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scribbling-dragon · 1 year

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the world’s my oyster (i’m the pearl)

summary:

Um,” he stares at Scott for a moment longer. “Can I, uh, can I come in? Or,” he allows himself to trail off, still watching Scott. The crown certainly suits him, at least, even though the pinkish-orange colour of the coral is not something he’d ever have considered to go well with cyan.

The door swings open in front of him, and he almost startles at the abruptness of it, jerking his hand back and down to his side. “So,” Scott’s grinning, that grin that makes his teeth look far sharper than they actually are, “you've come crawling back, have you?”

“It’s,” he laughs, inching forward, “It’s not crawling back, it’s…sheepishly wandering in.” He smiles a little as he continues to inch his way forward, sliding past Scott and through the rather narrow ‘doorway’ when Scott doesn't move to stop him from entering.

Or, a 5 + 1 where Scott is acting suspicious, and Martyn is trying to figure out why

(ao3 link)

(11,149 words)

yeah the title’s a h2o reference. it’s comedy gold, alright (and mer scott. it just fits yk)

The small, rather rickety path out into the water is what first grabs at his attention, snagging it and holding it as he steps a little closer. He crouches, trying not to come off as too suspicious, even though he is acting incredibly, incredibly suspicious right now, and anyone that might see him would be well-founded in whatever boogeyman-related accusation they throw his way.

The curse itches beneath his skin, far more intense than it had been in the previous games. It ticks alongside his slowly counting timer. The itching only grows more fierce the longer he sits around twiddling his thumbs, but he sits, squatted in the bushes and sheltered by the trees overhead, and watches as Scott moves around the small island he’s constructing.

As Martyn watches, he notices the way that Scott moves around the island is actually rather odd, especially as he occasionally jumps away from the edge, as though he’s been burned- which is impossible, because it’s water.

Despite his apparent hatred for the water, Scott continues to build where he is, sticking firmly to the centre of the small island that is beginning to take shape around him. The only part that remains unchanged is the small shelter right beside the bridge, though Scott does glance over at it occasionally.

More than once, Martyn swears Scott looks directly at him as well, eyes pausing for a moment over his hiding spot before he returns to whatever he was doing before. It makes the curse thrum a little louder, a little heavier, beneath his skin in anticipation. He squashes it down a little further, before creeping out from behind the bush he’d chosen to hide behind for the past…however long.

His timer tells him he’s only spent five minutes crouched there, but the moon had been high in the sky when he first started watching Scott, casting most of his surroundings into shadow - only the island had been lit up, a small beacon on light in the darkness swamping everything else - but now that same moon is incredibly close to setting, and the horizon is beginning to tinge pink with the sunrise.

He doesn't believe these timers one bit, not at all. There’s something wrong with them, but either everyone’s too caught up in the newness of this game to notice, or they have noticed and simply don't care enough to question it. Martyn didn't believe in the twenty-four hours, anyway, not when Grian announced it in such an odd way. And those watching on would hardly be satisfied with a day of entertainment.

The dirt bridge crumbles a little beneath his feet, and he pauses, holding his breath as he waits to see if it will take his weight- if it will betray his entrance onto the island. Scott’s back remains turned to him, and he watches as the man sifts through one of the chests he just set up.

He gives no reaction to Martyn’s approach, so he continues onwards, making an effort to place his feet a little lighter as he approaches, wary of alerting Scott. Martyn is well aware of Scott’s reputation in these games, of his seemingly inhuman hearing that catches even the smallest of sounds- Joel had told him once, in one of the afterparties they host once the games come to a close, that Scott had found him and Grian during last life because he breathed too loud. The man’s ears are entirely normal, too, not at all pointed or giving any indication that they're anything but human ears with normal, human-like hearing.

He realises, as Scott begins to turn, that he’s just been stood on the man’s bridge and staring at him like a creep. He scrambles for something to do, eyes landing on the odd shelter once more, spying the boat lodged into the side of the island and containing one zombified villager. Perfect.

He lunges for the boat, throwing himself into it and beginning to slowly push off the edge of the island, ignoring the thumping in his heart- the roaring in his ears that demands he kills Scott then and there, that he had had his back turned for several long minutes, in which he could have neatly lodged an axe in the man’s back and be rid of the curse.

