#faeries never lie: tales to revel in

[clockworkbee]

Faeries Never Lie: Tales to Revel In will have a story about Heather from the tfota trilogy by Holly Black!

[richincolor]

We've got six new releases on our radar this week! Which ones do you want to check out?

Aisle Nine by Ian X. Cho HarperCollins

It’s Black Friday—and the apocalypse is on sale! Ever since the world filled with portals to hell and bloodthirsty demons started popping out on the reg, Jasper’s life has gotten worse and worse. A teenage nobody with no friends or family, he is plagued by the life he can’t remember and the person he’s sure he’s supposed to be. Jasper spends his days working as a checkout clerk at the Here for You discount mart, where a hell portal in aisle nine means danger every shift. But at least at the mart he can be near his crush, Kyle Kuan, a junior member of the monster-fighting Vanguard, though Kyle really seems to hate Jasper for reasons he doesn’t remember or understand. But when Jasper and Kyle learn they both share a frightening vision of the impending apocalypse, they’re forced to team up and uncover the uncomfortable truth about the hell portals and the demons that haunt the world. Because the true monsters are not always what they seem, the past is not always what we wish, and like it or not, on Black Friday, all hell will break loose starting in aisle nine. Perfect for fans of Grasshopper Jungle or The Last of Us comes Aisle Nine, the debut young adult novel from rising YA star Ian X. Cho.

A Constellation of Minor Bears by Jen Ferguson Heartdrum

Award-winning author Jen Ferguson has written a powerful story about teens grappling with balancing resentment with enduring friendship—and how to move forward with a life that’s not what they’d imagined. Before that awful Saturday, Molly used to be inseparable from her brother, Hank, and his best friend, Tray. The indoor climbing accident that left Hank with a traumatic brain injury filled Molly with anger. While she knows the accident wasn’t Tray’s fault, she will never forgive him for being there and failing to stop the damage. But she can’t forgive herself for not being there either. Determined to go on the trio’s post-graduation hike of the Pacific Crest Trail, even without Hank, Molly packs her bag. But when her parents put Tray in charge of looking out for her, she is stuck backpacking with the person who incites her easy anger. Despite all her planning, the trail she’ll walk has a few more twists and turns ahead. . . .

Faeries Never Lie: Tales to Revel In edited by Zoraida Córdova and Natalie C. Parker Feiwel & Friends

Faeries Never Lie, the next young adult collection in the Untold Legends series edited by Zoraida Córdova and Natalie C. Parker, is filled with fourteen short stories to revel in, that center faeries of varying genders and cultures! There’s something to be said for starting your first day in faerie boarding school, for chasing a faerie through Chang’an during the Tang Dynasty, for searching for the missing part of your throuple who may have run away with a faerie prince, for descending into madness after spending countless nights plagued by the same faerie dream—and much more. Fly into this revelry filled with tricksters, lovers, monsters, and the like, in this exciting collection for those who love faeries and those who are experiencing them for the first time! Edited by Zoraida Córdova and Natalie C. Parker, Faeries Never Lie features short stories from beloved authors Nafiza Azad, Holly Black, Dhonielle Clayton, Christine Day, Chloe Gong, Tessa Gratton, Kwame Mbalia, Ryan La Sala, L.L. McKinney, Anna-Marie McLemore, Kaitlyn Sage Patterson, Rory Power.

Flamboyants: The Queer Harlem Renaissance I Wish I'd Known written by George M. Johnson & illustrated by Charly Palmer Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)

From the New York Times–bestselling author of All Boys Aren’t Blue comes an empowering set of essays about Black and Queer icons from the Harlem Renaissance. In Flamboyants, George M. Johnson celebrates writers, performers, and activists from 1920s Black America whose sexualities have been obscured throughout history. Through 14 essays, Johnson reveals how American culture has been shaped by icons who are both Black and Queer – and whose stories deserve to be celebrated in their entirety. Interspersed with personal narrative, powerful poetry, and illustrations by award-winning illustrator Charly Palmer, Flamboyants looks to the past for understanding as to how Black and Queer culture has defined the present and will continue to impact the future. With candid prose and an unflinching lens towards truth and hope, George M. Johnson brings young adult readers an inspiring collection of biographies that will encourage teens today to be unabashed in their layered identities.

The Hysterical Girls of St. Bernadette's by Hanna Alkaf Salaam Reads / Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers

For over a hundred years, girls have fought to attend St. Bernadette’s, with its reputation for shaping only the best and brightest young women. Unfortunately, there is also the screaming. When a student begins to scream in the middle of class, a chain reaction starts that impacts the entire school. By the end of the day, seventeen girls are affected—along with St. Bernadette’s stellar reputation. Khadijah’s got her own scars to tend to, and watching her friends succumb to hysteria only rips apart wounds she’d rather keep closed. But when her sister falls to the screams, Khad knows she’s the only one who can save her. Rachel has always been far too occupied trying to reconcile her overbearing mother’s expectations with her own secret ambitions to pay attention to school antics. But just as Rachel finds her voice, it turns into screams. Together, the two girls find themselves digging deeper into the school’s dark history, hunting for the truth. Little do they know that a specter lurks in the darkness, watching, waiting, and hungry for its next victim…

Payal Mehta's Romance Revenge Plot by Preeti Chhibber Kokila

This laugh-out-loud debut romance introduces perfectly imperfect Payal Mehta, whose plan to get her long-time crush to finally notice her is destined for success, but only if she ignores her budding feelings for her archnemesis... Payal Mehta has had a crush on popular, athletic, all-around perfect Jonathan Slate ever since he smiled at her in freshman–year Spanish class. At a party during spring break of her junior year, Payal finally works up the courage to ask Jon to hang out. However, her romantic plans are derailed when he vomits on her Keds. Twice. But when Jon offers to take her out to lunch as an apology, Payal is convinced this is the start of their love story. Over chalupas and burritos at Taco Bell, Payal's best jokes are landing as planned. Jon is basically choking on his Coke—and then it happens. "Do you have a boyfriend?" Payal is (finally) about to get the guy. And then he tries to set her up with his Indian friend. Payal's best friends, Neil Patel and Divya Bhatt, are just as mad about the microaggression as Payal is, but they think she’s a little too hung up on him. Determined to teach Jon a lesson by making him fall for her, Payal ropes in her archnemesis, Philip Kim, to help by ceding creative control over their psych project. It’s the perfect plan. Minus Philip’s snarky, annoying quips and lack of faith in its success. But as Payal lies to the people she loves, hides the too-Indian parts of herself in front of her crush, and learns that maybe Philip isn't the worst, she starts to wonder if what she's been looking for has been scowling at her all along...

[battyaboutbooksreviews]

💖 Sapphic Books Coming Out September 2024

🩷 It's Sapphic September!! There's something especially sweet about a sapphic romance. Here are only a few of the amazing sapphic books hitting shelves in September 2024.

💖 Which ones are you adding to your TBR?

Contemporary 💖 The View from the Top - Rachel Lacey 💖 The Seemingly Impossible Love Life of Amanda Dean - Ann Rose 💖 I'll Get Back to You - Becca Grischow 💖 Back to Belfast - Emma L McGeown 💖 The Lovers - Rebekah Faubion 💖 Perfect - Kris Bryant 💖 Rabbit & Juliet - Rebecca Stafford 💖 Saving Graces - Ruby Landers 💖 All Daughters Are Awesome Everywhere - DeMisty D. Bellinger 💖 Superficial - Diane Billas 💖 Wild Wales - Patricia Evans Cox 💖 The Dating Countdown - N.G. Peltier 💖 Exposure - Nicole Disney & Kimberly Cooper Griffin 💖 Royal Expectations - Jenny Frame 💖 Fire Fall - JD Glass 💖 Love and Sportsball - Meka James

Paranormal/Horror 💖 The Hunter's Gambit - Ciel Pierlot 💖 We Came to Welcome You - Vincent Tirado 💖 Lucy Undying - Kiersten White 💖 How to Survive a Horror Movie - Scarlett Dunmore 💖 To the Bone - Alena Bruzas 💖 The Beauty of Us - Farzana Doctor 💖 Old Wounds - Logan-Ashley Kisner 💖 Touch of Death - Taylor Munsell This World Is Not Yours - Kemi Ashing-Giwa

Fantasy 💖 The Gods Below - Andrea Stewart 💖 Shadow Rider - Gina L. Dartt 💖 A Dark and Drowning Tide - Allison Saft 💖 The Cottage Around the Corner - D.L. Soria 💖 Night Owls - A.R. Vishny 💖 Spells to Forget Us - Aislinn Brophy 💖 This Will Be Fun - E.B. Asher 💖 The Tapestry of Time - Kate Heartfield 💖 Hunt of Her Own - Elena Abbott 💖 Pathways: Chronicles of Tuvana - Elaine Tipping 💖 Faeries Never Lie: Tales to Revel In - Various

Historical 💖 The Duke's Sister and I - Emma-Claire Sunday 💖 The Butcher's Daughter - Corinne Leigh Clark & David Demchuk

Mystery/Thriller 💖 Everything Glittered - Robin Talley 💖 The Breakdown - Ronica Black 💖 Jones - Gerri Hill 💖 Stone Cold Secrets - Nance Newman

Sci-Fi 💖 Countess - Suzan Palumbo 💖 Tribute - L.M. Rose 💖 In the Shadow of the Ship - Aliette de Bodard 💖 Rumor Has It - Cat Rambo

[godzilla-reads]

Mid-Year Book Freak Out

@a-ramblinrose tagged me in this!

