It wasn’t often that Adonis and Rose had guests staying over. Of course, they had a guest room, but that was only a formality. All in all, their house was significantly smaller than their parents’ lodgings. (Still, larger than what most people their age could afford. If people their age could afford a small villa near central Birmingham to begin with.) Guests, particularly family friends, would always book a hotel room: They could easily afford it, and it was their own, private space. Unfortunately, Francis’ flight was so last-minute and the season was so busy that he had to stay his first night in England in Adonis and Rose’s guest room.

Having guests over always made Adonis nervous regardless of who they were, but his anxiety especially spiked when the guest was a family friend. Francis was no friend of Adonis’ family – his parents knew Rose’s – but it still felt dangerous to have him around. Any mistake Adonis made might as well be a sample under a microscope, and whoever was looking would be reporting their findings to anybody in their circle who would listen. Despite Rose’s attempt at quenching Adonis’ fear (“He’s as much a softie as you are.”) Adonis couldn’t shake his anxiety off.

Ultimately, he thought that maybe if he were a little tipsy when Francis arrived, he wouldn’t be too nervous to speak. So by Tuesday sundown, Adonis had had a nice glass of whiskey and had requested wine to be had with dinner.

The horror re-settled in when, as Adonis’ chauffeur left for the airport to pick up Francis, Rose called and informed him she’ll be late due to internship-related tasks. She’d have to miss dinner – originally a dinner for three. She was leaving Adonis to dine alone with their guest. Did she do it on purpose? Had Rose, for some reason, decided she wanted to hollow out Adonis’ stomach and plant infinite spikes on his skin? Did she even have any tasks she needed to get done? Why would she leave Adonis alone to tend to a guest? A family friend? A fellow upper-class boy who’d be his parents’ pride and joy, and much better at it than Adonis could ever hope to be, no doubt? Did Rose want Adonis to hate himself? To look at this supposedly “soft” man, have a conversation with him over steak and wine, and learn of all the ways he fell short? Was this some sort of punishment?

Adonis spent all his waiting time sat on the couch, tearing at the skin around his nails, wondering what it would feel like to ditch. What if he went to bed early, claimed to be sick? The cook and housekeeper would take care of Francis well enough. He wasn’t even Adonis’ guest. He was Rose’s. She’d be the one to blame if he felt unwelcomed. She—

“Sir, Smith called to say he and your guest will arrive in fifteen minutes. Shall I start setting up the tab—”

It’s been two months.

Two months since Olivier last saw Francis in person. 59 days, to be exact. No call. No texts. No coffee. No tea. No sleep and no love. It wasn’t uncommon, month ago for him to frequent the gay clubs that littered city outskirts, racking up tabs and cab fares. Then he had someone else to fill his time. And then he didn’t. Well, Francis still filled his time - just not the same way. It was almost awful how he’d bought a television just to watch the news in case there was news of him. The whole story had mostly died down to celebrity watch channels now, random updates that were fewer and fewer. It was good; out of the public eye. It was bad; no one was looking out for him.

And Olivier was left alone again.

So here he is again, the loneliness driving him insane and driving him out of his ruined Eden and back to his old haunts and habits. It took longer than he expected it to, and he’s unsure in and of itself if that is good or bad. It’s not every night, but more often than he’ll admit that he’s roaming first from cheap bars to be drunk and next to clubs to have company. As long as he keeps his mouth shut, just like before, he does alright. His hands are just warm enough to hover at Francis’s number like they have been for 59 days before he tosses his phone aside to clatter onto the bar instead. He cuts through the moving crowd easily to blend into place. The music is loud, beautifully loud and the beat pulses through him and eradicates all feeling for now. Twisting, moving, hands from men he doesn’t know sliding down his sides and pulling him close for song or two until they can’t keep up. A drink is bought for him and taken mindlessly as his phone lays on the bar, lit up with an answered call delivering to Francis the sounds of clinking drinks, laughter, dancing. A bartender picks up the phone to put behind the counter for now, few words exchanged - no I don’t know where he is, I’m sure he’ll be back for his phone, sorry darling did he step out to Chapter 10 without you? There’s a riot on the dance floor here honey, it’s getting hot so either hurry here or stay home.

                   ❝     your highness              ❞     a quick bow    ,    feet unsteady upon the snow covered grounds    ,     still slipping after his run     .      ❝     i thought that a day as cold as this should not go unaccompanied without a song or poem    ,     the warmth of art is sure to keep you comfortable through those icy winds    .     wouldn’t you agree   ?      ❞      he does not mention anything about the boredom that has settled inside his chest      /      does not speak about hours spend roaming halls and grounds until he was sure that he had written a sonnet for every last blade of grass   .     ❝     and even when you do not agree    ,    please show some kindness to a lover of the arts   .      ❞

The gilded cage that is the palace glitters in the midday sun. Large corridors echo with the clamor of daily life: footfalls and rustling skirts, laughter, whispers, rumors, the clinking of metal against metal--jewelry, sparring weapons, coins passed back and forth. France is a country of wealth and enterprises, mired in wars it cannot fight outright and steeped in debts almost nobody knows about. That is why he arrives.

