#* & . › mareth / inspiration !

[overandunderland]

Do No Harm.

Mareth x Hamnet Fluff.

Fix It AU, Hamnet and Mareth reconcile their time apart, hamnets return and things left undone. Hamnet is having a hard time reassimilating. Mareth doesn't want to lose him again, and he's quite fond of being in Hazards life. (inspired by the Return to Regalia Podcast Hamareth propaganda episode in which I've been radicalized.)

There's a longer version that leans into a NSFW version of this(in progress) but you know 💅 who's actually checking for Hamnareth out here?

In the heart of the apothecary, nestled deep within the palace's labyrinthine embrace, the air was thick with the scent of exotic spices and the sharp tang of crushed herbs. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where the outside world's ceaseless clamor was replaced by the soothing monotony of Hamnet's mortar and pestle. Each motion was precise, a dance of creation as he ground the herbs into a fine paste. For Hamnet, it was perfect. His time in the jungle had afforded him the proper knowledge needed to flourish here. He had to admit he felt thankful for Queen Luxa's appointment. It gave him something to do, some way to help. He noticed it also kept him out of view, his visitors being the occasional nurse or nanny.

"You are good with him," Hamnet said, his voice breaking through the rhythm of his work, carrying a warmth that seemed at odds with the cool, almost clinical atmosphere of the apothecary. The room, despite its embrace of spiced cleanliness, was a stark departure from the dank thickness of the jungle—a world Hamnet's attire stubbornly clung to. His clothes were a riot of colors and patterns that sang of distant lands and untamed wilderness. It was a statement, a declaration of his roots, and a testament to the life he had lived beyond the palace walls, making him stand out against the backdrop of stone and shadow.

Their reunion had been a whirlwind, a collision of past and present brought on by the urgent need for a cure to the plague that had gripped the land. Time, it seemed, had been a luxury they could not afford, swept away by the tide of necessity and duty. But it was during the trial of Solovet, Hamnet's mother, that the walls between them had finally crumbled. A lengthy trip to The Waters and several nights' stay in the hospital seemingly removed a decade of jungle from Hamnet's person. However, it would be impossible to wash away The Garden, to wash away the loss of Frill. That would forever stain.

Now, as Hamnet's gaze settled on Mareth, who carried his son in a piggyback embrace, a semblance of peace seemed to settle over him. Hazard, with his tousled curls obscuring his eyes, slumbered on, oblivious to the weight of history and the burdens of legacy that surrounded them.

"He is fond of you," Hamnet remarked, a simple statement that carried layers of unspoken gratitude and acknowledgment of the bond that had formed between Mareth and his son.

Mareth, pacing the room with a deliberate slowness designed to lull Hazard into deeper sleep, responded with a soft chuckle. "I share in that sentiment. He reminds me quite a bit of you in our youth—how it took us time to get you to open up," he said, his voice a blend of nostalgia and something unidentified. "It seems I find myself chasing that same goal once again."

A shadow of a frown threatened Hamnet's face, the beginnings of a storm that was quickly quelled by a practiced smile. In the past, there was no need for facades, no place for pretense. Mareth knew the depths of Hamnet's heart. At least—what he had allowed. Things were different now, they were men. They had both been soldiers, suffered greatly because of it. Yet here Mareth stood, wounded yes, but his resolve, remained unchanged. It had still drawn Hamnet, like a life's flame

"Adjusting to Regalian life again, it's been... tasking," Hamnet confessed, the words heavy, laden with the weight of unvoiced struggles. As he worked, extracting the essence from the herbs, his actions spoke of a man well-acquainted with the art of transformation, of extracting light from the depths of darkness. "My niece is Queen, my mother stands accused of endangering the Underland—a threat that once loomed over us all. It's a burden I cannot, will not, take lightly."

"I'd argue the burden I carry currently, is heavier." Mareth quipped, attempting to lighten the mood.

He is heavier than he looks, how did you manage in the jungle?"

With a gentle gesture towards a small bed nestled in the corner of the apothecary, designed for those in less immediate need of care, Hamnet wordlessly invited Mareth to ease Hazard down onto its welcoming surface. The boy, even in sleep, seemed to find comfort instinctively, nestling into the bed with a contentedness that spoke volumes of the security he felt in this place, however unfamiliar.

Mareth then turned, approaching the counter where Hamnet continued his meticulous work, his hands never ceasing in their task. It was then he ventured, with a softness in his voice that belied the weight of his words, "This burden, Hamnet— isn't yours to bear alone."

At this, Hamnet's concentration fractured, his brow furrowing as he met Mareth's gaze. A mix of incredulity and pain flashed through his eyes. "Do you truly believe that?" he snapped, the words sharp, laden with years of unspoken fears and uncertainties. "That I hold no fault for everything that's transpired? That you harbor no ill will towards me?"

Mareth's response was a sigh intertwined with a grumble, a sound that tugged at the threads of memory within Hamnet's mind. It was a sound he had heard many times during their sparring sessions in youth, a prelude to concession or admission. The familiarity of it caused Hamnet's breath to catch. He was back, in the arena, pinning Mareth to the ground, exhausted, and embarrassed.

"I did... for a while," Mareth admitted, the words heavy, tinged with a resignation born of time and reflection. "Yet, as the days turned to weeks and your return was postponed, worry was all that brewed within me. Concern for you—your well-being, took precedence over any feelings of betrayal."

Hamnet's tense shoulders dropped, a visible release of the anxiety that had knotted within him at the prospect of Mareth's resentment. His relief was palpable, a silent exhale in the midst of the apothecary's herbal-scented air. For a moment, it seemed as if a chasm that had yawned wide between them was starting to narrow, bridged by Mareth's words of understanding and concern. Yet, Mareth wasn't finished. The weight of his gaze didn't waver as he took a step closer, his voice carrying a depth of emotion that hinted at the years of unspoken truths between them.

