stories are for eternity.

[fairytaletold]

❛ great heroes need great sorrows and burdens, or half of their greatness goes unnoticed. it is all part of the fairy tale. ❜

indie multimuse blog. primarily original characters. follows from draconisa. 21+ required, minors dni. iconless. loved by dani / 35+ / est.

carrd / memes / tags / my edits

current activity: low

[fairytaletold]

in the end, love will return in a different way.

rhaego + rhys ( @smcrtcss )

[miidnighters]

Inch by inch, Charlie relaxes, and so does Chase.

He doesn't try and rush her, but when she says yes he stands from crouching and gently coaxes her to stand with him. Chase stoops to pick up her bag, making a soft noise (exaggerated, to maybe make her smile) as he shoulders the weight of her books.

An arm is looped around her shoulder, and for a second Chase is glad he'd decided to Uber here instead of riding his bike - so now he doesn't have to worry about the logistics of getting it home. Pulling his phone out, he books a car, and then thinks about what they might have in the cupboard to eat.

"You want me to spring for some take out? Will that help?"

[fairytaletold]

it is stupid, and it does make her smile — exactly as her brother intended. no matter that it’s a watery thing, thinned down by weariness and tears; the corners of her mouth still curl, and she feels her heart lightening.

“no —— it’s okay.” a gentle rebuff. she appreciates the sentiment. is tempted, even, but their money is stretched too thin to allow him to splurge just because she’s feeling… like this. she leans against him, temple at his shoulder. swallows hard as another stupid rush of emotion rises up in her throat, like it’s too big for her body to hold. “you already helped.”

[freakshaped]

SWEET/VICIOUS 1.07 | Heartbreaker

[fairytaletold]

a heated kiss while holding them by the throat. // @smcrtcss

rhaego targaryen is kind of the talent that comes once a generation. he’s heard it said for years: in magazine articles greedily devoured back when they were worlds apart, in instagram comment sections scrolled at midnight, knowing better. a bright light in a stagnant field. a visionary. an artist. the irony of man like that finding a man like him has never escaped him, not even once. not since that night — lifetimes ago — where he saw rhaego in the flickering lights of a party in full swing and felt his heart speed past a beat. he’d been too beautiful, too well kept and perfectly styled, even then. and now? with years of experience sharpening his eye?

the man in question seems to feel this line of thought. that, or he senses the point of focus aimed at the back of his neck, dextrous fingers at the clasp of a diamond choker. rhys — perfectly groomed by those expert hands — stands so as not to wrinkle his suit, and he isn’t quite quick enough to glance away before their gazes snag and catch. fuck. he’s too old for stammering words and telltale blushes; this doesn’t seem to stop the warmth as it blooms across high cheeks, suffusing heat into his tan.

from across the room, rhaego is watching. the stare is a palpable press to his skin, the downy hairs at the back of his neck raising under phantom fingers. they have to be downstairs, soon. they’re dressed for the first day of festivities in milan; they can’t do anything right now. that knowledge is both blessing and curse, but he holds to it as rhaego crosses the room, his polished shoes the only sound that dares to break the silence now.

“do you like what you see?”

rhaego loves to do this: ask questions that have no business being voiced to begin with. he knows the answer. they both know he knows. what he’s really waiting for is to see how well rhys will voice this — will it pass muster? or will rhaego demand he say it again?

“yes,” he says, but that won’t be enough, sincerity be damned. rhys lifts his eyes. forces himself to meet rhaego’s at last, and the heat — the intensity twisting in those depths has him sucking in a breath. does he know the power he wields? does he know the effect he has?

(yes.)

“you —— look beautiful.” stupid. he’s so stupid, with his simple words that always feel painfully lacking. rhaego is more than beautiful, but how can he relay that to him? how can he voice the way his stomach churns just to be so close to him?

his chin dips, gaze falling away — and rhaego’s hand is there, viper quick, to force his eyes back up. soft fingers slide past the stubble of his jaw. the grip settles comfortably around his throat, and he swallows hard against the weight. his cock twitches. rhaego smiles like he fucking senses it. maybe he does. maybe that’s why he pulls rhys down, fingers tightening their hold, to catch his mouth in a hot, wet kiss. he can’t help it; rhys moans against those lips, soft and demanding at once, at the teeth that graze his lower lip. already, the festivities are forgotten. he’s got a hand at rhaego’s hip and is pulling him closer, other hand lifted towards that dark, gleaming hair, half hard against the zipper of his pants —

— and rhaego catches the wrist neatly. he steps back, unruffled and poised, leaving rhys panting in his absence.

