this little one out of her ear. (pulls out a beetle from his pocket) I think it was what was making her sick. Do you know what it is?

Gaius: (alarmed) Don't touch it! (picks a jar and opens it) Put it here. Now! (Merlin does it and Gaius closes the jar) It's an Elanthia Beetle. They can be enchanted to enter the brain, feed on it until they devour the person's very soul. Thank the gods you managed to pull it out.

Merlin: (who already knew all this, but still has to play ignorant) So Morgana was echanted? By who?

Gaius: There are many sorcerers who wish to cause harm to the crown, my boy. But, whoever it is, once they find out their plan failed, they are going to try again.

Time skip. Merlin leaves Gaius tower with Morgana's concoctions and almost jumps out of his skin, when he sees Arthur is there at the door.

Merlin: (scared, but trying to disimulate, closing the door behind him) Arthur! How long have you been there?

Arthur: (who heard the whole conversation, very affected) I... I just arrived.

Merlin: (relieved, but concerned for Arthur's state) Arthur, are you alright? What is it? (with growing panic) Are you ill? Did something happen to Lady Morgana? Arthur, answer me!

Arthur: (hugs Merlin suddenly)

Merlin: (too stuned to say anything) ...

Arthur: (Pulls Merlin closer to him, thinking) 10 years. You suffered my father's reign and then I made you still live in fear for 10 years.

Merlin: (red and still very concerned) Not that I'm not enjoying this gesture, sire. But, please, say something. I'm going to freak out.

Arthur: (pulls away gently) Nothing's wrong, Merlin. It just... seemed like you needed it.

Merlin: (confused) ... right. (Thinking) He must still be sensitive about Morgana. (coughs, trying to hide his red face) I have to... ehm... give Morgana her concoctions so...

Arthur: (playfully) Are you blushing?

Merlin: No.

Arthur: Your ears are red.

Merlin: They are not!😡

Arthur: Yes, they are. It's hard not to notice. They're as big as your face.

Merlin: Not as big as your fat ass!

Arthur: Have you been staring? 😏

Merlin: (even more red) I...😳 stop wasting my time, get out of my way!😡

Arthur: That's no way to talk to your prince, Merlin.

Merlin: Fine (with exaggerated courtesy). Your highness, my lord, sire, would you make me the enormous honor to remove your royal, pompous, supercilious presence out of my way?

Arthur: (laughs, but steps aside)

Merlin: Thank you, my lord. I'll be forever in debt with you. (Bows in mockery and leaves)

Arthur: (thinking, as he watches him leave) You chose to save Morgana with your magic this time. You shouldn't have risk it. But thank you. You won't have to suffer for so long this time. I'll create I world where you feel safe, you won't have to hide and be scared anymore. I promise.

[rottenpumpkin13]

Final Fantasy 7 but it's medieval times. What roles would AGSZC play?

Sephiroth: The legendary general of King Shinra's army, raised from birth to be a perfect warrior under the eye of Hojo, the king's physician and court alchemist. He's terrifyingly good at war, barely speaks but is frequently seen in the company of Angeal and Genesis, and has single-handedly ended every battle he's ever been in, not because he takes joy in it, but because it's what he was made to do. He does not revel in destruction, doesn't seek out bloodshed, he simply knows no other path. But if he had a choice, he'd be a farmer tending to quiet fields far from Shinra's kingdom.

Genesis: The Duke of House Rhapsodos and the kingdom's resident problem, but spends more time dueling people over perceived insults than actually governing anything. He should be handling politics and trade, but instead, he spends his days seeking duels, reciting poetry and constantly quoting an ancient epic poem that only he has memorized. Wanted to be a bard but was too good with a sword and had to fulfill familial duties.

Angeal: The kingdom's most respected knight and a man of unwavering honor. He was once a peasant who was knighted (upon Hollander's—another alchemist—insistence). He believes in justice, hard work, and Zack not embarrassing him in front of the nobility. If you commit a crime in his presence, he will personally lecture you about it. The only person who can somewhat keep Genesis in check, and the only man alive who has dared to tell Sephiroth "No."

Zack: Started as Angeal's squire, now "that one friendly knight who somehow gets along with everyone", from royals to stable boys. Has challenged a dragon to a fight just to see if he could win. (He did not.) His optimism is so powerful that it bends reality. Refuses to let Sephiroth be broody in peace. Once punched a noble for insulting Aerith and was legally declared "an issue." Always volunteers for dangerous quests and somehow never dies. The only person who can joke around with Sephiroth and live.

Cloud: A stablehand who never wanted to be involved in any of this. Came to the capital with big dreams of knighthood and now regrets everything. Somehow, against his will, has been dragged into every single royal mess. Too talented with a sword for a commoner, which makes the nobility suspicious. Zack loves him and. At least once a week, he considers faking his own death and living as a hermit.

Other lore of the medieval AU:

Jenova is a legendary dragon sealed away centuries ago, said to whisper to mortals and corrupt the minds of men. The royal alchemists think they can harness its power. They cannot. It's current resting place is in a cave hidden away in Mt. Nibel.

Hojo is the royal physician and court alchemist. He has too much influence over King Shinra and no sense of ethics. Raised Sephiroth from infancy as his "greatest creation" and has too many experiments locked away in the castle's dungeons.

King Shinra is exactly as corrupt as you'd expect. A megalomaniac who funds endless wars to expand his kingdom and sees his soldiers as disposable. He treats Sephiroth like a personal attack dog and considers his own son, Prince Rufus, an asset instead of a person.

Aerith is a florist and the secret heir to an ancient bloodline, raised in hiding by Elmyra. She's considered a witch by superstitious nobles and is pursued relentlessly by the king's men. Zack is trying to date her despite this.

The Turks are a secret order of spies, assassins, and enforcers working directly under the king. Prince Rufus has too much influence over them.

[captain-hawks]

DELICATE.

tetsurou kuroo x f!reader

The Mage of Nekoma visits your bedchamber by moonlight after weeks spent away from the castle.

wc: 2.2k tags: 18+ only, fantasy au, princess!reader, mage!kuroo, forbidden relationship, feels, fingering, mirror sex, unprotected sex, creampie -> requested

“Princess.”

Startling, you whip around from your place in front of the tall, gilded mirror to find an unexpected visitor casually leaning against the wall, the door to your chambers left slightly ajar.

“Kuroo,” you breathe out in surprise, eyes going wide, heart stumbling clumsily in your chest.

Your father ordered the mage off on a treacherous mission in enemy territory three weeks ago. Three long, arduous weeks that have left you fraught with worry, pacing your rooms late into the evening by the glow of candlelight. A small, haphazard pile of books sits on the window sill, evidence of your long hours spent perched there anxiously waiting for signs of a rider approaching the palace gates. 

Left to agonize over his absence in secret, your handmaidens were convinced you had fallen ill as you quietly moved through the castle like a ghost for days on end. 

Tension leaves your body in waves as you drink in the sight of him, alive and unharmed, save for a fading bruise on his jaw and a cut on his cheek. But the dark circles under his eyes betray the easy smile on his face—he must have just arrived and immediately sought you out, rather than retiring for the evening first. 

He pushes off of the brick to stride toward you, one hand subtly flicking backward, and the dancing shadows of torchlight from the hall beyond disappear as the large wooden door quietly clicks shut. 

“Is it Kuroo now again?” he asks. 

His hazel eyes flicker with the rest of the questions he leaves unasked—

Have you grown tired of this? Of him?

Has Prince Daichi finally asked for your hand?

Has this fool’s charade run its course?

You step toward him—and he waits. 

Because for as much as much power as the Mage of Nekoma wields, for all the old, rich magick that hums from the soil of the earth into the grasp of his fingertips—

This is your choice. 

“Tetsurou,” you whisper, chin wobbling as your eyes begin to sting with the threat of tears. 

He will always be your choice. 

His embrace is warm like nothing else can ever hope to be, steady in a way that settles the trembling of your knees and the knocking of your heart. 

It is nothing like the efficient sweep of your handmaidens’ palms over the wrinkles in your skirts or the weight of your father’s heavy hand atop your shoulder. 

It is not the brush of a prince’s lips against your knuckles or the physician’s gnarled fingertips at your temple.  

His touch is deliberate and familiar and all-consuming, a torch at the pyre beneath your ribcage that sets your heart strings alight. 

Tetsurou holds you like he knows you. 

Like he knows all that you’ve been, everything you are, what you’re still yet to be.

Warmth seeps deep into your bones, 

You wonder sometimes if he’s aware of the way his magick sinks into you when you meet, soft, tickling tendrils that wrap around your ribcage like the vines that climb the western palace walls. It’s a tender feeling that bleeds freely into the marrow of your bones, that leaves your nerves washed gold and humming with energy. 

It rolls around inside of you like a lazy feline in the afternoon sun, belly up with trust. 

Lips buried in your hair, he murmurs your name, the sound of it on his tongue lovelier than the most divine of incantations. 

“I was worried that—“ you inhale sharply, throat tight. 

“I’m here,” he assures you, calloused thumb drifting against the hinge of your jaw. 

Tetsurou’s lips are soft against yours when he takes your chin between his thumb and pointer finger. 

You dig your fingers in the front of his cloak, tears sliding down your cheeks as the side of his nose tenderly grazes yours. He drags his lips over the damp trails, hazel eyes meeting yours once more. 

“I’m here,” he says again, though you’re not certain if it’s to you or himself this time. 

A small laugh bubbles up out of you, the roiling emotions in your gut capsizing under the trajectory of his steady gaze. 

“You’re here.”

Tetsurou smiles. 

Nudging you back toward the ornate mirror, he tells you to turn around. You watch as he reaches into a pocket, pulling out a delicate golden chain. 

“I know you won’t be able to wear it out and about, but—“

Your heart flutters. 

“Put it on me, please.”

Tetsurou offers you a boyish, lopsided smile, the same one he gives you when you insist he spell your chamber door shut and remain in your bed late into the morning.

The one he gives when you tell him you’d sooner flee the country with him on horseback with nothing but a satchel, rather than be forced to let another man take your hand on the basis of status and decorum alone. 

Deft fingers brush over the nape of your neck, and you shiver at the sensation, watching as the chain comes to rest at the base of your throat. 

A tiny, sparkling ruby dangles at the center, and something tender rouses inside of you as you think of the similar red gemstone that dwells in the golden band that never leaves the middle finger of Tetsurou’s right hand. 

He catches you staring at said ring. “You don’t have to wear it if—“

“It’s perfect.” You cover his hand with your own, lacing your fingers together. “Thank you.”

Tetsurou grins, pressing a kiss behind your ear. “Now the real question is, why are you still awake and dressed at this hour?”

Letting your head fall back against him, you sigh. “I told the handmaids I could manage on my own tonight, but now I can’t get this damned dress off.”

Thumb pressed against the small of your back, he asks, “Would you like some help then, my Lady?”

You roll your eyes fondly at the title. “I beg of you, sir. I ask you most ardently to employ the diligent use of the arcane to—“

Your words die on your lips as a pleasant, tingling feeling washes over you, your dress softly falling to the floor, the complicated hooks and ties giving way under the command of Tetsurou’s magick. 

Left only in the gauzy fabric of your shift, you look at him in the mirror, lips pursed playfully. 

“What ever would my father say if he knew what blasphemy the Mage of Nekoma wields his power for in the Princess’ bedchamber?”

Tetsurou’s breath is hot against the shell of your ear as he leans in. “What would the court say if they knew how their lovely Princess writhes and begs under the unbecoming touch of his mana?”

Your shift joins your dress on the floor, leaving you bare save for the necklace. 

“One should only be so lucky to know the feeling,” you whisper, cupping the hand currently tracing your jaw and pressing a kiss to his palm. 

“One should only be so lucky to witness it,” Tetsurou rasps back, tilting your chin to redirect your gaze back to your reflection as he traces the curves of your breasts. 

His hand slides down your chest, past your belly button, coming to rest in the valley between your upper thighs. 

