#the guilt ridden
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Bioshock // Twin Peaks
#musings#the doomed#the phoenix#the world weary#the wise#the guilt ridden#the haunted#the philosophical#source: bioshock
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Service Animal (Part one)
My mans Logan Howlett X Reader (afab)
Part two here
WARNING: This is soooo self insert it's not even funny. I get weird migraines that present like absent seizures and thought it would be nice to get a warning beforehand by my favourite babygirl Logan (like my own personal service animal). This is gonna be in three parts, it's mostly finished and ends in smooshing so be ready for that ;)
UPDATE: turns out my migraines are actually mini strokes :)
The after effects of using your power was kicking your ass.
In a daze, you made it to your private room and went straight to your bathroom. You felt the nausea rising up in your throat and quickly opened the toilet lid to throw up.
The multiple alternate realities of what could have happened tonight flashed before your eyes. Ororo, Jean, Scott, Logan, all collapsed on the floor, dead. Their screams played in a relentless loop in your head; you were dissociating badly. Your surroundings melted away until there was nothing but the countless ways they could have died if you hadn't bent reality to avoid it.
Always. It's always like this.
Gradually, you begin to return to your body, only to realise there was someone in the room with you, holding your hair back.
Terrified, your body snapped up from its kneeling position to face the intruder.
“Woah, hey, it's just me. Calm down.”
“L-Logan?” you slurred, suddenly feeling self conscious of the smell of your breath.
“I knocked and called out but you didn't answer. So I came in to check on you.”
You eyed him, feeling suspicious of how out of character this was for him.
“Why are you looking at me like I'm lying? I'm not totally heartless,” he said defensively.
“Why'd you come in the first place to see me though? I thought you were pissed with me,” you grumble.
When you'd overdone it with your powers, Logan threw a hissy fit and yelled at you for going too far. While you knew it was out of care, it still rankled you that he was acting as if you were a child. You knew what you were doing.
“I… just had a bad feeling,” he said quietly. “Y'know how I've got my heightened senses. I could tell something was off with you.”
“I'm fine. Just need to rest. This is normal for me.”
You turned around to the bathroom sink and grabbed your toothbrush. You gave your teeth and tongue a quick clean, wanting to just wash all the blood off your body so you could sleep.
It felt like you had a raging hangover from drinking Everclear all night.
When you turned from the sink you noticed Logan was still there.
“Uh… need something? I wanna get ready for bed and pass out.”
“Yeah, I need to know you're okay,” he says.
“I told you, I'm fine. I'm going to shower so please leave.”
Your patience was wearing thin. But you were also aware that some of it was nervousness coming out as aggression. You couldn't deny the attraction you felt towards him, although his attitude left much to be desired. His behaviour tonight was quite frankly really sweet and it was psyching you out. You were already in the midst of losing touch with reality and his actions were so contradictory to his usual self that it was causing you a psychotic break.
“You're not listening to me,” he ground out, losing some of his own patience. “I'm telling you that something is wrong with you.”
You stared silently at him, mouth slightly hanging open.
“Okay, that came out the wrong way.” He was ruffling his hair in agitation. Cute. “What I'm saying is- I'm… ah…”
“Please, Logan, I just want a shower so I can go to bed…”
“Look, I'll just wait in your room and I'll leave once you're in bed safe, ‘kay,” he says, turning to the door and walking out, shutting it behind himself.
Fuck.
You just wanted to be alone so you could have a good cry. You were incredibly confused about what in the world was going on but now you were really getting scared. And Logan's words were not helping.
What if he's right and this time your connection with reality has been completely severed? But what else were you supposed to do? Let them all die? Even with your special training with Charles, your power was so unruly and chaotic that it was terrifying. You had to be careful or there would be no way back.
You got undressed and turned on the shower, stepping inside. It was only once you were under the hot stream of water that you realised you'd left your pyjamas in your bedroom. You groaned aloud. Fuck, now you'd have to walk in front of Logan in nothing but a towel. Why the fuck was he here? You wished he'd just leave.
You watched the dried blood wash away from your skin, turning the floor of your shower a bright red.
You felt your stomach drop and your head turned fuzzy. The sound of your shower disappeared. The safety of your surroundings melted away.
Scott, his eyes gouged out from his head. Ororo’s limbs crumpled every which way, her eyes clouded over not because of her powers but because she was lifeless. Jean, her neck holding on to her body by a thread, her cranium blasted open and her brain dripping down her face.
Logan, on the ground, ripped to shreds, his Adamantium bones showing through his torn flesh. And the wounds weren't healing.
It was always like this. As if you were being punished for playing god. It was as if all the horrible realities you prevented from happening still lived on but solely in your mind, driving you insane. It left scars of trauma on your psyche, Charles had told you. So you had to be careful in how you used your powers or you may become completely untethered from reality. A fate worse than death.
Vaguely, you could hear yourself mumbling and gasping and swallowing loudly, trying to find some kind of equilibrium in the mess of your mind.
You were trying desperately to connect back with your body but at the same time you didn't want to because it only meant having to fight this same battle over and over again.
Seeing your friends die before your very eyes in hundreds of thousands of different ways, experiencing each traumatic story to its conclusion. Only to have it all unravel into a reality where none of it happened, but the whiplash makes you doubt this reality too. It's always too good to be true. You feel it in your bones that you don't deserve this. That the way you twist reality is wrong and one day it'll catch up to you in the worst possible way.
You feel water running down your face and remember that you're in the shower. You try to ground yourself and come back to your body. You hear the water splashing, feel the ground beneath your feet, the solid embrace around you.
You try to move but you can't. Finally, you snap fully to your body. Your mind is groggy, feeling like you'd been hit by a truck. But there's the unmistakable warmth surrounding you, dense and as unyielding as brick.
Your face is roughly yanked upwards and you open your eyes.
“Fuck, finally! Are you alright?”
You stare blearily, mouth open and dry from the adrenaline that had been pumping through your body just moments ago.
Bright hazel eyes. Huh. So pretty. You'd never noticed.
You realise you're not supporting your own weight. You're finally aware that Logan has you in an embrace, holding your body up, one hand around your waist and the other on your jaw as he looks into your face. The water on your face isn't from the shower, you realise. It's your tears.
“Bloody hell, please say something,” he says angrily. You feel some of your own anger flare up in response. What's his problem?
“Fuck,” you croak.
