#with these beautiful thin gossamer white curtains on them

[impossible-rat-babies]

obssessed with the suite eyrie has in radz-at/han that I’m building in my mind

[honestsycrets]

The Phantom I: Think of Me | Ubbe x Reader x Ivar

❛ pairing | ivar x reader x ubbe

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | you're used to a life with the phantom. his company feels like home.

❛ tags | slight violence, phantom of the opera au, love triangles, original characters.

❛ sy’s notes | this piece has been a long time coming. each chapter will be named according to soundtrack pieces. the introductory scene is probably reminiscent of the movie, i really want to recreate those feelings for me. @alicedopey

The Opera was loud today. Usually, the flutter of shoes downstairs, the rush to change costume, or the giggles from flirtatious girls was typical. Sigurd would lower backdrops as beautiful ballerinas crossed him, dreaming of life not as the keeper of backstage: but as a musician. He loved the dancing girls. You rushed down the stairs to the bottom floor and binding it with soft ribbons passing rich crimson curtains of the stage. Madame Gunnhild reprimanded you for your heavy steps, reminding you that this was not folk music. This was ballet. Powerful, yes. But not unnecessarily loud.

The only loud one was the star whose voice rattled the stage. Her presence incited the glamour of a fat cat. Not that she was plump; perhaps she would be happier, rather than hungrily scrounging and screaming and howling for more and more. Signora Stella was insatiable.

“It’s because someone is coming for tonight’s gala. She wants to make sure he knows who she is. Didn’t you hear?” Adeline whispered. “Bjorn sold the Opera.”

“Is that really true?” The dancers convened on the stage for a final run-through of the opera Hannibal. For which your pink gossamer silk slave piece so appropriately draped off your hips while she stood donned in gold and red, strutting around the stage.

“It’s not FAIR!” Her eye was squarely upon manager Halfdan. His soft eyebrows bundled together as she berated him with her latest complaint. At his side, his brother stood with his hand settled nicely into the taupe pocket of his slacks. You recognized them. Bjorn brought them in the deep quiet of dance rehearsals. Harald especially loved the dancers. He loved to watch them spin along the stage like a top.

“Signora,” Halfdan’s sweet voice consoled. You rushed around her stony body, her beautiful blonde hair wrought in delicate curls. “La mia Stella,” he crooned. There was a softness to the way his dirty blonde hair framed his gentle eyes.

“I am the star, me! Me, me, me!” her foot cracked down on the hardwood floor. She gestured toward your ruddy-haired friend, then you, biting out her complaint. “Not one of these-- these dancing girls can sing like I!”

“We know, Signora.”

“Then who dressed-- them?”

Harald crossed his arms over one another, glancing toward his boots. It could never just be the voice. It was an experience. For a man like Harald, whose artistic expression was about in line with that of a straw doll, it meant costume.

“You will be the focus. We will give you a solo. Just for you!”

“A new song?” she turned, the wheels of her brain suddenly spinning again. She ran her ringed hand down Halfdan’s pressed deep blue suit, drawing her ruby nails up to tap him on the nose. “What kind of song?”

“Think of Me,” said Harald.

“Think of Me!” she squawked. “That is perfect. Perfect for a girl like me! Can you imagine me-- a childhood lover-- in Paris?”

No, you couldn’t. Even Paris was too muted for her taste.

“Well?” she looked toward your group. “Get off my stage. Especially you,” she pointed her finger between Adeline and you. You’re not sure who she’s talking about. “Fat little frog.”

It’s better not to push. You take Adeline in one hand and, with the other, the sheer fabric. The orchestra wretched alive again as the awful vocalizations filled the auditorium, reverberating your ear. Think of Me never sounded worse.

Still, it must be nice, you think, to be an opera star by virtue of birth. Sour with embarrassment but saved by the prospect of dance, you delighted in knowing that Stella would soon leave after her songs were sung to a T. A woosh of air hair threw your hair over your shoulders. It was compounded by her harsh scream and filling the auditorium. You glanced from the floor to the upper stage where, if you looked closely, you might have seen a shadow flitting across the bridge with the aid of the banister.

“Up up up up! Get me OUT FROM UNDER HERE!”

“Sigurd!” Halfdan boomed. “What are you doing up there!?”

“I wasn’t up there.”

Your fingers left your locket when Sigurd hiked up the stairs beside you. His dark trousers were stained with paint, as was his crisp white dress shirt, pulled apart with a pretty blue smear across his chest. You peered over Sigurd to see the black drop clattered over Stella’s back, pressing her chest to the ground and chin quivering in horror.

“So it fell on its own?” Harald accused belligerently.

“I never said that. Signora. The Opera is full of strange magic.” he stood upright, helping her stand on quivering heels, shouting in awful pain. He quirked his head. “Oh, she won’t be able to perform on that.”

She jabs her finger into Harald’s chest, deliberately on his fine silk tie. Then Halfdan, whirling a curse. Stella squealed with renewed vigor. “You see what you’ve done! I hate you! I hate you! And I hate this-- this phantom!”

“Not that again,” Harald rolled his eyes.

The light in her eyes burst, soaring through the surface like an explosion across the surface. How awfully she punched him, shouting about his indignation in not paying the Phantom his salary-- before flitting down the steps on a beating heel. She would be back. Maybe not today, but another. Sigurd dragged the fallen backdrop to the side, inspecting the thick-cut rope and all its seeming imperfections.

“Can we reschedule for next week?” said one.

“We need a new star,” said the other. “Every day is the same.”

Adeline leaned her aquiline nose into your curls, “Do you think it was him?”

An awful warmth flooded your belly. Should you rejoice in a woman’s abuse? No, but at the same time, it meant she would not be here to berate the ballerinas. There was no one there.

“She can sing it for you, Harald.” At that moment, Madame Gunnhild hooked her arms under your arms. Harald turned on his boot to Gunnhild, a sultry smile playing on his lips. “What? Her?”

“No, Madame. Please.” You choked on your own words in the attempt to process what she meant. She wove her spindly fingers in your hand, jerking you toward the middle of the stage. For a moment, your heart seized to beat, blood ran still, and you might have fainted by the curiosity in the brothers’ eyes.

“Shh,” she whispered into your ear. “I know you can sing Think of Me. I’ve heard you sing with him.”

If you ever have a moment, spare a thought for me.

Your stomach leapt with uncertainty in the silence of the room. Outside, gossip ran like a bolt of lightning across the sky. Stella’s replacement was never a position you hoped to have. Not for a day, nor an hour but here you were, dabbing your lips with a pink product after intermission in your father’s old room. His picture sat framed by photos of your family: Thyri, Siggy, and him. Your hand trembled as you seized it. Then, falling away, you looked toward the letter that sat square in front of you.

“You have a letter from the Opera Ghost,” Gunnhild had said. Usually, those words would have inspired anyone with fear. Instead, it filled your belly with fervor, a soft pinkness that dusted over your cheeks soften than any blush you could apply. “Open it when you’re alone.”

You fluttered your eyes, hoping that the excitement in your belly was just a built-up from this corset that restricted your breathing. Breath swelled in your chest. You hooked a letter opener under the blotchy gold seal.

“Bellisima.”

The voice echoed through the room. Your physician Athelstan told you it was nothing: a figment of your imagination that you ought to hush about-- or they would send you away. Your angel was a kiss from God and nothing more. Your chest swelled with a heavy breath, fixing the earrings into your ear. They looked like the very stars that shone on the rooftop of the opera house. The voice filled the room, a soft sing-song that bounced from wall to wall and filled you with something like peace.

“Open it, my sweet.”

“It frightens me,” you murmured.

“Don’t be frightened.”

With a flick of your letter opener, you forced the crisp letter apart. In it, a square of parchment sat nestled between a glimmering gold chain. It was a glorious gold chain and, at the end of it, a singular heart locket. There was a knock at your door just as you inspected the inscription etched into its surface.

“May I come in?”

Whether or not you’d agree, Harald already came in. He was a man of tall stature despite his height. Wherever he carried himself, there was respect. You knew him to be in love with Gunnhild, and though she gave him no attention, you knew his intentions for her.

“Do you want to sit down?” you offered. Harald drew off his taupe jacket to figure with a tucked letter in his black breast coat. He held it out to you. You took it, bracelets jingling and saw that inside was a wealth of currency.

“Oh-- this is…” you murmured. “More than I can accept.”

“You knew the viscount, don’t you?”

The viscount Ragnar, you recall. Your cheeks warmed with his memory—a thin child with honey brown hair and a big heart. Harald kneeled before you, running his hand on top of your fluffy pink ball dress.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“It has been a while,” you gesture to your photo of your father, reminded by the memory of the land you left behind in Scandinavia. “He probably wouldn’t remember me.”

“I’d wager you’re wrong. Put in a good word for us. He’ll be hard-pressed not to notice you,” he pauses. He rolled his finger through your long curl. It slipped away from his finger as he took his bunched-up suit jacket and opened the door. “As beautiful as you look tonight.”

“I-- thank you.”

The door clasps shut. You didn’t need this money, you murmured. But perhaps the children could use bread. Your attention fell to the necklace around your neck. If you turned the gold pendant over and over again between your fingertips, you could calm the racing of your heart. Today, you would be Elissa. Tomorrow, maybe a chorus girl once again. It was your time. The Ubbe from your memory was just that: a memory.

“Sing it again.”

@tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071​ @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer​ @medievalfangirl @sallydelys  @bluearchersstuff @affectionrabbitt @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim @msmorganforever @destynelseclipsa @soleil-dor @strangunddurm @superwolfchild-fan

[whitherliliesbloom]

yet with each descent do we rise again

[ ffxivwrite2020 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #26 - when pigs fly ]

[ alphinaud/wol ]  ★ [ 2,548 words ]  ★ [ fairy au ]

illya skawi & alphinaud leveilleur. in an au where il mheg is home to a nation of fae folk, all of whom are ruled by titania illya. mentions @ancientechos​‘ laurelis, @firstblesssed​‘s elletha and @windupnamazu​‘s lunya. contains the origins / lore of porxies in this au. i also reveal illya’s fae name for the first time in this fic but who really cares-

if porxies were the manifestation of the impossible being made possible, why did the sight of them bring titania so much grief?

He’s seen no skies clearer than one that hung over Il Mheg, a testament to the majesty that was the fae folk and their magics, no doubt. Despite being told again and again by no few fairies and pixies alike that their kingdom was not how it used to be - her luster tarnished by the leeches that were the mortal race and the marks they’d left upon the land’s beauty - he, in all his ignorant mortal bliss, still believed the kingdom of rainbows to easily be the most beautiful place he’s had the fortune to set foot upon. 

And as he greets the stunning soft gradients of blues and cotton candy white that was the sunny morning sky, looking up and being momentarily blinded by the scorching, yet welcoming sun above, he hears a flutter and a twinkle behind him, the back of his neck tickled by a light gust that urges him to spin around as quickly as his artificial rhotano blue wings would allow him.

“'Q-Quel amrun, Alphinaud!” A voice of exceeding melody, one that rose in the air and echoed in his ears like the gentle rustle of leaves upon the wind greeted him in a language he had not yet mastered, and he finds color rising up his cheeks as he takes far too many seconds to find the words to respond.

“A-and good morning to you, your majesty.”

Evidently pleased at his understanding her verbal fae tongue, the queen smiles wider than he’s accustomed to, and the radiance she exudes as if she were a beam of pure, unfiltered light almost sends him reeling. 

“’Tis good to see fae blood still courses through your veins.”

Alphinaud bites back a chuckle, and he resists the urge to speak as he bows, watching beneath a curtain of thin lashes as the queen turns her head to breath in the scent of morning dew before directing her tender gaze towards the young man.

His gift - and by extension his duty was still something of an awkward point of conversation between him and the ruler of Il Mheg, despite knowing full well that this arrangement, as gloomy as it made him to remember, was only temporary. Once he finds the cure and the source of the curse, and fulfills his responsibilities as far as it pleased Titania, he will surely be made to leave. Il Mheg was no place for mortals, not after what they’ve done to the fae. 

And he was still very much mortal, despite the ring of silver and golden flower embellishments he wore upon his finger, and the gossamer wings that sprouted from his back. 

“What’s on your schedule today? Helping Beq Thon with those awful weeds again?” The queen asks, swinging her dainty little legs as she hovered just several feet above marble. Her crystalline wings flutter gently with uncanny grace like petals, and from their tips fell sparkling dusts like thistledown that swirled and were carried away with the chilly lake breeze. The flap of his wings by comparison were harsh and clumsy, and he’d very understandably been called a disgrace to all fairies by all who saw his poor attempts at flying as they do. 

Thankfully not, he almost answers, but his conscious is immediately assaulted by a pang of guilt as he remembers the grace in which Illya had granted him stay within her kingdom, and the boundless amounts of kindness that not only she, but the other residents of the fae nation has shown him thus far. Instead he manages something of a forced smile before shaking his head. “I came to see if you needed any sort of assistance, your majesty.”

“Me?” The young fae widens her eyes, hand rising up to rest upon her chest. The limpid silken scarf that hung from her hands ripple upon the wind with her movements. “Oh.. No, no.. There’s nothing I need help with.”

“Is that so? Have you some sort of business outside the castle, then? If you do then, surely, there’s some way I can help you.” 

A dust of pink spreads across her pallid cheeks and up to the tips of her pointed ears, but she is quick to hide her blush beneath the light shadows of her pure white bangs

“I-I was... just here to feed the porxies.”

“Porxies?”

As if summoned by the call of their name, a passel of squeaky porxies burst through the bushes, their sizeable ears flapping as they gathered around the queen and oinked in delight. Alphinaud is taken aback for but a moment, mouth agape as he watches Titania toss her pearlescent cane into the air. It sparkles for a moment before it morphs into a hefty palm-sized satchel that lands safely in the queen’s palms. 

“Here you go. There’s enough for everyone, so don’t be greedy!” 

Illya beckons to the porxies with a wave as she opens the sack, and the pungent smell of grime, rotten fruits and crushed flower paste sends him gasping and grimacing, to which the queen could only flash an apologetic wry smile for.

“Ah.. I’m sorry for the smell..  Their diet is rather um.. peculiar. ” 

“N..No! Pray.. forgive me my response.. I was just.... surprised..” Alphinaud pauses, watching as the porxies feasted happily upon their breakfast completely unaware of the stench. “I never would have thought their appetite would be whetted by such... waste.”

With large chomps and nibbles, the porxies begin to disperse in number as they eat their fill from the queen’s gentle palms, the grime of their feed leaving a dirty black stain upon her otherwise supple, clean hands. 