“Uh,” he glances back, one hand still resting against the edge of the island, still in the process of getting the boat unlodged, Scott’s turned to face him, eyes wide with…shock? It doesn't look like shock, more like surprise. Martyn almost begins laughing. “No thank you.” Scott says, and the man is beside him a moment later, moving almost scarily quick, but he doesn't have much time to focus on that, instead focusing on not overbalancing and dragging them both into the water and Scott yanks him from the boat.

He stumbles a little as his feet make contact with ground, foot catching on nothing, and he grabs onto Scott’s shoulders to steady himself, gripping tightly to Scott’s shirt. And he almost succeeds in pulling both of them backwards into the water as he tips back, already laughing.

The water rushes up around him, and he inhales some as he laughs, popping back to the surface, coughing. His hair obscures most of his vision, dripping in front of his eyes even as he pushes it back out of the way; it only falls forward again, obscuring his vision once more and sticking to his face.

He continues laughing as soon as he’s certain he’s not going to inhale any more water and choke to death. He makes a grab for one of his sandals as it begins to float past, and it only makes him laugh a little harder at the sheer absurdity of it, having to grip onto the edge of the small island to make sure he doesn't go under again.

“Aw, man.” He manages to calm down momentarily, huffing out a breath, breathing out slowly as it threatens to turn into a laugh again. “You sounded so offended, man.” He grins up at Scott, pushing his hair back from his face again- seriously, what’s even the point of wearing a headband if it doesn't keep his hair out of his eyes.

“You tried to steal my villager,” Scott frowns down at him, but Martyn can see the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile, almost a laugh. “I think I have some right to be offended.” Scott tips his chin upwards, looking down at him almost haughtily- something that Martyn would only believe if he had known Scott for less than five minutes. The guy has some odd flair for the dramatics. It’s a shame that he and Ren never teamed, they would certainly have been interesting to watch.

“I guess so, thought you didn't hear me, though.”

“I heard you.” Scott says, looking down at him. The skin around his eyes catches the light slightly, flashing bright, but when Martyn takes a closer look, it’s just some rather bright eyeshadow the other has decided to wear. “I just thought I’d give you an easy kill.”

“An easy kill?” He laughs it off, ignoring how the itch beneath his skin seems to intensify with those few words- he already knows, he might as well. He shakes the thoughts off, pulling himself from the water. “Wait, wait, you think I’m the boogey?”

“Yes.”

“Aw, c’mon man,” Scott hops back a few steps as he approaches, looking more than a little nervous as Martyn steps forward. “That hurts, you think I've come here to just kill you in cold blood? Can't I just visit a friend?”

“While that’s a nice thought, I unfortunately don't believe you.” Scott smiles, expression not matching his words, the eyeshadow smudged around the corners of his eyes shimmering in the light again, drawing Martyn’s eyes back to it. “You got that whole-” Scott gestures at him, “-thing about you. Twitchy, like you're ready to swing at someone as soon as the opportunity presents itself.”

“I mean, you did that, didn't you?” His clothes stick to his skin rather uncomfortably, clinging. He finds a piece of seaweed stuck to his calf as well, peeling it off as he speaks. He flicks it at Scott, for a laugh, watching as the man jumps out of the seaweed’s path and sends a glare his way. “Poor Skizz, the man just wanted to chat with you.”

“He set it up so well, Martyn,” Scott groans, suspicion dissolving for a moment as he complains. “Everyone’s been getting on to me about it, especially after Bdubs’ stunt- which also wasn't my fault! But he was just saying all the right things- it was far too funny for me to let the opportunity pass up.” And Martyn’s sure that They rather enjoyed the show too, especially from the one person that refused to cooperate with their schemes the last two games.

“I hear you,” he laughs, even as he attempts to slip his foot back into his wet sandal without fiddling about with the straps too much. His clothes are going to be wet for the next while and the sun’s not even up yet meaning he’s going to be walking around in squeaky shoes for several long hours- no way he’s sneaking up on anyone like that. “But still not the boogey.” He grins, only sweating a little as Scott continues to look unconvinced- one word and everyone would start avoiding him like the plague.