You feel his chest vibrate against yours as he laughs, suddenly aware that you're as naked as the day you were born and this man is fully clothed standing in your shower, getting his white singlet wet. Giving you a bear hug…
Your brain short circuits as you try to come up with words, feeling your whole body heat with embarrassment.
“W-what are you doing in here?” you manage to slur.
“Helping your ass,” he says roughly. “Can you stand?”
Fuck, good question. Can I stand??
“C-close your eyes first,” you demand.
“Bit late to be feeling shy now don't you think?” he teases with a wink.
“Just close ‘em!” you yell at him.
He laughs before complying.
You extricate yourself from his arms, turning off the shower, then navigate carefully around him to exit the cubicle. You grab a towel and cover yourself, making a mental note to grab a clean one later since this one was definitely dirty now.
“Okay, open your eyes and get out, please.”
He turns to look at you.
“Don't think that's a good idea, bub.”
“And why is that?” you huff impatiently.
“What if you collapse in the shower again?” he says matter of factly.
“I've been having these things for a long time. I've managed to survive so far so don't stress about it.”
“It's different now though, isn't it? You've been having these for a long time, you said so yourself, and they're only getting worse instead of better.”
You sigh heavily in frustration. You hated that he was right.
“So what exactly are you suggesting?”
Your heart was beating like crazy. He better not suggest what you think he was going to suggest.
“I'm sure old Chuckie boy wouldn't mind lending you his shower chair for the night,” he smirked.
You laughed out loud despite the tension in the room. He always managed to make you laugh.
“Yeah, I'm just going to wake up an old man in the middle of the night to ask if I can borrow his shower chair,” you joked, lightly slapping him on the shoulder.
He laughed along with you then you both shared a few moments of comfortable silence. Only for him to break it with-
“My other suggestion is to shower with me so I can make sure you don't faint and hurt yourself.”
You stared at him distrustfully.
“Hey, look, I'm not being a pervert, it's just the only solution I can think of on the fly,” he placates, hands raised as if to say I'm innocent and unarmed.
“Right…”
You stopped to think for a second, your muddled mind trying to make sense of the situation.
It made you especially uncomfortable that you didn't exactly have your full mental faculties about you.
But Logan was a good friend. You'd fought beside him many times before and you saw that you could trust him. But… he was still a man. A man much bigger and stronger than you.
“Can I trust you?” you asked falteringly. What a stupid idea to ask the opinion of someone fully in power over you.
“I promise I won't do anything without you wanting it. This is entirely your choice.”
You looked him in the eyes, trying to find a trace of falsehood in them. But you only saw honeyed eyes, dripping with conviction. The same conviction you'd seen many times before when he was protecting those he loved.
You felt yourself feel a little calmer.
“Okay… but you better not break your promise. Or I'll sick Charles and his shower chair on you.”
“I won't. I just want to keep you safe,” he said in a low, serious voice.
You felt a fluttering behind your ribs. Fuck… I'm about to shower with this incredibly attractive asshole.
“Okay… you get in first,” you said.
“Yes, ma'am,” he said a little too cheerily.
You turned around to give him privacy to undress. You heard the rustle of his clothes then a thump as he dropped them on the floor of your bathroom.
Should've known he'd be a slob…
You heard the shower turn on and you braced yourself for what was to come next.
You turned towards the shower, keeping your head down and eyes averted. You removed your towel and stepped into the shower, still not looking at Logan and ignoring his presence, which was hard to do in your little shower. Thankfully he was turned away respectfully.
You stood behind him, turned away from his body. You took your soap and began to lather it over yourself as you usually did when you showered.
“Would you like a hand with your back?” Logan spoke up.
You paused as you weighed up the question in your mind.
“Sure,” you said quietly, trying to keep yourself calm.
This is totally normal. We're just friends having a shower. Together.
You turned your back and heard him applying soap to his hands. Slowly, gently, as if you were made of glass, he began to rub your back, starting with your shoulders. You felt yourself give an involuntary shiver.
“Are you cold? Do you need the water a bit hotter?” he asked you.
“No, it's fine. The temperature is okay with you?”
“Yeah, bub, just perfect.”
His hands felt massive against your back. He massaged your neck for a few seconds before moving down your shoulder blades towards your middle back.
“Did-did you want me to do your back too?” you asked, trying to hide how nervous you were.
“Since you're offering, sure,” he said gruffly. You turned towards him at the same moment he turned away from you, unfortunately catching a glimpse of his insane fucking abs, but thankfully managing not to make eye contact.
You soaped up your hands and began with his neck, trying not to notice how thick and muscular his traps were.
God… this is hell but also heaven.
You ran your hands across his ridiculously broad shoulders and down his middle back, avoiding going too low lest you caress his stupid, tight ass.
“I'm going to wash my hair, okay?” you told him, unsure of why you were asking permission.
“Don't know why you're asking my permission.” Fuck. You were being weird. “But I can do the same right?” he responded, holding in laughter.
You felt your face go hot.
“D-do what you want,” you said petulantly.
You took the shampoo bottle, squeezing what you needed for yourself before handing it to him over his shoulder, which he thankfully kept turned to you in respect.
You both washed your hair in silence. You already felt a bit better. You dreamily thought of your bed as you rinsed the shampoo from your hair.
You then grabbed the conditioner and squeezed some into your hand.
“Need the conditioner?” you asked Logan.
“What for?” he asked, confused.
“For your hair, duh.”
“Nah, I'm good. Haven't had to use it so far in my life, won't start now. Need a hand with washing your hair?”
You knew he was trying to be helpful. But it felt so, so wrong. Like overstepping your relationship as friends. But then again… would you ever get the chance again to have an incredibly sexy man wash your hair for you?
“Sure,” you said stiffly.
Silence, then his hand moved around you to grab the bottle from you.
“Ah-” you already had some conditioner in your hand. You were about to tell him but decided to keep quiet as he worked on your hair.
His fingers… so thick and strong yet gentle through your hair, over your scalp. You couldn't help but to close your eyes and enjoy the sensation.
It was over too soon and he stepped away from you again. You tipped your head to rinse your hair, giving your face a quick scrub with water while you were at it; fuck your skin routine, you were going straight to bed.
“I'm going to step out first,” you informed him.
He grunted in reply and you stepped from the shower, grabbing two clean towels from your bathroom cupboard. You covered yourself with one and half turned your body to Logan, gaze still averted from his direction.
“Here ya go,” you tried to say cheerily, offering the towel to him.
“Thanks,” he said and grabbed it from your hand. You quickly moved to the door.
“Wait until I say you can come in,” you said before closing the door behind you.
