If you’re currently taking requests, I was wondering if I could request dark coquette circuscore inspired dividers? No pressure of course, only if you’re feeling up to it! Thanks anyway xx
Hi anon, I tried to incorporate the circus theme but just in case I have more circus stuff here. 🩵🌸
[Banner ID: A pastel yellow banner with a sunflower on either side. In brown text with a white outline, it says "- Please let me know if this has been coined before! -" /End ID.]
[DNI transcript: "-DNI- Basic criteria, anti-mogai, proshippers, ableists, aphobes, racists, zoophiles, rpf shippers, fandom discourse, under 13, transid/transx". /End transcript.]
T | 5,023 | Canon | WARNINGS: Major Character Death | Summary: Everyone knows the Arthurian legends and how King Arthur was 'besotted' with Queen Guinevere. Here is Arthur's list of why.
I will bring you ruin by TyalanganD
M | 4,824 | Other AU | Summary: I must confess, he does not look like a monster I expected from Father’s description. But then again, those magicals rarely do. They beguile people to do their will.
Or, an excerpt from the diary of captain Arthur Pendragon, a monster hunter.
Time Forward by kianspo
T | 23,180 | Modern AU | Summary: While still at uni, Arthur Pendragon meets two people who become his best friends. He falls in love with one of them... but marries the other. This isn't his story to tell; it's Merlin's. And Merlin will always remember that he met Arthur first.
Thanks to @ladyalectrona for sending in these recs!
Summary: Aelin doesn't come back to Dorian and the Prince inside of him is there long enough to notice things left hidden. Dark Heir of Fire AU.
Warnings: Possession, Mind Manipulation, Psychological Torture, Offpage Torture
XxXxX
In the darkened cell, surrounded by screams and sobs, the Prince inside Dorian fed. It soaked up the pain and suffering it inflicted, the fear and dread sunk deep into the dungeon. Dorian could feel its utter disregard for the people being hurt and its terrible pleasure at the feast it had been offered.
He could feel how the pit inside of it was filled in, just enough to sate it, and felt an instinctive thrum of envy that he tried to hide.
But there was no hiding from the Prince inside of him, not really, and the very attempt drew more attention than Dorian wished. It poked and prodded at the thought, the feeling, and then pulled away, so abruptly and strongly that for a moment Dorian had control again–his body was his own, to move and use and he reached up to pull at the collar, to attempt to find a latch–then was slammed back into the recesses of his mind.
‘Oh, little one,’ the Prince cooed, its dark presence coiling around him.
By nature, the Valg exuded danger, made Dorian’s hackles rise, and yet there was something softer about its ‘touch’ now.
‘Why do you starve yourself? Are you simply waiting for someone to show you how to feed?.’ Dorian curled deeper into himself as the Prince spoke, confusion clouding his thoughts, and the Valg’s amusement at that only increasing it.
He would not respond, he refused to acknowledge the creature possessing him. It had stolen his body already, he would not give it anymore of himself.
Its laughter was like a cat’s purr rubbing against his presence, making Dorian flinch, but there was nowhere better to hide himself away.
‘What is your father, little one? And what do you think that makes you?’
And then he could feel it again, the pain and suffering around them, but the Valg didn’t seem to be consuming it, more…pushing it at Dorian, pouring it into him. He braced himself, ready to feel what the victims might be feeling, and instead there was…a pleasant buzz. A growing fullness.
That part of Dorian that always made him feel different, separated from those around him, suddenly didn’t ache so much.
‘What did you do?’ he demanded, breaking his own rule.
It didn’t answer directly, though he could feel its ever increasing enjoyment at his stress. Instead, he could view the world around them once more and realized they’d moved on from the dungeon to another part of the castle and there was his father, looming over them.
They were speaking, he knew, his father and the Prince, but he could not hear what they said. Not until his father looked directly into his eyes and gave a smile happy enough to make Dorian brace himself for something horrible.
“My son, you have always been a fast learner. I am sure this will be no different.”
He patted him on the cheek and then left, the Prince pulling away Dorian’s senses of the outside world once more.
When he was aware again, they were packing for a trip, the Prince filled with anticipation.
Dorian was allowed to see small pieces of the days of travel, always the most horrible ones. Eventually, he realized they were on their way to Morath and his dread increased exponentially.
When they arrived, the Prince within him hid nothing, letting him see, and hear, and feel the horrors of Perrington’s realm. The long journey had given Dorian time to reassemble most of his thoughts, the Prince even allowing him most of his memories, which only made Dorian more suspicious of what torments awaited him.