“Mhm,” Scott looks him up and down, with a judgemental enough look that he almost cowers beneath it. But Martyn’s built of stronger stuff than that, staring back at Scott in return. “If you say so, then.”

Scott’s lips quirk up in the corner a little bit, as though there’s a joke only he’s been let in on. And Martyn has a pretty good idea that he’s probably the butt of said joke.

“Have fun sneaking up on people in your squeaky shoes,” Scott says, which. Great. Scott’s already noticed that and he’s not even moved yet, this is actually hopeless. He’s going to be yellow within the day, and there’s nothing he can even do about it.

“Still not the boogey.” He reminds. He leaves Scott to it, though, turning around and walking back down the bridge. His sandals squeak as he walks, and he does his best to ignore the snicker behind him. “Yeah, yeah,” he shouts back, turning around to face Scott, “laugh it up!”

He slips as he turns, some dirt giving way beneath his heel, and almost falls back into the ocean. He manages to regain his footing quickly, scrambling to maintain his balance on the rickety little path, glaring at Scott when the man’s snickering turns into a sharp bark of laughter.

He grumbles to himself, mind already running over the few ideas he has left, searching for an idea. His shoes continue squeaking as he walks, and all it does is distract him from his game plans, dragging his mind back towards Scott, and the man’s odd avoidance of the water’s edge and just water in general.

It could also, very easily, be that the man was avoiding him. But he looked far more nervous than he needed to as Martyn approached him after his brief dip in the ocean, far too nervous for someone that was just worried about being murdered. And that also doesn't explain his behaviour before Martyn even approached, avoiding the surrounding ocean like his life depended on it; and unless Scott’s hearing has reached new levels of freaky, then he definitely wasn't watching for Martyn then.

When he glances back, Scott is still keeping his distance from the water.

He considers it for a moment, then shoves the thought aside. He has far more important things to worry about than Scott acting weird- he’s always acting weird! He’s a weird man.

=== === ===

II.

He stares at the ground in front of him, the bucket in his hands warm as he stares at the empty spot, where there had been a cow only moments before. He glances over at Etho from the corner of his eye, biting on his tongue so he doesn't start laughing at possibly the worst moment he’s had all day.

He still aches from the pufferfish Etho had flung at him earlier. It’s a very good reminder of why he should definitely not start laughing at something that is actually very, very bad.

“Dude,” Impulse is staring at him as well, face set into one of those I'm-not-mad-just-disappointed looks.

“I did not mean for that to happen,” he says. And he can hear the laugh bubbling in his throat, threatening to break free if he continues talking much longer. He clutches the lava bucket a little tighter, before deciding that is probably a bad thing to do because the metal is already heating up to a hazardous temperature. And he likes being able to use his hands. “I was just memeing Skizz, and then-” he cuts himself off again, peering up through the small hole in the ceiling to look at Skizz.

The man stares back down at him, one hand resting against the edge of the hole. Martyn had definitely considered simply leaving the lava there for Skizz to fall into, unaware, and taken the kill then and there, but the swift death of the cow had been enough to make him feel a little guilty.

“Aw,” he buries his face in his hands, stepping back from the small entrance. “I am so sorry.” His words are muffled slightly, but he’s sure the others can at least guess the sentiment of his words if they can't understand them. He pulls at his face a little bit, glancing up at the people around him.

Impulse just looks sad at this point, staring at the spot their cow had been only a few moments before. Martyn has never felt regret as intensely as he does in this moment, even if his whole visit had been a ploy to try and kill one of them.

“You gotta be kidding me right now.”

Martyn can feel his resolve begin to waver as they continue on about the cow, lips twitching into an almost-smile as Impulse continues to bemoan their loss. Etho, at least, seems to have planned ahead, or at least far enough ahead that he saw the cow not surviving for very long anyway, as he manages to retrieve a cow within a few minutes after the incident.

