#the tempest retelling

[fweet-prince]

Today’s poll pits two very good plays against each other! Will tumblr go for the spectacle of Tempest’s magic, or the somewhat more down-to-earth conflict between one of the best pairs of rival-foils in the canon?

Check out the pinned post and the #bard poll tag to keep an eye on the bracket! And remember, keep any debate in the notes kind and civil. May the best play win!

[mask131]

Fantasy read-list: B-1.5

Next in our series of articles detailing fantasy works, is one from André-François Ruaud, covering Shakespeare, his work, and his work’s great influence over the fantasy genre. Given I already talked about Shakespeare’s work proper in my main post, here I will detail the list of work influenced by or shaped thanks to Shakespeare in the fantasy world.

# We will begin with one of the most straightforward and oldest Shakespeare retellings there are: Tales from Shakespeare, by the Lamb couple (Charles and Mary). This book was actually a retelling of Shakespeare’s plays, aimed at young children (for example it removed all sexual references, omitted many subplots, removed some plays deemed too historical for kids to understand), and a massive success, still in print today. Even though today’s kids find this book a bit hard to read… Because it was written in the beginning of the 19th century, and does an effort to keep as much of Shakespeare’s quite outdated language, in an effort of faithfulness.

# Rudyard Kipling’s Puck of Pook’s Hill. In this collection of short stories, Puck (from A Midsummer Night’s Dream) summons different characters from various parts of English history so they can tell their fantastical tales to two children…

# Caliban’s Hour, by Tad Williams. 20 years after the events of Shakespeare’s “The Tempest”, Miranda is imprisoned by a vengeful Caliban who wishes to kill her… but not before she hears the story of his life, the reason of his wrath, the truth behind his curse, and his true relationships to the sorcerers Prospero and Sycorax, putting the events of “The Tempest” under a new light.

# Not a book, but a movie this time: Prospero’s Book by Peter Greenaway. An avant-garde and very stylistic retelling of Shakespeare’s The Tempest as a complex story where Prospero preparing his revenge and Shakespeare preparing his play become one and the same…

# Elizabeth Willey’s A Sorcerer and a Gentleman, a fantasy novel about various fictional countries being threatened by a possible open-war, resulting of the centuries-old conflict between Avril, “usurper emperor”, and his sorcerous brother, Prospero.

# Roger Zelazny’s major fantasy series, The Chronicles of Amber, heavily reference the plays of Shakespeare, borrowing names, places and sentences from the playwright’s work (Oberon, “To sleep, perchance to dream…”, the forest of Arden, “Ill-met by moonlight”, Osric, “Good night, sweet Prince”…). Ruaud also mentions in his article Zelzany’s work “A Night in the Lonesome October”, even though to my knowledge there is no actual overtly Shakespearian theme in it? (I guess it might be a mistake due to the French title having been translated as “A Mid-october night’s dream”.

# Ruaud doesn’t talk about Macbeth’s influence over Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings (despite it being very famous – the defeat of the Witch-King and the march of the Ents both being influenced by Shakespeare’s tragedy), but he mentions how Gollum can remind one of Caliban, while Prospero was a model for the “archetypal wizard” of which Gandalf and Saruman are two prominent examples. [Personal note: From what I gathered, despite Tolkien referencing Shakespeare, he did not like his works at all, in fact most of the time Tolkien referenced Shakespeare not out of an “homage” but to “correct” what he felt was poorly used - as with how the march of the Ents is meant for Tolkien to get over his disappointment at Macbeth’s not having actual trees walking).

# Ruaud also mentions among the example of “archetypal wizards” inherited from Prospero, Belgarath, the main sorcerer of The Belgariad by the Eddings couple. From the Belgariad universe, Ruaud points out that the character of Silk is actually part of a tradition in fantasy of the “clownish member of the hero’s party”, that can date back to Touchstone from As you like it. 

# Ruaud suggests that the character of Ariel from The Tempest was an inspiration for Neil Gaiman’s Islington in Neverwhere (I cannot check this, because I know barely anything about Neverwhere, though I do plan on reading it one day).

# Ruaud, of course, also mentions Terry Pratchett’s Wyrd Sisters, a fantastical and hilarious parody of Shakespeare’s Macbeth (and additional plays) inside the humoristic fantasy universe of the Discworld series. I will personally add another book, which is actually the second sequel to Wyrd Sisters (between it and this one, there is Witches Abroad, which is a fairytale parody) – Lords and Ladies, a darkly funny deconstruction of both Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and Tolkien’s elves, inspired by traditional British fairy folklore (and which went on to influence the view of what people call “the true fae”).

# S.P. Somtow’s Riverrun Trilogy. I have to admit I forgot why Ruaud mentioned it among the Shakespearian influenced work – I didn’t take my notes when reading the article. But it is in the list, so…

# Ruaud claims that the archetype of the “fantasy inn”, actually comes from Shakespeare. The Prancing Pony from The Lord of the Rings, The Silver Eel from Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, Pratchett’s The Broken (then Mended) Drum from Discworld, the inn from Beagle’s The Innkeeper’s Song… According to Ruaud all those fantasy inns are inheriting from the inn in which most of Shakespeare’s Henry V takes place. Ruaud also mentions two authors that both deconstruct the “fantasy inn” archetype: Neil Gaiman, with the Sandman’s arc Worlds’s End (see below), and before him Poul Anderson with his Shakespeare-rewriting novel A Midsummer Tempest.

# While appearing on the list of the works deconstructing the “fantasy inn” archetype, Anderson’s A Midsummer Tempest deserves its own place in the list, being a fantasy novel where all of the events of Shakespeare’s play happened simultaneously, during the era of Cromwell and Charles I – A Midsummer Night’s Dream and The Tempest unfolding simultaneously between the English Civil War and the Industrial Revolution.

# Sarah A. Hoyt’s Ill-Met by Moonlight. A fantasy story retelling William Shakespeare’s life under the influence of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Young William Shakespeare discovers his wife and daughter were taken away by elves in their fairyland, and to get them back he will have to deal himself with the descendants of the legendary fairy rulers Oberon and Titania.

# Not a book, but a literary and highly praised comic that can be read as a book – the famous Sandman series by fantasy author Neil Gaiman. The comic was heavily influenced by Shakespeare’s plays, and actively references them several times. The issue “Men of Good Fortune” has the main character, the titular Sandman, lord of dreams, sleep and nightmares, meet a young William Shakespeare and make a deal with him to provide the playwright inspiration… This sets up the next Shakespearian issue, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, an homage, deconstruction, meta-retelling of Shakespeare’s play. And to conclude it all – “The Tempest”, the very last issue of the series, which invites the reader to take a second look at the final arcs of the story under the light of Shakespeare’s play.

# To conclude this long list, let’s have one French name around here. Fabrice Colin’s work, “Or not to be”. A Shakespeare-obsessed amnesiac young man is released from a mental institution after his mother forced him there due to a suicide attempt. Attempting to rediscover and puzzle back his past, he goes on a visit of England, tracking down William Shakespeare’s own life path, through a narration oscillating between pure imagination and schizophrenic madness… Until he stumbles upon a mysterious village he saw many times in his dreams and that does not appear on any map: Fayrwood, whose surroundings seem haunted by Pan himself…  

[emberkeelty]

#i mean it’s because it’s literally a gender swapped version of the Tempest though almost beat for beat #its haha funny in a watsonian way but reversed it’s more just….part of the point

Yeah but they specifically hung a lampshade on the fact that Shakespeare exists and is still well known in-universe, by having Miorine allude to Romeo and Juliet. And ALL of the Tempest references and parallels (the names, the nature of the revenge plot) originate from Elnora. That she is doing this on purpose and that is Watsonianly very funny is also part of the point, even taking a step back.

always extremely funny to me how she decided "Prospera Mercury" was the best thing to change her name to. to protect my identity i will move out to the midwest and name myself "Iaga Wisconsin", which will arouse no suspicion whatsoever,

[halflingkima]

evil evil evil WHAT is the point of writing a retelling if you're just gonna RETELL it

[william-shakespeare-official]

Here's THE masterpost of free and full adaptations, by which I mean that it's a post made by the master.

Anthony and Cleopatra: here's the BBC version, here's a 2017 version.

As you like it: you'll find here an outdoor stage adaptation and here the BBC version. Here's Kenneth Brannagh's 2006 one.

Coriolanus: Here's a college play, here's the 1984 telefilm, here's the 2014 one with tom hiddleston. Here's the Ralph Fiennes 2011 one.

Cymbelline: Here's the 2014 one.

Hamlet: the 1948 Laurence Olivier one is here. The 1964 russian version is here and the 1964 american version is here. The 1964 Broadway production is here, the 1969 Williamson-Parfitt-Hopkins one is there, and the 1980 version is here. Here are part 1 and 2 of the 1990 BBC adaptation, the Kenneth Branagh 1996 Hamlet is here, the 2000 Ethan Hawke one is here. 2009 Tennant's here. And have the 2018 Almeida version here. On a sidenote, here's A Midwinter's Tale, about a man trying to make Hamlet. Andrew Scott's Hamlet is here.

Henry IV: part 1 and part 2 of the BBC 1989 version. And here's part 1 of a corwall school version.

Henry V: Laurence Olivier (who would have guessed) 1944 version. The 1989 Branagh version here. The BBC version is here.

Julius Caesar: here's the 1979 BBC adaptation, here the 1970 John Gielgud one. A theater Live from the late 2010's here.

King Lear: Laurence Olivier once again plays in here. And Gregory Kozintsev, who was I think in charge of the russian hamlet, has a king lear here. The 1975 BBC version is here. The Royal Shakespeare Compagny's 2008 version is here. The 1974 version with James Earl Jones is here. The 1953 Orson Wells one is here.

Macbeth: Here's the 1948 one, there the 1955 Joe McBeth. Here's the 1961 one with Sean Connery, and the 1966 BBC version is here. The 1969 radio one with Ian McKellen and Judi Dench is here, here's the 1971 by Roman Polanski, with spanish subtitles. The 1988 BBC one with portugese subtitles, and here the 2001 one). Here's Scotland, PA, the 2001 modern retelling. Rave Macbeth for anyone interested is here. And 2017 brings you this.

Measure for Measure: BBC version here. Hugo Weaving here.

The Merchant of Venice: here's a stage version, here's the 1980 movie, here the 1973 Lawrence Olivier movie, here's the 2004 movie with Al Pacino. The 2001 movie is here.

The Merry Wives of Windsor: the Royal Shakespeare Compagny gives you this movie.

A Midsummer Night's Dream: have this sponsored by the City of Columbia, and here the BBC version. Have the 1986 Duncan-Jennings version here. 2019 Live Theater version? Have it here!

