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nonotnolan · 4 months

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Fiverr Warlock: Holiday Magic

Christmas can be a tricky for us magic users. A lot of clients come to us, hoping for budget miracles or last minute holiday magic, so it's easy to start feeling like people just take you for granted. Plus, warlocks are notoriously difficult to shop for. Most of the things we really want for Christmas, we can just conjure something up ourselves. I was started to get really, really burnt out on the holidays until I figured out a trick to raise my spirits-- as a bonus, it's even easy to do. I just pick a random deserving person and give them some charity magic.

Take a look at Jake, here. He's one of the lowest clerks on the totem pole, but he's also the only tailor I know who sees me as a person and not a commission payout. When he told me last week that he was on his second low sales write-up and about to get fired, I decided to make him one of this season's recipients. I know he's a great guy, but I can't blame a random person off the street rejecting a tailor who can't even wear a properly fitting suit. Improving his appearance will go a long way, I think. The problem is Jake would never accept my direct help for free, so I'll have to be subtle about it.

The first step was getting rid of his facial hair. Some guys look good with scruff, but Jake's body isn't growing hair thick enough for a good beard. I'll start there, and work my way up. As far as Jake knows, I was there to buy some dress shoes. I was actually there to cast a delayed change spell on him that would remove all of that unwanted hair overnight. While I was there, I added some skin moisteners and a long-lasting fatigue remover. Finally, I added a mental shroud so that he wouldn't notice the changes to himself.

When I went back to check on my work, I was pleased to see that Jake already showed a noticeable improvement. He was clearly doing a lot better, even if he didn't know why. Could I have left it there? Sure. But I don't half-ass my charity cases.

He greeted me when I walked in, but today I deflected his attentions. "I'm just browsing today. I meant to ask you, though, have you ever considered OnlyFans?" My words hid the casting of a compulsion spell.

He blushed, and slipped his hands in his pockets. "Oh, I don't think I quite have the body for that... but thank you, sir. Let me know if you need anything."

To his credit, Jake's former body was pretty unremarkable. I say former because I cast another delayed transformation on him. This time I gave him 20% more muscle mass, a deeper voice, and increased his self-confidence. I also took a few more years off, for good measure.

The next day, I was able to find his OnlyFans account under his name. It was tempting to increase his muscle mass further, but doing so would risk breaking the mental shroud I cast over him. Besides, massive muscles and a bronze tan often went hand in hand, and I would hate to ruin his beautifully pale skin.

No, better to leave well enough alone. Otherwise I'd be casting minor spells on him for weeks. Jake was no longer struggling through life due to his disheveled appearance, and that's what mattered. Another Christmas Miracle, crafted by yours truly.

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Want to read more by this author? Dicked (Over) by a Demon by Nolan Sempers, for sale on Amazon.

#fiverr warlock #gay male story #male body magic #reality shift #retcon

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sundaynightlive · 9 months

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Plagued With Love (Merthur)

(TW: Mentions of suicide, child neglect/abuse, nothing is SUPER explicit but it's there, so stay safe, always.)

Basically, a concept I came up with: Merlin and Arthur are each other's other halves, per a Druid prophecy, a prophecy which has been horrendously mistranslated by the Pendragon line.

Arthur's knights have been told, been tasked with killing Merlin, and Arthur must finally tell them the truth of his circumstance, and not the one that has been forced upon him by blood.

When the time has come

That order will fall, and chaos

Will assume it’s rightful throne,

A golden prince will be born to

A fearsome king, and he will be

Different—

Plagued with love.

This translation of Arthur’s fate is piss-poor, but he knows how it echoes in the minds of his knights. They have finally been told of his so-called fate, the fate that has guided his entire life, and since hearing it, they have been quiet.

Eerily so.

The true word of the ancient druids is far more complicated, but it is not unlike old rulers to twist the word of magic and make it sour. Kings are scared of what they cannot control.

So they banish it instead.

But Arthur didn’t know this, and his mother and father did not know this, so when he was born golden—blond, unlike a single prince before him—they knew what they must do.

His father elected to kill him, but his mother would not have it. They argued—he bellowed and she begged. The physician intervened and Uther slit his throat. His mother wept. She pleaded.

She offered an alternative.

It was decided then that the only way they could defy prophecy and spare their child’s life was if they did not love him.

And so Arthur grew away from his parents, surrounded by faceless servants who were rotated lest they form an attachment. He cannot imagine how he might have turned out if he had had no love at all—cold. Unfeeling and lacking empathy beyond reason. He might have been ruthless, he might have been damned.

But, like his mother, fate had intervened.

Arthur was only 8 when the boy appeared in the kitchens with him, big blue eyes and a shock of dark hair—he remembers being jealous, then, because even at that age, he had already heard the whispers—

Golden, like the sun.

It never darkens, not even in winter.

It is true what they say—he is cursed.