He stares at you while he carefully moves his thumb across your clit, toying with the sensitive bundle of nerves as it swells and begins to throb. You watch him dip lower, two digits slotting into the slick heat of your folds, gliding wetly in your damp arousal. 

The touch of Tetsurou’s fingers here is a familiar pleasure, one that’s sent you toppling over the edge and moaning helplessly into the curve of his shoulder many times over. 

But it’s a wholly new experience to watch as he does it, to see the way his eyes darken as glistening arousal slides down the inside of your thighs. To see his thick fingers disappear as he sinks one, then two into the tight heat of your cunt. 

You moan, letting your weight fall back against his chest. 

“No amount of coin in my pocket could rival this luck, this fortune,” he breathes out, voice rough. “No title nor kingdom, not in this realm or the next.”

Tetsurou groans when you reach backward, fingers threading in his black hair, leaving the strands haphazard and mussed as you tug. 

He cups your breast, thumb dragging pointed circles over your pebbled nipple. Fire licks its way into your gut, your back arching with each subsequent plunge of his fingers into your slick entrance. A lewd, squelching sound fills the room, accompanied by your soft, breathy moans. 

A hand turns your drifting focus back to the mirror, where you tremble lust drunk in the carefully sculpted golden frame. And even with his fingers busy caressing the side of your neck while his other hand strokes your plush inner walls, a sensation seeps over your swollen breasts. Teeth sinking into your bottom lip, a whine whistles up your throat as Tetsurou’s magick strokes them with the ghost of a touch. 

“Tetsu, please,” you gasp, all at once feeling woefully underfilled as your desperation blooms white-hot. 

His cloak slips from his shoulders, pooling on the floor, and you find yourself greedily drinking in the flash of his chest from the loose ties of his tunic. He shrugs off the black material as well, and it’s a battle in and of itself to resist the urge to spin around and trace your fingers over the carefully inked runes that permanently adorn his skin. It’s a ritual—the way you trace your fingers over the shapes, the way his eyes fall shut as you kiss the one that sits atop the jagged scar on his collarbone. 

There’ll be time for that later, beneath the whisper of moonlight that yawns through the glass panes as you lie tangled beneath the sheets. 

He hardly has his cock out of his trousers before you’re pressing back against him, too needy and impatient from  weeks spent apart. 

“Lean forward,” he murmurs, guiding you to grasp the edges of the mirror on either side. 

A thrill races up your spine as you look at your reflection, watching the reverent way he slides his palms over the globes of your ass. He gently nudges your legs further apart, one hand coming to rest at your hip as he slowly drags his length against your folds. 

Notching the head of his shaft at your entrance, he pointedly locks eyes with you before he begins to sink into your tight hole. Inch by inch, the pleasure inside of you expands rapidly until you can hardly breath, your cunt aching with the satisfaction of being filled so very deep. 

Despite all of the times you’ve looked into Tetsurou’s eyes while he beds you, it’s a wholly new experience here as you grasp the mirror and meet his lust-filled gaze. He makes you feel wanted and desired like nothing and no one else, but to see it reflected back in this gilded frame now like a spectator leaves you dizzy under a heady, abrupt wave of carnal desire. 

“Tetsurou,” you moan, careless of your volume since the day he spelled your walls blessedly silent. 

Stars prick behind your eyes as he rolls his hips into yours, his cock sinking deep into the damp heat of your cunt, gripped tight by your walls with each push and drag. 

Your fingers ache from how hard you’re clinging to the mirror now. Tetsurou groans, his own hands wrapped around your hips. Your toes curl tightly against the carpet when he buries his cock to the hilt, folding his body over yours and pressing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses to your back. 

“Harder,” you breathe out, a need, a plea. 

Tetsurou obliges, your sweat slick skin sliding against his as he begins to roughly pound into you. Your legs start to shake as you lose your grip on the searing feeling that’s been steadily building up in your abdomen. The tender caress of his magick spreads in your veins between one breath and the next, stablizing your trembling limbs. 

And then the pleasure inside of you explodes. 

Your climax punches through you like a northern gale, and Tetsurou’s name is a moaning sob on your lips as you slip past your melting point into a euphoric daze. Thick, hot ropes of cum spill into your tight channel a breath later as his cock pulses with his own release, your cunt milking him dry.

You hardly remember Tetsurou cleaning you up and carrying you to bed after, save for the warmth of his body curled around yours while you slipped into your first restful sleep in over a fortnight. 

When you wake the next morning, the mage is regretfully gone with duties to attend following his return. 

But a single red flower sits waiting in a vase on the window sill. 

An early winter frost creeps its way across the glass panes, a stark contrast to the vibrant life that remains in that single clipping.

Tetsurou told you once that the care of flowers is a delicate magick, for one must cherish each petal. 

[ohsleepie]

More role-swap au doodles. Silver is coming to the end of another life cycle and malleus, without a solution yet again, is there to simply comfort him.

[serenescribe]

the prince's physician Twisted Wonderland | 3.7k Summary: Malleus is the prince’s physician. He reflects on everything his role entails. AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52875436 Collaboration with @ohsleepie | Potential spoilers for elements of Chapter 7

Hello everyone! This fic is directly inspired by @ohsleepie's wonderful "The Prince and his Physician" AU, and wound up being an impromptu collaboration featuring absolutely stunning and incredible art drawn by Sleepie himself! Please check him out and follow him!

I'm so happy to share this, and I hope that you all enjoy it!

The days between the prince’s passing and his inevitable reincarnation always feel the longest to Malleus.

Time, as it is, is a slow-paced thing; such is life for him as the last of his kind, a single year feeling far more miniscule for him than it does for a human. Malleus loses track of the days easily, slips up on his months and years. He is only aware of the passage of time through distant observations of festivities — celebrations to herald in a new year, for one, or the prince’s birthday, for another.

But rather than track the time through each changing year, Malleus tracks them in cycles of Silver’s life and death.

With each new reincarnation, each new cycle brought anew, something imperceptible shifts in the air. A rebirth means many things — to the kingdom’s populace, it is yet another year of a curse yet unbroken; to Malleus, it is a tangible, physical mark of his failures. But failures aside, there is something so jarring, so off-putting, about seeing the nursemaids and servants whisk a cradle through the halls of the castle, a cradle Malleus knows the contents of.

It is Silver, always Silver, a slumbering baby identical to the dozens that came before him — wispy locks of silver hair that plaster against his forehead, pudgy hands and chubby cheeks, and when he opens his eyes, those same, breathtaking hues of the brightest auroras.

Malleus always stops and stares whenever these moments occur. For an instant, his breath is stolen right from his throat by some unseen thief; his mind dredges up memories of when he, himself, was young, stirring to life old cycles when he was but a child himself, unable to comprehend Silver’s passing and subsequent return. It had taken him quite some time to grasp all of it — but then again, could one truly blame Malleus when his guardian figure, the kindly young prince his age who took him in and treated him well, had died in bed, only to reappear as a wee babe?

But when Silver returns, Malleus feels as though he can breathe again, an invisible knot in his throat loosened.

Because when Silver is gone, Malleus feels… useless, for lack of a better word. His own memories of his childhood are haphazard and spotty, mainly made up of foggy recollections of surviving in the harsh brambles of fae forests. For many, many years, he has found a purpose, was given one through being brought to this human kingdom: break our prince’s curse, and save him from Death’s unyielding grip.

There are few here who deign to interact with him beyond courteous pleasantries. They turn their noses up at him, eyes narrowing, lips twisting; it is fae, they whisper to each other, voices dripping with venom. If not for its magic, its prowess, surely we would have left it to die.

Silver is kind to him, has always been ever since he was young. So is it truly so shocking that Malleus feels so lost with him gone, and feels so relieved whenever he returns?

(And yet, intermingled with the relief, buried underneath such feelings of solace, there lurks another monster. A sense of guilt which festers, slowly growing over time.

An old memory rises whenever Malleus reflects on it for too long, of Silver’s voice:

“I wish for you to break my curse, Malleus. But I do not want to be immortal. My people have suffered for far too long, unable to grow and prosper due to my unending fate.”

He remembers a soft, sad smile.

“To relieve them of that burden, to allow them to grow with my final passing… that is what I wish for, above all else.”)

“How are you feeling today, your majesty?”

It is always odd, with each new cycle. To reacquaint himself with this new Silver — so much like the one before, in his appearance and demeanour, yet lacking the full memories of his past. Malleus knows Silver recalls just enough, especially when aided with the meticulous journals his previous incarnations have kept, but it is jarring, all the same, to reintroduce himself to someone he has known for many, many decades.

Silver blinks at him from the bed, the four-poster frame draped with too many silks and gauzes, too big for a boy of his size. His eyes are tinged with crusts of sleep, bags forming under them despite the medicines and foods they all have him eat, and yet there is such a strange tranquillity resting in his expression whenever Malleus sees him. “I’m quite alright, Malleus,” he responds, voice scarcely a whisper, soft and sweet. “And you don’t need to call me such formalities. We’ve been over this many times.”

Malleus exhales, the breath slipping through his nose.

No matter how many times Silver tells him as such — and it has been plentiful, through Silvers young and old, of different years, different decades, different centuries — Malleus still abides by such titles, at least when he first speaks to him. It gets easier as the years pass, as he acquaints himself a bit closer, as Silver inches closer to another inevitable death, but all the same—

“You are to be his physician,” a voice instructs him, the memory looming to life once more, “and you do not stand on equal ground with him. As such, you are to abide by our formalities: he is to be referred to as ‘your majesty,’ and nothing else.”

“Prince Silver,” Malleus says instead, the title a little clunky on his tongue. Silver raises an eyebrow at him, but does not push. He merely sits in place as Malleus walks over, his heels clicking against the floor, tail lashing behind the fabrics of his half-skirt. “Allow me to check you over today, if you will.”

“At this point, you need not even ask.”

The days go by the same way they always do: Malleus inspects Silver over carefully, running careful hands over every inch of his body before he adjusts his magic, and delves deeper into the beyond. His instincts are carefully attuned for any little change, anything he has never seen or felt before — any anomaly at all could give a new direction for him to research in, and a new possibility of a means to break the curse.

(He refuses to let himself think too hard about what breaking the curse truly entails. Malleus has ruminated over it over the course of many, many cycles, laying wide awake in bed, staring up at elegantly painted murals on the ceiling in the dark of night. It is always the same thing — should he abide by the kingdom’s wishes, or by his prince’s?

In the end, regardless of which route he chooses, Malleus shall break the curse. But it is the eternal dilemma presented to him that tangles his soul day after day — what would truly be better, to let Silver live past the ages of youth and mature into an all-powerful, immortal king? Or to let him die in peace, freeing his people from the burdens of a monarchy, their hopes and dreams all inextricably tied to their young and dying prince?

And, to another extent, the other part of the question Malleus thinks about, what does he want himself?

There is a part of him that feels such vibrant joy and pride at the thought of Silver thriving — to live as long as Malleus shall, if not even longer; to rule with his steadfastness and kindness, resolute as he heralds a new, immortal age of glory. Malleus knows little about the history of his own kind, but what tiny bits he can dredge up have taught him of a group of creatures with such power and perfection, such beauty and bravery. They thrived in the night, ruled from the shadows, creatures of such majestic, nigh-immortal magic with an arrogance that led to their own downfall.

As a fae himself, Malleus wonders if it is only natural for him to desire such things for Silver. To watch him grow into the ages he has never been able to reach before, to witness him at his fullest might and glory.

And yet, the mere thought of the stabbing betrayal in those auroral eyes, the sadness that may overcome those soft features, is enough to give him pause each and every time.)

He was young when they found him skulking about the brambles.

For as long as Malleus can remember, he has always been alone. Though he’s certain he remembers some sensations of warmth from before he came into being, of being cradled close in a loving embrace, all he remembers, through to his earliest memories, is of being alone.