"You ask why I saved you in Hesperides? I preserved your life because that's the action you take for those you hold dear. Our bond transcended friendship;You were important to me, Hamnet. Your departure—it wasn't treachery, but it created an emptiness. I would have undertaken anything to convince you to remain."

At Mareth's admission, a pang of regret lanced through Hamnet's heart, a sharp contrast to the soft hum of the apothecary around them. His head bowed, a whisper of an apology escaping his lips, shrouded in a veil of shame. Crossing the space between them, Mareth placed a hand on Hamnet's shoulder, his touch grounding, a silent reassurance of his presence. "I did not mean to upset you," he apologized, the words soft, yet laden with a complexity of emotions that seemed to resonate within the confines of the apothecary.

Lifting his gaze, Hamnet looked up, his eyes tracing the contours of Mareth's face—a landscape marked by the passage of time and the scars of battles fought, both in war and in their youthful escapades. Each mark was a story, a memory of their shared past that spoke of courage, laughter, and the bonds forged in the crucible of adventure. There, in Mareth's features, was the essence of the man he had known and the changes wrought by time, yet the underlying truth remained—this was Mareth, humorous, loyal, and undeniably handsome.

The intensity of Hamnet's gaze brought a warmth to Mareth's neck, a recognition of the depth of their connection. It was a look that stirred memories of days long past, filled with the promise of youth and the unspoken words that lingered between them. That look held a call, one that had echoed in the depths of Mareth's soul, unanswered yet ever-present.

"I couldn't stay... I didn't want to—" Hamnet began, his voice faltering as he grappled with the words, the weight of his decisions.

"Do more harm, I know this," Mareth interjected, his voice a gentle balm to the raw edges of Hamnet's confession. "But you are here now, Hamnet. Your mother is confined to her quarters, your niece is Queen, Bartholomew's warrior is amongst us."

"And you are here." Hamnet added.

""Aye, and well we both know I was better of steering you clear of mischief. I recall you clinging to my every word."

"If they came from your lips." Hamnet admitted, their gaze catching one another's.

"If they had told you to stay—would you?" Asked the solider.

"Every instinct in me is screaming to flee once more, Mareth. I sense the weight of everyone's gaze upon me, and I'm aware of the whispers that fill these halls, but if you required it of me, I would stay."

"I require it," Mareth said, the words escaping him with a fervency that surprised even himself, his voice nearly breaking under the strain of emotions long held at bay. The promptness of his reply, the raw need evident in those three simple words, cut through the tension between them, prompting an unexpected laugh from Hamnet. The sound, muffled yet unmistakably joyful, reverberated through Mareth, awakening a cascade of sensations that he had dared not acknowledge until now.

The laughter, so genuine and unguarded, was a balm to Mareth's soul, a reminder of the man before him—not a figment of his desires, but flesh and blood, real and within reach. His initial impulse was to close the distance between them, to bridge the gap of years and unspoken truths with the simplicity of touch. His hands reached out, driven by a longing that had lain dormant, fingers inches from Hamnet's face before he caught himself, the suddenness of his own actions leaving him exposed, vulnerable.

The tension in the air was palpable, charged with the unspoken and the undeniable. Hamnet's sharp intake of breath was a silent testament to the turmoil that mirrored Mareth's own—a desperate need to belong, to be understood, to be accepted. And yet, in the vulnerability of the moment, Hamnet leaned into the roughness of Mareth's palms, an act of trust, of surrender.

Mareth, overwhelmed by the proximity, the shared warmth, felt tears tracing paths down his cheeks, the emotion of the moment breaking through the dams of his restraint. "Stay, and I will make sure you do no harm. If you, and Hazard will have me—"

The answer came when Hamnet bridged the gap between them, his lips finding Mareth's in a kiss that was both a seal of promises and the kindling of a fire long suppressed. It was deep, intense, a melding of desire and something far more profound that had been forged in the crucible of their shared past and the trials they had faced, both together and apart. In this kiss, Hamnet poured all the longing, all the fears and hopes he had harbored. Mareth's initial shock at the contact melted into an answering fervor, his own pent-up longing and affection bursting forth. He returned the kiss with an intensity that matched, then exceeded, Hamnet's initial desperation. Mareth's hands, initially hesitant, now cradled Hamnet's face with a tenderness that spoke volumes, grounding them both in the reality of the moment.

The kiss deepened, a confluence of years of suppressed emotions, unspoken words, and the raw, unvarnished need that had lingered between them, unacknowledged yet ever-present. Mareth's response was instinctive, a natural counterpart to Hamnet's ardor, his lips moving with a passion that was both a claim and a surrender. It was as if, in this kiss, they were both seeking and offering solace, acknowledging the pain of their past separations even as they reveled in the present reunion. Breaking the kiss, they remained close, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's air, their breaths mingling in the quiet aftermath. In that moment, filled with the soft sounds of their shared existence.

[deliver-the-light]

I am so OBSESSED with these!! Not gonna lie I teared up a little looking at Boots. She so little and it’s easy to forget that this smol beeb survived so much.

Your art is absolutely gorgeous 💜 and I’m honored to inspire Mareth’s design. You draw him so handsomely

We did it. After more than 2 months I got my shit together and finally finished this. Sorry for taking so much time, life is and was stressful and working on this would get frustrating from time to time since i couldn't really decide on sketches, colors and everything. So these are the versions i'm the happiest with.

Boots for @mixter165 and Mareth for @anxiousdragoncollector ! Thank you for the suggestions, after figuring out what i wanted to do with them the painting process was a true joy!

The Mareth design (hair+beard) is mostly inspired by @deliver-the-light 's drawings of Judith, hamnet and Mareth! Love those so much, please check out their art!! (I really hope that it's ok for me to take inspiration from your design- if not i'll immediately delete this post!!)

Just for funsies mareth 1. without scar and 2. Without beard, kinda jumpscarey because i was way to lazy to properly render the area around the lips in the 2. pic lol.

