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April - Beleg x Mablung

Ah, my dear @lycheesodas has requested these goodest of good boys, and it was, as ever, a pleasure and a joy to write them.

Have some extra sassy Lúthien and some Thingol-love to go with it <3

Pairing: Beleg x Mablung

Prompts: Jazz Age, Furniture, Dancing

Words: 2k

Warnings: Crossdressing, period-appropriate reference to homophobia, alcohol

“Here again, huh?” Pushing back a loose strand of her silken, dark hair from her fair brow, Lúthien gave Beleg a broad, teasing grin. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were addicted to my singing!”

The patron rolled his eyes and gave an overdramatic sigh.

“And you do know better?” he asked then, waving down a waiter to order another round for them.

“Hmmm,” she hummed melodiously. “You could simply ask him out, you know?”

“Your daddy lets you sing because you’re his little girl,” Beleg grinned, “but he surely doesn’t want you to fix your customers’ love life for them!”

Lúthien threw her head back and laughed heartily.

“My daddy knows that my singing attracts more than half of his clientele,” she then purred into Beleg’s ear. “And I do this for free because we’re pals. Ask him out!”

“Ask who out?” Carrying their cocktails with perfect elegance and grace, Thingol—owner of the hottest jazz club in town—materialised like a ghost out of the smoky shadows of the backroom.

A smart businessman and talented manager, he’d somehow managed to capture and keep the heart of Melian—the most exceptional vocalist of her time—and they’d opened Menegroth together.

Within a few short years, the club had consequently become the hotspot for good cocktails and even better music, and—in time—their daughter had taken over the primetime entertainment.

Lúthien was made for the stage, and she kept her audience enthralled with the otherworldly beauty of both her face and her voice.

“He’s still pining for Mablung,” Lúthien, who was an incorrigible daddy’s girl whenever it suited her, tattled shamelessly.

“Ah,” Thingol laughed. “You might be even less fortunate than all those poor fools who’ve lost their hearts to my wicked girl here.” Nobody expected him to say any more on the subject, but—with a mocking wink—he added that Mablung, a quiet regular, seemed quite entranced with shiny, beaded flapper dresses and pearl ornaments in long hair.

“Just my observation,” he smirked and pinched Lúthien’s chin affectionately across the counter. “Now, leave the man alone and get ready for your next set. Who knows? We might get Mablung to dance tonight.”

“Fat chance of that,” Lúthien cackled. Turning back to Beleg, she stage-whispered, “I have just such a dress. I can lend it to you—what do you have to lose? Let’s maximise your chances! Tomorrow, the Belegost Band is on, and I’d love it if you got on the dancefloor with the old grump.”

Opening her luminous eyes wide and pouting adorably, she splayed her long, elegant fingers on Beleg’s muscular forearm. “And you’d want to make me happy, right?”

Sitting on the obscenely exquisite velvet settee in Lúthien’s private lounge the following day, Beleg wondered whether he’d gotten himself into deeper trouble than he’d be able to handle.

All day, he’d had the unshakeable feeling that this night was going to be special—he felt lucky, and, as he was not a gambling man, he’d have to try his hand at the only game of chance to which his heart was inescapably drawn.

“This should do the trick,” the infamous singer chirped, holding aloft a truly stunning dress as well as an elaborate headpiece to distract Beleg from his frantic musings.

“You cannot truly expect me to accept this,” Beleg mumbled, accurately guessing the exorbitant value of the pieces Lúthien was willing to let him borrow for a silly joke. “Those are absolutely gorgeous!”

With a charming giggle, she graced him with one of those radiant smiles that might have induced cardiac arrest in other men. “Thank you—I have good taste,” she grinned. “And so do you, if I may say so. Come on, try it on!”

Even as he rose, Beleg was fiercely aware of how his sense of adventure and fun would get him into hot water sooner or later, but he had to concede that the fashion of the moment might just allow him to not look utterly foolish.

Moreover, Lúthien, even though gracile and lethally elegant, was not a dainty woman.

Thus, Beleg cast off his clothes with shameless efficiency, which made his benefactress chuckle with delight, and slipped into the straight, silken dress without further ado.

“Fits like a glove,” Lúthien cheered, fussing lovingly with the hem of the garment and adjusting the headdress on Beleg’s gleaming hair. “Let me just…off you go!”

As if stung by a bee, Beleg shot out of the room before Lúthien could decide that he needed more jewellery or even a pair of heels; as a matter of fact, he was convinced that his perfectly polished shoes went rather well with his present accoutrement.

On his way to the main room, dim with smoke and mellow music, he passed by an antique mirror and spontaneously gave a little twirl. The pale fabric—somewhere between watery blue and soft green—complimented his strong silhouette astonishingly, and the rhinestones sparkled in the fractured light of the heavy chandeliers.

He made straight for the bar, lifting two fingers to order a stiff drink, and scanned the row of stools for the elusive stranger he sought to impress and amuse with this stunt.

“I can’t believe she got you to do it,” Thingol sniggered as he pushed Beleg’s drink across the polished counter.

“Do what?” a deep, calm voice resounded behind Beleg, and he whirled around, eyes wide and lips parted enticingly.

“A little birdie has told me that you are partial to a certain kind of outfit,” Beleg replied brazenly, letting one hand come to rest provocatively on his cocked hip. “So we thought I’d make an effort before I invite you to dance!”

The man facing him in stunned silence opened his mouth, then closed it again without having uttered so much as a single word.

His dark, sleek hair was combed back from a high, fair brow, and his soulful eyes radiated confusion and humour—Beleg was instantly smitten.