“They say one man’s waste is another’s treasure...” Illya murmurs as the second to last porxie in line flutters away, leaving the last of the pack to eat off the scraps of the scraps slowly, but gratefully. “W-well.. porxies, in this case.. But they help with cleaning up the trash by eating them.”

Despite the familiar euphony of her words, and the kindly gaze she held towards the lone porxie, he sensed a touch of melancholy, of a sadness that he knew she would hate for him to notice. It certainly must not have been the queen’s intentions - he knew it wouldn’t have been given her tendency for hiding any emotions that she deemed to be unqueenly of her. And if the accounts of her friends and advisor were to be trusted, it’s that Titania of all people bottled up a mountains worth of burden and sorrow inside herself - one she refused to show to anyone. 

Alphinaud is silent as he watches her, glowing and mesmerizing in her beauty as she gently strokes the top of the porxies head as it squeals gleefully at her. He can swear the sun’s rays grow twice more incandescent as they shone through her shimmering, glassy wings in pink and purple hues like stained glass, only second to the warm, glittering hues of her eyes that reminded him of a field of lavender and violets. 

She was ever like a beacon of effervescent light - not just to him, but to Il Mheg and her people. And yet she would not allow herself even the luxury of grieving, of showing her sadness to the world for fear of going against her duties. The divine royal sparkles that shone in her eyes were now clouded by the rain, of the hidden words she’s stopped herself from saying for who knows how long now.

And it pained him, enough to drive him to insolence, and he wouldn’t bemoan her if she thought to have him banished on the spot for it. 

“What has you feeling so downcast, your majesty?” 

His question sends panic rippling down her spine, and for a moment the queen gasps as she turns her head up to stare wide eyed at him. She thinks to shake her head furiously before flying away.. but caught in the headlights of his concerned, and frustratingly sincere gaze she gulps, and finally allows herself to frown.

It takes a lengthy silence, one accompanied by chirping and the distant chatters of the pixies, to be true.. but his attention is focused squarely on the lady, who places her palms on either sides of the porxies cheeks and narrows her eyes with a heart wrenching, upsetting look of defeat. And when she finally speaks, her voice no longer held the tone of a celebratory songbird, but like little windchimes, barely louder than a whisper as it rang amidst the drizzle.

“Do you happen to know where porxies came from, Alphinaud?”

The question causes his head to tilt curiously, and he answers with an honest ignorance.

“Are they.. not simply another type of fae?” 

“Well... yes and no. They’re um... like you.” Illya strokes the porxies skin lovingly, as if in apology for speaking of it. But its beady eyes remain bright and naive as it looks up at its queen as if she meant the entire world to it. “They’re not fae born.. They were made into fae by a Titania.” 

The queen closes her eyes, heaving a sigh through barely parted rosy lips.

“There was once a saying.. A figure of speech that I believe is of mortal origin.. but it was spoken by fae folk once too. ‘Iire beag roi’.. Referring to the concept of impossibilities.” Slowly Titania leans her head forward to nudge the porxies snout with her forehead, a sorrowful sign of affection before it sounds out a snort of delight and flutters away. 

“Titania had a son - Ose Iala was his birth name.. But he always preferred the names of mortals far more than one of his fae. And he kept that fascination of mortals and the outside world even as he grew older, old enough to voice out his disdain for our rules against executing mortals who stepped inside Il Mheg soil.

‘The day mortals and fae will ever coexist is the day pigs will fly’, Titania did say with a mocking glare towards Ose Iala.. and the prince, in his fury towards his father’s stubborn intolerance, casted a spell upon a herd of pigs that wandered into Il Mheg from a farm in Lakeland.” 

Alphinaud’s heart sinks into his stomach as he listens, expression awash with pity as he looks upon Titania tilting her head up to the sky, galaxy worn eyes tired and wary. And though he needn’t hear the rest of her words to know what.. or who exactly she was referring to, he allows her to pour what little bits of her caged heart she had the courage to share. 

“My father.. He made the impossible possible, preached that there was no such thing as impossibilities to his people and told me the same when I was but a sprout who barely just learned to fly. And he made the impossibility of fae folk existing with mortals a beautiful, wonderful reality.” 

Il Mheg has changed more within the past 3 generations than it did with the countless millenniums before then, for better or for worse.. The name of the Titania who brought about this tide of change was scorned by most of the fae kingdom and forgotten by the mortals who had seen Il Mheg as nothing but pools of gil and resources they could steal from. 

But that was a cruelty and a despair that has wrongfully be thrust upon the Titania of the present - of the one who bears the heaviest burden of them all. For beneath the opulence of her glamorous, glittering dresses and the pristine gemstones upon her flowery tiara, she was but a young girl - a fae equivalent to a mortal of teenage age, who has lost family and freedom both. And above all else, the lonely little fairy was now shackled with duty, of her obligations to undo the mistakes Ose Iala had done to blemish their kingdom. 

“And yet... despite the miracle I’ve been granted, I’m worthless as queen. I cannot save my people.” Her hands clench into fists, and blood drains from her knuckles and threatens to pour out of the cuts her nails leave as imprints upon her palms. “Forget Feo Sul, I...I’m not worthy of bearing the mortal name Illya either.”

Alphinaud mutters her name beneath his breath, and the sweetness that is left on the tip of his tongue as he does causes his heart to skip a beat. Feo Sul. The flower of treasures. Despite what Titania might say, the young scholar knows better than any other that her name fits perfectly better than any other fae or mortal he might ever meet. 

“But you have saved your people. The fae are able to find hope to renew Il Mheg because of you.” With a furrowed brow, Alphinaud hovers forward, daring himself to lift his hand and rest over clenched fists. 

“Elletha tells me of how much you work to keep the infirmary running, casting your magics so hard that the palms of your hands would start burning and she’d have to stop you. I’ve heard from so many pixies that the fairy that appears at night, Lunya... she was once a mortal that you saved from death despite her being a plunderer.” His words at once cause her eyes to water, but also soothes the tension in her hands, and she finds her fingers relaxing against his reassuring grasp. 

“And Laurelis.. Whenever I speak to her, she wouldn’t stop talking about you! About how you sacrificed some of your own royal blood to feed the soil of Timh Gyeus on the first day after your coronation so that flowers would bloom again.. Or how you dove head first into the longmirror lake to rid the waters of the litter and oil.” 

“A-Alphinaud.. P-please-”

“Or how you caught frost on your wings as you dug through the snowy mountains for a week looking for tsasan setgel.. Or the way you ripped the cursed thorns the Fuath had grown around the pillars of Lyhe Ghiah as a prank with your own bare hands because you could not bear the thought of having anyone else do so! ” 

His hand tightens its hold, fingers laced and intertwined with the gaps of her own as he moves closer and raises his voice. So that she will hear him, so that she will listen, and face the reality of her own kind deeds even if she’d refused to thus far. 

“You’re the miracle Il Mheg needed. The fact that you yet stand, strong and tall as you are despite everything you’ve been through, that is a miracle above all others.”

The tears that trickle down her cheeks and falls off her chin glisten as little gems, reflecting off the rays of the morning sun with a rainbow hue that he feels tempted to catch with his fingers, were they not occupied with holding hers. And the tiny panic he feels in his beating heart dissipates as when she sniffs, and forces a glowing smile upon her face.

“ Iire beag roi.. How silly a notion, I’m nothing of the sort.” 

And Alphinaud smiles back, eyes narrowing as he feels her fingers wrap around his in return. 

“ gu dearbh. Pigs already fly, remember?”

[madokasoratsugu]

what is in a name

[Fritz/Lucette ; post moonlight verse but can be read as a standalone]

summary: 

"a blessing, i suppose." Fritz answers, after a beat.

Lucette turns the offered name over in her head exactly once. "a blessing." she repeats, softly, and aches gently in the returning way Fritz smiles.

(five times Lucette calls Fritz's name - the one he gifts her as a word, a blessing. and one time he calls hers in return.)

read on ao3

Fritz is counting his heartbeat by the second. it runs an unusual pace. rabbit hearted, Fritz thinks, a mistaken analogy.

the silk is too smooth beneath him, Lucette's palm too warm. his rabbit heart runs faster, and he turns to look at her for the first time that night. she is still staring steadfast at the canopy above them. the curtains are drawn tight enough that no light can come through. but he can still see her outline lying right next to him, soft curves and vanilla scented. it makes still his heart, his mind, his body.

rabbit hearted, Fritz thinks, an accurate analogy.

he offers her the name the very next morning.

Lucette looks at him, eyes wide. but Fritz only smiles, full of gentle acceptance and aching love.

so Lucette had not said a single word more, only combed her fingers through the black that frames one side of his face and smiled, too.

-----

he has not left his study in days.

the door clicks as Lucette closes it behind her, the first to breach the prince consort’s space in days.

Fritz lifts his head from his hand, shoulders drooping and bleary eyed. the book under his grip is worn and ink stained, despite being days old.

she makes her way to him, around the table that is filled with documents and papers he is still getting used to the luxury of using, of even seeing.

gently, she detaches the quill from his other hand, placing it next to the open book. Fritz does not even have the strength to protest. merely watching her, affronted.

smooths her hands over his slept in shirt, down his tense arms. cradling his hands, rubbing thumbs over the new calluses over his fingers. he does not wince, already used to pain from his days as a knight.

“let’s have dinner.” Lucette says.

Fritz frowns, glancing back at his studies. the book on basic syntax mocks him for his little progress.

his hands are pulling back, his mouth a thin line -

“Varg.”

the word is quiet.

but Fritz looks up, meets his love’s eyes and allows her to guide him to stand with no further reluctance.

“i’m sorry.” Fritz says, kissing her temple. “let’s go. but can i change first, at least?”

pushing his hands into hers fully, laughing softly as Lucette deliberates.

-----

“Varg.” Lucette whispers.

Fritz’s eyes snap open, cold sweat soaking into the sheets, hand trembling in Lucette’s grasp.

the moonlight catches in Fritz’s glazed eyes, wide as the moon that accents them.

he pushes a smile to his face, pulls her hand to his lips to give her knuckles a gentle kiss.

“did I wake you?”

Lucette nods, shifts closer to Fritz as he sits up. curls against his form, hand settling over his unsteady heart that still runs miles too fast.

Fritz leans down, pressing shaking lips to her forehead, sighs,  “sorry.”

his hand still trembles as he combs his fingers through her hair. she bends towards his touch, eyes flutter closed, and he shakes his head, leaning deeper into her as she presses closer.

“no, I mean - thank you.”

-----

the sun shines brilliantly today.

Lucette strokes the silk sheets covering her betrothed, swathed not in the same gossamer but in rough cotton and gauze. his torso is practically hidden beneath white bandages, his face dabbed with salve. enough that Lucette cannot kiss him anywhere without feeling the chilly tinge of herbs on her lips.

he looks like he could be asleep. she hopes he is, and nothing more.

Lucette cannot ignore the way her hands shake, the way the exhaustion leans into her like it has found a home, the way Fritz’s pale complexion is akin Parfait’s just last year, surrounded by white roses and family before -

Lucette squeezes her eyes shut. gathers Fritz’s hand in both of her own, brushing her lips over it reverently, hauntingly - leans her forehead against the clammy hand of her home, and exhales, too cold.

“Varg.” Lucette mumbles, a wish, a prayer all rolled into one.

the sunlight glints off the windows. the wind brushes past dandelions and daisies of well wishes sitting in a vase.

the breeze sweeps across the room, once.

Fritz’s eyelashes flutter. Lucette does not hold her breath.

then they crack open, her hazy moon hidden behind a veil of cloud-white lashes.

“are you - you hurt?” he asks, cracking and hoarse and so, so loving.

the next thing that touches her lips are his.

-----

Fritz’s teeth are gnashed, gaze wild, and he screams .

“YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO SAY MY MOTHER’S NAME - HOW DARE YOU WHEN YOU TORE ME IN TWO AND MADE ME KILL ‘ME’ THAT MY MOTHER LOVED, I WISH I’D -’

and Lucette has her arms in a vice grip around his waist, yells over his anguished cries “Varg!” and Fritz’s jaw snaps shut.

the moment freezes solid, silent save for Fritz’s haggard breaths.

until Fritz’s frame shudders with a sudden inhale.

lets the anger go, just enough to speak civil towards the witch who cursed him, who killed him, twice over now -

first as a wolf, second as a knight.

“do whatever you want with him.” Fritz says, cold, uncaring. eyes boring holes into the witch before him. “just get him out of my fucking sight.”

Waltz claps a hand on his shoulder as Fritz turns away and stalks out the dungeons, Lucette’s hand held firmly in his.

“Fritz, stop.” Lucette murmurs, eventually, when it’s clear Fritz is walking deeper into the tunnels.

he does, but it is loud and crashing and too brash a clatter thud of feet to be knightly.

“I killed him.” Fritz exhales, in a rush, the tears never having stopped streaming down his face from before. “I killed him because I was scared and I killed him again when I wasn’t.”

the words bounce off the walls like light off mirrors Fritz still cannot bring himself to look at.

“because I was a coward, I had to kill him.” Fritz wails, his cries reverberating on the stone walls, echoing like the chambers of a heart.

and Lucette bites her lip only to find it salty, only to find herself crying, too.

-----

layers of dust sit undisturbed upon the rows of books, the picture frames and boxes of toys, of clothes and belongings of a household no longer existing.

painfully out of place in the plain living room, Fritz draws the curtains, leaves a hand loosely curled in the patched fabric of old blankets.

Lucette curls her hand in his other. he does not react, eyes fixed on a point in the distance out the window that leads nowhere.

“Varg?”

Fritz’s fingers twitch, before they are tightening around hers.

he lets go of the patchwork curtain.

blinks, and the beautiful grids of patterns are now a myriad of swirling colours, tasting like salt and iron.

-----

(“no. that’s archaic. and it could be construed as a bad omen.”

“oh, boo. it’s meant to protect him.”

“then, fritzgerald.”

“the name of the mythological hero?”

“for protection. that’s what you want, isn’t it? ...why are you smiling like that?”

“it’s nothing.”

“....”

“‘one who never loses his way’ - it’s a good name.”

“hmgh. it’s the only one fitting for a leverton.”

“yes. which is why you spent nights thinking of names.”

“..!!”

“ahaha! you’re blushing!”

“....”

“still, is mine really no good?”

“...i do not want tongues to wag.”

“....”

“...however, if the opportunity presents, i will gift it to him.”

“..!! cross your heart?”

“cross my heart.”)

-----

a gift, once given, does not just exist the option to be received.

it can be rejected, appreciated from afar, or taken in and given away again.

