#curved sea hard grass

[suguwu]

mondstadt: terroir

“Don’t tease,” you chastise.

He tightens his grip on your ankle, his other hand tracing higher, dragging delicate over your calf. 

“Oh, darling,” he says. “I’ve barely even started.”

minors and ageless blogs dni!

pairing: pantalone x f!reader

notes: what's this? the first chapter of mr. worldwide almost a year after i released the masterlist? yeah. yeah. sorry about that. but i hope you enjoy!

tags: established relationship (married), reader is called "darling" and "wife", wine play, oral (f!receiving), reader has pubic hair.

wc: 2k

Mondstadt is as pretty as ever.

The burgeoning spring brings a verdant flush to the land, the high grasses swaying emerald in the endless wind of the nation, and the apple blossoms blooming pink on their branches, a soft spill of dawn caught in petals. New life abounds in every corner of the nation.

It’s so different from Snezhnaya.

The Dandelion Sea feels endless as you pass through it, the vast field of the treasured flowers stretching as far as the eye can see, kissing the bright blue of the mid-morning sky’s horizon. You watch a crimson fox scamper through the dandelions. Despite the Anemo energy keeping them whole in the playful breeze, a few delicate seeds catch in its coat, little white speckles like a flurry of snow.

“You seem pleased,” Pantalone says, without looking up from the ledger he’s been focusing on. 

“Do I?” you ask.

“Don’t play coy, darling,” he tells you.

He makes a note. It joins pages and pages of other notes, each a meticulous observation in a hard-earned elegant script. Each loop of his pen is a slow, familiar flourish. 

“I would never.”

He hums. “Of course not. How silly of me.”

“Yes, how silly of you.”

He glances up for a moment, one elegant brow raised. He contemplates you for an instant, a little smile on his lips, before he returns his attention to the ledger.

You pout.

“Do not give me that look,” he says, writing another note with an elegant flick of his wrist. 

“What look?”

He doesn’t look up. “The one on your pretty lips,” he says. “I do so hate to see you pout.”

“Then pay attention to me.”

“Soon, darling.”

“Now, darling.”

“Such a demanding little thing,” he says, but he’s putting down his pen, tucking it away with the ledger. You watch the way the tendons in his hands flex, how careful his long, strong fingers are. His rings catch the light, gleaming in the golden sunshine, and you think of how many times you’ve tasted the metal when he has sunk his fingers into your mouth. 

When you glance up, Pantalone’s lips have a knowing curve to them. 

You’re unperturbed; your husband knows your appetite for all things better than most. Your appetite for him most of all. 

Still, you say nothing, though an answering little smile blooms on your lips. You turn your gaze back out the window, watching the idyllic countryside roll by, the trees whispering in the breeze, the flowers dotting the grass like stars in the sky swaying. 

“I thought you wanted my attention, darling,” Pantalone says.

You sniff. “Perhaps you took too long.”

“I see,” he says, deeply fond. “A mistake I shan’t make again.”

“Good.”

He chuckles lowly, the sound rich and deep as it drips over you like honey. Before he can say anything, the carriage rounds a bend, and a manor comes into view.

“Oh!” you gasp, pleased to see it again. It’s striking no matter how many times you’ve ridden past it, a towering thing that almost seems to puncture the blue of the sky. Even from afar, you can scent the flowers of the garden, the soft sweetness carried to you by Mond’s ever-present winds. 

The carriage turns off towards the manor.

You furrow your brow; it’s the only thing down this particular road. It clicks in a second later and you turn to face your husband, who is idly looking out the window. 

“I thought you weren’t going to buy in Mond.” 

“Hmm?”

You slip your foot up Pantalone’s leg.

He glances at you, his eyes gleaming behind the half-moons of his glasses.

“You weren’t going to buy in Mond,” you remind him. 

He catches your ankle, wrapping his long, lean fingers around it. His thumb strokes idly against the bone. A tender, silken touch.

“It was too cheap to let go of,” he says.

With him, that just means somewhere under ten million mora. You decide you’re better off not knowing. 

It’s a wonderful property, the beautiful manor set into sweeping gardens lush with fragrant blossoms, the blooms spilling over in a froth of untamed color. Vines swirl up the sides of the house, whorls of greenery clinging to the sun-warmed stone, dotted with bright flowers. It rises high above the grounds, almost cradled by the sky. 

It apparently once belonged to one of the eldest clans of the fallen aristocracy—some of the stained glass still carries their crest, flooding the courtyard with their colors at the sun’s gentle touch—until it was sold off by the heir. 

When you peer at it through the carriage windows, you can’t understand how he could bear to let go of it. 

“You said you liked it,” Pantalone says as you lean back again. “Didn’t you?”

You should have known better. Of course he bought an entire manor because you’d mentioned in passing that it was pretty. 

“Or have you changed your mind?” he asks, his lips curling into something smug when you stare at him. 

You know that look.

“Don’t tease,” you chastise.

He tightens his grip on your ankle, his other hand tracing higher, dragging delicate over your calf. 

“Oh, darling,” he says. “I’ve barely even started.” 

—

The two of you stumble into the first bedroom you find. 

It’s lavish but not gaudy, the type of finery you’ve become used to over the long years with your husband, who insists on nothing but the best, particularly for you. It’s beautifully set up, with a wine and fruit basket on the nightstand, but you barely spare a thought for it, too busy trying to shrug out of your dress while batting away your husband’s roaming hands. 

“You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be,” you tell him as he palms your tit over your dress, his big hand holding the thin fabric in place. 

“If you weren’t so pretty, it wouldn’t be so hard to keep my hands off you.”

Your cheeks heat. “Shut up,” you say, swatting at his wrist. 

He lets go with a laugh that drips with desire, warm and full of teeth. Your dress slips to the floor, a silken pool; he helps you step out of it. 

He kisses you then, a hot, heavy press of his lips against yours, his tongue flitting across the seam of your lips until you open for him. He presses close as he licks into your mouth, one hand splayed across your back to hold you still for him. His other hand slides from your hip to cup your tit. He thumbs your nipple, a soft hint of pressure against the pebbling nub, and you gasp into his mouth. 

You can feel him hardening against your hip even through the fine material of his pants. 

He kisses you dizzy, steals your breath and makes it his own, and perhaps that is why you’re not sure how you find yourself on the bed. It’s downy soft beneath you, the sheets silken against your skin, and he pins you against them with ease. 

You arch into his next kiss, whining your complaint as he pulls away for breath. 

“Darling,” he says, annoyingly composed, “I want to drink from you.”

“Yes,” you say quickly, reaching for him to pull him back down to you, bracketing your thighs around his hips to feel the line of his hard cock against your cunt. You roll your hips and close your eyes, arching your back to feel more of him. “Hurry up.”

You yelp as liquid spills over you, eyes opening to see your husband set aside the bottle of wine that he’s just poured part of onto your chest. You catch a flash of the label and any admonishment you might have had fades away.

“Pantalone,” you say slowly, “that was one of the rarest vintages Dawn Winery has.”

The wine is pooling in the dip of your neck, a maroon bruise of liquid. It drips down your tits in languid rivulets. 

“Is it? Good.”

Before you can complain, he dips down to you, tracing the tip of his tongue over your skin, chasing a droplet of wine. He follows the meandering path, his tongue laving gently against you, a sharp line of heat that goes straight to your cunt. 

You bite down on a gasp as he flicks his tongue against the furled peak of your nipple, sparks skittering beneath your skin, before all you know is wet heat. You weave your hands into his ebony hair as he suckles at you, arching up into him as he palms at your other tit, pinching lightly at your nipple with clever fingers. 

You’re squirming beneath him by the time he pulls away, a string of saliva connecting his mouth to your breast. Some of the wine between your tits trickles down your sides to stain the sheets claret. 

“You’re wasting it,” he chides. You glare and he laughs before swooping down to follow the path of a droplet to where wine pools in your navel. He licks it up, drawing a long, hot line of his tongue from the dip of it to the start of the curls on your mound.

Pantalone curls his hands around your thighs, his fingers sinking into the meat of them, and spreads you wide for him. He lets go of one of your thighs to circle his thumb over your clit, smiling when your hips buck as an incandescent heat settles in your cunt, a bright burn of pleasure. 

“I thought you were going to drink from me,” you say. “So drink.”

His smile grows wider. “Of course, wife,” he says, and then he’s dipping down to lick a long stripe against your cunt, flattening his tongue against the heat of it. He hums and holds your hips down when you cry out. He laves at you, dragging his tongue through your folds until you’re almost trembling with it. 

He laps at your slick, tracing the tip of his tongue around your hole. You sink your hands into his hair and tug at the long locks, urging him to press closer. You can feel the way he smiles against your tender cunt before he obliges you, delving his tongue into you. He presses forward to push deeper and your legs close around his head as his nose nudges into your clit. 

White hot pleasure sears through you, sparking down your spine like a shooting star. Pantalone slips his hands under your ass to raise your hips higher against him, his tongue pushing deeper into your wet cunt. You gasp as he flicks his tongue inside of you. 

He feasts on you like a glutton, humming his content as you writhe, his strong hands holding you still for him, keeping your cunt pressed against his mouth. You tighten your grasp in his hair as you are wound tighter and tighter, the heat pooling in your stomach catching like kindling and spreading through you.

Your voice breaks on his name—his real name, one that is yours and yours alone—as the heat roars into a forest fire, setting your nerves aflame as you cum.

Pantalone presses little kisses to your cunt as you shudder your way through the aftershocks, tiny blissful jolts of lingering pleasure. When your thighs go lax around him, he pulls back. His smile is soft, but there’s smugness lining it. You scowl at him.

“Darling,” he says, wiping his gleaming mouth with the back of his hand, the uncouth gesture sending a frisson of heat lacing down your spine, “we really must finish the bottle.”

He leans up to press a sweet kiss against your lips; it turns wicked quickly, a heated claim. When he pulls away, his eyes are shining greedily. His smile has a wicked edge to it as he reaches for the wine bottle once more.

“I insist.” 

[blinddreams24]

Kelp

A Mermay Prompt

(Note: aggression(it has begun))

Masterlist

Prev / Next

“Y/n.”

“No! Nope! Nu uh!” You shook your head and pulled away. “I’m not eating what is basically sea grass! Do I look like a cow to you?”

Cross held out the kelp to you. “A what?” His head tipped to the side like a big puppy.

“A cow.” Realizing that wasn’t an explanation, you gestured how big a cow was. “It’s a big land animal with four legs that eats grass. The bulls have these long curving horns so they can fight off predators.”

His eyes widened. “It has four legs and weapons??”

You snickered at his reaction. “Yeah, there’s a whole sport around bull fighting. It’s really dangerous even though cows aren’t predators.”

“They’re not predators… and they’re dangerous? Have… Have they killed anything?” His eyelights were tiny in his sockets.

“Oh, yeah. I don’t know the details, but I know that many people and animals have died to a rampaging bull. It’s not fun.”

Cross didn’t respond.

Looking back at him, you finally noticed why. The guy looked absolutely terrified. Of cows? Well, you hadn’t done the best job explaining their softer side. You cleared your throat. “But they can be really gentle. When I was little, I went to a ranch and got to feed one. That was fun.”

“Mm…” He mumbled, still staring into space.

“Cross?”

His eyes snapped to you, he shook his head and sat straight. “Anyways! You still have to eat this.”

“Noooo!” You stepped out of his reach. “You can’t make me if you can’t catch me! Ha!”

Cross grinned smugly at you. “You remember how you learned about this type of conversion?”

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously. “…Yeeaahhhh? Horror told me. Why?”

“Heheheh.” Came a familiar chuckle behind you causing a chill to go up your spine.

You spun around to face Horror, who had sat himself right in your pathway.

He waved his fingers at you. “Hi.”

A glare was shot at Cross. “Two against one is unfair.” You pouted, earning another chuckle from Horror.

Cross shrugged. “I planned ahead. And Horror was the only one of us that can get on land without getting stuck.”

You crossed your arms, careful to keep an eye on Horror’s curling tentacles, and grumbled. “I still don’t want to…”

A sigh came from Cross. “Y/n. If you want to be a siren, you have to ease into the diet. If you convert without preparing, you’ll throw up everything we feed you. It’s an annoying process but a necessary one.”

Horror hummed in agreement.

“Uuuggggghhhhhhh! Fine! But it’s gross!” You stormed over and carefully took the soggy greens. “…..Gross.” Your nose wrinkled at it.

Both sirens laughed at you and waited patiently, looking away for your comfort.

It looked and felt so gross. Your gag reflex had you sticking your tongue out and looking away. It was necessary. It wouldn’t hurt you… right?

An idea came to mind.

You spun on your heel, much to Cross’s confusion, and marched back to

Horror. His tentacles moved out of your way as he gave you an amused look. Splitting the clump of kelp vaguely in half, you offered him half and his eye dilated at the offer.

“Y/n, he doesn’t-.” Cross started.

“Shut up, Cross. If I’m going to eat this, I’m going to share.”

You could have sworn Horror’s eye flickered into a heart for a second. He gently took the clump and held it close. He grabbed a droopy leaf and held it up, waiting expectantly for you to do the same.

With a small groan, you lifted up a piece, maintaining eye contact, and copied him as he ate his.