Much Ado About Nothing: Here is the kenneth branagh version and here the Tennant and Tate 2011 version. Here's the 1984 version.

Othello: A Massachussets Performance here, the 2001 movie her is the Orson Wells movie with portuguese subtitles theree, and a fifteen minutes long lego adaptation here. THen if you want more good ole reliable you've got the BBC version here and there.

Richard II: here is the BBC version. If you want a more meta approach, here's the commentary for the Tennant version. 1997 one here.

Richard III: here's the 1955 one with Laurence Olivier. The 1995 one with Ian McKellen is no longer available at the previous link but I found it HERE.

Romeo and Juliet: here's the 1988 BBC version. Here's a stage production. 1954 brings you this. The french musical with english subtitles is here!

The Taming of the Shrew: the 1980 BBC version here and the 1988 one is here, sorry for the prior confusion. The 1929 version here, some Ontario stuff here, and here is the 1967 one with Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. This one is the Shakespeare Retold modern retelling.

The Tempest: the 1979 one is here, the 2010 is here. Here is the 1988 one. Theater Live did a show of it in the late 2010's too.

Timon of Athens: here is the 1981 movie with Jonathan Pryce,

Troilus and Cressida can be found here

Titus Andronicus: the 1999 movie with Anthony Hopkins here

Twelfth night: here for the BBC, here for the 1970 version with Alec Guinness, Joan Plowright and Ralph Richardson.

Two Gentlemen of Verona: have the 2018 one here. The BBC version is here.

The Winter's Tale: the BBC version is here

Please do contribute if you find more. This is far from exhaustive.

(also look up the original post from time to time for more plays)

[caffeinewitchcraft]

Everything I've Ever Written (on Tumblr)

I have been writing online since 2016. As a result, I have quite the few short stories listed below! They're all from different parts in my writing journey and I hope you enjoy.

If you'd like to read what I currently put out, please consider supporting me on Patreon (X)

Cinderella Doesn't Believe in Fairy Tales

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

Part 4 / Part 5 /Part 6

Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9

Destiny Universe

You Are the Demon King

The Hero and Hope (part 1) (part 2)

Being Villagers

Heroes and Villains

Therapist for Villains

Juniper and Discus

Self Destruct Villain (flash fiction)

Dandelion (A Villain Story)

You Help Kill Heroes

You are the Shark Hero

Mist into a Tempest

The Civilian and the Reluctant Hero

No Heroes Here

The Spoiler (humor, flash fiction)

You are Legacy

Hero in Title

Dark Lord's Former Coworker

One Minute

The Fae:

You Become Powerful

Your Friend Takes Your Name

Larkin and Yvette

Debt Must Be Repaid (humor flash fiction)

Going to the Hill

The Fae are Free

When They Don't Know (submitted to elsewhereuniversity)

The Chosen One

The Chosen One's Parents

Fate and Mercy and Dead Girls

Amulet to Save Her

Hero's Apprentice (Flash fiction)

The Aftermath of the Chosen One

Wizards Stole My Brother

You are the Chosen One's Knight

The Chosen One is a History Major

You are the Most Powerful Magic User

Time Restarts and She Remembers

Better the Witch than the Kid

Witches

It Was in a Name

The Good Witch of Hawthorne

Berthe the Green Witch

Cursed Mold (flash fiction)

Love isn't Enough

I Can't Believe it's not Proper Adjudication

Devil Deals

The Devil You Know

The Ritual

They Summoned Her on Halloween (flash fiction)

Fairytale Retellings

Ariel and Ursula (age appropriate)

The Gods

Zeus' Son

Faith in Technology

Sci-Fi

Six Red Bulls and Persistence

The Sound of Silence

Emmaline and the Apartment

Humans are Vengeful

Humans Know War (that's why we have diplomacy)

Criminals Forced to Live on as AI (flash fiction)

Misc Fantasy

Wind-Speaker

Wind-Speaker and Her Wife

You Will Become

The Sirens and Leona (flash fiction)

Eldritch Princess (flash fiction)

Princess Maria and the Dragon

Princess Maria is Kidnapped

Immortals are Afraid of Change

Fiona the Dragon

A Violently Won War

Meta Stories

An Abstract Concept

Narrative Town

Narrative Town: Uncle Ralph

Princess Phaedra Breaks

You are a Horror Movie Villain

Ghost Stories

Malevolent Spirits

Your House is Haunted by an Anime Pillow

Don't Open the Door

Grandma's House

Who Is? (flash fiction)

A Face (flash fiction)

Misc.

You Choose Your Fate in Hell

Time Paradox (flash fiction)

You are an Assassin

Multiple Dimension Serial Killer (flash fiction)

An Exercise in Mary Sue

She Comes Back from the Hospital (tw eating disorder)

Roses and Evil (mental health flash fiction)

Big Brother

A Conversation About Anger

Punching Depression

Two Sides (flash fiction)

Immortal Serial Killer in Prison

Theater Romance (flash fiction)

The Lady and the Knight (flash fiction)

Different (flash fiction)

[booksteacupandreviews]

Top 5 Reasons to Read Midnight at the Houdini

It’s my stop during the blog tour for Midnight at the Houdini by Delilah S. Dawson. Check out my Top 5 Reasons to Read Midnight at the Houdini in this post. Midnight at the Houdini by Delilah S. Dawson Publication Date : September 5, 2023 Publisher : Delacorte Read Date : September 5, 2023 Genre : Urban Fantasy / Magical realism / YA Pages : 368 ⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 4 out of 5. Disclaimer – Many…

[capricorn-0mnikorn]

That giggle is infectious.

(Also, Ariel did those sailors a solid favor, getting all those entitled, rich, idiot, landlubbers out from underfoot).

Ariel’s “Hell is empty and all the devils are here” speech from the Tempest, but in modern English and as if Ariel is the child-equivalent of a spirit.

(I love him, I love him, I LOVE him)

[dedolubka]

This is the weirdest post I've ever written.

/heavy sigh/ A Court of Thorns and Roses. My kryptonite. I love and hate this series of books. I love it for the potential. I hate it for everything else. I love this for Tamlin. I hate it for what SJM did to Tamlin.

The worst part is that she didn't make Tamlin a villain, no. She said he was "evil" now, and all the characters in her book just… accepted it. And fans of the books embraced it too. So I just sat down, came up with some original characters, gave them to Tamlin and said "in my story you'll be happy" (I wish I could write my own fanfic about this, but I'm bad at writing (ಥ﹏ಥ).But if I wrote this fanfic, it would be a partial retelling of The Tempest by William Shakespeare. I'm just obsessed with the Ariel character. That's it, that's the whole reason (￢_￢))

[colormepurplex2]

Beneath The Boughs | Dare To Dream

↳ Namjoon x f.Reader ⤜ Robinhood Retelling, Strangers to Lovers/Soulmates, Ruined Arranged Marriage AU ⤜ Rating: MA🔞 ⤜ WC: 6,740 ⚠️violence, crass language, mentions of parental illness, melancholy feelings

Next Chapter⇾ ◅ Back to story masterlist

“My Lady,” Ms. Duckett calls from beyond the doors of the balcony terrace. “My Lady, it is time. If we do not leave now, we will not make it through this side of Sherwood before nightfall.”

You sigh with one last look out over the rolling expanse of bleak countryside. You push to your feet and smooth your gloved hands over the back of your gown, brushing away any detritus that might have attached to the fabric from the bench you were seated on. The heavy silk skirts swish over the layers of your thick wool petticoats as you turn to make your way back inside.

The first flurries of winter have begun, and unless you wish to spend the season shivering in the northern reaches of Yorkshire, you best get on with it. The window to return to the city of Nottingham is closing swiftly. It was a fool's move to leave it until the last moment anyway. But you couldn’t bring yourself to rejoin society sooner than absolutely necessary.

“Apologies, Duckie,” you offer her, the childhood nickname you gave her rolling off your tongue with affection despite your surly mood.

Verna Duckett has been your attending maid ever since your mother fell ill some twenty years prior and found herself with more need for a nursemaid than a lady’s maid. Duckie’s age is a mystery to you, but considering the silver knot tucked under her bonnet, you’d guess she was far older than her spry body and fiery attitude suggest.

Thinking of your mother’s continued ailing constitution only sours your demeanor further. After all, it is why you’ve found yourself in the predicament you are currently trying to avoid. So, to keep from dawdling further with those dark thoughts, you focus on gathering the fox-fur-lined cloak you left draped over the end of your bed and securing its thick golden clasp at your throat.

Duckie titters under her breath, reminding you of a flittering songbird as she encourages you from the room. “The sheriff is waiting with the carriages.”

That news pulls you up short at the top of the grand staircase. “The sheriff?”

“Indeed so, My Lady. He has come up from Nottingham to be your escort at the request of Prince Seokjin.”

Bile threatens to rise from the churning pit of your stomach. The Prince. “Must it be so?” you mutter to yourself. “Right,” you try to clear the disappointment from your voice as you begin the descent down the stairs. “Let us not keep him waiting long, then.”

The bite from the snowy northern winds does little to soothe the blazing tempest in your chest as you breeze through the open doors of the home you’ve kept for the summer in Yorkshire. It was once your father’s estate, passed down to you when you came of age. You prefer it to the oppressive halls of the inner city home you keep in Nottingham—the one your parents choose to reside in year-round.

“My Lady.” The sheriff greets you by way of an oily smile and a tip of his chin. “Trying to catch a cold before your big day?”

A snide remark forms on the tip of your tongue but you bite the offending appendage before it can garner you trouble over the next two days of travel. The absolute last thing you wish for right now is to land on Yoongi’s—the sheriff’s—bad side.

It’s possible you might have once considered him a friend. He has all the charm and grace of a pleasant gentleman. But, when he started to bow and scrape, doing the Prince’s bidding in forcing your hand, you lost all respect and good will towards him.

You’re aware that’s not exactly fair, considering Yoongi is merely a sheriff, and the prince is, well, a prince. But it simply is not fair, and you are more than aware of the other dealings the prince and Yoongi have gotten up to in the recent years since King Seokjoong went on his crusades.

Mirth twinkles in Yoongi’s eyes; clearly, he can see the restraint painted all over your face. “Of course not, My Lord—I mean, Sheriff,” you reply, your words dripping with saccharinity. His lips flatten at your intentional misuse of the title.

Yoongi is as much a Lord as you are a pigeon. And you know that rankles him far more than any snide remark you might have bestowed upon him. Being the Sheriff of Nottingham brings Yoongi power, but not nearly enough to satiate his growing greed. That much is evident in how he swindles and ousts any and all meager bits of coinage from the pockets of those he is sworn to protect. No, Yoongi protects only himself…and occasionally you, per the prince’s request.