Thanks to everyone for sending in suggestions and being so kind!!

[allanonxmareth]

So in case you're not aware, Melise has a very ✨ aesthetic ✨ Instagram presence and if you want relaxing cooking vids in your life you should check it out (melise)

[badlydrawingtuc]

TUC Week 2021 Day 7 - Free Day

damn bro you got the whole squad laughing

I did it! I did a TUC Week! I was worried I’d forget a day but I didn’t! Man this was a blast, I can’t wait for next year :)

From top to bottom and left to right, they are: Nike, Aurora, Mareth, Dulcet, Nerissa, Howard, Gregor’s Dad, Grace, Vikus, Ripred, Temp and Boots, Gregor, Luxa, Hazard, and Lizzie :) Happy TUC week everyone! Thank you so much to @tucweek for hosting and @rin-solo for giving me inspiration for some of the days! Until next year (or maybe I’ll do some drawings if folks give me some suggestions :wink:)

[elane-in-the-shadows]

Red Queen Secret Santa 2020: Nightmare (affectionately) - Part 1

A/N: This is my present for @evangeline-of-montfort and the first part of my Evangeline soccer AU! I would’ve liked to wrap it up in one story but I felt to better do the characters justice, I need a few more pages and time to brew over it. Bear with me until the next part arrives, I promise not to make you wait too long.

This idea was largely inspired PVRIS’s recent album Use Me which is why the record is alluded to in the text as I’ll also name-drop all the songs’ titles en passant.

PS: Nightmare is not on the album but a song on PVRIS’s last year’s EP Hallucinations and I couldn’t pass the chance for the wordplay and thus made it the title of whole story.

Happy holidays!

Also on Wattpad and AO3

Part 2

Mare

The chance flashes before me like a lightning strike; not stunning but charging me as Iral passes me the ball and it comes to me. I don’t dribble, don’t let the opponent grasp what I see. I kick immediately to Captain Samos who meets my eye as much as the ball, sharing the moment with me.

Consequently, she evades the opponent’s 9 in a move so simple and elegant as if she were dancing, right before she shoots, still beyond the penalty box yet straight through the gap in the defense and before the goalkeeper can react to prevent our scoring.

Captain Samos roars, once, and so do I. Just as in sync, our team gathers to cheer with her. There I’m slower, keeping it to a half-hearted hug and a few high fives. Still the newbie come from another club, but part of the win.

No time for more connecting when the match goes on and already, the captain emerges from the embrace cluster to shoo her team back into positions. She jerks her chin and a shiver runs down my spine as I realize it’s for me. I don’t know what to make of it. Acknowledgement? Praise? Or rather another, “I’m watching you, Barrow”, as to remind me she is not only the captain, but also the central conductor of the team and no matter how well I filled the same role in my old club’s soccer team, I have no place to challenge Evangeline Samos’s lead.

In the locker room, I wonder if I could’ve passed to another player, and avoid Samos entirely. I couldn’t have made the goal myself from my point, but at least I’d have been recognized for good preparation if Samos’s textbook shoot didn’t grab everyone’s awe by the throat.

She really has enough of that, mine included. Hailing from prestigious families, she’s the star of the Archeon Soccer Club, a talent able to pick pro-team scouts instead of the other way around. But her stardom begins to outshine the rest of the club like we’re the darkness between when –

I startle embarrassingly for a mere hand on my shoulder, a proof my grumbling went too deep when among a group. I can’t help it; I’m frozen even once I’ve turned. Speak of the devil, of course it’s her, the captain.

The perfect and pristine model athlete, from the curve of her thighs, to defined abs and strong arms and not a hair out of place. I’m envious of her magic tricks to fix her hair so short after the match, my short curls would take ages just to get dry.

Not that I intend to bother with her generally elaborate coiffure, with her long ponytail bleached a silvery-white the black roots shift into through carefully dyed, dark-greyish transitions.

She snorts and I cough, finally releasing the breath I’d been holding.

“Good work, Barrow”, she says with a smirk I can’t determine as ironic or genuine which reminds me that I’ve gaped enough. It’s her method, reaching out while never making you sure of your footing, encourage while letting you know her doubts. Like when she offered to drive me to training or matches in her car – our ways overlap expediently – and then never talks with me like I’m not worth the attention.

Too bad I excel at this game as well. A sneer I can return, just like her resolute posture. “I do my best for the team, Captain,” I reply.

She frowns, detecting my tease. Maybe a mistake. Maybe I should bow and flatter to rise in the team but such had never been my strength. I only know success by demanding my due. Now she leans forward, stepping ever closer as if to put me back in place.

When she lays a hand on my chest, I expect her to shove.

I don’t fall back an inch. Only her head inclines to speak in my ear as my heart beats faster with her hand pressing against my collarbones.

“If you want my position, Nightmare,” she whispers, “you’ll have to take it.”

I flinch at the blighting of my name as she shifts aside, smiling sweetly. “Don’t call me that,” I quietly retort, “not among the team.” I’m all too aware of the teammates around us and yet I don’t scan their reactions to our exchange and my hot face. I’ll be glad enough if by tomorrow, not everyone calls me Nightmare.

Her smile doesn’t waver at all. “Sure,” she mouths unperturbed and leaves me standing, back in the game that’s both soccer and not soccer at all.

 Evangeline

On autumn Sunday mornings, I enjoy running at the break of dawn when the streets are so empty as if they belong to me alone. I may exert yet it feels like freedom on my strictly scheduled Sundays. After running comes styling for the nearly endless family brunch with Grandmother Éva and Aunt Sofía, followed by the weekly soccer match, the team meeting aka fastfood feast, and another formal dinner while I’m to excel on all accounts, which is naturally impossible.

Grandmother resents the sportive break in showing me off to Mother’s and Father’s business connections in finance and industry, as I resent missing the team’s more outgoing after-match events. There were …the parties in our lake house but they grew rare since last year, like so much. Formal dinners aren’t what they used to be when hardly anyone besides the most loyal friends attend anymore, and even the brunch is make belief the Samos shipyard isn’t in decline.