Number of Books You've Read So Far

76 Books <3

Best Book You've Read So Far in 2024

"Where the Mountain Meets the Moon" by Grace Lin

Best Sequel You've Read So Far in 2024

"What Feasts at Night" by T. Kingfisher

New Release You Haven't Read Yet But Want To

"The Familiar" by Leigh Bardugo

Most Anticipated Release for the Second Half of the Year

"Faeries Never Lie: Tales to Revel In" edited by Zoraida Cordova and Natalie C. Parker

Biggest Surprise Favorite New Author (Debut or New to You)

T. Kingfisher

Newest Fictional Crush

I don't crush on book characters often , but maybe Caiman from Dorohedoro?

Book That Made You Cry

"The Chromatic Fantasy" by H.A.

Most Beautiful Book You Bought So Far This Year (Or Received)

"A Frog in the Fall (And Later On)" by Linnea Sterte

Book That Made You Happy

"The Door in the Hedge" by Robin McKinley

What Books Do You Need to Read by the End of the Year?

"Tehanu" by Ursula K. Le Guin

Tagging: @the-forest-library @introvertia @sunday-brunch @a-chorus-of-storytellers

[cruelprincae]

Faeries Never Lie: Tales To Revel In is out and I'm frothing in the mouth

[wildhawthorne]

“but they say if you dream a thing more than once, it’s sure to come true...”

aurelius hawthorne. rory. head groundskeeper. 220. halfling. sub versatile.

It was a dark and cold night, the night when Aurelius was found. The cry of a child breaking through the howling wind, a storm brewing. The poor creature shivered in the embrace of a beautiful woman. Bare from the waist up, her clothes wrapped around the child in a desperate attempt to guard him from the cold. It was a farmer who found them both on his way back home, taking them in just in time to know the tragic tale of a young mother who had nowhere else in the world to go. Dead to her family for bearing a child out of wedlock, not one penny to her name. She tried to push her way through the storm, find a place where they could sleep. Unfortunately, her hope died out just as frostbite began to coat her fingers. That’s when the farmer found them, with the girl doing her best to give her child a few more minutes to be found and survive. 

By the next morning, the farmer and his wife gave her a proper burial, not without taking to heart her last wish. They’d raise the child as their own, with the name of the man who took her heart and ran away with it: Aurelius.

The baby grew up to be a happy child, not once questioning the life he had been given. What had been the product of a love affair between a lovestruck maiden and an unseelie faerie who never intended to be a husband or a father, now lived the life of a human child. A hard-working son of farmers with an unusual resistance to pain or cold. No one knew what his deal was exactly, not even Aurelius - or Rory, as he came to be known - but they loved him regardless. He was humble, generous, playful, and all the beauty within him reflected on the outside, as the boy grew up to be a charming man with princely features.

Even with the happy life he had been offered, though, there was an odd dissatisfaction in Rory’s head. He knew he was not like the rest. He could hear, see, feel things that the others couldn’t. He rarely got sick, and healed from any cut or bruise he got within minutes, if not seconds. He knew it was not normal, even if he couldn’t pin down the reasons behind it. He’d think about it at night, once he couldn’t occupy his head with anything else, only to close his eyes and let himself forget about it. He had a happy life, and at the end of the day, that was all that mattered.

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the case for long.

One day, Aurelius didn’t make it back home from the field. Before he could do anything to resist, the young farmer was taken away from his home. Taken away from everything he knew, from everything he loved, and tossed into the bleak darkness of a castle. His freedom had been taken away, but not his spirit. He did not yell, he did not fight. He cried though, he cried every single night, once he could be by himself in bed and break down without consequences. He went along with everything he was told - not for pleasure, but for the chance at survival. Not to mention that his capture brought along an answer he had asked for throughout his entire life. When the time came to collar him, he was told that he was not a simple human, but rather a halfling. He had faerie blood within him.

The circumstances that came along with the revelation of his origin did not make it easy to take in. Aurelius’ entire life was a lie, and he could not even go back home and confront his parents about it. He was not angry, he couldn’t be angry with the people who devoted their lives to make him happy, but it was just…did they know? Were they hiding it from him? Why would they do so? He had an answer, but so many more questions had come along. 

For years, for decades, Aurelius went on servicing masters, some rougher than others. Some left him a mess of tears and blood, but others…particularly one, made Aurelius feel more like a prince than a slave. The loving words, the tender touches, the aftercare talks that would last for hours and end in Rory sleeping in the arms of the master rather than head back to his lonely futon. It turned out the master was a baobhan sith - the hybrid of a faerie and a vampire - so it was him who finally gave Aurelius some information about himself. He learned about his abilities, the courts, every answer that was within the master’s reach.

Eventually, the kind master claimed Aurelius, purchasing his freedom soon after. Having gained the closest thing to freedom made the halfling happy…or as happy as he hadn’t been in years. His light had dimmed, he was certainly not the same compared to the cheerful farmer that once inhabited him once. He was older, but not broken. With the chance to finally leave the Undercroft, he took a spot as groundskeeper of the castle, thankful he could once again feel the grass and dirt in his hands. He worked diligently, eventually earning a place as Head Groundskeeper. Life was not what it had been for poor Rory, but it was as good as he could make it.

Positive Traits: Kind, courageous, romantic. Negative Traits: Apprehensive, sensitive, withdrawn. 3 turn-ons: Praising, foreplay, rimming (giving and receiving). 3 turn-offs: Watersports, scat, vore.

[krovscastlerpg]

Aurelius "Rory" Hawthorne | Staff | 280 | Halfling | Versatile

“But they say if you dream a thing more than once, it’s sure to come true...”

It was a dark and cold night, the night when Aurelius was found. The cry of a child breaking through the howling wind, a storm brewing. The poor creature shivered in the embrace of a beautiful woman. Bare from the waist up, her clothes wrapped around the child in a desperate attempt to guard him from the cold. It was a farmer who found them both on his way back home, taking them in just in time to know the tragic tale of a young mother who had nowhere else in the world to go. Dead to her family for bearing a child out of wedlock, not one penny to her name. She tried to push her way through the storm, find a place where they could sleep. Unfortunately, her hope died out just as frostbite began to coat her fingers. That’s when the farmer found them, with the girl doing her best to give her child a few more minutes to be found and survive. 

By the next morning, the farmer and his wife gave her a proper burial, not without taking to heart her last wish. They’d raise the child as their own, with the name of the man who took her heart and ran away with it: Aurelius.

The baby grew up to be a happy child, not once questioning the life he had been given. What had been the product of a love affair between a lovestruck maiden and an unseelie faerie who never intended to be a husband or a father, now lived the life of a human child. A hard-working son of farmers with an unusual resistance to pain or cold. No one knew what his deal was exactly, not even Aurelius - or Rory, as he came to be known - but they loved him regardless. He was humble, generous, playful, and all the beauty within him reflected on the outside, as the boy grew up to be a charming man with princely features.

Even with the happy life he had been offered, though, there was an odd dissatisfaction in Rory’s head. He knew he was not like the rest. He could hear, see, feel things that the others couldn’t. He rarely got sick, and healed from any cut or bruise he got within minutes, if not seconds. He knew it was not normal, even if he couldn’t pin down the reasons behind it. He’d think about it at night, once he couldn’t occupy his head with anything else, only to close his eyes and let himself forget about it. He had a happy life, and at the end of the day, that was all that mattered.

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the case for long.

One day, Aurelius didn’t make it back home from the field. Before he could do anything to resist, the young farmer was taken away from his home. Taken away from everything he knew, from everything he loved, and tossed into the bleak darkness of a castle. His freedom had been taken away, but not his spirit. He did not yell, he did not fight. He cried though, he cried every single night, once he could be by himself in bed and break down without consequences. He went along with everything he was told - not for pleasure, but for the chance at survival. Not to mention that his capture brought along an answer he had asked for throughout his entire life. When the time came to collar him, he was told that he was not a simple human, but rather a halfling. He had faerie blood within him.

The circumstances that came along with the revelation of his origin did not make it easy to take in. Aurelius’ entire life was a lie, and he could not even go back home and confront his parents about it. He was not angry, he couldn’t be angry with the people who devoted their lives to make him happy, but it was just…did they know? Were they hiding it from him? Why would they do so? He had an answer, but so many more questions had come along. 

For years, for decades, Aurelius went on servicing masters, some rougher than others. Some left him a mess of tears and blood, but others…particularly one, made Aurelius feel more like a prince than a slave. The loving words, the tender touches, the aftercare talks that would last for hours and end in Rory sleeping in the arms of the master rather than head back to his lonely futon. It turned out the master was a baobhan sith - the hybrid of a faerie and a vampire - so it was him who finally gave Aurelius some information about himself. He learned about his abilities, the courts, every answer that was within the master’s reach.

Eventually, the kind master claimed Aurelius, purchasing his freedom soon after. Having gained the closest thing to freedom made the halfling happy…or as happy as he hadn’t been in years. His light had dimmed, he was certainly not the same compared to the cheerful farmer that once inhabited him once. He was older, but not broken. With the chance to finally leave the Undercroft, he took a spot as groundskeeper of the castle, thankful he could once again feel the grass and dirt in his hands. He worked diligently, eventually earning a place as Head Groundskeeper. Life was not what it had been for poor Rory, but it was as good as he could make it.