The ride to Nottingham starts slow and ponderous, the snow turning to sleet with each creeping mile south, causing the dirt under hoof and wheel to quickly form ruts and mud pits that suck and pull, sapping any haste from the procession.

Duckie was being generous in her assessment of time, as by the time the sun drops below the horizon, your caravan escort has barely hit the outskirts of Sherwood. You know it was unwise to have spent so long avoiding the ride; this is your own doing.

It’s not that you mind the forest at night; it’s just that the swaying oil lamps and guttering torches do little to diminish the darkness. Every creak of the carriage and distant animal chitter have you quite literally on the edge of your seat, the velvet cushion firmly crushed under your hands where they fist the lip of the bench.

The sudden, jarring stop of the carriage nearly unseats you. Muffled shouts sound from beyond the drawn curtains. Duckie frowns, absently pulling a handkerchief from her apron pocket and fanning her ample bosom with it.

“Dreadful luck stopping in these cursed woods,” she mutters nervously before flicking back the edge of one of the curtains and peeking out the window. “What in heavens is going on out there?”

She jumps back, her alarmed yelp echoing through the carriage as Yoongi jerks open the door. “My Lady, I apologize for the delay. There is some debris across the roadway. It should only take a moment for it to be moved, and then we shall be on our way once more. I think it best we continue through the night,” he says with a grimace as his focus is pulled somewhere back beyond the carriage.

Without another word, he disappears, shutting you and Duckie in the carriage once more. The silence is only broken by the soft swishing of Duckie’s handkerchief as she goes back to fanning herself.

“Not to worry, dearie. I’m sure the Sheriff will have us back on the move in no time.”

Adrenaline courses through your veins when muffled shouts and screams rend through the air, breaking the tense silence. You catch the faintest bellow from the head of the caravan.

“Brigands! Brigands in the trees! To arms!”

Duckie shrieks, her handkerchief fluttering in the air as she lurches toward you. The air wooshes from your lungs as she drags you bodily into the bottom of the carriage and throws herself on top of you. 

One of her elbows catches you in the chin as you try to turn over, your skirts tangling around your ankles with each struggling movement.

“Duckie!” you croak, sucking in pitiful gasps of air. The corset stays pinching at your ribs, combined with the full weight of your maid laid across your back, are making it hard to gain the breath that was shoved from your lungs when you hit the carriage floor. “I cannot breathe!”

She wails something unintelligible and pushes up onto her knees. You flop over onto your back and suck in a sweet lungful of air. Your exhale is an aching sputter that turns into a fit of coughing. Suddenly, the air inside the carriage is too hot and thick.

“My Lady!” Duckie’s bark of protest follows you out of the carriage. You couldn’t reach your feet fast enough, scrambling up from your knees and shoving open the carriage door, stumbling out several steps. You stand there, plunged into the cacophony around you, trying valiantly to suck in fresh air.

The night is alive with pain and shrieks of madness. Chaos engulfs your small caravan, and there are scattered pockets of struggle everywhere you look. Figures dressed in various shades of dark green and brown are engaged with the bright reds and golds of the Prince’s colors.

As if wanting to bear witness to the violence, the moon has worked its way through the gloomy cloud cover overhead and lends its light to the smoking oil lanterns and torches to illuminate the mud-churned—now striped with blood—road.

A sneering face comes into focus, startling you back a step. “Are you mad, woman!? Get back in the carriage!” Yoongi roars before taking off back into the fray.

He meets the swing of a brigand's sword with his own; the clash of steel against steel rings through the air, further jolting you from your frozen state. Panic harries you as you retreat further, your eyes on a constant swivel for danger.

A gout of flame flares to life near the head of the line of carriages, and the screams of horses pierce the din. “Fire! The horses!” thunders a voice that is soon swallowed by the frenzy of other sounds.

You watch in horror as a carriage engulfed in flame careens off the road, being dragged through the sticky muck by out-of-control horses. Their fear is palpable, the flames devouring the front coach seat and licking so close to their tails.

The painful whickering of the beautiful draft horses draws you like a moth being led directly to the inferno. You’re heedless of the danger around you. One sole focus consumes you; no one is available to free those horses…if you don’t do it, they’ll surely die.

Once again, your feet move before you can do more than register Duckie’s protesting cries from behind you. You fist the billows of your skirt in your hands, hiking up the thick material, making your reckless sprint a little easier, though the churned mud still sucks at the soles of your slippers, which are soon filled with icy water and slimy muck.

“My Lady!” Duckie’s cry follows you, closer than before. “Please, My Lady, no!”

“The horses, Duckie! We have to help them!” you beg, skittering to a stop in the muck, arms windmilling to keep yourself upright.

Whether or not she heard your desperate plea or simply followed you out of an attempt to get you to turn back toward the carriage, she stumbles to a stop beside you as you take in the carnage.

The carriage that caught fire was one of the ones lit with the hanging lanterns. Arrows dot the wooden side, which is now facing the sky. The entire thing has turned over in the muck from the mad dash of the horses combined with the sticky mud. It’s evident an arrow hit one of the lanterns and caused the fire. Whether by accident or intentional, the damage is done, and your time is running out as the flames lick across the carriage and shoot toward the sky.

A massive tangle of leather hitching straps and splintered wood connects the two draft horses to the wreckage. They rear and scream, massive hooves raking the sky as they thrash and pull in vain at their harnesses.

Ignoring the sapping cold of the mud seeping through the skirts of your gown, you throw yourself on the ground where the straps attach to the overturned carriage. Duckie lands in the muck beside you a second later, her hands moving as frantically as your own as you wrestle with the buckles and bolts. The entire wreck shudders every time the horses stomp and attempt to free themselves, but you don’t dare abandon the buckles to try and calm them. You’d likely catch an errant hoof to your person for the efforts.

Heat beats down on you, and the faint stench of burnt hair and singed fabric mixes with the acrid stink of smoke filling the air around you. The flames are growing closer, but you ignore the discomfort, pouring all your focus into freeing the horses.

“To your right!” a voice calls out over the din of battle a second before something thunks heavily into the ground beside you.

You spare a glance up, and your eyes catch on a hooded figure. Time suspends in a moment of what you can only describe as magick. Something flickers in your chest as your eyes meet the ones staring out from the cowl, like a blossoming flower opening under the warm spring sun for the first time.

It’s captivating, soul-capturing, and utterly unexplainable. Dark, seemingly endless eyes, inky hair, and a face you’re sure you’ve never seen in full before…yet know more intimately than even your own—a man of your dreams. Dreams you’ve had since you were a young teenager of a man with eyes like endless pools of night sky and a heart that beats in kind with your own.

A frantic cry from Duckie breaks the spell, the carriage shifting so violently it rocks you backward onto your bottom. You tear your eyes away from the mysterious man. Focusing back on the task at hand, you grasp the hilt of the forearm-length blade you know he’s responsible for tossing to you. It is embedded point-down in the ground by your side, still vibrating from the force.

Ripping the blade from the mud, you make quick work of slicing through the harness straps. The horses burst free from their restraints and take off at a panicked gallop away from the fire raging behind you.

Quiet sobs are hiccuping from Duckie. She grabs a fistful of the back of your gown and jerks. “Go!” But instead of directing you back toward your carriage, her momentum sends you sprawling in the direction of the closest darkened clutch of trees. “We need to hide! Hurry, to the trees!”

Digging for purchase in the icy muck, you lurch to your feet and stumble until the forest's darkness gobbles you up. Duckie is only a pace or two behind you, her mud-covered bosom heaving as she slumps down behind a knotted and gnarled tree.

Wordlessly, she beckons for you to join her, and you both sit there, peering around the side of the tree and back at the chaos still engulfing your caravan. The fighting has died down. A few green and brown-clad bodies writhe on the ground, making your stomach protest the senseless violence.

Broken crates and boxes lie scattered about, their insides spilled and pilfered through by the brigands—clearly a band of no-good highwaymen. It’s one of the main reasons the Sherwood Forest should be avoided after dark. Bands of rogues and disgraced knights have taken to prowling the thick woods.

As sour as your thoughts are, you can’t help searching the fray for a particular hooded figure. You feel like if you could get one more glimpse of him, you might be able to decipher what happened when your eyes met his. At the moment, you could have sworn he was the man of your dreams, but now, you’re not so sure. There is far too much adrenaline coursing through your system for you to make heads from tails of it.

You watch as one of the brigands uses the pommel of their sword to clock one of your escorts across the temple, crumpling him into a heap of red and gold. Focusing on each pitched cluster of violence, you realize the red and gold figures are the only ones trying to deal lethal blows. You’ve watched enough tournaments of combat to know the basics of battle.

“They’re not trying to kill them,” you mutter under your breath.

“What, My Lady?”

Sparing a glance at Duckie, you nod back toward the road. “The brigands. They’re not using lethal moves. It is as if they are intentionally avoiding critical damage. Like they…” you trail off, catching sight of a familiar hooded figure, glinting eyes shadowed in the cowl latching on yours.

“You cannot possibly be suggesting—”

“Behind you!” you scream, lurching from your hiding spot and sprinting back toward the road where you saw Yoongi creeping up behind the hooded figure as he was distracted, staring at you.

Branches scratch and rip at your gown and the exposed skin of your throat and hands. But the stinging lashes are second to the intense panic slicing through your chest as Yoongi’s bloodied sword arcs through the air.

By the time you spill from the cover of the trees, the cloaked man is springing up from a roll where he must have dodged Yoongi’s blade. You watch as he spins to face Yoongi. He brings a hand up, and an ear-splitting whistle pierces the air.

As if the sound has broken a dam, the dozen remaining hooded figures, including the one with those molten eyes locked on you, disengage and retreat. They dissolve into the surrounding trees like fog baked away by a noonday sun; there one moment and gone the next.

Yoongi barks an order to pursue, and half the remaining gold and red soldiers peel off to follow. They look like a ragtag bunch, their armor speckled with dark mud and blood. But, you know they have received extensive training under the tutelage of Yoongi and the Prince’s court mage and will try to track down as many of the brigands as they can like the good hunting dogs they are.

“Yoongi, please, call them back!” you plead. “The wood is dark. It is not worth it! Please, I beg you, let us hurry—”

The narrowing of Yoongi’s eyes causes your words to catch in your throat. You’ve never seen such a venomous glare. It pierces right through your heart, spearing you in place. You think he is about to lay into you, lashing at you with that curdling tongue. Yet, he just nods, turning away and stalking from you before whistling a sharp cadence that you recognize is used to call the guards back.

“My Lady,” Duckie sniffles. “Oh, your gown. This simply won’t do. Come, come, back to the carriage.”

She ushers you quickly back toward the open door of your carriage, the horses tethered to the front, finally calming their stamping hooves and wild eyes.

