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tfa_kink2016-05-07 11:48 am
themodawakens) wrote in tfa_kink2016-05-07 11:48 am
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PROMPT POST #6- CLOSED
prompt post: one | two | three | four | five
+ All comments except fills should be posted anonymously.
+ All prompts should focus on TFA characters. You can't post OT or PT-only prompts.
+ One prompt per comment please.
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+ Use 'Any' when prompting for any pairing at all (eg Kylo/Any or Any/Any)
+ Anyone, everyone, no one? Use "Other." (e.g. Poe/Other)
+ Warn for common triggers, please
+ NO PROMPTS FEATURING CHARACTERS UNDER 18 IN SEXUAL SITUATIONS.
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+ prompts should not exceed ~250 words.
+ also, while this is not really a rule I can enforce, please try to limit yourselves to fewer than 5 prompts per page.
+ reposting prompts is currently not allowed.
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+ PLAY NICE
Fill - At the Stroke of Twelve (4/4)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-25 02:29 am (UTC)(link)And here, as you may already know, is where the grand search ought to begin: a proclamation trumpeted throughout the countryside that whosever fits this dainty glass slipper – or this mask, in our case – shall take the crown prince for a husband.
Really, though, what sort of political sense does that make? A risky gamble, if you want my opinion. Surely there was more than one woman in that far-away land who wore a size six and a half, and surely there was more than one gentleman in Hosnia who could have made that mask sit well enough on his face if he tried.
But our prince was a man who knew his own heart, and who had recently been advised to know his own mind as well, so when he rode out at daybreak with a mask tied to his belt there was only one house he had any intention of visiting.
Phasma, the nape of whose neck had been pricked with vague anticipation all morning, was standing at the front gate when she saw a dust-cloud advancing up the road. A suspicious quantity of robins and goldfinches had been landing atop the roof for several hours, accompanied by the odd mouse or squirrel. They all appeared to be waiting for whatever would happen next, though Phasma was satisfied to note that none of them were wearing clothes. She had, at least, been spared that final revolting indignity.
She kilted up her skirts and strode inside.
Hux sat spreading marmalade on his bread in forceful, irate slaps. Kylo Ren the Human Disaster was picking owl pellets apart and boiling the delicate bones clean in a pot, lizard skulls and rat ribs and the furcula of a sparrow, which could only grant wishes if it was first snapped in two.
(That’s another general rule, in fairy tales and life alike. All the strongest magic comes from things that have been broken – don’t argue with me there, poppet. I know my business well enough.)
“Where,” she pronounced, “is Phineas?”
“Skulking in the attic,” Hux said. “He’s been in a foul temper all day. Why?”
This was a clear case of seeing the sawdust before the plank, as Hux had been quite the skulker himself. The prince had not returned to speak with him last night, after the dazzling stranger beat his hasty departure, had not even offered anyone a second dance at all. Why, he hadn’t even thought to compliment Hux on his recommendation about rifling the insides of cannon barrels for improved accuracy. How rude.
Phasma hauled Hux to his feet.
“Go lock him in, then.” She gave a shove. “The prince will be here shortly. We may be able to manage this, if we can keep our wits about us. And comb down that cowlick, will you? Try to look presentable. As for you –”
Her second son turned. The shoulder-blade of a nightingale protruded from his mouth, because he had once read that placing it under your tongue could turn you invisible.
“—I oughn’t bother asking you for a spell to help things along, I suppose. Something to shift the memory, move the heart? Turn the hourglass of time? Your brother is sorely lacking in personal charm, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Magic of that kind comes very highly-priced,” he answered, flatly, and spat the bone onto his palm. “I would need to tear out one of my eyes, at the minimum. Or cut off an arm.”
Then Ben looked up at her.
“Shall I try?”
(Here we might recall those ugly stepsisters from the old story, who had looked down at the feet upon which they had walked and run and danced all their lives – feet which would never fit such a dainty glass slipper, in other words – before reaching out to take the cleaver from their mother’s proffering hand.
Turn that over a while in your mind, if you please, and tell me for whom they really did it.)
Phasma gritted her teeth.
“Absolutely not.” She pushed him towards the stairs, after Hux. “A parlor trick like that is as liable to burn the house down or turn us all into geese as it is to go even half-way right – the grander feat on your part will be keeping silent.”
He went clattering away, and Phasma swung herself towards the door.