Positive Traits: Kind, courageous, romantic.

Negative Traits: Apprehensive, sensitive, withdrawn.

3 turn-ons: Praising, foreplay, rimming (giving and receiving).

3 turn-offs: Watersports, scat, vore.

[cruelprincae]

There were times ― the majority of which was when he was significantly smaller ― that Cardan would think there was nothing he wouldn't give to have a family like Lorraine's; for a mother that cooed, hugged, cared, and adored him the way this woman of clay did for her daughter instead of trying to appeal to his mother's cruel nature just to get the smallest nod of contempt and approval. As a Faerie, growing up he was taught to think himself better than the inferior, insignificant humans, with their fragile minds and decaying skin and bones that could be grind to ash with a mere squeeze of a Folk's hand ― and yet, the humans never have to beg their parents for a ghost of a touch, of attention, of love they would never receive. They are just handed over to them without a second thought, without them having to even ask; how is that fair ?

Black eyes, ringed with gold around the irises fall upon the framed picture on the coffee table, of a little brunette girl seated upon what appears to be a set of wooden swings. Lady Asha would have laughed herself hoarse at the mere thought of having to tend to her own son like that ― she would have laughed some more at the suggestion that her son was anything remotely special to her and then return to the revel she was attending, leaving Cardan to sleep forgotten in the royal stables, lullabied by the huffs and grunts of steeds and the croaks of frogs. I would like to be in a picture like that, he thinks but quickly brushes the shameful thought aside like it's a burning rod of iron. Instead, his thumb toys with the rings on his index finger as he takes another sip of the steaming beverage in its inconspicuous mug.

❛ I do not. ❜ He answers, for this is no lie; He doesn't have a family, not since his eldest brother slaughtered the majority of it out of greed, out of hunger for the crown resting upon their father's head ― a crown he didn't intend to give to him but rather, his second eldest son, Dain. ❛ Most of them have been disposed of. But even if they weren't, It would be a lie to say I had a good relationship with them ― or any at all. ❜ As Cardan speaks, his voice is flat and dry, as though he is talking about something as common as the weather.

Born into a family overburdened with heirs, to a father who ignored him and a mother that cared for little more than chasing after her own comfort and pleasure, it's safe to say that Cardan doesn't exactly hold the most tender of feelings ( if any ) towards his family. Be it that Faerie don't love the way humans do, or simply because his heart has finally hardened into stone like the prince from the tale Aslog narrated to him when he was little, the Prince has little care for the way his family has ended ― with his mother imprisoned into a tower there is no escape from, his father, brother and eldest sister executed by the hands of their eldest brother and the remaining two of his sisters opting to end their own lives rather than putting the crown on his brother's head. Although all of their deaths have played right before his eyes like a cacophony of a theater act, Cardan can't seem to find it within himself to mourn for either of those people ― except for his sister, Rhyia; if he's to search deep within his shabby, worm-eaten and scabrous heart, there is a tremendously small, barely there pang of anger, of pain, for how her story has reached an abrupt, ungraceful ending. Out of all his siblings, he liked her best. Alas, the Fae doubts that Lorraine's family means as little to her as his means to himself ― or perhaps, the Fae wine still hasn't worn off from his system for him to process all that has been said and done while still in Elfhame.

Eyes followed as Cardan would glance around the room to observe everything she had out on display. It was true - she took great pride in the little family her and her husband had the blessing of being able to make for themselves. Especially because it was all she really had left in her life. Her mother was still alive and very much present in their lives, but the rest of her relatives were distant. Either because they didn't like or believe in what Lorraine did, or they were just simply too far away and busy with their own lives that they often didn't have the time to catch up. The same could be said for Ed's side of the family, too. Ever since he was a child, his father was less than kind to him and showed the toughest of love, while his mother was rather absent and never truly stepped in to give him the kind of love that a mother should've been giving.

If Lorraine knew his story or the first thing about him, she certainly wouldn't blame him for thinking such way. Some people could certainly seem and act extremely kind on the exterior, like they were experts at deception. She knew that all too well. With hands clasped together, she crossed one leg behind the other as she rested her back into the chair, "It's very nice to meet you, Cardan of Elfhame. I’m Lorraine Warren." She responded tenderly, brows now raising at the sudden mention of her family. It was quite an out-of-the-blue thing to bring up, but then again, her home was full of family photos, of which she’d seen him observing only moments ago. The brunette shifted her gaze to look at the framed pictures, a light laugh bubbling up past her lips as she caught sight of some of the silly photographs her daughter had taken, all the fond memories suddenly flooding back. "Yes, I do indeed. One little girl and a husband. They're certainly something special.” Her head tilted, a gleam of curiosity in her eyes. “Do you not have family..?"

[wittyy-name]

Love Me Twice, Save Me Thrice || Chapter Nine on Patreon

TAGS: fey au, modern faerie tale, modern fantasy, magic, blood, violence, mutual pining, strangers to lovers, half breed Keith, fey Lance, tattoo parlors, fey courts, faith trust and pixie dust

Keith/Lance - Rated M - Chapter Word Count: 13k - Total Word Count So Far: 125,000+

Keith has always lived his life by a few simple rules that boil down to one ultimatum: never let the fey know he’s an ironblood. The byproduct of the rare union between a fey and a human, he’s seen as dangerous. Able to harness the power of his fey bloodline without the drawbacks that keep them in check. He doesn’t remember much of his life before Shiro found him, but things have been pretty good since. Despite the fact that his guardian turned brother figure is a fey, his best friend is a druid, and his dog is a blink wolf, his life is pretty ordinary.

That is, until he runs into a beautiful fey with eyes like ice and a touch like fire. A fey that makes him want to break the rules and calls out to a part of him that’s remained shrouded for so long. With their lives irrevocable intertwined, drawn to one another despite all the warnings, they’re set on a path that threatens to destroy who they are and save who they might become.

The course of love never did run smooth.

Chapter Excerpt Below!

Chapters will be made available to the $15 tier as they’re finished. Once the whole fic is complete, chapters will one-by-one become available to the $2 tier before uploading to Ao3.

Reblogs are very appreciated! 

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“Fey lie without the use of their words. You know that better than most. You grew up being warned about this— about making deal with them. Your father and Shiro—“ “I know, but that was to prevent something like this from happening. But the fact is that I’m here now. I’m wrapped up in it. And if doing this means I’ll be free— that Shiro will be freed— I… I want to try.” “But…” Lance’s nails bite into Keith’s hands before his grip slides down to his wrists, holding on tight as he leans forward. He presses against Keith’s forehead, bruising as he twists his head, eyes closing. “It’s dangerous…” Keith’s heart aches. His hands slide from Lance’s neck, wrapping around his shoulders to pull them flush. Lance’s arms find their way around his waist, holding tight as he buries his face in Keith’s neck. “Everything is dangerous,” he whispers, running fingers through Lance’s snow white hair. Lance’s fingers curl into the back of Keith’s glamour crafted clothes. “You could… I could lose you.” “You won’t,” he says firmly. “You can’t promise that.” “I can.” “It’s a lie.” Keith finds himself smirking, eyes distant as he stares at a curled crystal flower on the hedges that make up the walls around them. “Not if I believe it.” Lance huffs a wet and weak laugh, breath hot against Keith’s neck. “Foolish. Stubborn. Hot-headed.” Keith holds him tight, and despite how solid their glamoured clothes feel between them, he swears he can feel Lance’s heartbeat through the sheer material of light and magic. “I have to do this,” he whispers. “For myself and for Shiro.” Lance sighs, deflating in Keith’s arms. “I know,” he says, defeated and begrudging. “I’m not happy about it.” Keith presses his smile to the tip of Lance’s pointed ear, marveling in the newness of it. “I know.” “You are going to make it up to me.” Keith chuckles, feeling Lance shiver. “I know.” A moment of silence stretches, lingering and melancholy, comforting and warm in the crisp air of perpetual winter. They hold each other, savoring each ticking second, memorizing the feeling of being in each other’s arms. No matter how things go, Keith wants to be able to recall this moment in perfect detail. From the press of Lance’s chest against his with every breath, to the hands clinging to his back, to the shape of his nose pressed to his neck. He wishes this moment could last forever, and judging from the sigh Lance heaves, he knows Lance does, too. When Lance kisses him, one hand pressed to his cheek, it’s short and sweet, firm and lingering even as they pull apart. When Lance steps away, he holds Keith at arms length, eyes roaming over him from head to toe, sharp and considering, as if… putting him to memory. This new image of him. This fey version of him that Lance had been so smitten by in the brief moment they had to revel in it. “Well…” Keith watches as Lance’s posture shifts. As he pulls himself a little taller and straighter, shoulders rolling back and head cocking to the side. As his lips curl at one corner, forming that familiar, lopsided smirk, full of confidence and amusement. As the lines around his face smooth out, shifting back into that of a porcelain mask, stiff plaster giving nothing away. As his eyes harden, beautiful blue going cold and still as a frozen pond. Voice controlled. Lilted. Musical and joyful, but hollow all the same. Brimming with a power and authority kept carefully in check. “Let’s go make a deal with the devil.”

[shad0ww0rlder]

In the Land under the Hill, in the Time Before...

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful lady of the Seelie Court who lost her heart to the son of an angel.

