[brokenmagxc]

@brokenmagxc / ind. private, selective, fandomless original character / mutuals only, slow reply. est. 2014. reboot 2024. loved by abi. / please see navigation for details. plotting is encouraged, memes are accepted !!

read carrd first. rules. dossier. classified file. verses. character study. interaction guide. memes. wishlist. people. cases. psa. ooc. positivity. learn more. headcanons. musings. visage. art. saved. playlist. pinterest.

you are: soul-bound, destiny seeking, lost. curated by callous hands. fulgurite, husked power in yellowing sand, glass blown. casketed, torn asunder. like icarus to water, faithful to the fall, mistaking descent for devotion. heaven evades you. reaching and recoiling. sea-salted and drowning. drinking blood for your guileless naivety, seeking penance in duty. the unsavable savior.

[brokenmagxc]

x. minor rules, dossier, and file updates:

added "negligence and malpractice" and "political corruption" to potential triggering content on this blog. the latter is pretty obvious but the former is important to note due to some of the medical, legal, federal negligence and malpractice scenarios arthur may find himself in at certain plot points. this may also include medical non-consent, among other dubious practices regarding legal ownership and federal oversight. as always, all triggers are tagged ( tw trigger ) when able, and you are always welcome to ask me to tag content if needed !!

clarified required reading for the character and blog. it may seem obvious but for some reason people still miss this step so, to reiterate, it is expected that if you want to interact as mutuals, you are reading the dossier, classified file, and verses before reaching out. if any content is confusing or hard to understand, it is recommended to visit the interaction guide for help, or to reach out directly to me for questions ( please do, i love questions !! ).

added disclaimer for character content written as in-universe material mimicking realistic file language. encouraged using this language and referencing these files in our threads where applicable !!

updated dossier occupation from "private" > "federal" investigator. why ?? because arthur's work is still very intrinsically tied to the federal government, and a lot of his canon character conflict circles this question of federal ownership vs. private freedom and national security vs. individual safety. it felt disingenuous to establish him as a private investigator when he is not a private citizen in any meaningful practical sense and often does not have freedoms afforded to private citizenship, even if portions of his legal status are civilian-coded. he also does little practical private investigative work that isn't covert, federally directed, monitored, or sparse, and he does not consistently possess the autonomy, client base, or practical independence implied by private citizenship. to clarify, this does not change existing threads that mention pi work otherwise. however, moving forward, his canon occupation will focus more on his tumultuous relationship with the government that still owns him.

minor dossier updates for appearance, powers, and summary.

updated portions of his classified file memos to better reflect restricted federal appointment status.

updated portions of his npc relations to better reflect restricted federal appointment vs. civilian privilege.

[brokenmagxc]

@lionheartedscout liked for something short.

“ drach ullad i, ” he repeats slower, each word rolling from the tongue with an old homegrown ease. his fingers trace over the note they'd intercepted, underlining the words as he spoke them. “ it's haearanni. means ‘ come follow me. ’ and this, ” his finger moves past the part smeared in blood. “ the sentence is broken, but here—cor is ‘ body, ’ and gloy is ‘ light. ’ then it writes of a song... ” he taps the page once, falling quiet as he read between the wet ink smudges and dry bloodstains. after a moment, arthur crosses his arms and leans back.

“ ‘ come follow me, toward the body of light, whose song is sung in darkness. ’ ”

[brokenmagxc]

@bruisednotes for clive

“ clive, look at me. ” the world narrows to the short distance between them. arthur, standing but a few feet away, keeps his arms steady at his sides, palms open and waiting. tall grass sways at his knees. the blighted lands lingered like a dark scar over his shoulder, only a few hills north from the secluded fields they'd found. the shape of them transform the bearer into a paler line in contrast. his voice is low, warm, patient. despite the hard beat of his pulse, he keeps his gaze steady. the deep browns of his eyes stir once—a thin, aether-laced gold brushing against the irises—before he forces the color back down.

he takes a breath, deep enough to shutter in his chest, then nods. takes another. watches the other watch him with a small, growing satisfaction. steady the moment, he tells himself. keep him here instead of back there, at the worst of it.

“ we have time. ” he reassures. the other's worry softens his face, not enough to take away the tired wrinkles around his eyes or the hesitant pull of his lips, but enough to braid care and caution into something quiet. gentler, perhaps, than the dominant has been able to afford in a long while.