Oh, that was salty!

Your face pursed at the taste, gaining another chuckle from the tall siren. Once you got past the sea water… it didn’t taste… bad. Just like a sea salad.

Horror smiled and encouraged you to continue. You both ate your section of sea weed without much other than a few tense expressions as you bit into the next leaf.

Before you knew it, your hands were empty and Horror was licking his fingers.

“Was that so hard?” Cross teased his eyes darting between you and Horror.

“Yes.” You snapped back. “But… it wasn’t… terrible.”

Horror chuckled again and leaned over you. “Lil… baby.”

You gasped, offended. “Excuse me?!?”

Horror was leaning over you and… purring? Was that purring or a different type of whistle? And how did he do that? You could feel the sound in your ribs. When you looked at him, his eyes were closed as he leaned towards you.

A growl from Cross startled you.

“Horror.” Cross threatened. His claws were digging into the beach as if he would come after you.

Horror’s eye opened slowly and you shivered. His eye blazed with a protectiveness you hadn’t seen before as he glared at Cross.

The purr melted into a growl.

That… wasn’t good.

You were between two aggressive sirens. And neither of them seemed to notice you, fully focused on each other.

Deciding to back out of this situation, you slowly stepped away from Horror. Surely they wouldn’t start a scuffle randomly, right? You didn’t want to risk it.

You bumped into a writhing tentacle.

It immediately gripped your leg, Horror’s attention shot to you with a glare that could kill, and you froze. Would he hurt you while he was like this?

With a small gasp, Horror’s expression snapped from angry to scared. Him and his tentacles reeled away from you.

“…Horror?” You asked. Was he okay?

With a whine and a pained look, Horror turned and retreated into the water with less than a splash, leaving you staring after him.

What…

What just happened?

“Are you okay?”

You looked over at Cross. There were marks in the beach where his hands had dug into the rocks.

“What happened?” You asked, still tense.

Cross’s face gained a purple hue. “Uhhh, Horror forgot himself for a second… It’s okay. He, uh,” He gave the water a quizzical look. “He didn’t want to hurt you.”

Comforting.

“You sound surprised.” You raised an eyebrow at Cross.

“Well, he,” Cross grumbled. “He doesn’t like people. Except for Nightmare, I guess, but Nightmare spoils him.”

“Spoils him?”

Cross waved his hand dismissively. “He helps Horror hunt. Which is du- unnecessary, Horror can hunt for himself, and Boss doesn’t help anyone else.” He grumbled and crossed his arms. “It feels like he only helps Horror because Horror’s an octopus too.”

Oh.

Big boy was jealous.

When Cross finally looked back at you, he startled at your glare.

“Cross.” You growled slowly. “Do you know why I met Horror? How I learned that whistle?”

He shook his head.

“Because he was starving. I sat on this beach and waited for one of you to show up when he found me. He was hungry and he saw an easy target. Do you remember why I survived?”

“You fed him?” He answered, uncertainly.

“Yes. And when I offered the first sandwich, he stopped whistling. I was terrified. But I offered again. I can only imagine what it was like for him. Starving for days maybe weeks, when, what you thought was going to be your next meal, offers you food instead of running away when they had the chance. How would you feel if you were starving, attacked someone, and they gave you pizza?”

His mouth opened and closed a few times before he answered. “…Horror was starving?” You nodded. “But… he can lure, right?”

“If you mean lure like ‘sing and people will walk off a cliff for you’, no.” You shivered. “Horror can’t lure. His whistle only removes fear. I could have walked or run away at any moment, even while he sang, and he could do nothing to stop me. Cross, he can’t hunt like you and Killer. Didn’t you know?”

Cross shook his head. “Sirens can’t affect other sirens, so we never knew. He had a whistle, we assumed it worked. He never told any of us otherwise.”

You looked back across the water. “From what I’ve seen, he doesn’t like talking around you. He talked to me, a lot, the other day. Maybe he talks to Nightmare too?”

“That… would make sense.” Cross said. “Oh my stars, this entire time…? And we never noticed? No wonder I’ve never seen him eat when Boss is asleep.”

The birds and waves filled the silence for a moment.

“…Are you okay?”

You looked back at the siren and shrugged. “Better than I should be, worse than I could. Why?”

“He grabbed you.” Cross’s face was tense with concern.

“Yep. And let go immediately after. His tentacle didn’t hurt me, Cross.” You scolded.

He didn’t look sorry as he changed the subject. “Come here. I need to give you some magic for the conversion.”

Your face wrinkled humorously as you walked toward him. “You make it sound weird.”

“The anti-drowning siren maker then.”

“Nope! The last one was good!”

[wounderful-chaos]

"She was whiskey in a shot glass. Neat.

She was vintage lace draped over a Mahogany antique table.

She was sweet red wine in a gothic goblet with burgundy lipstick on the rim.

She was silky satin lingerie, with four strings on the back lace panty.

She was natural eyeshadow by day, and alluring hues at night.

She was cooking shows and comedies, and serial killer documentaries at 2am.

She had a Lana del Rey soul and a Rachmaninoff Concerto mind.

She loved going barefoot on the grass, and feeling the waves crash on her toes.

She wanted your fingers to slightly graze down the middle of her chest, and hands around her neck.

She was silky scarves tingling her skin softly, and cold tight chains on her wrists.

When she loved you, she loved hard and all of herself. She was raw emotions and pure innocence, with depths of the sea. She was moans with her long hair in her mouth as the palm of your hand is on her back, and pleasurable screams and whimpers with a gag. Her eyes told a story of pain and love, and you loved all of her curves and valleys. You're her only calmness to the storms in her eyes. And she'll love you for a thousand lifetimes".

[zonnemaagd]

Flash Fiction - Fireworks

Transcript and Taglist below the cut~

A knock on the door pulls the young woman’s gaze away from the unfinished fireworks in front of her.

“Miko? Are you in there? If we don’t get going now I’m not sure if we’ll be able to finish preparing the ceremony before the rain comes.”

Her eyes return to the craft in front of her, the table a mess of different vials and jars, gunpowder a sea for the islands of flowers that clutter the desk. Purple forests of heliotrope grow out of grey grains, straddled around the thorns and petals of the roses. She waits for the footsteps to fade away before letting herself fall back into her chair, blond hairs sticking to wet cheeks.

We had everything, you know

A letter lies on the far end of the table, rushed handwriting made illegible by drops of rain. The name of who she has held so dearly is written at the bottom.

You say you want to give it time, that our love deserves that much

Her right arm hangs beside the chair. As she fidgets sparks glow from her fingertips, freckles of orange dancing on the floor beneath.

But you’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you

Her gaze lingers on the ceiling, teeth biting into her lower lip, just hard enough.

Just like that, we’re done

Hands turn to fists, nails digging into her palm.

My fireworks were supposed to be fleeting, not us

The flames in her fists scream out, the tips searing through the gaps, fizzling out only against the bottom of the desk. They grow larger, stronger, crawling over the wood and reach for the top, starved.

You broke me

Another knock on the door.

“I’m almost done packing. Can you bring the showstopper as soon as possible? It was you who decided to base the entire show on that one rocket.”

She lets out a voiceless scream, a relief, fire left to the wind. She takes a band from her wrist and ties her hairs back.

I’ve been so stupid

In only a few moments she ties up the rocket, dusting of the remaining gunpowder.

In fireworks we find hope in the spark

“Miko? We really don’t have much time.”

I will do my best to find hope in ours then, even if it has already fizzled out.

She snatches the rocket, crawling onto her desk and out through the window. Blades of grass embrace her bare feet as she climbs up the hill next to her home. With the winds pulling on her white dress, she is but a ghost.

No more

She takes the rocket in one hand, holding it out in front of her.

Let’s be together, one more time

She pinches the fuse with her other hand.

Let’s be beautiful, one more time

Sparks fly as the fire crawls up the string until it vanishes into the rocket.

To us, and the memories we both can’t bear to hold onto right now

With a flash the rocket shoots out of her hand, its path to the sky a curved one, unable to slip through the brewing storm. It explodes just before reaching the clouds, rays of light shining in every direction. Clouds of purple broken only by stains of red, all under the golden halo of the rest of the explosion. The hopes and wishes given to us by a shooting star, returned to the heavens to inspire once more.

“Farewell, my love.”

-x-

General Taglist, let me know if you'd like to be added, removed:

@chazzawrites | @florraisons | @andiwriteunderthemoon | @ink-fireplace-coffee | @muddshadow | @henrike-does-writing-sometimes | @enchanted-lightning-aes

[welcomingdisaster]

25, Indis/Nerdanel?

hi hi hi!! thank you for the prompt. this got angstier than expected -- warnings for mentions of infidelity (main couple cheating on their estranged husbands with each other) and oblique references to suicide. kiss meme :)

The sun rises. She seems to know her path, now; her first journey had seemed to go off course but in the days afterwards she has kept steady. Is she so carefree as she seems, playing in the sea? 

She is a strange little thing, that sun; so far and yet so full of light. Under the water she is carmine red and horribly pretty. Nerdanel watches her openly, though her eyes burn to look for too long. 

There is a new hue of light, now, one that before had come only through colored glass. It is that red-orange hue at the start of each day and at its end, the delicate blush now on the walls of the great white palace. It is so pretty that none should guess it is born of sorrow. 

And then the palace itself. Tirion upon Túna. 

Unmarred white walls and slender towers, beauty fashioned and sharpened over centuries. Hundreds of craftsmen, undying, working only for the love of the craft; crowning glory of the Vanyar and the Noldor. 

There is blood under Nerdanel’s fingernails and her hands are so raw the air chafes. Nerdanel had scrubbed blood from brick, though no one had asked her to. Had scrubbed and scrubbed long past the point of comfort, watching rivulets of faintly brown water trickle away. 

She is not sure now it had been blood at all. It has seemed so, when she had started. 

The servants of Aranfinwë watch her as she steps inside, but none stop her. She cannot tell caution from pity in their eyes. She sees plenty of both, now.

But it is not the king she seeks. 

Indis is in the gardens. She is horribly predictable that way; Nerdanel finds her sitting in the swing by the rose-bushes, one foot in the grass rocking her slowly forwards and backwards. Her dark robes make her pale, thinner and fainter than she ought to be. Thirty years have passed, and she is still dressed in mourning-clothes. Her eyes are stained with tears — Nerdanel wonders how she has tears left to cry. 

And yet of course she is beautiful. It is a delicate, bone-sharp beauty; a fragile, hurt beauty. The beauty of a poet. The beauty a ceramic statue. She looks up sharply at her guest, her little coral-red mouth a perfect o of surprise. Ever she is easy to read, her face showing emotion as easily as light passing through glass. In another life she had been awful at cards. 

Nerdanel wants now to touch her. It is not a gradual awakening, though her heart has pulled gently at her since the moment of their parting; it is the sudden roar of starved beast. She can feel the ghosts of Indis under her fingers; her silken hair, her soft cheeks, the curve of her ribcage just above her waist. She can taste the cherry-sweetness of those days, when the little affair between them had been the worst transgression either of them could imagine. If she shuts her eyes she will see Indis nude and lounging on the marital bed her husband had abandoned, provocation and statement and folly. 

Good morning, that Indis says. Nerdanel does not answer her. 

The Indis in front of her does not bother with such things. “I saw smoke,” she says, “in the north.” 

“I came to Formenos,” Nerdanel steps forward, drawing level to the roses. Scarlet and red. They smell lovely, of course. Everything here must. “I cleaned the old house. All their rooms. The forge. The treasury. The great doors.” 

Finwë had fallen there, by the doors, broken and cast down cruelly onto the ground. And there he had bled out, and when his body was taken the blood had stayed, and none retuned to the fortress. That blood Nerdanel thought she had seen, a great shadow on the brick foundation. That blood she had washed out with water enough to rival the tears of Nienna. 

“And then,” Indis says, softly. 

“And then,” Nerdanel says, “I burned it.” 

“You were not inside,” Indis says. She blinks hard and seems to swallow around something in her throat, and Nerdanel sees, suddenly, another cause for her tears. Such a thought had not even entered her mind, though now she sees its power; sees her own wanderings as a sign of some ill thing to come, some new ruin. Of her own departure, burning with her house. 

But something about it sits bitter, sits lonely. She had seen Indis only sporadically this past year; had left of her own choice, her heart weary and heavy with sorrow, to chase after answers that would not satisfy her. And yet— 

“You did not go,” she accuses. 

Indis laughs, and it is sharp. Hollow. “Who am I,” she says, “to keep free elves from making their own choices? Who am I quench any fire at all?”

The wave of Nerdanel’s own bitterness crashes against the shore and recedes, leaving behind only guilt. It is a stupid little feeling; it wiggles pitifully as fish stranded behind on the stand. Her throat burns, and she tells herself that it had only been the smoke.

“Indis,” she says, and Indis cries. 

It is a practiced cry. She hunches in on herself, her thin shoulders held high and rigid as though to trap it inside of her ribcage. Her hands are fists, holding on tightly to the wires of the swing. 

“Indis,” Nerdanel says again. She herself cannot cry, but now she falls onto her knees. In her hands she takes Indis’s ankle, her slender, pale calf, perfectly soft to the touch. Indis’s little cold foot presses against her hip, the toes curled in. 