Once upon a time, there were two boys come to the land of Faerie, brothers noble and bold.

One brother caught a glimpse of the fair lady and, thunderstruck by her beauty, pledged himself to her. Pledged himself to stay. This was the boy Andrew. His brother, the boy Arthur, would not leave his side.

And so the boys stayed beneath the hill, and Andrew loved the lady, and Arthur despised her.

And so the lady kept her boy close to her side, kept this beautiful creature who swore his fealty to her, and when her sister lay claim to the other, the lady let him be taken away, for he was nothing.

She gave Andrew a silver chain to wear around his neck, a token of her love, and she taught him the ways of the Fair Folk. She danced with him in revels beneath starry skies. She fed him moonshine and showed him how to give way to the wild.

Some nights they heard Arthur’s screams, and she told him it was an animal in pain, and pain was in an animal’s nature.

She did not lie, for she could not lie.

Humans are animals.

Pain is their nature.

For seven years they lived in joy. She owned his heart, and he hers, and somewhere, beyond, Arthur screamed and screamed. Andrew didn’t know; the lady didn’t care; and so they were happy.

Until the day one brother discovered the truth of the other.

The lady thought her lover would go mad with the grief of it and the guilt. And so, because she loved the boy, she wove him a story of deceitful truths, the story he would want to believe. That he had been ensorcelled to love her; that he had never betrayed his brother; that he was only a slave; that these seven years of love had been a lie.

The lady set the useless brother free and allowed him to believe he had freed himself.

The lady subjected herself to the useless brother’s attack and allowed him to believe he had killed her.

The lady let her lover renounce her and run away.

And the lady beheld the secret fruits of their union and kissed them and tried to love them. But they were only a piece of her boy. She wanted all of him or none of him.

As she had given him his story, she gave him his children.

She had nothing left to live for, then, and so lived no longer.

This is the story she left behind, the story her lover will never know; this is the story her daughter will never know.

This is how a faerie loves: with her whole body and soul. This is how a faerie loves: with destruction.

I love you, she told him, night after night, for seven years. Faeries cannot lie, and he knew that.

I love you, he told her, night after night, for seven years. Humans can lie, and so she let him believe he lied to her, and she let his brother and his children believe it, and she died hoping they would believe it forever.

This is how a faerie loves: with a gift.

- Pale Kings and Princess

Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy

[clockworkbee]

heyy

can u pls recommend some decent sapphic fae romance books?

thanks <3

Hey! I wish I could and I hate that I can't, not in a faerie book, esp. with the main couple being sapphic 🥺 still, what I can tell you,

The Folk of The Air has a sapphic romance between side characters (with not that much page time) and that couple is soon getting a short story of their own in an anthology called Faeries Never Lie: Tales to Revel In.

The Dark Artifices (a trilogy in the shadowhunters chronicles) also has a side sapphic ship (not much page time) but that couple does have a few lovely cameos in other books set in that world such as, Red Scrolls of Magic and Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy.

I'm not big on fae romances, I'm just a Holly Black faeries lover-girl 🥺 I have read some other faerie books (the enchantment of ravens, acotar & tog - all straight romances, not that I love any of these) so like, if you've read some really good ones, tell me your one most favourite sapphic fae book/series?

[battyaboutbooksreviews]

💖 Sapphic Books Coming Out September 2024

🩷 It's Sapphic September!! There's something especially sweet about a sapphic romance. Here are only a few of the amazing sapphic books hitting shelves in September 2024.

💖 Which ones are you adding to your TBR?

Contemporary 💖 The View from the Top - Rachel Lacey 💖 The Seemingly Impossible Love Life of Amanda Dean - Ann Rose 💖 I'll Get Back to You - Becca Grischow 💖 Back to Belfast - Emma L McGeown 💖 The Lovers - Rebekah Faubion 💖 Perfect - Kris Bryant 💖 Rabbit & Juliet - Rebecca Stafford 💖 Saving Graces - Ruby Landers 💖 All Daughters Are Awesome Everywhere - DeMisty D. Bellinger 💖 Superficial - Diane Billas 💖 Wild Wales - Patricia Evans Cox 💖 The Dating Countdown - N.G. Peltier 💖 Exposure - Nicole Disney & Kimberly Cooper Griffin 💖 Royal Expectations - Jenny Frame 💖 Fire Fall - JD Glass 💖 Love and Sportsball - Meka James

Paranormal/Horror 💖 The Hunter's Gambit - Ciel Pierlot 💖 We Came to Welcome You - Vincent Tirado 💖 Lucy Undying - Kiersten White 💖 How to Survive a Horror Movie - Scarlett Dunmore 💖 To the Bone - Alena Bruzas 💖 The Beauty of Us - Farzana Doctor 💖 Old Wounds - Logan-Ashley Kisner 💖 Touch of Death - Taylor Munsell This World Is Not Yours - Kemi Ashing-Giwa

Fantasy 💖 The Gods Below - Andrea Stewart 💖 Shadow Rider - Gina L. Dartt 💖 A Dark and Drowning Tide - Allison Saft 💖 The Cottage Around the Corner - D.L. Soria 💖 Night Owls - A.R. Vishny 💖 Spells to Forget Us - Aislinn Brophy 💖 This Will Be Fun - E.B. Asher 💖 The Tapestry of Time - Kate Heartfield 💖 Hunt of Her Own - Elena Abbott 💖 Pathways: Chronicles of Tuvana - Elaine Tipping 💖 Faeries Never Lie: Tales to Revel In - Various

Historical 💖 The Duke's Sister and I - Emma-Claire Sunday 💖 The Butcher's Daughter - Corinne Leigh Clark & David Demchuk

Mystery/Thriller 💖 Everything Glittered - Robin Talley 💖 The Breakdown - Ronica Black 💖 Jones - Gerri Hill 💖 Stone Cold Secrets - Nance Newman

Sci-Fi 💖 Countess - Suzan Palumbo 💖 Tribute - L.M. Rose 💖 In the Shadow of the Ship - Aliette de Bodard 💖 Rumor Has It - Cat Rambo

[gellavonhamster]

where the gin is cold but the piano's hot

TFOTA, the Roach/the Bomb, pre-canon & missing scene || ao3 links - eng, rus

The night he first sees her, jazz is playing – at least some kind of music he likes is playing, and he considers any decent human music to be jazz because the mortals haven’t invented any music better than jazz yet, and it’s unlikely they ever will. It’s hot and crowded at the club, and a smell of sweat and perfume is hanging in the air. The attention of those listening to music while seated at the tables is drawn to the band; the attention of those dancing is drawn to their partners, and no one notices a petite young woman stealthily pulling expensive cigarette-cases out of patrons’ pockets and taking ladies’ handbags off the backs of the chairs. No one but him. Van is in no hurry to approach her; there is no doubt she is the one he’s heard about, but first he has to make sure it pays to get involved with her. The only thing he can say about her so far is that she isn’t much of a thief. It is seen with the naked eye that she’s relying on glamour too much, and would hardly be able to snatch anything without it.      

It is later that she demonstrates her true talent, when one of the poor idiots notices his watch missing and makes a fuss. He and his buddies give chase to the thief, who makes a bolt for the back door, so Van leaves a couple of coins on the table quickly – because the music here is fine – and rushes after them. At the exit to the backyard, Van gets a chance to behold one of the stranger’s tricks that he’s been told about: a loud bang goes off, black smoke fills the doorway, and the mortals collapse, screaming and rubbing their eyes violently. All of them save for the owner of the watch, who’s already in the yard at that moment – and though he went down like a tree as well, he’s managed to seize the girl by the shoulders and drag her after him. Van would have watched her fight her chaser off – he’s almost sure she’d be able to do that – but there’s no time for that, so he decides to interfere, creeps up on the mortal, grabs the man’s shoulder, and digs into the pressure point with his claw. The mortal makes a gurgling sound and passes out.      

The first thing she attempts to do when Van offers her his hand to help her get up is to hit him.

“Hey, hey,” he says conciliatorily, holding up his hands. “I’m just trying to help, you know.”

She staggers to her feet, and smoothens down her dress reflexively.

“Who sent you?” she asks him, looking at him closely. Obviously, she can see his real appearance through the veil of glamour, just like he can see hers. She’s a pixie, though not a pure-blood, apparently. The little wings on her back tremble in sync with her uneven breathing.    

“No one. But I have matters to discuss with you. Come, let’s have a chat,” Van glances back. One of the robbed man’s pals tumbles out of the building, still squinting in pain. “And hurry up, would you?”

The bar he leads her to has worse music and simpler clientele, but they can catch their breath there, and talk everything through in peace. While he is describing the upcoming job to her (a local moneybags with no idea there were faeries in his bloodline, his great-grandmother’s charmed necklace, the people willing to pay a good round sum for that necklace), as well as what would be required from her (sleeping potions and explosives) and what she could get out of it (not more than fifteen per cent from what they were to pay him – that would be just fair), she listens to him with a light frown and fiddles with the thin bracelets on her thin wrist. She looks tired, distrustful – makes one think her life isn’t easy. Then again, would anyone with an easy life go stealing watches from restaurant revellers? She’s also outrageously pretty: a voluminous cloud of white hair; blue wings that look delicate, never mind if not too strong; warm brown skin with white spots like that of a doe; huge eloquent eyes. Van stumbles over his words twice while explaining her the proposed plan of the heist, and both times it’s because he gets carried away by the sight of her – in other words, both times because he’s a damn fool.              