-----

fear curdles in Lucette, crawls up her throat and threatens to cut her voice, her breath short.

another person bumps into her, and she stumbles forward, jostled by her pre-coronation parade’s cheer and ruckus that she cannot keep up with.

grips her hood, tugging it forward. keeping her eyes on the ground, claustrophobia pressing in on her with human bodies and their too joyful laughter, wishing she had never come up with this idea, never left the palace at all, never tried something as stupid and ambitious as this -

her voice is barely a whisper when it leaks.

a firework whistles through the air.

another’s hand finds hers as it explodes in a multicoloured burst, drowning out the name that catches in her throat.

breaking through the crowd, Fritz stumbles into the little space she has carved out around herself, tugging her close to him. chest heaving with relief and effort, bangs sticking to his sweaty forehead, his brilliant eyes softening when they land on her.

another cutting whistle, yet unable to undercut his relieved laughter.

his other hand finds hers, and backlit by the fizzling wheels of colour that light up the night sky, he smiles bright enough to light up her world again.

“found you, Lucette!”

-----

the old promise word is replaced by a new promise name.

-----

he comes to her, as long as she needs him.

[bluerene]

RobStar Week #1 - Wayne Manor

Hello friends. Please allow me to quickly and suddenly resurrect my online presence with a week of robstar goodness, followed by an onslaught of miscellaneous content + a loooot of fics that should’ve been published ages ago. The bitch is back! She is also about to board a plane and has not proofread this one bit, so please excuse the ugly errors.

As always, feedback is loved. 

Enjoy!

Wayne Manor (ft. implied BatCat justice bc it’s what we deserved)

It had been twenty-two years in the making, but finally, the day had come. 

Dick tugged at the collar of his suit and huffed, tilting his wrist upwards to check his watch. Two hours till takeoff.

That was how he had been thinking of it anyway. The whole event felt more like a formality than anything else; marriage was just the legal definition of what they already had. Often enough, he forgot they weren’t husband and wife. 

He glanced around the room and smiled; Alfred had really outdone himself this time. Dick brushed his fingers along the row of lilies that lined the entryway, admiring the splash of pink roses that stood out amid the white flora. Their saccharine smell lingered in the air as he walked on through the room, studying the impressive set-up.

They had chosen to host their wedding at Wayne Manor, which was gorgeous and private and comfortable. With graceful vaults and arches that curved into a smooth dome and made the polished marble floors gleam in the glittering sunlight, the ballroom was easily the most elegant waste of space Dick had known in his house. And, it was finally being put to use the way it deserved. 

Alfred had thrown himself into preparations the moment he’d heard. Even in his old age, he was a force to be reckoned with- he had florists ready, caterers selected, a decorating committee arranged, and invitations delivered within days. Thirty-six hours before the ceremony, he had marched in with an army of specialists and had set to work on the hall. 

It had been divided up in such a way that the service, reception, and dinner would all be hosted within a few feet of each other. From the thick maple doors of the entryway, she would walk in, fiercely beautiful as ever. She would make her way past the rows of chairs towards a trellis made of fine gold, twisted with flowers and leaves. Posts would be in line with its sides, thin gossamer curtains tied with ribbons from wall to wall, effectively cutting off access to the space behind. After they kissed, the entire party would pass through the curtains and into the garden, where they could immediately enjoy the reception, while the bride and groom snuck off to change into clothes better suited to dinner and dancing. At the end of the night, they would bid their goodbyes and steal away into the night as they had for the past twenty-two years. 

Dick had envisioned this moment for half of his life in different ways. The bride used to change, often switching between the various women in his life at the time- but as time went on, the vision became clearer and more obvious. It could only be her. She’d always been there, a shadow flitting in and out of the window, playing with fire fearlessly. 

Something probed his arm gently, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Does it remind you of ours?”

He smiled and drew her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her palm.

“In the best ways. Al really pulled this one together brilliantly.”

His wife sighed, intertwining their fingers.

“It is worth it. Their happy ending is long overdue.”

“Yeah,” Dick agreed, “it’s about time. How’s the bride looking?”

“Like a million of the dollar bills,” Kori replied cheekily, “truly, you may never have eyes for me again.”

He laughed and cupped her cheek, taking in her appearance. His eyes lingered on her full lips, the glimmer of happiness in her electric eyes, the slight pink flush that ran from her cheeks to her collarbone. Her hair had been pinned up into an intricate bun, stray curls framing her face. She was a vision in the soft gold gown Selina had asked her to wear as one of the bridesmaids. 

“I don’t think I could ever have eyes for anyone other than you, beautiful.” 

Kori beamed and slid her free hand to his chest, gripping the lapel of his suit jacket to pull him into a sweet kiss. Her mouth moving achingly slow against his while he fought to remind himself they were in an unconcealed, public space. 

She pulled away and giggled, smoothing out the fabric she had crumpled.

“Your restraint is impressive, my love.”

“It had better be,” a deep voice resounded from behind them, “as I recall, you two are already married, so I doubt there’s much more you can do at a wedding that you haven’t done before.”

“You’d be surprised, Dad,” Dick said cheerfully, “but I’m not looking to upstage your night, so let’s leave it at that.”

“Hello k’norfka Bruce,” Kori said eagerly, hurrying to press a kiss to her father-in-law’s cheek, “you look very handsome! How are you feeling?”

Bruce patted her shoulder affectionately, a rare smile lighting up his face, “like I should have done years ago. You look lovely, by the way.”

“I was just telling Richard to reserve judgment until after the bride has arrived. Selina is truly...indescribably wonderful.”

Dick didn’t miss the dreamy look that crossed his father’s face.  

“And the flower girl? As radiant as her mother?”

He didn’t miss the way his wife blushed at those words either.

“Provided she does not ruin her dress again, Mar’i will look perfect,” she replied with a sigh, glancing at the doors, “in fact, I believe it is time for me to check in on her. Please excuse me, k’norfka Bruce. Richard, I will see you before the ceremony.”

Bruce shoved his hands into his pockets and watched her leave.

“How are you feeling, Dick?”

 “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? It’s your wedding, after all.”

“It’s about time, don’t you think,” Bruce replied with a grin, “I made her wait twenty-two years.”

“I’m still amazed by that, y’know. Star and I tied the knot...what, six years after we started dating. I can’t believe it took you guys this long.”

“Well we’re here now, aren’t we?”

“Only because Selina was boss enough to propose.”

“I would’ve proposed when the time came!” Bruce said indignantly. 

Dick snorted, “Yeah, in 2068, when you’re too close to death to fear commitment.” He glanced around the room, gaze falling on a nearby satin pillow, “Is the ring-bearer going to show up today?”

“He’ll pitch a fit, but yes. The kid’s a fan of Selina. Plus, he misses you.”

“The devil? Inconceivable,” Dick muttered. 

Bruce cuffed him on the back of the head, “He’s your brother.”

“So is Tim, but you don’t see him slicing me up in ‘training sessions’. Speaking of, where is he? Why am I the only one here?”

“Jason plans on popping in during the reception. Tim’s bringing Stephanie so he’s at her house. Alfred is with Damian.”

“That’s not what I mean. Why am I the only one here, now?”

Bruce shifted uncomfortably, and rubbed the back of his neck, ”You’re the first, you know. I’ve always held the others up to you, even when I shouldn’t have. You were a brat, but you were also my first son. I wanted you to be here for that.”

“Dad.”

“No jokes, I’m serious.”

“I am too.”

“Well...good.” 

“Yeah.”

They stood in silence, eyes fixed on the rows of chairs and the trellis directly ahead. 

“So…”

“Hit the bar? A couple of pre-wedding drinks?” 

“Is that what Garfield and Victor did with you?”

Dick laughed as he lead his father out of the hall, “Are you kidding? They wouldn’t let me near the mini-bar. Said they would beat my ass if I was tipsy at my own wedding.”

“Clearly you’re not concerned about me.”

“Nah. First, Silena is more than capable of sobering you up with a single glance. Second, you’re Batman.”

“Ha ha, very funny. I’m pretty sure Kori would do the same if you’d stumbled down the aisle. That woman can pack a punch.”

“Do I detect a hint of fatherly pride there, Dad? Are you finally coming around to your daughter-in-law?”

Bruce rolled his eyes, nudging Dick with his elbow.

“Knock it off. You know I respect her and care about her. She’s a fine young woman. I couldn’t have chosen better for you if I’d tried.”

Dick softened, “I was kidding, but...thanks. It means a lot to hear you say that. She loves and admires you so much. And she tells Mar’i stories about you all the time. She won’t let me ruin your image even a little.”

“She gave you the home you needed, didn’t she?” Bruce said quietly, “Your relationship with me and this house and everything you had turned away from was different after she came into your life.”

“Yeah,” Dick agreed, clapping his hand on his father’s shoulder, “my home is wherever she goes. And she always seems to know what I need when I need it. That’s why she cares so much about this place.”

“I’m sorry for all the shit I gave you in the beginning, you know. I think it pushed you to be strong and decisive, but I am sorry if it hurt you.”

“Not gonna lie, I was pretty pissed for a while. But Star always understood. Always gave you the benefit of the doubt.”

“She’s a special girl.”

And Dick could have gone on about how perfect his wife was - how incomparably sweet and passionate and fiery she could be. How strongly she fought for their family. How lovingly she accepted everyone into her heart.

But he simply nodded and raised his watch to check the time, grinning at his father.

“How about that drink, old man? Push away some of those pre-wedding jitters?”

Bruce’s lips twitched in amusement, but Dick still caught the happy creases around his eyes.

“As long as Alfred doesn’t catch us, I’m game.”

“Afraid he’ll kick your ass?” Dick teased, swiftly dodging a well-aimed slap upside the head.

“It’s my wedding day, son. I get a free pass. I’m looking out for you.”

“Yeah, Dad,” Dick chuckled, “you always do.”

[jessahmewren]

“i didn’t know it could be like this” Chapter 2: Trust/ Queen / Bohemian Rhapsody Fan Fiction

Chapter 1 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Summary:  Days later, Brian and Freddie can't get Roger and John out of their minds.

Rated T: for Tantalizing yet Tame

Chapter 2 of ?

Pairings: Freddie Mercury/John Deacon, Brian May/Roger Taylor, Roger Taylor/John Deacon, eventual puppy pile (It’s Poly y’all)

Words: 3037

Also on AO3-

0-0-0-

It was passed noon when John woke up on the barely-there mattress of their little flat, wrapped in Roger’s arms.  Gossamer curtains gently stirred in the warm breeze, tickling his nose.  Sleeping with the windows open might not be the safest, but it kept the air inside their little home from growing stale. 

“Good morning,” Roger mumbled into his neck.  His arms grew tighter around him, their nude bodies flush against each other. 

“Mmm, technically not morning,” John said playfully as he squeezed him back.

Roger smiled.  “It’s our morning.” 

They didn’t always have sex, especially on a work night, but last night they had tumbled through the door of their shared flat, shedding clothes as they went, and John had fucked Roger in the moonlight, long and slow. 

He pressed his lips against Roger’s.  “You OK,” he mumbled.  Roger only nodded, a faint smile on his face.

“Not sore?”  John’s hand ran faintly over Roger’s bum.  Roger shook his head. 

“Need me to check?” John smirked then as Roger slapped his hand.

“You’re being cheeky,” Roger said finally as he rolled on his side. 

John reached up to tuck a stray lock of golden hair behind his ear.  “Tell me what’s on your mind Roggie.”

Roger swallowed, looking at a point over John’s shoulder.  “One of my clients last night.  He was…different.” 

John’s brows knitted together.  “What happened?” 

“No, nothing like that.  I mean, it was nice.  He was nice.”

John smiled, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.  “I had a chap like that too.  He was really kind to me.  Treated my marks and everything.” 

Roger’s eyes widened, then he went to tenderly stroke at John’s back.  “They look better this morning,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” John said wistfully.  “I wish life could be like that, you know?” 

Roger blinked at him with his large blue eyes, the sun in his hair only making it lighter...making his whole face glow. 

“Like what John?” 

“That people in the world wanted to help you rather than hurt you,” he said, settling his head on Roger’s shoulder. 

Roger gently stroked the smooth skin of the younger man’s arm, wishing he could make him promises.  White knight promises.  Hero promises.  He couldn’t.  He loved John, but he couldn’t protect him.  He couldn’t protect himself.  And anyway, John was right. 

“You’ll always have me,” Roger said instead.  “I’ll never hurt you.” 

John looked up at him softly.  “And you’ll always have me Roggie.  Always.” 

The two curled around each other under the thin sheet, sleeping for as long as they could before work called them back into the world again.

---

“This is bullocks.” 

It was the third time he had played the riff, and the third time he had made the same mistake.  Ever since he had visited that bloody club, he’d been distracted. 

“Let’s go for a pint,” Freddie suggested, realizing Brian’s frustration.  Robbie, their fourth bassist in two weeks, declined. 

“Um, got other plans guys.  See you later.”  He waved politely as he fucked off to wherever he spent his time.  Come to think of it, Brian hadn’t even learned his last name. 

And he’ll be gone before I do, he thought before he could stop himself. 

He sighed.  Climbing into the van, he couldn’t help but think of the last time they were headed somewhere like this…just a few days ago…to that infernal club with that young man with the pale hair and sweet blue eyes he just couldn’t get out of his mind. 

Brian rubbed his eyes, hoping to clear his thoughts.  They were at the pub in no time and Brian was pounding beers to try and clear his head. 

“Whoah there Bri, you wanna take it easy and tell me what’s got you so worked up?” 

Brian slammed his bottle on the table, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips.  He didn’t, not really.  He and Freddie had never discussed what happened to them at Club Orchid.  But maybe it was time they did. 

“I’ve been playing like shit ever since that club, Fred.  And I can barely concentrate on my studies.  I told you going there was a bad idea.” 

Freddie’s eyebrows shot up.  “Met someone memorable, did you?  Shag of your life?”

Brian fiddled with the label on his beer, spinning the bottle on its bottom until it nearly tilted over.  “Yeah. I mean no…it wasn’t like that.” 

Freddie frowned, not understanding.  “Well what did you guys do, play Parcheesi?”

Brian hit him with part of the peeled label.  “Fuck off, Fred.”

He nodded to Freddie.  “What about you.  I didn’t see you all night.  You must’ve found someone to run off with.” 

Freddie sighed, resting his chin in his hand.  “Oh, I did.  Tender little thing.  Beautiful.  Had been so mistreated though.” 

Brian scowled.  “Mistreated?”

“Fucking marks all over him.  I mean, it was awful Bri.” 