“Move out!” Yoongi shouts. The guards who had peeled off to follow the brigands emerge back into the clearing, and in a few short minutes, the caravan moves once again—albeit a few carriages short, the carnage left behind like a pock on the King’s Road.

🍂🍂🍂

Namjoon

There were too many.

Too many uniforms of red and gold and sharpened swords.

It was a bad call.

No amount of coin is worth the bodies that were left behind in the mud. Namjoon knows he shouldn’t have encouraged the men. He should have put his foot down and been firm in his insistence that they hold back.

But, there’s naught to do for it now except lick their wounds and hope the amount of coins and jewels they got off with can fill their larders against the coming winter. The bags seemed heavy enough, but one can never be too sure until they actually begin to count and weigh it out.

The men seem happy enough. Their jovial shouts and laughter carry through the woods, adrenaline adding to the thrill of it as they all easily lope along under the darkening boughs.

The dense foliage overhead absorbs their merriment, and Namjoon doesn’t wish to take it away from them by asking them to quiet down. He realized that the Sheriff called off his dogs shortly after anyway—a surprise for sure and a welcomed one at that.

“How many did we lose?”  Hoseok asks, pitching his voice low so others don’t hear. His long legs trot along, keeping pace with ease beside Namjoon.

Namjoon frowns, huffing a breath as they jog in silence for a few moments. “Five.” He rattles off their names, hating how each one coats his tongue with a bitterness that nothing but the most potent fyre ale will be able to staunch.

“We will honor them and ensure their families are taken care of,” Hoseok offers, his voice hollow but firm. He’s always been a softer guy, something Namjoon has cherished in all their years of friendship. Hoseok has helped to temper Namjoon’s anger and quell his intensity at dire times of need; he is an empath through and through.

Not trusting himself to say more, Namjoon just nods as they continue through the woods until they reach their destination.

It’s a hidden city—a village, really. But everyone likens it to a city, considering it stretches across nearly an entire league of forest, tucked into the upper branches of the trees. It’s a proverbial city of wooden treehouses and rope bridges spanning between platforms. They have nearly everything a city does, even a bakery and a small darning shop.

The only thing not within the hidden city in the tops of the trees is the smithy—too much of a fire hazard, of course. So, Jungkook has his forge and the bellows tucked away into the crumbling remains of an ancient fortress long forgotten in the woods.

As an exiled knight of the crown, Jungkook knows his way around weaponry. It wasn’t that far of a leap to smithing once he got the hang of it. Namjoon can just see the glow of the forge fire as his band approaches, the approaching call having been whistled just a moment before.

It’s safer like that, using mimicry of bird calls as signals. He learned early on that you can never be too careful. The last thing Namjoon wants is for someone to come across his home…his people, the outcasts and the damned.

“I’m going to check in with Jungkook. Be up shortly,” Namjoon tells Hoseok before veering off towards the old ruins.

Hoseok disappears into the foliage, rallying the band up the rope ladders to the hidden homes above, where most of their families wait. Despite how ramshackle and hodgepodge his little city is, there is beauty in it, too. Beauty in the families, the small children that have spent more of their lives living among the leaves of trees than on the ground. But at least they’re safe; that’s what matters most.

That and the food from the coin they managed to loot tonight will garner.

That’s the primary reason he needs to speak with Jungkook. Being an exiled knight, the man not only knows his way around weaponry, but he has a knack for trading and brokering deals as well.

Despite his exile, Jungkook is still respected among many of the Prince’s men. With a well-placed word and an extra coin or two, Jungkook can get just about anything Namjoon needs.

There is a chill in the air, but the forge is blistering hot, the heat reflecting off the stone ruins' few remaining walls. Namjoon thinks this particular nook of rubble was once a stable—the rusted iron hitching posts lining the lower wall leads him to that conclusion.

Jungkook seems to be getting ready to shut the forge down for the night. He’s shirtless and dripping sweat with an assortment of new blades, which are laid out on the makeshift table off to the side.

“Oh! You startled me,” Jungkook huffs, a soot-covered hand slapping over his heart as he turns and spots Namjoon.

Namjoon smiles apologetically. “Sorry, brother. I was just about to announce myself.”

“It’s no matter,” Jungkook says, brushing it off. He swings around further, depositing the leather roll of tools cradled in his other arm on the table beside the new blades.

“What brings you here? I thought surely you’d be up with everyone else, filling your belly with some ale. There are still a few casks left.”

“In due time.” Namjoon shrugs, looking for something to distract from the real reason he’s come to talk to Jungkook. “Do you mind if I have one of these?” he asks, gesturing to the pile of fresh blades.

Jungkook’s eyes sweep over Namjoon, landing on the empty dagger sheath at his hip. “That’s, what, the third blade you’ve managed to lose in as many months?”

Namjoon scrubs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Yeah…there was some trouble on the road.”

Those eyes that were resting on his empty sheath now narrow into a calculating query as they rise to Namjoon’s. “How did it go?”

The tense silence lasts just a spell before Namjoon clears his throat and breaks it. “We came away with a few hefty bags.”

“But? There’s a but there, I can tell. Go on, tell me, how many did we lose?” Jungkook leans a hip against the table. He pulls out the rough-spun towel tucked into the top of his leather apron and begins to absently brush and wipe the soot and grime from his hands.

As much as Namjoon would rather talk about the trade and bartering that would come from the coin, he knew Jungkook would ask after the loss. After all, it was Jungkook’s suggestion that took Namjoon and his band of men to the edge of the forest tonight. He had heard that the Sheriff would be moving precious cargo. It turns out the precious cargo was in the form of a woman.

A fierce and brilliant woman who came rocketing into Namjoon’s life like a shooting star blazing through the night as she streaked across the impromptu battlefield to free those terrified horses. It was an accident, the errant arrow catching one of the hanging lanterns. He heard the man who loosed the arrow curse and lament over it and they both got caught up defending their backs against the Guards before they could act.

“We lost five,” Namjoon says to pull his mind out of that rabbit hole. The last thing he needs to be thinking about is the odd, visceral connection and pull he felt with that mystery woman.

Jungkook nods, his lips thinning into a straight line. “They’ll be honored by all,” he says, mirroring Hoseok’s words from earlier. “Tell me what else went on? What was so precious Yoongi disregarded all safety guards and ventured into the Wood so late?”

The words get caught in Namjoon’s throat. In part, he doesn’t want to tell Jungkook because he somehow feels possessive of the woman. It’s absurd. Forcing that notion aside, Namjoon forges on, recounting everything that transpired for Jungkook. By the time he’s done, Jungkook nods with a faint look of knowing on his face.

“For some reason, the Sheriff signaled a pullback a few minutes after the order to follow. He’s never done that before.”

“That,” Jungkook says, tucking the now-soiled rag back into the top of his apron, “would be The Fair Maiden of York’s doing.”

“Wait. The who?” Namjoon has heard of The Yorkshire Maiden. She’s renowned throughout the parts, even for someone as hidden and removed from society as Namjoon. In fact, he knows that she’s— “The Prince’s betrothed? You mean to tell me we attacked her caravan?” He mutters your name, the sweet sound of it coating his tongue like honey. “That’s who that was?” Each new line of thinking has Namjoon’s alarm rising.

“I had thought she had already ventured south. It didn’t even cross my mind that the precious cargo could have been her. In truth, I should have considered it. I’m sorry, my friend. I’ll try to get better information next time.”

Namjoon barely registers Jungkook’s words, giving him a jerky nod and a half-muttered excuse of needing to go. Jungkook waves him off, saying he’ll be up shortly.

But he won’t find Namjoon when he does.

No, because Namjoon is now on a different trail, having passed off a curt message to a sentry about returning in a few days' time that he was going to speak to a contact. Which isn’t entirely a lie. He needs answers and fast. There is only one place he can think of that he might be able to find them. A place he hasn’t visited in far too long—months at this point.

The feeling in his chest…the name still echoing in his mind. There is an explanation. But he needs to be sure, confirm it, and see it once again with his own eyes. Because surely it’s impossible… fairytales are just that, fairytales.

It’s not like he didn’t already know your name. But the combination of your name and the feelings that assaulted him…Namjoon’s thoughts trail off as he focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, keeping to the shadows.

He cuts around the tree-top encampment, skirting the ruins until he hits a very seldomly trailed path. It spears right into the heart of Sherwood, leading Namjoon directly to the outskirts of Nottingham.

Namjoon has to journey through the night, taking a brief reprieve under the drooping boughs of a pine. Thready light filters through the trees, guiding Namjoon. Despite the infrequent use of this particular trail, he knows it perhaps more intimately than any other. It was the path of his childhood, where he found salvation and freedom.

The spire of the old church comes into view, breaking through the canopy before it gives way entirely to the thick stone wall encasing the city proper. It was the wish of the church to remain outside the city so its doors could remain open to any and all manner of wanderers, even those who may have found themselves on the wrong end of the Kingdom’s sword.

“Friar Gill! Friar Gill, are you within?” Namjoon whisper-yells, peeking over the sill of one of the rear windows of the sprawling sect house that connects to the church proper. It’s early enough in the dim morning hours that daily service and devotionals haven’t happened, but the brother within should be awake to prepare for them.

“Is that you, Namjoon?” comes a familiar voice, though one that does not belong to Friar Gill.

“Jimin? Er, Friar Park, yes, it’s me.”

“What brings you here at this hour?” Jimin asks, his tousled head of dark locks poking out the window a second later. His eyes are bright, the dark irises catching the first glimmers of morning light. A hefty tome is clutched to his robe-covered chest and there is a smudge of ink on the apple of his left cheek.

“Is Friar Gill here?”

“I’m afraid not. He left per request of the King, nearly a month gone now. He’s to bless the front lines and bestow his grace upon the King as he continues his crusade. It seems the Prince’s favored mage has not brought the King any luck,” he adds that last part with a healthy smirk, his cheeks instantly coloring as he clears his throat. “Forgive me for speaking ill of the Prince’s Mage.”

It’s an automatic response, Namjoon knows, for Jimin to feel contrite over his words immediately. Even if he knows Namjoon holds no warmth with the Prince nor his Mage. If anything, Namjoon harbors far more resentment and hatred towards the snake of a magick caster than most.

After all, it was The Mage who saw to Namjoon’s displacement and subsequent outlawish ways. It’s his fault that Namjoon has had to resort to pillaging city-bound caravans to get by.

He reminds Jimin as much, “You know there is no pleasantry lost between Taehyung and myself.”

Jimin nods, a frown pulling down his full mouth. “Yes. Yes, I don’t suppose so.” Straightening up, Jimin gives a quick shake of his head. “Friar Gill may be gone, but perhaps I can help you. What is it that you need?”