“you’ll ruin my hair,” he chides. a brief glance downwards, clocking rhys’s physical need and, just as quickly, dismissing it. he runs a thumb below his bottom lip, as if checking that his lip balm hadn’t smudged there. gives rhys a grin. “well? let’s go, then.”

rhys nods, slightly grim. it’s hours before they’ll be back in this room — and he’s going to feel every one of them.

[greelin]

[as if this is not a normal and natural human thing to want] yeah i just really want to connect with people for some reason. Like some weird loser freak

[fairytaletold]

@yxkanna // because that's what you and I do. protect each other.

he likes nick long before he ever meets him. the defiance is there, at the reaping: cash is watching without really seeing, because he fucking hates the reaping and doesn’t want to remember it. if he watches, he’ll feel that panic again. if he sees the faces of the kids getting chosen, he’ll remember how his own face looked, expression twisted in horror and shock.

he’s in the capitol for it, invited to some party he wasn’t really at liberty to decline. two drinks in, a woman on his lap — no one here cares that he’s only seventeen. it doesn’t stop them from plying him with drink, doesn’t save him from the dark eyed looks and knowing smiles he gets tonight, knowing he’ll never leave alone ( but at least he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive—) the woman on his lap hisses, a scandalized sound, and he follows her eyeline back to the screen. the scrawny boy from district 11 has just flipped the camera off, and peacekeepers drag him away as he shouts expletives of rage. around him, the room buzzes incredulously. the woman — cherry? clove? — looks at him, lips a deep purple that he’ll later find doesn’t fully wash out of his shirt. isn’t he awful? she says, like they’re both just spectators, like he hasn’t fucking lived through it. imagine! so ungrateful of him!

cash looks back at the screen and grins.

————————

they don’t talk about what happens here. it’s been years since that first event when cash waylaid him, shell shocked, as the capitol celebrated him for the glory of becoming victor. nick has lifted the unbearable weight just a fraction; he can fucking breathe again, and some nights, these parties are almost fun. sometimes they’re not. if he ever brought it up, nick would obviously understand. but that’s the problem, isn’t it? cash has never known how. he’s never voiced any of it, and he’s sure that the moment he starts, he’ll crack. it will become his undoing.

tonight, he nearly gives in. tonight, the patrons of the party seem to have someone unspoken order that they’ve decided they get to have him in. he dresses in total silence, sits at the end of the bed long after the man has left. ( there’s a name for this, he knows, but it’s never felt like it until now. ) back outside, each sound grates on him. every touch peels back his skin, and he knows — with vivid clarity — that the next person to dare and grab him will fucking die beneath his hands. he’ll end his own life with theirs, and he doesn’t even give a shit.

someone touches his arm. he whirls on them in a black rage, all pretense of civility stripped away to expose the animal beneath. green eyes flare open in shock; cash pauses, surprised to find a hand on a path straight to nick’s neck. someone nearby gasps, and without pause, nick kisses him. tentative horror shifts to delight. around them, voices titter and whisper; foreign fingers brush his back, and before cash can pull away to snap them, nick is drawing him closer, kissing him harder, taking his face between warm hands. don’t. he says it without saying it, because he can’t, they can’t, but they can do this. and when nick starts to drag him away, it’s to obvious, raucous approval.

they lay there afterwards in silence. nick runs a hand through his hair, twirling a finger in the curls as cash looks up at the wall. gone is the tremor of desperation and rage: he’s settled here, skin to skin, absorbing the warmth of nick’s limbs. thank you, he wants to say, but the words stick like thorns within him. it doesn’t matter, anyway. there’s nothing between them that has to be said out loud.

they’re two of the same thing.

[decompose1]

people are soooo mean to the color yellow and it hurts my heart like u mean the color of the sun!?!? daffodils and buttercups and dandelions!? canary feathers and fresh butter and the warm glow of light and the trees in autumn???? for shame. joyless.

[aestheticcolors]

[fairytaletold]

@smcrtcss

[gaydicks420-deactivated20150829]

me: *has A Single Emotion*

me: 🍺🍺🍺🍺🍻🍻🍻🍻🍻🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍹🍹🍹🍹🍷🍷🍷🍹🍹🍹🍻🍻🍺🍺🍻🍻🍻🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍷🍷🍷🍷🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍹🍹🍹🍹🍹🍹🍹🍹🍹🍹🍹🍻🍻🍻🍺🍺🍺🍺🍻🍻🍻🍻🍻🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸

[didanagy]

THE BUCCANEERS (2023-)

dir. susanna white

2.03

[vulpesse]