“Go if you must,” Indis chokes out, and repeats, as though stuck on the words, their pride ruined by her tears and the fragility of her posture, “who am I to keep you?” 

“Love,” Nerdanel says, unsure of the word even as she hears it in her down face, “I needed it clean. I needed it gone.” 

Indis wipes her face with the back of her hand. A stray eyelash, dark golden-brown, sticks to her knuckles. 

“Is it better,” she asks, softening, “did it bring you what you sought?” 

Nerdanel breathes in deep. The scent of roses hangs sweet in the air. Indis’s skin, so close now to her face, smells of sea-salt and oil. Soft. How soft she is. 

“I know not,” she says, “but I am back, if you shall have me.” 

Indis looks down at her. The corner of her lips twists up, caught between tenderness and irony. The turn of her thoughts is so plain Nerdanel wonders if she hears it in truth, through echoes their intimacy had once left in their minds. Have you! Have you! I would have had you then, but what is it to have and not to keep? 

“I did not go then,” she reminds her, “and I shan’t go now.” 

Then Indis bends and kisses her. It is an awkward bend, an awkward kiss. The swing sways and nearly parts them. She tastes of tears, of salt — for all her grace there is entirely too much snot in it. She winds Nerdanel’s hair around her fingers, and deep scarlet on lily-white. Nerdanel strokes her calf. 

Indis leans closer, and the swing slips out from under her, careening backwards— she half-falls on top of Nerdanel, and the seat hits her on the shoulder. “Yes,” she says, through something that is either a laugh or a sob, “fool I may be, but not fool to let go.” 

[mamamittens]

A Lone Melody (Pt. 6)

Soft Platonic Yandere Arlong & OC(Melody)

Main|First|Previous

Warnings: Accidental-ish consumption of a deadly substance. Do not eat random things you find anywhere, including and especially in the ocean.

Sea bunnies eat poisonous sea sponges, but I didn't feel like digging for the exact types of their usual diet, so I went with the first result of deadly sea sponge. So it is real! Just might not be exactly what a sea bunny eats regularly.

Fun fact, black-tipped reef sharks eat small fish by hunting and corralling them in groups, betta fish usually eat insects from the surface of their habitat, and sea bunnies eat sea sponges, algae, sea grass, sea snails, and other sea slugs.

Word Count: 1,834

The grotto was a bit of a hassle to get to now that Arlong had grown. When he was younger, it was hardly any trouble to duck between the rocky outcroppings and under thick foliage. Some areas were now a lot wetter than he remembered, small tide pools forming where he’d once gleefully stomped through. Melody clung to his arms, eyes wide as she watched the buildings disappear.

The grotto itself was also a lot more… populated than it had been in his youth. Sea life claiming the hidden space as their home away from fishermen and nets. Nothing overtly dangerous upon first glance. A few peaceful reef sharks a ways off lazily swimming through schools of colorful fish. It was a wonderous beauty, a slice of his childhood that had undeniably changed for the better since he had last seen it. White sand fading into the gradual drop-off of pure blue.

Jinbe whistled as Shyarly waved at them from the shore, setting out a blanket with a basket of food.

“I didn’t know this place existed on fishman island.” Jinbe commented idly with a soft smile. “This is a wonderful place for Melody’s first swim.”

Arlong puffed up with pride, lifting Melody up in the air with a smile.

“Of course it is! Only the best for my pup!” Arlong declared, walking over to set her down on the blanket.

He’d helped her change into a swimsuit in bright, vivid yellow. Her hair brushing her shoulders until he pulled it back with a matching headband so she could see properly. He’d even thrown on a pair of matching swim trunks alongside Jinbe—though he chose a more traditional version closer to a speedo. Arlong settled down on the blanket himself, scooping her into his lap.

She was bigger now. When he first found her, she was just a little too big to hold in one hand, but now he needed both to lift her up securely—particularly when she wanted to run around. Pale gray cheeks soft and rosy with health, it was finally time to teach her the most basic skill of a fishman.

“Do you remember why we’re here, pup?” Arlong asked. Melody tore her gaze from the dizzying beauty of the technicolor fish swimming just beyond the shore, ruby eyes gazing up at him adoringly.

“I do, dah. We’re here to swim.” She answered dutifully. “I gotta learn how to use my gills.” Melody demonstrated by patting low on her neck where the curved slits rested in a relaxed state.

Arlong had seen them flair occasionally, usually when she was about to throw a fit, so he knew she was capable of using them.

“That’s right, pup. Your lungs can’t handle breathing in the water through your mouth, you have to pull in water from your gills. Can you show your dah how you flair them?” Arlong asked softly. Melody nodded in excitement, holding her breath as her gills and hair puffed up. Jinbe and Shyarly chuckled.

“Not so hard, darling. Think of it like… sticking out your tongue. If you have to force it, you’re doing it too hard.” Shyarly advised.

“That’s right. When you get in the water, your gills will do the breathing for you. With practice you can talk underwater too… it does sound weird though.” Jinbe admitted sheepishly. “Sound carries underwater a bit differently.”

Melody looked between the three of them thoughtfully and took a deep breath. Slowly, her gills flared independently of her slow breathing.

Arlong grinned, tapping her nose with pride.

“That’s much better! Just like up on land, it’s important to keep your breath even.” Arlong informed her. “To start with, you can hold your breath to make sure you don’t swallow sea water—it’s really not pleasant, pup. And we’ll stick to the shallows. If you need to, just sit up and breath. We’ll be right here.”

Arlong stood up, walking into the water. When it reached his shins he stopped, slowly sitting down to make sure Melody was comfortable. The fish gave him a wide berth as he dipped Melody’s toes into the water. She giggled, kicking her feet, clearly eager to go in.

So Arlong set her down, the water nearly up to her shoulders. This would be the deepest body of water she’d ever been in and clearly she wasn’t afraid to go deeper. She jumped, splashing the water around before diving down before Arlong could stop her. Arlong gasped, almost yanking her out before stopping himself.

She was crouching down to the sandy floor, her gills clearly flaring in exaggerated motions as she tried on her own terms to simply breath.

Then, Melody relaxed. Tension falling from her shoulders as she slowly drifted back up, her gills only slightly flaring a she took in water to breath. When she surfaced, it wasn’t quite with a gasp of air, but a slight cough as she transitioned naturally from gills to lungs.

Melody looked up at him with a hesitant smile, eyes wide as she sought his approval.

Arlong grinned, chest aching with pride.

He scooped her up, kissing her cheeks with rough laughter, tears beading at his lashes.

“You’re a natural, pup!” Arlong cheered, realizing for the first time that Shyarly and Jinbe were to either side of him, congratulating Melody on her success.

“Beautiful work, angel!” Shyarly cooed, tickling Melody’s exposed side. “You’ll be swimming solo in no time!”

“It’s not so hard once you practice.” Jinbe reassured, gently taking Melody from Arlong to kiss her hair. Melody beamed with pride, sharp teeth on full display as she squirmed.

“Pah! Dah! I wanna swim!” Melody protested with a loud giggle.

“Oh? Do you want to practice more here or go deeper?” Shyarly asked softly. Melody perked up, head whipping around to look at the schools of fish darting around the deeper water, her hair smacking Jinbe’s face as Arlong laughed at his friend’s misfortune.

“Deeper!” Melody looked at Arlong and Jinbe with hopeful eyes.

“…We’ll go with you, pup. There’s still a bit more to swimming than just breathing.” Arlong agreed after a moment. Melody crowed in victory as Arlong stood up and slowly walked deeper.

Just like with breathing underwater, Melody needed very few instructions for swimming itself—though she did doggy paddle for a bit at first. Whenever she got tired she’d swim to the nearest person and climb onto them for a power nap. Arlong had taken to just floating on the surface, totally relaxed as he kept an ear out for any signs of struggle. Shyarly actively swimming with Melody while Jinbe reclined in the shallows.

“Melody, no!” Arlong bolted up upon hearing Shyarly’s screech, whirling around to find his daughter with a mouthful of red coral. The tree-like appendages snapping between her teeth like dry pasta. After a moment, he realized it wasn’t coral at all, but toxic finger-sponge. Jinbe was rushing over but Arlong got there first.

Melody was eating it voraciously in a way he’d only seen with her favorite snack, fruit jelly and crackers.

“Melody!” Arlong snapped, “Spit that out!” Melody paused, branch still sticking out between her teeth.

She swallowed in confusion.

“You want some too, dah?” Melody asked. “It smells good but tastes way better!” Arlong could smell the sour notes quite easily, the sponge bleeding out cloudy liquid that spooked the local fish.

Despite his heart racing, Arlong couldn’t help but pause. He knew damn well that shit killed small creatures in minutes. And he noticed that there was something else between her teeth.

“Melody, how long have you been eating that?” Arlong asked, cautiously taking away the last handful of broken branches from her hand.

“Just a bit, dah!” Melody explained, Shyarly anxiously curling away from the clouded water, her face paler than usual.

Arlong dropped the broken sponge and swiped at her bottom lip where a thick bead of bright blue liquid dripped from her teeth. It was more teal, like pure, shallow water that glowed in the light. It made his skin tingle and burn before going numb. Leaving a red mark like a rash that he knew would only grow worse the longer he touched it.

“…Let’s not eat anything else but what your auntie Shar packed, alright? I think we need to look into something.” Arlong declared, rinsing off his hand in the sea water.

“Oh… okay, dah.” Melody agreed reluctantly before turning to Shyarly, “What’d you bring, auntie?”

Shyarly recovered herself and gave a shaky smile.

“I made sandwiches for everyone—and I also included jelly. Jinbe told me you like fruit jelly, darling.” Melody perked up immediately.

“Jelly!” Melody looked towards the shore hopefully.

Arlong chuckled and shared a nervous look with Jinbe.

What the fuck was their daughter’s species?

--*--

This wasn’t Melody’s first memory either.

Crystal clear water and a dizzying array of tropical fish swimming past her. Her aunt’s fin spinning around her in teasing circles.

It wasn’t of endless minutes relaxing on her papa’s or dad’s chests after tiring of balancing swimming and breathing either.

Nor the elation of praise for quickly grasping these skills.

Firm, loving hands keeping her safe in the sea water. Fish fins delicately glancing off her outstretched hands as they darted away.

The sea will always feel like home when it teemed with life that pulsed and raced around her, but that wouldn’t be something she consciously remembers either.

Nor would it be the first time a scent tickled her nose underwater. Savory and almost sweet with a strange bite to it. Drawing her towards the red branches of sea sponge growing near the edge of the grotto where fish gave it a healthy berth.

It won’t be the sharp snap as she broke off a small piece and rolled it on her tongue, the cloudy red liquid sharp and mouthwatering to her senses. Crunching pleasantly in her teeth like ice.

She won’t remember the sharp panic her aunt showed when she noticed what Melody was doing or the worry in the faces of her family.

She won’t even remember the first time her gums felt hot and foreign liquid pooled in her mouth from her teeth.

This is the first time Melody ate a toxic substance and within moments developed a poison biproduct from it.

Later, it will be determined that it’s an entirely natural action on her part and will need to continue eating poisons and toxins to help her system flush out the old. It will be unclear for some time if she’ll ever be able to do it on her own—but she’ll learn.

For now, she’s just a small child learning something unexpected about herself and the world. As all children eventually do.

Though she won’t remember this exact moment—and those anxiously present will never forget—this is where Melody grew to love the taste of deadly toxins.

And when she started being seriously taught to never bite people—for their own safety.

[silv3rswirls]

Sea

Note: I had a vision, unsure if I executed it well, but here were are.

Warnings: reader is in a fragile state for ambiguous reasons, no romance, comfort

The sea: something you loved as a child, but had grown distant from in your recent years. Whether it was moving to the city, taking a job that hardly left you time for yourself or trivial visits to the beach with friends you didn’t have. Or the ex that didn’t like the sand and salty air, or the loved one that passed away and in some way took your love for the sea with them.

Whatever it was, being back left you feeling part empty, not brimming with joy or excitement. Somehow still just going with the motions as you let your bags clunk against the floor, the creaky screen door left open as you inched more and more into the house. It wasn’t familiar, you were renting it for the weekend. You needed time away from everything, time to just reconnect with reality. Lately, nothing in your life felt anchored. It was drifting, messy. You hated it. 

It was gloomy out. Everything felt a shade of gray or blue as you let cabinet doors fly open and drawers bang as you searched the kitchen for anything to eat. Nothing, despite what the property manager had promised. You sigh, taking a moment to slow down and stand in the empty kitchen. You look at your hands and how they shake, and you roll your eyes. This was a bad idea.

You dump one of your bags out, watching clothes and personal items scattered across the floor of the entryway. You grab a few things; art supplies mainly, and stuff them into a canvas bag. You head out down old rickety stairs and rocky paths, the old beach house had seen better days, as had everything else in the seaside town. Not many people lived here still, its summers no longer held extravagant tourist passage in the summers. It was rickety and old, forgotten by most.