Sofía and Grandmother are the worst at it, treating brunch and dinner like a family tradition when it’s always only revolved about the prestige they could reap from the family’s success, having never been their own, but always swept up in the gearing of a company that exclusively demanded from, but not encouraged them.

All they see is more reason for “networking”, as Grandmother, Sofía and my parents call their matchmaking, when my college fund was depleted for my brother and the company, as if they weren’t the ones who decided Tolly is more likely to save the company instead of giving me the chance.

Once more checking my straps, one more breathe before I break into a run. I grind my teeth for the first minute until I get used to the cold and the pace. I endure it, as I endure the stress at home. I welcome the first as a distraction from the latter.

I can’t help resenting the company, can’t ignore my aversion to ever work for it. It is not my brother who I’ll always love more that envy, though nowadays I’m almost glad when he doesn’t come to visit and I suffer our family’s reminiscences of our better times alone. He’s expected to present his efforts at connecting in college which means bringing at potential date for me.

Of course, they never call it that, as if my future lies in marriage, certainly not so soon, but what options do I have when Father won’t give both of us a company to rule? I hear Sofía’s voice and want to scream but the exertion does the job of numbing my anger just as well. Pretending must run in my blood, as Grandmother can also very well feign ignorance if I simply allude to the truth of my romantic intentions.

At least Tolly showed his instincts when such a setup couldn’t be avoided, presenting friends not any more interested in “economically advantageous relationships” than me.

Moments like that remind me how close I’ve always been to Tolly, smiles and eye-rolls our secret language. Without him, I have no ally when I can’t keep a straight face as Father rants about Lesbos and greek politics once more.

Tolly played soccer with me first, passing me the ball I never let go of. We both joined clubs, he for fun and friends, me for passion. And ever-growing ambition.

With our money gone, I’ll need a sports scholarship to study and later get a prestigious job, like a proper Samos. Or I give a fuck about the crumbles of our past glory and seek it by becoming a totally unladylike soccer pro.

Imagining my family’s faces at that news first lets me giggle, then stumble in my tracks, just for a second. If the idea hasn’t been growing more and more serious lately, I would’ve burst out laughing.

Elane certainly would’ve, her chirp-like giggling my favourite melody. The memories of her are those I hold dear, where Father dreams of vanished successes. Hallucinations both.

I take in the sight of the prism of sunrise and wish Elane was still with me. She hated my routine, both for the early hour and the work-out itself, but she’d drive with me one town away from home nonetheless, up to the parking lot before we separate so she could wait for me in a bakery-café, sipping hot chocolate until I was done and could join her for breakfast.

Our only dates not in the dead of night in her garden and yet as much out of sight.

In my now loveless days with her in boarding school in paradise – Finland – I can only imagine the feel of her hand, my hand tracing along her spine. There’s just me, the crisp morning, and the performances ahead of me.

Catching my breath, I finish my lap at my car and don’t want to drive home at all. I want to check on Barrow, my reluctant driving companion living in a village along the way, to invite her to jog with me, or her to invite me to her Sunday morning, to pick on me in her very own way, anything but to crouch back under the dead weight of expectations.

I need several more breaths before the illusions of escape vanish and my lungs relax. I lean back against the car. What a foolish notion – the weight has never left; I only need to wait for the afternoon to pick up Barrow for our match.

It can’t come soon enough, but it will come.

“Good to be alive but I hate my life” – I try to restrain from humming along to the song playing in my car, try to evade Barrow’s glances attempting to figure me out, my choice of music.

“Who can’t relate?”, she says with a shrug. A trace of a smile hides in her face as she settles in, stretching her legs and putting her ankle boots up to the dashboard. She fits there surprisingly well, thanks to her short stature. I faux-glare at her, long used to this display. I can’t refuse her the repose, not when I can hardly find the words when once more, I try to unravel the familiar secret of her perfume.

I could ask, but never do. I could tell so such but stay silent. I keep on pretending yet also want her to see me. It’s tiring to no end and still each small but true guess elates me.

Barrow, on the other hand, remains unknowable to me with her eternal frown. If my resting bitch face is noticed, for good or bad, it’ll always be inferior to Barrow’s. Perfection in its own way; perfection my eyes are ineluctably drawn to at every chance the traffic lets me.

I chew my lips at the next song, with its “love like a loaded gun”, to distract myself from brushing Mare’s hand as I use the hand brake. From laying my hand on her thigh. From –

I catch her gaze and avert it, my heart rushing as I rush back into traffic.

Barrow’s ever-apt perception didn’t miss it, of course not, the same perception that makes her so good a player she desires my position, my rank.

I can’t give it up, not when my future hangs from it, but – if she desired something else –

Foolish. Foolish. I’m sick with yearning from missing my ex-girlfriend and listening to sad sapphic songs that make me long to kiss any girl’s lips –

“Already know how to use me today, Captain?” Barrow breaks into my confusion and I don’t know if I want to thank or throttle her. Use me.

Good we’re just arriving at the club house. I lean back and flash her my widest grin. “I always know what to do with my team. Forgotten the tactic?”

Barrow isn’t intimidated. “Thought you’ve come up with something better by now.”

“Dream on, Nightmare. I’m still the number 10.”

She sighs dramatically. “Too bad I’m an 11.” And then she – we – burst out laughing, our sound both harmonious and discordant, different from Elane and me, but as engrossing. Even when the laughter dies down, the mood lingers and I touch her brown hand before I can stop myself.

“Want to come running with me next week?” I ask and don’t curse myself for it, for once.

She is silent. Ridiculously blinking for seconds as if it’s funny. “Weird way to ask for a date,” she blurts out.

Whatever we had for a few seconds is gone. “Are you fucking joking?”, I spit, my voice low like a hiss.