“There’s a book…a book that was shown to me when I was just a boy by Friar Gill. It has a green leather cover and gold etching along the edges. The title was something odd, a language I’m not familiar with. Do you know it?”

“‘Prophetia Somniorum’,” Jimin intones softly, his eyes widening with twinkling wonder. “A book about dreams. Prophetic dreams.”

“Yes. That’s the one. I think it has the answers that I seek.”

🍂🍂🍂

“Please, My Lady, come away from the window before you catch a chill. It’s the last thing you’d want on this day.”

You sigh, turning away from the open window of your tower room. The landscape beyond is bleak, the sky streaked through with heavy, grey rain clouds. There’s been a perpetual drizzle ever since you arrived in Nottingham.

Six days. It’s been six whole days since the incident in Sherwood Forest. Six days since you saw him…and you can’t stop thinking about those dark eyes. You’ve dreamed about them several times throughout your life, a few times a year at most. Now, though, it’s become a nightly occurrence.

There was a point in your life, in your early twenties, when you asked your mother about the dreams and whether or not she thought they held any meaning. You’ll never forget the faraway look she got in her eyes and the sad smile that curved her rouged lips.

It was like she was haunted by your question, or rather whatever your question made go through her mind. Memories, perhaps. Though, she never would tell you, no matter how much you asked. She simply told you that you should always dare to dream, whether your eyes are opened or closed.

You wish you could seek her guidance now, to ask her whether or not the man on the road could genuinely be the man you’ve been seeing in your dreams or if that kind of thing only belongs in storybooks.

It’s been months since you’ve seen either her or your father. Ever since your mother took ill and she and your father took up permanent residence in Nottingham, you’ve spent far more time alone in Yorkshire than in either of their companies.

As it is, you’ve not even seen either of them since you came into the city. Their estate is on the far side of Nottingham, in the garden district, and you’re restricted to the Palace. You had received a brief letter from them when you first arrived, a simple check-in via a cursore. You sent a response, but there hasn’t been word since, not a single knock at your chamber door aside from the occasional servant bringing your meals.

You wouldn’t be surprised if it’s still months before you see them again, given your mother’s health and your father’s demanding position within the governing body.

Duckie titters, her hands automatically moving to straighten your gown, even though not a stitch has moved since she trussed you into the stays an hour gone. The sun sits heavy and low on the horizon, its thready rays trying pitifully to eat away the thickness of night and perpetually grey cover.

You woke long before you should have, feeling restless with an itch beneath your skin. The fine hairs along your arms prickle under the long bells of your sleeves. You can’t shake the feeling that’s been gnawing at your gut since your eyes popped open, the dream of your highwayman sluicing away like a rush of icy water down your back.

“My gown is fine, Duckie,” you mutter. It takes every ounce of nerve you have to not jerk away from her prodding and fluffing.

Her wrinkled lips turn down in a frown. “One can never be too lax on a day such as this, My Lady. I just want to make sure you are pristine for Prince Seokjin.”

You might have once smiled at the thought of a prince. Part of the girlish charm of childhood, you’re sure. Pretty dresses, handsome princes, and a single care of naught else in the world. Only, you’re not a girl anymore. Not even close.

“I’m quite alright. Please. If the prince cannot accept me as I am right now, then perhaps he does not befit me after all.” You meant to say that to yourself, a mere utterance under your breath, but your frazzled nerves must be affecting your senses as a whole.

The gasp from Duckie is so dramatic it belongs in the theatre, center stage with an anticipation-gripped crowd holding their breaths to find out what happens next. In this case, it's a twitching of your eye as you suppress an eye roll and plaster on a tense smile instead.

Duckie swallows whatever response is on her tongue when a loud, sharp rapt sounds at the door. She schools her features and turns towards it, giving you a quick glance over her shoulder. You nod, letting her know it’s acceptable to open the door, even if you’d rather tell her to send whoever it could possibly be away. Nothing good can come of a knock on the door today, even if it could be a cursor from your parents.

Just as expected, the door opens, and you’re certain the temperature in the room drops several degrees. If you were facing the window, you’re sure you’d see the sun slink backward in the sky, choosing to hide from the figure on the other side of your threshold instead of continuing its journey to spread its meager warmth.

The prince’s mage sweeps into the room, his upper lip curled in mild disgust as his gaze sweeps over Duckie, quickly dismissing her, until they land on you. Those cold, calculating eyes have always unnerved you. What with their slender vertical pupils that slice through his golden brown irises, he looks every inch the venomous snake you know he is.

“My Lady,” he says, tilting his unruly head of midnight hair toward you. Even his voice has a hiss-like quality to it, the syllables drawn out just a breath too long.

“Taehyung.” You hope he can hear the apparent disinterest in the flat tone of your voice. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Though it’s anything but, you mentally note.

“I came to escort you to the arena.”

Of course, he would be the one to come and escort you. You should have figured as much. Despite the threat of rain, today’s festivities are set to commence at high noon. In celebration of your betrothal to the prince, a tournament of varying specialties is being held. There will be horse jousting, stone lifting, archery, and a multitude of other events, along with a giant feast. The event is open to most of the public, one of the only times mere commoners may get the chance to mingle among the upper echelon.

You balked at the idea when it was presented to you by your father. But, he would hear nothing of it, nattering on about how this marriage will benefit not just the Kim crown but your father’s own standing with his home country as well. For lack of a better way to say it, you are simply a means to a political end. No better than a slab of meat being bartered for at market.

“There is no—”

“There have been more reports of attacks on the road, growing ever closer to the city. The prince worries for your safety. You can come with me, or I shall have to call for the sheriff. My Lady, there simply can be no other way.”

It’s tempting to make him call for Yoongi. However, you’re not sure who the lesser of two evils is. As much as you hold disdain for the sheriff, you know if he’s pulled away from his duties to escort you, his wrath will be great. While the prince’s mage unnerves you…best to get this over with.

“Very well.” You incline your head and clench your jaw in preparation for the feel of his skin against yours as you stiffly rest your hand over the top of his when he offers it to you.

Ignoring the foreboding feeling growing in the pit of your stomach, you allow Taehyung to guide you out your door, Duckie shuffling close behind. The soft whisper of your slippers over the cold stones in the corridor might as well be the toll of a bell, telling of your impending doom and the future you want no part of.

Next Chapter⇾ ◅ Back to story masterlist

◅ Back to Main Master List ©️ 2024-10-29 ColorMePurplex2

[fandomfluffandfuck]

S...... you asked for this. Literally.

But also I am asking you for this - please pretty please can you Evanstan-ify Chris saying a lot of good thing happened to him at age 24 for us??? 🙏🏻🙏🏻 Really intrigued by this and I'd love to find out what thoughts your brilliant mind is thinking about this scenario... Sending lots of love and hugs to you! 💗💗

Literally, I did ask for it, and I asked because...

gif by @/forassgard

Look at this fucking guy

His pretty, pretty princess lashes, his lips, and that wistful look on his face...

How could I not spend hours thinking about him? 😮‍💨😮‍💨

I'm thinking about how when Chris was 24, it would've been 2005, and so he hadn't met Seb yet by that point, but all roads lead to Sebastian, so, when he does meet Sebastian and they've been together for a while, somehow this interview clip comes up.

I don't have a set idea of how it surfaces--maybe someone (probably Mackie, lmao, trolling him because it's fun and because he knows first hand how competitive Sebastian can be when you push his buttons) sends him the clip saying he should if 24 is still his favorite age or not, maybe Sebastian stumbles across it on his own on YouTube and gets curious, or maybe he's missing Chris and rewatching old clips of him when they're in different cities for different projects which Chris finds out about, asking him how he's doing and receiving nothing but a blush, and then Seb gives him lip back for how he looked in those days, handsome yes, but the fashion, Chris, the fashion is... something. Whatever the reason, yes, that clip.

That clip needs a modern explanation.

And Chris, for all his dark eyes, confident smirks, and cocksure manhandling of Sebastian when he's feeling frisky, when something is suddenly sprung on him, he can get quite shy. It's adorable for such a muscle-bound, virile guy if you ask Sebastian. It's too innocent, almost. The way just the right, perfectly-timed out-of-the-blue innuendo, abrupt wink, or slap on the ass, and he's blushing.

The soft embarrassment almost doesn't fit on his large, broad frame, yet it's there. It's there and it's fucking vivid--spread like hot, liquid butter melted into golden toast from one cheek over the bridge of his handsome nose to the other, shaded by his glasses and thick beard. He can't hide behind any of it, though, not his beard, his glasses, or the sweeping wings of his grown-out hair shading his forehead, curling around his ears.

God, Sebastian wants to plaster himself to Chris, tip to tail, he could swoon and press into him so hard right now.

Chris blushing and stuttering--stumbling over his words and his own limbs in the suddenness of Sebastian's filthiness--is almost always accompanied by a narrowing of his eyes and a tilt of his head.

Sebastian is nothing if not the sweetest menace.

So.

Before I get more distracted by more gifs of Seb looking so bratty, Sebastian brings the clip up to Chris, asking a seemingly innocent question that he knows has some undertone to it. He can see the dazed, satisfied look beneath Chris' put-on cool. He knows there's a story there, one he wouldn't tell, couldn't tell, and he intends to find out what, even if he has to pull it out of his man sputtered, pink-cheeked word by sputtered, pink-cheeked word.

Chris tumbles through his answer with his voice stuck in that low, rough register that Seb has become so fucking intimately familiar with, reacting to it like a dog hearing the word "dinner." He could drool. And speaking of drooling and mouths and appetites... Chris' plush lips just get redder and wetter until they're glistening and swollen from all the biting and licking he does as he retells the story. Sebastian doesn't think he knows he's doing it. If he does know, then he's a bastard, a fucking cocktease, but--

That look on his face?

Nah.

He's not teasing.

Really, he's caught up in a heated, sticky whirlwind in his mind, sweeping him off his feet and carrying him into the thick of the tempest deep inside his body. A core of pure want.

As he's thrown roughly about by the winds, feeling the pull of old eroticisms, sparks reignited, he doesn't spare a detail. It might take gentle, urging encouragement from Seb at first, verifying sincerely that he does want to know, and it's not making him jealous to know, quite the opposite--as he listens intently, hanging off the edge of every detail with his fingernails dug in, Seb finds that he has to involuntarily shift in his seat, half-shivering, letting his knees fall wide open as his blood starts to heat and thicken, redirecting to his knotted gut.

Seb thickly swallows the excess spit pooling in his mouth. Inhale, exhale; he has to remember how to breathe. He can't help but imagine every fucking word he manages to pull out from his lover's oh-so alluring mouth.