Cursed. Arthur clung to that, back then. He was cursed, he was plagued—he was somehow evil and it was his fault his father could not look at him, that his mother had struggled so deeply and taken her life when he was much younger. Every part of him was bad, so bad that he was not worth staying around for. He could not even mean something to the people who fed and bathed him and slipped him books to read.

He was nothing.

And then Merlin.

Arthur had been startled by him, as he was peeking out of a cupboard, somewhere he should not be—Arthur had been reprimanded many times for hiding in places like those, and he knew better, now.

But here was this boy, peeking out at him with a finger to his lips.

It started slowly, quietly. Merlin—or as Arthur knew him, the boy, would appear in places he was not meant to be, always watching and smiling at Arthur as though Arthur were meant to smile back.

Arthur never did, not then.

He had meant to ask someone, one of his servants, whether or not the boy was staff or someone’s child, but every time he thought of it, he couldn’t bring himself to. He did not overtly enjoy Merlin’s presence, and often times it disturbed him greatly that nobody seemed to notice him, but he worried that if he were to tell, he would never see Merlin again.

And Merlin was the only one who had been constant. Everyone else, a tumultuous wave of different faces, ones he almost never recognized.

But the boy stayed the same.

For two entire years.

It was just after Arthur turned ten—maybe a week or less, that when he retired to his chambers one night, he was waiting there, cross-legged on Arthur’s bed. The prince had a passing thought about him looking quite pretty, but it was soon disrupted by panic.

“What are you doing?” he had demanded, “If someone finds you here—“

Arthur cuts off abruptly as the boy presses his fingers to his lips, pulls himself off the bed and slips beneath it. Arthur just watches, stricken, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Is this boy going to kill him? Surely he would’ve tried by now.

A servant of Arthur’s comes to get him ready for bed, only ever suspicious once, very briefly, when Arthur stammers about not needing a bath that night. Hesitantly, this request is obliged, and makes for a much shorter visit. Arthur watches the servant go, and the door get shut, and by the time he turns back around, the boy is sat on his on his bed as he was before.

“What do you—“

“I’m Emrys,” the boy says, extending a hand, “But you’re meant to call me Merlin.”

Arthur doesn’t know what he means by that, but he can’t bring himself to ask. Instead, he steps forward, all the way up to the bed, and takes Merlin’s hand in his own.

“Alright, Merlin,” Arthur says, teasing, but also testing it on his tongue. It’s new, putting a name to a face. The only names he knows are of his parents, and those are heard only in passing.

Especially his mother’s.

“Why are you here?”

And then Merlin smiles at him, and Arthur feels something stir all the way in his bones—

“I have much to tell you.”

As it turned out, Merlin was tempting fate just as his parents were, and he told Arthur all about it, from how he had stolen away from his mother to come here, about how he was a Druid, about how there was a prophecy, and his father knew the wrong one, but Merlin knew the right one, and then Merlin told Arthur both, and Arthur finally understood why he had always been held a castle's-length away.

It was not because he was bad—it was because his ancestors had framed him that way. Fear of change had stolen his parents from him, stolen everything from him.

But not Merlin.

Merlin stuck around, and they had many nights like this. They became best friends, inseparable in the shadows and writing letters whenever Merlin disappeared back to his people, magic carrying their words between them.

And magic—Merlin taught Arthur of magic, the way it could be weilded with strength, love, and honor. It’s power did not corrupt, it was neither good nor bad—the more Arthur learned, the more he understood, and the more he understood, the more he detested his father and his council.

But did he blame them?

Magic—the druids—had "cursed" his son and in the process, taken his wife. Such misery would convince any man to follow in his father’s footsteps. And in this case, many, many fathers before that.

For a while, Arthur felt angry. Then, like sinking into a warm bath, he only felt pity. His father could not ever know, or accept, the light that could come with magic, and for that, his kingdom, and his heart, would always be weaker than someone’s who could.

Against all odds, Arthur forgave his father, and he loved him. And he loved his mother, too, for sparing his life, for loving him so much she couldn’t bare to keep her own—he wishes she had been stronger, but more than that, he’s grateful for the strength she gave. To save him, to fight for him, to love him despite how it ruined her.

He loves her. He loves her desperately.

At sixteen, when Uther sensed no imminent danger on the horizon, Arthur began training as a knight. Only his peers and his mentors were aware who he was, and why he was here, and they were warned to keep their distance. This did not stop Arthur from becoming great friends with these boys—he just had to go about it very carefully, only speaking kindly in the confines of the armory, only showing his affections by sending gifts, sharing food, nodding short and sweet in the hallway.

These men, unlike the staff, knew not of the prophecy. They were too young, too ignorant, and kept intentionally in the dark.

Until recently, of course.

But all this is just to say Arthur did know love, in many forms, now, and soon these men he called his brothers would know that, if they did not already. And he would have to explain to them, once they stopped to make camp, that the task they had been sent to complete could not be done—because Arthur would not do it.

This conversation is approaching fast.