“ you've been burying yourself in work for weeks. ” arthur continues. not accusing, just measuring the toll of burden. the months since cid's death had been anything but kind, and everyone knew clive took the worst of it—staring into the shape left behind and hoping with each day that every order, instruction, mission, and bounty could fill the gap. though now, with the hideaway steadily building, everyone split into their roles with as much sureness as they could muster in these trying times, it seemed the most opportune moment to remind the dominant that there was only so much command could do for him.

especially with the bout of heat beneath all that false calm.

arthur feels the warmth radiate between them. it was as if he stood within the fires of beinn leodladh himself. a crisp ash. and something more precise beneath—like lightning after summer rain. they fought each other, almost, noticeable enough for arthur's eyes to see the edges of aether eating around clive's frame. the bearer's face softens, unafraid or stupid or familiar, it is hard to tell. still, he does not shy away. “ you're going to hurt yourself holding all that in. ” he steps closer, slow, palms open and calm. “ why not practice letting some of it go for once ?? ”

[corpatrem]

"DON'T LET MY MEAN MUG DECEIVE YOU." a tired smile is returned as Ben takes a long sip of his brown liquor. The hand from Artie's shoulder is slowly withdrawn, both hands loosely wrapped around his drink as Ben lets out a short exhale.

"Well, the way I see it, if your bad habits aren't hurting anyone else and I've offered...I don't see the bad in it, do you?" A raised brow as he studies the younger man. There's a small laugh that emits as he looks half amused at the consequence, "-- They can try, man, but I can assure you that it won't stick."

[brokenmagxc]

pale, slender fingers gesture vaguely toward the bar. the motions are quick and dampened with familiarity—the bartender returns with a small dark glass and an uninvolved smile. arthur grasps the cup without looking. clay browns remain steady on ben's hands, watching the glass turn beneath the dim bar lights. he huffs softly at the response. the amusement doesn't quite reach his eyes.

“ better be careful, ” he warns and takes a sip from his drink. the liquor burns his throat. in those few seconds, the sleeplessness around his eyes seems to compound. dark circles, shaggy twine hair, shadows casting long lines on his face. he is suddenly older and smaller than he initially seemed when the other arrived. “ lots of things sticking where they shouldn't be these days. might surprise you what you end up bringing home. ”

[brokenmagxc]

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐝. 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬. 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧—𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝. ©

[resisteence]

... you never asked to be the leader, right? to make the tough calls. to use your small but loyal guerilla force, put them in harm's way, risk their lives. the role was thrust upon you. you're blameless. well, i don't buy it, jake. every choice was yours.

Visit Original Link

roleplay for 𝐉𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐍 from the 90s classic 𝑨𝒏𝒊𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒑𝒉𝒔. book based.

[blacknighted]

@brokenmagxc asked: finally kissing the person you’ve been pining for. / KISS & TELL: still accepting.

Love isn't exactly something Henry believes rushes for him anymore. Older now, it'd seem more the fancy of the upstarts and the blessedly young. Still, he recalls his chasing maidens in the summertime, his thorough-savoring of their bodies in their romps by the thistles, but -- he's grizzlier now, this phantom, etched gravely with his battles and his lingering ghosts. Surely, few are those who'd desire this creature, an errant, blackened wanderer with a past like a grave, but...

He stops. He doesn't bother with the numbers, and he's not the care to enchant them.

Reaching for him, he only, God bless him, cares now for the one.

The candle gutters quietly. About them and umbering, the shadows of the inn-room ripples and bleeds. Bravely -- and braver than he has ever been before, he confesses-- he savors it, the waiting of that mouth he has wanted for seasons. In truth, it always been this autumn-dark princeling, this demon who'd lost his home and the favor of his folk. He's failed utterly to forget him, about their dances in the parties and their boyish, fearsome skirmishes in his blossoming courtyards. Even then, he had wondered to that flavor he might bottle, if perhaps his mouth bled the richness of the royal court's vineyards, but this? This is better than he'd imagined, better with all the years and better with all the aging. Certainly, some would loathe it, he'd imagine, all bitterness in the middle from his torturous youth, but he rakes in his tongue across the back of his teeth? Henry groans. He wants off it, he thinks. The bad and the good.

"Stay," he begs him. Oh, please. In his eyes, the shadows have gentled, that talon-sharp pitch born from his terrible winters. He's too wizened for this hungering, too old for this trembling in his corking of feelings. Against him, he clutches at the curve of Arthur's back, his thumb slithering beneath the run of his well-worn sword-belt. Beneath them, the tavern is still trembling with music, with the tittering of maids too young for his fancy, and here... He would bear him his heart, drag at his mouth the depths of his ache. Another kiss -- but only just a whisper, the fanning of his breath. I want you. No more running, "Stay with me tonight."