In the attic, meanwhile, Finn lay on his back and stared up at the bare rafters. A dull, flattening heaviness had been settled in his chest all day, and carrying it about had finally grown too wearisome. If they wanted him to do anything, Finn had decided, at the forge or in the house or around the yard, they would have to ask him directly.
He sighed.
Perhaps, if he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could summon up a memory of last night so lucid and clear it would feel like the real thing all over again. He could affix the sounds and colors and textures to some secure place deep within his mind, where they could be found whenever he wanted to think about –
Then Finn heard two sounds, together: the ringing of a bridle, down in the yard, and the brisk sliding-shut of an iron bolt-lock on the trapdoor directly beneath him.
“Enjoy yourself,” came Hux’s droll voice, through the wood. “You may be there a while.”
Finn ran to the attic’s dusty window.
A brindle-coated charger stood tied to their hitching post, and the prince – Poe, his name was Poe – was walking determinedly towards the door, one fist already raised as if to knock. Even from this distance, Finn could see a painted mask swinging from his belt.
His hands, which were sore at the fingertips due to how hard his pulse was beating, startled back from the sill.
A nobody, he almost thought again, he was still a nobody, a nobody who shoveled ash and cinder and certainly had no business whatsoever with a prince, but then Phineas – who was also Finn now, we should remember, names are important – halted himself, because he happened to know his own heart and mind as well.
And for the first time in a very long while, possibly in his whole life if we are as being honest as a fairy tale requires, Finn felt the bright, straight-sighted joy of both wanting something for his own sake and knowing it was within his reach. The prince had come looking for that supposed nobody, after all.
Yes, Finn thought. Yes, all right.
He turned again towards the trapdoor.
He’d made that lock himself, hadn’t he, and the hinges with it? Yes, again, certainly, melted the ore and poured it and shaped it and watched it steam in the water as it cooled, and damned if he was going to let a thing like that get in his way now.
Finn went to the desk where Hux sometimes sat reading and picked up a slender pen-knife.
Downstairs, there came an insistent pounding at the door. Phasma opened it and did not bother feigning surprise when Poe stepped through, clothed in the battle-standard colors of red and white.
“Good day,” he said, taking in the sight of her haughty posture and ash-blonde hair. “I suspect you’re the Evil Stepmother, is that right?”
Poe, you see, being a prince, had read a few stories himself.
Phasma smiled.
“If you’ve come looking for Phineas, I’m afraid he isn’t here.” She placed a hand on her hip. “I’ve sent him away to seek his fortune in the world, as befitting of his status as my youngest son.”
“That rule,” Poe stated, clearly, “only applies to children who are one’s own blood. And if you’ve sent him away, then that means you must’ve given him some sort of magical item to haul along. You’ll have to tell me what it was before I can think about believing you.”
“You are hardly in a position to be making such demands, your majesty,” Phasma said. “You’re not a proper prince, I’m sure you’ve realized – you are heir to a sovereign state, governed by a constitutional monarchy, and your kingship will be hardly more than a figurehead’s title when it passes to you. All this fairy tale business is not a true part of your heritage.”
She stared down her nose at him. She wore a dress of black moiré,with sleeves lined in white lace, while a necklace of moonstones glittered at her throat. The skin there was pale and smooth and shone like beaten silver.
(So long as we are splitting semantic hairs, I ought to remind you that we should call her a Wicked Stepmother and not a simply evil one. The former are more dangerous, and more powerful, and more desperate, because of what they stand to lose. Remember the red-hot iron shoes.)
“I won’t refute that,” Poe answered, circling around the kitchen table, “but you should also consider who my parents are – a foundling princess and an orphaned thief who fell in love on a quest together. That’s – ” he raised his fingers, “what would you say, three plotlines? Four, coming together? I might even have a more integral place in this than you do.”
“Oh, my, some storyteller has taught you well indeed.” Phasma reached for a wooden bowl, lifted out a bright red apple. “Hungry?”
“And that would be poison, most likely.” Poe raised an eyebrow. “Life-in-death sleep, the glass coffin, that whole routine. You’ll need a few more dwarves for the spell to work correctly.”
Hux – decidedly not a dwarf – had sauntered back down the stairs by then, auburn hair combed back, smelling overwhelmingly of cloves and aged ambergris. Kylo Ren the Far-Too-Serious slunk after him.
(Privately, those two always felt as though they had been born into the wrong genre. A chivalric romance might have suited them better, something with swords and errant knights, or else a classical tragedy with generals who are always prepared to carry an ideology to its ultimate conclusion.