And for such a lonely fae child, wandering about an overgrown, abandoned valley, what else was there for him to do but survive? To pounce about and gulp down whatever meals he could find, to curl up in the nooks of trees and little rock caverns to try and keep warm… and to hide in the brambles, slitted eyes peering at civilisation from afar.

He’d watched the daily lives of the human kingdom after finding out about their existence, when he was old enough to try and mimic a form similar to their own. Still, Malleus had been too scared to venture too close, some innate part of him screaming at him to stay away, and so he had simply observed from a distance… until one day, they found him.

He remembers little of that day now. It’s all a blur when he tries to recollect it — sharp grips tightening around his limbs as he kicked and thrashed, searing magic that ripped through his veins, burning those who tried to hurt him, being thrown and tossed about, immobilised by something that seared at his skin… All while screaming and yelling flooded the air, his heartbeat thumping chaotically in his ears, head spinning as his surroundings whirled about him—

And then it stopped.

And then there was Silver.

He was young then. That, Malleus recalls. He remembers everything after the pain and the panic with ease, of the way the young boy — just as young as he, with silver hair and such pretty, colourful eyes, and oh-so gentle hands — had removed the searing things that hurt him, and rubbed something that stung before it began to feel better.

“My name is Silver,” the boy told him, in a soft, kind voice that made Malleus feel… safe. “I’m sorry about the pain they caused you. I hope you’re feeling better now.”

Malleus understood him, of course, in some strange, innate way. But his tongue could not shape the same sounds that he heard, no matter how hard he tried. When he spoke, all he could manage was something that chimed and clicked, something Silver didn’t understand.

And yet, in spite of all that, Silver had such patience with him anyway. He allowed Malleus to stay by his side, to stay in his room, eating the same foods that he did — and what a treat they were, for a child who starved as long as he had! — and sleeping in his bed.

Time passed; his wounds healed. His tongue began to curl in all the right ways, taught painstakingly by Silver how to speak in his tongue in-between the periods of time where he had to disappear. Malleus relished in each and every day, the loneliness that haunted him for so long no longer looming over him like a shadow. Now, he had Silver—

Until he didn’t.

Silver hadn’t woken up one day, no matter how hard Malleus tried. Nudging him, shaking him, calling his name until his voice rose in a panic, and the door slammed open, footsteps thumping into the room. He’d been dragged away, kicking and screaming again, the same terror from years ago swelling up once more in his heart; the fire that sparked through his veins, the sheer agony and pain, the lurking realisation that he was alone again.

He remembers very little of those in-between days, the foggy haze of nothingness only pierced by a baby’s cry and the realisation that Silver had somehow returned. But it hadn’t been until years later, years of being stuck in a tiny little bedroom by himself, that Malleus could finally see him again.

Silver was younger now. Younger than Malleus himself. And finally, he explained it to him.

“I have a curse on me,” Silver told him, as simply as possible, as Malleus curled around him in his bed. “And other humans believe you can break it.”

Malleus blinked up at him, raising his head from the soft, downy cushions. “I… can?”

“You can,” Silver affirmed with a gentle smile, his voice high. He reached out, wrapping his arm around Malleus and bringing him close. “Because you’re a fae. You’re so strong. If anyone can help me, it’s you.”

The truth, of course, was far more complex than that simplistic explanation. The truth was that Silver’s curse itself was fae-inflicted and, considering the immense strength of the fair folk, only another fae’s skills would be able to eliminate the curse. But Malleus had been young, and Silver, despite his youth and the fact that he still barely recalled his own memories, was kind, trying to explain everything to Malleus as simply as possible: You are strong, and we believe in you. I believe in you.

And Malleus had accepted it, taking on his new role as the prince’s physician with a regal sort of pride.

Magic slinks through his veins as naturally as blood, the two intermingling and intertwining. It comes to him so easily, far more than even the most expert mages of the kingdom, who have spent decades of their mortal lives honing their skill to a perfect shine.

But for as naturally gifted as Malleus is, he lacks the proper training one should have. That is, not the training of human mages, for he has gone through many cycles worth of such a thing, but the training of a fae.

Fae magic is so distinctly different from that of humans, rooted in their very heart and soul, and in the power of the natural world around them. And though Malleus can adapt to his circumstances, taking what the reluctant tutors teach him and twisting it to suit his own strengths, there is only so much he can learn and do until he hits a wall, and gets stuck in one place.

If only there were other fae still alive, still out there. If only, Malleus thinks longingly, a swell of frustration burgeoning within him as he hits yet another blockade in another theory he’s been trying to test, the ink of his feathered quill dragging to a blotchy halt across the parchment as he struggles to pen what he’s been theorising into written words.

He hears the whispers of the court, day after day. Why isn’t there any progress? the humans ask, as though Malleus can flick his wrist and cure anything instantly. How many years has it been here? How much longer must we suffer? How much more must our prince wait?

And the thing is, Malleus desires nothing more than to be able to snap his fingers and dispel that wretched curse, all at once. But beyond other factors, such as Silver’s private request to him all that time ago to grant him a peaceful death and free his kingdom from the shackles of his immortality, there is the very fact that this is a fae curse, a complex, interweaving system of magic designed to loop Silver’s death, all while bringing him back every time. There is intent behind this convoluted spell, and save nothing short of somehow speaking to the caster himself, there is little Malleus can do but break it all down in reverse.

He rakes a hand through his hair, a growl spilling from his throat. The quill clatters to the table as he drags his hands down his face, biting back a haggard sigh.

The sound of knocking against wood.

“You may enter,” he calls, twisting in his chair to stare at the door.

The hinges squeak as it cracks open, revealing a guardsman who leers at him. “Your presence is requested,” they state, not bothering to hide their disdain, yet having enough basic courtesy not to let it spill into their words. “The council wishes to learn of your progress on breaking his majesty’s curse.”

Dark lips twist into an ugly sneer. The council, Malleus seethes. A group of uppity, stuck-up human nobles, who constantly die and get replaced with equally awful replacements, who keep breathing down his back about any meagre bits of progress he’s been able to make despite Silver’s attempts to get them to stop.

The downsides of Silver constantly reincarnating, needing to relearn everything all over again as he dives back through journals and jostles his own memories, is that he can’t always chase them away, telling them to leave his physician alone, and let him work. This is one of those times, it seems; Silver is too busy learning how to be a human being again, leaving Malleus stranded against a group of men who seem hellbent on making his very existence hell throughout what little bits of life they live.

But it is not as though he can deny a summons. For all his title as the prince’s physician, Malleus knows — has known for such a very long time — that his rank is meaningless without the very prince he serves.

“Tell them that I shall arrive in five minutes.” Picking up his quill, Malleus dips it back into a pot of ink, a furious frustration igniting the spark within him as he turns back to his incomplete report.

It is better than nothing, and that is worth something.

Malleus holds very little loyalty to this kingdom. What else is there for him, when he is destined to outlive everyone within it, and when they are all so bent on treating him as though he personally killed their families?

He is aware of the history between them and his own ancestors, the plentiful fae who used to share these lands until they waged war against the humans, slaughtering them in a painful, bloody battle. The humans had emerged victorious, all the fae driven out or slain, but it had come at the heavy cost of all their royals killed — except for one.

And for years, they had watched their prince grow with pride, until he had died before his coronation. And then it had happened again, and again, and again — they would find him as a baby nestled within a clearing in the nearby woods, identical in each and every iteration, and they would watch as he always died before arriving at his years of maturity, always while he was far too young.

A fae curse, they realised, far too late. How foolish they had been, to dismiss the magic struck against their prince! It is a fate worse than death, they lamented, their spirits growing weary with each new cycle. What shall we do?

Malleus is their answer to their conundrum, a solution to a problem his ancestors made. And yet, for all the supposed salvation he represents and is supposed to bring, he knows what they think of him. And though he understands it, understands the reservations and hatred for everything he represents, he also cannot help but resent them for it.

Why is he treated like he is lesser, when he is trying to help them?

His loyalty lies with their prince, with Silver, for the kindness Malleus has been shown over and over, throughout countless identical reincarnations, countless ends and beginnings. It is the reason why he stays, why he endures it all, why he works painstakingly at dissecting a curse only he stands a chance of understanding, in hopes of shattering this cruel fate once and for all.

He carries the hopes and dreams of the kingdom on his shoulders — a cruel irony, Malleus knows, considering what most of the populace think of him. He is their only hope, in the end.

But the thing is — and this, Malleus has come to realise over time:

It is easy for the humans to root for their prince. It is easy for them to hope, to pray, to plead with whatever higher forces exist out there for the fae physician to break his curse, bringing them all into a golden age of their royal’s immortality. It is easy because they are human; for many of them, they will not live long enough to witness more than perhaps four or five of their prince’s life cycles, forcing them to tell their descendents of their desires to carry on the flames of their hopes.

When one does not live long enough for their awe and admiration, their all-consuming anticipation, to melt away into something far more pessimistic, it is easy to stand strong and proclaim, “I wish for my prince to live forever; I wish for him to lead us into a new age.”

But for Malleus? For the only fae in a kingdom of mortals, destined to outlive each and every one of them by proxy of his heritage alone?

He has lost count of just how many cycles he has witnessed, from the tender years of childhood into the grown fae he is today. He has lost track of how many times he has met Silver for the first time, the servants and guards and nursemaids who care for him and guard him all switching out cycle after cycle, as more of them die and more of them are replaced.

The humans see not what Malleus witnesses over time: the piles of journals that stack up higher and higher; the heavy bags that marr the underside of those striking auroral eyes; the pure exhaustion that sinks into their prince’s every movement and word, the way he gazes upon his kingdom from towering windows.

In the end, this miserable curse can only end one way: Silver must die.

(The question still remains, pressing down on Malleus’ shoulders, an invisible burden weighing him down with each soft smile and greeting he receives.

Shall Silver live forever? Or only once more?)

[sorryimananti-romantic]

sorryimananti-romantic's tumblr wrapped, 2024

tagged by @makeitmingi and @sungbeam <3

2024 review

this year i explored a lot of the darker characters/dynamics which was an absolute pleasure, but i think such heavy plots also drained the energy out of me (or maybe it was the absolute monster of a wip i was writing consistently all year). while i did slip in some fluffy lighthearted fics here and there, i decided to take a break in november from writing in general. after an actual no-writing few weeks, i went back to my wip series and decided to just follow my heart (as if i hadn't already been doing that before) but more importantly, not force myself to write.

as of 2024, i have written more than a million words in a span of 3 years. i think i deserve to be slow with writing now! (plus, life, folks. real life.) thank you to all my lovely mutuals and readers for the incredible support you've shown me here!

total statistics of 2024

no. of fics: 8 total wc: 190,299 (+ a solid 113,000 if we count the leaders) no. of wips: 1 (+ a few ideas that have only been brainstormed but not written)

genres explored in 2024

fantasy, supernatural, historical, royal, thriller, action, crime, psychology-ish, futuristic, tragedy, adventure, romance, mafia (basically... everything?)

first fic of 2024: siren

- posted: jan 2nd - pairing: siren!yeosang x sirenhunter!reader - comments: this was my first time writing anything related to the sea (if memory serves me right) so while this was quite the challenge, it was fun bc i wanted to make sth unique out of the typical siren x siren hunter plot. i'm glad the response was good!

longest fic: light

- posted: sept 10th - pairing: mafia/angel!seonghwa x chemist!reader - comments: i think this is my second fav fic from this year. the idea of 'what happens when an angel becomes evil' plagued my mind so bad that i just had to get this out of my system. plus, i love writing fantasy in general so this was fun.

last fic: the leaders | chapter I

- posted: dec 31st - pairing: ot8!ateez x reader, mafia au - comments: just posted, pls check it out! it's going to be a long series since it's been in planning and a wip for over a year now. the leaders is going to be my whole personality for the foreseeable future (plus, according to my schedule, it's going to end in the 3rd quarter of 2025 so... buckle up!)