[brokenmagxc]

they are aching down the middle, a yearning so tender it rubs raw when he breathes. tucked like a secret in the dark. for one terrible second, arthur thinks the years have finally gotten to him. perhaps he is mad again, stirred strange by the deepening of bruises along the fruit-sweet flesh of him. his creaking joints protest the motion. scarred skin pulls. they are run through with the tragedy of time, soured by it, and yet—with dark eyes ambering at the edges—arthur aches when he looks at henry, just like every time before. in forges and courts and halls. under winter snow. in private and, somehow, under the eyes of every man who hated and relied on him in equal measure.

in their youth. now haunted by it. henry holds him. always.

hands at the edges, keeping at the seams. arthur has to look up to keep his gaze. the door locks shut with an obscene little click, and then they lean.

he does not know how many times he has dreamt of this. it is a foolish number, a sinful one. little hauntings of lips against lips, of a soot-stained breath pulling at the blush of his cheeks. wiser now, he knows it does not matter. no dream was ever going to compete with this moment. his hands find the other’s arms, grasp gentle against old muscle with the habit of hesitation. but the kiss—the kiss stirs that ache inside him and doubles down. soft with care and rough with time.

he tastes the whole of henry in the breath against his lips. sweet and cherry-tart, with charcoal smoke at the back of his throat begging to be known. old habits make arthur slow where his hands slide over shoulders, then, tentatively, allow his arms to fall loose around the neck. he lets their weight collide. it is strange, wanting this and having nothing left to forbid it. it is hard to grasp. had he finally given enough of himself to earn something in return ?? even in his age, a young and sullied part of him wants to ask: is this okay ?? restraint had always been so easily wound in him that it almost hurts more now than the ache to unwind. it will take practice to accept.

but pressed like this, it begins to feel as if both wounds are cured. and the illness of him—lonely and sore—dwindles by degrees.

arthur releases a breath of a sound against the other’s mouth, shivering when henry speaks against him. stay. stay with me tonight.

he leans closer. his fingers find nape and hair and rub small circles into the warmth there. his lips chase another kiss, more certain now, or perhaps he was always certain and only needed an excuse to show it. this time arthur lingers, wanting to swallow every sign of life the other gives him. warmth. breath. pulse. for once, the old prince finds greed deep in the muscle of his throat and lets it seize the moment.

yes, those walls of his are weaker now. no longer propped up by duty, no longer mortared with pain, the brick long since vine-covered and crumbling. he melts against henry more readily than he ever has before. but arthur suspects that, if henry had asked even all those years ago, his answer would have been the same.

gold dances somewhere behind his eyes. low and husked, he says with well-earned breathlessness, “ i was always going to stay. ” a pause. his breath catches against henry’s mouth, old grief loosening into something almost gentle. “ not just tonight. ”

[brokenmagxc]

@viscerarotw ( plotted !! )

the house breathes. that's the only way arthur can describe it. wet wood inhales humidity and exhales old rot, then something sweet and spoiled tucked under the wallpaper like a second pulse. dulvey heat clings to the back of his neck, but inside the house the air is cold enough to make his fingers ache around the flashlight. somewhere above him, a floorboard creaks under no obvious weight.

he should have turned back three rooms ago.

the first officer never made his second check-in. the second unit lasted twelve minutes. by the time ethan winters’ message reached a federal desk, someone had already decided this was not a missing persons case anymore. not officially. or, at least, not with anything they wanted written down before arthur stood inside it and proved them right.

he takes another step in, accepting his fate grimly as some not-metaphorical-enough last line. then he sees her. a woman pale in the dark, wrong-footed and breathing, almost more alive than the uncertainty surrounding them. arthur’s gun lifts on instinct, then lowers an inch when his eyes find her face. the brown of them flickers gold at the edges. not enough to light the room. enough to betray him.

“ mia winters ?? ” he calls, his voice is soft and careful around the edges. there's something almost apologetic in the pull of a frown across his face. he recognizes her from the photos. then, for one sharp second, thinks he doesn't recognize her at all.

“ my name is arthur branham. i’m with the bureau. ethan sent people looking for you. ” a pause. his gaze drops to her hands, then to the dark behind her. the unease grows mold between them. “ i’m one of the people they sent after the others didn’t come back. ”

something knocks once inside the wall. arthur does not look away from her.

“ i need you to tell me something, ” he says, quieter now. “ is there anything in this house that can sound like you ?? ”

[timelovcd]

@brokenmagxc says : "hey. stop thinking. just kiss me."

𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 & 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 for what's felt like hours . thoughts of wars , thoughts of peace . thoughts of magic , & lives lived & lost . thinks of the snipe . treacherous little bird that always finds its way back to lucy , as if the pair of them are the real soulmates .

but here is artie , not just the hired bodyguard , or however peter sold it to him , but arthur . recognizes him , & truly , how dare he forget him . memories are still hazy , thinks of castles with splendor not quite as grand as the one they currently occupy ( if it can be called that ) . recalls the seaside , the sirens in the water , the way the sea called to him sweeter than any siren song . & pardon the thought , but of he & arthur sailing to no destination he can remember now , but how he envied the way saltwater kissed his face .

but he never did get the chance the saltwater had , & the saltwater never got the chances that edmund had , to hear his name upon his breath , to see him as he was . & now here they are , playboy prince & whatever arthur is . hates how that sounds , because arthur is his world & always has been . & he knows him even in this life .

stop thinking , he says . young prince startles . shouldn't have , should know that he is known . stop thinking , but he ought know that he can't ! that the very order throws him into even deeper into thought , ❛     ✩   ----- you know i can't do that , ❜ murmurs prince . has yet to process that second half of arthur's command !

[brokenmagxc]

for arthur, it doesn't start as remembering moments. those scenes were hazy at best and far away at worst, unreal and unshapen. and arthur had always been the strange one, tuned like a fork not toward the image but the heat beneath it. the feeling. it touches the brown of his eyes in thin golden threads that dance around his pupil. he felt him, somehow, from a time ago. a laughter. an ache. a kind of surreal warmth so steady and calm that, for once absurd second, arthur feels his pulse still as if the prince himself commanded of it. always the feeling underneath. and arthur couldn't help it, the blasted curse of him, or a gift in disguise. he feels the other rattle in the cage of his own body. thinking loudly. feeling even louder.

edmund is confused. edmund is worried. edmund aches. edmund yearns so surely that it takes all the breath out of arthur before he can stop it. the longing tastes thick on his tongue, bitter and sweet and nauseating. why ?? arthur thinks. i am right here. what are you longing for ?? then he speaks before his mind could caution him against it.

‘ —stop thinking. kiss me. ’

edmund flusters. stumbles. and that, somehow, is very familiar to the agent. arthur's chest fills with a strangely welcomed warmth. there you are, he thinks, though he doesn't quite understand why he thinks that. his brown-gold eyes soften with endearment he can't hide. edmund doesn't even hear him. perfect. he usually breaks the rules with surprises anyway.

tentative, arthur draws closer. they are alone, barely, in the small room they've stolen for themselves. he takes this opportunity to shuffle the last inch next to each other, looking up at the pinched expression of the royal's face. the warmth intensifies—an agonizing heat stirred beneath his lungs. the agent feels like he is being cooked from the inside. yes, this ; this is where he is supposed to be. it hurts. it heals. it fills his head with some jumbled thought of soft grasses and high, stony walls. of laughter and soft words. of a kiss stolen in the rain. of fear so strong it nearly kills him. of a death that actually manages the feat despite the fact that he no longer had a heart to kill. it was in the other's grasp, bleeding.

“ i'm right here. ” he says. his hand moves on its own. it cups the other's cheek, light as a feather, bringing ed's face closer. he remembers, then, the prince in different clothes. some kind of armor. a cape. a crown. a wide-eyed stare, mouth slightly agape, pink flush high across his face. dark hair. narrowed eyes. and the feeling—the unbearable feeling of finally, finally not being alone.

arthur leans up and kisses him.

it's tender, more tender than the beat of his pulse and the rapid brightening of gold behind his eyes. the color hides behind the flutter of his lashes. then his other hand comes up, cupping edmund's face, forcing the kiss to deepen. yes, this. this is right. i am right here. we are right here. again. again. don't leave me. don't walk away when i am right here. i won't leave you again. i won't. i won't. his soul screams. the gold brightens until his face is almost luminescent with it. he huffs against the other's mouth, something like a moan and a sigh and a sob. kisses him again. again. tangles his fingers into his hair. then parts on a breath like he was lost drowning and suddenly remembered air.

he opens his eyes. the gold of them is bright and unmistakable, the soul of him at the surface, the feeling wrapped like a collar around his core. he gives edmund a look that, somehow, crosses over space and time and existence to meet the prince at the other end of the line, wherever he has ended up in that head of his. wherever that soul meets his own.

“ don't run away from me when i'm right here. ”

[morteuse]

@brokenmagxc asked : "Hold still. I'm braiding your hair."

IT IS NOT SUCH A BAD THING TO HAVE SO FEW OF THE LIVING WHO CALL TO HIM. thanatos attends to his duties with little distraction and those whose prayers do whisper in his skull are practically guaranteed his presence. though arthur has been using this to his advantage, for his own nefarious purposes. those nefarious purposes being to trap thanatos between his knees and fuss over his hair.

thanatos can leave at any time, so his gripes should not be taken seriously. "you called me here for this?" they settle on the floor between the much smaller man's legs, arms folded across their chest and that ever present scowl on their face. they give off the air of a petulant child much more than they do that of the god they are.

but the repetitive motion of brush bristles through long silken hair does lull thanatos into a sense of ease. arms remain crossed but his shoulders relax and their scowl loosens. he even closes his eyes. he sinks into an old comfort he hasn't visited in a while. mother night, whispering stories of gods even older than she, humming lullabies, gently stroking the tangles from thanatos' hair, from where he sits leaning against her shins, regarding her with his loving ichor gold gaze.

his lips press into a stubborn line, though he doesn't open his eyes. "my mother used to do this for me."