Fuuuuucccckkkkk.
This was not helping you to relax at all.
You dried yourself quickly and threw your pyjamas on.
“I'm done!” you called through the door.
He stepped out with his towel wrapped around his stupid, slutty waist. You could see his happy trail adorning his abs. His enormous pecs, his dog tags resting in the dip of his gorgeous chest.
“Hey, bub, my eyes are up here,” he teases.
You swallow thickly and glare at his stupid, smirking face.
“Have I ever told you I hate you?” you retort, only succeeding in making him laugh.
“How are you feeling now?” he says softly, suddenly serious.
“I'm… exhausted. I usually sleep a lot after an episode.”
He nods in understanding.
“You'll be okay if I leave?”
This gives you pause. If you were being honest to yourself, you'd say, “Please stay. I don't want to be alone tonight.”
But you weren't honest with yourself.
“Thanks for looking out for me, Logan. I really appreciate it and sorry for putting you out. I'll be okay. You can go to bed now if you want.”
He looked at you in silence. He stepped towards you, so close that you had to look up to keep eye contact. You could feel the warmth radiating from him. Fuck he runs hot.
“You mean it, right? You're okay to be alone?”
You stared at him, a little bit dumbfounded. Was he able to read minds or something?
“Yes, I'll be fine. I'll be in bed so I can't exactly fall,” you chuckled.
He didn't laugh with you. Only watched you carefully.
“Okay. I'll respect what you say you want,” he says carefully.
Again, this is so out of character for him that you second guess yourself whether you're in reality or not.
You watch as he turns to the bathroom and grabs his clothes from the floor then goes towards the door to the hall.
“Hey-w-wait-y-you're not going out like that are you?” you stutter in disbelief.
He turns back to you.
“What else am I going to do?” he asks incredulously.
Clueless.
“Put your clothes back on,” you retort.
“Ew, you're a bit of a slob, aren't you? They're dirty and covered with blood and who knows what or who else.”
You deadpanned.
“What if… what if you stayed here for the night?” you blurted out without thinking. You flinch at your own words.
Logan pauses with his hand on the door knob.
“I don't exactly have my pyjamas here with me,” he says slowly.
“I've already seen and touched you naked. What's the difference?” you hear yourself say.
What the fuck am I saying?
“I-I mean, surely I have something that can fit you,” you amend quickly. His face seems to go slack in surprise.
“Wow. You really want it, huh?” he smirks at you.
You ignore the heat that overtakes your whole body.
“N-never mind! Fuck off already,” you say sourly.
“Hey, I'm just joking,” he laughs. “I can definitely stay if it helps you feel better.” He smiles at you and you feel yourself melt a little bit.
“It… it would. Help me feel better, I mean.”
Having him near you would help remind you that this is real, you justify.
“Alright then,” he nods to you. “Some clothes would be great.”
“Ah, sure, give me a second.”
You quickly go to your wardrobe to locate the loosest pair of pants you own. He'll just have to sleep shirtless, there's no way you have a top that will fit over his broad shoulders.
You find a dark grey pair of trackies and turn back to him.
“Try these.”
“Thanks,” he says as he takes it from your hand.
As he moves back to the bathroom you jump into bed to wait. Your bed never felt so fucking good.
You've barely settled under the covers when Logan reappears from the bathroom, his hair still wet and dripping down his neck. You do your best not to stare.
He moves towards you and lifts the covers to slip into bed with you.
This is just a sleepover, you tell yourself. Like when you have a friend over for the night.
Logan slots himself into your bed alongside you and you become suddenly aware of how small your double bed is. The frame creaks loudly from the weight of him and his Adamantium bones.
“Comfy?” you ask.
He turns in the bed so he's facing you. A smile slowly makes its way to his face and you find you can't breathe for a second.
“Yeah, definitely,” he murmurs.
“Alright, sweet, g’night then,” you say quickly, turning away from him to still your beating heart. Fuck, I hope he can't hear my heart right now.
“Are you sure you're ready to sleep? Your heart is beating pretty fast,” he points out cooly.
Mother fucker.
“So… you have heightened senses right? Kind of.. like a dog?” I'm not thinking straight, why am I trying to piss him off?
“Thought you were going to sleep,” he grunted. The sound of his gravelly voice did something to you. But you ignored it.
“It just kind of reminds me of those service dogs, y'know the ones that can sense when their owner is going to have a seizure? I mean, I know I don't have seizures exactly, but I guess it presents sort of like one.”
“What are you trying to say?” he asks gruffly. He doesn't like it when people compare him to dogs. You're just grateful you can't see the look on his face right now.
“I'm just wondering how you can tell? What is it exactly that you're sensing? It's always interested me,” you say honestly.
He grunts again and goes quiet before answering.
“I can smell it. Can't even explain what it actually smells like. But that's how I know, although it isn't always accurate.”
“That's really interesting.” And you mean it. It really is interesting… although the implications concerning his sense of smell have you a little bit paranoid…
“So that's why I'm telling you to listen to me when I fucking tell you to stop with your powers. You could've killed yourself tonight,” he grinds out, anger in his voice.
“Logan… you need to understand where I'm coming from. You all died tonight. Like literally, right before my very eyes, you were all dead. What do you expect me to do?”
You feel tears pricking your eyes, the lump in your throat is choking you.
“I… I can't talk about this right now okay?” you tell him, trying to keep your voice steady.
“Okay… okay, I'm sorry,” his voice softens. “Please, just get some sleep, okay? Guide dog’s orders.”
And just like that you're laughing again, feeling a tear running down your cheek to your pillow. You were so grateful to have him in your life. You were also grateful he couldn't see you crying right now.
“Alright, g'night, puppy,” you tease.
“‘Night,” he says softly.
A minute passes and you can already feel yourself starting to drift off. You smile to yourself, knowing that you have your own personal “service animal” to keep you safe tonight.
#logan howlett#logan howlett imagine#wolverine x reader#logan howlett x reader#wolverine imagine#wolverine#Logan being cute and worried and caring uwu#I saw dp and wolverine and fell in love dont know why it took me seeing his hairy 55 year old abs for this to happen#I never crushed on this man during xmen but idk he fucking got to me in that movie ok#i stan a guilt ridden man with low self esteem put your penis inside me right now#ass writes stuff
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“Gosh, I wonder what kind of day my birthday will be… Please, please have things go my way for once...!”
happy [redacted] birthday Cecil Mugwort here’s a makeshift “cozy loungewear” iteration. but with 60% less quality control because i had second thoughts on nearly every aspect halfway through, but i was too far in and already made a commitment publicly 🫠
pretend voiceless lines were collaborated on with @/oddberryshortcake under cut. If that’s anyones speed.