“Twenty-five per cent at least,” she says in the end, having found out all the details of interest to her.

“Fifteen. At most.”

“Twenty-five, and you can saddle me with more work.”

“Fifteen, and all I need from you is to have my back with your firecrackers. No offense, darling, but you’re not that good as a thief.”  

“Twenty,” she’s toying with a fork someone has left on the table. “And don’t call me darling,” with that, she suddenly drives the fork into the tabletop within an inch of Van’s hand, and he flinches.  

It is worth it, because she smiles at him – smiles at him for the first time; a radiant, mischievous smile. Now that’s what her face has been made for, Van thinks absentmindedly. Not for anxiety, not for weariness, but for smiling.    

“Which one of these is charmed?” he asks, gesturing at her bracelets with a nod. “Or is it your earrings?”

She frowns again, and he thinks: did he really have to say that?

“There’s nothing charmed on me,” she tells him. “Why?”

Oh, Van thinks, so no trinkets that increase attractiveness. So it’s just that he hasn’t been with anyone for a while now. The only rational explanation.  

“I just thought there might be,” he replies offhandedly, and holds out his hand for a handshake before she can ask again – he cannot lie, after all. “All right, twenty it is. And how shall I call you then, by the way?”

“My name is Liliver,” she says and shakes his hand, and he feels like the wind has been knocked out of him and thinks: come on, you idiot, what are you, a boy?  

“Liliver,” he repeats. Her name jingles on his tongue. “I’m Van.”

“Well, Van, it’s nice to meet you,” she lets go of his hand and raises her glass. “Shall we drink to the beginning of our alliance?”

They stay at the bar for a long time, paying for drinks with enchanted shards of bottles, and by the end of the evening he’s almost sure he is far gone.

 **

 The necklace theft goes without a hitch, they get their gold, and in a few days Van contacts her again: he needs a partner for robbing a mortal antiquarian whose collection, unbeknownst to him, includes some merfolk weapons.    

“Bear in mind, it’s a long journey,” Van tells her as he sits down on the edge of the table in her workshop. Liliver makes her bombs in the attic of an abandoned house on the outskirts of Brooklyn. This is also where she sleeps, and though she has smartened the attic up as much as possible with the bought and stolen knick-knacks and paintings, she still cannot help thinking that this is not a place meant for living. Sometimes she dreams about the family manor and the bedroom with rhododendron shrubs outside the window – unfortunately, those dreams are usually nightmares. “We’ll have to fly.”

“Where?”

“Louisiana. Ever been there?”

“Now I will,” she shrugs, ready to go anywhere just not to stick here all the time. Liliver knows: she can run to Louisiana or to Australia or to the end of the world, but her sorrow will tag along loyally and dutifully. Still, at least this way she’ll take her mind off that, and make some money at the same time. Van just chuckles approvingly in response.    

After New Orleans (a dagger with its hilt carved to look like a mermaid’s tale; a party on a terrace of a huge house; the high-heeled shoes she threw into the ditch; the flight back on ragwort ponies, making stops in the fields and forests and dying hick towns), they don’t see one another for almost half a year. Liliver doesn’t try to look for him: firstly, she’s got things to do as it is, and secondly, she is inexplicably sure that one day he’ll come to her himself. And so he does, with a bottle of bathtub gin and a new brilliant plan that he cannot put into action without her help.          

Some more time after that, they start working together on a regular basis, stealing from humans and faeries alike. Van teaches her to move more nimbly, makes her practice on him, having her pilfer at least one object from his pockets per day. For her part, Liliver gives up on trying to make an assistant out of him after he almost blows up both of them by accident – not that she really is in need of a helper anyway. Together they break into houses, pick locks, crack safes, together they appear in the restaurants, movie theatres, and at the races. Every so often their business brings them to Faerie, and Liviver is surprised to discover that she is able to be there again after all she’s gone through, able to breathe without hearing the cries that her loved ones died with each and every second – it appears that time is a good healer indeed.      

Usually she ensures the routes of escape or cleans out the victims’ pockets while Van distracts them with smooth talk. He has a way with words – in most cases he does not even need glamour to pitch a line to humans and even faeries. Though when it comes to mortals, a goblin and a pixie certainly cannot do without magic – after all, they cannot show their true faces to them. Especially Van, who is no oil painting even compared to some of his fellow goblins.      

In spite of that, eventually she must admit she’s head over heels for him.

Of course, part of the reason must be that before he came into her life, Liliver was lonely. Her entire family had been slaughtered; all of her friends either died or turned out to be traitors. Her new life in the mortal world was rather survival than life, a row of endeavours to make a living, not get into trouble, kill time, and not go insane from grief. She didn’t bond with any other faeries she has crossed paths with, first for fear of getting stabbed in the back again, and then for fear of having lost the ability to socialize, make friends, love. Then she met Van and was surprised to find out she was still able to trust somebody – and to laugh. Is it possible to fall for someone just because when you’re with them, you can laugh, listen to other’s stories and tell your own, tease and rib each other? Is it enough just to feel alive next to someone – and is there any need for anything else, really?        

With him, it’s easy – but it all becomes ineffably difficult as soon as it comes to giving him a clue about her feelings. Liliver knows she’s good-looking, knows that she has the ability to win others’ affection; still, she’s afraid of using these weapons of hers lest she ruin the friendship she still needs so much. He’s not much older than she is, yet something in this ridiculous awkward affair reminds her of her youth and her crush on the sprite her parents had hired to teach her and her sisters sword-fighting: it’s the same overwhelming affection, blushing and smiling stupidly at the memories of accidental touches, the same certainty that if she tries to make a step forward, nothing good will come out of it. The same fear of being laughed at.          

He does not laugh – he simply either does not understand or ignores all her careful attempts at flirting. There is no telling if it’s the former or the latter. She’s afraid to learn the truth, so she doesn’t ask.

At some point Liliver gives up and agrees to go on a date with the sylph who shops for potion ingredients at the same place as she does. A month later she dumps him, and the same evening she sleeps with a nixie that lives in the city canal. The succession of relationships in her life becomes almost continuous. The faces on the pillow next to her in the mornings keep replacing one another.

Her feelings for Van do not disappear, but as the years go by, she gets used to them, and cannot imagine herself without that bright sweet sadness, just like without the wings on her back.    

On a hot day in June 1968 by the human chronology, she and Van sit on a rock near Grand Canyon and drink mead.  

“Are you seriously planning to steal from the Court of Teeth?” Liliver asks him, holding up her face to the scorching sun.  

Van shrugs. “You think we can’t handle it? We?”

It ends up being the only time when they can’t handle it.

 **

 The Court of Teeth turns them into its marionettes, and it is his fault. Shouldn’t have tried to bite more than he could chew, some nuts are too tough to crack, and so on, and so forth. Van could have regarded it as a sort of justice – not that it would have stopped him from trying to escape captivity by any possible means – if Liliver hadn’t been caught too. They tortured her, subjected her to the same geases and curses as him, enslaved her – and it is his fault.    

Their lives are spared because they’re useful. His sleight of hand and talent for thievery, her profound knowledge of potion- and bomb-making. Their lives are spared – but now these lives are pitch-black and hopeless, with no room for rest, for respect, for freedom. The work they’re being assigned makes his skin crawl, and he’s seen quite a lot in his lifetime. He is a thief and a crook, but he has never been a murderer – before. He’s killed when there was no other way to get out alive, sure, but not deliberately, not frequently, and without excessive violence. He used to have at least some kind of moral compass. Now he can’t afford it anymore.  

He could have let that shit consume him completely, but he keeps holding on – for Liliver. Liliver, who could have grown to hate him, for it was his overconfidence that has doomed them for a life in the service of one of the most bloodthirsty Courts – but she hadn’t, she keeps talking to him, keeps sharing healing ointments with him and even applying them herself to the fresh scars on his face. He used to be quite a scarecrow by the standards of most Faerie folk even before, and now it’s way worse. But she does not look away, does not wince, she touches his wounds ever so carefully and they heal a little faster under the influence of the potions and under her fingers, and his pain is almost worth these touches.    

At times, Van lets himself imagine another life, a life in which she hasn’t become a slave through his fault, a life in which he doesn’t look like a freak next to her lovely self, a life in which he could let himself confess his feelings to Liliver and stand a chance of having them returned. At times, but not too often. Dreams are fine stuff, but one can’t live in them forever.  

And he has to go on living and looking for a way to win back freedom for himself and for the woman he loves – the more so for her.

“Tell me something,” Liliver asks him sometimes at night, crawling up closer to him on the stone floor, so he tells her whatever he can remember: tales of kings and heroes, seers and warriors, priests and knights. Tales with happy endings, because they get enough of the opposite of that on daily basis. Crooks are well-versed in pretty stories.  

At night, she presses her cheek to his shoulder and laces her fingers with his when he takes her hand – because she’s cold and miserable and wants to hold on with all her strength to whoever’s beside her, even to someone like him.

Sometimes in his sleep he feels a tender fleeting touch of her lips on his cheek or his brow and does not open his eyes, for he knows that it could be nothing but a dream.  