top 3 most popular fics of 2024

guerrilla

- posted: jan 31st - pairing: serialkiller/vigilante/doctor!yunho x writer!reader - comments: when i wrote this, i had no idea it would blow up. it's lighthearted but i think the response triggered me to explore more morally grey characters and darker dynamics.

ateez as villains

posted: nov 5th comments: this marked the last fic of this year, and also the villain/dark characters arc I've had going the whole year. i think it was a nice wrap because i'm taking a break from writing other stuff and just focusing on finishing my ongoing series.

new world

posted: june 5th pairing: prince!hongjoong x physician!reader comments: i think this was peak morally black characters and peak toxic manipulative dynamics between the characters, yet there was a sad beauty to it. i enjoyed writing this very much.

yumi's personal picks

star 1117

- posted: july 10th - pairing: wooyoung x alienoid!reader - comments: and this is my fav fic from 2024! it has everything i love: wooyoung, space, time travel, wholesome side characters jongho and yeosang, alienoid reader who learns to connect with the human in herself, and such delicious plot twists and foreshadowing. i'm ngl, i'm the biggest fan of this fic, and it's prob also one my fav oneshots I've written. while this didn't blow up (why do my fav fics never do), i had sooo much fun writing this.

cyberpunk

- posted: march 27th - pairing: droid!jongho x programmer!reader - comments: this was THE toughest fic to plan (not the time travel ones, not even mafia, but THIS). i haven't read many droid stories so lack of reader knowledge, and then wanting to still make a plot out of it other than 'omg my boyfriend turned into a droid' was hard. i rewrote this so many times but i'm very satisfied with how it turned out.

wave (sneaking this here bc it's the only unmentioned fic LOL)

- posted: april 25th - pairing: teacher!mingi x teacher!reader (headcanons) - comments: this one was a fun filler fic (bc i'm guilty that I've not written much mingi, and bc i literally could not write at that time). i love a fluffy mingi, i love fluffy fics in general so this was the product of my simpness, if you will.

2025 goals

finish the leaders and finish posting it, not force myself to write, write better, read more fics on here, and explore more genres (atp will have to invent some), finish the current ideas before planning and obsessing over new ones vs writing whatever i want (a constant struggle), and finally, just survive :')

np tags: @lorensonebraincell @kitten4sannie @sp4ceboo @sweetinsaniiity @bvidzsoo @pirateprincessblog + anyone who wants to (if yall write for different fandoms, you can add a 'top artists/muses' section too.)

[theonceandneverking]

Sure like Modern AUs are good, but there’s something so appealing about Camelot in general- not even like merthur themed, just like being in love in that way

It’s romanticized sure, but what i wouldn’t give to ditch all my problems here and fall in love with someone and have our biggest issues be what gay thing we’ll see the Crown Prince and Physician Apprentice will do

[anika-ann]

Ochranuj me (Protect Me) - S.R.

Part 1/2

Type: medieval/fantasy/fairy tale AU; a part of this pseudomedieval-fantasy AU

Pairing: knight Steve Rogers x reader   Word Count: 8,6k

Summary:  Your practice of magic is punishable by death. Your love is forbidden by law; and yet it has been blessed, more than he knows.

When the crown prince is poisoned, Knight Steven Rogers is faced with a choice: will he risk a war or the love of his life?

And what of you? If asked… shall you risk it all? For the lands where you live… for your knight?

Warnings: attempted murder, poisoning, blood, mentions of death, polytheism, mentions of pregnancy (reader/OFC), Slovak language ‘cause I can

A/N: Actual title is Ochraňuj mě (Protect Me) ...tumblr cannot handle a ň in their title 🙃 DIVIDER by @firefly-graphics; fits after the events of the previous instalments

A/N 2: This is one less smut and more plot, forgive me 🤭 I hope you'll enjoy anyway. Yes, the Merlin inspo is real here. Inspo also from Bílá laň by Vesna. For music, check it out here, for visuals here.

Chodila, chodila za tebou bílá laň lásky se napila navzdory všem přísahám. Prosila pány lesa ať ji pustí za tebou zažít si, jaké to je jít za srdce ozvěnou.

Tady je tvůj háj, tady je tvůj ráj, jinam nepatříš. Jako bílá laň svoji duši chraň, ať záři neztratíš.

Tady je tvůj háj, tady je tvůj ráj, jinam nepatříš. Tak ať nepotká tě kříž. (kříž, kříž, kříž) - Bílá laň by Vesna

Boisterous laugh. Wine poured in gallons painting cheeks nearly just as ruddy as the warmth of the torches illuminating the high halls of the Starkerbürg castle painted the walls. Rich aroma of butter, oils, meats and spices flowing in the air, clinking of the most precious silverware and a distant sound of flutes as the musicians tasked to raise the already high spirits could be barely heard over the noise of the feast.

Under the watchful eye of the gods or the only God it was now believed there was, a celebration of peace was raving, everything but peaceful and serene; loud and overwhelming instead, a whirlwind of emerald green threaded with gold welcomed by the steady colours of rich crimson and gold. An anniversary of the peace made between the kingdom of Asgard and Starkerbürg, a party led by Thor Odinson, the king of the lands, honouring the deal his late father King Odin had made right before his passing.

The high table with King Howard sitting at the centre, his son Anthony, the crown prince, by his right, along with the woman he was courting, Pepper of the Potts; on her right, King Howard’s daughter, Princess Morgana. On the king’s left, the guests of honour; King Thor, his wife Queen Jane, and his brother Prince Loki. Knights and warriors of the highest ranks, lords and ladies of nobility joining the celebrations, servants all but running around the hall to tend to everyone’s needs.

Then, a sound of a chalice hitting the stone floor, one that would have been met with more laughter, had it not fallen from Prince Anthony’s hand, suddenly scarily pale and trembling. Cold to touch too, a terrifying contrast to his burning forehead glistening with sweat. Body sliding down the chair, barely even faint frantic motions to his chest.

Brief, deafening silence.

The traitorous calm before a storm would hit and leave nothing but death and destruction in its wake.

Chaos.

Swords drawn.

A wave of threats of violence.

A thundering voice of the King of Starkerbürg himself.

Calls for the royal physician Banner.

Images of peace and joy shattered; a single inconspicuous calm face among the sea of others in the face of a tragedy in making.

“Poison. I cannot determine what kind as of yet. Carry His Royal Majesty to his chambers!” the physician called out, not bothered by the fact he was ordering around knights and other nobility. “At once! There is no time to spare!”

Knights practically tripping over each other to tend to their prince, to their future ruler, to their brother in arms even as by rank he stood high above them. Rustle and grunts; a whisper of skirts as the culprit slipped away in the midst of disarray and cries of fear for the prince and the future of both kingdoms alike.

To think that an attack at the crown happening during the presence of a party of another kingdom – one similarly strong – was but a coincidence, would have been foolishly naïve.

Oh there were no such coincidences; this was but the first step towards a war.

And the perpetrator would be treated with that in mind.

“Aconite, most likely,” sounded the verdict, the words solemn on the physician’s lips as he fearfully raised his gaze to the King hovering over his shoulder as he inspected the second most important patient of the kingdom at the royal chambers.

The dark note in Banner’s voice snapped Steven from the haze as he, Sir Barnes, Sir Barton and Sir Wilson stood along the walls of Anthony’s chambers, tall and menacing, but just as helpless as Prince Anthony’s betrothed seated in the corner.

Whatever poison the physician was talking about, it was not known to Steven; but the message written in Banner’s expression was clear as day and terrifying like a night to be spent in the woods with rumoured presence of ghouls.

Inevitable death.

It was true that King Howard Stark might have yet to comprehend, despite his long years of ruling his lands, that one might catch more flies with sugar than vinegar, gain more by threading his actions with kindness than by spitting threats of violence; but he was no fool. He perceived the solemnity of the announcement and received it with a shadow over his already distorted features.

“This… aconite, Banner. What kind of a poison is that?” he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest, but not bending. Not under the weight on the crown on his head, nor under the weight of the tidings he might be scared to receive. His face was but a mask of stern indifference; a silent warning to Banner to choose his next words carefully.

As if stating the patient’s condition was a choice, Steven thought darkly, his heart pounding painfully against his ribcage as he exchanged glances with his best friend standing by his side. When he looked back at the physician, he could see him swallow dryly even from the several feet distance. Yet, the brave man faced the King with his head held high and his expression filled with sorrow.

“A deadly kind, Your Royal Majesty,” Banner said slowly. Rage flashed on the King’s face, Steven’s stomach dropping at both the sight and the worst tidings brought. Death. “It is made from the nectar-filled blossoms or the tubers of the Aconitum lycoctonum flower. There is… no cure known to man.”

A sniffle sounded in the corner of the room, completely ignored except for Sir Barton’s compassionate glance towards the woman who was on the brink of despair at the mere thought of the man she had clearly already learned to love leaving this world forever.

The King beckoned to the guards standing by the door, making them instantly step forward with their spears ready, heading for Banner menacingly.

Steven’s feet twitched as he wanted to step forward to protect the physician, outrage rising at the injustice even as fear twisted his stomach.

Sir Barnes brushed his hand discreetly to stop him.

Steven gritted his teeth, but stayed put for now, watching the scene unfold with disdain.

Sir Barnes was correct in one thing: Anthony being poisoned and having his life hanging on a thread was horrible enough, and rash decisions and actions such as standing up to the King would only make it worse.

A raging man was an unwise man; and the King was only a man too, even as he compared himself to various deities and had nearly as much power as them – which only rendered him more dangerous. There was no point in scaring the physician to death or even hurting him, but such was the King’s power. Such was his God-given right to punish whoever as he pleased. It mattered little that Banner could barely be blamed for-

-for the crown prince’s impending death, apparently.

“Then I advise you, Banner, to find one fast,” King Howard sneered as the guards stood behind the physician now. “Otherwise, you shall meet the same fate as whoever of Asgard dared to try and rob me of my son.”

The guards grabbed the man’s shoulders and Steven’s hand instinctively went for his sword again; and he was not the only one. Still, the knights stood, hesitant to disobey their King even in the face of the glaring injustice, fighting an inner battle between honour and goodness of heart and the oath they had taken. Their loyalty was to the kingdom and the King represented it most of all, after all; even if he seemed to threaten it the most of all, too, at the moment.

Well, not on Steven’s watch.

“Wait!” he called out as he stepped forward, earning a hard glare from the King himself that should have told him to keep quiet and fall in line, but he could not. Not even for Bucky’s audible sigh behind him. Not when-

“Is there anything we can do for him as of now, is what we are trying to ask,” Sir Wilson spoke up before Steven could, moving to stand next to him.

Steven took a deep breath as his gaze flickered to his comrade, finding his face arranged in a carefully crafted humbleness – as it should be in the face of the ruler even when he was addressing the physician.

Banner’s words were kind, his voice firm and regretful.

“I am afraid there isn’t, good Sir.”

“The Royal Guard and all the knights have a clear mission given by the crown, Sir Wilson,” the King barked as he gestured for the physician to be dragged away, the poor man allowing it without a protest. King Howard’s gaze fell on his son’s pale face as he lied on the bed with nothing but soundless whimpers on his lips, before he snapped back to the four knights present. “Arrest all servants and nobility of Asgard. I shall have the King and his brother for myself. And should my son meet his forefathers, I shall have their heads on a spike by tomorrow.”

With those words, he turned on his heel and stepped out, his leave abruptly followed by Anthony’s wife-to-be rushing to her betrothed’s side, cheeks damp with tears.

Steven regarded the scene unfolding, frozen with horror and unease greater than anyone.

He feared the death of his friend, naturally, as they had just dragged the one single person with any chance of curing Anthony in the whole kingdom away from his bedside.

But Steven feared a lot more deaths too. Should Prince Anthony die, King Howard would unleash pure hell on Asgard and as a consequence, on all Starkerbürg as well.