In the same way that Chris fidgets by sinking his teeth into his bottom lip and licking it lavishly, his eyes move and change; they flit back and forth like a flame pushed by a howling wind. He's staring between Sebastian's eyes--their gazes meeting and all but crackling with the intensity--and some middle distance that Seb can't see but knows holds all of Chris' visceral memories. Memories that wash over him in sticky, hot waves, lapping at his skin in phantom flames, pushing up against him as hot, humid summer breezes.

Chris' skin, normally pale, tints more and more pink the deeper he dives into his tale.

He usually talks with his hands, but as he goes on and on and on... he doesn't.

Rather than making gestures to add emphasis intentionally, he's obscenely absently rubbing his big, heavy palms up and down, up and down, up and down, the length of his muscular thighs. It almost looks like he's soothing himself against the onslaught of intensity; it almost looks like he's groping himself against the onslaught of the intensity. Either way, he can't help but touch.

Touch himself.

Every now and again, though, Chris suddenly realizes what he's doing, his hands creeping inappropriately high on his own body, and he shoves his hands back under his thighs, sitting on them. But. They just keep coming out to play the deeper into his story he gets. He can't help it.

Every new detail is more alluring than the last.

Sebastian hoards every piece of them, stowing them away like something gleaming and precious. They are. The way he's describing it, god, it is precious in the most perverse way--trusting her completely, feeling so vulnerable and exposed to her, all but on his knees at her mercy while certainly not literally, physically being on his knees, just emotionally, gutting, so gutting, his eyes rolling for it, his mouth gasping uncontrollably, no, moaning uncontrollably while the rest of his body shook, boneless and limp at the same time that he wanted to writhe, maybe he was writhing, squirming, fisting the sheets, arching his back to get more without stopping to think of if he should or not, fuck, whether or not he was squirming for it, he definitely was crying during it, his first time crying from the intensity of the physical sensations, he's cried during sex before for emotional, connecting reasons, he had never been so fucking turned on like that before that he couldn't help it, the tears just came out, falling, spilling over, running down his cheeks, smeared into the pillows, so fucking insane, so good it was shocking, nails digging crescents into his lean hips, embarrassing, but not, impossible almost, the way it felt, stretched, raw, full, too much, and, just, too much--swearing after the fact that he couldn't fuckin' have that all the time of he'd go crazy.

Too good.

Chris got pegged.

Chris Evans got fucking pegged in 2005 and it was too good.

Having all that spilled out in front of him in a beautiful, messy masterpiece, Sebastian honestly fucking wants to shove his hand into his pants right here and now. Fuck getting into his own pants, though, he could just sliiiide his hand down over the front of his pants and cum in his pants like an overexcited teenager, panting, whining, picturing his biggest crush on the backs of his eyelids in varying positions, all these possibilities, not really knowing, but wanting to know so fucking bad it hurts. He is so fucking turned on. He's a goddamn glowing neon sign, lit with bright, obvious red arousal.

Jesus Christ.

But, Chris keeps going and the hot-shower thick, foggy air dulls slightly. His voice takes on something gentler and softer. As good as that was, it just happened a few times, maybe not even a few? Kinda hard to exactly remember. Maybe just twice? Three times? Four... nah, not actually four. Less. It had to be less. There's no way it was that much. They broke up eventually--obviously, for him to get to Sebastian. He'd much, much rather be with Seb, of course, he fucking loves him and they work great and it's so. good.

However, continuing down the path, investigating more and digging deeper, hoping to hit that deep, raspy register again like you hope to hit water when digging a well, Sebastian pushes him a little more, a spark of hope (or something else, something more inappropriate) within him--did he seek it out more, then? It couldn't've just been that one woman, right!? Just with her? And not even a decent number with her. Just a rarity? If it really was all that, wouldn't've it have been more!? Sebastian just fucking can't get that image out of his head: Chris, big, muscular, masculine, so gutting-ly masculine, and, ugh, just manly, yet bent over some plush bed, ripping through the pile of pillows crowding his red-hot face, the sheets and bedding all fucked up around his thrumming body, sweating so badly he glistens temptingly, moaning so loudly as he takes some brightly colored strap up the ass for the first time, and uncomprehending of how good it feels to be fucked. Unable to deal with it. He'd be totally consumed in the pleasure the lucky lady is giving him--fucking him. And if he's not grasping at the sheets then he'd be touching himself, gripping his own body bruisingly, trying to ground himself, trying to deal with the exquisite pleasure and failing, failing so hard with, shit, maybe some lipstick or makeup from earlier making out smeared over his gaped mouth, smeared into his bearded jaw, and smudged down his thick throat--

But, no.

Chris explains that at first, he was too tender to think of it for a while--no matter how mindblowing it was--then when he was recovered enough to wonder about it... he trails off. He doesn't know. He doesn't know why, really.

Out loud, Chris wonders if maybe he just doesn't attract those kinds of women? Girls that would be into that, though--he laughs--he can't imagine there are many women totally fucking put off by the thought. But, he's aware of how he looks, and with a casual, all-too-smooth, stretch-and-rest, he sprawls an arm out to cover Sebastian's shoulders, his hand scruffing the back of his neck meaningful look, he knows what Seb's preference with him is. It's fine. He likes that, too. A lot! He likes it a lot--getting rough and throwing him around, giving him orders, folding him up into a ball, and fucking him until he cries. Yet, at Sebastian's prompting, he finishes with how it just never came up. So he didn't do it again. Just that time.

A few times.

Seb needs a m i n u t e to catch up.

He needs to get a handle on himself.

He's not sure if he'll be able to deal with the knowledge of 24-year-old, in 2005, Chris letting a woman put something up his ass. That was not cool then. And Seb'd, just, kind of assumed based on their fucking around that Chris hadn't done anything like that (Sebastian thought he was the kinky, experienced one between the two of them but maybe that needs to be teased out of Chris, too (that is SO a pet project for another day)) and, honestly, Seb doesn't know if he should be jealous of her for being his first or if he should demand to be given her phone number so he can call her up and thank her, maybe he'll send her fucking flowers, for Christ's sake. That mental image is delicious.

Thank you.

Of course, though, he's sensitive to Chris' big heart. He can understand that waiting while still heartsore completely. And, yes, he shivers continually from Chris' hand, still heavy and big on the back of his neck, making everything around him shine just a little brighter, feeling a little dreamier. But, he is nothing if not constantly on edge because of Chris, anyone would be, he's a walking wet dream, at any given time, Sebastian's mind is half-full of dirty fantasies, so he can't really be blamed for it when he just blurts that shit out--

"I could fuck you, you know."

Chris' mouth opens and shuts. Multiple times. He's gaping like a fish out of water, no oxygen to be found. But he can't seem to help it. Some wordless sound that is supposed to be communication but isn't comes out of his open-shut-open mouth.

"Chris, babe," Seb jokingly pleads with him, leaning in, hand on his thigh, "did I break your brain? Are you okay?"

His mouth moves more as if trying to say that his brain isn't, no, it's--it's fine, he's fine, he... Chris apparently gives up as quickly as he starts to defend himself, stumbling through, "you know, I, uh, um," he shifts in his seat, "don't laugh, okay?"

"Okay," Seb agrees immediately.

"I-I didn't think of that," Chris mumbles in his general direction.

Seb slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle what is, certainly, a laugh despite what he just said.

Chris glares, "Seeeeeeb," he drags out, whining in that Boston-boy way he has sometimes. Nothing but a big, jovial kid at heart.

"I think I should feel insulted," Seb recovers, choking back one last humourous bark, but before Chris can protest to his words, he continues, "I don't." He clarifies. "I don't feel insulted. And don't look at me like that, I'm pretty sure I know what you mean, anyway, you don't have to say it. Y'know? Yeah, like, yeah," he agrees with himself, "we started hooking up but you didn't have experience while I just wanted it bad," he bites his lip, shooting Chris a hopefully killer, dark glance before carrying on, "so there was one way that was easy. Big deal," he shrugs, "we got into the habit of doing it one way," again, he shrugs, this time with one shoulder instead of two, "I should've asked. I just assumed."

"I should've asked," Chris emphasizes, then under his breath, he adds, "I should've thought about it."

"Well," Sebastian's hand lands back on his knee, dragging itself, fingertips teasing and light, up the length of his thigh towards his crotch, "you're thinking about it now, right?" He's looking up at Chris through his lashes, knowing (because Chris has confessed as much to him) that he looks deceptively sweet and coltish for someone who damn well knows how to get into trouble--especially with that mouth of his.

When he expectantly sucks on his bottom lip, waiting for an answer, Chris' eyes fall there.

Predictable.

He gets lost. It's easy to see--to hear, even with the catch of his breath.

So, to help him out, because he's nice like that, Seb tilts his head to the side and clears his throat at the same time. He could just giggle with the apologetic look that graces Chris face, acting like a good, respectful man caught staring at someone's boobs on accident. As if he hasn't done worse to Seb. As if Seb doesn't want him to do worse.

"Yeah..." Chris finds his voice. Eventually. First, his eyes get that same foggy glaze as they have in the video, right fucking in front of him this time, better than any camera could ever capture. He's thinking about it. Fuck, he's probably overlaying that past pleasure with his ex and every wicked, filthy thing Sebastian's already done to him and new possibilities. New delights and overwhelming pleasures that Seb could show him, threatened with a good time. More than good. Seb is gonna ensure that it's better than good. Chris' impossible eyelashes flutter, "yeah, I am. I'm thinking about it."

"Good," Seb whispers back, a smirk sharp on his lips. He folds himself into Chris' lap, following the line of his arm back towards its owner, taking it and curling it around his waist.

Instinctively, those lovely fucking hands find their way beneath Sebastian's shirt. Skin to skin. His heart races.

"I could fuck you," Seb breathes, repeating himself nonsensically.

"Yeah," Chris agrees, blinking up at him from where he's perched in his lap.

A bolt of arousal stabs through Sebastian's chest suddenly, all but making his bones fucking rattle, god, he cards his hands through Chris' hair, sliding through his grown-out locks like silk, and manages to catch at the end, tilting his head back so he's really fucking looking up at him, "tell me you want it," he hushes, their lips just barely brushing.

Chris' paws harder at his waist, squeezing him, "I want it," he groans. Arching his neck, he fights to connect their lips for real, he just wants a kiss, but Seb deftly evades him. He lets his hands fall from his luscious hair and instead holds his head, his jaw, in his hands, feeling that thick fucking beard and reveling in it. He's gonna have this fucking beard between his legs again. Soon. He has to. He will. Yes. "I want it," Chris repeats.

"What?" Seb asks, letting his thumb rest on the pillow of Chris' bottom lip.

"I want you to fuck me," he shuts his eyes against the sheer tidal wave of lust carried in his proclamation, the words punched out of his chest in a breathy moan, gently biting at his thumb, kissing the tip.