It’s as though the cow never died in the first place, and he watches it meander around the small base from the step. Impulse had told him, in very few words, that he’d prefer it if he sat up here and away from the cows for now. He hadn't minded it either, as it means he can sit a short distance away from everyone else- a long enough distance that the itch at the back of his brain is reduced, if only a little bit. The need for blood still lingers, but it’s nowhere near as intense as it had been before.

He can't help but panic a little, unable to see any of these people splitting off from the pack so that he can follow and murder them. He also can't see them just letting it slide if he does kill one of them, so maybe it’s not his greatest idea to pick one of these four.

“Oh, Skizz,” his ears prick up as a new voice joins the jumbled fray, a little louder than many of the others and much further away. He stands, moving from the step Impulse had instructed him to stay on so there weren't any more cow related accidents. “Bud.”

He can hear the sympathy in Scott’s voice, and when he pokes his head out of the entrance to the underground base, Scott is smiling sympathetically at Skizz. A boat rocks gently behind him, lodged firmly in the sand as Scott steps gingerly out of it, scurrying a few metres up the beach before he comes to a stop.

“Dude, it’s been brutal,” Skizz says.

Martyn emerges fully onto the small island, only because hovering in the darkness is making him far more suspicious, and it would be very easy for Scott to pin it on him right now- especially as the man seems convinced that it is him anyway.

“What happened?” Scott seems to be asking from a sympathetic standpoint, but Martyn also knows Scott, and knowing Scott means that he knows Scott just wants the details of what happened from the source. Martyn listens as well, nodding at Scott when the man’s eyes slide over to him.

“I was way, way deep down,” Skizz gestures to the ground beneath their feet, moving back and forth a little bit as they talk. “I was just looking for some diamonds, and a creeper killed me.” Skizz turns his back to Martyn, and he has the idea to just do it now- do it here. He’d considered it already, back in the cave when the curse first settled itself over his mind, but he’d resisted then. But he’s so close to running out of time, so close to failing-

His hand hovers over the sword at his hip, and Skizz’s back is still turned, and Scott had even proposed an alliance to him earlier today, so he doubts Scott’s going to rat him out right now. He glances up, hand still hovering, still uncertain.

Scott glances between him and Skizz, mouth setting into a grim line. He then shakes his head, slight enough that anyone not looking would have missed it. And Skizz continues talking, oblivious to the silent conversation that had just passed between him and Scott.

And Scott’s right, honestly. It would be a bad idea, and they would have four angry people after them, one of which is definitely going to be a yellow soon, and that’s not something he wants to see at all. He swallows, glancing away, mind racing, curse roaring, demanding he ignore Scott, that he does it anyway.

He takes a step back, away from the shoreline and Scott and Skizz, pulling his hand away from his sword forcefully, reminding himself that it would be a bad idea, over and over again, and that Skizz has already lost enough time as it is, to lose more would only put him on Skizz’s list.

He takes another step back, and his foot catches on something. He glances back, finding it to be the hole that leads to the base beneath the island. The…confined base that has little to no escape routes, something which could very easily be blown up.

He glances back to the talking pair on the beach. Neither of them watch him, neither of them are looking to see where he goes.

He drops down into the hole, ignoring the slight jolt in his ankles as he lands. He pauses, not daring to even breathe. He can't hear himself over the sound of blood roaring in his ears- he doesn't know how loud he would be, can't know how loud it would be. So he doesn't dare breathe, straining his ears to make sure that there are people in the base below him, that him tossing away the few resources he has won't go to waste.

He chips away at the wall in front of him, clenching his hands tight around his pickaxe to stop them from shaking. Ignores the pounding of his heart, the rushing in his ears as he breaks through the rock, pausing to heave in a breath and to check that he hasn't been heard- hasn't been found.

He can't be found, he can’t. He doesn't have long left for this, not long at all, and he can't be yellow. Not yet, it’s too soon. Far, far too soon.

He breaks down the few feet that separates him from the room below, pulling back as soon as the last chunk of rock has been chipped away. He has to let it fall, there’s no way he can grab it back now, just has to watch it plummet and hope no one pays attention to the sound.

He holds his breath, feeling it catch in his lungs until he feels as though he’s going to explode. He watches as Scott turns around and stares at the rock for a long, long moment. Long enough that Martyn thinks he might say something, that he might warn the others.