Summon: “Being able to tend to my plants at the end of a long day is my favorite part of my dorm room, I can’t think of a better way to spend the night before my birthday.”
Groovification: “There goes those clocks again…It’s practically telling me to get up and start another day.”
Home: “Late nights are so peaceful.”
Swap Looks: “Ugh, I need to get my unruly hair out of my face!”
Home Transition 1: “Having Silver as a roommate isn’t so bad… If you forget the whole ‘sleeping through five alarm clocks’ thing he does.”
Home Transition 2: “It’s a little embarrassing, but I love how soft and fuzzy these pajamas are. They keep me warm all night.”
Home Transition 3: “THE Vil Schoenheit gave me eye cream for my dark circles. Does he think they look really bad? I was so nervous I dropped the bottle right after getting it…”
Home Transition - Login: “My birthdays are usually spent celebrating my twin sister’s birthday too. But here at NRC, I can celebrate my birthday just by myself. It’s nice not having to share for today.”
Home Transition - Groovy: “Nyoka Wadjet gave me some fancy looking cup as a gift. I told him it’d make a nice new home for my Ice Lilies , but he almost seemed upset I’d be using it that way. Did he just want me to let it collect dust?”
Home Tap 1: “I mustn’t let Ollie trick me into feeding him his dinner twice. Tricky ol’ bird.”
Home Tap 2: “I made sure to send my twin sister a card for our birthday. I actually got one from her today too! For once, she didn’t brag about herself in it… She even pressed a small flower into the envelope.”
Home Tap 3: “Housewarden Malleus Draconia approached me earlier. He just wanted to tell me happy birthday but I was so scared I nearly collapsed where I stood… Ahem! Of course, I still said thank you!”
Home Tap 4: “Just one more page of this ancient magical relics book and then I’ll turn in for the night. Oh, but next chapter is on amulets. Maybe a few more pages then…”
Home Tap 5: “Do I dye my bangs? No, its just a condition I was born with. It spreads a little further every year. At this rate, I’m gonna go gray before I graduate…”
Home Tap - Groovy: “I try not to stay up too late, but I can’t help it! Everything is silent, it’s just me, my bird, my books and my plants. It’s such bliss at night.”
Duo:
[CECIL]: “T-Thanks for celebrating, Nyoka!”
[NYOKA]: “It's no trouble, Cecil.”
Birthday Login Message: “Oh, you’re wishing me a happy birthday? I didn’t think you’d remember. You know, the science club pitched in and got me a new plant today. It was a pleasant surprise to know my seniors had been paying such close attention to my interests. …Hm? Is this your present? You made a card all by yourself? …This is much more thoughtful than the ill-fitting sweaters and mugs I normally get, thank you.”
#my art#cecil mugwort#twst oc#sorry that the days lined up like this.#for every day there is no gen from me is another day i become more guilt ridden#THAT and as of posting no diasomnia cozy loungewears are out.#literally days before mr lilias will drop and [dies from.]#also today lined up with some irl stressors so 🫠#So a lot of things about this I’m EXTREMELY disatisfied with.#Edit: GUESS WHAT CARD SHOWED UP HOURS AFTER POSTING.
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“But, the idea that he was the worst wolverine is the thing that came of Hugh’s voice memo. It was such a great access point for us cause you not only have the worst wolverine but you have a wolverine that is finally, after twenty-four years, wearing the yellow suit. You know? Wandering around set like Admiral Banana”
Hugh pretty much coming up with the idea of “worst wolverine” has to be my favorite thing ever. I desperately need to listen to his 10-minute voice memo. Him (and Ryan) being so dedicated to this character honestly makes me so so so happy.
Worst Logan means sooooo much to me, and I’m just really glad he exists.
#something something about how sad and broken he is endears me#i mean to be called the worst in the entire multiverse hurts#he really is a dream to write content for#i mean hes literally a guilt ridden little meow meow that desperately needs love#worst wolverine#ryan reynolds#hugh jackman#wolverine#deadpool and wolverine#deadpool & wolverine#deadpool x wolverine#deadpool 3#poolverine#logan howlett#deadpool
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... if i had a nickel for every estranged guilt ridden (nicotine addicted) older brother seeking answers to their younger brothers mysterious disappearance by infiltrating said younger brothers friend group and going to extreme lenghts to interrogate suspects i'd have two nickels. and they're both doing a great job.
#playboyy#playboyy the series#dead friend forever#dff the series#thai bl#mine#hehe fave characters of all time(i am a guilt ridden older sibling)
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jon's the guy who will almost always come around to doing the right thing in the end but first needs two weeks of prostrating himself like christ's temptation in the desert about it before he can rise to take the high road
#[stews in an 'I'm so monstrous and guilt ridden and destined for evil' cocoon for several business days] [emerges as a new man]#'yeah sorry I was a bit of an arse at your housewarming do I hadn't been sleeping well but it was still on me for snapping'#tma#marina marvels at life
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Kylar wearing tacky merch they made of PC is what I live for <333
#Courier finally “finished” this delivery after being abandoned for several months woooo ╭( “ ・ㅂ`・)و ̑̑#I say finished when in reality I just ended up scrapping the majority of it and throwing on some pc drawings (◞ ‸ ◟ㆀ)#But a delivery is a delivery! And an excuse to show off three separate wips (*^∀゚)ъ#degrees of lewdity#kylar the loner#dol kylar#dol pc#“marina” the guilt-ridden#courier's art
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Martin thinks that he always kind of knew he was going to die today.
But by Akatosh, he didn’t think it would be like this – like Kvatch all over again, Kvatch folded in on itself, the streets overrun with monsters triple-time as thick, all metal and sulphur and blood. They were supposed to make it in time. He was supposed to light the fires. He was supposed to be crowned, and let some new, less visceral kind of horror begin – they were supposed to make it through – they were supposed – they supposed – but the streets are shaking with Dagon’s footfalls, and Martin can’t take a step without kicking a corpse, and the Hero of Kvatch is heavy-too-heavy against his shoulder, and it was always going to be like this. It never could have ended any other way.