 **

 After the Court of Teeth, working for Prince Dain seems like a fairy tale. At first Liliver cannot shake off the thought that in a moment she’s going to wake up and find herself in a musty little room in the dungeons, her back aching after a night spent on cold stone, her fingers still gripping Van’s clawed hand so hard they’ve gotten numb. Every morning she wakes up with relief – and a little bit of regret, because she misses his warmth close to her body, his steady breath. Both of them have their own rooms now – a far cry from the royal chambers, most certainly, but good enough for her. Admittedly, she has long come to accept that even if she gave him a hint that she wouldn’t mind him spending a night in her room, he would say nothing and pretend he didn’t understand. She misses his stories and his songs and his attempts to reassure her with promises that one day they’ll get out of that nightmare, but why in the world would he continue to regale her with all that if the nightmare really is over? He must be just happy to take a break from her constant presence.      

They are still close, still exchange the jokes only the two of them understand, still get drinks together evenings, but Liliver feels like something has become history beyond recall. It might be because now that they’re spies, the unseen and faceless gears in the machinery of court intrigue, each day they become less of Van and Liliver and more of the Roach and the Bomb. What use do shadows have for names? What use for feelings and memories? It also might be because they’ve spent so many years working in pair but now they’ve found themselves a part of a trio. Their associate, a young half-blood faerie who goes by the Ghost, is friendly and reliable enough but secretive as well, and even though it doesn’t take too long for Liliver to stop feeling wary of him, it still isn’t quite the same as the life she and Van used to live in the lands of humans, back when it was two of them against the world.            

Now there are three of them: three spies of the Court of Shadows, three cards up Prince Dain’s sleeve. A king, a queen, and a knave. When Jude Duarte, their little Queen of Shadows, joins them, there is finally an ace in this deck.  

Soon after, there is a coup, Dain’s death, his father and sisters’ deaths, and then young Cardan is on the throne, and Jude is his seneschal, standing beside his throne and only officially not on the throne herself. And then she and Jude are examining the chambers of the late King Eldred, checking if it will be safe for Cardan here, if he should still watch out for assassins hiding in secret passages. And then she, Liliver, the last survivor of her family, a thief, a spy, and a former servant of the Court of Teeth, is lounging on the huge bed of the deceased monarch just because she can.  

Anything comes true; anything but the dearest wishes.

Jude and she laugh like children, sprawled across the pillows, and Liliver, for once in a while, remembers her little sisters – the way they used to climb into each other’s beds just like that and share secrets, not the way blood flowed from their slit throats.    

The secret Jude elicits from her is both a long-held one and one that is too fresh, like a non-healing would.  

“You should tell him,” Jude suggests as if she has any right to give such advice, as if there is nothing unhealthy and incendiary going on between her and the young king, nothing that causes suffering to both of them.

“Perhaps,” Liliver agrees.

She cannot promise she’ll do that because, like any faerie, she cannot lie.

 **

 His hands are shaking a little while he wipes his neck and his face with a cool damp cloth, but he feels strength coming back to him, filling his veins anew. He is still not as vigorous as before the poison dart hit him, but with each breath he takes he’s a little stronger than a moment ago. While he is cleaning up, Liliver sits on his bed and tells him what has happened while he was unconscious – about Jude’s return and how she healed him, about Madoc’s alliance with the Court of Teeth – that blasted Court of Teeth again! About the Ghost, who apparently can be trusted again. About Cardan turned into a giant serpent, which feels even more disheartening than the fact that they’re on the brink of war: Van has really taken to this boy, so spoiled and unloved at the same time.        

“So it means there’s no way to save him?” he asks, and sits down on the bed next to Liliver.

“I had nearly started thinking there was no way to save you. I didn’t want to believe that,” she smiles sadly, “yet still I couldn’t help thinking about that. And then Jude rescued you. She still hasn’t succeeded in bringing Cardan back, but now I’d rather believe that she just has to figure out how to do it than that she doesn’t have enough power for that.”

He thinks of Jude, whom he hasn’t seen yet since he came round, and smiles, too. He’d have to thank her: mortals must consider that appropriate.

“A mortal High Queen,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “We guessed it right with her code name, didn’t we? Our girl is the real ruler of Faerie.”

Liliver grins. “I know, right?”

She still has the same smile as many years ago, and she still seems made for merriment, for joy, but now he can press his lips to that smile, and now he knows that, as it turns out, he could have well done that ages ago.

“You know that you owe me, right? For all those years,” she whispers gleefully and kisses him on the lips, on the forehead, on the neck. Maybe back then, in the dungeons of the Court of Teeth, it was not a dream.

“My dear,” he replies, holding her closer, “Just like you do owe me.”

Now all that remains to be done is to win a war.

 **

 The night she first sees him, jazz is playing – at least some kind of music she likes is playing, and the only genre of human music she knows is jazz, though she likes the twenty-first century songs from the player that Vivienne Duarte got her just as well.

“Sounds romantic,” the High Queen remarks when Liliver tells her about that.

“Not romantic enough if I hadn’t tried to kill him even once, right, Your Majesty?”

“Hey, you tried to stab me with a fork the very first time we met,” Van points out.

“And I’ll try again if I have to,” she waves him away, and kisses him.  

[vulpinesaint]

She knew the stories about faeries. Of course she did. So when one appeared at the tower window, she knew exactly what it was. 

The faerie was short, with bright eyes and pointed ears and an impish smile over too-sharp teeth. Not a pretty faerie, like the kind they said took her mother. Like all faeries, though, it had a silver tongue, spinning words out of the air like gold out of straw. 

She knew the stories about faeries, so when it asked for her name, slender fingers outstretched and yellowing teeth bared in a grin, she didn’t give it to it. Not her real one, anyway. The faerie kept grinning, but it knew what it’d been given. It conveniently ignored her when she asked for its name in return.

“I hear you’re in a spot of trouble,” the faerie said, unnatural green eyes fixed on hers. “With the king, no less.”

“I suppose you hear an awful lot of things,” she said, trying to keep up her bravado. She knew why the faerie was there. It was obvious; why she stalled, she didn’t know. Fear, maybe. 

The faerie laughed, a sound like needles scraping across rocks. “I do, at that. The rivers and the birds like to gossip, you know—they told me all about your plight.”

There is was. She watched with bated breath as it made its way over to the spinning wheel behind her, nestled in a bed of straw.

“Straw into gold,” mused the faerie. “Hay into metal. Quite the task. Unless you know how to do it, my dear?”

“No,” she gritted out. “I don’t.”

“Well, then,” grinned the faerie, displaying its pointed teeth, “I have a proposition for you.”

“I don’t make deals with fae,” she was quick to say. Something glittered in the faerie’s eyes. 

“Well, my dear, what’s your alternative?” She stayed quiet. “You see, what I’d heard from the birds was that failing this little task meant execution.”

She put on a brave face, but it was the truth, however scared she was to admit it. 

“So,” continued the faerie, when it had reveled in her struggle for long enough, “here is my proposal. I happen to know how to do what your king had requested of you. For one small price.“ 

She watched, apprehensive, as the faerie’s eyes skimmed over her face and landed on her torso. She knew what deals with faeries entailed. “That lovely necklace.”

Her hand flew to her chest, covering the pendant. “No.”

“And why not, might I ask?” Mischief glittered in the faerie’s eyes.

It was my mother’s. “It was expensive.”

“Is it worth more than your life?” An awful sort of humor crept into its voice.

She watched the faerie, mistrusting, and it simply grinned at her, flashing sharp yellow teeth. Maybe… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. To trade her necklace away for the promise of survival.

Don’t be foolish, she warned herself. Faeries always take more than what they ask.

“Why do you want my necklace?” she demanded.

“It sparkles so wonderfully in the twilight,” the faerie said, reaching out as if to touch it, and she remembered her time limit—she had until the morning, and if she hadn’t figured out some way to do what was asked of her, she would be dead. Her father, probably, too.

Her hand still hovered protectively over her necklace, but as much as she didn’t want to consider the offer, she didn’t have any other choice.

“Fine,” she said, finally giving in. 

The faerie laughed, and the sound grated against her ears. It held out its hand, fingernails visible over its fingertips, expectant.

She unclasped the necklace slowly. Reluctantly. She laid it slowly into the faerie’s palm, holding onto the chain until the last possible moment. 

“Very good.” The faerie looked proud of itself. “Now, don’t worry your pretty little head about a thing. I’ll honor my end of the deal.”

She watched as the faerie put her mother’s necklace around its neck, watched as it sat down on the stool in front of the spinning wheel, watched as the last moments of sunlight glanced off the blue stone in the necklace and the gold that spilled from the faerie’s fingers.

She refused to let herself be entranced by the magic, enthralled by the wonder of it all. You had to be careful, with faeries, and she’d already done too much by interacting with this one. All she could do was hope she never saw it again.

The sun set. The room glittered gold. The faerie left the tower with a grin that sent shivers down her spine. 

—

Unfortunately, her bad luck continued.

The king hadn’t believed her father when he’d bragged that she could spin straw into gold; a hyperbole, a father proud of his daughter. He didn’t seem to believe the “evidence” of it, either. He locked her in a different tower, with more straw, and told her to repeat the feat. 

When the faerie arrived, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or filled with dread. 

Another proposition. This time, for her ring. Her mother’s beautiful silver-blue engagement ring. The last thing she had of hers.

She agreed. Only to save her life. Threads of gold poured through the faerie’s fingers, past her mother’s ring, to rest on the stone tower floor. The faerie left with a cackle.