As a discreet blush crept into those high, chiselled cheeks, Mablung cleared his throat before introducing himself; unbeknownst to Beleg, he’d had always been painfully aware of the cheerful, undeniably popular fellow regular, and he’d been giving himself daily pep-talks to muster up the courage to approach him.

“An honour, I’m sure,” Beleg chirped, regretting not having used some of Lúthien’s utterly beguiling perfume and a dab of her rouge to maximise his chances at success even further. “Lúthien is about to go on—the Belegost Boys are here tonight—so, what say you? Care for a dance?”

Despite his cocky demeanour, Beleg felt his heart pounding in his throat, so he downed the comfortingly burning liquor in one big gulp to calm his nerves and parched mouth alike.

“Let me buy you another drink,” Mablung said, evidently stalling. “You seem thirsty, and the dance floor is empty yet.”

Already feeling the fuzzy, emboldening warmth of his drink spread down his chest and into his belly like a lagoon of longing, Beleg brazenly clutched the broad hand, splayed against the counter as if to hold on to it.

“Someone has to be the first,” he declared wisely. “And I think it should be us. Or is my dress not to your liking after all?”

With a heavy sigh, Mablung let himself be pulled under and away because he didn’t want Beleg to think that he objected in any way or fashion to his bold sartorial choice—he didn’t want Beleg to feel bad or unhappy about himself at all.

How could he think of his own stubborn pride when those gleaming eyes twinkled with mischief and glee?

“Ah,” a soft, smoky voice purred into the microphone somewhere ahead. “I see two of my favourite regular customers are kicking this night off. Let’s make it worth their while. And 1, 2, 1, 2, 3, 4.”

A crescendo of music arose, chasing the last remnant of obstinate discretion from Mablung’s heart and mind as Beleg started whirling with visible gusto and unbridled enthusiasm to the sensuous tune that enveloped them whole and transported them to another, blessedly private sphere of pure bliss.

Sighing sweet words of love and devotion, Lúthien sure did her best to cast an unbreakable spell onto her audience, and Mablung felt his feet move before his mind had even consciously decided to cast off the chains of social expectations and decorum to indulge in such a folly.

As soon as his arms closed around Beleg’s deceivingly lithe form, though, Mablung was overwhelmed by the understated, sweet beauty of that eerily familiar stranger. He drowned in the bewitching light of Beleg’s eyes as they swept to and fro on the scratched-up parquet flooring to the mournful clamour of a saxophone solo.

No longer did he think of the shocking reality of leading another man, wearing a woman’s dress, for all to see; instead, he found himself babbling breathlessly, spouting his every confused, reluctant thoughts of admiration and nascent affection he’d had over the weeks without any rhyme or reason.

“You should have slid over,” Beleg grinned with a charming wink. “I was just waiting for you, big boy! Anyway, thanks to the Nightingale’s rather rude intervention, we’ve made it there at long last. So, all is well that ends well, no?”

Mablung, who loved to overthink his every reasoning like a man flogging a dead horse, was aghast and awed by so much well-natured optimism, and so he felt compelled to justify his criminally shameful reluctance even further.

“Don’t blow a gasket over it,” Beleg laughed. “We got there when we were ready. You look extra scrumptious tonight, by the way. It’s as if you’d known somehow!”

Puckering his lips, Mablung was about to explain that he’d indeed chosen this fateful night to finally ask Beleg if he could buy him a drink when his impish dance partner took advantage of a long instrumental lull in the song to push himself up on his toes and press an indecently passionate kiss onto that pensive moue.

“Beleg! We could get in so much trouble,” Mablung exclaimed, his eyes darting through the hazy room in a blind panic.

“Don’t worry, I’m friends with the owners,” Beleg quipped, but he knew that he had gone too far and gave Mablung an understanding smile. “How about that drink then?”

They quickly retreated into the darkest, most secluded corner of the club, their hands brushing against one another in an instinctive attempt to give and seek reassurance.

The music had shifted into an upbeat tempo which drew more dancers to the floor now, which gave them the illusion of privacy.

“We should stop meeting here,” Mablung whispered over the rim of his cocktail glass.

“Are you inviting me to your place?” Beleg asked in a light, flirty tone that was marred by the tremulous quality of his strained voice. “I didn’t dare to be so forward on what is basically our first date! Also, Lúthien keeps my clothes hostage.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t need clothes,” Mablung replied with admirable calm—on account of his serious tone and straight face, it took Beleg a moment to fully comprehend the implications.

“Is…Is that so?” he sputtered, bringing his hand to his collarbones to quieten his wildly galloping heart. “In that case, lead, and I’ll follow.”

Amused by the candid eagerness with which his indecent proposal was met, Mablung tilted his glass in a quiet salute.

“Finish your drink,” he said suavely. “Let’s enjoy the music lest we forfeit Lúthien’s friendship. You’ve caused quite a stir, and we should wait for things to simmer down a little.” He leaned forward like a large predator sniffing out its petrified prey. “Then, we can leave through the backdoor. I live two blocks down from here. What say you?”

“Cheers to that,” Beleg squeaked and lifted Mablung’s long, sinuous fingers to his lips gallantly before they could be withdrawn in a facetious display of propriety. “I knew tonight would be my lucky evening!”

-> Masterlist

Lots of love to you! <3

Thank you for indulging me with your prompts and your readership!

@fellowshipofthefics here's the next one!

#aw i loved this one #beleg #mablung #luthien #thingol #beleg/mablung

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