He was caught between retreating and staying tethered to reality, worried how long the Prince might keep him pushed back to the dark corners of his mind if he flinched away from what he was being shown.
Eventually, they were within Perrington’s domain. He smiled and it felt sharp. The Prince was nervous, moreso than when it was near the King, and submissive, and Dorian had the sinking feeling he was missing information.
“I wish to speak with him,” Perrington said after the initial greetings and Dorian felt the Prince retreating, giving him full control.
He shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself. Shockingly, Perrington guided him to a chair, handing him a cup of tea. Like they were having some sort of social visit, like Dorian wasn’t a slave.
“And how is your lesson going?” Perrington asked.
Dorian looked up at him, as angry as he was confused, but too scared of losing control again now that he had the briefest hint of freedom to press. “Lesson?”
“Of course. You attacked your father, your king, and lied to him before that. Even the heir to the throne cannot commit treason.”
That…no, that didn’t make sense. “What was I being taught?”
Perrington smiled, looking indulgent, like Dorian was a child again learning at his knee and not an adult who had–committed treason, tried to stop this. “To be a good boy for your father and I. To remember whose side you’re on.”
Dorian took a sip of the tea, its taste was odd, almost foul, but so was every other part of Morath. “And if I have learned my lesson?” His hands shook with anticipation and he was unable to pull his eyes from Perrington.
“Then we can take that piece of jewelry off of you and have you back with us, of course.”
Of course. As though that was it, as though that had always been obvious.
If he’d been told it was temporary, if he’d been given a way to be released, he would have–Dorian wasn’t sure. The suggestion was horrible, really, but the alternative was worse.
Aelin had never come back for him. Chaol was safe away from him. He had nothing else, no one else. What did it matter if he was an obedient son?
From somewhere nearby a sudden burst of terror seeped into the room and Dorian shuddered, feeling what must have been the Prince’s pleasure at the snack.
“I…I want to be good, for father, for you,” he said, barely resisting the urge to claw at the collar.
Perrington chuckled, his fingers tracing over where Dorian’s skin met the collar. Another, different sort of pleasure filled Dorian, the Prince relaxing and dragging him with it. “I’m so glad to hear that. I know your father will be, as well. You’ve grown so far away from us, but now I know we can have you back.”
“I am, I’m back.”
He was about to be freed. After months with the monster piloting his body, after having his mind torn at and every memory he held dear turned against him. He had no pride left, didn’t care how he might look or sound, he could worry about such things once his body was his own.
“I know,” Perrington cooed. “And I just need one more little thing to be sure. Then you’ll never have to wear this again.”
Dorian jolted at the offer, glancing at Perrington with a pleading look. “What? What do you need?”
“I need you to swear an oath. Nothing too dire. Just an assurance of your loyalty.”
There were many reasons, Dorian knew, that such a thing was a horrible idea, but it was so very hard to remember why. He gave a shaky nod, flinching when Perrington stepped away and came back with a dagger.
“Just a little prick, then you’ll need to repeat after me.”
The pain was nothing, Dorian didn’t even notice after everything he’d been through recently. And the words mattered little, tumbling out of his mouth as fast as he could recite them, barely comprehending what he was saying.
Magic–his magic and something seeping out of Perrington and filling the whole space–twined around him as he spoke the last words. He coughed, feeling as though there was another, tighter collar around his throat.
But Perrington kept his promise. Dorian felt the Prince retreat from him and then the collar was removed, leaving Dorian blissfully, and horribly, alone in his own body.
“There you are, that’s not so bad, is it, little Prince?”
Dorian shakily set the cup down, running his hands over his arms, up to his neck, feeling at the place where the collar had been. He needed the physical confirmation, because even though the Valg inside of him was gone, it felt as though parts of it had been left behind.
He could still sense the horror of Morath.
And he could still feel how delicious it would be to glut himself on it.
“Ah, I can see all this stress has made you hungry.” Perrington grinned down at Dorian again, like some great predator that had a satisfying chase and now grasped its weakened prey in its teeth. “We’ll make a trip to the dungeons before I show you to your room. You’ll be staying here for a few weeks, just to ensure you don’t relapse into that awful behavior those traitors taught you.”
There was no part of those words that comforted Dorian, but he didn’t know what else to do but nod and stand, his body almost moving on its own as he fell into step with Perrington.
XxXxX
This was actually two different pieces I ended up frankensteining together, the premise is that Aelin takes a lot longer to get back and there aren't any real attempts to rescue Dorian or anything before that, leaving him even more at the mercy of the Prince possessing him.