[brokenmagxc]

he has grown bold after their last few visits. brave enough now to reach without apologizing for the shape of his hands. with very little ceremony, arthur pulls the other nearer until thanatos is settled between his knees. god or not. death or not. all long pale hair and stubborn scowl brought into the small kingdom of his lap. arthur can see the tension in his shoulders. sees, too, the way it refuses to admit itself as tension. his mouth curves faintly.

the brush is procured from seemingly nowhere.

he had never thought he would weaponize his extensive experience in braiding hair, gathered inevitably at the behest of one very demanding and clearly deserving little girl who could not, for the life of her, get her father to understand how a brush worked. and yet—seeing thanatos sink into the small quiet beneath his hands makes arthur smile, fond and shy of himself.

he strokes the brush through the other’s crown, gently pulling the long strands into straight lines. the pads of his fingers press lightly against than’s skull, feeling the god beneath him, the strange breath of old energy between his fingertips, and letting something earnest settle in his chest.

“ yes, ” arthur says softly. the brush continues its repetitive journey through silver hair. “ you seemed like you could use the company last time you came. ”

he sets the tool down after another pass and places both hands near the top of the other’s head, deftly dividing the sections needed to start a fishtail. habit settles warmly. over, under, pull through. gentle enough not to tug, firm enough to last.

then thanatos mentions his mother, and arthur stills.

two pale strands rest between his fingers. my mother used to do this for me. arthur inhales softly, a bruise pressed somewhere tender and old inside him before he can stop the feeling. he does not know than’s mother beyond fragments and shadow, but he knows the shape of absence. knows the ache of hands remembered differently than they were, and what it means when someone speaks of being cared for as if the memory has teeth.

he continues more slowly after that, careful with the hair, careful with the silence.

“ did she ?? ” he asks, voice evened into something gentle. “ then she must have been very patient with you. ” a small smile touches his mouth, almost teasing, almost sad.

“ did you like it when she did ?? ”

[klarsynt]

❝ i wouldn't dare, ❞ emil replies with a small smile, aware of the irony beneath the light banter. he is, in fact, a liar. but not right now. he is trying to be better, only keep secrets that are necessary. right now it's just them and the emotion beneath his chest which, perhaps, is arguably more tempting to be deceptive towards. but arthur has already peeked beneath the surface and the warmth of contact from the other man is disarming to say the least.

the tension in his body unfurls slowly, each brush of his companion's fingers giving him permission to relax. he pauses at the outstretched hand. there is a moment of quiet consideration before he takes it with both of his, fidgeting with each slender digit. he stares down at at the entanglement of their fingers. it's easier than allowing his gaze to be caught.

a wry smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, a certain bitterness clouding his features. ❝ 'deserve', ❞ he echoes. ❝ there's a concept. ❞ he is well aware of what he does and doesn't deserve. a break and good things? he is not sure it's among the list of atonement. ❝ i appreciate the sentiment. i do. just not sure it really...applies. shouldn't be sitting here feelin' sorry for myself either. ❞

[brokenmagxc]

comfort is a strange and foreign bridge between them. not for lack of experience—arthur has built his entire career, perhaps his entire life, around the notion of providing comfort to others. a hand to hold. a warmth constant and steady. a voice calm enough to cut through panic and offer direction in the dark. he has built himself piece by piece with the intention of handing those pieces away to the first person who needed them.

but this quiet closeness settles strange in his ribs. unfamiliar. like leaning too close to a flame he is not used to seeing lit.

perhaps it is because of the bed, the body, the tension in emil’s shoulders and the way each breath expands and contracts beneath his hand. maybe it is their weird, unexpected friendship. maybe it is the lack of resistance when either of them decides to be brave and reveal some small, difficult part of themselves. whatever the case, the warmth between them deepens with each lingering touch, enough for arthur to inhale softly when his hand is taken.

he watches emil’s face with gentling attention, making sure the care is landing as care and not obligation. his eyes only fall to their hands once the man starts playing with his fingers.