Brian sighed.  “Well, if I know you I know you did the right thing.” 

Freddie chuffed.  “I’m actually offended you would think otherwise.”  Freddie drummed his fingers on the table distractedly.  “You know, I’d kind of like to see how my little flower is blooming,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. 

Brian just shook his head.  “No Fred.  That club is no good.  They don’t treat or train their employees properly.  I don’t think we need to patronize it anymore.” 

Freddie nodded thoughtfully.  “I see your point.  But one more time wouldn’t hurt…if only to gather evidence on the place and to hopefully shut it down for good.” 

Damn him, Brian thought.  He knows just how to play me.  Brian chewed the inside of his cheek.  “I guess it would be good to see how Roger is faring,” he said finally.  “Maybe get some closure on this so I can move on with my life.” 

Freddie smiled.  “Roger, huh?”  He brought his beer to his lips, still grinning like the cat that got the cream. 

---

It was a slow night.  Roger and John had been waiting for clients all night, but for whatever reason, they hadn’t had any. 

So, they drank.  And by the time Freddie and Brian made their way back to Club Orchid, they were completely pissed. 

The two found them on the dancefloor in the back of the club, grinding into each other seductively to a song they could barely hear.  John had a glass in his hand, and Roger was lazily mouthing his neck as they moved to the rhythm of the music. 

Brian’s mouth fell open, his cock twitching in his pants. 

“That’s John,” Freddie said. 

“And that’s Roger,” Brian said as if in a daze. 

The two men looked at each other and shared a bemused smile. 

“Well,” Freddie said, “let’s go say hello, shall we?” 

Brian tapped Roger lightly on the shoulder, and the blond looked up at him, eyes glassy and hooded in the violet lights.  “Hey, I remember you,” he said, giggling.

Brian smiled.  “May I cut in?”  His eyes darted to Roger’s dance partner, who was a good bit drunker than Roger.  The man nodded, pouting slightly as he backed away, only to be intercepted by Freddie. 

“Hello flower,” Freddie purred as he took the glass from John’s hand and set it on a nearby table.  “Having a little fun tonight, are we?” 

John laughed, tipping his head back as Freddie supported his weight with both arms around his waist.  Slowly, they swayed to the music. 

“Just waiting to go upstairsss,” he slurred.

Freddie nodded, his mouth fixed in a flat line. 

“Do you remember me darling?  From the other night?” 

John fixed his eyes on Freddie’s face, concentrating.  Then, Freddie could see the spark of recognition light in his face. 

“You sucked my cock!” John said a little too loudly, right into Freddie’s ear.  “Such a lovely man.”  John drunkenly stroked a hand up Freddie’s chest to settle along his face.  “Why don’t we go upstairs and let me show you a good time?” 

John was so drunk he was barely upright, but Freddie had to admit he was making a valiant attempt.

Freddie shook his head.  “While that’s a lovely thought, I’m afraid you’re beyond the point of consent, sweetheart.  But if you’d like to have a chat upstairs, we can.  I’ll still tip you.” 

John smiled.  “We can do whatever you want for one hour,” he said, just like he’d said to dozens of other men.  With an arm around his waist, Freddie led him upstairs. 

Roger watched John be led away, a gleam in his eye.  “Looks like your friend’s getting fucked tonight,” Roger said with a cheeky grin.  “Wanna be able to say the same?” 

Brian swallowed, his grip on Roger’s slim waist tightening a bit. 

“You’re drunk,” he said into those eager blue eyes. 

Roger stuck his lip out petulantly. “I’m whatever you want me to be,” he said seductively, a hand smoothing over Brian’s ass. 

“Stop that,” Brian hissed, backing away from the blond.  “You don’t know what you want.” 

Roger looked up at him angrily.  “I know if I don’t get fucked, I don’t get groceries,” he said flatly.  “So if I’m not what you want tonight, you should just say it.”

Brian realized, then, that he shouldn’t have come.  He felt more conflicted now than he did before.  There was no closure on this.  He just needed to forget Roger and life would be easier. Or--

“I’ll go upstairs with you,” Brian found himself saying.  “But we do things my way.  You don’t touch me until I say.  You don’t do anything unless I say.  Understood?” 

Roger was listening intently, nodding slightly along to his words.  Although Brian could tell Roger wanted to touch him, he didn’t. 

“Yes sir, he said. 

---

Freddie swatted at the young man’s hands where they still fumbled with his fly.  “You can fuck me,” he mumbled drunkenly, looking up at Freddie with lovely hazel eyes still clouded with alcohol.  “Wanna make you feel good.��� 

Freddie hauled the young man up under his arms, shaking his head.  “I feel fine,” he said firmly.  “Are you going to listen to your Dom?  Do as I say?” 

John gasped, chewing an already overworked lower lip.  “Yes sir,” he said quietly. 

“Then go sit on the bed and wait for me,” Freddie ordered.  “And stop chewing your lip.” 

John plopped heavily onto the bed, his mouth firmly closed. 

Freddie felt slightly guilty ordering the young man around outside the confines of a consenting agreement, but he considered this an emergency situation.  Exasperated, Freddie pressed the intercom button on the wall.  “Can I get anything to eat or drink in this godforsaken place?”

A crackle came back almost immediately.  “We have a small kitchen sir.  Sandwiches and the like.” 

“Then get me a turkey sandwich and a bottle of water,” Freddie snapped, no desire to impart any pleasantries to anyone associated with the club. 

If John happened to be a vegetarian, like Brian, he would just have to deal with it, he thought too late. 

He returned to the young man, his posture sagged and his eyes already drooping.  Freddie stroked his hair gently, moving it out of his face.  “Why don’t you lie down dear?” 

“May I sir?” 

The way he asked permission pulled at something in Freddie’s chest, something fond and unfamiliar.  He smiled down at him, gently stroking his face.  “You may.  Rest until the food comes.  You’ve had too much to drink.” 

John’s mouth quirked as his head hit the pillow.  “I like to drink,” John mumbled. 

Freddie sighed.  “It’s not good for you.  Not to excess.” 

“Life is not good for me,” John muttered, then drifted off to sleep. 

Freddie looked sadly at the sleeping brunet.  He was thin…somehow he hadn’t noticed it the other day, and more pale than he remembered.  John stirred slightly and frowned in his sleep. 

Freddie wondered how many times he was allowed to just lie down in these rooms and rest. 

The food came too fast, and begrudgingly he gently nudged John’s arm to wake him up.  He still started, eyes flying open and body jerking as if ready to defend himself from an unknown attacker.  Freddie shushed him quietly, trying to keep the pity out of his gaze. 

“John,” he said quietly, “Can you sit up for me?  Sit up and eat this?”  Freddie reached for the bottle and handed it to him as John slid up to prop himself against the headboard.  “You also need to drink this water.” 

John blinked up at him, a bit of sleep having cleared his head somewhat.  He watched him with a guarded expression.  “Why are you doing this?”

Freddie swallowed.  I don’t know, but I can’t stop thinking of you. “Because it’s the right thing to do,” he said instead.

John took the water bottle, holding it close to his chest.  His eyes fell on the sandwich, widening a little. 

“You should eat the sandwich,” John said suddenly.

Freddie looked at him curiously.  “I don’t want it.  I’m not hungry.  Aren’t you hungry?” 

John shook his head, his lips pressed together tightly. 

“John,” Freddie said sternly, “You wouldn’t lie to your Dom, would you?”

John lowered his eyes. 

“When’s the last time you ate anything, flower?”

“I had some peanuts at the bar,” John mumbled. 

Freddie smoothed his hair, tipping his head back gently so he would look at him.  “And when was that?” 

“Yesterday, sir.” 

Freddie felt his hands shake.  “And why haven’t you eaten?” 

“Roger and I have to skip some days,” he said, looking at the floor.  “It’s OK though.  We’re used to it.”

Freddie swallowed, suddenly uncharacteristically shy.  “Are you and Roger…a couple?”

John blushed.  “Yeah, he said with a small smile.  I couldn’t make it without him.”    

The little admission and the small smile made something bloom within Freddie, something solid and warm.  “Eat this sandwich,” he said firmly.  “Eat as much as you can, John.  It’s good for your body, and it’s what I want you to do.  Do you understand?” 

John’s eyes were large under his thick lashes, but he nodded once. 

“That’s good,” Freddie said.  They had twenty minutes left.

John took a tentative bite of the sandwich.  John’s eyes closed as his teeth sank into the bit of bread and meat as Freddie watched him, his stomach flipping and eyes wide. 

It was a shitty looking sandwich, with stale bread curled on the edges, but John didn’t seem to mind.  He quickly devoured one half and started on the other. 

I want to feed him, Freddie thought nonsensically, I want to get him fat on pasta and wrap him in silk. 

Freddie blinked it away.  The clock was still ticking.  Freddie felt wetness on his cheek. 

---

Brian sat in a chair in the corner of the room, Roger on his knees between his legs.  The young blond looked up at him expectantly, bouncing on his bottom with nervous energy as he looked up at Brian.  He was sitting on his hands. 

“Rest your face against my thigh, Roger.”  Brian patted the inside of his bare thigh, and Roger eagerly nuzzled his face into the warm flesh, his eyes slipping closed. 

“I’m going to ask you a series of yes or no questions, and I want you to answer them truthfully.  There are no wrong answers, and you won’t be punished.”  Brian gently caressed the young blond’s cheek.  “Can you do that for me?” 

“Yes sir,” Roger said a little breathily.  From where Roger sat, he could feel the man’s heat, smell his unique musk, and it was making him dizzy. 

Brian let his hands trail through the flaxen hair, enjoying the silken texture.  “Does this feel nice?”

Roger sighed.  “Yes sir.” 

Brian tsked.  “No title.  Simply yes or no will do.  Now let’s try again.”  He gently stroked Roger’s hair.  “Does this feel nice?”

“Yes,” Roger replied. 

“Good boy,” Brian said, and he saw Roger’s eyelids flutter.

Brian’s hands stilled in his hair.  “Did you like it when I praised you just now?  When I called you a good boy?” 

Roger bit his lip.  “Yes.”

Brian gave his hair a hard tug, eliciting a small gasp from the young man.  “Do you like how that feels.” 

“Yes,” Roger replied.

Brian let his hands travel down Roger’s cheek to clasp tightly around his throat.  “What about that?  Do you like how that feels?” 

Roger said nothing at first, then finally whispered, “No.”

“Well done.  You’re learning limits.” 

Roger remained quietly nuzzled against Brian’s thigh, periodically shifting on his knees. 

“Are you and John lovers?” 

Roger’s mouth twitched.  “Yes,” he said. 

Brian’s hand returned to his hair.  “Are you in love with him?” 

Roger lips tugged into a small smile.  “Yes.” 

“Do you like working here?” 

Roger’s eyebrows furrowed.  “No.”

Brian played with the smooth hairs at the base of Roger’s neck.  “Do you like sex?” 

Roger look conflicted.  “No,” he said finally. 

“Good boy, Roger,” Brian said softly.  “You may get up now.” 

Brian helped him up and led him to the bed.  Brian got in first, then beckoned Roger to join him.

When Brian wrapped his arms around the blond, he instinctively tensed up. 

“It’s ok love.  We’re just going to have a cuddle."  Brian pulled a warm blanket over them as he curled Roger into his middle.  “Is a cuddle OK?”

“Yessir,” Roger said, barely above a whisper.  He let himself be pulled into Brian’s arms, melting a little against the taller man’s body. 

Brian tightened his arm around him, sighing as Roger’s head seemed to drop against his shoulder.  “See how nice this is?”

“Mmmm.  I like cuddles,” Roger said absently. 

Brian smiled.  “You do?  That’s lovely.” 

“John and I cuddle a lot,” he said rather sweetly.  “Sometimes we do that instead of…you know.” 

Adorably, there was a light blush across his cheekbones, and his eyes were gleaming. 

Brian absently rubbed a hand down his arm.  “Of course, that’s understandable.  Intimacy can be shared in a variety of ways, and they’re all important.”  Brian cleared his throat.  “What we’re doing now is very intimate."

Roger’s blush deepened, but he gave Brian a shy smile. 

-0-0-0-

[jincherie]

Wanted | 03

pairing: Jungkook x reader genre: space!au, alien!au, alien!jungkook, sci fi, smut (future) words: 5.6k+ rating: sfw warnings: sparring,  notes: this is a bit shorter but ending it after the scene i planned to have after this wouldnt have felt right, so im going to cram it all into a longer part for the next one lol. im thinking two more parts before smut!!

You were a deserter, a renegade, a wanted “criminal”. It was never in your plans to crash land on that planet, and it most certainly wasn’t in your plans to fall in love with it’s handsome ruler.  

masterlist | moodboard | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | complete

In the week following your meeting with the Kelkie King in the infirmary, you honestly had interacted a lot less than you’d expected. You glimpsed him every now and then, greeted him, but otherwise saw more of Seokjin and Jimin than you did Jungkook, and you almost wondered if he was avoiding you before you remembered he was a King, and as such had duties and responsibilities to fulfil. Taehyung had been eager to put his restless energy to use and begin fixing the radio, and now every morning he’d leave the palace for the carcass of the ship that had once been your pride and joy, and use those scrap parts in his endeavour to make a working communication device. You missed him a little during the day— admittedly, you never did have the best attention span, and you’d been growing bored easily— but he always came back before nightfall, and your rooms weren’t too far from each other.

It was the room you have been so graciously provided by the King that you were currently in. To be honest, the longer you spent on this planet, in this castle, surrounded by the flora and beautiful carved and polished stone walls, the more you grew to like it. Your rooms were decorated more with the white stone the Kelkie favoured, the one that resembled something between quartz and marble. Your floors were a darker tone, the walls brighter and glimmering in the light that filtered through the gossamer-like curtains over the open window. Your bed was raised on a slab, similar to how it had been in the infirmary, and on top was the same plush bedding, covered in silvery-white silken sheets. You’d learned in your time here that it wasn’t always cool at night, the planet’s warmer climate meaning you were left sweating lightly more often than not, and the cool, satin sheets helped more than you thought they would in keeping you cool. You adored how the material felt against your skin, and you noticed it was the same one that the Kelkie fashioned their garments from— honestly, you couldn’t blame them at all, it was a wise choice.