All the knights knew that; everyone knew that. They all had a heavy feeling in their stomach at the mere thought, their feet slow and unwilling as they left the chambers one by one. Yet, Steven’s heart was heavier.

The thought had occurred to him when he had wondered what exactly the King was expecting from Banner.

To turn back time so the prince had never got poisoned?

To pray to the gods for a miracle?

To perform a miracle himself and cure what was considered uncurable?

The last idea had squeezed his heart in an icy fist, nausea clawing up his throat.

He knew someone who could achieve things as close to a miracle as possible in this realm. He had felt such miracle in his own blood, tissue and cells; he had felt the wonders strong magic was capable of when in the hands of the kind-hearted. He was still breathing solely because of it; and he knew the person who could achieve this closely, intimately even, mind, body and soul, the depth of the goodness of her heart.

Perhaps you would be able to replicate the feat of saving Steven from certain death.

Perhaps your magic was powerful enough to save thousands lives by saving one. Powerful enough to prevent a war.

But hope and miracles were not to be trifled with. Magic was not to be trifled with. Being seen practising magic meant a definite death sentence.

But would it? If it saved the future king’s life?

Surely, he couldn’t risk it; he couldn’t risk your life. Of all the things he had seen in his life, of all the things he had ever had the fortune to hold, you were the most precious one to him. If he brought you here, he could lose you. He could lose you, by his own hand no less, and that would be the highest price to pay for peace he did not even know would settle or not in the end.

No.

That was the one price he couldn’t pay. He’d much rather pay with his own life – but not yours. Gods, never yours.

But if you only could… knew a potion, could do anything at all…

As he marched with his comrades to arrest the innocent – for it could not be the work of all Asgardians at once – his jaw was tense, the dilemma occupying all his thoughts, feeling like it might tear him in half.

Until it hadn’t.

If he did nothing, the war was be inevitable. If he did nothing, he would lose you anyway.

A raging man was a dangerous man and King Stark would burn the world in the wake of his anger and grief, heedless of whoever would burn with it.

Steven stopped dead in his tracks, Sir Barnes nearly colliding with him as a result.

“Steve, what the-“

“I must go,” Steven said in a hushed voice, swiftly changing direction; or attempting to. Sir Barnes’ hand was quick to grab onto his elbow, stopping him, heedless of other knights continuing their path.

“Steve, what in heavens do you mean by that?”

“I must fetch someone. I believe she could help.”

Sir Barnes bewilderment would perhaps be almost comical had it not been for the dread pooling cold in Steven’s gut.

“…she? What—the woman you have been sneaking off to see?” Sir Barnes enquired, causing a startled and utterly confused expression to appear on Steven’s face, a small alarmed sound pushing past the man’s lips despite his effort to remain composed.

Hold on, hold on-- Bucky knew?!

The look Steven received back was unimpressed at best – of course Bucky knew. He knew Steven almost better than he knew himself.

“Save the surprise for another day. How could she possibly help? Is she a physician’s assistant? Or even an apprentice for some insane reason?”

Had Steve had the capacity, he’d glare at Bucky for the offensive tone with which he had asked the question; however, he did not have it and in the brief moment he spent pondering, he realized that Bucky was not opposed to the idea itself. It was simply the ways of Starkerbürg: to try and take a woman as a physician’s apprentice was insane indeed. King had the God-given right to appoint physicians – and King Howard would certainly never approve of a female one.

But that didn’t matter, because that was not who you were.

“She’s… she is a healer.”

“A healer?” Sir Barnes echoed pointedly, doubt colouring his words. “What does than even mean? We do not have time for this.”

Steven huffed, trying to tug his arm free from Sir Barnes’ grasp as his impatience grew along with the number of doubts whether it was ever a good idea to consider your aid; but there were no options. No time to search for them. No time to waste and no time for finesse. He needed to go and he needed Bucky to understand – and more than that.

“She saved my life, Bucky. Back when I fell from the crags into the river… when you thought I was dead-“

“You must have been lucky, fell into deep water. You had superficial injuries. This is a poison. One the best physician of the court claims to have no antidote for.”

Steven swallowed thickly, the heaviest of feelings in his stomach as he chose to reveal his greatest secret as to make a point and be released to act before it’d be too late. “Bucky, I had much more than superficial injuries. She… she helped then. She might be able to help now, but… I will need your help with protecting her should it come to it.”

Bucky looked at Steve as if he had just grown a second head, glancing around nervously as guards and knights alike kept passing them, casting strange looks at them for their stillness. Sir Barnes lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper.

“Are you saying you were wounded much worse and yet she was able to tend to you? In such short time that you were missing then? And that she might be able to help here, now, with a poison that has no known cure?” Sir Barnes demanded hastily, bewildered and clearly irritated. “Are you hearing yourself, Steven? What kind of a healer would she have to be to-“

The almost sardonic voice suddenly fell silent, all blood draining from Sir Barnes’ face when the horrifying realization finally dawned to him. His hand fell limp, finally releasing Steven’s arm.

“Steve, this is not a subject for joking.”

Steven swallowed heavily, heart thundering in his chest, blood pounding in his temples. He shouldn’t have told – but he had to. He had to, right? Bucky needed to understand-

He sighed quietly, whole body strung tight in expectation of his friend exploding in rage – rage he had no time for.

“I am not joking. And you are right, we are losing precious time, I should-”

The sudden grip on Steven’s his shoulder, appearing as to stop him from leaving, was much more brutal than the hold on his elbow had been, fingers digging into flesh even over the layers of clothing.

“You— have you been… lying with a--”

Steven’s voice was quiet, but as sharp and dangerous as the sword resting in the sheath on his hip. “Choose your words carefully, Bucky. That is the woman I love and owe my life to. I would die for her, and I would not have been standing here had she not healed me.”

“That could be exactly what she wants you to think!” Sir Barnes sputtered. Steven fought the urge to roll his eyes – the absurdity of such statement was glaring.

“Oh for heavens-- I might be a fool sometimes, but I am not an idiot-”

“Debatable!” Sir Barnes whispered as madly as if he was in fact yelling. “As you’re proving it this very moment!”

Steven shook his head, the feeling in his gut growing more gnawing by the second, every frantic beat of his heart feeling like a waste of precious time.

“Bucky, you said it yourself – we do not have time for this! I must go. I will get her, but… please. Help me protect her if the King is blind to the fact she uses--- it to do good.”

Sir Barnes simply stared back, the halls empty by now as much as his gaze, however inquiring.

The grip on Sir Rogers’ arm loosened.

Silence stretched. Precious second ticked by, grains of sand in hourglass no one could turn back falling; and with each and every one, Steve’s stomach tightened further with creeping horror.

Surely his most precious, most loyal friend, having been standing by his side since childhood, would not abandon him now? Surely he would not betray him in moments that might be deciding his fate, the fate of his beloved, of the whole kingdom?

“Bucky, please. I swear-- I’m begging you. I need to-- I need to protect her. At any cost.”

“What of your sword?” Sir Barnes asked dully, appearing indifferent to Steven’s desperate pleas.

What of your knighthood? Are you willing to give up that, if you are forced to leave in the darkness of the night and never return to bring your beloved to safety? Are you willing to leave the path of the honorary knight to become a lawless fugitive?

The smile which found its way to the corners of Steve’s lips was soft; sad and torn, for it was the greatest honour to serve, to protect, to help. He had been and always would be grateful for the rare chance he had got.

But there was no greater blessing of the gods themselves than you having entered his life and taking it by the most beautiful of storms. He loved you. He loved you more than anything and anyone in this world and that was what he would not even dream of giving up.

He didn’t respond with words; and yet, the exasperation on his closest friend’s face told him he did not have to. Sir Barnes understood from Steven’s expression alone. He always had.

“Gods, Steven Grant of Rogers, of all stunts you could have pulled to get yourself hanged, you truly had to go and chose the most foolish one. My God- Steven…”

Most foolish one? Echoed in Steven’s head, the words absurd. No. The most gorgeous one, the purest one, the most blessed, he allowed himself to muse. The most honourable one too, no? Love. Where was justice, if love, the purest emotions of all, was considered a crime? Did the new religious teachings not speak of love being kind, patient, knowing no dishonour and wrongs?

That was how he loved you. Wholly and entirely, kindly, patiently, even if passionately.

It was only then when Steven snapped from his haze and finally noticed a trace of hurt on Sir Barnes’ face when it occurred to him why Bucky had taken so long to respond. He was cross with Steven; but not as much for the alleged crime, but for having kept it a secret. Keeping you a secret; the one closest to his heart, his beloved, hidden from the one person he had always trusted with anything.

“I’m sorry, Bucky. No one could know. She’s-- she is too precious. I had to protect her,” he explained softly, urgently. “And I still do. I will, with your help or without it. But… please.”

Sir Barnes continued to regard him, stunned into silence still, expression unreadable.

Then, he shook his head; what might seem as disagreement however, Steve recognized as resignation. He had known Bucky for too long to not be able to decipher which shake of a head was a no and which was an expression of indignation and regret at his own choice of a best friend.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

And with those words, Steve took his hasty leave, his minute relief drowned in the sea of worry when he sneaked into the stables to rush through the gates of the castle, claiming to be running a King’s errand.

Seeking his closeness the pretty white doe having sipped at love all despite her oath, she begged the forest spirits to let her go to follow her heart and its eternal song.

Light breeze caressing your hair like the tender fingers of your lover, brushing away a lose strand from your face. Gentle September sunrays of a late afternoon warming your cheeks, long leaves of grass tickling your ankles and your hands as you gathered brownwort, thyme and lady’s mantle, the smell almost too much despite its pleasant notes. Your hand instinctively laying over your belly as the reminder of why you were gathering these particular herbs blossomed in your mind anew, a smile settling on your face. It was not just the time of year blessing people with abundance of these flowers, a nature’s reminder the time was coming to bath in the blessed lake on the Autumn equinox; it was the sweet secret humming under your heart too, growing stronger and more beautiful by day – and slightly bittersweet for for now, it was only yours to keep, your beloved knight none the wiser.

Steven.

The very reason, you suspected, for the heavy feeling in your heart; the reason why none of the kind offerings of mother nature seemed to sooth a jittery feeling you had woken with up from your restless sleep. Unease had been crawling over your skin; a solemnity’s shadows, despite the beautiful weather and the joyful morning realisation that a barely noticeable bump was now showing on your body, a testament to the blessings of love.

The sky was beginning to colour with sunset with no clouds in sight; and yet, you could feel a storm coming, one you did not feel would be of the refreshing purifying kind. The air did not smell of rain; if you breathed in deeply, it reeked of the very death the wind seemed to whisper about in the tallest of birch trees. A warning; a witch’s intuition tuned to the finest hints of the gods of nature and forest spirits. You had tried to sooth yourself, coaxing yourself into peace by wondering if it perhaps was but a new future mother’s anxiety.

Yet, an instinct as old as time whispered to you to know better.

Which was why the wild stomping of hooves nearing your cabin should have not taken you by surprise. But it did.

You rose from your crouch so fast your head span, gathered flowers falling from your hands at the brief faint sensation; you steadied yourself just as Steven’s horse came into view, slowing into a walk as not to startle you or crush all the blossoms on the meadow.

The silent thank you to the gods for seeing your love alive and well left your lips without prompting, followed by your spine tingling with a shudder of power at its base.

Almost as if the gods blessed you for your genuine gratitude and gifted you with strength. Strength you shall no doubt need, for Steven might be living and breathing, dismounting his mare in a thousand-times practised manner, breathtaking as ever, but the distress on his face and the tension of his wide shoulders told you those shoulders carried the weight of the world at the moment.

Feet waking with motion, you met him halfway as he rushed to you, his arms quick to embrace you lovingly but so tight all air left your ribcage for long moments. Steven’s heart thundered against your ear as you hid your face against his chest. Fresh air had washed his clothes of most smells, but sweat and wine and rich spices still enveloped your senses, a tell-tale signs of the feast which he had told you about being interrupted by something vicious.