He can feel prayer bubbling up from his scraped-raw throat, bitter as bile, held behind his teeth. O Akatosh, first of the gods, steady my hand… He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t mouth it. Tries not to think it, though it’s a rhythm born of years of habit, once a comfort, now just – empty. But it unspools in his head all the same. Pax is leaned heavy against his shoulder, one arm hooked loosely around his, hand pressed against the sticky-dark spot on their armour; they’re short, but they’re not light, and Martin’s arms burn as he tries to hold them up. The sky flares red. His eyes sting with smoke. Grant me the strength to endure. Onward, onward, onward.
Pax’s feet skitter uselessly against the blood-slick cobble. Martin almost trips over a leg, its silver-polished greave shining in the hellish light. The rest of the body is not there. He can taste smoke. He can taste bile. He can see the stained glass, the altars, the prayerbooks, his throat flayed raw begging for a salvation that would never be granted; this is not Kvatch, this is not Kvatch, but the sky burns and the streets are filthy with bodies and there is too much noise to talk, and Pax is damn near dead weight against his side, still holding out their blunt little excuse for a sword. Martin drags her on through the street. Just to the temple doors – just to the temple doors – the side of her head presses fierce against his ear. Martin’s knuckles are white with effort. There is blood on his fine silken robes.
Again, the streets shake; Pax staggers at his side. Akatosh, protect us. Martin doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see the red-stained sky blurring against body – he can already see the cobbles cracked under the weight of feet too massive for his mind to make sense of it, a body – man or monster, he doesn’t know – crushed beneath the heel. Pax is gesturing at the colossus’ ankle with their sword as if they could possibly do anything at all. They’re bleeding.
“Come on,” Martin says, shallow and jagged; it stings to speak, and there’s so little point, his ears so filled with the clashing of metal and horrible, inhuman screams that there’s not room for anything else. His grip tightens around Pax’s shoulders. Her face is set, stubborn and pale – and she’s so stupidly young – and Martin –
There is an emotion so large it threatens to split him at the seams, and they don’t have time for that, so Martin runs. Staggers past the barely sketched-out shape of the devil menacing the skies, child hero in tow; every breath stinks of fear and ash. His throat prickles. If he doubles over with coughing, Pax will fall, there, onto bloody cobblestone, with their toothpick of a blade and their empty quiver, their sharp-spined bow slung carelessly over their shoulder, pearl-grey gambeson slowly darkening with blood, so Martin doesn’t cough. Blessed are we, the faithful…
They don’t fall, and they aren’t crushed, darting around the earth Dagon stands upon, slow and sluggard and so astonishingly lucky, and Martin gasps, and he does not cough, and Pax kicks at a scamp that gets too close and waves the sword at it just enough to slice a shallow cut down its scrabbly little arm. Martin’s so focused on holding them up that he can’t even cast. It isn’t even the one prayer running inescapable through his head – it’s a mess of them, all twisted and torn to pieces, shreds of one, half a sentence of another. He nearly trips over on the stairs. In the crowd, armour flashes, bright as steel and thoroughly outnumbered. He should pray for the Blades, too; he would, if he thought it would do anything. But it didn’t, last time. And this time, he has something better up his sleeve than prayer.
“Almost there,” he says through the din, and Pax keeps their sword arm raised even though they don’t know how to use the bloody thing, and there’s blood on their Kvatch gambeson, and there’s blood on Martin’s regal robes. (It was going to be him – that dremora’s blade whip-thin and wicked and dark as soot, jabbed thin as a sewing needle through the slippery-soft fabric, hooked under his ribs or pierced through the soft meat of his gut. Pax, empty-quivered, still drawing his sword, angled his own body to intercept; caught it in the thick pillow of his armour, in his own skin. Martin spat a spell from his fingers that sent the thing crashing to the ground and grabbed Pax well before they began to follow.) The earth shakes, again, and Martin’s shin hits the edge of the next step. He can’t hear anything over it all, but he sees Pax suck in a breath, sharp and pained. She takes another step. He follows.
When they reach the dark-stone door, someone screams, high and terrible, and there is no time to stand on ceremony; Martin throws himself at it, shoving it with all his weight behind his shoulder, and together, they stumble inside the temple, ash blowing in behind them to scatter itself on the sacred, stagnant floors.
The door swings closed again; the sound is swallowed up, faint and muffled. Martin can hear them both breathing, ragged, loud. Pax hasn’t lowered their sword. It looks even more dull, here, contrasted against the stonework. They’re so quiet. He hates that he’s learned how they act when they’re in pain.
(It’s holy ground. It won’t be enough – it barely was in Kvatch, it’s nowhere near it now – but it’s not nothing. There’s blood spilling over the tile.)
Martin sucks in a desperate, dragging breath. He doesn’t let go of them.
There’s not much light in the Temple, but it’s enough; it’s clear of smoke and that all that burning reddish tint, outside, and now that Martin has a moment to look them in the face Pax looks awful. His skin is ash-pale and slick with sweat, fringe sticking to his forehead, brow creased as if with concentrated effort and jaw taut. Every breath rattles in his chest and whistles out between his teeth. One palm sticks to the place in her side where her armour is dark and sodden; Martin is afraid to peel it away. It can’t be a wide wound, the cut not even enough to tear more of the gambeson than is covered by her hand, but shit it’s a lot of blood. It’s so much blood. He was never an especially good healer and he can’t even begin to accurately estimate it but it’s too much; it’s entirely too much. And it was because she was protecting him. It’s enough to make a man sick; but there’s no time, so Martin isn’t.
It's so much blood. Pax’s eyes are unfocused, drifting somewhere over his shoulder. His face is so clammy and so young – by the Nine, he’s a child. He’s a child and a hero and Martin’s friend and he’s bleeding out on the Temple floors. Martin hates himself, a bit, for going along with any of this in the first place, for letting them send a fifteen year old child out to risk killing themselves, only to get them here – this place, bleeding out onto sacred marble, where they always would’ve ended up anyway. All roads lead to this.
Inevitability. It’s an idea that showed up often in the sermons Martin used to help give. The Amulet is blood-warm and heavy round his neck.
“Pax,” Martin says; one arm is threaded under her armpits, and he lifts the other to press gently to her cheek. Just under her eye there’s a dark spot of ash; he swipes it off with his thumb, watches the slow, sticky blink she gives in response. “Hey. Are you with me?”
“Always,” she mumbles; her voice is sludgy, like it’s caught in treacle, but the word comes without delay – like it’s instinct, like there’s nowhere else she’s ever imagined being, and doesn’t that just make a man want, a bit, to throw himself off a cliff. (She’s gone to hell, on his word, who knows how many times over; Martin doesn’t need her half-dying drive to affirm her loyalty to him. He knows. He knows. He thinks he might be sick.) She blinks again, and then her eyes sharpen; she throws a tired look over her shoulder at the cool stone of the door, the world beyond muted, as if this moment occurs on its own; like they’re flies, frozen in amber. She says, “It won’t keep them out forever.”