they are not unworked fingers. arthur was an officer once, then a paramedic, then an agent. he has spent more hours pulling people out of rubble and holding guns than he has sleeping. each digit has callouses in odd places, small cuts and scars that appear and disappear in uneven increments. his skin is cold, always cold. and just above the pulse at his wrist are the fine, neat lines of scars burned into him from a past he does not speak of often.

still, these are also the fingers that untangle fishing line on early sunday mornings, press softly over piano keys when he cannot sleep, and turn the pages of discarded books like each one deserves gentleness for having been abandoned. even now, with a stillness he finds easier to wear than expected, these hands still hold care at the tips, as if they were built for little else.

watching that care be plucked one finger at a time does something complicated to his chest.

perhaps brave and hypocrite both, arthur swallows and finds the courage to respond. his fingers curl lightly around emil’s while the hand at his back rubs small, consistent circles into the muscle.

“ you are allowed to feel, ” he says, still watching their hands. “ if nothing else. you are allowed to sit with the whole of who you are. ”

his gaze raises then, tender, a small and shy smile touching his face.

“ i just mean—deserving does not always have to be earned. sometimes someone offers a hand because they want you to have one. ”

[bruz3r]

Moments like this is when he hears Dick's voice the loudest in his head. He'd have thought the undeserving quip humorous or annoying.

     [ ₁ ] Or both.

Head nodded subtly, as if to agree to his retort. Although in the shadowy lighting of this alley, that was a whole lot of nothing to really notice unless you can see in the dark. And he surmised the man accompanying him to have many talents but he doubted that one was in his repertoire. Of course, plenty of chances to still be surprised.

His head turned towards him then, following his train of thought as well as his inclined movement. Eyes narrowing behind the lenses thoughtfully, already calculating how long it would take from here to Bristol.

The volume suggests it's a small animal. Most likely poultry. However, that really didn't narrow the suspect pool. They could still be building up to something worse.

In the investigator's vocal ruminations, THE KNIGHT falls quiet. He knows where his own conclusions would fall along side with. He still didn't like the prospect of hearing his theories agreed with.

Magic or bullshit.

     [ ₂ ] He hated both anyway.

" Too early to say its not both. " He turned away from the scene and towards the batmobile. " Let's go. "

[brokenmagxc]

@worldsokayestdad, as always, is a silhouette of silence. one unnerving line in the darkness that waits, considers, and watches with the kind of quiet stitched into the suit itself. arthur can never quite tell if the silence is a good thing. is the bat measuring ?? watching ?? waiting ?? taking ?? the consultant shrugs to himself as if he has asked aloud, though he stands several feet away across a pool of blood, barely able to see the shape of the man before him. there is no use in guessing. the other will tell him if and when it matters, he hopes.

arthur’s eyes follow the bat’s line of sight, finding the vehicle at the far end of the yard. a brow raises. still, he draws closer with careful steps, a natural quiet keeping him small and contained beside the other.

“ are you offering me a ride ?? ” he sounds bemused, slightly bewildered. “ that seems unlike you. though, i suppose i don’t know you well enough to say that with any authority. ”

his hands fall into the pockets of his jacket. there is an ease in him too practiced to be natural, though he does not seem particularly uncomfortable once he is near. “ i figured you only mildly tolerated me. ” a huff leaves him, barely loud enough to count as a laugh. “ i guess suspiciously performed murder widens one’s horizons. ”

he looks toward the sky for a moment, then back to the blood stain before they pass it entirely. the humor thins from him, slow and inevitable.

“ you should know, ” he starts, voice lower now, “ if this is what i think it is, it will not stay animal blood for long.”

[forgotten-retrouvaille]

her hand clasps his and she's not ready to let go. calloused skin makes contact with his as she tightened her grip, ensuring that neither of them would slip and fall once again, that they'd both be able to pull each other up without hesitation. muscles tense and contract as she pulled up, tendon and sinew pleading with her for spare moments of rest she didn't have, instead put to work for the sake of helping a friend dust himself off from the ground. she squeezes, tight enough to remind him of just where she stood in this game, across the line on his side, ready to provide the reassurance needed to throw themselves back into the fight, into the beckoning darkness.

keen blue fixate on his collapsed form — he's tired enough to act like the living dead, a corpse walking on living feet with time stolen from the devil himself, but he's not tired enough to have the life sapped from his bones. jill kept her hand tight on his, gesturing with her head towards the next secluded location they could use to breathe — she can't lift him off the ground when he's limp like this. some far off inflection of her voice encourages him to stand, to get up, something beyond the slight ringing in her eyes and blood rushing through her veins with the promise of adrenaline.

his knees bend, pushing himself off the ground in a single moment and she doesn't wait to grab his shirt with her free hand, yanking him up and onto his feet. it was a little rougher than she'd preferred to go about things, but it worked well enough — fabric wrinkles in her grip as strong fingers crush the synthetic fibre, keeping him upright as the agent found his balance.