Yet, you took precious moments of simply breathing your lover in, basking in the comfort his arms offered no matter the circumstance.

He nuzzled his face in your hair, his chest expanding with a generous inhale, a steadying breath which made his heart race faster, as if attempting to outrun the very storm you had felt arriving.

You ran your hands down his broad back, feeling your own heart leaping into your throat as the silence between you, often so sweet and comforting, stretched ominously.

“Steven… love,” you whispered, attempting to shift in his embrace, only achieving his hold growing firmer, his muscles almost shaking with effort not to let go.

Oh Steven… What a terrible feat had been laid upon him?

“What has happened?”

Finally releasing your body, his hands were quick to cradle your face instead, achingly gentle, even as his eyes roamed your face wordlessly, brimming with so much emotion it stirred your unease further.

“Rytier moj?”

Steven’s face softened minutely, thumbs stroking your cheekbones as tenderly as butterfly wings despite the power – or the lack of it – in his grip.

“My love…”

Lips curling in a tiny smile, you mirrored Steven’s affection, reaching to settle your palm against his cheek, fingers of your other hand carding through his hair; your heart fluttered when he leaned into your touch, a wavering breath escaping his lips before they pressed against your palm to sooth the scratch of his beard against your skin.

Despite the dulcet image he made, eyes fluttering close for a blissful moment of nothing but love shared, you felt his body pulse with anxious urgency seemingly seeping into yours through your fingertips.

“I did not sleep well…” you confessed, his already pursed lips turning down. “I had a heavy feeling in me. Now I know the gods had not warned me simply for their own whims. What’s happened?”

Steven opened his eyes again; with a single caress of the breeze, he straightened, his aura of a knight – a fierce protector, a loyal friend, a humble determined servant – returning with its full force as did his worry.

“I need your help.”

A simple plea.

A simple answer.

“Always, rytier moj. Anything,” you promised.

One would expect relief to fill your lover’s features; instead, dread twisted them into a frown of dismay. Almost as if he had been hoping for your rejection.

Why?

The whisper of death among the trees grew louder, haunting, sending such a shudder through your body not even your lover’s warmth could hope to protect you from it, another urgent question scratching at the back of your mind.

Death, the trees seemed to whisper.

Whose death?

“Oh bosorka moja…”

Not Steven’s. Never. Not on your watch. Not as long as you walked this realm.

And not your child’s. You’d claw a throat open with your bare hands had anyone tried to take them away. Take her away. You had dreamed two nights prior, dreamed of a girl with Steven’s beautiful eyes and your hair caressed by the wind, her laughter filling the air as he sat her on his shoulders and she placed the daisy crown on his head-

The image had been so full of hope, so bright, so full of promise; it battled the current scent of death fiercely, one blending into another, and it felt like you were stood in the middle.

Your choice. Your power.

Your victory; or your loss.

You gulped, your gentle hold on Steven’s face growing shaky; with fear or the weight of responsibility, you weren’t sure.

“What is it, love? You are worrying me… come in. Tell me what weights down your-“

“Prince Anthony has been poisoned,” he said at last.

The whisper of the wind seemed to turn into a screech of a gale, even as the tree leaves and grass barely rustled.

The Prince… was he the one whose death you felt impending? It must have been.

In a split second, it became so clear why Steven was so shaken.

An impending death of his brother in arms. Of someone whom he served and appreciated.

Of the future ruler; quite possibly caused by the attempts of the party of Asgard.

An act of war.

Should Prince Anthony die, there would be no stopping at one death. Devastating number of lives could be lost. Including Steven’s.

No. Not on your watch. Not as long as you walked this realm.

But could you stop it?

Stood in the middle. Your choice. Your power.

Could you prevent a war?

Your mind was set into a whirl, various herbs and remedies for different poisonings refreshed in your mind.

“Do you know which poison it was?” you asked urgently, dropping your hands; and confused as why Steven’s remained firmly on your face, his expression speaking of pain greater than before. “Steven, love. What are his troubles? I can send a potion, pass it as a remedy from a physician-”

“Burning feeling in his forehead, weakness of muscles, trembling, cold sweat… he fainted and could not be woken up, only for a brief moment. He had trouble speaking, began to shake, fainted again...” Steven listed slowly, his unease growing with every word.

And so did yours.

Determination bled out from your body drop by drop, replaced by dread, the very weakness your lover was talking about as if settling in your own muscles and bones.

“The physician believes it might have been... aconite?” he added.

You had figured as much, seemingly endless moments before Steven spoke the dreaded word.

Aconite.

The worst nightmare of all living things; the deadliest daydream of those who meant harm and would not stop until their enemy released their last breath.

Death, screeched the breeze in the crowns of the birch trees; the yew trees, the very symbol of passing, joining in.

Death. War. Death.

Your power. Your victory. Your loss.

Your voice shook more frantically than young aspen leaves in the wind.

“Steven… aconite is deadly. I have no potion or salve for this. There is no cure-”

“That is what physician Banner said.”

“But then what…”

Your voice trailed off, words stuck in your throat, air stolen from your chest. A lighting from clear skies could struck you at the very moment and you would barely take notice of such.

It all made sense now. You having lost sleep. The whispers of death. The assumed shiver of power you shall no doubt need. And at last, Steven’s almost palpable dismay when you had said you’d help. That you’d do anything.

He had hoped you’d help.

He was terrified of it all the same.

You could feel blood draining from your face, rushing past your ears; unspeakable horror and determination swept you like the non-existent gale in the tree crowns.

“Steven…”

His grip on your face grew firmer, unsteady but urgent, his forehead pressed against yours as his eyes slid shut, his whisper a frantic promise, a confession and a prayer at once.

“I know. Believe me, my love, I know, and I have never been more scared of anything in my whole life,” he said huskily, barely audible over the wild thundering of your heart, the shaky sound of your quick breaths, even as the rest of the world faded into background, all noise ceasing. Or perhaps even the sparrows forgot how to sing, struck by fear for their life.“I would have not asked this of you if I did not fear that Anthony’s death would unleash a war with Asgard and might destroy us all… and if I did not believe I could protect you.”

“Steven-“

A thumb over your lip, gently pressing to silence your protest, Steven guided you to look up to his eyes, every word falling from his lips an oath signed by his own blood.

“Bosorka moja… I shall protect you, no matter the cost. You must know I would lay my life for you. I will, should it come to it. As long as you are safe.”

Consumed by adoration and terror at once, you slipped from Steven’s hold, shaking your head.

He had not the slightest idea what he was speaking of, the reckless fool.

He had no idea.

And he had no idea whom he would be leaving should he deliver on his terrible promise.

“These words are not nearly as comforting as you believe them to be! How would we-- how would I live without you?” you lamented, feeling the fire of power and indignation burn inside of you, chasing the fear away for several beats of your heart. “And I-- I am not even sure I can heal him.”

“You healed me,” Steven offered kindly, encouraging, confusion and the softest trace of hurt at you having escaped his touch twisting his face. He had no idea. He had no idea at all. “You said I was at the brink of death myself-“

“You were,” you spat, not appreciating the reminder – not of his injuries, nor of your past recklessness, as grateful as you were for the latter, not a single regret in your mind for having risked it all to save the handsome stranger with goodness etched into his very soul, having shone so bright it had outshined your doubts and fear for your life. But this was different. So much circumstance had changed. “But I was… I had faith in your soul, saw your good heart. I believed to be safe from you should I be too weak to protect myself after I casted my spells, and for that, I was able to pour all my magic into the healing. And I-- I was much more careless with my power then… “

You made a pause, inhaling slowly, gathering courage in the face of Steven’s features twisting further with distress.

“But Steven… that was before. I-- before we-“

“What is it, bosorka moja? Before what?”

Your lower lip trembled, regret lacing the soft touch of your fingertips to his face.

This was not how you wished for him to find out. You had told him before, erased his memory to ease his conscience and to prepare for the right moment, a moment fit for such joyful tidings; but much like him, having rushed here asking for help despite the unspeakable risks, you had no other option.

You had no choice.

You had no time.

The deep-sea blue with a forest green shade of his irises brimmed with emotion, tenderness and silent question.

With a lump in your throat, you dropped your hands again, curling them around your middle as if to protect the secret and save it for a reverent moment your love and lover – and your child – would have deserved.

Steven regarded your stance with dread visibly climbing up his throat. You could see it in his eyes, the sudden uncertainty, the questions written in his eyes growing frantic and painful.

Why had you stepped back from him? Why had you evaded his touch? Why did you seem taken by sorrow? What secret had you been keeping from him? For you must have had some. You must have not told him something crucial – and in a dark time like this, it shall come to light.

You appeared so shaken; you appeared scared. Of something he had failed to protect you from?

Or of his reaction to the revelation?

You chose your words carefully, speaking them slowly, even though you could feel him hanging onto every syllable.

“It is not only me anymore who needs to be protected.”

Steven did not understand; that much was clear from his expression, from the step he took closer to you only for you to take a step back, etching his hurt deeper into his face.

“I… I do not understand, my love. Do you have—do you know of someone who could help you? Do they need protection too?”

The they tasted of poison much bitterer than aconite; disbelief and profound pain.

You could almost hear it, the absurd questions he seemed to be asking himself. Was there… was there someone else? Someone else who had earned your love more fiercely than he had? More deserving?

The way your love remained hidden, the distance he still had to keep, laid heavy in his mind, always, now feeding his doubt; his fear that someone else now occupied the space he had so selfishly taken up in your heart.

But had only been here mere days ago, yes? Surely you could have not--- you would have not… or had you? No. That wasn’t possible. You were the kindest most loving person he had ever met, loyal to a fault – and he was blessed to be yours, to be loved, unconditionally, more than he deserved for keeping you his little secret.

You could not read thoughts; but Steven’s always seemed to be laid bare in front of you to card through. Betrayal and resignation all at once, jaw tight to mask his hurt, to hide the very doubt you read so clearly. Doubt, but not of you; of him. He had always carried it with him, the guilt of not providing for you as he imagined he should for his beloved.

Doubt, crystal clear in his gaze. It was possible, was it not? The most wonderful woman he had ever met, finally fed up, the goblet of your patience finally having overflowed, deciding to find a man worthy of you, able to take care of you, truly, one you were willing to-

You could not bear his mind screaming anymore, even as you had not heard a single word, a single thought, all of it but achy questions expressed by his gaze alone.

“No, Steven, I do not--- I merely cannot only think of myself now,” you said softly, searching for words to reveal the secret at last, not, not wanting to and craving it all the same. “I… I need to protect us.”

His shoulders sagged, doubt and heartache erased at once, tenderness at your worry for him melting into his smile.

“Do not fret, bosorka moja. I can hold my own.”

The faint smile in the corner of your mouth hurt, tears burning in your eyes.

“I know, rytier moj… and yes, I meant us, but I--- I also meant us.”

The arm you had curled around your middle shifted. Your palm spread pointedly over your belly as you met his gaze with hesitance and silent hope; for as much as you dreaded revealing the source of your worst fear, the tidings were still joyful. And you hoped with the entirety of your heart that Steven would accept them as such, much like the first time.

But first, he had to comprehend them.

Several rushed beats of your heart it took him; but then he finally did.

Suddenly, it was his turn to stand still and rigid as if a lightning from the perfectly clear skies struck him. And it might have as well.

His voice was barely louder than a breath, hoarse, laced with careful hope despite the glaring truth.

“You—we- are we-?”

A crystal-clear memory of those being the very words he had spoken the first time entered your mind, a single tear spilling over; the awe and reverence on his face mirrored his expression all the same as you confirmed.

“Yes.”

“You are with a child? My child?”

It would have been amusing, the questions, if you hadn’t been on a brink of hysteria and hadn’t there been a metaphorical sword hanging above your heads while you indulged in revealing the sweetest secret there was between lovers.

“Yes.”