You’d taken to wondering around the palace during the day, and by now would usually be out of the room. But before you’d managed to take a grand total of three steps from your doorway today a beaming Jimin had appeared from thin air and cut you off, ushering you wordlessly back inside and closing the door after you both. Ever since you were deemed a non-threat, Jimin had warmed up very quickly, and was nowhere near as hostile as he’d been to begin with. If you hadn’t seen his brutal strength and speed, and the glare you’d received when you’d first landed, with your own two eyes, then you probably would have thought this soft, friendly Jimin incapable of such hostility and dangerous potential. His freckles had glowed a contented pastel orange as he smiled at you from the door— you were very suddenly reminded of just how beautiful he was, and the fact that you were still in the ratty clothes you’d salvaged off the ship.

“His Majesty thought you might have been bored this week, and so has invited you to the training room to watch as we spar,” he spoke quickly, accent curling cutely around the words and an excited edge filtering through his tone. You raised your brows at him as he pushed your lower back with his hands, nudging you towards the built-in closet to the corner of the room.

“Spar?” you echoed, curious. “What about sparring has got you so excited?”

Jimin was grinning as he opened the doors, peering into the depths of the closet and silently appraising the large array of silken clothing. “We’re a race of warriors, but we’re also a race that prioritise peace— this leaves a lot of restless energy. Sparring is customary to release that restless energy, and usually you have a set sparring partner. His Majesty is my sparring partner, since our skill levels are similar.”

His dark eyes met yours as he turned over his shoulder and shot you an excited look, “His Majesty has been too busy as of late to spar with me, but he has finally freed enough time up to participate.”

You couldn’t help the surprise that filtered over your face at his earlier words. “You prioritise peace?”

Jimin sent you a knowing look. “I know of our reputation throughout the galaxy, so you must be surprised,” he chuckled, marks swimming between sunset orange and desert pink. “Peace has always been our priority— we’re a race that evolved perfectly for combat, to kill. It would be disastrous were that aspect directed internally; we’d run ourselves into the ground and into extinction. So we seek peace, and we’d do anything to protect that.”

You hummed, thoughts whirring. That made sense, you supposed. It also fit all you’d experienced so far— especially how the second you weren’t considered a threat anymore, every Kelkie you encountered was friendly, almost.

“I can understand that,” you said, eyes following the male’s movements as he rifled through the clothing in the closet, inspecting colours and styles. “What are you doing, by the way?”

“Finding you something besides those,” his eyes flicked over his shoulder once more, falling upon your clothes, and his nose wrinkled, marks colouring peridot, “…scraps, to wear. You’re a guest in the palace after all, and those garments… are not in the most optimal condition.”

You opened your mouth to fight him but simply shut it, knowing he was right. To be honest, you were a little glad he was making you change— the clothes currently covering your form were getting rattier each day you wore them, and you’d seen the garments in the cupboard but hadn’t known if you were allowed to touch it, let alone wear it. The silken robes and garb seemed too expensive, too luxurious to be something you were allowed to wear.

Jimin hummed, pleased when you didn’t bother to argue. He paused, turning to you for a moment, “Would you prefer skirts or pants?”

Peering into the closet where his hands currently parted the clothing, you had to admit that the skirts and dresses did look lovely. There was a definite urge within you to try them on, wear them about, but you were above all else a woman of practicality— you would be more comfortable in pants, and with this heat you weren’t very fond of the idea of your thighs sweating and rubbing should you wear a dress.

“Pants, please,” you answered, and Jimin beamed at you before diving into the closet once more and emerging with a deep sapphire blue and black set, similar from what you could see to what he himself wore.

“The blue will compliment you,” he informed you, passing the cloth into your awaiting hands. He clapped his hands impatiently when you didn’t move straight away, directing you to the bathroom that resided to the right of the closet. “Well? Go get changed, silly human. Every second longer you take is a second I could be sparring with my King.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to help your smile as you listened and moved into the bathroom, closing the door behind you. You’d expected some difficulty as you slipped from your clothes and into those supplied, thinking that the silken material would have more resistance. To your surprise, however, the material had a fair amount of give that made it easier to slip the garment over your head, the cloth stretching slightly before resuming its natural state with ease and fitting snugly around your neck and upper half. Just like all the other clothes you’d seen Kelkie wear, this too had a high collar that sat similarly to a turtleneck, hugging your throat comfortably. You would have thought having something sitting so tightly around your form would increase heat, but the only thing you could feel was the pleasant cool of the silk against your skin.

A pleased sigh escaped you as you turned to face the polished mirror, now fully decked out in the clothes provided and a lot cooler than before. You were taken aback at how well both the colour and the fit suited you— it complimented all of your best assets, and was in all honesty probably the most comfortable thing you would ever wear in your life. You folded your dirty clothes, holding them in your grasp as you exited the bathroom, adoring how the silk of the harem pants caressed the skin of your legs.

Jimin’s face lit as his eyes fell upon you, an expression you could only call gleeful crossing the pleasant planes of his face. “Excellent! They suit you. He will most definitely be pleased.”

You didn’t even have time to question him as to what he could have possibly meant by that before he was dumping your dirty clothes to the side somewhere and dragging you after him. He chatted your ear off, cute accent reminding you of something that had been burning at your thoughts for a while. The training room was apparently on the other side of the castle, and you decided to take the time to query the male about the subject of your curiosity.

“Jimin,” you began when there was enough of a lull in the conversation that you could speak without being rude. “When we first got here, Taehyung and I couldn’t understand a thing that was said around us because you were speaking a completely different language. How is it that now, you can…?”

Jimin turned to face you, lips parting in a soft ‘o’ at your question. “Oh right, you humans don’t have…” he cut himself off with a soft smile. “Like I said earlier, our priority as a species is peace— fostering it, maintaining it. Every ability we developed in some way helps us do that, we evolved skills and features that aid us for that purpose. In example, you’ve probably the noticed the markings on our skin change with what we are feeling?”

When you nodded, listening avidly, the male continued, brushing a hand through his raven hair. He had a thick pair of silver hoops in his ears today that glimmered prettily as his head shifted.

“It’s a lot easier to keep peace and avoid misunderstandings when you have an indicator of how someone else is feeling, isn’t it?” you nodded once more, and he elaborated further, guiding you around a corner as he spoke, “Well, similarly to that, somewhere along the line Kelkie developed the ability to… download, I suppose you could say, through touch the language of another similarly evolved creature. Like connecting the language portions of each person’s brain to the other. Only the most powerful Kelkie can do that, however, which would be our King. Any knowledge like that that he obtains he can then spread to other Kelkie, in a hive mind sort of fashion. He can choose whom to give it to.”

Your mouth had fallen open as you listened, enraptured. It was so incredibly interesting to learn all of this— they visually appeared so similar to humans that it was so peculiar to hear all of the stark differences listed out like that. You couldn’t help but feel that perhaps, the Kelkie had evolved to be a more superior species than your own; humans couldn’t do anything nearly as cool as that, after all.

Satisfied with that answer for now, your mind moved to another topic. “Why did Jungkook invite me to come watch you spar?” you asked, blinking up at the male.

Jimin nearly tripped, eyes wide as he sent you a look of surprise. “He told you to call him by his birth name?” he choked out, and you realised why he was so shocked. Jungkook was a King, it was unlikely anyone new ever really referred to him by his name, let alone knew it.

“Yeah,” you said, wondering if you’d done something wrong by saying it out loud. Your worries were mollified by the expression that shifted over Jimin’s face after he recovered from the shock, a strange mixture of sly knowing and amusement.

“Ah, I see,” the grin that stretched his plump lips worried you slightly. “Well, His Majesty told me it was because he thought you might have been bored. But I believe he remembered seeing you fight, and thought to impress you with his own ability.”

Your mouth dropped open, but before you could think of something to respond to the male, you were arriving at a heavy set of double doors, which Jimin proceeded to push open with ease. It was easy for you to forget sometimes just how much stronger and faster he was than you. Heat stained your cheeks at his insinuation, and your thoughts were whirling so fast in your mind you almost didn’t notice the other figure in the room.

“Little human,” the voice sounded alarmingly close to your side and you jumped with a slight yelp, spinning around to face the King that was smiling at you in amusement. You heard Jimin chuckle behind you before he moved off to set things up. “You’ve healed well.”

You couldn’t stop your body’s instant reaction to the attractive male, heat gracing your cheeks and your heart fluttering against your ribcage. Your hand came to rub the skin of your arm where the wound had been a week or so ago. You didn’t know what it was, but there was something miraculous in the plants on this planet— Seokjin had taken to regularly applying a salve made from the local flora over your wounds and you were honestly still rattled at how quickly they had healed. Your arm had been completely healed within days, and in that time your thigh had recovered enough that you could walk, although even now it was still a bit tender.

You watched as Jungkook’s eyes followed your hand movement, before flicking to the clothes you now wore on your body. He was visibly shocked, marks flushing deep, rosy pink at the sight of you in the garb of his people, and his gaze continued to sweep down the length of your body with such heat you could feel your form tremble slightly in an anticipation of some sort.

“You’re not wearing your human clothes…” he murmured, something foreign present in his eyes as they met yours that made your stomach do a flip.

A hand came up to sheepishly rub the back of your neck, fingers brushing over the mark that was tingling slightly as it always seemed to do in Jungkook’s presence. He really did get your nerves going, apparently. You offered a smile as you responded, “Yeah, they were getting pretty, um, unwearable. Jimin chose these for me.”

Something unreadable passed over Jungkook’s gaze as you mentioned Jimin picked out the clothes you were wearing, a slight tick in his jaw, a narrowing of his eyes— and then it was gone and you were left wondering if it had even happened at all. The young King smiled, a light tug of his lips, and placed a hand behind you, hovering over the small of your back but not touching, to guide you further into the room. He didn’t make contact with your body but you could still feel the heat from his palm glazing the skin of your lower back, a rush of excitement tingling up your spine.

“He chose well; they suit you,” Jungkook said, eyes appraising your form once more before they swept back up to meet your gaze. “Are they comfortable?”

It was like the heat flushing your cheeks wasn’t going to ever leave, your heart skipping another two beats for good measure at his words. “Very. I’m a lot cooler now, and I love how the material feels,” you answered honestly, forcing yourself to keep his gaze even as it felt like it grew too intense for you.

Jungkook hummed, about to say something more before there was a noise that bordered on a whine from Jimin where he stood waiting impatiently across the room.

“Your Majesty, with all due respect, could you hurry up?” his foot was tapping restlessly, hip cocked as he rested all his weight on one leg and eyed his King. Your eyes were drawn to the tensed muscle of his thigh and you had to respect the power waiting in his coiled limbs— Jimin’s thighs were nice, yet at the same time a small, traitorous voice in the back of your mind spoke up, whispering that Jungkook’s looked that bit stronger, that bit more powerful. It was hard to ignore that voice. “It has been weeks since we have sparred.”

The King acquiesced to the impatient prompting of his advisor and with an eager grin that had your stomach performing an impressive somersault, moved over to where he stood.

“Very well, let us begin,” he said, fingertips brushing your back just barely as he retracted it from behind you. He turned to face you, eyes beginning to light with something akin to excitement. “Little human, there is seating over there for you. Make yourself comfortable.”

You followed his gaze to the wall to your right, where a large pile of floor cushions and plush pillows was arranged. It was clearly out of place in the room that, as you now noticed, had walls lined with sharp weapons and well-worn training material— this realisation, coupled with the sly, knowing grin Jimin had adopted, led you to believe that Jungkook had arranged it for you himself.

Understandably, the thought made you even more flustered than you already were, heart fluttering against your ribcage and stomach teeming with butterflies. You couldn’t stop the bright beam from tugging your lips. “Thank you, I will.”

Jungkook’s eyes were wide at the bright smile you flashed his way, cheeks rosy and markings blossom pink as you moved over to the cushions and settled, making yourself comfortable and unable to hide the contented look on your face that came as a result of being embraced by the soft silken material and plush cushioning of your pillow throne. Jimin brought the King’s attention back to the matter at hand, grinning knowingly, and asked, “Your Majesty, how are we sparring today? Are we sparring with weapons?”

Jungkook hummed, turning his gaze to the dangerous instruments lining the walls as he contemplated an answer. Your eyes were drawn to them, admiring the shapes that seemed familiar yet different in the most peculiar ways— you noticed they were all made of the silvery metal that everything else you’d seen was, and couldn’t help but admire the aesthetic quality to them. Your attention was brought back to the King as he spoke, “No, no weapons today.”

You didn’t think Jimin could seem any more excited, but he looked positively gleeful. His teeth flashed as he grinned widely, placing down the staff-like weapon he’d picked up and walking to the centre of the room.

Jungkook followed him, stretching his limbs, and once Jimin reached his desired spot in the room he did the same. Your eyes were drawn to the toned planes of Jungkook’s back as he warmed his limbs, the silken material clinging to the muscles in a way that had you feeling like a first-class pervert. His shirt, you noticed, had slits on the sides at the bottom, over his hips, and the part of the material from the waist down was looser and less skin-tight. You wondered if there was a particular reason for that, or if it was simply the design of the shirts.

“Ready when you are, Your Majesty,” Jimin was bouncing on the spot almost, all the restless energy he’d accrued over the weeks welling up at once and overflowing.

You caught a smile passing over Jungkook’s face before he fell back into a pose, a focused look falling upon his features. “Alright. As usual, on the count of three. One… two…”

You never heard ‘three’. Right when Jungkook would have uttered it, the two males coiled, before launching towards the other almost quicker than your eyes could keep up. Your breath was instantly stolen from your lungs as you witnessed a fight between two members of the galaxies deadliest race, wonderment and awe filling you to the brim with each second that passed.

Their movements were fluid, the epitome of grace, and if you didn’t already know exactly what you were watching you could have sworn they were dancing across the room. The first to go on the offensive was Jimin, movements flowing from one to the other with ease as he lunged and angled his body, fist going for Jungkook’s throat. The King’s feet dug into the floor to ground him, body twisting out of the way with ease and his own fist aiming for Jimin’s open abdomen.

The smaller male lurched and pivoted on his front foot, twisting and knocking Jungkook’s fist aside with his right palm before tilting and using the momentum gathered to bring his elbow towards the taller male’s face. Each of Jimin’s movements were streamlined, cutting through the air with ease and delivering the stored power in each blow upon contact. Jungkook hissed as the elbow grazed his cheekbone, but was not one easily caught unawares.

Jimin’s twist in an effort to land a blow on the King’s face had left his balance compromised, and Jungkook utilised this, his leg extending as he leant back to dodge the elbow and connecting harshly with the back of Jimin’s knee. The shorter male cursed, leg swept out from under him at the sheer force behind Jungkook’s blow, and he dropped to roll and spring back up a few feet away.