Favors had passed between fae fingers as easily as water passes over stones, as coins leave hands here in payment for other deeds, and once this favor had made its way to him--well. It stank of opportunity and mischief, a heady aroma too sweet to deny. He had followed it all the way up from the Underground with the intent of seeing where this game would end.

One gloved hands passes through the glass of an overlooked mirror: an arm follows, then a foot, a calf, a leg, a thigh, a torso, glass catching in wild hair like droplets of water and shining there like starlight until one brusque hand brushes it away. Nobody notices the man from the mirror. His strange attire, his hair, the paint lining his mismatched eyes, the leather gloves he wears despite the heat--nobody sees it, nobody comments on it. In fact, they all look past him as if he is little more than a sheet of glass himself, just as he intended. The Goblin King smirks to himself, deftly sidestepping one pretty little bauble of a human after another as he makes his way to the throne room: he’s been planning this ever since he got the favor. He doesn’t know what she traded for, only that she deemed its value beyond all measure--a hefty ticket already--and that she was then, and is still now, a queen. As a king himself, he can sympathize: there are some things he would bleed the world dry for to receive for his kingdom, and once he has secured better passage here in France, he intends to seek them out.

It all begins with calling in her favor....

Jareth makes as if to shoulder past yet another of the bright mortal lives standing between himself and the throne room when it steps in the other direction to block him. He pauses for a moment and feels his glamor slipping: he’s been noticed. Blue eyes bite into him and, with a smirk and a small flick of his fingers, Jareth casts the entirety of the glamor away, tilting his head like a bird to observe what stands in his path.

        “ Do I? ” 

        John knew he had a habit of drawing eyes to him, but in all honesty, he more or less assumed that was because of his father. Who was he after all, besides a young man with a lot to fight for, and not much to lose? It was true that the younger soldiers tended to look up to him, for reasons besides his height, but he believed they were that way with all of the older field officers; a certain amount of hero worship that came with being  barely more than a boy, surrounded by more experienced soldiers.

        “ I suppose I don’t even notice it anymore. Rest assured, it’s not intentional. We’re all here with the same goal in mind, after all, regardless of our reasoning for that goal. ”  Freedom, a sense of patriotic duty, and glory were the biggest reasons of course. Then there were those hoping to scrape together whatever money they could in service (if Congress ever actually paid them that is) to support their families. Then, there were people like himself, who were running. A selfish choice, perhaps, knowing his death would wound his brother and sisters, but sometimes it was easier to run than to stay, and that’s what he’d done. He’d fled all his problems in London, fled his grief and boredom and his self loathing and his shame, to fight this war - this Revolution - here in the Colonies.

i don’t remember the full context but i know it was about shipping

@prophecyfated​​  :   ❦ (on any applicable one of my muses.)

--he says, as if I have any idea of which blog I’m even on anymore, let alone who runs what blogs. (I love youuuu!) I think the easiest way to look at this is for me to outline what I’ve got and to say “if it looks interesting point to it and we’ll discuss,” since I can only promise the vague outline of possible ships and not actual possible ships until we do a chem-check lol.

Drowley - Dean and Crowley - I mean we already have...two?, three?...threads on this hype train, but you know me. I like shipping. It gives me energy. It gives me LIFE. So it’s worth mentioning.

Crowstiean - Crowley, Dean, Castiel - Shut up, the ship name is still in process! Again, something we’ve discussed and will one day move towards, again, merits mentioning. Now on to some new shit!

Frowley - Francis and Crowley - NO WAIT HEAR ME OUT! I agree. We need some antagonistic, angsty as all fuck, “sold my soul to the devil for my country but was it really worth it” type of court intrigue bullshit. Move over, Nostradamus, France has a new magic man and he is a million times worse! BUT, and hear me out here...Crowley seducing Francis under a false pretense in either the same or a different thread using a different meat suit. I have a name picked out (Fiona--yes, she’s Scottish) and I think I’ve got my FC, too. I think it has potential as a really interesting route to more angst and possible backstabbery. Francis in the show punches me in the face with his heterosexuality--at least where I am, remember, still s1 or 2--so I dunno if offering a different iteration of Crowley in his preferred suit would work or not. Sidebar. When and if I go through on making a Leland? Yeeting him at Francis hard. You’ll hate him, it’s fabulous!

My other currently active muses are mostly teenagers in a closed RPG but I’ve considered putting them on an open multi in the past so hmu if trauma and social injustice in RP is a thing you like dealing with on the reg.

Technically I have Frank, who ships himself with everyone (at least for a night!), so. There’s that?

Clean - Columbia and Dean - Another name in progress. She’s a soft gorl who has Seen Some Shit and Lived Through Most of It. Her broken is sometimes the same as Dean’s and sometimes different, but even if there are still missing parts when you fit them together, they make most of the picture on the puzzle come back together. Whether its platonic or romantic...hit me up if you’d be interested in trying it. Collie’s flexible and fits well.