Her mouth opens and closes, stunned quiet.

I can’t decide whether to berate her or scream at her as calmly explaining how terrible a joke it were is out of the question. “Are you fucking joking?!” I repeat, louder, and finally shame begins to bloom on her face.

If only she took me seriously, she could know it to be true. And yet – how can saying the truth out loud feel so disrespectful? I wish, I wish –

“Gimme a minute,” I mutter and storm out of the car.

I am truly a coward. I don’t speak to her until the match begins.

@lilyharvord @mareshmallow @elliemarchetti @samanthaslytherin @redqueenetwork @farleydiana

[mindifirelax]

Wow.

Just Wow,

Y'know when we started working on this fic together, our expectations on interaction from the fandom was a lot lighter than what we've received. When im working with a client, mixing and mastering, I'm thinking about Underland Chronicles.

People in the booth singing and rapping their heart out and I have another window open, just reading the TUC PDF and looking for detailed thoughts on the lore on Tumblr. I work out with the Return to Regalia podcast on. I didn't think writing the fic with my husband would be anything more than a cute little thing we did together, like when we play DnD with our friends.

Then we started getting comments, people eager to help with editing, kudos and the hits started going into the multiple hundreds. He took it a lot more than I did, cause I didn't know and I didn't understand how a fandom really worked on Tumblr.

But there's so many amazingly talented people on here, that I can't help but feel blessed that they are also TUC Fans, passionate ones. He told me he cried last night when he saw this, and I totally get it.

People are thinking about our boys in the future. Their occupation, what their place is below, it's THAT, that warms my soul the most. That they're engaging enough to think about. I'm just wow.

Thank you, the never ending smile on my husband's face, the pep in his step this morning, the small little humming he does as he gets his breakfast ready for work, his joy, reminds me, why I love him so much, my little goofball. And you gave me that this morning. With a fresh mind and inspiration, I work on Chapter 15, today.

I think of how the wedding went, how Owen is very much a "oh God please small wedding I don't wanna-" but that's not how it goes down here. But as comprise, their ceremony is last. Luxa throws her knights (especially the first ones she's ever dubbed) a beautiful ceremony.

The Campbell's come down. The Underlanders don't grasp the concept of a bestman and stuff but Owen, still dubs Gregor as his.

Grace is a mess, half because she's grown to love and appreciate Owen as one of her own. Half because she knows Gregor's proposal is coming soon, like it has to be right?

She's also a representative when they're asked who is the witness for Owen's marriage. Mareth is Aiden's.

And once again, the camera we all know and remember from book 4-5, returns.

Rirpeds just wanting to get to the feast already. Feeling a little too clean after Luxa demanded he be groomed. He weirdly finds himself Gravitating towards Gregor's dad, needing to find someone else who feels as awkward as he does.

Gregor is just happy for him, feels accomplished, the wedding feels like a farm fresh and ripe fruit of his labor. Oh and he definitely plans on proposing. Hell he'd do it at the ceremony had he not felt it tacky. (Though Owen would absolutely love it)

I could go on and on and on about their wedding. But let's get back to the journey ♥️💜

In love with this picture. Damn near want to get it Pro printed..

Thank you 🫶🏽

“The new recruits start orientation today”

“I’m aware”

“The queen does not wait for anyone.”

“She will wait for me, husband.”

——————

Have y’all checked out @overandunderland’s OC’s yet? Cause Aiden and Owen are giving Greek God (and idiots to lovers) at all times.

The fic isn’t done yet, but they’ve gotta be canon. And obviously they both live happily ever after because nothing bad EVER happens in the Underland. And even after 15 years or so, I imagine they’d still be bickering (in a much more loving way now).

Aiden is not allowed to leave until he pays the kiss tax.

I also am really tempted to color it because I want to show that the sleeves of Owen’s sleep shirt are see through so he can be demure and also remind Aiden that he could beat someone’s ass for him at any time.

[shannaraincorrect]

wil: alright whose turn is it to give a pep talk?

mareth: it's eretria’s turn.

eretria: fuck shit up out there, but don't die.

wil, nodding tearfully: inspirational.

[gigglinggoblin]

I may be comparing apples to oranges here, but it seems like there's at least some parallels between your lovely land of fuckmonsters, and Mareth from Corruption of Champions. Was there any inspiration?

I’ve never read it, though I know vaguely of Fenoxo and their work!

[bluetiefling]

The Shannara Chronicles AU

The children of Queen Mareth and King Wil of Arborlon (2/?) *character descriptions inspired by @beavesaintmarie​ and @loisfreakinglane​

[starbcrn-kids]

unscrxpted​:

Wil blinked, staring after the woman that passed. “Uuhhh…” He looked down at Hannah. “What? What’s happening?” He glanced back at where Ginger had gone, gesturing with his thumb. “Why? Is there a reason?”

Why was he even asking? He should’ve been used to stuff like this, considering Eretria and Mareth. God, when those two got together…

"Ginger is happening," Hannah chuckles. "That was Ginger Kirk, security officer. Constantly trying to outdo herself in every way that pertains to her job to beat the statistic and to find a way to entertain herself. Her dumb ass full-contact spars with the Klingons on the security team-- mind you, in this universe, Klingons inspired the myths of orcs. They're a warrior race that believes in honor and glory and all of them wanna die in battle or viciously murder their opponents. And she fights the ones on our side to get in better physical condition. This usually ends with me repairing a broken bone, to give you an idea of how it's going."

[luridhearts-blog]

        mareth     tags .

[spinachandmushrooms]

Faren Episode 1, Act V

--

Blink.

Blink.

Camera focuses on dark, dirty metal ceiling.  Luna wakes up in a bare-bones cell-looking room with metal walls.  She's in dirty, raggedy clothing that looks to be made of worn cotton.  She sits up and puts her head in her hands.

Luna:  "Time for resolution."

She walks out of her room in to a metal hallway.  Cypress walks out of his room into the same hallway.