Holy ground was barely enough in Kvatch; it will be barely anything here.
Martin’s arm is aching. He’s not that strong. “Long enough,” he says, with far more brusque certainty than he feels, and he casts a glance over the smooth marble floors, the well-wrought stonework of each plinth and pillar. “Come on. Sit down.”
Arms burning, he helps them to the side of the room, leans them against the leverage of the smooth white wall; still, they don’t sit, and Martin has to help lower them down. Pax grunts like a shot animal as he slowly sinks down to the ground, Martin’s hands still bruising tight on his shoulders, sword slipping from his sweaty grasp to clatter on the floor. His bow, slung over his shoulder, presses awkward against the wall; his empty quiver lies at his hip, useless. His hand is still pressed to the stain on his gambeson.
Martin watches him breathe out through gritted teeth, his tongue pressed ragged against the gap behind his lower canine. His head tips back against the wall. His gambeson, blood-spattered, barely protective, is tied with a row of neat leather cords; Martin reaches for one intricate knot and begins to tug on the ends.
Maybe it’s because he’s a bit frantic, that he just can’t get it to untangle – maybe it’s that the whole world is ending outside the door and they have a minute to stop it, if they’re lucky. Maybe it’s that Pax’s head is lolling, a little. Maybe it’s that it’s all on his head – has been on his head since any of it began, since he knew any of it at all, and now another city is falling, and he can still smell smoke, and he has a minute, if he’s lucky. He feels like they should have more time. He needs to undo the gambeson. He needs to make sure they’ll be all right. Martin was always going to die today – he feels it, settled comfortable and hazy over him, an unerring certainty in the very marrow of his bones, a knowledge passed down from the man they call his father – but Pax sure as shit isn’t. Not if he has anything to say about it, which he does, because it’s been on his head since the beginning and he’ll shoulder it all but he won’t bear this. His fingers scrabble, desperate, at the ties; every moment he waits is a murder, but leaving them here would be murder, too, and Martin won’t have that blood on his hands. And the knots won’t just come easy. He’s lost so much time and he hasn’t even gotten half.
Pax is looking at him, her eyes blood-dark. “You’re not going to get it,” she says, and her voice slurs, a little, in her mouth; pain or blood loss or shock, almost definitely, but Martin was never a particularly skilled healer and the magic he spent to get them through that horrible crush outside has left him too tapped to be able to probe. “They’re tied too tight.”
Martin can hear the ringing of metal outside. The earth is still shaking.
“Fuck,” he says, voice cracking on the vowel, and turns to rifle through their quiver. He hears them exhale, long and shaky, as he searches.
They don’t even have any fucking potions – he’d take anything, at this point, anything at all, he’d take the foulest cheapest draught as long as it would slow the bleeding, or even just a bandage, but there’s no bottles or flasks and no loose cloth. There’s one salve, pale and sticky in a purple-stained pot, but that can’t be used without access to the skin and probably can’t be good in an open wound in any case. There isn’t anything. There isn’t anything at all. Time is slithering away between his fingers. There are broken bits of prayer sticking like glass shards under his tongue, again. He doesn’t want to say any of it; it sticks in his throat, anyway. Lord Akatosh, sacred dragon, walk ever with me; under your gaze I will not fall short. Pax is looking at him, brow creased, face the very picture of dedicated focus; their hair, done in a long, simple braid back when they were just supposed to be speaking to the Council, has come half-loose, looping strands hanging about their face and trailing over their eye. Martin lifts a hand – notes, with detached interest, that it is shaking – and brushes it out of the way.
“I’m sorry,” he says – and he is, by the Nine, it settles with all the rest of the guilt in his gut, all to be burned soon enough – “there’s not time for me to heal you properly. How are you feeling? Are you all right?” Their skin is still clammy to the touch, sweat-damp wherever he touches; their eyes are more focused now but still screwed up with pain.
Pax gives a short puff of air. It’s not a laugh, not in his state, but it’s not all that far off; his voice is gravel-rough. “Got stabbed, Martin Priest. ‘S not great.”
Stabbed in the gut, while protecting him – bleeding all over the sanctified floors, the grout will never recover, and why is he thinking about that when the blade could have caught an organ and Martin would never know because he’s never been that good a healer. The ground is shaking again. They’ve been in here a minute, maybe, and he already feels like they’re stealing time. The seconds are slipping away quickly. He’s digging his fingers fiercely into the cloth of Pax’s shoulder; if he doesn’t hold onto her somehow he thinks he might fall down.
(He’s glad she’s here, and he hates himself for being glad. She’s bleeding. It should be his blood.)
His face must be doing something truly impressive, because Pax cracks a grin, wide and crooked and sticky-mouthed. “Calm down,” she says, the words thick as treacle in her mouth, “I got at least ten more minutes in me. What’s the plan?”
“The plan,” Martin echoes. That statement is nowhere near as reassuring as she seems to mean it to be; he shakes his head. Looks back at the doorway, still closed – noise of battle still raging, earth still trembling, but none of it imminent, probably, not within the next three seconds – and surges forward to wrap their shoulders in a fierce hug, careful to keep away from their abdomen, his cheek pressed against their hair. They smell of sweat and smoke and blood; he takes a deep breath, anyway. “I’ll do the rest, Pax, just – rest.” His voice cracks, again. “Be okay.”
(There’s more prayer pressed into those two words than in anything else he’s thought today.)
Pax reaches a hand up to pat his sleeve; her head, still, is resting against the stone, the set of her shoulders a little tauter, a little more alert. “I can still help,” she insists. The sword – blunt little instrument that it is – lies on the floor, tacky with monstrous blood; she doesn’t even try to reach for it. The bow slung over her shoulder is jabbing him in the collarbones. Martin pulls back enough to shake his head.
“No,” he says; because they can’t. The rest is for him and him only, so no-one else has to get hurt. Pax got him this far – got him out of the wreckage of Kvatch – got him out of the stagnant mire in his head – got a blade in the gut, for their trouble, and even if Martin had anything else to ask of them he couldn’t ask for more.
Pax glowers, at that, the crease reappearing between his brows; Martin could laugh, if it was another day, if they had another moment. He presses his face to the top of Pax’s head, instead, nose dug sharply into his hair; and he breathes, and he breathes, and he breathes.