Fuck.

Sebastian rips his thumb out of that lush mouth with a distinct 'pop' and smashes their lips together instead. Immediately it's fucking hot and heavy and a little wet and--

God.

Sebastian wants to fucking eat him.

He doesn't give a shit about Chris' glasses pressing against his face a little too sharply. He isn't thinking about how normally he wants to be the one torn apart and swallowed. He can't give any more fucks than the one he's gonna fucking give this man. He's gonna fuck him hard. He's, he's--

He's thinking about nothing but the exotic, erotic way Chris is opening his mouth to him and letting him have. Seb is ravenous to devour and Chris has tilted his neck back beneath the weight, letting Seb lick into his mouth. Seb makes something of a purr that he can't really help, it just happens. Kissing. They're kissing so much, lips locking, and it's as fucking toe-curling-ly good as it always is just a little different. Different, novel, but they still fit together like they were meant to be. It's hot. Intense. Flush against each other. Chest to chest. In lap. Rocking, grinding. Kissing.

Making-the-fuck-out.

Usually, Chris is the one running his mouth with dirty talk between filthy hot kisses while Seb humidifies the scant inch (if that) of atmosphere between their bodies with moans, whimpers, and other wordless, involuntary cries of pleasure that he can't hold in. But, in this moment, thrillingly perilous, Seb can't keep up with the words spilling out of him. There's nothing that can dam the flood. Lust all-expansive inside him, no more room. He's gonna fuck Chris. He's gonna fuck him good. He's gonna fucking fuck the shit out of him until he cums his brains out.

He wants to see Chris broken in the best way--broken open with his fists curled so tight that his blunt nails dig into his strong palms. He's gonna dick him until he's dumb, mouth wide open, hanging open, making garbled, needy sounds with red, red, red lips, but blushing redder. Hotter.

Good.

Seb wants to fuck him good, he wants to slide inside him, tight, tight, tighter than anything as he clenches down on his dick. He wants Chris' eyes to roll back as he feels what it's like to have a blood-hot, throbbing cock in his ass. He wants him to choke, feeling it in his throat. He wants to reduce his confident, cocky man into a pile of mush. He wants to hear him swear like a sailor, speared on his cock, as Seb laughs weakly, shaky, in over his head with how it feels to fuck him, pressed up against him, chest to back, balls deep in that fucking ass (oh my god, don't even get him started on that shapely ass), lost in it just as much as he is.

Christ.

They're gonna be a hot mess.

Chris has ruined Sebastian for everyone else. He's that good. The best he's ever had. So, it's time to return the favor again. He already has, he knows he has, but there's always room for improvement, yeah? He wants to make it good for him, he will make it good for him, and he'll be good for him--gonna blow his mind with his dick. Fuck yes.

I could go on forever with this, really, I could. If only I had the time. I would fucking love to write Chris' shock and dirty thrill at being opened up, feeling the tip of Sebastian's cock pushing into him for the first time, audibly letting go of every half-coherent thought he has, biting off, "Seb! Seb! Ah! God! Seb, Sebb, Seb, it, fuck, it feels s'good, you're so thick, oh my god, ohmygod, it's so hot, s'thick, fuck, how do you take it, how--how do you take me, mmngh, its so much, ah!"

Bonus:

I keep thinking about this Chris, too, like 🥴🥴

gif by @/b-n-a-o

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #3: Levinstrike

Prompt: tempest || Master Post || On AO3

A/N: Spoilers through the beginning of zone five. Mentions of someone throwing up, but said mention is non-graphic.

*stares contemplatively at this prompt fill* ...yeah, I'm gonna run cover.

*runs for cover*

--

There were a lot of reasons for why Rereha was finding herself very much not liking Yyasulani.

First and foremost, of course, was the giant purple dome of fucking doom that had engulfed the region, spat out murderous magitek automatons led by an equally murderous patricide with a chip on his shoulder, and resulted in the heartbreak and misery of a multitude of Turali, including her darling new not-so-little sister, Lamaty’i. (Lamaty’i had dibs on Zoraal Ja’s head, but Rereha would gladly do a live retelling of how she’d killed Zenos at the edge of the universe with her bow, using that warmongering asshole as her “assistant.”)

Second was the fact that Erenville, normally a bastion of cool-headedness and acerbic wit that rode herd on them all better than even Heron, Queen of the ‘I’m Not Mad Just Disappointed’ Face, was currently a spooked, jumpy, and generally upset young man. With every step they took, Erenville grew tenser and tenser, until he was practically vibrating with it, and unable to mask just how shaken he was to see his home so strangely aged and decrepit. Rereha did not like to see her friends (even the ones who refused to acknowledge they were, actually, friends) upset. Someone needed to be made miserable for this. (Probably Zoraal Ja.)

Third was all the gods-forsaken levin within the confines of the dome. Static snapped and crackled and popped (hah, that had a nice ring to it, actually) across all of them, and across every surface, and the only reason they likely weren’t shocking themselves was the sheer amount of levin aether soaking into everything, even making it difficult to breathe. Synnove had summoned Ipomoea, and the unaspected carbuncle was carefully perched on her person’s shoulder while maintaining a light shield around their group to lessen the pressure of so much fucking levin on them.

Fourth, and newest on the list, was the fact that little Roksana—not quite so little as she had once been like a bitty squishy Heavensturn mochi, the steady infusions of aether over the years ensuring she and her sister were now two-thirds the size of Galette—had just spontaneously manifested at Synnove’s feet.

Alone.

That is, by herself.

No Amandina.

Which had never, ever happened before.

Ever.

Synnove’s face was doing the kind of journey between expressions that would likely result in a pulled muscle and would, under any other circumstance, be funny to witness, but right now just made Rereha feel ill.

Mommy, Roksana warbled, eyes huge and teary, something’s wrong with Amandina.

“Oh, fuck this place in the ear,” Rereha said under her breath as the party dissolved into chaos.

--

They had hurriedly backtracked to Yyasulani Station and holed up in one of the decaying buildings. Synnove had folded herself onto the floor cross-legged, her bracelet of carbuncle foci cupped in her hands, and had spent a full bell coaxing Amandina into manifesting.

The black pearl carbuncle looked terrible as Synnove gently cuddled her. Her ears and tails were drooping, the aetheric glow of her coat was dim and dusty with no sign of the pretty purple among the black strands of her fur, and her eyes and nose were gummy and crusty and just gross. The poor baby looked like how Rereha felt after one of those stupid parties she used to attend as a dumbass socialite fuckwit in Ul’dah, and she resisted the urge to swipe at her own nose.

Mommy, I [have a tummy ache.]

Amandina’s harmonic had warped and rippled, ringing with multiple tones of trying to translate an untranslatable concept. Now Rereha wanted to reach into her own brain and scratch frantically to relieve the itchiness hearing that had left in her grey matter.

“What,” Lamaty’i whispered, arm raised up to rub her temple across the leather embossing on her collar as her ears twitched at high speed, “the fuck.”

“Your mind essentially force-translated Amandina’s aetheric harmonic into words you can understand,” Krile said, blinking rapidly and reaching up to rub at her eyes.

“At least into the closest approximation,” G’raha said, scritching frantically at the back of his neck until Alisaie swatted his hand away.

Amadina groaned, turning in Synnove’s arms and pulling herself up so she could burrow her face into her mama’s neck. Synnove carefully adjusted her grip on the carbunclet, one hand supporting her butt and the other stroking her head and ears, while Roksana, who had been draped atop Synnove’s head like a weird hat, practically oozed down on top of her twin. Ipomoea, perched on Synnove’s knee, wore an unfocused expression that meant she was still in the middle of running a full diagnostic scan.

“It’s all this fucking levin,” Synnove growled. “Her aspect means she’s already highly sensitive to levin aether, sure, but none of the carbuncles have ever been somewhere where they’ve been exposed to such dangerous levels of their respective aspected aethers.”

“Not even in Eureka?” G’raha said, ears perking. “I would have thought Anemos and Pyros would have posed some danger to Galette and Ivar.”

Synnove shook her head.

“The density of elemental aether was unprecedented at the concentrations encountered on Val,” Krile said, “but it does not compare to what has happened to Yyasulani. Despite each region of the island being warped to reflect their elemental aspects, they were also balancing one another, which allowed such diversity in wildlife to continue thriving. The amount of levin here has essentially rendered Yyasulani…”

“…ecologically dead,” Erenville finished, voice flat and eyes shuttered, even as a shudder briefly shook his frame. Lamaty’i pulled him into a one-armed hug and for once, Erenville didn’t fight it.

(Rere wondered if Lamaty’i was adding items to her mental tally of crimes for which to hold Zoraal Ja responsible. Rere certainly was.)

[Suggestion: Mistress Synnove,] Ipomoea said, her harmonic oddly distant as she continued her scan of Amandina, [a temporary ward on Junior Construct Amandina’s aetheric input sub-array may provide relief of symptoms. Estimation: effectiveness currently calculated at fifty-three point six five seven percent.]

“We’ll get started on mapping that once you’ve finished your diagnostic,” Synnove said, continuing to stroke Amandina’s ears down along her spine. “Amandina, do you want to de-manifest?”

Noooooooo, Amandina whined. Mommy cuddles feel good.

[Observation: physical contact has decreased hazardous levels of levin in Junior Construct Amandina by three point eight percent.]

“Hmm, might be actually be siphoning it off,” Synnove muttered, then sighed. “Carrying Amandina isn’t ideal as we’re reconning, but perhaps—”

Static SNAPPED through the room, causing them all to jump. Amandina whimpered.

Mommy, I think I’m gonna throw up.

There was a flurry of movement as Roksana scrambled off her sister and jumped into Rereha’s outstretched arms, Ipomoea leaped backwards, and Synnove scrambled to her knees, pulling Amandina off her shoulder as Heron dove forward with a pot yanked off Erenville’s gleaner pack. Heron got the pot beneath Amandina’s face just in time, and the poor carbunclet made an awful HRRK noise as levin aether so concentrated it was a liquid poured from her mouth.

Synnove twitched, jerking her head up to the stare at the ceiling even as she kept petting Amandina and making soothing noises in her throat. Heron had gone grey, and Rereha distantly noted similar expressions on Alakhai, Alisaie, and G’raha.

Who was she kidding, she was wearing it, too. Good to know she wasn’t the only one fighting back a bad flashback to certain events on the First.

Seriously, fuck this place in the ear. With something hard and sandpapery.

…I kinda feel a little better. Amandina’s harmonic very softly drifted through Rere’s mind. The carbunclet’s upper body was still mostly in the pot, until Synnove carefully picked her up and set to cleaning her face.