　　𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒 ( … ) 𝐓𝐀𝐔𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐂𝐎𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐘, 𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐒, 𝐀 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐅𝐔𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐖. as always, her first instinct is to bite and scratch⸻ to violently tarnish what threatens to ruin her, it matters not if it will be her own heart to be torn asunder by the monstrous abhorrence of her self - destructive egoism. and yet, placid and with a soul that suddenly feels hewn out of lead, she remains. not because she has grown more proficient in the elaboration of her sentiments, no ... but because she is utterly terrified by the prospect that even the feeblest of movements may now uproot her from the bloodied soil in which she has grown her lies and her deceits, her half - truths and her woman - shaped masks ( ... ) if she were to be seen now, she would be unable to hide the rot festering within.

her gaze travels elsewhere. the woman - fox feels exposed, laid bare to be devoured and then discarded⸻ he could never swallow someone like her, of this is she is painfully certain. and thus, she makes herself smaller. snow - coated appendages furl around her waist, blanketing her lap so that her clawed hands may be shaken by the tremors of her heart without being seen ; there is an unusual curvature to her once pride spine, a slumping of shoulders as if in defeat. she feels shallow, as much as she feels abounding with sentiments that she refuses to recognize: there is a metallic taste 'pon her tongue, both blood and heart - break. ❝ you always treat me as if i was above you ... but there is no difference between the person that stands in front of the god's golden pedestal, and the foolish fox that has climbed above it just to be finally seen. ❞

his apologies are ( ... ) is there anything sharper than knives, than thorns ? they poison her, corrode the outer layers of her heart until it is left vulnerable and pliant, no longer ravenous carnivore but heart - sick lobelia. ❝ why did you say that ? ❞

[fairytaletold]

he watches as she curls within herself, the sullen wilting of a dying flower. he should have left well enough alone. to speak without thinking —— it’s unlike him, he who so rarely speaks at all. what had possessed his foolish heart to urge him to speak the words now? it’s painfully clear they’ve upset her. even if he doesn’t know why, that truth would be telling enough.

“I…..” why did you say that. why. why? were he wrought of something less monstrous, his own discomfort would have better tells. but there’s no speeding of his heart. no tremor within his hands, no gasping as he fights for breath. his panic is unseen and silent, but no less insidious for it. vasile can’t meet her eyes, though he can imagine it well enough. that golden gaze is so heavy, so damning.

“I never —— I never meant… to upset you.” a truth. it rings with sincerity, low and murmured as it is. his eyes lift to her at last, green as shadowed leaves, as moss. “I can leave.” he wants to leave. he wants to leave this pain behind and never feel it again. “but ——— I said it because… I meant it. even if I am not worthy of you.”

[fkaidanturner]

Poldarks and Recreation (x)

[dropovers]

[smcrtcss]

❛  clothed .   to  make  my  muse  come  while  fully  dressed . (rhys lmaooooooo)

SIGHS... // @fairytaletold

THEY'RE TRYING TO study - or at least Rhys is. Rhaego's always had trouble sitting and focusing on things that he can't do with his hands. Reading is a fucking nightmare; it's just words on pages, blending together, even if it's about a subject he enjoys, like art history. They're sitting on opposite sides of the couch, and there's a minor scowl on Rhaego's face as he glances up to see how the other's doing.

RHYS IS VERY intent on his work. His eyes trail down his body, observing how his chest moves as he breathes, taking note of the subtle curve of his dick in the folds of his dumb, unfashionable basketball shorts. Head cocks (ha), and he turns back to his book as he extends a leg towards him. There's no protest when his foot lands on his lap, and merely a surprised intake of breath when it slips lower to rub him through his pants. It's movement, something to do; he turns back to his book and keeps trying to read now that he's got a little side hobby.

HE CAN FEEL Rhys getting hard under this touch - fuck, this poor fool gets hard as a damn rock whenever his cock is even looked at the right way. He strokes, fondles, gently presses against him as he fingers through pages, other fingers playing with the rims of his reading glasses as h-

A MOAN CUTS through the space between them on the couch and Rhaego glances up as Rhys's hips finish rocking against his heel. Dexterous little toes curl in the loose fabric, pulling down the elastic waistband slightly - he can see a hint of slick catching the light, and he releases him again, one eyebrow rising at the revelation that this man is just that easy. He didn't even think he was playing with him for all that long.

"OKAY," HE SAYS, and that's that. He got some pages turned, at least.

[fairytaletold]

rhys stares, cheeks already tinged with heat, and can’t help that singular, reoccurring thought: what the fuck was wrong with him? what was it about rhaego targaryen that made him damn well lose his mind? ( conversely, what was it about rhaego that let him stay so far removed from this? ) here he is, hot and bothered, already spent from the smallest amount of effort on rhaego’s behalf. the way he’d been leisurely reading wasn’t even an act: he’d watched those beautiful eyes scroll down, line by line, watched those elegant hands turn every page.

——— shit.