He’s not an orator, but the way Pax talks they seem to think he’s accustomed to giving grand speeches; he’s certainly had enough practice lately. His breath shudders. He dredges up what words he can. They’ve been in the Temple a minute already; he doesn’t think they can ask another.
“I,” he says, and breathes; “I cannot stay to help rebuild Tamriel – that must fall to others.” He couldn’t have been Emperor, not ever – he’s never been able to fix things, not on this scale. The weight of the Empire would have run him into the ground. He would have hated it. It would have killed him. (Didn’t it?)
Pax’s hand skims the fine cloth at his elbow again. Voice slow, they say, “What –”
“I know now what I was born to do,” Martin says, and he tries to smile. He doesn’t know if they can feel it. His hands clasp the sides of their face; their hair is tickling his nose. They feel cool to the touch, dead-fish clammy; but it will be all right, because once it’s all over the healers will come in, better at flesh-craft than Martin’s ever been, and they’ll fix it. They’ll fix it all. And the Blades are here, however little Pax usually chooses to engage with them, so he won’t be alone. And the Elder Council, the whole Empire, will owe him a debt of such gratitude – he won’t be alone, again. He’ll have options. He’ll miss him – but he’ll live. And Martin will, for once in his sorry life, have actually fixed something.
His friend’s hair smells like smoke. Their skin is shining with sweat and grime. “You’ve been such a good friend in the short time that I’ve known you,” he says, and he’s smiling, he knows it, a melancholy thing pressed into their hairline. His voice is shaking, just a little. “I’m sorry I couldn’t – I couldn’t stay to know you better.”
“Martin,” Pax says, and he pulls back. Their face is creased, ash and blood smeared over their cheekbone. Suspicion lines the tilt of their brow.
Martin smiles, still. His palms, rough and dry, cradle her face. “But now I must go,” he says, gentle; “The Dragon waits.”
And Martin, for one, is done waiting.
He pushes what magic he has left into his hands, sunshine-bright; Martin is no great healer, particularly not when his reserves are tapped, particularly not when he can’t even see the wound, but he can at least soften the edge, dampen the overwhelming pull of the pain. His hands sting with the effort, his head spins, the ground shakes; and one of those has nothing to do with expending himself. Right on time, it seems; the Amulet of Kings hangs warm and heavy around his neck.
Martin stands, though his legs shake; stumbles a step backwards; turns to face the dais in the middle of the room, the shallow marble dish of it lying cold, the pillars around it as stark and foreboding as the bars of any cage. He runs.
“Martin!” he hears behind him, because Pax is Pax and of course they won’t let him go easy; the earth shakes, anticipation winding up into a wiry coil in his gut. The Amulet is hot enough to burn, bright as the sun – he heaves himself up onto the raised platform, reaches to unloop it from around his neck –
The ceiling caves in, and Martin throws an arm over his eyes, closing them against the implosion of dust and grit, scraping in a breath thick enough to choke. His ears are ringing. He manages to squint up, catches a glimpse of a massive fist swiping the rubble away from the hole, the glint of a battle-axe, a silhouette against the burning red sky, roiling and howling like a column of storm. Martin can’t even make out a face, but he knows, somewhere deep and solid, that it’s looking at him. He meets its gaze, the Amulet raised high in his hand.
All prayer has deserted him, now, all the rote lines and careful patterns he leant on for so long slipping away from his fingertips as if they were never there at all. All he has is please, weighty, guttural, and he thinks it might mean more than any of the rest of it. Please. Please. You owe me this. The Amulet of Kings burns in his hand.
“Martin!” he hears again, hoarse and desperate; he looks. Just once. Pax has dragged himself across the dust-coated floors, bow and quiver abandoned somewhere behind him; his face is covered in dirt, hair come half-loose, eyes stubborn and fierce and wild. He feels his eyes crease, the lightest echo of a smile. He’ll miss them, wherever he goes next. Pax screams, “Don’t!”
Martin Septim was always going to die today. It is, perhaps, one of the first things he’s ever done right.
Martin smashes the Amulet of Kings on the cold marble dais, and the world erupts in gold.
#most guilt-ridden guy who is experiencing like 5 different crises resolves them all by killing himself (do not try this at home)#(also a teenager is experiencing the beginnings of hemorrhagic shock nearby. for flavour)#I generally try not to reproduce game dialogue verbatim much but for this one I felt like I Needed to. yk. made a couple tweaks but#he talks with such a specific odd energy in this scene and I wanted to be true to that#my writing#fay writes#oc tag#pax#tes#the elder scrolls#oblivion#hero of kvatch#martin septim#tesblr#will post the follow-up piece. soonish#I've reread this Too Much and can't even tell if it's good anymore so.if you like it lmk. if you think it sucks also lmk but be nice with i
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pre-trimax
#vashwood#trigun maximum#trimax#vash the stampede#nicholas d wolfwood#anyone else think about an universe where wolfwood was not assigned to be vash's guide and was just a normal regular guilt-ridden mf that#meets vash along the way#and they happened to be friends. maybe a little more than friends bc TO ME#vash had a little crush on ww when they first met. he stroked his chin he gave 2 coins to 2 children when he only had 3 he told him his#smile was sad as fuck like#totally crush-able 11/10 and imo ww is pretty charming when it comes to strangers and first meetings#he's naturally kind and casual in tone. he likes the mundane he likes townspeople#it's much more apparent when he gets the chance to just hang out like pre-trimax and in that chapter in vol 7#when they go to a bar and he's just chatting up with the barkeeper. and in the first few chapters of trimax actually#to me he's a lot more sociable than vash is Tbh. ww is also good with children but i think vash is more impulsive enough to play with them#and be silly. its fun how they balance out like this even socially#anyway didnt even mean to ramble about that. its not on topic at all DFMGKSDGM#ruporas art
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Discord server doodles :D
(5th character belongs to @motharaya !)
#D10 is so fun to draw omg#i love exaggerated evil expressions#gordon the big engine#gordon ttte#rex the miniature engine#rex ttte#neville the new engine#neville ttte#edgar the guilt-ridden engine#diesel 10#d10#ttte d10#ttte#thomas and friends#thomas the tank engine#monster engines#ttte oc#my art#ttte fanart#ttte art#oc
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#musings#the obsessive#the possessive#the mad#the guilt ridden#the violent#the abuser#ship inspo#source: Never Meant To Hurt You - The Blake Robinson Synthetic Orchestra
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If Hunter dare tries to sacrifice himself, Omega and Crosshair better be right there to stop that shit
If Crosshair dare tries to sacrifice himself, Omega and Hunter better be right there to stop that shit
#no one's dying today#i want to shake some sense into these guilt-ridden masochist boys u know they'll do it#crosshair#hunter#omega#crosshunt#otp: there just might be hope for us yet#star wars#tbb#tbb season 3#my posts
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I've been waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting— for you.