Cypress:  "I like it better when we get to solve the problems."

Luna:  "Yeah."

They walk into another small room with a table.  (Maybe like the Battlestar Galactica-ish?) Conor enters.  They each exchange hugs and sit down at the table.

Conor:  "I got it.  Fixed the bug.  We'll change her cocktail and it should fix itself...  Mom and Hannah should be back to breathing and family love, as far as Sina is concerned.  Sorry, guys."

Luna:  "So what was it?"

Conor:  "They were dead."

Cypress:  "Yeah, we got that."

Conor:  "No, I mean..."

Cypress: "Oh."

Conor:  "They died when she was little.  Before she went into Metamorphosis.  They died of malnourishment on their way here.  The programming tried to fix it, you know, but sometimes the mind... you know... knows.  She felt alone.  Even her own mind, her own memories... nothing's as real as real life.  Or so I hear."

Luna:  "It's true."

Conor:  "I think that's just what you tell me so you can keep the sleepovers to yourselves."

Luna:  "Conor, you know that's not true..."

Conor:  "I know, I'm kidding.  Sort of.  It's just hard, you know.  To be the one on the outside."

Cypress:  "We're the ones on the outside.  Yeah, the sleepovers are fun, but you know... seeing murder scenes.... that's when ones and zeros start sounding nice."

Conor:  "I know.  Just, the metal's always shinier on the other side."

The door opens again.  Mareth (someone like Oprah?) enters.  She's dignified and warm.  Dressed like the others, in dirty, ragged clothes, her face is different.  She has a touch of make-up on.  Her hair is up in an elaborate braid up on her head.

Mareth:  "Hey."

They all get up and exchange hugs.

Mareth:  "I hear we fixed things for Sina.  I'm sorry it came out the way it did.  Sometimes the trauma is just too much to overcome.  I think we all know that, in our own ways...  Sina's doing better now.  ... And we'll get through this."

Luna:  "I know."

Conor:  "So?  What's new in Cahrin?"

Mareth, sighs, sits back in her chair:  "Not much.  About as much as is new here, I'd suppose.  Did you guys finish the movie?"  She looks at a TV/VCR in the corner.

Cypress:  "Got through the last of it a few days ago and Conor won't stop quoting it.  I don't know how he memorizes things so fast."

Mareth:  "Well, I don't know, either, but it's sure a blessing to us all.  So... what do we have coming up while I'm here this week?  Any more people we need to look in on?  We've only 5 years, 4 months, and 23 days until it's time to wake everyone up and learn what it's like to flourish again.  We need to make sure they keep learning how."

Conor:  "So no new assignments from you?"

(look through window at people in pods that glow white lining a dark hallway as far as the eye can see)

Mareth:  "None from me."

Conor:  "Well, there are a few lulls in energy that we could look into, but most seratonin levels are right where we want them and none are in a danger zone right now."

(camera back to room)

Mareth walks behind Luna and Cypress and puts a hand on each of their shoulders.

Mareth:  "Perfect.  It's all so... If I had known 20 years ago..."

Cypress:   "Oh, don't start."

Luna, *imitating voice*:  "Each of you, so beautiful and energetic, beacons of light in a dark world. *regular voice*  You know, for a world without much in the way of culture, you sure manage to be poetic all the time."

Mareth:  "I'm not allowed to love my little family?"

Cypress:  "Not if you're going to embarrass us."

Mareth, goes back to chair:  "In front of whom?  Please.  Let me love you.  The universe gave us to each other just when I thought there was no such thing as hope.  Your parents didn't make it into the city before the process.  After it began and the Grand Union put me in charge of the Northwestern Union of Cities, there was.... between the cities, there were bodies... so many bodies... of people who didn't make it to Faren... starved on the way... and each of you..."

Luna:  "An answer to a prayer, we know."

Conor:  "You know we love you, Mareth."

Mareth:  "But you're too young to know the joy of bragging about your children and, well, who can I brag to?  You don't get to hear me go on about you in Cahrin and Phlora.  Anyway, I gotta make sure you can tell this story to your kids, once this world gets big and wide again.  I would have been so alone as caretaker and you know there isn't enough help to go around between the cities.  That y'all run Faren?  It's perfect.  I get to show you how it was before your parents passed and how it can be again.  We take care of everyone here."

Conor:  "Sometimes I wish I could go into a cocoon."

(glance back at window to pods --cocoons-- for beat)

Cypress:  "It's pretty nice.  But you'd be one of the crazy ones, you know it."

Conor:  "Hardly!"

Luna:  "I wonder if we all go crazy, it's just a matter of when."

Mareth:  "Luna!"

Luna:  "I just mean... I know why.  The Earth needs to recover.  And this way, everyone is happy until it does.  I just think... I mean, what is happiness?  It doesn't last."

Mareth:  "Baby, that's not true.  Someday you won't have to leave the comfort of a warm bed.  We'll build a better world once the soil is replenished and the vegetation comes back.  This will all be worth it.  Until then, you can keep dipping your toes in."

Conor:  "Speak for yourself."

Mareth:  "Conor, come now.  Your brain makes all of this possible!  You help us find them when they're sick and fix the unhappy minds.  When we go back out there, we'll be going back out there as a society of mentally well people.  We won't make the same mistakes that our forefathers did.  We'll build up from the cities and you'll all get to be a part of it... on the front lines of rebuilding the real Faren."

Luna: "I know, I know.  It's just... it stops sounding inspiring after a while, you know?  I know we're so close to going back outside, but I don't even remember that world.  It's hard to hope for it."

Pull out through rows of cocoons, brightly lit pods lining a seemingly never-ending tunnel that leads into a dark hole who-knows-how-far-out.

Voice over, Mareth:  "I know, baby.  Hope can hard to see, but there is always light at the end of the tunnel.