“okay,” he mirrors, lacking the certain nonchalance that rhaego manages so — well, effortlessly. “I’m just gonna ——— yeah.” go change his shorts. maybe take a cold shower, while he’s at it. he doesn’t even wait for a reply. doesn’t want one, honestly. he just needs to put some space between himself and the man holding his leash, if only for a minute. he’s already stripping his clothing off on his way to the bathroom.

( he’s really got to get a grip. )

[fairytaletold]

a kiss while hiding away from flashing cameras. // @smcrtcss

he’s actually gonna throw up.

the threat of it happens pretty often, but he thinks it’s genuinely possible this time: that acrid tang rising up the back of his throat is a pretty good warning. he wonders if rhaego would notice if he hung back for a second and ducked into an alley to hurl up his guts, and immediately knows that he would. the other has been looking over to check on him since the car came to school to pick them up. rhys tries not to meet his eyes. that’s how rhaego finds out things: he stares into your eyes and reads you like a fucking scroll, and there’s nowhere for your thoughts to hide.

that’s probably why he’s stopping right now. you good? he asks, and rhys only nods, even though he’s definitely the opposite. he’s never been on t.v. —— not unless you count the time that he was in the background when their local channel covered their school’s homecoming parade, which he doesn’t. it’s so stupid. he barely even has to lie. most of what they’d prepared was truthful, yet he’s been saying the lines over and over in his head, like it’s something he has to memorize, not something he’s lived.

( they got together freshman year. they met at a party, and both of them reached for the same cupcake, and —- )

and they’d been dating almost since then. there’s the lie, subtle as it is. it’s not even a big deal. they were… something… but it wasn’t anything as important as that. it wasn’t anything they could put a name to — nothing that meant anything real. rhaego is turning to him again, and he doesn’t quite manage to drop his gaze before the guy gets a good look at him.

there’s a hand on his arm; somewhere, there’s a camera flashing, a question in some unheard shout. before he can think to panic, rhaego is pulling them down a side street, away from the paparazzi’s calls. before he can think to panic, hands are pushing him back against the wall, and rhaego is pressed against him. it’s a blur, as it always is: a mess of urgency and heat, shared exhales between their mouths. god, he’ll never get over this. the softness of his lips and sharp nip of teeth, the spicy scent of rhaego’s cologne. he can’t even help it — he fucking moans, like being with this man causes physical pain and he’s happy to be in the wild throes of it.

that sound seems to draw them both back. they stand with foreheads pressed together, though it’s an effort to keep their mouth apart. from somewhere in his periphery, he catches the slight twist of rhaego’s smile. ( later. ) a promise; a reward. he draws back, giving rhys a hand, and they continue to the studio like nothing had even just occurred. nothing had changed. in a few hours, he’ll find that’s not the truth.

everything is different now.

[wolfisheart]

for a good few seconds, hale doesn't register what's happened. one second his hand was in cash's hair, they were close, and the second the other man was turning. the crowd was starting to thicken as night fell and more people were starting to trickle in. a spark of panic flushes his face. did he cross a line? is cash upset? hard to tell because there's no fist near him.

his feet carry him forward, pushing patrons out of the way. several times he mutters an apology but, really, all he wants to do is find the other man. once he's close enough he reaches out, gently sliding his fingers over cash's hips. " wait. " he says softly and uses his hold to propel himself in front of the other's path. genuine concern pinches his eyebrows together as both hands raise to cup cash's face.

" are you okay? " amber eyes flick over his facial expression to try and read where cash's mental state is at. he's having a hard time deciphering by look alone and there's too many people in the building for him to scent the emotion. " if i crossed a line, i'm sorry. i was just... " trying to get you to see me, he wants to say. as someone other than a punching bag.

but, hale doesn't say it. can't. " what's wrong? "

[fairytaletold]

there’s too many people in this bar — and it’s all that has him holding still beneath that touch, far too intimate for prying eyes to see. it’s worse, that he doesn’t hate the touch. makes his skin itch, knowing he should shrug it off even if all he wants to do is lean in.

( he’s 7, maybe 8. his mother hugs him to soothe his tears after a bad fall of his bike, knees scraped and palms bloody. the hell is this? his father bangs in the same way he always does — like a tornado gaining speed as it tears through buildings. stop hugging him, mary. you want him to be a little bitch? stop cryin. I’ll fuckin give you something to cry about — c’mere ——)

“———- ‘m fine.” fingers curl around hale’s wrists. he pulls those gentle hands away, but there’s no fury in the gesture, no venom in his words. “what’re you doing?” it should snap with the sharpness of accusation, but the words are only wary instead. the question hangs heavily with all the words currently stuck in his throat. ( what are you doing being so gentle? what are you doing, caring about him? )