In case the hints were too vague, the Valg didn't allow him ALL of his memories, and he took a blood oath to Erawan.
Summary: On a diplomatic mission to Mandalore, Obi-Wan meets someone he didn't remember he already knew.
Details: Jaster/Obi-Wan. Reincarnation AU. Dark.
Content Warnings: Consent issues.
xxxxxx
"This is ridiculous," Obi-Wan insisted, though he'd given up fighting against the priests who were in the process of 'cleansing' him.
He'd been through many odd rituals in his lifetime, even some where they assumed he was someone or something he wasn't, but this was the first time he'd had to deal with anyone mistaking him for the reincarnation of their ruler's spouse.
Coming to Mandalore, he'd known there would be some traditions that seemed completely foreign to him, no matter how many Republic worlds he'd traveled to. The quaint idea that the Mand'alors were cyclical, that every one of them had been Mand'alor in lives before, and would be again in the future, was one of the details he hadn't seen as overly important.
Perhaps morbid, when he found out their spouses were expected to kill themselves immediately on the Mand'alor's death so they could have a higher chance of reincarnating along with them, but inconsequential to a diplomatic mission as a Jedi.
Until he'd stepped into the throne room, met Mand'alor Mereel's gaze, and...the world had shifted. Like gravity had turned blinked off and back on, so quickly only his sense of equilibrium had noticed. He would have dismissed it, himself, meditated on it later, perhaps, but Mereel had shouted Mando'a orders and suddenly Obi-Wan was being separated from the rest of the diplomatic team, all but dragged (in a very gentle manner, for a Mandalorian commando, he was sure) deeper into the palace.
Then made to wait, confused, before the Mand'alor had come in spouting nonsense about thinking 'Ben' had been lost to him.
The story he'd worked out, from bits and pieces Mereel and others would say, was that Rid'alor Ben had not taken his life, because Mereel's first rule had not ended in a challenge, but instead a betrayal. He'd been murdered and his teenage heir made Mand'alor, with most believing he would not last long. Ben had stayed alive for his child, protecting him and guiding him, restabilizing the Empire of that time. And missed the window to reincarnate.
Or so they thought, until Obi-Wan had met Mereel and now they were claiming they'd been wrong, that their Ka'ra had rewarded Obi-Wan for his dedication to his family.
No one actually paid attention to Obi-Wan's protests. Not as they kept him locked up for days, not as they dragged him to some Temple for the ceremony he was being prepared for. The details made it sound simple, and not overly dangerous, and so he had decided he'd play along. Once he proved them wrong, he could hopefully leave and this would just be another unexpected detour in a mission.
Mereel waited for him at an altar, a bowl with what looked suspiciously like human blood and a brush that Obi-Wan realized with a sinking feeling might explain his own nudity beside him. He was directed to lie on the altar, to hold still as Mereel painted symbol after symbol onto his body.
"I never thought I'd have the chance, but I learned it all, memorized it just in case," Mereel was saying, voice fervent.
If what the Mandalorians believed was true, this was at least the sixth or seventh life Mereel had lived, maybe more. Obi-Wan thought if he had been the man's spouse, he would have wanted him to move on, to find happiness with someone else.
He didn't bother saying that, the last time he'd suggested it, Mereel had not reacted well. And when he'd brought up to anyone--to the priests, to the guards, to Mereel's current (and supposedly former) heir Fett--that he didn't want to be anyone's spouse, that too had been dismissed.
Whatever was in the 'paint', he realized, must not just be blood, not with the way it was starting to make his skin ache. The feeling was sinking deep, making him worry he'd end up with welts afterwards.
Around them the priests were chanting. Obi-Wan knew just enough about Mando'a to recognize it was an ancient dialect. At first he thought it was completely unfamiliar, but as the ceremony went on he began to pick out more and more of the words he knew. Focusing on the chanting meant he had a distraction from the odd feeling in his body, the ache not quite painful, but becoming overwhelming.
He thought he might be crying, as Jaster finally set the brush down and gathered him into his arms, the way he would after a harsh battle where Ben had lost too many of his verde.
Obi-Wan sucked in a breath, realizing what he'd just thought with a thrill of fear. He could remember more, now, like a flood--meeting Jaster for the first time, the other Taung impressed with his skill with a blade, even more impressed with how he poked holes in all of the plans the great 'Reformer' thought up. Finding Jango, so tiny and fragile, and bringing him home to much celebration. A vow to be as one, always.
"It's alright, cyare," Jaster was crooning above him, rocking him as he might have Jango, "you're back. You're mine again."