End of episode 1

[allanonxmareth]

A piece of headcanon I just typed out elsewhere:

Elves in the Shannara world, even if they're not magic users, always have a bit of magic in them because of their Fae heritage. Maybe different from the more active Druid/Demon (Word/Void) magic, but some kind of residue of power. So I think that as a magic-sensitive Druid, Allanon just has this baseline attraction to Elves or anyone with Elven blood. It doesn't always come out, and maybe Pyria was the only one he was ever with, but when he's in close proximity with Elves, it's just something he notices. And something that really... affects him. It makes Elves quite literally delicious to him. Their scent, the taste of skin, body fluids...

[elane-in-the-shadows]

Red Queen Fan Fiction: Nightmare (affectionately) - Part 2

A/N: This is the second part of my Evangeline soccer AU for @evangeline-of-montfort. I hope the waiting is worth it and I’m sorry for the delay.

This idea was largely inspired PVRIS’s recent album Use Me which is why the record is alluded to in the text as I’ll also name-drop all the songs’ titles en passant.

PS: Nightmare is not on the album but a song on PVRIS’s last year’s EP Hallucinations and I couldn’t pass the chance for the wordplay and thus made it the title of whole story.

Also on Wattpad and AO3

Part 1

Mare

The kick-off whistle reverberates through my body but as much as I crave the sound, my strides, or the action of the match to drown it out, none can stop to hammering of my heart.

My last exchange with the captain in her car returns to pierce me at any moment I’m not preoccupied. So I provide just that, focus on all I can achieve for the team in this match. See every player, sense the ball like a part of my body, anticipate its movements.

And yet, Evangeline Samos remains a presence in the back of my mind, like I’m tethered and drawn to her by a golden cord.

Captain Evangeline Samos cannot but stay gold. The star of the soccer team, the top of the science classes, the daughter of prestigious families with at least half a dozen college and sport scouts vying for her, likely proud to award themselves brownie points for her japanese-greek origins by recruiting her. Even her art class projects – ambiguous metal sculptures – make it into school exhibitions. She’s so perfect she’s asking for resent.

She doesn’t appear to care about that, of course, as to be expected of any high school queen bee worth her rank. Indeed, she might just see it as preparation for a career in a similarly socially mined field. And thus, I’m glad to be of service to rile her.

Though it shouldn’t rile me so hard, when she’s a year above me. Maybe it’s like my siblings use to say, I’m born to be a thorn in someone’s side. A nightmare, they tease, just what Samos has begun to call me, like a lure I can’t withstand.

If she likes a fight, I grew up on it. What fell into her lap, I had to work for. While she runs and brunches on her Sunday mornings, I look after my impaired Dad as Mom works at the factory. Even her shifts as supervisor aren’t enough to secure college for me. My brother Shade is the first in our family to try and he still complied with the quite average and inexpensive college in the next city.

If I want more, putting my advanced science classes to use for an engineering career, I need the scholarship scouts the captain is so keen to flirt with although she already has every chance in the world at her hand while I’ll need luck to grasp any.

“It could be worse,” Mom would say at times and hug me. I know. I know. Mom immigrated from Mexico as a teen and only gained US-american citizenship as an adult, so my siblings and I could have it easier here from birth. And my parents are proud of me as I am. But there’s no such as wanting too much for me. Can’t I not strive for the best just because?

I curse under my breath as Iral runs offside just when I kick the ball to her; and curse again when the captain loses a vital duel. I’m not demure or silent, not a nice and friendly girl moving smoothly forward without getting seen. I’m raw and full of edges and I’ll use them to climb up – but they make it so hard to enter the soft realms of cliques.

I miss the old team I grew up with and as I struggle to fit in the new, all I’ve got is to give my best, snort and keep running.

Captain Samos, though, does not acquiesce, as if her coolness turned into ice, brittle and stiff. Almost as if she invites me to usurp her place like she told to me last week. I can’t believe the mess she’s making. When she misses a pass and viciously fouls an opponent, the whole team is left aghast and frozen at the shrill whistle from the referee.

She takes the red cart with dignity, throwing back her head and managing to look both subdued and upright as she exits the field and hands Goalkeeper Welle the captain’s ribbon. Her gaze falls on me as we cross. I don’t hear what she whispers but it’s obvious enough – your turn.

I don’t enjoy it, that’s not my place. Yet I make damn sure that we win this match.

Afterwards, the surge of victorious joy stays curbed. It is there, a new level of certainty, of belonging, holding me up and in the team, which, I believe, should leave me euphoric before it settles in like a new normal. I didn’t expect Samos to make me deputy captain, but in this moment, I believe I could be, one day. Still, on the way to the locker room, I brush it aside because my eyes cleave to Evangeline.

She likely received our coach’s scolding already but must be preparing for more – from the teammates. Even if they’re all besties.

Suddenly, my outsider-who-doesn’t-give-a-shit-instincts kick in again. Before I go in to change, I take her by the arm and pull her away, outside.

The late October sky is cold slap without the exertion to warm me but I don’t care. I need this. I need the cold to focus. I need to face her. I –

“Do you want to chide or to gloat?” After coming along easily, Samos’s snap is a lash.

I flinch and let go of her. “I wanted to apologize,” I say.

Her dark eyes burn, from anger or tears I can’t decide. “Now you want to apologize? When I’m down and you’re on the rise?”

Whatever broke loose in her, I feel it as well. “Oh, is that a new feeling for you? Welcome to my life! No matter what you were told, you can’t have everything, Evangeline Samos, so get used to it.”

She sucks in her breath like this hits her harder than anything. She’s taken aback, shocked, enraged, I can’t say, as I can’t say what she’ll do. Hit me, shove me, scream out loud? But then she simply steps back and spins around, as if it – I’m – is not worth it, not worthy to know what she feels. And for me it feels impossible to agree with this, to let her leave as a stranger and never cross the rift between us when I know in my veins the bridge is already there.

I grab her hand and hold her back. She is shivering, I notice, and it’s infective, although mine has another reason than hers. Every time we touch, even by glances, she wakes something in me I no longer wish to ignore and let sleep.