#rodydeku#theyre so messy but im desperate#bnha#mha#rody soul#deku#i will fall in love with you over and over again#LISTEN its post war#izuku didnt save the peoplenhe wanted to save he is ridden with guilt#hes tired hes jaded hes not who he was when he visited otheon#rody still loves him ofc
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First kiss
#Megumi is the more obsessive one I won't change my mind#standing on his tip toes asking Toji to teach him how to kiss#'you owe me after all the shit you put me through'#Guilt ridden Toji knows he should say no#but it's just a kiss so it's okay right??#tojigumi#toji x megumi#malifique art
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a father's love
#SNIFFLIGN AND WEEPING. IM SO FUCKNH NORMAL ABT THE KNIGHT OF DAWN. SNIFFLES. I LOVE HIM#guys u dont get it anytime i think abt him i start tearing up its so TRAGIC. being essentially pushed into the role of a knight for his kin#and pushed to kill briar valley's princess when he clearly doesnt want to. for the sake of a POTENTIAL to save the man who took him in. for#the sake of keeping his love happy and saving her father. to have a kid who you care so deeply for that u both give him up to a better futu#putting him to sleep for who knows how long so he can live in peace. even if it means you wont be in the picture. even if ur dead. SNIFFLES#im CRYIGN im MUSHY ABT IT. FUCKJIGN SUE ME#twst#twisted wonderland#twst silver#silver vanrouge#knight of dawn#ch 7 spoilers#book 7 spoilers#UUAGAAGAHHHHHHHHH#suntails#AND SILVER!!!! so resentful of what his og dad did. so guilt ridden of being his descendant. bearing the pain of a crime he didnt even comm#of leaving malleus with no parents. of killing the PRINCEiSS of his KINGDOM that hes been sworn to protect. the feeling of treason in his <#him trying desperately to push this away while completely paralyzed over the weight of his realization and crumbling to it. AUGGHGHH#sorry im normal (lying) (lyign) (extra lying)
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merlin who stands against the wall while uther reprimands arthur, who stands behind arthur at dinners where uther’s disapproval and disappointment is apparent, who has been there when arthur is quiet and despondent after private meetings with his father, who has watched for years the sting of uther’s words and sometimes hands against his own son, who has bit his tongue and followed arthur with gentle hands and softer words as he puts the pieces back together of the man he knows and loves.
merlin watching uther lose his temper over arthur going against him for their people and watching arthur crawl into himself and shove his feelings down to be the emotionless prince his father expects of him. once uther’s rage has quelled somewhat, he dismisses arthur without another look and arthur leaves, his back ramrod straight and his chin held high despite the glazed look in his eyes, his last shot at keeping his composure. and merlin breaks, he glares at uther and waits until the doors shut to speak, in case arthur was close enough to hear.
merlin rants and raves at uther, calls him out on his bs, and tells him to be there for his son. ofc uther isn’t having any of it and yells back at merlin but merlin isn’t deterred and keeps going on and on about how much of a disappointment uther is as a father and how much better arthur deserves. uther steps in close and raises his hand as if to backhand merlin but he doesn’t. the two stare at each other, heated glare meeting heated glare, and finally uther mutters that he should have merlin flogged for speaking like that to him. merlin doesn’t waver as he welcomes uther too but he couldn’t just stand by and watch uther tear arthur apart anymore.
uther slowly lowers his hand and turns his back on merlin but he hasn’t given in to merlin’s argument so he switches tactics. he asks how uther expects arthur to be the sure, determined, and just king he is meant to be if uther won’t let him grow into his power and autonomy, let him learn his lessons and apply them as king. uther finally lowers his shoulders at merlin’s argument which just irks him more as uther clearly cares more for arthur as a future king rather than a son but he doesn’t point that out.
uther turns to stare at merlin and asks if he really just disrespected the king so horribly just for arthur, merlin nods once without hesitation and echoes “for arthur”. uther’s lips twitch despite himself and he nods and says how he is glad arthur has someone like merlin looking out for him. merlin tests his luck once more and responds that arthur could have more than just him, he could have a dad, not just a father.
merlin watches as arthur reports back to his father the next week about an expedition they had gone on to protect one of camelot’s outlying villages from raiders and uther grins wide and pulls arthur into an awkward side hug that’s more a complicated pat on his shoulder but at least it’s something. uther says openly how he’s proud and that camelot should feel lucky to have a prince who is looking out for her.
arthur is stunned and manages a slight bow to his father as he leaves (merlin and uther exchanging a glance and nod as he passes). merlin watches arthur as the room empties and a wide, proud smile stretches across his face. merlin feels warm and fuzzy at the sight and chuckles as arthur spins and pulls merlin into a similar side hug while laughing loudly. the two of them have the most fun that day, spending the rest of the daylight goofing off and running around with no particular goal in mind other than enjoying the day. it’s the happiest merlin has seen arthur be for such a long period of time.
#obviously uther is a pos and doesnt remain like this for long before falling back into his anger and rage and belittling arthur again#merlin is disappointed but not surprised#he gives up on uther and decides to just be arthur’s support#OR#uther tests it out and makes a deal with merlin that he’ll be more supportive of arthur’s independence#but if he steps too far out of line or grows too arrogant as to stand against him or makes a big mess of things#it will be merlin who suffers the punishment rather than arthur#this results in merlin getting dragged down to the dungeons and getting whipped#uther wanted it to be a public flogging but knew how much merlin meant to him so he decided to do it in private so arthur wouldnt blow up#merlin hides his wounds and uther returns to his shitty ways and takes the bit of confidence arthur acquired#years later established merthur and arthur is tracing merlins scars in bed and asks about the whip marks on his back#merlin hesistates bc he doesnt want to tell arthur the truth and tries to lie but arthur calls him out on it#‘we said no more lies’ and merlin folds and tells him#arthur (guilt ridden) and merlin (protector of pretty prat partner) have sad sex 😔🔥💔💋#bbc merlin#merlin emrys#arthur pendragon#fanfiction#fanfic#fic#merthur#uther pendragon#cw parental abuse
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