All of this happened in the span of a few seconds, and you sat enraptured as you watched it play out before your very eyes. They were fast, incredibly fast, and seeing the sheer strength behind their each and every move was beyond eye-opening— sure, you’d been terrified and wary when you’d first gotten here since you’d heard the rumours, but you’d never seen them in action before. They lived up to every word, and the sight had your heart thrumming in your chest.

From what you could tell, the two males’ skills were fairly evenly matched, but if you had to say one was better, you would probably say Jungkook. While Jimin’s movements were liquid and quick, delivering force only when he needed it, Jungkook’s each and every action was wrought with power, shifting through the air with strength in his limbs. He was quick, movements sharp and loaded with force. As an opponent, he was more brutal in his motions. If Jimin wasn’t as fast, wasn’t as flexible as he was, you could see the King winning with ease.

Their different strengths seemed to match them well in combat. Each took as many blows as they landed, and your heart was in your throat the entire time, wondering who, if either of them, would come out on top.

Jungkook landed a powerful high kick to Jimin’s chest and he flew back, arching his body in the air to press his hands into the floor and flip upright in one fluid motion. He kicked off the second his feet touched the ground, dodging the two swipes aimed at his head and neck and grasping Jungkook’s fist as the last one flew by his head. He curved, his back to the taller male, and using his core and upper body hauled the King over his shoulder.

A rough curse left Jungkook’s mouth as he was thrown, but as he passed over the shorter male’s shoulder he twisted his wrist and gripped Jimin’s arm with both hands. All it took was another twist of his body as he grew closer to the floor and his feet were planted firmly, Jimin now in the exact same position he had been in but thrown into it too quickly to react as he had.

Jimin’s back slammed onto the floor, winding him for the smallest of moments before he was coiling, springing his legs up and around to swipe Jungkook’s own out from under him. He fell, flipping to his front and springing himself up with his arms. Jimin lurched onto his feet, and they began once more.

You didn’t know how long you watched them spar, but you had been unable to tear your eyes away the entire time. It soon became apparent when they began to grow tired, however. A thin sheen of sweat had formed over their skin and they panted lightly, movements growing sloppier and slower. Contrary to what you might have thought, it ended in a draw— they halted in the middle of their movements, fists hovering over each other’s throats, and held the position for a good three seconds.

Jimin was the first to break, arm dropping and a loud, boisterous laugh tearing from his throat. He lifted a hand to ruffle Jungkook’s raven locks before he pulled back, rolling his neck and shaking out his limbs with a wince despite the massive grin on his face.

“As practiced as ever, Your Majesty,” he complimented, seeming pleased with the way the sparring session had gone, his markings a content aquamarine. They were both panting, chests heaving slightly, but both seemed energised and relaxed compared to before they had started. Jimin turned, adjusting the clothes that had gotten torn and stretched during their fight, and started towards the door. “I’ll be on my way— I have to help Seokjin with something. Thank you for your time, Your Majesty.”

Jungkook nodded, a hand on his hip as he caught his breath and watched Jimin leave through the double doors. It was silent a moment in his absence, before the King seemed to remember you were in the room. He turned, a bright smile on his lips as he made his way over to where you sat on the cushions, still in awe.

“Well, little human,” he hummed, dark eyes alight with the spirit of play, “What did you think? Were you entertained?”

You couldn’t have stopped the verbal flood of words as they left your mouth even if you wanted to. “That was so— so incredible! You both moved so fast, so gracefully and fluidly, and you’re both so strong?! I almost couldn’t keep up with my eyes, and—”

The king extended a hand to help you up off of the cushions, and you took it gratefully as you spoke. His fingers closed around your hand and with his strong grip he tugged you up— and in his post-spar high he forgot to monitor his strength. You were hauled up with ease, but tumbled into his chest since you didn’t have the strength to resist the momentum. A gasp escaped the both of you, your hands on his chest as you reeled and attempted to right yourself.

When your eyes flickered upwards they caught his own, the dark, doe-like orbs burning with a heat that sparked up your spine, the mark at the back of your neck tingling oddly. Your breath caught in your throat, lungs suddenly faltering and heart skipping one too many beats at your close proximity and you were all too conscious of the searing cool of his chest against your palm. You blinked, caught in the moment you were currently sharing and carried away in the thick, heady air brewing between you that awoke urges within you— urges to move closer, to press your form against his, to tangle your fingers in those raven locks. Urges, to lean and press your lips against his, scatter kisses over his nose and cheekbones, brush your lips over those endearing freckles that were glowing deep, wine red and—

He blinked and your breath returned to your lungs, fog over your mind dispersing and the tension of the past few seconds with it. You stepped back, not missing the way Jungkook’s gaze had lingered on your lips as his tongue darted to wet his own. You were eager to get the conversation back on track, opening your mouth to resume your sentence when you eyes caught sight of something on his neck peeping from underneath the torn material of his high collar.

“What’s that on your neck?”

Jungkook started, eyes shooting wide and hand flying to cover whatever was hiding behind the material of his shirt before you could get a better look. The markings across his skin that had once tempted you with their deep, swimming crimson now flushed searing pink, the skin over his cheeks colouring similarly. The King took a firm step back, eyes wide.

“Nothing of your concern, little human,” he said, tone wavering slightly and betraying how much you’d caught him off guard. You were incredibly curious as to what was on his neck now, but he was stepping back once more in a clear indication that you’d had your chance already. He turned towards the door, opening his mouth to speak over his shoulder at you. Your eyes shifted over his form, surprised at the amount of tears in the material of his shirt from sparring with Jimin. Smooth, warm skin and toned muscles peeked out from beneath the garment, bringing a further flush to your face. What was this man doing to you?!

“I have something to attend to, right now, immediately,” Jungkook rushed, marks and face still pink. “I will see you at a later time.”

And then he was gone before you could even protest, the words dying on the tip of your tongue as you blinked and he disappeared through the door.

How were you supposed to find your way back to your room?

It was something you’d wondered the entire time you spent walking about and hoping you were going the right way. Thankfully, you weren’t left suffering for long, and you ran into Seokjin after what you guessed to be half an hour of wandering about. He’d asked why you were walking through the halls alone while he walked you back to your room, and you filled him in on all that had happened, including how Jungkook got flustered over something and, essentially, legged it. Seokjin seemed greatly amused at the concept.

“That kid,” he muttered softly to himself, uncaring that you heard it, before he turned his dark eyes to yours, resuming the use of Jungkook’s title. “His Majesty is a little self-conscious of his Fate Mark.”

You couldn’t help the tilt of your head, the question slipping from your mouth. “Fate Mark? What’s that?”

Seokjin seemed surprised, dark eyes widening and freckles colouring bright blue. “You humans do not have a Fate Mark?” he queried, and at your blank look he continued, “You do not have a Fated One?”

His words tickled recognition in your brain. “No, I don’t think we do. You mean… like soul mates?” you asked, curious as to what you were about to learn.

Seokjin hummed. “Yes, I suppose you could refer to it as that,” he said, turning his gaze forwards as he organised his thoughts. “When Kelkie reach the age of twenty-five, a mark appears on their body. It is a mark that they share with only one other, their Fated One. It is the person the universe chose for them.”

Your mouth dropped open slightly in awe, mind whirring. Seokjin spoke again, elaborating further. “Every Kelkie gets the mark at twenty-five, but sometimes… there are exceptions. His Majesty is one of them; he received his mark when he turned twenty.”

Your eyebrows shot up at the mention of Jungkook’s age. “He’s a King so young?” you burst, eyes wide.

Instead of reacting as he had last time you’d mentioned Jungkook’s age, Seokjin laughed. “Yes. It is customary for the next in line to begin their rule when they receive their mark, but Jungkook-ah— His Majesty, I should say, began ruling at a much younger age, due to… unfortunate circumstances.”

The humour fled from Seokjin’s dark eyes as his thoughts were taken elsewhere, no doubt to the circumstances he’d just mentioned. You bit your lip, knowing it would be both rude and inappropriate to ask questions like you wanted to right now. It was only a few moments more before Seokjin was lifting his gaze, a smile on his lips that was only slightly strained.

“He was thrown into it at a very young age, but he has become a good King, a good man. We are all proud of him,” Seokjin’s voice was soft, the both of you coming to a stop, and you only just realised you were in front of the doors to your room.

Seokjin was looking at you with a peculiar expression when you turned back to thank him for walking you back, and it made you pause for a moment while he finished thinking whatever he was so caught up in thinking.

“Thank you for walking me back,” you said with a smile. “And for humouring me.”

The tall male grinned. “Don’t get lost again. The palace is too large for little humans to be wondering about.”

“Noted,” you said with a laugh, turning to your door. “See you later, Seokjin.”

He bid you farewell, and you were left to ponder all the information you’d just learned. You spent the rest of your day sprawled across your bed, wrapped up in thoughts of soul mates and the beautiful Kelkie King who was quickly becoming dangerous to your health in a way you hadn’t ever anticipated.

masterlist | moodboard | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | complete

[artificialqueens]

Sister Wives Ch. 1 (Shalaska) - Velvet

AN: A polygamist fic with a bit of a twist. I hope you all enjoy :)

Sunlight streamed through the gossamer curtained window of the small cottage. Alaska lays sprawled across her white sheets, her silk nightgown rising only slightly up her thigh, her fingers entangled in the mess of her blonde hair, mouth slightly parted and eyes squinting at the ray of light that shined upon her face.

Her eye lids fluttered open, a small smile creeping on her lips. She inhales deeply and stretches before slowly rising to pull apart the curtains and allowing the room to fill with the light of the early morning sun.

The view of the prairie from her window was as breathtaking as it had been the morning before, and every morning before that. The birds began to sing, and other sounds of nature joined them. It was still relatively quiet. She only had a short time to herself before her small household would also become abuzz with life. 

She made her way into her cramped bathroom. It held only a sink and shower. She always considered this enough for her needs. After a quick rinse, she brushes her teeth and dresses herself in her everyday garb of a floor length dress and apron. Her modesty was of great importance. Having slept-in this very morning, braiding her hair was out of the question. She begins to hear a stirring in the room next to hers. She quickly pulls her hair into a sleek bun at the nape of her neck and wraps her bonnet snug around it.

“Mama!” She hears, a smile stretches across her face as she makes her way out of her bedroom and into the nursery on the other side of the thin wall.

Her two year old son, Travis, stood up in his crib, his arms outstretched for his mother to pick him up. She holds him closely, hugging him tightly and whispers a quiet good morning to him. He was her only baby thus far, although she suspected that after her last few turns in her husband’s bedroom that she soon could be expecting another. Her mornings spent feeding, bathing, and dressing Travis were the only time she spent alone with him until the end of the day when she would do just the same before putting him to bed.

“Hungry, little guy?” She grinned as her baby’s face lit up and he nodded. She sat on the small sofa in the living area and begins to breastfeed her son. Although he was growing older, food was quite scarce in a family so large, especially when the head of that family insisted on remaining as self sufficient as possible. 

She glances at the grandfather clock that stood next to the door. It was well past 7 am. She was further behind schedule than she thought. 

She’s startled as the front door is swung open, a breathless Sister Katya making her way across the threshold, her children Abraham and Joseph trailing behind her with their book bags slung across their shoulders.

“Alaska! I’m so sorry, did I interrupt you?” She breathes, ushering her children to the kitchen table. She rummages through the cupboards and begins preparing a quick breakfast and continues talking, not waiting for Alaska’s response.

“Sorry for barging in, I’ve just cleaned the kitchen in the main house and I didn’t want to clutter it just for a little breakfast so I thought I’d use yours. Up a little late this morning? You’re usually already out doing your chores at this time.” Katya smiles at her flaxen haired sister wife who continued to feed her son a few feet from her.

“I slept in.” She quietly replies with a nod. Something that Katya had said prompting her to raise a question.

“Cleaned the main kitchen, so early?” She asked confused as she finishes with Travis.

“Well, don’t you remember? John is expecting a visit from a possible sixth.” Katya replies curtly, her faint smile now dulled even further at her own words.

Katya was what the other sisters considered the head of the household. They refrained from using the term “head wife” to avoid any feelings of jealousy or the idea that one wife ruled over the others. But she was John’s first, and had given him the most children up until Sister Trixie, who had birthed twins in the spring, tied with her at seven. She lived in the main house, while all the other wives had a separate space to themselves and their children. 

Alaska, who was John’s fifth, married him just two years ago and had fallen pregnant with Travis only weeks after the ceremony.

“Oh, right…” Alaska trails off. The sixth wife that John had been searching for after several months now. She couldn’t help the twinge of jealousy that tugged at her chest. She cupped her belly, praying that a child was beginning to form. She felt as if John was eager to add another wife, and quickly, due to her failure to produce a second child in the past year. She shook the thought from her mind. Another wife was a blessing, and she wouldn’t deny her husband of this. 

“Sharon, I think her name is.” Katya finishes, putting plates in front of her boys and cleaning up after herself in the small kitchenette of Alaska’s cottage. Alaska nodded quickly and stood up, placing her baby on her hip.

“Right then, I better get a start on the day.” She whispers and moves back into the nursery with Jacob.

————–

Alaska sat on the wrap around porch of the main house, watching as the youngest children in the family, including her son, played in the front yard. Having finished her chores, she took time to herself to work on her crochet. She jolts slightly as a firm hand grips her shoulder from behind as she sat in her rocking chair.

“Good morning.” John grins at his fifth wife, before taking a seat next to her. She smiles softly at him and rests her hand over his as it glides to her thigh.

“Good morning, John. I’ve finished all of the barn work already.” She beams assuredly at her husband. He was a tall man, with a slightly muscular build and full beard covering his lips and chin.

“Very well. I’ve just come to talk about how I expect the household to behave since we do a have a special visitor today.” He replies.

Alaska’s heart drops into her stomach. She had spent most of her morning pushing the idea of their “guest” out of her head.

“Of course.” She forced a sweet smile and nods eagerly for her husband to continue.

“Her name is Sharon. She is Elder Elijah’s oldest daughter. Of course she will be staying here for a few weeks, a “test run” of the family if you will.“ John chuckles, “Just as you did all that time ago.”

“It’s only been two years,” Alaska responds in annoyance, but quickly covers her uncouth tone, “Is there anything you’d like me to do to make her stay most comfortable?” She finishes, flashing a confident smile and tightening her grip on John’s hand.

“Well, I’d like her to stay with you in your private housing. You have the most space to offer since it’s just you and little Travis. I think that would be best to assure that Sharon is comfortable. I feel it’s important that the two of you bonded, you know? You’re such a welcoming young woman and you’d do an amazing job helping her adjust to the family dynamic.” John finishes, a wry grin spreading across his bearded lips.