-       “Want to come running with me next week?”

-       “Weird way to ask for a date.”

“I wasn’t joking,” I whisper to her back. Deep down, it was both and that shames me. A hurtful joke as well as a dare that I hoped she’d accept so she could show me what to do.

It was mean, and coward. I swallow and, trembling, my arm moves to embrace her from behind, uncertain how tight or close I may go. “Evangeline,” I whisper, and this time, speaking her first name leaves my tongue bewitched.

I need a moment to try again. “I’d like …” I start but am too exhilarated to continue.

It’s of no consequence, because Evangeline both turns and leans into my feeble embrace, and makes it real by it. No matter her sorry performance in the game, she’s on the offensive now, as she kisses me.

 Evangeline

January rain prattles against the windows of the lake house. I watch the raindrops fall into the water, leaning back in my sunchair and stretching out my bare legs, their summer tan slowly fading to dark beige, glad to be inside and for the coffee in my hands.

“What a grey day,” mutters Mare as she sneaks in and puts our brunch on the table. She’s not quiet about it, though efficient, shoving clutter aside and dropping bread rolls on plates, lastly tossing her wet coat out of the way.

We can afford to, now, and here. Unlike before, this brunch is wholly ours. Private. Alone. Without family attending. The first time we did this I couldn’t believe it’d be so easy, just not to give my Sundays to my family. With Mare at my back, I made this space for me, for us, by taking it.

My gaze follows her motions and soon hers traces mine when I rise and step to the table. The difference is stunning: Me in the revealing but comfortable black nightgown, she in wet and loose jeans. I wonder if she’d like a warming hug. Or the trousers out of the way entirely.

She snaps out of her stare, tucking her chin-long browns curls behind her ear. “There’re cakes as well,” she mumbles and proceeds to place the mouth-watering cherry- and hazelnut cakes, more careful this time while avoiding my eyes.

I see enough of her though. Her blushing cheeks. How she bites her lips. I grab her wrist before she runs off any further. “Thank you, Nightmare,” I say softly as she gives up to hide her smile.

Mare falls on a chair, sighing and covering her face with her hands. “… that you really turned that into a pet name,” she says. She straightens to cross her arms and brown eyes fix me.

I set down my coffee with a clank, trying to subdue my smirk. “It is a reminder,” I say in a neutral voice and close the little distance she put between us. I cup the nape of her neck with my hand. “That you aren’t an unattainable fantasy I dreamt of.” She leans back into my hold. “But real. And here.”

“And a nuisance?” she asks softly, the challenge in her voice swallowed by her trembling – that she stills trembles at my touch! – lips, full lips I long to kiss like nothing else, to test if they taste better than the delicacies she brought.

I grin with a headshake, letting my hair sway. “The best kind of nuisance. The one who succeeds.”

Now it’s her who pulls closer.

 Eventually, Mare did get rid of the jeans, to sit crossed-legged on the couch to multitask between eating and doing homework on her tablet while I sit beside her, my feet against her thighs. The food is enough for me as she does physics again, reminding me of our earlier afternoons of learning together when she was still undecided whether to go into engineering. A surprising mutual interest of ours. Mare is certain now, ambitious to take a leading position in the industry where her mother had to work her way in step by step, and only got so far.

We shared a lot of worries and hopes, as well as family memories and secrets in the last months, ignorant of how much we had in common and where we diverged for real, or where we erred about the other. Unlike my former Sunday circles, Mare wasn’t diplomatic about it and I fell for that as hard as I fell for her. She has the teeth to fight but for me, they’ve been a blessing. I want to warn her sometimes, against the industrial high society I hail from and she intends to enter. They’re not more refined, certainly not better than anyone else, but believing themselves so rather makes them – us – worse.

“Captain?”

“What?” I startle, then roll my eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“And I told you not to call me Nightmare.” She frowns. “I’ve asked about geothermic efficiency factors twice now and you said nothing.”

I grimace. “Yeah, well …” But I fall silent.

“Well, what?”

I open my mouth, sigh, shake my head. Finally, I pull my legs back and straighten my posture. I take a sip of juice, Mare’s full attention grazing my neck. “About that. I let it slide.”

Before more exclaims of confusion rain down, I stare her down and go on. “I’ve decided to sign with a professional team. I’ll start training with them in spring, so.” I shrug.

Mare is completely stunned. “Wow,” she gasps, then smiles all over her face and embraces in a flash. “Captain, I mean, Eve, just, wow.”

I squeeze back, once, but can’t let go. I hold her closer and closer, drinking in her reaction and basking in her support. It takes an age before we break apart and still I want to hold her. My fingers trace her cheek, playing with her hair. “So you see,” I mumble, “I can’t be your captain for much longer.”

“Sure, but …” Although she’s happy for me, she’s struggling to grasp the whole of it. Pursuing a sports career wasn’t a main possibility I considered, not even with her. The weight of it hits me again, sobering me too much for more caresses.

“You were right,” I say, fumbling with my ponytail. “I could be anything. Do everything. So, I realized I should do exactly that: Go for everything and gamble. Start anew and work myself up from scratch, even if I could fail. Take the risky way instead of the straight one.”

Mare can’t help chuckling at that, and neither can I. Before I notice, my resolved declaration is over and Mare takes me in her arms again. “I wish you well, Eve.” My name in her mouth feels like the touch of a feather. “All the best.”

My head leans back on her shoulder as I take her hand. Elane and I, our love was always like a whisper in the moonlight. But Mare is like a lightning strike. She could be the death of me as well as a challenge. Energizing. Illuminating. And powerful all on her own.

I’m tired of fearing to touch old wounds I’ve gathered by wanting to be myself. Even if it hurts, I’ll open up and unfold the person I can be.

 @lilyharvord @mareshmallow @samanthaslytherin @elliemarchetti @farleydiana @percelain-doll