He doesn't, eyes glancing up, though he can't see him- the rock blocks him from seeing Martyn, tucked away in his little gap in the rock, just large enough for him to crouch in. And then Scott turns back around, and he doesn't say a word. He just listens as the team continues talking, chattering amongst themselves.

He doesn't dare breathe, not even a sigh of relief- it could tell them that he’s still here, that he’s not disappeared away again.

He pulls the first bundle of TNT from his inventory, holding it in shaking hands as he fumbles for his flint and steel, grasping it and bringing it up to the wick, striking it once, twice, three times, hands shaking as he tries to light it, watches as it continues to sputter out before the wick can catch.

And then it does catch, flaring to life with a sizzle and he shoves it away, pulling the next bundle free, lighting this one quicker than the previous. There’s a shout from below- someone spotting the TNT no doubt. But it hasn't exploded yet, he still has time.

He drops the second one.

The third is the easiest to light, and he drops that too, peering over the edge, some morbid curiosity filling him- to see if he can get the kill or not. To see if someone might stray a little too close to the detonating bomb.

But, no. They huddle in a corner, all watching the TNT with wide eyes, watching. Waiting. And then it explodes, and his ears beginning ringing, though not with bloodlust this time. Instead, he blinks, coughing as smoke fills his mouth and makes him choke. He pulls back from the small opening he created, hacking and choking on his own breath as shouts of panic break out below.

He peers in again, still blinking back the tears in his eyes, watches as the rock wall behind where everyone huddles begins to crack, begins to give way beneath the sudden lack of stability and structure.

Scott breaks free first, sprinting across the room and skidding to a halt before throwing himself up the small wall and onto the stairs. Only then does he turn back around, posture stiff and tense, watching as the room begins to flood through the small fissures in the rock.

The TIES groan and grumble at the sudden flooding, kicking through the water and sloshing it around their ankles. And Martyn should move on, should leave now that Scott has thrown him under the bus- they could say something in the general chat at any moment, could condemn him to failing his one task.

But they don't, they continue complaining, continue kicking the water around. And Martyn finds himself far more fascinated about how scared Scott seems to be of the water, backing further and further away from the main room, beginning a slow, jerking path up the stairs, away from the steadily rising water and out of the splash zone of where the TIES have begun splashing water at each other.

Martyn watches Scott, files this odd information into his brain, alongside the way Scott avoids water like the plague. Doesn't even go near it despite having chosen to take up residence in the middle of the ocean, where you are surrounded by water.

And then one of the TIES shouts for his blood- and he knows they can't do that, they can't. It’s against the rules. And yet he flees anyway, squeezing back down the small corridor he’d hewn out, and sprinting for the surface.

He only looks back once he’s a safe distance away, watching as Tango and Skizz patrol the surface of their island and Scott climbs into his boat, and begins rowing back to his own island. Rowing, where someone else would have swam the short distance.

But the curse still lingers, still has its hooks in his mind. And he doesn't have time to sit around and watch Scott act odd, because he has other, far more pressing matters to attend to.

For now, at least.

=== === ===

III.

Scott’s island is bigger than it had been before. Spanning over a larger stretch of land, half-grown shoots of bamboo sticking out of the earth, marking out a perimeter. The leaves rustle gently in the breeze, and a few of the closer sticks of bamboo knock into each other, rattling in the wind.

A door stands at the entryway to the island, though there is no frame surrounding it. Truly, there is nothing but manners stopping him from bypassing the door completely, and stepping around. And also because it is far too comedic to knock on the door as well.

“Hi,” Scott peers around his door, not even bothering to open it. And…he’s wearing an odd crown of coral. Something he hadn't been wearing last time, at least. And the coral hasn't begun to bleach yet, remaining colourful despite being on land.

“Hi.” He responds, peering around the door as well, fist still pressed against the wood from where he’d knocked. The bridge is larger this time, too, more stable than it had been previously. He feels far less like he’s about to take an unwelcome dip into the ocean and far more like he’s going to remain nice and warm and dry.