“Absolutely!” Alaska ensures. Her stomach was uneasy at the prospect of spending so much time with the potential sixth wife, but she was longing to please John in any way that she could.

“Good! She should be arriving within the hour. I’ll call a meeting for the whole family in the main living room to greet her.” John assures before standing and making his way back into the large farm house.

———–

The wives stood close to one another to make room for the 26 children that flooded the living area, everyone eagerly awaiting the arrival of their guest. 

“I’ve seen her in the ladies group at church, I believe. A fair woman, blonde of course. The way John prefers.” Sister Trixie whispers fervently to Alaska who stood close to her in the door way of the living room.

“Excuse me, I wouldn’t consider blonde hair to be a ‘preference’.” Sister Alyssa hissed from a few feet away, tucking a loose strand of her brunette locks into her bonnet and rolling her eyes at the audacity of her sister wife to make such outlandish claims. 

Sister Phi Phi smirks at the exchange, but doesn’t engage, as usual. She was John’s second wife, and most aloof at that. Since her marriage to John over 10 years ago, she hadn’t exactly bonded with her sisters and preferred to keep to herself and her children, and of course her husband when it was expected. She had given him six off spring in her time here. Alyssa was right behind her with five and one on the way. 

“It’s a ratio of now four blondes to two brunettes, I think "preference” is quite an appropriate term.“ Trixie’s giggles are cut off by the sound of footsteps on the front porch. The room fell silent save for the odd cry of one of the many babies in that crowded the space.

The door opens, and two figures make their way down the hall into the living room.

Alaska gasps quietly as a beautiful young woman now stands before her. She was a stunning vision of beauty. Her sharp cheekbones and plump lips entranced her. She filled out her long cotton gown, her golden hair braided into a crown underneath her eggshell bonnet. She wasn’t smiling, but her blue eyes were bright. She locked them with Alaska’s across the room.

Alaska’s heart fluttered uncontrollably. She couldn’t say a word as the children rushed to greet Sharon, the wives following suit as Alaska stayed firm in place. She was afraid that if she moved, she wouldn’t be able to control herself from fulfilling her most primal and unfamiliar need to embrace the gorgeous woman before her that she couldn’t take her eyes off of. 

In a panic, she swiftly exits the room, and rushes out of the house across the courtyard into her cottage, slamming the door behind her and sinking to the floor. She rips off her sweat soaked bonnet and strips from her thick cotton dress until she was only in her temple garments. She placed her hand over the unfamiliar throbbing heat between her legs, failing to control what ever this feeling was.

Lust? For a women?

Surely not. She rises to dry herself before a sharp knock at the door startles her.

"A moment! I’ve fallen a bit ill, I’ll open the door in a minute!” She quickly dresses and gives herself a once over in the bathroom mirror before making her way to allow whoever was knocking in.

John, a concerned look across his face, stood with Sharon on the small porch, much to Alaska’s dismay.

“What’s wrong?” He prompts, furrowing his brow at his fifth wife.

“I’m so sorry for being rude, I felt a wave of nausea and didn’t want to be sick in front of everyone so I made my way quickly to my private quarters.” She lied swiftly, reflexively cupping her belly. 

John’s annoyance with his wife’s abrupt exit dissipated and his expression shifted to one of understanding. He reaches over to place his hand over her stomach as well. Alaska’s heart sinks as she fears she may have given him the impression that she was expecting. She wasn’t too sure if she was or not, but there was no use in giving false hope.

To her relief, he remembers Sharon is standing behind him and quickly drops the subject.

“Now it’s my turn to apologize for rudeness. May we enter?” He asks, Alaska gesturing for them to accompany her in the small living room.

“Sharon, this is my fifth wife, Alaska. You will be staying with her and our son Travis for your trial period. Alaska is a wonderful wife and mother, and most importantly a great friend to all of her sisters. I assure you that she will make your stay most comfortable.” John boasts, wrapping his arm around Alaska and squeezing her shoulder.

“I have no doubt.” Sharon murmurs with a soft smirk, her eyes smoldering as they appraised Alaska’s slender yet curvaceous form. Even her voice was most enticing, Alaska thought to herself. She shook away her impure thoughts and nodded in agreement with John’s previous statements.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Sharon.” She slowly stretches out a hand to embrace the graceful finger tips of the ravishing blonde in front of her.

It was electric.

“Right then, I will go retrieve Sharon’s bags from the main house and leave the two of you to get to know each other.” John asserts and takes his exit.

Sharon’s lips were on Alaska’s as soon as the door shut behind him.

Alaska reveled in the pulsing heat of the kiss, her heart beating wildly, her sex throbbing between her thighs. Sharon caressed her face and slowly pulled their lips apart. Their eyes fluttered open and connected, lust clouding their vision of one another as panic set in from realization of their actions. They ripped themselves from each other’s arms and averted their eyes, Alaska taking several steps back from Sharon.

After a few seconds that seemed to stretch on for hours, they slowly turn to face each other once more.

Sharon steps toward her and reaches to gingerly grasp Alaska’s shaking hands. She pulls her flush to her own body and places another, gentler kiss on her soft pink lips and leans into her ear.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.” She whispers with a grin.

Alaska returns her smile, and nods before crushing her lips to Sharon’s for another searing kiss.

[mayhemories]

Braids & War Paint (Part 2)

Notes on:

Part 1:

Part 3:

Part 4:

Rowan Whitethorn had been many places, he’s traveled to every direction, climbed a plethora of mountains, has lived in cities that are nothing more than dirt now and nothing he’s seen will compare to the wildness of Terrasen and it’s people. Wild in the fact the citizens of Terrasen have such a connection to their home, the air is cleaner when everyone cares for it. It reminded him of Mistward. 

 Galan Ashryver had not expected Rowan’s presence on this journey, Queen Maeve wanted to send someone wrapped in her flag, to try and “mend broken relations” between her and her kin across the sea. Rowan Whitethorn was utterly sick of Doneralle and volunteered to leave. He was so anxious to see the capital that Rowan pushed their traveling party forward with intense wind. Their horses made it in record time, apparently. 

 The Galathynius’ were…nice. Orlon and Rhoe were very charming, very warm to their guests- Rowan included. But it was the Terrasen Ashryver’s that surprised him, Evalin had all the same features that Galan too carried. Save for hair. Aedion Ashryver was a spitting image of Galan, though his hair was fair like his Aunt. And Gods, the two bloodlines that made Aelin Ashryver Galathynius of the Wildfire. Tall, lean, extended fae limbs. She was impeccably beautiful, she knew it too. Long golden hair, golden skin, chiseled features. She was all muscle under velvet skin… and those eyes, the Ashryver eyes of legend old, blue with the core of gold. Rowan decided that she wore those eyes the best. 

As the kin talked throughout luncheon Rowan kept quiet, eating cocktail sandwiches and drinking bubbled water. He’s focus seemed to stray from the conversation a lot, his eyes wandered and they always found her again. Sometimes she would catch his gaze, smirk and return back to the conversation. Rowan has had serious lovers in the past, he’s had flings and one night stands but never has he felt the feeling of intrigue. She intrigued him, it wasn’t even in a romantic way. The way the Crown Princess conducted herself was like nothing Rowan had ever seen, her opinion was there to be heard. She laid her deck of cards for everyone too see, even a chosen warrior from a broken kin. He’s never seen so much metal strapped to a royal so casually, no Terrasen guard seemed alarmed. A belt of daggers were strapped around her waist, a golden sword at her left hip, cuffs of small knives sat snugly at her thin wrists. Rowan was taken aback by how much of his thoughts were revolving around the princess. Though, Rowan didn’t try to change his train of thought. 

“Your quarters, Prince Rowan.” Rowan thanked the young maid before she quickly skited off. 

 They weren’t modest quarters, the bedroom was airy and decorated with whites, greys and rich greens. Rowan ran his hand across the light stone walls that reflected the sun around the room. He dropped his luggage on the dark wooden floors with a thud. A large four poster bed sat against the eastern wall, a desk, an eating table and a large armoire were placed in the room, all made out of the same dark wood. The washroom was double the size of his Doneralle one, a large tub made out of light stone that had been polished so that Rowan could see his face in it. Large basin, large mirror… everything was oversize and grand and overwhelming. 

 Satisfied with his new quarters, Rowan sat at the writing desk and began to pen a letter to his queen. It was a short synopsis about travel, the cities he’s seen and of course the royal family. He couldn’t have been more than two paragraphs in until a laugh like a crackling fire in the winter filled his ears, it was warm and inviting giggle that he could only peg to one woman. 

 Rowan ripped open the curtains by his shoulders, white doors that lead to a balcony stared back at him. Before Rowan knew what he was doing the balcony doors opened and he stepped out. No more than five feet away sat Aelin Galathynius, reading on her own balcony. Her room was directly across the way from Rowan’s. Mab, Mora and Maeve burn him.

“Hello neighbor! No one has been in that room in a long time.” The Princess said, folding a corner of her page down and placing the novel on the table near her. A massive golden hound was curled at her feat, the both of them soaking up the last few hours of the late afternoon sun. 

 "You might be disappointed, I have a reputation of being a bad neighbour.“ Rowan quipped, leaning against the railing. They would have to be at least sixteen levels up. They were the top, there were no other balconies overhead. 

"I’ll be the judge of that. I’ve never lived in close quarters with a brooding fae warrior.” To his dismay, Rowan smirked at her charming voice…more the comment than her but the lines blur somewhere. 

“I would argue that your cousin seems to be of the brooding type.” The banter flowed effortlessly between the two, she laughed again at the blow of her cousin, Aedion Ashryver, The Wolf of the Wild North. 

“Wait til’ dinner, there isn’t room for two Ashryver males in this castle.” Her long legs were clothed in tight black pants, they seemed to go on for miles as she walked closer to her own railing, leaning against it, mimicking Rowan’s earlier actions. 

 "I don’t think I can handle a pissing contest.“ 

"Are you sure you won’t join in? After all, it’ll be a contest over my attention.” Rowan rolled his eyes, he forgets how young they all are; Galan, the oldest out of the bunch was a steely twenty-five, Aedion was twenty-three and Aelin was only just eighteen. He expected her to be much older. It embarrassed Rowan how little he knew of Terrasen and their rulers. 

 "I’m your neighbor now, aren’t I? I’ll have your attention more often.“ Aelin’s eyes burned with something Rowan hadn’t seen in a long time, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Pushing off her rail, the princess collected her book and whistled up her hound, Fleetfoot and walked to her door. Rowan stayed dead still, as if she was a doe he’d scare away. She turned and faced him at the twin of his door. 

"It’s been interesting, Prince Rowan. Terrasen welcomes you.” And Rowan didn’t know whether it was him or the moment or his tiredness, but he called out to her before she crossed into her threshold of gossamer curtains. 

“Rowan. Just Rowan.”

 The last thing he saw was her heart cleaving smile. Rowan decided that he would own a letter to Fenrys too, let him know of the golden jewel he found in the antler crown of the Wild North. 

Aelin loved fashion, adored fabrics and dresses. Just enjoyed dressing up, even when there was no real event to get dressed up for. But now, Aelin had her excuse, they had company. Important company that she should impress, Galan’s trip is very diplomatic after all. Fixing severed ties and all that… It didn’t help that a very handsome fae warrior was on her door step.   

When Aelin was in Eyllwe learning more about the country she met the Crown Princess, Nehemia Ytger. Nehemia is only a year older than herself, they had become best friends instantaneously. For Aelin’s recent name day, Nehemia had sent a dress for Aelin, she was saving it for something big, but Aelin had very little self restraint.   

She dressed in the emerald green of Terrasen’s forests, it was intricate dress that had been hand made for her. Chiffon that fell into small pleats, the waistband had a large metal embellishment to draw your eyes down from the ropes that held the bodice together. It was art, physical art that Aelin draped over her lean body.   

Aelin’s chambermaids braided her long hair, she wore it like this when she went into battle or was training, though, she supposed, the dinning room would be as tense as a battlefield. All the lords and ladies sweating bucketloads under the gaze of Rowan Whitethorn. 

“Well don’t you look devastating.” Aelin’s best friend, Lady Lysandra of Caraverre stated, linking the two girls’ arms as the walked down the winding halls to the dining room. Lysandra was a young shapeshifter who Aelin hated grotesquely when they were younger, until the battles against the Yellowlegs did Aelin and Lysandra connect. They fought side by side, for a long while Aelin suspected the carranam bond between them. Nothing came to pass besides a beautifully strong friendship. 

“As do you, who are you impressing?” Lysandra had her dark locks curled and pined up in a cornet, wearing a navy embellished dress, that flowed to her ankles, her lips were painted a dark scarlet. 

“I’m not impressing anyone, just causing Aedion to fall in love with me all over again.” They laughed together as the dining room’s massive oak doors opened, they were the last to arrive. 

Aelin’s uncle sat at the head of the table, her parents on either side of him. To Aelin’s Dismay, Galan was sitting in the seat opposite her own, the Far prince was further down the table, near Lord Allsbrook and Lady Elide. 

Aelin took her seat, and the serving began.

“You look lovely.” Galan smiled at her from across the table. She thanked him, the sound of boredom dripped off her tongue and soon after Aelin felt the little pinch on her leg, her mother retracted her hand from her thigh liked nothing happened. It was a warning Aelin had since she was a child: Play nice. 

Playing nice wasn’t Aelin’s forte.

“Your journey must have been long.” Aelin stated, Galan looked almost confused that she was making direct conversation with him. She placed her elbow on the table, propping her head on her open palm.  

“I-uh…yes. The ocean became very isolating.” Galen stuttered, Aelin leaned forward, almost urging him to go on without words. Her parents and her uncle’s attention were now peaked by the topic. 

From the corner of her eye a certain fae prince had the tips of his sensitive ears twitching. Listening in on the blandest conversation Aelin had anything to do with, Dorian Havilliard’s cooking had more godsdamned flavour than this dinner party. 

“We had an Mycenian escort off the coast of Terrasen.” Galan smiled again, his dark eyebrows shot up when doing so. 

“Our precious Aelin stitched up the Terrasen ties with the Mycenians, if it weren’t for her you would’ve had no escort.” Orlon quipped, the whole table was listening now, even though the loudest noise in the room was the cutlery. 

Aelin realised that Galan expected her to be…embarrassed, blushing maybe?

Smug was a better word for it, the princess leaned back in her ornate chair, she’d encouraged the talk about her, besides, ‘Aelin’ was the best topic Aelin could think of. 

“Oh really, that must have been a very tense conversation.” Aelin shook her head, Galan was too much of a politician.   

