retcon-writing

[retcon-writing]

the drabble in which Haru serenades monsoon (kinda)

don’t look at me yeah im basically writing a monsoon route no i dont want to talk about it

The night is cool, only barely touched by the promised chill of autumn. The fields of grasses are open and stretched wide, each blade swaying with the breeze and rippling like water. It is a quiet place, away from the endless noise of the city. Tranquil. Isolated.

 A forest surrounds the town below and the surrounding farms, and the trees, still verdant and green during the day, seem heavier now; weighed down by moonlight and shadow. It is here Haru finds himself, seated on the veranda of this gentle land that reminds him so much of his old home. His feet dangle in the air; his fingers pluck delicately at strings, notes drifting out and into the night.

 His lips form words delicately, weaving and spinning them together into threads of memory and gentle magic; a performance for none but himself. He sings of past and present—of home, of harmony—and the words on his tongue are lifted and carried and cradled by the wind and the world itself. The breeze through the grass is a whistled accompaniment, the rustle of leaves a drum, and the power of the song invigorates the sleeping earth around him.

 The moon is shining brighter, he thinks, after the song dies in his throat. Or perhaps the world itself simply seems brighter after such a tune.

 “Lovely.”

 Haru inclines his head to the voice but does not turn. “I thought you were going to sleep?”

 “Seemed a shame to waste such a lovely night,” his companion says before moving to sit next to him. Close. Close enough that their thighs touch at the sides. “Besides, I said so while under the impression you would be joining me.”

 Haru laughs, and it is a gravelly thing; rough and worn from age and smoke, sharp in a way his singing is not. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to keep you.”

 “Mmm.” The man hums vaguely. “It’s a lovely song. The one you sang, I mean.”

“I didn’t think you took much interest in my singing, Monsoon,” Haru says, a touch of teasing.

“It’s your companions’ I have little interest in. Yours, I’ll admit, has been growing on me.”

“Is that so?”

Monsoon smirks. “Yes. Rather like mold, I suppose.”

Haru winces—although Monsoon jests, there is nonetheless a certain bite to the jape. “You are cross with me after all. I should have known.” He looks over at Monsoon then, taking in the sight of him. Committing his face to memory once again. A delicate smirk plays at the corner of the man’s mouth, stretching his lips thin. His hair is twisted into a loose braid over his shoulder that shimmers in the moonlight. It’s damp, leaving an ever-growing wet spot on the thin robe he wears.

Haru encircles Monsoon’s hand with his own free one, rubbings gentle circles into the cool flesh. “You must be cold tonight. With the breeze and all.”

Monsoon seems to fold into himself, drawing his legs up and in. “Being chilled is normal for me.”

“So delicate….”

“Shut up.” Monsoon says it without malice, leaning ever-so slightly against Haru’s warmer frame. They stay there a moment, silently resting on each other. Savoring the touch of their skin through cloth. Making up for the moments they’ll part; for the moments Haru leaves and Monsoon doesn’t follow. They stay together long enough that the fabric of Haru’s shirt beginnings to grow damp itself.

“Shall we sleep out here,” Haru suggests. “It is, as you said, a lovely night.”

“Do not be ridiculous.” Monsoon brushes errant strands of Haru’s hair back, tucking them behind his ear. “You’ll have plenty of nights to sleep in the dirt and elements soon enough.”

“Hmm.” Haru sighs, allowing his eyes to drift shut when Monsoon’s fingers linger on his face. Feeling him trace patterns between the newly-formed freckles from last summer’s sun. There are new wrinkles now too, an etched mark of yet another year come and gone, but Monsoon does not comment on them. Haru is glad for it.

“Would you sing it again for me? That song from before.”

“You liked it?”

Monsoon nods, moving away again. “Very much so. It reminded me… well, it reminded me of home, I suppose. Though I’m certain I’ve never heard it.”

Haru smiles despite himself and once again places his fingers on strings. “Of course. What sort of bard would I be, to let my favorite audience member down?”

[retcon-writing]

Liddol monsoon drabble with an unseen/unnamed bard because I love him sososososo much 💕 #monsoonNation

EDIT this is nsfw-ish like its not nsfw but oh does it toe the line.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” you say, with a voice that drips honey-tinged magic and seduction. It echoes and bounces off boundaries you cannot see—boundaries that might not even exist, for all you know. This world is of your own making, but the nature of dreamscapes so rarely matches reality. Steam sticks to your skin, condensing into droplets and streams in the crevices of your heated flesh. You’re naked and warm, so warm, heat seeping from the pool to your core as you wade through waist-deep water. Your steps are confident; sure. You’ve been here many times, and the water welcomes you back like an old friend.

“You have more control over that than I, bard.”

The voice, that voice, carries over the water’s surface, smooth and deep. Finds you. Washes over you; settles deep in your chest.

“Would you rather I left,” you ask, all the while searching. Searching. You can’t see much through the haze of fog, but he sounds close. Just… not close enough. Never close enough, not until you can take him in your arms and hold and grasp and caress and—There. A spot of blue. Deep shades of lapis and indigo and cerulean that cut through the mist. 