“Um,” he stares at Scott for a moment longer. “Can I, uh, can I come in? Or,” he allows himself to trail off, still watching Scott. The crown certainly suits him, at least, even though the pinkish-orange colour of the coral is not something he’d ever have considered to go well with cyan.

“You abandoned me,” Scott says, frowning. The sadness in his voice is incredibly fake, truly, no one would be buying it. But Martyn has to make a good impression, because this is his only chance at an alliance, and Scott is definitely a good choice for a teammate.

“I didn't abandon you,” he protests.

Scott ignores him. “You came to the coral isles, and then you left.”

“I didn't wanna kill you!” He protests, throwing his arms out. When Scott doesn't try to interrupt him, he continues. “I was already the boogey at that point, yeah, yeah, well done, you guessed it. Whatever. And then you were in the TIES’ hole, and I attempted to kill you, and if you attempt to kill someone then you don't immediately go crawling back to them and ask for an alliance! You leave them to cool down, to work out their frustration for a few hours, and then you come to grovel.”

“You're grovelling right now?” Scott raises an eyebrow. “I've seen better grovelling from a dehydrated plant.”

“Now that’s just hurtful, man.” He presses a hand to his chest. “And I am grovelling, I said sorry.”

“No you didn't.”

“I'm sorry,” he tries. “For, uh, trying to kill you- but in my defence! I was almost out of time, and there was a big group, and I was almost certain that the TNT would have gotten them.”

“It would have, if you threw all of it in at once.” Scott crosses his arms. “Throwing in just one, right after you lit the fuse too, Martyn, means that they had the time to react and then huddle, so the other ones didn't do anything.”

“So, what? I should just hang onto the TNT until it’s about to explode?” He’d have probably blown himself up if he’d done that- he can hardly remember anything from that panic-filled haze, so he doubts his planning skills were actually being used at any point.

“Yes.” Scott says, then sighs. “But I get it,” he shrugs as he turns away, “you were panicked, there’s a lot of pressure. I took out the first person I saw.” Martyn follows after Scott as he moves a little closer to the centre of the island, unsure whether he’s actually welcome to stay here or if Scott’s just humouring him.

“So,” he decides to break the ice, trailing behind Scott. “Can, can I move in?” He scuffs his feet against the ground, and Scott turns at his question. Scott frowns, lips pursed as he looks him up and down again.

“You're wanting to be a coral kid?” Scott asks. He sounds almost…pleasantly surprised.

“Okay, uh,” he laughs, “maybe not a coral kid,” Scott frowns a little deeper, “but I've come back with ideas- name ideas, okay? You know, I've been out and about, travelling the world,” the tiny little world they're confined in for the foreseeable future. “Uh,” he scrambles to keep talking, taking a few steps back from Scott, away from the small area he has set up in the middle of the island. Scott doesn't follow after him, propping a hip against the crafting bench. “I'm older, I'm wiser. I'm smarter,” he nods to himself, glancing back at Scott.

Scott seems to be mildly amused by him, head tilted at a slight angle as he watches him talk, smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I've got some name suggestions,” he finishes, giving a little jazz hands as Scott continues to stare at him. He’s got that same eyeshadow on again, glinting around the corners of his eyes. Maybe it’s his new thing for this iteration of the games- people try new things all the time.

“Okay,” Scott drags the word out, but he gestures for him to continue. Martyn is absolutely going to get to stay on this island, thank god.

“Alright,” he rocks forward onto the balls of his feet before rocking back again, “so, obviously, there’s coral kids.” Scott nods his head, “Not too bad, but, you know, I think it makes us sound kinda like pushovers? Uh,” he thinks for a moment, “next one on the list honestly isn't that great either, though, so, damp dudes? Feeling that one?”

Scott clicks his tongue, leaning back on the crafting bench a little further, before shaking his head. “Nope, don't enjoy that one.”

“Alright,” that wasn't his best one, but better to lead with his worst because they can only get better from here on out. Hopefully. “Seeing as this isn't really much of an ocean,” and it isn't, “how about puddle pals?”

“No,” Scott’s response is immediate. “Puddle feels even less,” Scott pulls a face and Martyn gets the message.