You were glad the property manager hadn’t lied about the bicycle in the shed you could use, you needed this. You bike down cracked paved roads and through gaps in forgotten fences. Grass and brush tickets your ankles and tiny purple flowers dot your vision as you start towards the beach. There’s a salty breeze in the air as the distant splash of waves gets louder. You ride up a path along the beach, heading up for the cliffs rather than the driftwood and trash-riddled sand dunes. You had forgotten this feeling of freedom, biking away from your troubles as if you were a teen again. Your hair brushing in the wind, and thighs burning as you struggle uphill and over rocks. 

You closed your eyes for a moment. Everything felt okay now.

If there had been anyone around as a witness, they’d watch you race up there. Throwing your head back now and again, as if you were running from some imaginary monster. They’d watch as you looked back again, going far too fast and getting tripped up on a stray bench. You fell hard, your leg twisting off the bike, your skin scraping the peddled dirt as you struggled to recompose yourself.

You sit there wallowing in your fall, and you start to cry. Heavy tears thick down your cheeks and catching the curve of your chin, down your neck. The fall didn’t hurt, everything else did. Why were you even here? To paint the sea you told yourself. But what a joke, you hadn’t painted in over a year. Your brushes and paint tubes had tumbled over the path, scattered as you look at them helplessly. Was coming here even a good idea? Running away from your problems? You keep your head lowered as you cry and cry and cry. 

You weren’t sure how long you sat there wallowing, but the sound of someone’s bag dropping on the ground not far from you brought you back to reality. You look over, sniffling as the young man stares at you for a moment. “You fell?” He asks, “I think…” his words trail, his arm buried in his bag, “here.”

He hands you a small bag filled with bandages and other first-aid supplies. You take it wearily, and when you look up after tending to your scraped knee you notice he’s collected the fall art supplies. Holding it tight in his arms, asking permission to go into your bag to put them away.

“I thought I was the only one here” he comments, handing you your things and helping you up. You feel heavy, not wanting to get up.

“Me too” you sigh, rubbing your red eyes and trying to shake off the tears.

He helps you pick up your bike, though you insist you don’t need help. You’re both heading up to the cliffs, so you go together. Walking side by side and pushing your bikes along. You don’t talk much, the both of you are just going on your ways. When you get there you sit down on the edge of overgrown grass and sandy cliffs. The sun is hidden behind clouds, the waters gray with a sparkle as waves lap below you. His name is Namjoon, you learn. Though you don’t get a chance to share yours.

“Are you here to paint it?” Namjoon asks, looking out as he stands a bit behind you. 

You shrug, “Maybe.”

“Isn’t that why you're here? You’re an artist here to paint the sea, right?” He asks, surely that was the only reason he could give you for coming to such a forgotten corner of the world.

“I’m not really sure why I’m here.” You admit. A big wave comes and you close your eyes at the feeling of water droplets hitting you. “Why are you here?”

“To write,” he says confidently. “It’s easier to write here sometimes. “It’s peaceful isn’t it?” He comes to sit with you. “When things are too much, and my head just won't stop racing I come here to escape it all.”

“Escape” you repeat. “I guess that’s why I’m here too.” you purse your lips, there’s something melancholy about the sea. As much as you tried to lie to yourself and claim it felt like you were a child again, it didn’t. 

Namjoon gets up and inches towards the edge, the wind picks up near there. The waves are loud, and heavier as you watch him take it in with closed eyes. His hair was ruffled by the wind and his arms were open. He looks at peace. Slowly your paint is pulled out and a page in your book is opened. It’s painful to drag the brush over the paper, but you do so anyway. The sight of him is pretty, you want to capture it. You wish it was you up there, but you couldn’t muster the energy to get up. So you settle to watch him. It’s like he forgets you’re there, it’s just him and the sea and the endless lap of freedom the waves bring. You paint an array of dreary colors muddied down. You weren’t sure when he’d leave, or when you would. What would happen after, or if you’d be healed by the time you got back to the house.

You supposed it didn’t matter.

Sometimes escaping isn’t so bad.

tag list: @aris-ink

[dujour13]

How about " giggling while they stir in their sleep" :3c

Thank you so much for this one Siren 💕 A little post-Wandering Stars domestic moment, not very nsfw

Coming up the creek trail he sang as he walked, birdsong swelling in the fresh morning air wherever he passed. It felt good to be in mortal form, the dirt crunching underfoot and the scent of grass in his lungs. Up the hill from the creek, across a meadow of dewy wildflowers, stood a white house with cornflower-blue shutters and a trellised veranda, shaded by cypress and umbrella pines.

He kicked off his sandals at the door and went into the kitchen barefoot, shrugging off his pack and carefully removing the box of eggs, unwrapping the crescent rolls, the little basket of berries and the pat of butter he’d purchased at the village market.

As he went about preparing breakfast he sang quietly, happy for a simple task to set his hands to. No magic, no divine miracles springing from his fingers. He burned the toast twice and reveled in the acrid smell. The cool tiles under his bare feet. The aching cold water he plunged his hands into to wash the berries. The weight of a butterknife in his hand, in place of a holy prismatic scimitar.

Gods it was good to be away from Elysium and the divine realms. To shut out the music of the spheres from his mind and just concentrate on whipping up an omelet. There was no way he could track Taurvi anyway, at least not yet, and the flow of divine power seemed to sort itself out just fine without him. Arue would pop in later with a report. Until then he let gravity pull pleasantly on his mortal limbs.

When it was all ready he balanced everything on a tea-tray and went up the curved staircase with a daisy in his teeth.

Morning light flushed the bedroom with rosy hues. A sea breeze stirred the curtains on the paned veranda doors. He stood a moment with the tray balanced in his hands, watching in dismay.

Since his misadventure, Woljif’s sleep was too often plagued with nightmares.

They didn’t strictly have to sleep, but they’d decided to spend some time fully invested in mortal form and no cheating. Even for bad dreams.

Woljif slept face down with a little dimpled grimace pressed into the pillow. His tail had whipped the blankets off and exposed his legs, and was now thrashing about tangled in a sheet. With a whimper he flopped onto his side, exposing his bare bottom. His tail thumped on the mattress.

The porcelain clinked on the tea-tray as Siavash failed to fully repress a burst of laughter. He set the tray down on the table, stuck the daisy in the spout of the teapot, and perched on his side of the bed, rolling his knees up so he lay at Woljif’s side. Gently he placed a hand on his whipping tail and ran it down its cool length until it slowed under the soothing weight and warmth of his palm.

In his sleep Woljif took a shaky breath and let it out. His shoulders relaxed.

Siavash pressed his mouth against the jut of his shoulder blade. “Breakfast, mon amour,” he said in a muffled voice.

Woljif lifted his head, blinked sleepily, and dropped back into the pillow. “Hm?”

“I made you breakfast.”

“Is that why it smells like something’s burning?”

“Those are the flames of desire.” Siavash patted his nude hip.

Woljif threw both arms over his head and stretched languorously. “Again?”

“Maybe after breakfast. Tea’s hot.”

In the interest of fairness Siavash undressed and they sat propped on pillows and ate together.

“Bad dreams?”

“I dunno, I don’t remember.”

“Just as well. You know I can help with that.”

“No magic, we said. Anyway,” Woljif shrugged, brushing flaky crescent roll crumbs from his fingers. “You already do.”

“Without magic?” From his grin it was clear Siavash knew exactly what he meant but was eager for more.

Woljif was up for the game. He paused with a strawberry held to mischievous lips. “Sometimes with you it’s hard to tell where normal stops and magic starts.”

“You’re becoming dangerously good at the sweet talk.”

“You’re so easy, chief.”

[ask-artsy-oncie]

“Hey--! Hey!! Down there! Wait a sec!!”

“How were you doing that?? I mean-- clearly you’re a witch or a sorcerer and you’re using magic and all that - I’ve heard stories and know the whole ‘witch on a broomstick’ thing, but I’ve never actually seen someone fly one in real life! Where did you learn how to do that??”

“Oh!! my broom is actually imbued with magic which makes it very easy to get it to fly! For me to get it to fly, at least-- I made it myself by whittling wood and drying grass from Yektal - many believe the soil there lends a natural magical quality to everything that grows in the area - and, as a sorcerer, the very act of making my broom then imparted some of my own magic - I even bound it with some metal from an old wire-rim diary to make sure there was a personal touch to it-- it’s pretty adjacent to being alive, I bet that almost anyone sensitive to magic or something like that could fly it just as well, but I’ve actually never tried letting anyone else ride it because it’s kind of hard to part with--”

“Ah... sorry... Got... carried away. My broom is already magic and I just use a little bit more magic to will it to fly. Uhm, I’ve seen you flying around the bay sometimes, too. What is it you use to fly?”

“Oh!”

“You wouldn’t believe it - but the Sea Duck-- that’s the name of my plane - is a genuine Conwing L-16, and-- yeah, she’s a little vintage, but she was passed down to me from my dad, and she’s got more stories to tell then I bet you most planes on the port do! Her engines aren’t actually the originals-- actually... quite a few of her parts aren’t the originals-- but you wouldn’t believe the speeds she can reach!! My dad and uncle were the first to soup her up, but me and my sister added our own personal touches over the years!”

“Oh!! And then there’s my airfoil-- it lets me fly without a plane!! It’s made from aluminum, so it’s really lightweight and it’s curved just so, so that it’s easy to grip with your feet and--”

“And... I’m getting carried away too, huh?”

“Oh, no, but I liked hearing you talk!!”

“Uh...!”

“I liked hearing you talk, too.”

“Uh, why don’t you take me to your plane and show me all the changes you made to it, I’d love to hear more”

“Sounds good to me, and maybe you can tell me more about the magic you use that lets you fly”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

*Gestures wildly* AUTISM!!

Literally neither of them have any context for what the other is saying and barely understands their infodumping but they just like hearing them talk :)

[hayffiebird]

Taste of Strawberries, chap. 37

Hayffie Post-Mockingjay Multi-chapter, Rated M SUMMARY: Four years have passed since the end of the war when Effie returns in to Haymitch’s life once again. An old friendship is renewed. Will it lead to something more? Meanwhile Panem has entered a new era. The rebellion’s over, the borders are open but in the shadows, anger and mistrust are smoldering. Something that will affect Haymitch and Effie’s life in a way they never saw coming.

Chapter 37 Oil on troubled waters

A warm summer breeze brushed through the apple garden. The grass rippled like waves in the sea, shimmering in shades of green. The rabbit stood alert, nose twitching as it sniffed the air. Its mate followed close behind, ears and eyes attuned to any sound or movement. Their chestnut-brown fur was sleek and shiny, the sunlight reflecting off of it in a warm glow. “Do you see that?” Effie whispered and nuzzled Ian’s strawberry hair that peeked from under the sun hat, breathing in that sweet baby smell. His pacifier bobbed up and down as he leaned forward, trying to get a better look at them. Amy, sitting on her other arm, pointed her little index finger and looked to her mother for confirmation. ”Yes, the bunnies,” Effie smiled. “Let’s be real quiet now so we don’t scare them.” Rabbits were a common sight in these parts. Well-fed and prospering they roamed the buffet that was District 11. At least here they found no traps or dried sulfur sprinkled on the plants. June said they were such frequent guests now they were practically family. Effie dropped a kiss to Amy’s cheek. “They have a name,” she said. “Do you know what they’re called? Cottontail. Cottontail.”