Countless grains of sand in hourglass fell, Steven simply observing you, his gaze feasting on the entirety of you with newfound emotion that touched your very soul and made it shiver with delight. He observed you with such adoration and devotion you could only imagine he would show to a deity descending to walk the Earth.

And then he was surging forward, falling on his knees in front you, one hand on your hip, the other wrapping around your lower back to keep you close as he laid his forehead on your belly, shaky, slow and careful; nothing short of reverent. Despite the circumstance, all the tears prickling in your eyes found their release – every inch of your body sang, feeling Steven’s love for both you and the life he had a generous hand in creating.

“Oh bosorka moja… láska moja,” he muttered into the fabric before he looked up, hesitant fingers slipping under, to feel the very bump you had only noticed today. His lips parted in mute awe, eyes turning glassy with sheer delight and wonder at the miracle.

You allowed yourself another moment of basking in his love; feeling the delight spreading through every vein, through every bone and nerve, all the way to your very core and source of power. Your hands found gentle purchase of Steven’s hair as his lips pressed to your belly.

But then, the inaudible crackle in the air brought you both from your reverie, the breeze screeching of death instead of new life returning.

There was no choice; dread filled your being along with a haunting whisper of opportunity from a voice speaking in tongues you barely understood and yet deciphered as guidance.

You must go. You must try. Despite the risks.

Stood in the middle. Your power. Your victory; your loss.

Your only hope and your possible doom.

“I shall try my best to help, even as I do not know if I will be able to. But Steven…” you addressed him softly, revealing one more piece, one more source of joy, “our little girl must remain safe at any cost.”

The hands sprawled around your middle twitched, a single tear escaping him as his eyes shone.

“Our--- a girl? How-“

“It is but a feeling,” you admitted, earning a brilliant smile which lasted too shortly.

You smiled tightly in return, a few more tears rolling down your cheeks as Steven’s hand softly caressed your barely-there bump again, butterflies seemingly to erupting in your stomach, your heart humming.

He rose to his feet with something in his eyes turning steely, his gentle voice once against taking on a heaviness of an oath.

“I will protect you both, even if it should be the last thing I will ever do.”

One wavering breath was all the luxury you granted yourself before springing into action, not allowing yourself to lament at the potential of death weaved into Steven’s promise. You could not afford any more distraction. The hourglass was unrelenting, rushing you.

“I know. We shall get going.”

You could feel his eyes on you, a mute confusion as you ruminated through the cabinets, the fire lit, a small pot placed on it, two handfuls of water, milk thistle, ginseng roots, and sprinkle of uncaria leaves added to the mix.

“You can sit down, love, I shall only complete the potion swiftly and we will be on our way,” you assured him, reaching for a pinch of turmeric to add.

Steven did not, in fact, sit down – if anything, you could feel him grow taller behind you, as if his growing bewilderment added an inch or two to his already impressive height. His stare was firmly set on you, a little burning and slightly insulting since you could almost hear his silent questioning of your sanity.

A potion? But you had said-

You looked over your shoulder briefly, your lover’s body nearer than expected, causing you to need to crane you neck a bit.

“No, there is no potion to neutralise the poison – but this remedy strengthens a body, aids it to fight off an infection and weakness,” you explained, expecting Steven’s face clearing, but not waiting for it do so, busying yourself with reading the mental list of ingredients, recalling every indispensable element. Milk thistle, ginseng, uncaria leaves, turmeric… ah. Yes. Where herbs were concerned, rare or common, that would be all. Only one last ingredient.

A gentle hand on your elbow stopped you as you were turning to the stack of knives, halting your movements tenderly but firmly. Blinking, you lifted your gaze to Steven’s face again, disconcerted by his unreadable expression.

“Is it… safe?”

Had it not been for the large distress he was in, the feeling oozing of him and adding to your own shakiness, had it not been for the tenderness of his touch, you’d feign a slap to chase his hand away at the almost silly question – and at the sudden doubt in your knowledge and power and your reign over it.

“Steven, love, my apologies for the bluntness, but Prince Anthony is on his deathbed, so I cannot very well hurt him further and I shall have you known that this very potion you have drunk yourself-”

“For you,” he clarified, two soft syllables in contrast to your slightly exasperated words, your voice falling silent as sweet worry reflected in his sky-blue irises. Despite the circumstance, your heart seared at the fussing, no matter how groundless and ironic. “I am asking whether it is safe for you and our… our child to prepare that. I know it may seem irrational given why I am here, but-“

It was, you had to admit. And yet. You spent a precious moment, precious grains of sand falling in the ominous hourglass above your heads, placing your palm over his hand, reassuring.

“It is perfectly safe, rytier moj… certainly no more dangerous than rushing to the castle, the very heart of the Kingdom, and attempt to save the prince using the most outlawed practice in these lands,” you added with an unsteady cheekiness, earning an exasperated glare; and a full body shudder he couldn’t hope to contain.

The same tremble ran through your body; and yet, the whisper for caution was overshadowed by a tingle of energy unknown, a wordless encouragement. Almost a haunting promise from the Fate itself that bravery shall be rewarded.

But if that were true, where would the ever-present whispers of death and upcoming end fit in the mosaic then?

Shaking your head as well as the overwhelmingly bewildering sensations off, you charmed a soft smile for your lover and love – for the father of your child, already caring so deeply for the life to be born out of your love – and let your hand fall, turning back to your work as stream began to fill the cabin.

One last ingredient; a life essence to help maintain life.

You cradled the handle of the blade carefully in your hand, turning your other palm against the tip; the knife was out of your hand before you could comprehend how, pressed flat to Steven’s thigh, shielded from your touch.

“I’m sorry. I--- is that necessary?” Steven asked with a painful edge to his voice, his continued concern causing your heart to tremble.

“Yes… it is but a drop of blood, my love, I promise. A speckle of life essence to maintain life.”

His frown deepened as you reached for the knife again, fingers brushing his soothingly as you grasped at the handle. So many emotions played over his features; hesitance, concern, guilt. He must have realised you had used your blood before to cure him before you had even learned his name, another sacrifice having been made aside from having left yourself completely vulnerable to him when you had drained your magic and body alike to bring him from the death’s doorstep where you had found him at.

Then, an almost shy question, as if he felt too bold to even suggest such heretic thought.

“Life essence… would mine suffice, then?”

Where his implication was shy – that his mere mortal, human blood could match yours, the blood of a born witch – his determination was not.

He met your eye, a brilliant satisfied sparkle lighting up his irises when he read the truth in your hesitant gaze.

“Yes… it would. But-“

Your knight offered his left palm outstretched, no further questions. The bottomless trust in his gesture and in his eyes caused a lump to grow in your throat; the mere idea of cutting him, even if it was to only be but a scratch, had ache sting deep within your ribcage.

“Are you cert-“

“Would you rather I lead the cut myself, love?” he asked, his voice tender upon your hesitance, understanding the action would cause you pain – as if you were to hurt yourself instead.

And you might as well.

Your hands were made to heal his wounds, not cause them; your hands were made to erase his aches, not bring them; your hands were made to love, not hurt.

Your read in his gentle gaze as he nearly read in yours: I despise the thought of hurting you, rytier moj; It is but alright, bosorka moja.

You shook your head.

“I-- no. I may do it. I apologize, we do not have time for-“

A hand grasping your jaw, soft lips silencing your apologies; your eyes fluttered close despite seeing right through the trick. You felt the pressure of his hand against the blade, the silent sound of protest earning you a deeper kiss, a softer caress of his lips against yours, tasting sweeter than summer breeze, so achingly tender.

“There you go, bosorka moja…”

With his retreat, Steven ran his thumb over your cheek, smiling; then, he moved his injured hand into yours, leading you above the pot.

Slightly dazed and exasperated still, you sighed and carefully squeezed his wound to indeed only spare a drop of his precious blood.

As you pressed your lips to his fingertips in a thank you, you let your healing power flow through your touch, closing the cut your body should have worn.

“This had better be the only blood spilled today,” you whispered; and prayed too. You met your Steven’s stormy gaze as the contents of the pot sizzled, sweet coppery aroma rising in the air.

“It will, bosorka moja. It will.”

He sealed the deal with a kiss, sweet and desperate and bruising.

And falling on deaf ears, whisper in the crowns of the birch trees, his and your words echoed the very same song.

Blood had better be spilled…

Today, today, today…It will, it will, it will…

Next part

Other headcanon and playlist

S.R. masterlist - contains other knight!Steve fics, independent of this universe

Complete masterlist

Endearments used: Rytier moj (My knight) Bosorka moja (Witch mine) Láska moja (Love mine)

I hope you liked this - let me know your thoughts!

May your November be sweet and cosy ✨

[toasterbob]

I would like to present you all with a snipped of the first chapter to my Lestappen Medieval AU :)

(The chapter will probably be published today, so if you like the snippet, come back in a couple hours to read the whole thing!)

“Max Emilian Verstappen.” Sebastian only mumbled the name, but Charles understood him nonetheless.

Something in him stirred at the name, an unsettling chill creeping down his spine. He knew it… He just couldn’t remember why-

Sebastian, obviously having noticed the confused pause, added, “The Lion of-”

“Oh!” Charles’ breath caught in his throat, his eyes going wide.

Of course he knew him.

The Lion of the North, Lion Slayer, Red Bulls’ favourite weapon, the Storm…

Charles had heard of all his names, rarely ever the one he’d been given at birth, because the others were what Verstappen was known for. The stories, the retellings, the myths… They were whispered late at night, told to children to keep them inside after dark, retold at feasts by the people who’d actually encountered him.

Charles had never known which to actually believe and which to take with a grain of salt, but one thing he was sure of - this man, the knight that had slain so many men, won so many battles, was a menace, no one he’d ever hoped to meet without proper protection or at least a fighting chance to get out of the encounter alive.

And now he was here, in Charles’ kingdom. In his palace.

But as a prisoner, he reminded himself to rid himself of the goosebumps spreading over his arms and shoulders.

His eyes flickered back to the king, Sebastian giving him an agreeing nod. A silent understanding.

“Where is he?”

It was Fred Vasseur who answered Charles’ question. He was a newer addition to the advisors, but his opinions were already valued deeply by them all. Vasseur always seemed happy, cheerful even, but on this day even he had replaced his smile with a stern look, leaving a hollow feeling in Charles’ stomach.

“In the dungeons. He was found injured in the woods, riding on his horse, but was easily shot down by Sir Carlos.”

“Injured?” Charles frowned, the information not really making sense to him.

“Yes, we suspect he’d been in battle previously and seemingly fled from it.” Mattia Binotto joined the discussion, his arms crossed over his chest. Charles had to fight the urge to roll his eyes - a feeling present whenever Binotto dared opening his mouth - and instead listen to the man. “By the time Verstappen was brought to us he had already lost consciousness, making it fairly easy for us to bring him to the cells.”

Now, Charles was perfectly aware they were talking about a horrible man, one some people didn’t even see worth being called that anymore and would opt for the word monster instead, but he couldn’t help the small pinch of worry blooming in his chest. He would feel the same way whenever his man would come back from battle, scarred and wounded.

Again he didn’t have to voice his concerns out loud, Sebastian already having read his questions off the expression on Charles’ sharp face.

“We had a physician look after him first that tended after the most fatal wounds. Remove the arrow from his shoulder.”

“Hm.” Charles hummed, the worry parting, making space for another emotion.

Curiosity. He wanted to see the man he’d heard so much about, take him in with his own eyes… The desire didn’t really have a reason, no sese behind it, but it was there nonetheless, burning under Charles’ fingertips.

Nobody took note of the way he flexed his hands at his side, his eyes zoning out and in focus as they resumed their earlier discussion with the prince still standing amongst them. He was caught up on everything anyway, no reason to not have him listen in.

“I have sent out messengers to both Mercedes and McLaren as you requested, your majesty.” Binotto said.