He always seems to shimmer here, like his skin in dusted with jewels rather than flesh.

You call out again. “I can, you know. It would be… simple.”

“Simple. Yet here you come, once again. To me.”

“As long as you permit me.”

He’s nearly within reach now, and you can see the whites of his eyes cradling his irises—the dark, fathomless depths of blue that merge seamlessly with black. His cheeks have taken on a hue of purple from the heat. From you? A tendril of his hair brushes your thigh as you wade ever closer and you dip your fingers into the water, grasping the strands like they’re spun gold. He smells divine: floral with a hint of something damp, like rainwater on moss. Like mist-soaked sunshine.

He watches you, dark eyes following the movement of your hand. Flushes as you press your lips to the captured strands. “What am I to make of you, bard? How long do you plan to haunt my dreams?”

“You make it sound as if this is a nightmare,” you say. It’s a game he insists on playing—this façade of cat and mouse—and you’re happy to oblige. It makes the moment he gives himself up all the sweeter, in a way. You continue, drawing a finger up the side of his neck. “As if you don’t want this.”

His eyes flutter shut, droplets gathering on his eyelashes. “I’ve said no such thing.” His voice is little more than a sigh that ghosts upon your heated skin. 

“Monsoon.”

“Bard,” he says, opening his eyes once more. Gasps as you draw invisible shapes along his neck and chest. 

“Tell me you want this. Want me,” Your voice is desperate, even to your own ears. Too eager, too filled with wanton yearning, but these moments… they’re short. Not nearly enough to leave either of you satisfied, despite how you try.

And oh, how you try.

Monsoon cards a hand through your hair, which you only now realize is wet. Soaked and slick against your skin. “How many hearts do you plan to capture before you’re satisfied with your haul?”

“The only heart that concerns me is yours.”

“For now perhaps.” He sees through you: sees clearly that this aching desire is for this moment and this moment alone; that come the morrow you will return once again to the arms of your companions. That he and you are separated by time and space and even fate. In this way, the dream must be enough. “But have it your way, if you must. I want you.”

You try to laugh, but it is a ragged, pained thing. “For now?”

His eyes twinkle with words left unsaid. “For now.” And his hands are upon your cheek and in your hair and everywhere, pulling you close and up and in. Into him. It’s too easy to kiss those lips, to nip at the flesh of his jaw and leave little marks of ownership along his neck. Ah, they’re not real, but they’re real enough. He’s real enough.

You move closer, slotting your leg between his, pulling him flush against you. Though he’s slender—all long limbs and elegant lines—there’s a softness to his torso that you relish in. A pleasant sense to the way your fingers can dig into his flesh.

Leaving marks. Leaving marks.

You pinch his nipple between your thumb and finger and are rewarded with a gasp. You grip his hair at the base of his neck and tug, and he moans. He hums with pleasure as you drag your tongue up the side of his neck and think, not for the first time, that he might have been a bard. That his voice is lovely enough for it.

His hands drift across your chest, moving down and down and—

“Wait,” You capture his hand in yours, maneuvering so your fingers intertwine with his. “Wait.”

“You don’t want me to touch you?” He’s not offended—just confused, brows drawing together and wrinkling his forehead. 

“I….” Your throat suddenly feels dry, despite the humidity in the room. He’s watching you closely, and you lick you lips on reflex. 

“What?”

What do you want? Why do you still his hand? An image of him, spread out and panting and begging, flashes in front of your eyes and a pang of arousal tightens your gut.

“I want you… undone. Ruined.” Yes. Yes, that’s it. You want him lost in pleasure, want him unmade and remade by your hands. You want him to writhe. “Is that alright?”

He blinks. “I was not aware you had such inclinations,” he says. You’re worried for a moment that you’ve gone too far, that you’ve misstepped, and an apology is already forming in your mind when he cups your face in his free hand. His shock is melting into a smile. “How, then, are you planning on ‘ruining’ me? There is only us and the water.” 

“I have my hands and my mouth,” you say, “They’ll be enough.”

He hums—a pretty little sound from his mouth that you wish you could devour and swallow. “You’re rather more demanding than I thought. But very well then, I shan’t touch you. Or, well. I’ll try. You’re enticing.”

Ironic, coming from him. “You’re sure?”

“I thought for a moment you meant to restrain or hurt me, but no. I can see that’s not what you had in mind.” Something must show on your face when he mentions restrains, because he pauses and gives you an appraising look. “At least, I assume that’s not what you had in mind now.”

“No, no. Not now. I just want to pleasure you.”

“To ‘ruin’ me, you mean. So you said.” He leans back, sinking deep into the water and pulling you with him below the surface. Your hands are still connected, fingers threaded together. The water envelopes the pair of you like a blanket, warm and clear, and it feels more like floating that sinking. Bubbles form around your mouth as you breathe, but no water enters your lungs. Monsoon looks utterly at home here, dark hair swirling around him like a halo, and when next he speaks, there is no distortion. “Indulging in a bit of hedonism won’t hurt anyone. This is a dream, after all.”

You float closer and he tugs you in. Nips at the shell of your ear. “Come then, Bard. Do with me as you please.”