“Hey.” She turned her head at the sound. In a wash of sunlight, haggard and squinting in a hopelessly wrinkled shirt, stood Haymitch. He’d slowed to a stop several feet away, duffel bag over one shoulder. Like a stranger in their presence, unsure whether he was welcome or not. Worn out, yes. Exhausted? Without a doubt. But not a drink in him. She could tell just from his eyes. When he wouldn’t smile, Effie did it for the both of them. “That’s dada,” she told the twins. “Want to say hi to dada?” “My God,” Haymitch said when they joined him. He looked from Amy to Ian and back. “They’ve grown.” His voice was heavy with loss, heavy with regret. Effie gave a little shrug. “They have far to go yet.” Both children watched Haymitch, quiet and marble-eyed. The saddest of smiles curved his lips. “Hey, little uns,” he murmured and reached a hand out. “I really missed …” With a whimper the twins recoiled, burrowing into their mother. Haymitch’s hand froze mid-air. Dropped to his side. She hadn’t seen such raw pain in his eyes since the day he told her about Katniss and Peeta in the burn unit. “They don’t know me no more.” She held the children close in her arms. Felt the tension within their small frames, like a knot tied tightly just underneath their skin. She rocked them softly from side to side. “It’s OK,” she told them. “It’s OK. It’s just your daddy with a beard. They know you, Haymitch”, she said. “Small children don’t like change that’s all and it’s been a while since you last saw each other. But don’t worry. You’re quite unforgettable.” He shot her a look, unconvinced, and she dropped the playful banter. “Come. Let’s have a glass of watermelon lemonade. It’s homemade.” Together they headed for the picnic blanket, spread out in the shade. Mockingjays were going to town on the left-over crackers she had yet to clean up. They all took wing when the humans approached. Not far though. Just like the rabbits they’d always be nearby. One landed on the canopy of the double stroller, two retreated to the old bird bath and a whole score of them found refuge on top of the sunshine yellow house. “That’s Annabel’s”, Effie smiled when she saw him looking at the trumpet, glowing on the garden table. “She plays them sad trumpet sounds and ‘Baby Elephant Walk.’ They laugh so hard at that.” “Where‘s she now?” “By the lake. Out for a swim.” She settled the twins on the blanket. Ian immediately plucked a wooden block with the letter “S” on it. The space was littered with them along with picture books, packets of rice rusks, a half-eaten banana and abandoned sippy cups. “What happened to the tidy, well-organized Effs Trinket?” The words made her chuckle. “You try and be tidy and well-organized with two one year olds to look after.” She joined the twins on the blanket. “Just leave it,” she said with a wave of her hand when he picked some of the books up, stacking them on the garden table. “Join us.” Ian was too busy with the blocks but Amy watched Haymitch’s every move under the brim of her sun hat with that scowl on her face that made her look so much like him. When he crossed his legs, bag by his side, and it was a fact he’d be staying the girl threw herself against her mother lap, hiding her face with pitiful whimpers. “Oh, baby,” Effie said and caressed her back. “It’s alright. Come, sit with me.” With a little hug, she settled a very flushed Amy on her lap. The girl’s eyes were dangerously shiny. She glowered at the unwanted company with her lips pointing downward. ”Why don’t you try and read to them?” Effie suggested. “They’ll recognize your voice.” Haymitch nodded, grief still etched into every line of his face. A look all too familiar to her. The bear book lay open on the blanket, pages down, but he didn’t touch it. Instead he reached inside the duffel bag. Effie smiled at the sight of the hardcover. That’s a beauty. A collection of folktales by the look of it. Fully bounded in genuine leather with deeply inlaid gold accents. Gilded edges on the pages. Father would have called it a collectible. The kind of book that came with its own clothbound slipcase and would last you generations. She couldn’t recall ever seeing it before. She would have remembered. Precious few beauties in Haymitch Abernathy’s life. Maybe it belonged to his parents. A family heirloom? He opened it against his lap. Turned a few pages with great care, eyes impossible to read. “’The North Wi …’” His voice caught at the end. He cleared his throat and when he continued, the words were steady. “’The North Wind and the Sun.’” Music was Haymitch’s forte but he’d read quite a few bedtime stories as well during their children’s young life. It was yet another one of his unexpected gifts. One of many. Maybe they read a lot in his family. She could just picture them, by the fire. Or when he met up with his girl – maybe they read to each other? Ever since the birth of their children she’d gotten even more curious about Haymitch’s past life. The life she was no part of. To this day, she knew next to nothing. Didn’t want to pry. Never even saw their faces on television. The final eight interviews didn’t become a thing until the year after Haymitch’s Games. What were they like? Amy and Ian’s grandparents and uncle. She’d really like to know. No, she really liked for the children to know. So much of their family history, so much of what made them who they were, was shrouded in darkness, silence, secrecy. Ian sat with one block in each hand. His eyes were on Haymitch with an attentiveness unusual for both him and his sister. Soon, the little boy abandoned the game and made his way across the blanket. Slowly but single-mindedly, one sock half-off. Climbing was harder. His tiny fingers gripped at his father’s knees, face contorted with intense concentration. Putting the book aside Haymitch extended a helping hand and lifted his son up the final inches onto his lap. Nestled safely in his father’s embrace, Ian took the pacifier out of his own mouth and held it out to him. The ghost of a smile curved Haymitch’s lips. So brief it would’ve been lost on anyone but not Effie. “No, you hold on to that, sweetheart,” he said and put the pacifier back in his son’s mouth. “Now, where were we?” And he reopened the book against both their laps. Seeing her brother all comfy and relaxed, snuggled up against Haymitch, it didn’t take long for Amy to leave her mother’s safe embrace. Haymitch made room for her on his other knee, keeping one arm around each of them. Lips pursed, so much like her mother, his little girl looked him dead in the eye. Gray meeting gray. An intimidating stare so beyond her years. Or year, really. Her hand came up, fingers sprawled out, exploring the odd new beard. Then, before he knew it, she gave it a forceful yank. “Ow!” Effie burst out laughing. Haymitch nodded. “I deserved that.” Gentle-handed he untangled his daughter’s fingers from his beard and dropped a kiss to her knuckles, like the princess she was. “So,” Effie said, an hour later when the children napped in their stroller. She handed him a glass of watermelon lemonade, as promised. “How was the ride over with June?” “Wonderful.” He took a sip of the orange-red drink and, after a brief second, emptied almost half of it. “The silence was so thick I could cut it with my knife and make a brick wall. Something to hide behind.” Effie smiled. “Maybe you can make it up to them by chopping some wood for the winter? That bores the two of them to tears.” “Thanks for the advice.” The last of the lemonade went down in just a couple of gulps. Lost in thought, his eyes roamed over the landscape. The clear blue sky, the swaying apple trees that flanked the house, branches heavy with fruit showing the first blush of color, the meadows and fields beyond all the way down to the lake, stretching out for miles and miles. The vastness of water glittered like jewels on a bed of emerald green. “Place is gorgeous,” he mumbled. “Like something straight out of my Games.” “Except it isn’t,” said Effie softly. “No. It isn’t.” Without a word, she scooted across the blanket. So close by his side she could see the flakes of dry suds, lingering on his throat. The whites of his eyes were but a web of red blood vessels. His face pale, despite weeks and weeks of brilliant sunshine. She rested her hand on top of his against his knee. Felt the jitters and small jerks under her palm, like a frightened house mouse. When he didn’t pull away, she intertwined their fingers together. Like so many times before. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “And I’m so sorry about your geese. I really am.” Haymitch nodded. “Yeah. Me too.” xXx Oh, man! Haymitch jammed the axe in the chopping block with finality. Wincing, he gazed at his palms. Groaned at the sight of blisters. “Bloody hell …” He closed his hands and opened them, painstakingly slow. Reckoned a good and tight fist would be enough to make them burst like overripe tomatoes. When’d I become such a weakling? There’d been a time when he could swing that axe without even breaking a sweat. He was an idiot for being surprised. What did he expect? He hadn’t done any manual labor in how many years? You didn’t get calluses from drinking. His shoulders ached too. All hot and tingly. He’d have a killer sunburn before the day was out. Should’ve kept that shirt on. Fuck! He retrieved it from the nearby branch and limped in the direction of the house. “OK,” he said when he poked his head in the kitchen. Amy and Ian hardly even looked up from the rug rag. News got old fast, even in baby world. “There’s wood in the shed now to last you til rapture.” “Great.” Finishing the last sentence, Annabel looked up from her letter. Her eyebrows shot to her forehead at the sight of him. “My stars,” she chuckled as her eyes traveled from his flushed face, his dark blonde hair clinging to him with sweat to those broad shoulders and dripping chest all the way down his weathered old pants and the fossils he called shoes. “You look like something out of a Harriet Hopeshaw novel. Too bad I don’t have a single straight bone in my body.” “Thanks.” He wiped his face with the shirt. “Want me to take ‘em?” He nodded to the twins. ”Give you some peace and quiet in here?” “No. It’s OK. They’re no trouble.” “Not yet anyway.” He rubbed his nose. “Any news from the post office?” “Afraid not.” “Where’s Eff?” “In her room. Trying out some dresses for tomorrow.” The stairs creaked almost as badly as they did back home. Beads of sweat rolled down his back like rain. No wonder Annabel loved swimming. No other way to keep cool around here. He thought Twelve was bad. Eleven was ten times worse! A chink of light shone from under Effie’s door. He reached the top, hand soon on the handle, when he hesitated. Frowning he rested his ear against the smooth wood. A smile crept onto his face. Holy shit. That woman never failed to chide him for his language, especially since the arrival of their children, but hell, the words the prim and proper Ms. Trinket kept in her vocabulary for moments such as this they could kill a man! Course, she wouldn’t be caught dead swearing out loud. Not even when alone. Her calling Mrs. Bitch a cunt was as awesome as it was rare. But obscenities muttered under one’s breath – those were fair game. Those didn’t count. If he said “Language!” to her for a change she’d only gaze at him with those innocent looking eyes like, “What? I didn’t say anything.” “Eff?” He gave the door a soft knock. “You OK in there? Sweetheart?” “Yes!” She huffed out the word. “Do come in!” He pushed inside. Effie stood in front of the full-length mirror. Barelegged, barefoot, hair falling in sandy waves down her shoulders. Her eyes shot daggers but not at him. They were squarely focused on her own reflection, her own outfit. He tossed the soggy shirt on the foot of the bed. For a dedicated boozer he had a surprisingly keen memory when it came to Effie’s dresses. Bizarre as they were it was hard not to. There was her pink bath sponge dress, the purple poppy flower dress, her orange one with the butterflies and that ridiculous red get-up made from like a hundred paper fans. This one was white. Strapless. Emblazoned with a vibrant pattern of strawberries and green leaves. And just like the other ones, he could’ve sworn he’d seen it somewhere before. Then it clicked. The “hot damn” dress! Yeah, that’s right. She wore it to Octavia’s birthday party when the She-Devil Gloria showed up. Course, back then the outfit hugged her perfectly. Now on the other hand … “What?” she said, hands on her hips. “Nothing.” He bit his lip. “It’s just … ain’t it a little tight ‘round the ladies, sweetheart?” His eyes dropped to the zipper. It didn’t even reach halfway up her back. Effie snorted. “It’s supposed to be tight.” She tugged at the flowing skirt, examining herself from every angle. “And I love this dress. I’m wearing it.” “Fine. You’re the boss, princess. I hear breathing’s out of style anyway.” “Haha. Now zip me up.” “’Zip me up, please’. Where are your manners, Eff?” But he grasped the zipper, just to humor her, and gave it a tug. Didn’t budge an inch, just like he knew it wouldn’t. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart.” He let go. “You’re too big.” “I am not! Don’t be rude!” “OK, you’re not too big. The dress is too small.” “It can’t be! Look, sometimes the zipper snags on the fabric. Just make sure it doesn’t. Problem solved.” “I don’t think …” “Just do it!” He heaved a sigh and grabbed hold of the zipper. “And pull!” “I am.”

“Well it’s not working, is it?” “How’s that my fault?” “It’s not rocket science. You’ve done this a dozen times before. At least a dozen!” “Well, don’t piss and moan when I bleed all over your dress,” he said and with one hand on her shoulder he pulled, pulled, pulled! “Come on!” Effie exclaimed. “Put some District 12 muscle into this!” “Bloody … fucking … hell!” And it snapped. Snapped so fast and unexpected the zipper flew from his hand, clinked against the ceiling lamp and landed on the carpet. Effie threw her hands out.

“Unbelievable! It fit two years ago.” She glared at Haymitch through the mirror. “And it’s all your fault! You just had to get me pregnant, didn’t you? Now, what will I wear?”

“How about your birthday suit?” Haymitch said, sucking on his throbbing fingertips. “That’s your most striking look.” Effie frowned. “Birthday suit? I don’t own any particular birthday clothes.” Her eyes went back to her reflection, one hand against her tummy. “I cannot believe I am still holding on to all that baby weight.” Haymitch rolled his eyes. “Watcha mean ‘all that’? Ever got a load of this?” He clapped his own exposed belly. “So you’re not bony anymore. Big deal!” “I was never bony!” Effie protested. “Slender, maybe.” “Well, either way, you’ve got nothing to worry about so stop bitching about it, why don’t ya?” “I bitch if I want to, mind you. And it’s easy for you to be all mighty and confident when you look like that.” “Like what, sweetheart? Foul? Repulsive? Offensive to the senses?” “Naturally good-looking.”