“Mages, on me,” Synnove snapped. Krile, G’raha, and Alisaie darted into motion, with Alisaie digging into Synnove’s pack and emerging with chalk, graphite sticks, and scrap paper as Krile and G’raha began clearing a spot on the floor. Synnove walked forward on her knees, then sat again with Amandina curling into a miserable, sniffling ball in her lap at the edge of the new workspace. “We’re making that ward now, and I’ve even got an idea on how to adapt it for non-aetheric individuals like ourselves to make this shithole less awful for us. Sorry, Erenville.”

“No, you’re right,” the Shetona said, forcing himself into motion to begin setting up a temporary camp for them all. “This is a shithole now.”

“I’ll give Zoraal Ja an extra punch for you,” Lamaty’i said solemnly.

“I actually appreciate that,” Erenville said wrily. “Rereha, could you dispose of the pot? I’ve got another and I’d rather not try to salvage that one.”

“Can do,” Rere said, tucking Roksana under her arm and darting forward to grab the ruined pot by the handle. “Come on, kiddo, let’s go dig a hole.”

Oooooh, digging, yay!

Awww, the sound of Amandina’s grumbling followed them out the door. Being sick stinks.

[b-does-the-write-thing]

general incivility, chapter six

- a brienne x jaime pride & prejudice retelling -

chapter one l chapter two  l chapter three l chapter four l chapter five l chapter six l now on AO3

At the end of their first month in the Stormlands, a letter appeared from King’s Landing. Bronn, no doubt curious, brought it to the breakfast table, where he might be able to linger and ascertain its contents. A savvy move that Tyrion could applaud if it were not for the fact Cersei and Jaime could not help but notice the royal seal.

At its appearance, Cersei fell uncharacteristically silent. Though at the rate she was straining her neck, she’d be out of commission for the upcoming week’s assemblies. His dear brother pretended he had gone blind, deaf, and dumb, but Jaime was not leaving either, showcasing his interest in the missive. Tyrion would have preferred to retire to read it in peace; he already guessed at its contents, but there was nothing to be done other than to face the music. Cracking the seal, Tyrion’s suspicions were confirmed within the first few words, and the following ones compounded his headache.

Outside, the evening clouds had not departed, and the trees were whispering to each other in the breeze. A storm was imminent, not one of the gentle spring rains that had come and gone in their few weeks here, but a proper tempest, the true namesake of the region. Judging the entire thing to be more trouble than it was worth, Tyrion tossed the letter away. It landed on top of the porridge and, under the weight of the royal seal, began to sink. Cersei shot her cousin a filthy look before ordering one of the footmen to fish it out for her. Receiving it with the utmost care, Cersei devoured the soggy paper’s contents. A smile bloomed across her face until her smile was the only bright spot in the breakfast parlor.

When Cersei finally deigned to lower the letter, a footman rushed forward to offer her a serviette. “But this is wonderful,” Cersei said, seemingly unaware she was daintily wiping her hands on the footman’s jacket and not the offered napkin. To think, the king—here of all places!”

Jaime stirred to life. “What fortuitous reason do we have to thank for such an honor?”

Tyrion rubbed his forehead, running his stubby fingers across the odd ridges of his skull, letting the familiar sensation soothe his threatening headache. “He claims to visit Lord Stannis, but no doubt he has heard father’s succeeded in running me off finally.”

Jaime did not argue. Everyone knew there was little love lost between King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, and Tywin Lannister. The vaults of King’s Landing were rumored to have long since run dry, but perhaps with a son of Casterly Rock at his side…

Cersei stood, pressing her skirt down, her eyes staring past both her cousins, fixated on something far in the distance that only she could see. “I’ll have to send word home at once. I barely brought anything suitable for court-”

“Were you not still planning to depart within the next fortnight?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Cersei snapped, this time directing her glare at Jaime. “The King is coming to Storm’s End, and he will, of course, call here.” Her eyes darted to Tyrion. “You’ll need a lady to lead the house, plan the ball-”

“Ball?”

“Host His Highness, and well he mentions his Kingsguard will be attending. No mention of any courtiers, but of course, the usual toadies will be in attendance- “

“Cersei, if you would like to play lady of the hall, by all means, my home is at your disposal, but do me the very great courtesy of not looking like the cat who caught the canary. It’s very disconcerting.”

“Only you would have the king send him a personal letter and look as if the world was coming to an end.” Tyrion did not think his brother looked any happier about this development, but Cersei seemed determined to ignore Jaime. “If you will excuse me-” and with that, she swanned out of the breakfast parlor, looking all the world as if she already had a crown upon her brow.

“She’ll be insufferable,” Tyrion lamented. “Robert’s no tactician, but he’s not going to ignore a lioness laying down on her back for him-”

“Tyrion,” Jaime hissed. “Have a care for how you talk about our cousin.”

“You should be glad she’s not eyeing your neck for the noose at the moment,” Tyrion continued, tearing into the pastry to find it still warm and steaming. The manor might be considerably smaller than the Rock, but he quite enjoyed the new proximity to his kitchens, even if his belt protested. “Perhaps Robert's visit will allow you more time to pursue your interests without hindrance?”

Jaime’s eyes darkened in displeasure. “There is nothing of interest in this desolate corner of Westeros. I am only here because of you.”

“Interesting,” Tyrion continued, “I, for one, have thought you rather intrigued by our resident beauty.”

Tyrion had not seen it at first. He had been so taken with the odd Miss Tarth, finding her to be one of the truly most unfortunate people he had ever seen besides himself, that he had almost missed the way his brother’s eyes tracked her around the room, how Jaime moved after her when she passed by as if caught in her wake and drawn after her despite himself. He was not sure if his brother was even aware of his interest, if not for the odd way his lips quirked whenever Miss Tarth was mentioned.

“You are referring to which renowned Stormland beauty, Tyrion? Miss Tarth or Miss Baratheon?”

Tyrion chuckled. “Cersei has had your ear again, I fear. Miss Baratheon is not yet eight and ten. Her brush with death has added to her character, but I am not one for unaged wine.”

Jaime considered him across the table. ”And Miss Tarth?”

Tyrion grinned. “You know I am a great lover of beauty.”

His brother’s lips thinned, face darkening into a pensive glower until he looked just like their father. “Surely you of all people would think to look past appearances-”

“Have you?”

Jaime’s eyes shuttered, and he looked pointedly away to the storm gathering outside. “I have barely spoken a word to the party in question.”

“On the contrary, I believe you’ve spoken more to her than anyone else in the Stormlands.”

“If I happen to stand by the only other person who has less desire to speak than myself-”

“Happen? Jaime, you followed her around the length of the ballroom last week.”

Jaime shot up from his seat. “I should make haste if I want to get a ride in before the storm-”

“Jaime-” But his brother was already gone, leaving him alone with the great feast. Tyrion looked over at the footman nearest to the table, his cravat still smeared with oatmeal. “Do we have any blackberry jam?”

[jules-writes-stories]

Elucien Week | Day 2 | Golden

A Heart of Gold

Read the entire chapter on AO3

A Retelling of King Midas, Lucien x Elain

The Kingdom of Prythian

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom of ancient misted forests and seaside cliffs hewn by the hands of time. It was a land where simple mortals and the immortal trickster Fae lived side by side. A place where fantastical beasts roamed all four Seasonal Courts, where the Sun and Stars aligned in the lofty Solar Courts, and monsters lurked in the darkest Night.

In this kingdom, there lived a wealthy mortal by the name of Archeron. His vast estate was filled with ancient books and maps, trunk of precious gems, cellars of fine wines, and spices and silks that spoke of his travels. He was known to all as the Prince of Merchants.

The Lord had three daughters, each more lovely than the last. And they lived a good life. But over the years, Archeron grew dissatisfied with his good fortune, wanting more. He watched the Fae to the North of the Wall through glittering, greedy eyes, how they amassed great wealth over their immortal lifetimes, and grew jealous of their elemental magic. The mortal man coveted such raw power.

So, he sailed his fleet of trading vessels along perilous coastlines, through choppy seas. He sought out faster, more dangerous routes to transport his goods. He gambled with his wealth, taking great risks for small rewards.

And then, in a single day, it all caught up with him. The missive came after noon. His eldest daughter, Nesta, had just finished her dance lessons. The youngest, Feyre, was running wild on the grounds. And Elain, his sweet, precious Elain, was tending the gardens.

Lord Archeron held the missive in hand. Lost. Every vessel crashed upon the rocks. The tempests of the Continent had taken them. He knew the risks. The shorelines surrounding Bharat were fraught with peril. But the straights had guaranteed the fastest return for his investment, and Archeron was in vast sums of debt, had borrowed too much.

For the Prince of Merchants loved gold. Coffers filled, pockets lined. Threads of gold along his bed linens to fill his dreams. He wanted it ringing his fingers, and cuffing his daughters’ wrists. Golden bars along his window panes. There was never enough. Now, there was nothing.

As if on cue, Elain, came in with the tea, the fine porcelain clinking on a tray. She took in his drawn face, parchment clutched in hand. “Papa? What is it?”

The Prince of Merchants dropped to his chair, head in hands, the letter in his fist.

Elain knelt at his side. “What’s happened?” Her eyes, the soft brown of a meadowlark, full of worry. “Please.”

At that moment, Nesta entered with a whoosh of stiff skirts and a clip of heels. Seeing her younger sister prone, she was immediately on guard.

“Elain? What are you doing on the floor?” The eldest walked with the strength of steel and the grace of fire. She was a savage, beautiful creature, who bravely peeled away to the heart of any matter, like the sharpest of blades.

“It’s Papa. He’s not well.” Elain’s graceful hands, with their chipped fingernails and scratched palms from clearing the garden, took the letter from their father’s.

She passed it to Nesta, who rapidly read across the page. “How could you?” Archeron’s shoulders slumped forward. Sad brown eyes stared at the floor. “How could you be so greedy, so foolish? Make such bad choices?” Silver flames flickered in the eldest sister’s gaze.

He looked up at his two eldest, and simply whispered, “I’m ruined.”

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[specterthief]

i see a lot of people in the notes on that poll who don't know anything about anime and are just voting because they want to see destiel lose and i already said this on my tags but: please check out the witch from mercury (and possibly further gundam if it interests you)! it's genuinely a really good series and suletta and miorine are excellent characters and i would love if all the voters coming out in force against destiel could also turn into even more love for sulemio

gwitch is a queer futuristic sci-fi retelling of the tempest that also draws heavy inspiration from the salem witch trials and it rules, and imo it's very accessible to people who don't really Do Anime (there really isn't much in the way of otaku cultural knowledge you need to have to follow it, if you know of anything like pacific rim or VLD or can otherwise just get your head around the basic "people piloting giant robots" concept you're golden)