As the sun begins to set over the horizon, Arthur feels his throat close around the words.

We should stop and rest for the night.

It takes him a few minutes to come around to saying it, only reassured at the notion it would take them a while to gather firewood and start a blaze and eat their breads and soups.

He seems to blink and the time has come.

“I think I—“

“Sit,” Arthur says, and Gwaine freezes, half standing. Slowly, he sinks back down. “We have something to discuss.”

“Sire—“ Leon tries, but Arthur cuts him off as well.

“The prophecy my father spoke to you of—“

“Your highness, all due respect, something that is out of your control does not cast doubt on our loyalties,” Lancelot interrupts, and Arthur knows he means well, so he allows him to finish, “We have known each other since we were boys, and the prophecy has always been—you are no different now than you were then.”

Arthur offers him a small, grateful smile, and then sighs.

“Thank you. But allow me to explain.” Arthur takes a deep breath— “My father’s version of this prophecy has been passed down through many generations of royal family, all of which handled it with agenda, and contempt for that which they did not understand. The idea that magic is a corruptive and chaotic force is a lie that has been used not only to spread fear and hate, but to destroy the lives of innocent people, and spill blood over Camelot’s name as a warning, so that people who are easy to rule see it safe, and those who have the power to stand in line with the people at the behest of my father’s tyranny see it unapproachable—unfathomable, even.”

Despite himself, Arthur feels anger burn like the fire at his feet, a deep, hot hatred for what fear and greed has done to his kingdom, his family, his life. He feels a bottomless empathy for all the people who’ve died because of a pointless lie. He feels for Merlin, whom he loves endlessly, and who has hidden him and his people away for years now to keep safe, to keep living. For Merlin who had to risk everything just to step into Arthur’s life and save it, and did it anyway.

Yet Arthur’s father would set his lover on fire if given the chance.

The knights are quiet, digesting. Arthur does not leave them in the quiet for long.

“The original prophecy is written in ancient druid tongue,” he goes on, “No living man can read it except one—my Merlin.”

He makes sure to say "my." He hopes the insinuation lands. He hopes they start to get it.

“Dragon prince, born of gold, will not but strength and valor hold, for soon the time will come to pass, is born a golden second half.”

The first part of a long prophecy—he should have warned them. And maybe he should talk slower, but it is so ingrained in him now, it just spills out, like a river.

“And should they meet, then it should come, a spanning legacy undone—for what should end if not to start, with dual thrones and tethered hearts?”

Despite his age, this does not fail to make Arthur blush. He had been ten when he first heard it, completely oblivious to all such matters, and now he was twenty, and things were much clearer, but it always struck him as a bit embarrassing to be fated into love. There are such fantasies as being someone’s “soulmate” or “destiny” or however you’d like to put it—it’s different when it’s real.

Different than you’d think.

“The kingdom too will cease it’s reign, embrace which what it might have slain, to quell the quest of spilling blood, to prosper with persisting love,” he breathes, and finishes the verse, “Magic takes an empty throne, and dragon takes a rightful one, and if the coronation serves, the kingdom reaps what it deserves.”

He swallows—a mouthful, but an important one. Important for understanding, for getting where they’re going, and for his knights to make their decision.

Stand with Arthur, or with his father.

“In short,” Arthur says, “I have known this other half since I was a child, and I have loved him as a piece of my soul from the first day I saw him, to the last time we spoke, to now, where I, and you, have been tasked with mercilessly slaughtering him. In my father’s eyes, this will save me. But it cannot be done.”

There is quiet. And then—

“Cannot or will not?” Elyan questions quietly. Arthur nods, having expected this.

“Both,” he answers, “Merlin, Emrys--the man we have been sent to kill--is magic-born.”

Someone’s breath hitches, but in the firelight, Arthur can not tell whose. This little detail had been promptly left out by his father—that Merlin was not practicing, but was of magic itself. These are two entirely different things, and these knights know it. Arthur prays this sews the seeds of doubt in their minds, that his father had sent them to their deaths without a second thought—his own son, too.

They swim in the quiet for a while. Arthur is content to lean back against his tree and take in the sounds of the forest—chirping, croaking, buzzing, all manner of life and creature. Merlin tells him that in the quiet, if he eases his mind enough, he can hear the thrum of magic in the air and the trees and the water, should there be water nearby.

Arthur has tried, but it is not meant for him.

“I will not ask you to commit treason,” Arthur says, eventually, “But know this… I cannot raise my blade to him. I cannot even raise my voice at him, unless he’s being particularly insufferable. I will not let any of you hurt him, and he will not let you hurt his people. This means that you must turn your swords on both future kings of Camelot tomorrow. I am… I am sorry it must be done this way.”

And with this, he stands.

“Please…” his voice breaks, as hard as he fights not to let it, “Think about what I’ve told you.”

And he makes for his tent, heart in his throat, hopeful to live until sunrise so he may see his lover before the fall.

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