He burst out laughing. “Well, princess, you’re the only one who thinks so.” “I am not. You’re quite handsome … when you’re sober. You’re just too stupid to see it.” Grinning he rested his hands on her hips, chin against the top of her head. Without her killer heels on she really was quite petite. Effie taught him that word. The last time he called her “short” she didn’t sleep with him for a good three hours. “Seriously, Eff. Cut yourself some slack, OK? You gave birth a year ago for fuck’s sake and who cares what you look like, anyway? It’s what’s inside the bottle that counts. And if anyone’s ready for the trash bin it’s me, not you.” “Stop!” The word burst from Effie’s lips. “That’s absurd! And cruel!” “Well, Eff …” “Don’t ‘well, Eff’ me, you big old brute! If Gloria said that to me I’d just … so don’t you do it! And by the way! While we’re on the subject: That kind of thinking reflects badly on both of us. Not just you! It insinuates I have a bad taste which I do not! I know a good thing when I see it and if you keep saying you’re just some piece of garbage I will wring your neck! No!” she snapped when he opened his mouth. “No.” Haymitch smiled. He wouldn’t fight her on this one. Knew he couldn’t win. He gave her hips a soft caress. Odd he never noticed the changes in her body post-birth. At least not the way he did when she was still pregnant. She wasn’t fat by any means just … softer. He moved his sore palm across her side until it rested flat against her tummy. Seemed only a heartbeat ago that two babies had been in there. Amy and Ian, dreaming their dreams. Unaware of the world. Effie looked gorgeous no matter her size but it was something about her now that sent tingles down his body. For all the old reasons, yeah but there was something else there too that felt brand new to him. Those extra curves. They were there because she got pregnant. Because she was pregnant. With his children. Effie watched through the mirror. A rosy shade colored her cheeks. “Taking a walk down memory lane?” “Mm,” he nodded. “You were so beautiful.” Effie tsked. “Thank you.” “The last time we had sex, I mean.” “I was huge.” “Yeah. That too.” He dropped a kiss to her hair. Didn’t really think about it. Didn’t think it through. He waited for the “stop”, the “no”. The slightest stir of her body and he would pull away. It didn’t come. He kissed her again, a different spot, and her eyes fluttered close. The room was so quiet he heard each and every one of her soft breaths. Felt them against himself when his arms encircled her, hugging her from behind. “I don’t get it,” he murmured. “I really don’t.” “What?” The word was hardly more than a whisper. “Why you slept with me all those times.” His bare chest pressed into her back. He was growing harder, fuller by the second. He couldn’t help it. “It makes no sense at all. You and me.” “Don’t start that again. I hate false modesty.” “’cept I’m not, sweetheart. You’re this … drop-dead gorgeous … one in a million beauty and I’m just …” Before he could finish the sentence, Effie turned in the cocoon of his embrace. He got but a glimpse of the fury in her blue eyes – like she’d really wring his neck – before her lips were fully on his. Author’s Note: OK, this note got long-long and I best put a TRIGGER WARNING on it for mentions of mental illness and such. I’m a little scared to write this - afraid I’ll tick some readers off by being too personal or over sharing - but yeah, here goes. You can just skip past it if you want to. There’s been a flurry of activity surrounding ToS lately - a response that has been absolutely amazing - and I want to thank you for it! I’ve done that before. Tried to express my immense gratitude many many times and each time I think it feels meh and flat because when I write back to you guys - in the notes or personally - my inner censor goes: “No, you cannot say ‘OMFG, thank you SO much! I LOVE you!!’ Let them at least hold on to the hope that you’re semi-normal.” But either way, that’s exactly what it’s like. I get so freakin’ happy, you don’t even know! And I’ve learnt - especially since last May - to never take anything for granted so I treasure every single like, every single reblog, follow, favorite, kudos, bookmark, comment so so dear to my heart. As those of you know if you read these Author’s Notes: I had a mental breakdown in the Spring last year. I’m not gonna go into a lot of details but it was bad. Really bad and it included a month long stay in a psychiatric care unit, oh yes. Maybe one day I’ll be ready to tell you the whole story but not today I think. Unless me telling can help someone else, if that’s the case then my inbox is always open. May-October was an excruciating 6 months walk through misery before my family, my doctors and I all together managed to perform the Expecto Patronum charm and send my Dementors flying the fucking hell out of here. Life got a 100 % better one tiny step at a time and back in November I was writing again. I am in tears just remembering because I love writing more than anything in the world, it’s my one true joy, and when I’m ill, I can’t. I just can’t. In December 2022 I published the first chapter post-breakdown and I didn’t really expect anyone to care, thinking most of you had probably abandoned the story long ago in the 8 months of complete silence with no explanation. But instead, it slowly but surely went and became the most popular ToS chapter to date! You were AMAZINGLY sweet in the comments and showed your support in so many ways and it was like getting an ice cold drink on a sweltering hot day. It really soothed my fried, patched up, still recovering mind that you still CARED for this story that I’ve poured my heart into and is so near and dear to me and it helped me to keep going, keep writing and sharing ToS with you. If the chapter back in December had been met with complete silence at that stage in my life I would have had to take an even longer break from it cause posting stuff online stresses the hell out of me even at the best of times. But because of your steadfast support I managed to post 1 or more chapters each month between December-March which is CRAZY fast for me! And, since I believe in inclusion, let me just add here that if you’re one of those who don’t wanna make yourself known when reading something (whether because you’re too shy or don’t feel like you have anything to contribute or simply don’t have the time or energy to engage) and instead flies silently like a butterfly from chapter to chapter: I’m grateful for you too. I am. If you’re reading this Author’s Note right now and you enjoy ToS in the peacefulness of your own quietude and in not having to be visible: I’m really glad that you’re here and I hope you will enjoy all of the rest of the chapters too! All of you help me keep going and now - in the middle of The Hunger Games Renaissance when we’re all eagerly awaiting the new movie - it is SUCH a joy to see the awakened interest both in my story and in the fandom(s) as a whole. Whether you’re just starting out on your THG journey or are an oldie like me: Your passionate love for Suzanne Collins’s universe, its characters and for ToS is a thrill to watch and it breathes life and joy into my tender, worrisome hayffie heart, again and again. It’s such a gift and I’m so grateful to see it! All in all, it’s made me feel like I didn’t really lose anything getting sick - not in my personal life, not in my work life and not in my writing. Instead I came out stronger and more balanced, on the other side. I lost some time, yes but I have plenty of time left and someday I will infuse that painful experience, the learnt knowledge and those felt feelings into my writing somehow. Cause that’s what I’ve always done. Tried to take my loss and pain and struggle and use it for good, in life and in my writing. ToS is about hope, first and foremost. The dandelion in the spring. When I struggled or felt really low and downhearted but still well enough to be able to take anything in I often went back to that speech Sam does in “The Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers”: “Sometimes you didn’t want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy. How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened. But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer.” And that’s the words I try to live by and believe in. That’s why I want to spend the rest of my life writing stories about hope and acceptance and peace of mind. I do believe in the healing power words can have and it’s something I hope that I give or will be able to give to my readers one day. Hope and the simple, heart-felt joy of reading something you love. If I can make even one reader feel better then I’m happy and content. Lastly, I just want to add that you don’t have to worry about me. I feel much much better, my life is back on track, I would never, not ever try and end things, I have a super strong safety net now with lots of IRL Katnisses and Peetas and Finnicks and Mags and Greasy Saes and Hazelles and (sober) Haymitchs and Effies and of course my very own Dr. Aurelius - only mine is a lady and she doesn’t fall asleep in her chair. All my love to you, take care of yourselves out there and I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Author’s note 2: This chapter took on a life of its own. 6000 words in I simply had to cut it in two since long chapters break my back! So, chapter 38 is pretty much finished (just another round or two of editing needed) and should be up before the end of May. Also, as some of you “Eat, Pray, Love” fans probably noticed: Yeah, I totally stole “Put some District 12/Swedish muscle into this” from the awesome Elizabeth Gilbert movie. I just couldn’t resist!s

[transskywardsword]

Touch Up

Mask shows off some, well, masks

The Hero of Time was a curious character. Minish had seen many curious things in their eleven long years on this earth; after all, they had at one point made a habit of shrinking to the size a mouse and eating strange nuts that made them speak like one too. That's what made Mini trust Mask in the end: he spoke like a mouse. None of the other heroes Lana had brought together spoke like mice; Bramble spoke like thorns just beginning to regrow their petals and Wilds spoke like leaves on century old branches, both tied to the natural world and the magic within it, but neither of then spoke like mice.

Mask did. Mask spoke like mice and birds and each blade of grass reaching towards the sun. Mask spoke like a Child of the Forest. Mini didn't dare call themselves such a thing, no matter how adopted they were into Minish society. They might be a Minish in all but blood, but the Minish had no right to claim Mini for the forest. It was not their decision to make. No, the forest would not claim Mini, but it had claimed Mask, and the laughable part was that Mask seemed to think it hadn't.

But now wasn't a night for dwelling on the one-eyed hero's emotional failings. Tonight was a night for masks.

Mask didn't hide his masks or shy away from them, but he rarely brought them out all at once or let anyone touch them. He was protective and loving towards them, as if each mask were a person, and didn't trust most of the heroes to handle them. Mask was deeply secretive about his second adventure, and other than Era, most of the heroes only knew that A) it had been been outside of Hyrule, B) Mask had been very young, and C) somehow Mask had fought the moon. Mini still didn't know if that part was a joke or not. With Mask it was hard to tell. But despite how close he kept his adventure to his chest, once in a blue moon on warm, sleepy nights like this one, one with no Ganon or Time Gates to dampen the mood, Mask would pull the masks all out one by one and let the heroes touch them with careful, reverent fingers. Tonight was one such night. Spirit was reading a book on engineering she'd bought on their last stop in town, eyelids drooping, and beside her, Hue and Bramble had succumbed to the calm, asleep in the dirt of the forest. Sky sat with a sketchpad in hand, keeping a close eye on the group while he drew. Across from him, close to the fire, Twilight kept watch, and the rest watched openly at the movements of Mask's hands.

Mask held the polishing cloth delicately, moving with precise, practiced motions as he moved it over and around the curves of his yellow Keaton mask. He scooped out a bit more wood polish from its jar and began to buff it in. Satisfied, he placed the mask to the side to dry. He had created quite the pile beside him as he cleaned and polished each mask. There were more out than usual-- he claimed the humidity had done a number on them during their stop at the Great Sea, but Mini was beginning to think the boy just wanted to show off.

Mask reached into his bag and pulled out a box-- the group all sat up. Watching Mask polish his masks was soothing, calming, but watching him retouch them with paint was enthralling. His movements were clear and graceful, each stroke made with care, and as he mixed colors and dragged his paintbrush down the wood of his masks, the group of heroes felt mesmerized.

The small box of paint opened and the whole group seemed to hold their breath as Mask leaned down and picked up a blue-black mask that reeked of gunpowder.

"What's that one?" Quartet asked. This was a classic part of the ritual, asking what each mask was as Mask painted them, just to hear Mask's soft, tenor voice that they so rarely heard.

"The blast mask. When you wear it, you can ignite anything, even water, and cause a massive explosion." Mask pulled out a paintbrush and began mixing paints. "You have to be careful-- it's a good way to loose your eyebrows." A starting stroke, then two, dark color coating the wood. "I once had to use a fairy after getting a little overzealous with my blasting. She didn't find it as funny as I did. Neither did my companion."

Mask switched to white, touching up the skull on the center of the mask. He held up the mask, twisting it this way and that, before deciding he'd covered enough chips and discoloration and moved onto the next: a half face mask of white feathers. Mask hummed a tune as he mixed white and yellow for the pale yellow of the beak and soon his humming turned to singing. It was obvious Mask didn't sing often, even with him only singing under his breath. His voice was weak and wobbly, but there was an innocent happiness there that Mask rarely showed.

It was a marching tune, that kind that you'd hear in a parade, and with a grin Mask called out to Sky.

"Hey Sky, wanna see something cool? Take out your harp and put this on."

Sky's eyebrows furrowed but he did as he was told; it took him a few tries to knot the leather cord behind his head but then took out his harp and, at Mask's prompting, played a few notes. Almost as soon as he did, a little mouse scampered across Sky's thigh, followed by chipmunk. A pair of birds settled on the edge of the mask an Sky let out a delighted sound. Mask had told them about the Bremen mask before but never demonstrated what it did. With a lopsided smile, Mask cleaned his brushes and took another mask out of his bag.

It was all delicate curves, painted gold and cream and pink, so much pink, as the feeling of fairies wafted off of it in waves. This, this one was new. Mask hadn't shown this one off before.

The hero mixed gold dust with magenta paint and with tiny, delicate strokes began to touch up the fairy's hair. His tongue stuck out with concentration and the group was content to watch.

"What's that one?" Waker breathed, and reached out a hand as if to touch it. Twilight swatted it away.

"Have I never showed this one before?" Mask asked, not taking his eyes off the mask.

Wilds shook his head and watched with awe as fairies began to drift forward into the clearing unprompted and without fear.

"Mother, Mother!" One cried, circling the mask, "oh Mother!"

The other fairies followed suit, sitting on the mask's elegant face and crawling through Mask's hair.

"Sibling, why is Mother all alone in the woods? Is she hiding?"

Mask stuck his tongue out at the one who had spoken and the fairies squealed with delight.

"This is the Great Fairy mask," He explained, and the fairies nodded along. "It was a gift from a Mother far, far away from here. She gave it to me so I can find my siblings so far from home."

"Oh! Alright, then we are very glad you have been given such a gift," one fairy chirped, burying themselves deeper into Mask's hair, their wings brushing Mask's ears. Mask laughed-- no, Mask giggled, a sound Mini had never heard him make before. Apparently neither had the others, as they all looked at Mask in varying shades of surprise, sans Era, who looked so fond one might expect the man to cry. Mask tied the Great Fairy mask around his face and the fairies squealed with joy, a sound not unlike the Minish.

Mask whistled and the fairies tingled back, and off they went, the group chatting together in a language that Mini would never understand, no matter how many nuts they ate. Era squeezed closer to Mask and, to Mini's surprise, said something in the fairy langue. Mask honest to the Goddesses giggled again, and Era practically glowed.

"Now, sisters," Mask said with a bright smile. He opened his mask bag and held the opening wide for the fairies to see. "Which mask do we paint next?"

[blinddreams24]

Healer

A Mermay Prompt

Masterlist

Prev / Next

There was a whistled song when you left the car. It sounded injured and mournful.

Leaving your gear, you snatched the first aid and bolted across the sand and rocks towards the sound. You weren’t sure you were thinking. Just the thought of the song being Cross had you moving before you could even consider a reaction and you weren’t about to question it.

He was beached in your hidden cove. His song cut off when he saw you and your head cleared. He was fine. He was alive. You still desperately wanted to make sure he was okay.