“ sure you're not hurt? ”

[brokenmagxc]

they have fallen into a strange rhythm like this. one or the other always hauling. one or the other always falling in some graceless, unexpected increment, and somehow neither person allows the other to stay there long enough to make a home of it. get up, they always say. we are not done yet.

arthur does not know what he has done to deserve this. she has always offered, and he has always accepted against his better judgment, against every precedent screaming at him like a frightened child in the corner. rarely do people offer their hands to miracles and saints unless they are expecting the work performed for them. jill does not offer herself that way. she is not a sacrifice, or a follower, or a leash. she is not another voice meant to hold him down or spend him out. instead, she offers her hand like she sees him for what he is—a man—too spent, too often, with little support left to keep him standing.

his fingers tighten around her arm.

breathing, one in and one out, he counts to five in his head. slowly. one, two, three. another breath. four, five. exhale. his knees give a small tremor so fine it is almost indiscernible. he locks it down through sheer will and swallows hard.

his head hurts. his veins are on fire. there is soot in the back of his throat and a fever banked beneath his eyes. his lungs burn when he takes too much air and too little, like breathing has become another negotiation he is losing by degrees. still, he looks at her with wet brown eyes, the edges pale where light threads through them, and offers a shaky huff that would have been a laugh on a better day.

“ i’m always hurt. ” he says it before he can water it down. or perhaps he is simply too tired to find the censored version. somehow, one shaking hand rests over her fist where it crumples his vest for balance.

“ i’ll stay close and low, ” he offers, because staying practical is better than admitting that somewhere dangerously soft and buried deeper by the second, having her here makes him want to cry. “ i’ll keep to your left and cover your blind. you lead us to the room. once we find a door that locks tight enough, we can discuss all the ways i’m inconveniently alive. ”

[blckmask-archived]

@brokenmagxc  //  ARTHUR  defends  :  ❛  i'm  laughing  because  you're  laughing  !  ❜

IF  LEON’S  GRIN  COULD  GET  any  larger  ,  it  might  very  well  split  the  lower  portion  of  his  face  .  arthur  is  not  a  SEVERE  man  ,  by  any  means  ,  but  he  is  a  reserved  one  ;  and  his  laughter  not  so  much  rare  (  in  leon’s  presence  ,  at  least  )  ,  but  IMPACTFUL  given  the  colors  it  lights  up  across  his  features  .  it’s  a  relief  to  see  ,  given  all  the  young  prince  has  endured  from  the  bowels  of  his  court  :  ever  eager  to  TIP  THEIR  SCALES  to  the  king’s  favor  .

and  yet  ,  it’s  here  on  the  ROOF  just  above  the  prince’s  chambers  that  leon  is  able  to  see  something  besides  the  carefully  painted  portrait  he  presents  ,  and  HEAR  the  echo  of  his  own  laughter  permeate  through  his  companion’s  quaking  chest  . 

pride  and  affection  seize  him  all  at  once  ,  and  he  is  grateful  that  his  mask  disguises  this  fact  as  he  PLAYFULLY  WAGS  a  red  ,  crystalized  talon  in  arthur's  direction  ,  ❛  but  you  ARE  laughing  ,  ❜  he  clarifies  ,  tone  THICK  with  the  afterglow  of  that  same  youthful  giggle  still  lingering  in  his  lungs  ,

❛  what  is  that  they  teach  you  guys  in  knight  training  camp  ?  ❜  leon  posits  cheekily  ,  MIRTH  glowing  off  of  his  silhouette  like  the  moon's  silvery  veil  draped  overhead  ,   ❛  about  losing  the  BATTLE  yet  winning  the  WAR  ~  ?  ❜

︶꒦꒷   LAUGHING   WITH   LEON   ꒷꒦︶   //   still   accepting   !

[brokenmagxc]

a hand goes quickly to his lips, desperate to cover the cracking of his face, the open vein of joy slipping from him like an unexpected hazard. arthur’s chest trembles with the low, sweet noise that fills the midnight air. his shoulders shake. his eyes squeeze shut as if the feeling is too much and not enough all at once. somehow, the lines around them soften. the tension trapped inside him loosens. just an inch.

but the laughter stays—loud in spirit and frail along the edges. enough to warm his face, enough to leave his eyes bright and startled once he finally manages a breath.

leon is a disease, he concludes with more affection than malice. an illness of bad ideas and worse habits. happiness loosens him in dangerous increments, and in the afterglow of it, arthur seems smaller. less of a prince, more of a man. perhaps his lack of practice with that is what makes him pull away slightly, hand falling from his mouth to his chest in mock offense, though his eyes remain warm with the closeness that has found them.