“Okay.” Maybe he should have written them all down in a list. He’d spent most of last night brainstorming ideas, hoping to put himself on Scott’s right side and gain a teammate if he can impress him with a team name. “So, I was imagining leather jackets for this next one- like the bad boys’ jackets,”

“You know Jimmy just stole his from Tango, right?” Scott’s grinning, leaning forward a little.

“Really?” He blinks, thinks about it for a moment, then, “Yeah, that makes sense. Timmy doesn't seem like the kind to own a jacket more of a-”

“Denim guy, yeah.” Scott nods his head along, hair falling in front of his eyes before Scott brushes it back again. Martyn finds himself watching Scott for a moment too long before he averts his eyes again, moving a little further around the island. Scott swings his legs over the crafting table to watch him go.

“Alright, us in leather jackets: sons of beaches.” Scott doesn't say anything in response to that one, and when Martyn turns around the other is just staring at him, apparently slightly lost for words. He laughs a little, more out of nervousness at Scott’s silence.

“It’s, hm,” Scott pauses to think. “It’s better than the other two, but, uh.”

“Alright, alright. I've still got a few more,” he nods, even though his list is very rapidly running a little short. “I know you like the film Mean Girls,” Scott nods at that, “so what about Mean Shells?”

Scott tips his head to the side, still staring at Martyn. He stares for long enough, apparently lost enough in thought, that Martyn begins to feel a little flustered beneath Scott’s undivided attention. The green of the man’s eyes is far too intense compared to their normal blue, and it freaks him out. Just a bit.

“I like it,” Scott says, “but I don't know if people will get that reference.” Scott pulls a face, “Mean Gills, would’ve been-”

“Mean Gills!” He bounces a little in place, pointing at Scott and nodding. Scott looks a little taken aback by his enthusiasm, but smiles after a moment anyway. “Yeah, yeah! You've nailed that one there. Mean Gills,” he repeats to himself.

“Did you have any more?” Scott asks.

“Only a couple. What about beauty and the beach?”

“Okay,” Scott nods, “do like that. But which one of us is going to be the beauty and which one of us is gonna be the beach? Because I can tell you right now which one I don't want to be.”

“Oh yeah, alright. What about santa’s little kelpers?” He grins, quite proud of that one.

Scott looks rather unimpressed. “Bit too seasonal.”

“You're a harsh critic, Smajor.” He laughs, “Big buoys? Like, spelt like the, the floating things? B-U-O-Y-S.”

Scott shakes his hand back, side to side. “I think the bad boys would get annoyed with us there, encroaching on their territory and all that. And like, they might be bad at these games, but they've also got full diamond and enchanted armour, so I don't really want to go around annoying them, yeah? Trying not to make enemies just yet.”

“Sal-men?” He tries. His list is dwindling now, though Scott is cracking a smile at a few of these, so it’s not a total loss.

“Oh, no,” Scott shakes his head. “I've had a whole,” he gestures with a flippant hand, “salmon fiasco in the past. Let’s not go there.”

“LGB-Sea?” He says. “Like, like S-E-A?” He laughs a little, because it was a rather bad joke on its own really, but Scott seems to find it funny too because he’s laughing as well, leaning forward on his makeshift seat as he giggles.

“I like the-” Scott laughs again. “LGB-Sea is great.”

“Alright, alright, last one, and maybe we should just lock this one in straight away because I like this one: H-Two-Bros.”

“H-Two-Bros is great,” Scott’s lips are quirked up in a smile, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he smiles, that blue eyeshadow flashing in the light again. “But I'm kinda torn between that and mean gills.” Scott’s eyes then widen a little. “Not that either of us have gills, though,” he laughs, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “That would be ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” his eyebrows crinkle together. “Neither of us have gills. But we’re going for the ocean-y fish theme, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scott nods, “why don't we get Pearl’s opinion on this?”

Pearl’s? The question is half-formed on his tongue before Pearl pops out of the water, spraying it everywhere. Scott is halfway across the island a moment later, looking rather like a startled cat even though he was the one that requested Pearl join them.