—

The next morning brought with it a proposition—from the king, this time. She would have to spin another room full of straw into gold. One last time. If she failed, the consequence remained the same—death for her, death for her father. If she managed it, though, she would be married to the king.

She didn’t want to marry the king. But any fate was a better fate than death.

When the faerie arrived at the tower window that night, she could see the mischief on its face. 

“And what do you want from me tonight?” she asked, eyes on the necklace around its neck and the ring around its finger.

“Nothing so expensive as I’ve asked for before,” it told her, and grinned even broader when she narrowed her eyes at it. “And what might be your issue with that, dear?”

“I don’t trust you,” she answered, hiding none of her suspicion. 

The faerie laughed. “I imagine you’ve heard the tales. You must know that a fae cannot lie.”

She glared. “Maybe. But you can tell half-truths.”

The faerie chuckled. “That’s fair enough. Would you like to hear my proposition for today?”

A moment’s pause as she thought. “Fine.”

“I won’t ask you for some invaluable worldly good.” It grinned. “Just your name.”

“No,” was her immediate response, before she even considered defending the fake name she’d given the faerie at their first meeting. 

Names had power with the fae. She thought that might’ve been how they got her mother.

“Well, why not?” 

“You know very well why not. I won’t live under your control, faerie.”

The faerie sighed, all melodramatic. “Very well, then. Worldly good it is. If you won’t give me your name, I’ll ask for something else—your first-born child.”

This gave her pause. “Never,” she finally said, voice wavering. “I won’t promise you a child. I would never give a child to the fae.”

The faerie shrugged. “Well. Those were my propositions. If you wish to be executed, by all means, turn me down—but if you want to live, you’ll have to give over one or the other.”

Any fate was a better fate than death.

“Fine,” she said, trying to ignore the way that her voice broke. “Fine. My first-born child.”

“A pleasure doing business with you, dear,” the faerie grinned.

She didn’t watch it as it spun the straw into gold that night. She turned away as it left, out the window, into the moonlight. An awful sort of guilt consumed her, the knowledge that she’d traded away another human life for her own. She promised herself that she’d never have children.

—

Her wedding to the king was a beautiful affair. He smiled, and called her beautiful, for a commoner, and she made him promise never to ask her to spin straw into gold again. He agreed.

She did not forget the faerie. Did not forget the things it had taken from her. Did not forget her promise to herself.

Her marriage to the king was not as beautiful as the wedding. He wanted an heir. She refused, he had affairs, they fought. She argued that adoption would give them an heir (and that surely, he had a child already). He told her that he refused to have a bastard child on the throne. 

She fell pregnant. She felt sick for nine months.

When her child was born, she told herself not to love it. Prepared herself for the inevitable. Refused to give it a name. And yet, when it clung to her fingers, when it cried at night, when it looked into her eyes with eyes that were her own; how could she do anything but cry when the faerie appeared that first night?

“It’s time,” the faerie told her, yellow teeth bared in a grin.

“No,” she sobbed, curling her body around her child as if she could protect it from a creature borne of magic. “I refuse.”

The faerie pulled a chair over to the bed, where she sat. It sat down in front of her, eyes level with hers. “A proposition, then—”

“No!” She cried harder. “No more of your propositions. No more of your offers. You won’t take anything else that’s precious to me.”

“Your life was precious to you, once. Honor your deals, my dear.”

She looked up, into its reflective green eyes, cradling her child to her chest. “You won’t take my child.”

“You’ve promised it to me already.”

Breathing hard, tears still rolling down her face, her mind raced. “Then… then—”

The child began to cry. Her attention immediately turned downwards, bouncing the baby, shushing it, doing her best to comfort the bundle of human and blanket in her arms. She didn’t quite know how to take care of her baby yet. It was new to her. She was in pain, still. 

She wished desperately for someone to sit beside her, to help her. The king hadn’t come to see her since the child’s birth.

“If you have to take my baby,” she said, slowly, “take me too. I’ll go with you.”

“And why would you ever propose such a thing, my dear?”

She thought of her mother, stolen away by pretty faeries. She thought of her father, of his tendencies to gamble and brag. She thought of her unhappy life with the king, of the things she’d been forced to do only to live miserably.

“Any fate is a better fate than living without what I love.”

“And what would you give me, for such a boon?”

She thought. She held her baby. And she told it her name.

-

i hope you liked this short little reversal of the rumplestiltskin fairytale. consider liking and reblogging or something along those lines—and if, for some reason, you want to be tagged when i post my creative writing, let me know.

i’m working on a novel right now! search my blog for “nyctophobia” to read it.

[kurtty-drabbles]

Ich Liebe dich au

N/A: I´m amused by the background of a prompt I did. So, here is a woman wanting to be Kur D´s wife and failing.

@djinmer4 @discordsworld @dannybagpipesarecalling @bamfoftheundead

There´s an old saying that many guilds, many families (to the most important ones until to the common folk) that faes are dangerous as they are comely.

The Feather family is one of the many victims of the ordeals of faes, to the point, preserves themselves against the nasty curse inflict on them, the family switch their original name to a new one. So far, the plan works like a charm.

Thus, the now called Feather family has a new addition to the family. Morgana Feather. A little girl that inherited her mother´s dark eyes (that matches her hair. A raven hair) and the nose of her father. A roman nose.

The baby grows up to be an adventurous little girl. Never questioning the origin of the surname "Feather". Morgana has 7 years old and one wish. To be the best guild leader ever.

"I´ll be a great leader and kick any evildoers´ ass" Morgana promised to herself with a big smile as she watches the renovations on the palace of justice that King Magneto set, this Guild has the support of Genosha and is a being used as a military camp to the original X-men.

"One day, I´ll be greater than them," she said and goes off on her merry way. Her imagination is gone wild morphs the path into a battlefield where only Morgana can defeat a monster.

Using spells only high levels mages can use the fight is equal when in the middle of the battle, the girl falls in the stream. It snapped the little to reality and Morgana is now facing the soaking dress she has, looking at her surrounders.

The guild is blessed with green, yet, what caught her eyes is blue and red. A fae(the armour is a big give away even to a little girl) is staring at her with boredom as he takes his stained bloody sword out of his sword sheath (made of leather, however, it has the faery symbol. Again, even a little girl recognized fae culture) covered in blood and pours water of the stream in the sword.

Morgana is mesmerized by the fae. Dark blue fur, his built indicates the man was in more wars than a human could imagine, his scarlet eyes and his expression of total concentration as the water is cleaning the sword in one go.

Yes, faes and nymphs of the water have a deal. Even Morgana knows about this.

The sword is stainless as the metal is shinning. The blue fae with scarlet eyes thanks to the water. Morgana never saw such beautiful thing in her entire life.

"Wait!" she speaks bravely and is reward by his scarlet eyes on her figure. "Could you help me to get up?"

And the fae looking bored as before, gave one reply, just one, to her question. "NO" and leaves.

And he´s gone. Morgana can feel tiny hands trying to pull her down, the nymphs aren´t that strong to take a child, but, no one should give an easier time for a nymph.

She´s soaked and looking at the direction where the blue fae was. Morgana clenches her fists and vows to find him again, and when that happens...that fae will be impressed by her.

__________________________________________________________________________

When Morgana went to her family to announce she will get married the first reaction, coming from her proud mother, rejoiced and amusement, however, as soon Morgana describe her future husband the amusement dies.

"Morgana!"

"You saw a monster! Quick, let´s take her to the temple, now, she needs to be purified"

All the while the image of the handsome fae visits her mind more often than not, until, it makes a permanent residency in her dreams. ______________________________________________________________________

The Guild grows in name and Morgana follows the trend as now, Morgana Feather, is a mage of great calibre and beauty. Her raven shinning hair lengths to her shoulders perfectly, her body is now of a woman and her dark eyes are the inspiration of many songs.

Yet, as much Morgana is elegant and a renowned mage, as much she has tittles and praises from King Magneto himself, Morgana never actually married.

Her mother is confused. Certainly, there´s no lack of candidates wanting her hand, certainly, there´s no hatred for Morgana´s part in marriage, however, she´s still single.

Unbeknownst to them, the pretty Morgana travels to the forest, every full moon, to search for fae´s rings, and to finally see that handsome, alluring and powerful fae....with no luck.

"Oh, so the rumours are true" a cajun voice rings into her ear and Morgana spot a handsome fae with a cajun accent and a smirk adorning his face. "A human is indeed looking for one of us, may I ask why?"

Never lie to a fae. But never give your name to one either.

"Of course, I´m looking for a blue fae with scarlet eyes and blue fur as skin. I´m looking only for him. I want to...know him, and if is possible, to marry him" Morgana confessed honestly. And the other fae smiled at this revelation.

"Darkholme? Oh, yes, the strange fellow that one. He did marry before...strange wedding for sure, but, the poor woman was eaten by his enemies. Still, want to be his wife?" the cajun fae asked and Morgana nods and the fae laughs. "call my Gambit, little human, because I´d want to see that blue one married again" and flash seductive plays on his face.

"I´m willing to kill his enemies if that´s his wish" Morgana unleashes her blade and looks at Gambit with fierce eyes, again, the fae is not stopping the smile.

"Then...let´s do a test, my dear, a nice test to see if you´re indeed worthy of his time"

________________________________________________________________________

As Morgana reaches 21 years old, the Guild did receive a pack new lore, the dead unicorn, a folktale that quickly boosts their tourism route and the citizen have no problem in spreading the tale.