“I used threats and force. It wasn’t a conversation at all.” 

With that statement, Aelin looked to her right, Rowan Whitethorn raised an eyebrow.  

Aelin winked back. 

AN: this is slow and boring but I really want to take my time with Aelin and Rowan in this fic, I’m so sorry if they seem OOC but… too late now I’m committed to this story. Yeah, The whole thing will be from alternating POV’s. Please tell me your thoughts and ideas about this fic, message me, let me know! Anyways, thank you for the support. Much love, 

-El.

[epwreviews-blog]

Carousel

Rogers and Hammerstein pioneered a new formula which revolutionized the stage forever by combining storytelling, songwriting, and choreography with their first smash hit, Oklahoma!, in 1943. Previously, audiences would go to the opera, the ballet, or the theatre. Now, it was possible to do all at once, and the result was the Golden Age of Broadway.

Carousel came two years after Oklahoma! in April, 1945. A new revival production came to Broadway’s Imperial Theatre in December 2017 for a limited 9-month engagement. It has earned several Drama Desk and two Tony awards, including best choreography, and many nominations for all design and performance areas of the production.

The story was adapted from a play called Liliom (1909) by acclaimed playwright Ferenc Molnár, the so-called Oscar Wilde of Hungary. His production was not well-met with original audiences and the otherwise successful writer became depressed. Liliom was his most ambitious work, reaching to the very heights of his spirituality, compassion, and imagination. Molnár was supposedly too sensitive to criticism to write anything quite that grand after that.

“What did he mean by killing his hero in the fifth scene, taking him into Heaven in the sixth and bringing him back to earth in the seventh? Was this prosaic Heaven of his seriously or satirically intended? Was Liliom a saint or a common tough? And was his abortive redemption a symbol or merely a jibe? These were some of the questions Budapest debated while the play languished through thirty or forty performances and was withdrawn.” — Benjamin F. Glazer, 1921.

The play did, however, receive a lot of press and eventually audiences warmed up to the unusual structure. The Rogers and Hammerstein version keeps that same structure, only brings the story from Budapest to New England, and softens the ending to make it more “hopeful” to American audiences some decades later.

And that message of hope in uncertain times, when boundaries between life and death are gossamer thin, is a necessary and beautiful one today. For context, Hitler would die 15 days after the opening of Carousel on Broadway and the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki would be deployed a few months after.

The show, under the direction of Jack O’Brien, features a cast of classically-trained ballet dancers, soaring soprano voices, warm baritone vibrato, and a full orchestra. The choreography by Justin Peck is stunning. The three starring roles, played by Joshua Henry, Jessie Mueller, and Renée Flemming are godlike in their ability, strength, and joy.

From a design perspective, I loved the simplicity of the set and the way Heaven was represented as a thin tulle curtain covered in stars. Nothing was overdone or distracted from the action. The show moved swiftly and never seemed to drag.

This is a story about childhood. Life in the play is depicted as a carousel ride— sweet, and wild, and fun. Until it gets out of our control. The play speaks to the grief that follows when we are faced with decisions that force us to grow up and dissolve our sense of innocence.

The main character, Billy, works at the local carousel until he starts a relationship with Julie, which puts them both out of work. Julie gets pregnant and Billy is frustrated because he has no disposable income. So he is abusive towards her. He even hits her. Then, he comes up with a plan to rob someone in order to provide a decent life for his family, but it goes horribly wrong. Billy commits suicide in order to escape persecution. He goes to purgatory and gets one last chance to redeem himself, fifteen years later.

He meets his daughter and offers her a star from Heaven. When she bewilderedly refuses the strange man’s offer, he hits her. He has failed again. We see that his daughter’s life is not easy without a father. People judge her and her mother. Although her heart is thoroughly broken, the show ends with her graduating from school, where the iconic song “You’ll Never Walk Alone” ends the show.

O’Brian’s choice to cast Billy as a black man and Julie as a white woman, I think, is one that historically defines Rogers and Hammerstein's works. The majority of their shows investigate questions about racism and other social prejudices which prevent love.

This is a dark show. It was scary at times. The themes include domestic abuse and suicide. But the heaviness was balanced sincerely with moments of beauty, love, warmth, tenderness, and forgiveness.

Maybe it is typically American to end with a message of hope. But maybe, that’s also exactly what’s needed.

undefined

When you walk through a storm

Hold your head up high

And don't be afraid of the dark

At the end of the storm

There's a golden sky

And the sweet silver song of the lark

Walk on, through the wind

Walk on, through the rain

Though your dreams be tossed and blown

Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart

And you'll never walk alone

You'll never walk alone

[musesandmannequinesbook3]

The Mermaid and a fairy

   Dressed in a long, flowing, ribbon-shoulder-strapped satin and lace, decollette slipdress, a fairy stood in silent solitude amidst the moss-clinging rock and fern-encrusted driftwood beneath the black and star-filled quietude of the night. The soft rush of the sea-waves brushed upon the white sand like an angel combing the long strands of a siren's hair, having fallen in Love's devotion to her beauty, enchantment, and ethereal tenderness. A pair of sandpipers froliced along the edge of the water and beach reaching low for sea-urchins sent upon the sand. The ruth of the washing sea-water softly cooled and caressed the fairy's very slender, very pale toes, her fragile feet bare in the wet sand.    By the tiny, delicate wrist-watch she held fragilely yet firmly in the grasp of her frail hand, it would soon be the fourth of December. The devoted fairy had been given a book, perhaps a mere legend, a fairy-tale written for the sprites and waifs -- those orphans of urban storms to wish for something more grand, more merciful, more joyful to interrupt their forgotten sorrows, their unbequested misery, their few-and-far-between gifts of delightful glee and tender warmth: a pair of shoes, a spinning yo-yo, a rag doll to embrace during the bitter cold, fearful nights.    The story went that on the turning night of the third of December, when the moon was cast in an orange-golden glow and around it a halo of the brightest white-light, and two raven-black sandpipers paused their unnotided, noble flight to bathe their ebony-coal black feathers in the brush of the whirling waves -- here at this isolated, desolate place where once a true princess waited two entire years for her knightly brother to return home from a battle-torn place with its buildings rubbled, its people huddled in dark cellars, in levee cisterns and sewers dank and rotten and haunting -- upon 3this very spot in the far-reaching sand which seemed to parallel the horizon of sea and sky, a mermaid appeared to remember the love the princess lost: for her brother never returned and, so, she drowned in deeper sorrow than the depth of the sea.    The mermaid -- whose hair was as silvery as snow-frost sparkling upon the sand-dunes at night-time, when the moon and the stars beamed low and long, rays of thin, near-transparent illumination bridging the heavens with the land and the little pebbles niched delicately in the sand -- was no ordinary mermaid. For her body and its frame were totally mortal, her fins and tail having fallen long ago for she never returned to the sea which had taken the beautiful and true princess unemotionally and unregretfuly. Upon the sand, amidst the sawgrass and beached logs of wood, the mermaid had planted "forget-me-not" wildflower seeds and called them all "Magdalene," which was the loving, lovely princess's name. It was written in this fable forlorn, the mermaid would walk down and up the long stretch of the sea and sand -- itself a soliliquy of graceful beauty, of solemn peacefulness -- until her gentle, velvety-soft hands, fine as gossamer threading a thistle to a thorn, grew so weary and numb from planting the "forget-me-not" wildflower seeds -- countless "Magdalenes" to sift into the star-sparkling sand -- she woould vanish finally like a bird in the mist upon the wings she was given sewn where once were scales of green sea-shells and corals which shined like diamonds. Upon her lithe, thin-framed body -- like a silhouette-beam of the moon -- the mermaid was clothed in pure white cotton and washed silk: a gown so sheerly skintight the tiny buds of her skinny breats shone like unoped rose sepals misty in the night-air with the enlacing wind shimmering translucent. Or, so it was written, this fable of sorrow, this tale probably as hollow as the soul of the fairy, or so she thought to herself as she waiting patiently amidst the cold rocks and the old fern. The tiny hands on the delicate wrist-watch turned to 2 A.M., the fourth of December.    the curls of the fairy's long black hair swirled in the gentle night-wind and waved in the air like circles of chimney-smoke from old New England Life calendars -- visual expressions of quaint, innocent, Grace-given days when moms and dads made homemade pies and mended basketball nets tattered from neighborhood kids playing in old alleys once made for the garbage trucks to pass through. Her eyes' irises shined incandescently like a pair of rainbows in a Buckeye June when after a gladfelt rain the sun beams, oh so, merrily. Sadly, the fairy stood leaning against the limestone and wood, her narrow, bare feet cleansed by the rime and ruth of the sea and the sand and the marrow of the fern, dancing in the shallow water like tinsel hallowed upon Christmas Eve.    Then, the alluring, beautiful mermaid, this vision of loveliness undefinable, began to walk along the sand reaching into unseen pockets, her seeds of "forget-me-not" wildflowers she tenderly tossed into the misty air to fall softly, faintly onto the shining sand. At first, the fairy thought to run towards her, for ahe moved as swiftly as Peggy Fleming on ice but she decided to wait a little longer, still holding gingerly the delicate wrist=watch in her, now, quivering hand.    Suddenly, the scintillating mermaid turned around, her pencil-thin silhouette askance of the sea. She seemed to to glance uncertain, yet, unnerved to where the fairy stood hidden in the shadow of the fern-hewn stones. The fairy bowed low, kneeling behind the time-glossed rock, afraid the mermaid had seen her unsolicited, trespassing watch. The tall, spindle-framed mermaid, then, quietly turned around again, letting the "forget-me-not" seeds fall here, there, and anywhere, even into the ruth of the sea.    Now, more confidently and courageously the fairy left her hiding-place to begin to soundlessly follow the enchanting mermaid, now, far down the undulating line of the sea and sand, its moving edge an outline of curves and waves as immeasuarble and certain as the wind and flight of two raven-black sandpipers now floating their own weaving pattern just above the swift stride of the mermaid disappearing, then, re-appearing in the misty threads of the moonlit night and its light gleaming grandly upon this sandscape of pure beauty, grace, solemnity, and tranquility as if borrowed from a "Blue Marvel" mesmerizing scene from its "Sunrise Earth."    Softly, then, lifting quickly her bare, vein-woven feet in the white, wet sand, the fairy grew afraid she had missed her chance to give her gift and, even, perhaps to touch tenderly the ring-threaded, fragile fingertips of the mermaid, who like the silence of a church-bell yet to ring its beckoning sound seemed to be waiting for some unknown, unseen cue. For a moment the mist enshrouded the beautiful mermaid's ethereal vision, then, open like a magical theatre curtain to show the leading actress move like a gamine-like fair lady in effortless movement: the dream of the far-away spotlight to illuminate her lovely vision more clearly.    Strangely, to the fairy, while her footprints made indelible marks in the sand, even when the sea=waves brushed tenderly its water over them, there were no footprints left behind to mark the passive passage of the seductive siren as she made her way along the beach. So, the loving fairy hurried her steps, longing to meet, to speak to the entrancing mermaid growing smaller, more invisible in the unlessened distance.    At last, the anxious, breathless fairy was within, perhaps, thirty feet of the ision-beautiful mermaid. her long, skintight slipdress seemed to even more enchantingly, entrancingly, more defining the lovely outline of her ribs and collarbone as visible as a crossing delicate, slender vine on a trellis of wildflowers: her tiny, thin curves of her breasts, pale pink as two tulips blossoming in the Olympia Mountains. Her face was more beautiful than any face the fairy had ever seen. It shone brighter than the moon, her cheekbones sculpted as an angel who guards the oldest cenetery in France, divinely chiseled by an enwrapt artist. Her nose and lips glistened like bluebells in the mist pastoral, peaceful meadowed vale. Her eyes gleamed more blue than the most serene September sky when the mist of Dawn hovers majestically above a hallowed landscape made only for tiny flowers and the gentle, demure deer.    The fairy stood transfixed, the sea-waves brushing continually across her pale feet mixing with the sand creating velvet-like slippers upon her weary ankles. The wind upon the sandscape uplift in the moon-lit, star-drift night, seemed to the enwrapped, enlaced fairy more comforting  than the softest hand-made, hand-woven quilt of he blessed Appalachian antiquity. The mystified, loving fairy reached out her long, thin, pale arms and her hands trenbling, still clutching the delicate wristwatch she wished to give to the angelic, siren-like mermaid, now as corporeal as she. The only sounds were the soft rush of the waves, the tender, weaving wind, and the whispering song of the sandpipers still hovering nearly invisible, like opaque raindrops upon a window, above the mermaid's lovely, enlacing, silhouette beautiful in the ascending night.    Without saying a word, like Marion Davies in a 1920's silent film the mermaid smiled joyously, freely, lovingly as if she somehow knew why the awkward, wayward fairy was there, as if she were her forever-friend. Apprehensively but reverently the fairy took a little step forward, her hand which cradled the wrist-watch opened like a wood-lily softly, finally opening its sepals to the glory of Dawn. With her beautiful, scintillating face lightly adorned with pastel drops of tiny shells and forget-me-not petals, she delicately dipped downward her profile, her tender eyes glancing at the sand. Then, above her, the sandpipers called like a tympany at the climax of a symphony and the mermaid disappeared in a soft flash of light, like a spotlight suddenly turned on, then, just as suddenly turned off. There was no sign of the lovely mermaid. She had vanished like a wisp in the night, like the breath of a kiss in a dream awakened.    The anguished fairy moved to where the vision-beautiful mermaid had just stood and she, too, looked down sadly, her heart filled with sorrow, a little ashamed at her self-boldness. Yet, upon the sand lay a long, white feather: one which had fallen unnoticedly from the mermaid's graceful wings which has opened right before she disappeared with the sandpipers. And beneath the feather etched in the sand, drawn in longhand was her message to her faithful fairy follower -- "Truthfully, I thank you for the lovely, delicate wrist-watch but our time, our love is eternal."    The fairy fell upon her knobby knees beside the mermaid's message. She tenderly took the feather into her trembling hands and to her gleeful, blissful lips she kissed the feather softly. The waves of the sea swept across the mermaid's words beginning to wash them away. The wind gingerly brushed her eyes, her tears of jubilation, like a mother's loving devotion to her once-lonely daughter, like Annie Sullivan wistfully wiping the tears form Helen Keller's joyful, esctatic eyes for now she could see, she could hear, she could talk. And the moon brightened this place with a fabled kind of grace written only in a fairy-tale for the orphans of the stormy seas, their longing dreams of glee, like a magical miracle, at long last, made real.

                    tenderly rendered by Dove Willow, March 24, 2017  

copyrighted 2017