“ you are impossible, ” arthur says, tone betraying the laughter still clinging to his throat. he leans against the roofline and looks up at the stars, letting the moment settle on him beneath moonlight and rare companionship. below them, the palace waits with all its knives and expectations. up here, for a little while, there is only air.

“ they also teach restraint and compromise. both things you seem to lack. ” he looks over with muted playfulness. they are close enough for him to lean, shoving the other lightly against the shoulder before settling back to an appropriate distance. well, as appropriate as they could manage while sneaking onto rooftops like thieves and trespassers.

“ and what war do you suppose is being won here ?? yours against my dignity ?? ”

[abysswarden]

             Slisae's eyes narrow, not coldly, but tracing the same intangible motions of the other man. A notched ear flicks ( quick as a heartbeat or a camera shutter ) as if bothered by some kind of stimulation. He's not good at matters of the heart. More used to taking breath away with a stab or damaging that organ until it wheezes and withers. Logic and fact spill from his mouth more than anything of comfort — so this tends to be a rare example of change. His shoulders sag at this realization. He's allowed himself to be shucked like a clam, given a sliver of an opening.

             "If you hold onto so many ill memories, you might find yourself troublin' when making new ones. — I have a photographic memory, I don't like it one bloody bit." Slisae blinks and nearly flinches at how quickly Arthur states it, like he's timed for an answer ( or yanked like a fish hook buried in the skin, like it hurts ). "Mmn, there's gonna be a point you're more scar tissue than skin. Don't do that, al'righ." There's a softness to his gravelly baritone now; he's reverted to the same quiet, soft way he speaks to troubled squadron members when in shock. Maybe the leak of empathy breaking through apathy is panic from seeing himself in Arthur's words.

             "'Fraid t'say I am trillions of years old an' it is something I am still learning. 'S not something that can be taught. I did not move on from the loss of my adopted son. But it did get easier." How strange — the reaper had put away his scythe to care for a child at one point. ( the memory of iilkrou'myet was a flickering, fluttering spark in his mind. ) "I like to think he wouldn't want me to mourn too much", Slisae admits in bare honesty. It feels raw to admit, and yet. It spills forth. Tender people tend to have that effect on him. 

[brokenmagxc]

there is a stillness in him born from years of learning how to be attentive—the kind of all-encompassing observation that grows stubborn and warm despite itself. tenderness in attention. that is how arthur shows care. in the way his eyes remain against slisae’s face, in the even measure of his breath, in the quiet absorption of every rough-edged word and the hurt tucked somewhere beneath it. there is discomfort there, too, though whether it belongs to arthur or slisae is yet to be seen. he shakes his head at it. then, looking down at his own hands, he cannot help but feel partially relieved.

they are more alike than he thought. two bodies stuck in some middle ground, reluctant and still standing.

loss shapes itself in his mind the moment the other mentions it. his father, a dark shadow over his shoulder with hands that stayed warm even when the eyes went cold. his mother, pretty and perfect and so twisted in fear that he hardly recognized her most days and felt ill when he finally could. his old life, the simple one with the badge and the purpose, now rubble at his feet. people he couldn’t save, slipping through his fingers like water. others not yet truly lost but falling away from the edges of him in slow, minuscule increments.

himself, somewhere among them.

son.

he thinks about daniela at three calling him uncle. at five saying she loved him. at seven asking if he would be at her birthday party because he missed the last one. at eight trying not to cry when he apologized for never showing up. now, in some room with her father, both of them worried about the next time they’ll get to see him and whether he’ll still be standing by the time that happens.

then he remembers, quick as catching wildfire and just as devastating, her small voice over the phone saying ‘ don’t be sad ’ while he covered his mouth in the dark.

“ no, ”arthur says, voice soft and terrible. he closes his hands into loose fists and looks up before he can witness them shaking. “ he probably wouldn’t want you to mourn. ” his eyes land glassy and soft on slisae’s face. light catches along the edge of his pupils, circling the odd feeling in him before fluttering behind his lashes.

“ i fear i’ve been nothing but a scar my entire life. something broken open and healed over so many times, in so many hands, that it is hard to see much past it. ” arthur inhales once, giving the truth room to hurt before it can be put away. a small, humorless smile meets his lips. “ maybe it is not the moving on that i am bad at. maybe it is the damage. maybe i do not know how to stop carrying it into the hands of people kind enough to stay. ”

his gaze lowers again, not quite ashamed and not quite willing to be comforted.

“ it feels unfair, sometimes. to be loved by someone and still only know how to offer them the part of me that survived. ”

[fantasyrps-a]

send me " hc + a word ", and i’ll write a headcanon about it regarding my muse.