Or a celestial opera told in nine movements, maybe. That would have been interesting.)
Phasma took a relishing bite from the apple, but her smile never slipped.
“Very good, your majesty.”
And while our Wicked Stepmother and our Prince Charming moved from the confirmatio to the refutatio stage in their debate, Finn was working his knife to fit inside the trapdoor’s hinge-screws. He could have pounded away at the lock itself all he wanted, or waited for some form of assistance, and had he been somebody else he might have done just that, but youngest sons are often as clever as they are good and patient.
Finn twirled the screws free in several turns – magic doesn’t solve everything, you know – and let the trapdoor clatter away. Then down the ladder, down the hall, down the stairs he went, on nearly-weightless feet, and when he entered the kitchen he saw his prince still standing there and waiting for him.
He walked straight between his stepbrothers, past Phasma, pointing to the mask.
“I’ll take that back now, your majesty,” he said. “Thank you for coming all this way to return it.”
“Well, it wasn’t entirely selfless of me.” Poe smiled broadly. “I think everyone might be getting that royal holiday, soon, so long as you’re interested.”
(That was another thing about being a prince, terribly earnest and plainly terrible lines like that. It was a fortunate thing he was so handsome.)
Finn took the white mask as Poe offered it, carefully and with his fingertips, staring at its smooth-curved insides and the crack running down its front.
But did he need to put it on, do you suppose, our final act of promised transformation, in order that the prince might know him for who he truly was? No, no, I don’t believe so either. He had no more need of it, you see. He had managed the trick entirely on his own.
(Rey had allowed that one snarl in the enchantment, letting the mask stay behind when everything else vanished, because she also happened to have an excellent taste for imperfection.)
So instead Finn slipped the mask into his own belt, smiling as well, and reached out to accept that hand the prince was holding out to him.
They had not gotten beyond the door together when Phasma spoke.
“And have you anything to say?” she prompted, shoulders still set proudly straight. “Some thanks should be in order, Phineas.”
“No.” Finn turned. “And the name is Finn. I don’t owe you anything.”
“Of course you do, darling. I’ve made you what you are.” And incredibly, our Hero thought he saw his Wicked Stepmother wink at him. “I’m the plot, you know.”
He peered into the darkened room behind her. There was the kitchen table, and the hearth, and somewhere there was an unlit forge with a hammer rested atop its anvil, and of course there were his stepmother and stepbrothers waiting in silence. He could have them punished, Finn realized, according to the laws of story if not the laws of the land.
But here he stood, outside, and that was enough.
“Thank you, then,” he said.
He walked away without looking back.
Finn was not quite so well-versed in fairy tales as you are, I should mention, having only just realized his role in them, and he had never been told how kisses are not strictly required unless to end hundred-year-slumbers or unnatural cases of amphibianism – therefore it was more of a pleasant surprise than an indignant one when Poe stopped at the gate, turned to face him, and caught him hard by the collar and the mouth at once. Finn’s eyes crossed slightly before he could remember to close them, which he did.
The kiss lasted for a long time, out in that hay-chaff summer sunlight while the birds all took wing. When it ended, Finn leaned forward as well, intent on returning the gesture.
“Not yet,” Poe said, and he laughed. “Keep it. It suits you.”
Then they lived happily at some times, unhappily at others, and very many things in between, which is the honest best that you or I or anyone can do. And whether the tale has properly ended now or not – as I said at the very beginning, people are often unaware of the story they are telling because they are still somewhere in the middle of it – must be for you yourself to determine.
…
Re: Fill - At the Stroke of Twelve (4/4)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-25 05:43 am (UTC)(link)What can even be said about this flawless fic. I am in awe.
Re: Fill - At the Stroke of Twelve (4/4)
(Anonymous) 2016-05-25 05:07 pm (UTC)(link)Phasma for Wicked Stepmother/Plot of the Year! A+++++ fill, anon. I'm still reeling from that whole aside about the ugly stepsisters and the cleaver, tbh.
OP
(Anonymous) 2016-05-26 01:22 pm (UTC)(link)This fill made me SO happy and if you have a tumblr or an AO3 account and don't mind sharing it, I want to subscribe to everything you write.
Re: OP
(Anonymous) 2016-05-26 04:59 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill - At the Stroke of Twelve (4/4)
(Anonymous) 2016-06-09 09:17 pm (UTC)(link)I am D Y I N G. This whole thing was amazing.