Even when some people saw the dead unicorn taking a daughter away only to return her 3 days again.

Morgana never picked once by the dead unicorn.

Until, one day, after 100 years (Morgana thanks the potions to extended her life) the unicorn pick one woman and that woman is different from the others. The allusive fae, Darkholme, is been seeing talking with this non- special woman named Kitty Pryde aka Ariel.

"Why she?" _______________________________________________________________________________

Ariel is doing a messy bun on her hair as she returns to her home, Darkholme and Ariel are still searching for Gambit as his jokes, to put nicely, and so far no success for the duo.

"Darkholme said Gambit likes small cities. So, maybe he´ll be in the city of Excelsior" Kitty mutters to herself as she´s backing and forth in this subject and is visible to any passerby.

"Kitty, you´re here" Morgana offers a forced smile as her eyes look at the hairpin she´s using. It´s the same symbol Darkholme uses. "Tough mission?"

"Well, yes, I´m looking for a fae, a very dangerous one." is all Kitty can say. Morgana is still looking at the hairpin with a bit of jealousy.

"Fancy hairpin, Ariel, never thought you liked those things" she tries to be nonchalant and Ariel has no reason to not believe in the act.

"A ...friend of mine give this as a gift"

"Oh, I see, well, as for your mission...how about going to religious institutions? I heard Zaorva´s temple have means to track down a fae ...it can help you"

Morgana watches as Ariel is considering and is internally pleased as she agrees with the suggestion. Morgana won´t tell that faes aren´t allowed to go to Zaorva´s temple. And...faes hate any similarity with religion.

___________________________________________________________________________

Morgana was made like a fool as it seems Zaorva´s temple does allow faes and Ariel and Darkholme are bonding...too much.

Morgana watches as Darkholme and Ariel are talking about something entirely theirs and Morgana is left watching only.

[onewhoturns]

1-1

I have no idea what to call this series, or if I should title it at all. So here’s the first bit I wrote for the fae AU (once more I find myself writing in manageable little chunks and then going in to bridge between sections). It’s mostly establishing the backstory as shifted to the new setting. If you missed it, here’s the prelude to the story (or at least part of it). If you like my work, find more over on AO3 or FFnet, and keep an eye on my ko-fi if you want the occasional preview. Oh, also, I hesitate to ask but... comments?

Ever since she was a child Emily had been cautioned: beware the fae. She’d heard the typical warnings -- faerie rings, wishing wells, mysterious lights in the darkness. But they were just cautionary tales, names of people she’d never met, stories about a land where things were so beautiful they would drive men mad. She’d never known a family that thought itself to have a changeling. She’d never spotted a brownie dusting up the corners of the castle. No faerie-gifted musicians or craftsmen had ever taken work in the royal palace.

When she was ten - when her mother was murdered - things changed. Years later Emily struggled to remember that day-- those months. People grabbing her, pulling her away as she screamed for her mother, watching glassy eyes that stared unblinkingly to the sky, fingers digging into her shoulders as she shrieked and wailed. Some time - days? weeks? - locked up in a room with only masked jailers to bring her sustenance. Losing herself in daydreams of how her mother was fine, and how she’d have every guard and soldier and knight in the kingdom looking for her daughter, how Corvo would come for her. Every time she heard swords clashing she’d imagine it was him, on the warpath to come rescue her. But it never was. Then she’d been moved.

She’d been kept… somewhere. Somewhere dark and smoky and filled with bawdy laughter, abrasive voices, and sounds that were something between pain and pleasure. Later she’d learned the truth of it: five months, sequestered in a brothel. She’d stopped waiting for rescue, started to attempt escape. Every time, she was caught. At first they merely chastised her, locked her back up in her little room, withheld supper, put out the fire in her hearth, left her in the cold and the dark. But once some time had passed, they grew bolder. She hated to remember it. She’d been born a princess, well-loved, coddled, never having felt the sting of skin on skin, the bruising thwap as gaudy jewelry added weight to a scolding. She’d learned to lie, to hide, to steal, and fake docility when she could. Wide brown eyes had shown fear enough to know how to ape it. And if she stared at the floor they wouldn’t see when anger flared in her gaze.

Then he had come. Corvo Attano. Her father. The man who’d sired the Bastard Princess. He’d been changed, hardened by whatever had kept him away for nearly half a year, but he’d held her and she’d been strong for him, never crying, not once, not until she was safe in the tavern on the wrong side of the river. Plague ran rampant in the streets while she obediently took her dose of elixir with the rest of the loyalist conspiracy, sitting through boring lessons that nevertheless were a relief after months of loneliness. She had friends again - though later she’d realize most weren’t true friends, just adults who’d tolerate her until they could take power in her name. The same as those who’d taken her the first time, who’d killed her mother. Only this time they tried to kill her father. One day he was there, celebrating a victory over the usurpers, and then he’d stumbled away and she’d been shuffled into a waiting carriage, weak and sick to her stomach, feeling far too frail for a ten year old. Years later she wondered if she’d just imagined the screams under the clop of hooves as she’d been driven away, delirious, Callista’s face pale and pinched and arms wrapped too tight around her -- if the blood on Havelock’s hands was just a specter.

Surely, compared to humans, the fae could be no worse.

But when she’d finally been reunited with her father - when Havelock was dead, when the bodies of the former conspiracy were burned - she’d suddenly been well again. And he’d been even more insistent about protecting her from all things. Including - perhaps especially - faeries. Every door had iron nails or bars, as did her bedroom windows. She didn’t even remember which side was the proper side for stockings that were only ever worn inside out. Every meal was salted, every pocket filled with herbs or berries, bells sewn onto her slippers. She wore an adder stone on a cord around her neck. Her childhood outings were all closely chaperoned, if she was even allowed to leave the castle. The vast majority of her time was spent kicking her heels against a throne far too big for a child as Corvo conducted most of her business for her with the help of a council of lords, or - the highlight of her days - training. Her father promised she would never be helpless again. And if it took hours of physical conditioning, of swordplay and grappling and free-running and endless tests on outwitting a foe, she rarely complained.

By the time she was fifteen, then sixteen, she’d mastered the art of being a rebellious teenager. The bells left her slippers, became a bracelet that she slipped off regularly. She’d learned the best time to sneak out of her rooms, the best routes to avoid night guards, and the best way to manipulate her father into leaving her alone long enough for her to slip away. If she got caught, she’d learned early how to fake shame and obedience. Steadily she grew more and more confident-- more and more reckless. Soon she could walk the ramparts of the castle, ducking out of guard patrol paths in the nick of time, slipping into the guards’ barracks, swapping soldiers’ gear with their fellows’ until they tittered about mischievous fae themselves. It made Emily grin, until her father took to salting every entrance to her room. Eventually she stopped her mischief. It was too much of a hassle, carefully sweeping the lines of salt back into place after each outing.

Suitors clamored after her hand. She was charming, sociable (if perhaps a bit eccentric). She was witty and sharp and had all manner of noble sons and daughters eating out of the palm of her hand. All too aware of the baggage her mother’s impropriety had carried (she knew some conservatives still called her the Bastard Princess behind her back) she never took beaux. For all her giggles and batted eyelashes, she was exceptionally chaste.

The coronation - far later than most nobles found appropriate - came the week after her seventeenth birthday, and then came her first royal progress. If her procession of hosts found any of her faerie-warding habits odd, they didn’t dare mention it. If a couple rowan berries tumbled from her pockets, they followed her example in ignoring it, and were soon swept up by some light but engaging conversation. A few observant young ladies in the kingdom even took to wearing stones around their necks as well; if the Queen wore it, it was in fashion.

Yet for all her father’s insistence and warnings, she only found herself more curious about the fae than ever. In each city they visited, at every fiefdom, she found herself making subtle inquiries of the locals, of the legends, if there was any truth in them. She learned of exiled witches, of magic ponds, of bowers full of otherworldly songs, of missing children and forest revels and ill-made bargains that left half-cursed townsfolk in their wake. For the first time in her life, she met people who’d borne true witness to faerie magic. The man who could weave the finest fabrics in the kingdom even as his blood dyed every yard in a rainbow of colors. The well that could cure any disease of its townsfolk, in the village where a child disappeared every seven seasons. The Duke who’d died alone in his estate, surrounded by gold that turned to dust as it crossed the threshold, gorged on shimmering fruit and wine that whispered sweet music.

She shivered delightedly at every eerie story, even as Corvo frowned and shot worried glances her way. Time after time she reassured him that she was safe, that he’d taught her well, that she took every possible precaution and had spent hours crafting words that might extricate her from any fae encounter. She’d turn out her pockets, jingle her bracelet, lift the adder stone from her neck-- anything to remind him that he’d done his due diligence, she was more equipped to handle the fae than any seventeen - and soon eighteen - year old needed to be.

The final stop of the royal progress was, at Corvo’s order, held at the Boyle estate not far from the royal palace. As long as Emily could remember, he’d held a grudge against the ladies Boyle. And burdening them with the expense of hosting the progress was the perfect way to backhandedly honor the old family. On Emily’s end of things, the Boyle estate was perfect: right on the edge of the forest, full of ramparts and shadowy corners she might be able to sneak away to (if she was careful), and the Boyle’s were wealthy enough that the final night, the night of her eighteenth birthday, was sure to be a affair to remember.

She was entirely too correct.

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