“Y/n? What are you-?”

“Are you okay?” You rushed forward to check him when a hand stopped you.

“Y/n, stop. It’s fine. What are you even doing here this early? The sun has barely come out.” Cross’s voice strained with worry.

You slapped his hand away. “I’m normally up this early! Now let me see where you’re hurt!”

He shifted away from your approach. “It’s nothing. I just got in a friendly fight with one of my pod. It’ll heal itself.”

His retreat didn’t stop you as you stormed forward to check him over. He was hiding it somewhere. “And I can help it heal faster so it doesn’t scar. Cross. Let me see it.” You growled.

Mumbling in frustration, Cross flopped onto his belly and let you see the fresh bite and scratch marks behind his floppy dorsal fin. The bite was deep and looked more like an intent to kill than play fighting. Especially with the claw mark curving toward Cross’s belly.

You set the first aid down and pulled out the few things for cleaning wounds. “This might hurt.”

He scoffed. “Please. I’ve hade worse- hissssss!” Cross’s back arched as you wiped a scratch with an alcohol wipe. His blazing eyelight looked back at you. “Why are you using a jellyfish?!?!”

“It’s not a jellyfish. It’s alcohol. And it’s cleaning your wounds.”

“I don’t need them cleaned! The water cleans them!”

“If they were clean, it wouldn’t hurt.”

He groaned. “You’re the worst healer I’ve ever met.”

“I’m not a healer.”

“No shit.”

For some reason you were unsure of, Cross’s use of a curse word had you sputtering with laughter. Where did he learn that word? Surely not from the water. And he’d used it properly.

“What’s wrong with you now?”

“Nothing! I- heheh -I just didn’t expect you to curse! It shocked me!” You dabbed at your eyes with the back of your hand, careful not to get the wipes in them.

“Oh my stars, you’re laughing because I said shit??” Was his wounded accusation.

“Stop making me laugh or I’m accidentally going to press too hard on your wounds! Jellyfish or not, these things hurt.”

“And yet you still use them on me.” He flinched away with a hiss.

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s helping. Now stop moving.”

The next few minutes were filled with hisses, various curse words, empty threats, and plenty of alcohol wipes. The wounds were cleaned and patched as Cross insisted he wrap them himself later.

When you finished, he sighed deeply. “……Thank you. It does feel better.”

“You’re welcome, Cross. I’m glad I could help.”

The waves splashing against the shore, trying to reach you, was the only sound for several minutes.

“So,” Cross interrupted. “What, uh, what do you do for a living? People still work for things, right?”

“Yeah, I work online. It sucks but it beats having to leave the house. And I get to go diving whenever I want. I can just close my laptop and go.”

“You like diving?” Cross smiled.

You scoffed as a smile split your face. “Obviously. I love the ocean. It’s so much more alive than the city. Like, yeah, the city is busier. Cars and people rushing to get to work or go home. But the water has more color and casual life. Fish swim around, not to get to work, but just because they can. Anemones and sea grass are always swaying and moving with the water. Everything practically screams peace while still being wild and uncontrollable. It’s just so beautiful. And I wish I could be a part of that.”

Cross’s smile changed to understanding. “You want to live in the ocean.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, we could probably use a healer down there.” He grinned. “Just not you.”

“Hey!”

[wounderful-chaos]

"She was whiskey in a shot glass. Neat.

She was vintage lace draped over a Mahogany antique table.

She was sweet red wine in a gothic goblet with burgundy lipstick on the rim.

She was silky satin lingerie, with four strings on the back lace panty.

She was natural eyeshadow by day, and alluring hues at night.

She was cooking shows and comedies, and serial killer documentaries at 2am.

She had a Lana del Rey soul and a Rachmaninoff Concerto mind.

She loved going barefoot on the grass, and feeling the waves crash on her toes.

She wanted your fingers to slightly graze down the middle of her chest, and hands around her neck.

She was silky scarves tingling her skin softly, and cold tight chains on her wrists.

When she loved you, she loved hard and all of herself. She was raw emotions and pure innocence, with depths of the sea. She was moans with her long hair in her mouth as the palm of your hand is on her back, and pleasurable screams and whimpers with a gag. Her eyes told a story of pain and love, and you loved all of her curves and valleys. You're her only calmness to the storms in her eyes. And she'll love you for a thousand lifetimes".

[maple-writes]

Trying to get back into the vibe of writing for the city of eventide and ended up with a kind of sad one.

--

Right, Ember was gone. For the week anyway, out again at sea until Sunday night at least. I stood in the doorway, dropped my bag and kicked off my shoes and tried to ignore the weight settling in my chest. She might not even come back on Sunday. She might be spending the night with Jess instead. It wouldn’t be the first time.

The kitchen light glowed soft in the dark, warm from old incandescent bulbs and silent besides the cupboards creaking every so slightly by my hand. Striker was busy too this week, at least the next few days. He and Kyra were getting away and they took Argent with them. She would have fun, probably. But it would be quiet around here. Too quiet.

My pot of water boiled slowly, gradually breaking up the outline of my reflection as bubbles started small and grew to break the still surface. Cirrus hadn’t been around for a while now. When was the last time I saw him? It had to be back in the spring when he’d come for the wedding. Had it really been that long? The days had been growing shorter for months now and he hadn’t made his way back since. I swallowed, gripping the edge of the counter and staring into the rolling boil. He… He hadn’t forgotten about me had he? Right?

No, he was probably busy. I didn’t know what he had to contend with when he was away or what he had to do in order to sneak away just for me. I… I wasn’t part of his every day life anymore. Not since he went home, wherever that really was. He used to visit more often though.

I turned off the stove and grabbed my jacket from the hallway.

--

It was cold at the beach but then again what had I expected? Fridged waves crashed on the fine pebbled shore, pushed by the bitter wind blowing from far out to sea. I bunched my shoulders and kept my hands deep in my pockets. Rocks shifted under my feet as I walked step by step along the water. Overhead clouds raced scattered across the night sky. Stars poked out between them for only brief seconds before the next blocked the sky once again.

Farther from the parking lot trees creaked and swayed in the wind, shuddering where they grew up past the highest tidal line. Cones and needles rained down wherever the wind took them, carried away across the littered ground. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to come here, tonight, when the trees groaned louder then they should and no one would know I was gone for days at least. Well, maybe someone would notice if I didn’t show up to work. Probably. But would anyone do anything? Would anyone know what to do?

The beach curved and I stopped. Ahead the bluff rose out from the beach, built on a vein of rock harder than that which eroded around it over years and years. Bare rock at the tip shone wet in the patchy moonlight. The grass I killed didn’t have a chance to grow back. The soil it held together washed away in the winter’s storms leaving barren granite where patches of moss had only just started to creep up onto again. It hadn’t recovered like the lake in the woods. It stood scarred even still. Trees once made their way near all the way to the lookout but not anymore. The grass gone, the soil eroded, and the soil eroded left nothing for their roots. Even those which survived grew bent now, no longer shielded from the brunt of the gusts buffeting from the sea.

Sometimes Striker still couldn’t look me in the eye.

I swallowed, my throat tight. On stormy days and windy nights he was still distant. Cancelled plans, shortened conversations, hesitant touch… He never used to carry an umbrella with him and now he rarely left home without one at least tucked away in his car. It was hard not to notice the worried, knowing glances Kyra cast his way if I accidentally raised my voice just a little, be it in excitement or accident.

He'd never gone away for his birthday before either. Their trip hadn’t seemed to be just for that but he wouldn’t be here for it coincidence or not.

A gust of wind cut through my jacket and I shrunk, bracing myself against the cold that bit at my cheeks. Salt air pulled at my hair and ocean damp seeped through to my bones. What did I hope would happen by coming here? I forced my eyes away from the bluff and out to the dark ocean horizon, squinting against the winds. There was nothing for me here, not tonight. There would be no one here to find me, to bring me back home and why would they? I’d done enough to everyone already. They shouldn’t have to look after me too.

It was probably a good thing Argent went with Striker and Kyra. If she followed me out here tonight… Would I be able to hold her off? Would I be able to contend with her tonight or would I let her win? Would I let her thirst for guilt and shame take me alive?

Maybe, did I deserve it? At least a little bit? Maybe she had a point…

No. I shook my head out and turned around. I couldn’t afford to start thinking believing her, for both our sakes. Shivering I walked back the way I came with the bluff at my back, burning into my shoulders as if staring me down. It knew what I did. The rocks and long-lived trees would know what I did as long as they existed in this world. They knew. Striker knew. Everyone close to me knew and would never forget what I did to them.

They didn’t need me anymore either, did they? Ember had Jess, Striker had Kyra, Cirrus had his old life back… Argent, she didn’t really need me either did she? Ginger could probably help her better than I could, or would know someone. Striker seemed to like having her around too. She could probably stay with him if she needed to, if anything were to happen to me but then again would it be fair? Striker more than spend his share of time looking after people like her, like me.

My car was still the only one in the lot parked off to the side. Few other cars joined me on the road home either, alone under the pattern of glowing streetlights shining as if there only for me tonight. The door echoed when it closed on the quiet street, my footsteps joined only by the scurried rummaging of a racoon rustling hedges in the alley. Footsteps on the cement stairs to the basement door echoed hollow besides the jingling of my keys. The lock turned with my key but I paused before opening the door.

A perfect white moon snail shell sat placed in the center of my doormat.

My eyes watered when I picked it up and brought it inside, holding it close and only setting it down beside my alarm clock when I finally went to sleep.

[glorifiiedgore]

*  Setting:  THE  NORTHMAN              V  I  K  I  N  G  S  ;  A  semi-plotted  love  affair  &  end  of  innocence  for  @bitemescftly​​

Gudrun  had  found  her  way  to  the  sea.  The  water  had  encapsulated  her  body,  her  lungs  filled  with  salt  and  blue-green  opalescence.  When  they’d  pulled  her  onto  the  beach,  the  waves  were  not  the  angriest  they  could  have  been,  for  Aurvandil’s  cries  rivalled  that  of  anything  nature  could  have  omitted.  He’d  collapsed  to  the  ground,  sunk  low  as  he  pulled  her  tall  frame  into  his  lap.  His  large  arms  enveloped  her,  his  lips  touching  down  onto  a  bloated,  once  petal-pink  pout.  A  hand  tangled  in  the  blonde  mess  of  her  hair,  fingers  knotting  and  tugging,  as  his  sadness  turned  to  complete  and  utter  rage.  Had  she  been  so  sad  that  this  was  the  answer?  Had  she  been  angry  for  his  constant  state  of  absence  in  battle?  Or  had  she  merely  lost  the  will  to  live  due  to  forces  unforeseen?  The  fates  had  never  shown  such  a  depressive  state,  had  never  once  hinted  that  he  would  ever  be  without  his  long-wed  bride.  He  cursed  the  Gods,  but  mostly  he  cursed  her  soul  --  to  be  damned  for  all  eternity.  Her  selfishness  had  a  price,  and  that  was  the  leaving  of  himself  and  their  son  behind.  Amleth  adored  his  mother,  his  tiny  heart  would  be  shattered  to  pieces  at  the  news;  but  that  only  met  that  the  King  would  have  to  love  him  that  much  harder,  that  much  fiercer;  as  a  bear  does  to  its  cubs.  He  would  survive  and  thrive  --  they  both  would.  

x  

The  town  had  gone  to  ruin,  smoldering  ashes  in  the  wake  of  the  King’s  army.  The  men  ripped  through  the  town,  collecting  all  that  their  hearts  had  desired,  making  sure  to  claim  what  they  had  now  won.  The  battle  cry  of  victory  could  be  heard  throughout  the  mountaintops,  the  horn  blowing  in  the  darkness  as  they  settled  on  what  was  to  be  done  come  morning.  They  would  take  all  that  they  found  worthy,  they  would  share  their  findings  with  their  kinsman  back  home.  It  would  be  a  week’s  worth  of  hard  riding,  but  King  Aurvandil  was  more  than  ready  to  return  to  his  land,  more  than  ready  to  settle  (for  a  small  time  anyway).  

They’d  barely  slept  before  they  were  awake  again,  mounting  horses  and  strapping  down  the  goods  with  which  they’d  plundered.  Amongst  their  claiming,  had  been  a  young  woman,  beautiful  and  timid,  an  artistic  vision  of  perfection.  Her  milky  skin  called  to  the  King,  her  chocolate  hair  falling  down  past  her  buxom  breasts.  The  curve  of  her  body  was  something  to  behold,  for  he  could  not  remember  the  last  time  he’d  taken  a  lover  who’s  shape  hissed  of  softness  and  padded  flesh.  She’d  been  offered  to  him  on  the  spot,  the  moment  the  tiny  village  had  been  invaded.  He’d  spared  the  family  that  had  made  such  a  sacrifice,  that  had  given  him  the  most  beautiful  gift.  Aurvandil’s  clan  would  clean  up  the  wreckage  here  and  start  a  new,  giving  those  that  had  yielded  to  them  safe  refuge  and  new  community  to  thrive  for.  

x  

A  week  had  passed  and  the  Vikings  had  made  way  back  to  their  homeland.  The  village  was  being  set  for  that  evening’s  celebration;  the  welcome  home  that  all  warriors  would  rejoice  over.  The  food  was  abundant,  the  wine  overflowing,  the  fire  rising  high  into  the  night  sky.  Everyone  danced  with  delight,  the  music  became  much  louder  than  a  roar,  the  chatter  jovial  and  with  ritualistic  intent.  