“Good.” Sebastian nodded, eyes flickering between his advisor and Charles, who was still standing there uselessly. “I assume that there might’ve been a fight on the Mercedes grounds. They’ve had their fair share of disputes over land with RedBull lately… But even if that wasn’t the case, they still deserve to know we’ve finally caught Verstappen.”

“I am sure Sir Lewis will be thrilled.”

It was Sir Kimi who had spoken, his voice snapping Charles back into reality. He hadn’t noticed the knight yet, although he should have as Kimi was positioned to the right hand side of the throne. Kind of symbolic as Kimi Räikkönen over his many years of service had become somewhat of a right hand man to the king - despite his title of knight, which technically wouldn’t allow such a position to be given to him.

But no one could deny the benefit Kimi’s advice presented to the court and Sebastian valued him greatly, not only as a consultant but also a friend.

“Probably, yes.” Sebastian chuckled, the sound coming out a little strangled. His eyes found the ground, brows pinched together. “But we must not forget that Verstappen is our prisoner, whatever will happen to him will be our decision.”

“Mine too?” Charles challenged, reminding everyone of his presence by straightening up and crossing his arms over his broad chest. The fine fabric of his garments stretched uncomfortably over his chest, a reminder to finally get his tailor to come in and take his measurements for new clothes.

The king hesitated, blue eyes fixating on his protegee for a moment. Then he nodded, chest rising heavily under a silent sigh. “Yours too.”

Charles’ lips finally pulled into a grin, but the internal celebrations seized in an instant when Sebastian opened his mouth again, his voice much firmer this time, the hint of the king Charles got to experience so rarely shining through.

“But you shall not see him before I allow you to.”

“What?!” Charles exclaimed, his voice echoing through the vast room, loud and outraged. “Why should I not?”

“He is dangerous-”

“You said he is hurt and locked up! What oh so horrible thing could he do to me in the position he’s in?”

“That is not what I meant!” Sebastian half-rose from his throne, eyes burning with a fire that was extinguished as quickly as it had flared up and he let himself sink back into his seat. Pinching the bridge of his nose the king exhaled, gaze finding that of the prince. “I do not want you near him, Charles. Do you understand?”

Charles dug his heels into the ground, hands balling to fists so tight the nails of his fingers dug into the soft flesh of his palms. But with the twenty or so pairs of eyes staring at him, he knew protest would only come across as disrespectful. So he unclenched his jaw as he nodded.

“Yes, I understand.”

Technically it wasn’t a lie. Not even when Chalres did sneak down into the dungeons after excusing himself. He’d only said that he understood, not that he agreed with the king's decision.

[larluce]

AU where Merlin is Arthur's familiar

Firstly, for everyone that doesn't know, in European folklore of the medieval and early modern periods, familiars were believed to be supernatural entities or spiritual guardians that would protect or assist witches and cunning folk in their practice of magic. They're almost always represented as some kind of animal, like a cat or a bird, sometimes a demon.

So, having that cleared up, how would Merlin be a familiar and how would he be Arthur's familiar of all people when Arthur isn't a sorcerer?

That's the thing, in this AU a group of evil druids or sorcerers find out about Merlin's identity earlier and his whereabouts while he is still in Ealdor. Not wanting Emry's magic to be under the command of some prophesied king and desiring that power to themselves, they kidnapped him and make a ritual to turn him into a familiar (a merlin especifically). They also erase his memory so Merlin doesn't remember he was ever human. Just when they where about to bond the bird to the sorcerer/druid leader to have Emrys magic under their command, Merlin manages to escape. He doesn't know who he is or where to go, he just knows he has to go far away from there.

Somehow, probably through his run away ordeal, familiar Merlin ends up in Camelot's castle, with an injured wing. He's chirping in pain when the young prince finds him in his yard.

Arthur: (covering his ears) Why are you making so much noise? Shut up! (looking closely) Wait! you're hurt? (picks him up carefully) I think your wing is broken. (Merlin chirps louder) Alright, alright! I'll find help. (runs as fast as he can) Gaius! Gaius!

The court physician bandages the bird's wing, but he can't take care of it due to his work, so Arthur does it. He makes a place for the bird in his room and feeds it. He tries to not get attached to it knowing the bird will have to return to its natural environment as soon as it recovers. However, after the bird's wing is healed, it doesn't want to leave, not matter how many times Arthur frees it in the forest, it always comes back, so finally Arthur decides to keep it. He has a bit of a fight with his father, because he never let Arthur have a pet, but after the bird protects the prince of a witch that was in disguise by stinging her eyes out, the king finally allows the prince to keep it. The prince, very happy, brings the bird to his chambers.

Arthur: (with Merlin in his forearm) Now the you're oficially my pet- (the bird chirps in protest) Well, my, eh... animal companion? (the bird deadpans) We'll work on that later. The point is, I should probably give you a name. (the bird moves its wings, excited) What about...bird? (the bird shakes it's head) Yeah, I've been calling you that from the start, so no. hmmm. What about falcon? Gaius says you're a falcon, though you're too small to be one, honestly. (the bird chirps, offended). I should just call you falcon or little falcon. No, it's still too long. Lil' falc? No. hmmmm. I think Gaius said you were a especific kind of falcon? How was it? Mar... Mer...Merloni? Merlon... Merlin! That was it. I'll call you Merlin.

Without knowing, Arthur just finished the last step of the ritual: naming the familiar, and with that, becoming the familiar's master. When the bond is created, a flash of light blinds him and, suddenly, the bird is replaced by a boy, who now is sitting on him, while he's spread on the floor.

Arthur: (looking up, shocked) What the fu-

Merlin: (looking down, confused) Arthur! Why are you smaller now? Wait... I can talk? (brings his hand to his face surprised) And I have... hands? Where are my wings? (panicking) Arthur, I lost my wings! And my feathers!(crying)NOOOOO!

Arthur: Merlin? That's.. you? Merlin? Mer...Merlin, shut up! (Merlin stops crying) And get off me! (shoves Merlin aside) How did this happen?

Merlin: You think I know?! Maybe that witch cursed me to be as ugly as you as a revenge for turning her blind. (sobs) My wings, my beautiful wings.

Arthur: (offended) Excuse me? Is not like you were a "handsome" bird either, you poor excuse of a falcon.

Merlin: How would you know, human with so little imagination that names his bird after their species?

After their stupid fight, they go to Gaius, in secret, of course. They can't have the king knowing the prince's bird was cursed. The physician does his investigation and, after Merlin discovers he can turn to his bird form and his human form at will and do some magic stuff, he concludes Merlin is, in fact, a familiar.

Gaius: Incredible! I thought they were a myth. It's said they're spiritual guardians of magic itself and that just the most powerful sorcerers could summond one and tamed them to become even more powerful.

Merlin: No... it can't be. I'm just a bird! I can't be a magical creature! I can't!

Arthur: (Knowing Merlin's scared due to his father laws and believes) Merlin. It's okay.

Merlin: (crying, almost hysterical) NO! I'm not a monster! I swear! I'm not evil!

Arthur: I know. Human, bird or familiar, or whatever, you're a good person. Well, a good being. Nothing is going to change that and nothing is going to happen to you, alright?

Merlin: (calms down) alright (snifs)

Arthur: But we need you to remember. Do you have any memory of you being anything but a bird?

Merlin: No, I've always been a bird. Although... (thoughtful) I don't... remember being a chick before.

Arthur: A what?!

Gaius: He means a baby bird.

Arthur: Oh, right (blushes). I knew that.

Merlin: Yeah, my very first memory is just before I came to Camelot, when... I was trap in a... cage. (he trembles at the memory) There were humans with capes, I think. They said they wanted to... control me, to had me at their mercy. I don't know what they wanted to do with me but I escaped. I thought I wouldn't make it. (with tears in his eyes) I was.. so scared.

Gaius: They must be the sorcerers that summonded you.

Merlin: Great. So not only I'm some magical entity but I'm sorcerer's slave now?

Arthur: (fiercely) You are NOT a slave! You are... ("mine" he is about to say, but stops) your own.

Merlin: (suddenly scared) What if they look for me?!

Arthur: I won't let them take you. I promise.

Gaius: And I don't think you have to worry about being some sorcerer's slave, Merlin. If you were bonded to one, you wouldn't have been able to escape in the first place.

Merlin: That means... (hopeful) I'm free?

Gaius: And in Camelot where magic is forbidden, so you're safer as you can be. You'll just have to keep pretending you're a bird, if that's not a problem with you.

Merlin: I'm completly fine with that.

Arthur: (joyful) And me! (composes himself) I mean, I like him better when he can't talk. (Merlin frowns at him)

Times goes by. At first, Merlin stays in his bird form and tries not to do magic, because, apparently he's been doing magic all this time without knowing (honestly, how was he supposed to know all the things he accidentally broke or dirt in Arthur's room were repaired and cleaned by him? He just thought Arthur has very efficient servants!). But it becomes impossible, not only because not doing magic makes him sick, but Arthur keeps running into danger time and time again, so he has to use magic to protect him. Arthur scolds him everytime he does that, he doesn't want his friend to be discover, but eventually it becomes rutine. Also, Merlin starts to take his human form more and more frecuently, because he needs Arthur to understand him, sometimes to give him a piece of his mind, to warn of some danger he finds out, or simply to cheer him up when he's sad or pass time.

Merlin: Is magic really evil? (he looks at his hands)It doesn't feel evil when I use it.

Arthur: How does it feel to you?

Merlin: It feels like... flying (he smiles and closes his eyes) So natural and beautiful, like the earth under my feet and the wind moving my feathers. And I feel it everywhere, not just inside me, but in every living thing. In every flower that blooms, every pup and chick that is born. Even in you. It's suppose to corrupt you, but instead of feeling wrong, I feel so good and... so alive.

Arthur: (looks at him for a moment, completely in love and then composes himself) I don't believe magic is evil. Not anymore.

Merlin: (open his eyes, surprised) Why's that?

Arthur: At first I thought you were an exception to the rule, but then Morgana-

Merlin: (even more surprised) She told you?!

Arthur: (just as surprised) You knew?!

Merlin: I could feel the magic inside her (he admits, guiltily). I wanted to be wrong. She's one of the kindest human I know, but then I saw her doing magic and... I just couldn't tell you. It wasn't my secret to tell, I'm sorry.

Arthur: It's alright. I understand. (he sighs) She was... so scared, Merlin. She begged not to tell my father, like I could ever do that (he laughs dryly). And she didn't learn magic, she just have it. She didn't even know she was a sorcerer until recently.

Merlin: Oh... (thoughtful) That explains a lot of things.

Arthur: What do you mean?

Merlin: Morgana isn't the only one, I think. Sometimes I fly around and I feel people with magic inside them. Some of them are evil, so I call you, but there are others that just do minor stuff, like healing spells and potions. But there are other too that… don't do magic at all and yet… the magic inside them is so strong. I thought maybe I was seing the potential of magic, but now…

Arthur: (in heavy realisation) So it's true. My father's been killing innocent people all this time.(with tears rolling down his eyes) I've been killing innocent people all this time.

Merlin: (hugging and comforting him) No! Arthur you did nothing wrong. You didn't know.

Arthur: (crying and hugging tightly in return) I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!

Aaaand that's it. I don't know what else could happen. Apart of merthur getting together obviously. There would be a lot of pinning and confused feelings. Arthur first meets Merlin as a bird after all, so accepting he has a crush on his bird friend is not going to be easy. The same goes to Merlin. Lets not talk about when they both discover they're bonded and Arthur could technically control Merlin and use Merlin's magic at his will if he wanted. And I guess at some point the evil sorceress/druids would try to get Merlin back. And then Merlin finding out he was human before and has a mother in ealdor… Damn that's a lot of angst.

Anyways, I still have a couple of fics on going so I don't think I'm going to write this anytime soon... or ever. So if anyone wants to write it feel free to do it. Or just comment any ideas you have for this concept/prompt below so I can keep them in mind if I write it in the end.

EDIT: I DID A PART 2, GUYS!!! -> LINK