‘  Hail  King  Aurvandil  War  -  Raven!  ’  cried  the  company  as  their  concurring  hero  made  his  way  through  the  muddy  path  and  into  the  grass.  The  King  had  been  dressed  in  dark  brown  slacks,  chest  bare,  shoulders  draped  with  furs.  His  light  eyes  focused  on  the  young  woman  seated  on  the  ground  upon  a  wooden  platform.  Three  of  the  town’s  women  had  been  braiding  her  hair,  and  calming  her  nerves.  They  all  placed  kisses  to  her  cheeks  as  the  King  approached,  leaving  the  two  of  them  be.   ‘  In  all  my  days  I  have  never  come  across  a  more  exquisite  beauty,  ’  he  announced,  loud  enough  for  all  to  hear,  and  yet  his  focused  gaze  remained  on  the  young  woman.  ‘  Tonight,  under  the  eyes  of  Freya,  I  will  take  this  woman  as  my  own,  ’  his  words  rang  heavy  in  the  night,  the  applauding  yells  came  from  across  the  land,  the  clan  more  than  pleased  with  this  decision.  ‘  You  will  be  my  queen,  ’  he  breathed,  settling  down  onto  his  knees  before  the  brunette,  his  hands  cupping  her  face,  ‘  tonight,  my  life  becomes  your  life.  My  blood  is  your  blood.  My  heart  is  your  heart.  You  will  give  all  to  me.  I  will  receive  all  of  you.  Sweet  Goddess  Freya  blesses  me,  and  by  Odin  I  will  not  falter  in  my  love.  ’  

His  mouth  his  quick  on  her  own,  not  giving  her  time  to  think,  the  rumble  of  the  crowd  becomes  that  much  louder,  as  his  hands  roam  from  her  face  to  the  thin  gown  with  which  she’d  been  dressed  in.  ‘  You  tremble,  ’  he  whispers  so  that  only  she  can  hear,  his  ocean  eyes  locking  with  green  spheres,  before  the  garment  that  shields  her  body  is  no  more.  ‘  Do  not  fear  me,  ’  he  notes,  hands  large  and  unyielding,  grasping  at  naked  flesh,  his  lips  are  fast  on  hers  once  more,  his  thick  frame  wedging  between  her  thighs.  The  fur  that  drapes  over  his  shoulders  falls  aside,  a  hand  works  at  the  pants  he  wears,  tugging  them  away,  before  he  stands  to  completely  disrobe.  It’s  all  happening  so  fast,  and  he’s  on  his  knees  again,  this  time  turning  her  voluptuous  frame  so  that  her  back  is  to  his  front.  Strong  hands  reach  for  biceps,  pulling  her  backside  flush  against  his  chest  and  torso.  Lips  daring  to  claim  purchase  of  her  shoulder,  her  neck  and  beneath  her  chin.    

╰             —           ✧             :         BITEMESCFTLY          for        anna        ›  

[hogwartstoalexandria]

Eye of the Storm

1987w | Mature (notsfw) | Hotcheon: Jason Gideon/Aaron Hotchner

Additional Tags

50 Types of Kisses Writing Prompts, Angst, Depression, Introspection, Character Study, Established Relationship, cabin in the woods, Moody this fic is Moody, Sexual Content, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s01e14 Riding the Lightning, Episode: s01e17 A Real Rain

Summary

39. Kissing tears from the other’s face.

Or, cabin emotional h/c post Sarah Jean and Marvin Doyle.

Read it here on AO3 or under the read more!

He's like a man lost at sea. Watching the storm outside the windows of his house, Chaucer on his lap, a book wide open, spilling its poetic guts all around him, yet not able to pierce the wall-hard torrent Jason can feel suffocating him. The clouds are dark, angry. The too-high grass in his yard billows with the wrath of the wind. Air versus earth. Madness and blood. 

Sarah Jean. And now Marvin Doyle. 

The prison gates no more deprived of freedom than the shaking, ailing devastation of New York's latest serial killer. 

No demons in his head, no barking dog, but more victims' voices. More grief and more violation. Haunting him, like it haunts Jason. Has for years, always will. It's a fact of this life. One more bullet point in the job description. It happens to all of them in the end. It will happen to Spencer one day. It's certainly happened to Hotch. 

Like the Grim Reaper come to collect dreams and innocence—the word only exists for others, Jason doesn't remember the last time he felt it for himself—he wishes the weather would let him see the birds, but it's going to pour for another three days. They'll be back on another case by then. Evil takes no breaks. 

He only hears the door close, but pieces back together the key in the door and the handle turning, the wood creaking in its hinges. Like a patchwork of past and present. A collage from memory. Jason doesn't move. What for. He does glance up to see Hotch's suit jacket drape over the back of a chair in the corner, followed by his suitcase propped on the seat. His eyes get stuck on Hotch's large hand as it opens to let the bag down, and closes back in a loose fist. Reflexive motions. They don't mean anything but habit. Sometimes nerves. 

"Jason?" 

Hotch's voice is a shock. Like a lance thrown through air thick as insulation. Keeping the surroundings out, people and creatures and ghosts. Like God come to the lost in a medicated dream. The cushion gives out gradually. First his name, then the rain painting the windows, then a body next to his, fabric rustling at the knees, creasing at the elbows. 

Jason stares, in front of him, and then at the man who lets himself into this house one day but not the next, the next day after that sometimes, when they don't enter together. 

"You're here." His own voice is more foreign still than any other sound. He realizes he hasn't heard it since Ted Elmore's apartment, right before the deafening gunshot. 

"You're crying." 

Hotch is frowning. It's not confusion. It's concern, and that too, is foreign. Not unwelcome, but stunning nonetheless. He doesn't let people close enough to be concerned. 

"Aaron," he says his name, not Hotch. He's close enough for that, too. Aaron holds people at arms' length. Jason runs past boundaries. It's the job as well, but it's more. It's who he is. It's how he sees things, and people. How he sees things in people. 

He sees Aaron. 

"You did what you had to." 

"I know." 

But in the next breath Aaron takes his hand and squeezes. Jason watches that, too. His eyes downcast, not to hide, but to observe. The curve of fingers grabbing for palm, for wrist, for contact. The warmth he cannot see that makes him shudder. The intent, clear as day, yet murky like the rest of the week, month, decade; like the pools of water in the series of potholes in the road that leads here. 

It's a cabin, not a house. Both a haven and an echo chamber. The gunshot. Piercing. Final. Protective. Protocol. 

He looks at their hands; he doesn't move his. 

"Come with me." Aaron's fingers twitch like he wants to rub them together the way he does when he's nervous, but can't with Jason's in the way. He tugs, and Jason goes. Why not. 

His lower back whimpers, but he remains silent. 

The cabin is small, as any refuge must. It's an embrace. Half a dozen steps of Aaron's too long legs, a few more of his, and they can reach the next room. Not the kitchenette on the other side; the bedroom. 

He has a quilted blanket on that bed. A gift from the tech girl, Garcia. He has more photos, framed and precious, lining both the walls not occupied by bookshelves, and even some of those too. Memories held up against novels and anthologies, gathering dust on the dresser and windowsill. He has hiking gear, piled up in yet another chair in the corner. He has Aaron's hand, still holding onto his. 

"What should Morgan do, Jason?" 

"What?" 

"That's what you said, with Sarah Jean." 

Now, that's the confused frown. 

"I'm coming with you." 

"That's what I said today." 

"It is." 

"Talk to me," Aaron whispers, pulling Jason down, lying down, shoes hanging just off the foot of the bed. Jason's socked feet are cold. He doesn't seek out the warmth of Aaron's calves like he might another day, another time. 

"What is there to say? Doyle could have shot me. Elmore lives. He and his girlfriend got a scare that will last them years, less if they're lucky."

"You need a break." 

"No." Jason shakes his head against the pillow. He looks at the way Aaron's hair splays across his. He doesn't reach up to play with it, to feel the silky coolness of the strands. "I have what I need." 

There's no smile on the other man's face. The light in his eyes is troubled brown water. 

"Do you?" The question itself is unfair, but Jason suddenly has to ask. 

Hurt flashes in the brown, makes it clearer before it goes back to blurry, far away, thoughtful. 

"I'm where I want to be," he says, and what he means is Haley's long gone. Ex, not wife. What he means is the boyish dreams he had and held for so long are gone up in flames, and in the ashes he sits. 

"Are you happy?" 

The silence drowns everything else, buzzing, alive. Aaron jerks up. Sitting and toeing his shoes off until they thud down on the carpet. Looking and frowning and huffing. 

"Stop," he says, and then his lips, soft, forgiving, naked, brush under Jason's eyes until he closes them. Not so much a kiss as a caress. Aaron's mouth takes away the tears that were, and catch the ones that come, still. "I'm where I want to be," he repeats. The air in Jason's lungs feels like fire. Like he's been screaming. Or, as it is, crying for hours without realizing he was. 

"What's a vacation?" He'd joked, but with only the appearance of humor. 

The cabin is all he has that resembles it, and Aaron is close enough to know where it is, and to know he is wanted here, in Jason's isle of solitude. 

Eventually, it's not Aaron's mouth he feels but his nose, his cheek, his truly large hand. Rubbing and warming and cupping. Jason goes with it. He tilts his head to invite a kiss, and breathes through that, a real lungful of respite. It's not long before they're not lying side by side but over and under. Aaron's weight on him, like another quilted blanket, pieces of himself he's given to Jason, day after day, bit by bit, from the very beginning. 

Clothes get shed, with less grace than careful attention. That does matter. Old scars are bared, just like fresh ones were. Feeling Aaron's chest against his is yet another stunning sensation. Two bodies breathing in tandem, another item on another of Jason's lists. He threads his fingers in Aaron's hair this time. Grabs for the base of his skull and pulls him down into another kiss. More demanding, less careful, but welcome. Aaron lets him, and more than that, he invites it again when his breath hitches and he smiles into the kiss. Not widely, but enough that the map of his lips shifts against Jason's. A fragile lightness. 

They're always huddled under layers upon layers of clothing, the both of them, so when it's skin on skin and nothing but the faintest sliver of space between them, Jason can't help but grab, but touch, but feel. Aaron is lean everywhere, but Jason finds purchase anyway. He knows where to grip, knows which crooks and lines will make Aaron hiss and moan. 

He travels up and down those points of sensation. He chases the sounds that claw up Aaron's reserve, takes note of them until notes are insignificant, small in the grand scheme of losing himself in what is offered, and what he gives in return. 

Aaron, too, loses himself. He rocks down on Jason's lap, takes him in and wants more, creates a rhythm to the way he cants his hips, and sits and lifts, up and down, and up. Their looped arms keep Jason from falling onto his back again. He squeezes Aaron's waist between them, and Aaron his shoulders. Forehead against forehead. There is no trace of the tears, no trace of the gone, only the real, tangible mass of the man making love to him without calling it that. 

Their eyes are sometimes screwed shut, sometimes wide open, enjoying the raw contact, calling for another, deeper still, union of souls. 

The music of Aaron panting and groaning, quiet even then, is one Jason knows even in his sleep. 

He knows him, and is known by him. The cabin, its walls, the howling wind outside, it's one more stage, one more nook, and it does not change that at all. Nothing can. From one hotel in one town to the next in another state, another year, another case, Aaron has taken more room in Jason's life than, as ashamed of that as he is, even his son has. Inconspicuous, discreet, gentle, sober, all the ways Aaron has settled at his side. A presence like no other. A man tall enough to be towering and yet almost never is, with enough authority to let himself become conceited and rash, and who thinks about sending flowers on your behalf and apologizes for Jason's manners when he forgets them. 

Aaron Hotchner is a mystery made clearer every day. 

Jason pulls and twists and grabs at him until it's Aaron under him, Aaron's legs around him, and their hands clasped on either side of his head. 

"You knew I'd be here." 

Aaron looks amused. His eyes say, of course I did. His mouth just kisses the side of their joined hands. 

It's when he rolls off him, later, that clarity comes. He can hide in files or forests, but he is no mystery anymore either, to at least one person in this world. It's as comforting as it is puzzling. 

"I'll get you a towel," he says, when Aaron starts to move off the bed. He watches him again, right before he leaves for the bathroom, all sprawled long limbs and flushed cheeks and chest, limp everywhere but his eyes, always his eyes. Windows into whose soul, Jason's not so sure in the moment. 

He splashes water over his face, but doesn't look in the mirror. He doesn't need to. Then he gets back. He wipes Aaron clean with the damn towel. Throws in the basket in the corner opposite the chair. They don't cuddle—the very word builds a slight laugh in Jason's throat that has Aaron smiling in return. Like he thought about it at the same time. They lie facing each other, quiet. The storm is still raging outside, but here it's calm. 

They can have three days of that, then get called back. That sounds as close to a vacation as Jason will ever get, and Aaron will ever take. 

Maybe they'll play chess, eating ice cream out of the carton. 

Marie Writes 50 Kisses Masterlist