Pearl then shakes like a dog, hair and water flying everywhere, hitting him as well. He winces as a stray chunk of hair hits him in the face. He backs up a few steps, away from the edge of the island and the danger zone that is currently surrounding Pearl.

“Ask me what?” She asks, rather cheery.

“We’re choosing a name for the people on this island,” Martyn gestures between him and Scott, who is yet to return from his corner of scared cat-ness. “And we’ve got two contenders currently: Mean Gills and H-Two-Bros.”

“I like Mean Gills better, it’s kinda cute.” Pearl laughs.

The conversation devolves from there, and before he knows it he’s rummaging around in his inventory to find a few bits of gunpowder and handing them over to Pearl. “I cremated her.” He says with a smile, watching as Pearl’s eyes widen slightly, glancing up at him, then back down at the gunpowder.

“I'm leaving,” she says, voice high-pitched. “This is not,” she shakes her head, hopping back into the ocean. She doesn't emerge until she’s several feet away from the island, water splashing as she kicks her way towards the next body of land.

“I don't know what she wanted me to say!” He laughs, though it’s a poor defence, really. Scott laughs a little as well, moving back towards the centre of the island now that Pearl has left. Scott didn't seem to hold any ill will towards Pearl, so Martyn doesn't understand why he avoided her so clearly. “She wants her dead dog from the last games, I don't have anything for her!”

“You could've saved that until she gave me the grass,” Scott frowns. “We only have a little bit now.”

“Eh, it’ll spread in no time.” He assures.

=== === ===

IV.

His hourglass is beginning to come together nicely, even with only the barebones of the structure constructed so far. The chest of resources he’s gathered for this mini project sits a few feet behind him, lid swung open so he doesn't have to keep opening it whilst building.

Scott sits on the small deck chair he’s built for himself, leaning back in it and watching him build. He had been wearing sunglasses, up until the point where Martyn had pointed out that he looked like one of the bad boys and he’d taken them off rather quickly after that.

He’s squinting against the sun as he watches Martyn build, still wearing that eyeshadow despite only getting up half an hour earlier. Martyn hadn't even seen him put it on, but it had been there as soon as he was up, so he must have put it on at some point.

Not that he noticed it immediately. He’s taken to watching Scott recently, but he’s not been staring at his eyes. His eyes might look rather nice, but that doesn't mean Martyn is caught up in staring at them all the time.

“See something you like?” Scott tips his head to the side, eyes still squinted mostly shut. Scott then stretches out on the deck chair, raising one arm above his head. He even winks, just to add to the effect.

“Not really,” he snorts, turning back to his hourglass. He still needs to add most of the glass to it, and that’s definitely going to be the most time-consuming part of this whole affair; he’s going to have to make sure he doesn't bend any of the glass too far and shatter it- why did he decide to build this again? It’s hardly going to be functional and Scott’s beach house is plenty large enough for the two of them. Their beds are side by side in there, too, and he’s not going to be moving out of there any time soon. “Keep dreaming, Scott.”

Scott hums behind him, and he can feel the other man’s eyes on him as he rummages through the chest, collecting as much glass as he can comfortably hold.

“Make sure you don't bend it too far,” Scott says as he starts to place the glass into its frame. “It’s an inflexible material and it will just shatter if you bend it too far.”

“Thanks for that, Scott. I am well aware.”

“Just making sure!” When he looks back Scott’s got his hands raised in surrender, drink held in one of them- when did he get a drink? He stares at Scott for a moment, and Scott stares back at him, before taking a sip from his drink. Where did he even get a straw from? Did he bring it with him?

…Honestly, he can see Scott doing exactly that for a moment like this.

“I just don't want to be the one cleaning you up if you manage to slice your hand open on some of the glass.” Scott shrugs, drink sloshing dangerously against the side of his glass. Scott seems to realise this, jerking the drink away from him hurriedly, before grinning at Martyn.

“I'm hardly going to slice my hand open on the glass,” he snorts. “What do you take me for, some kind of idiot?”

“Just remember that I dated Jimmy for a while, okay?” Scott says. Martyn takes his momentary distraction to slot a few of the glass panes in without any judgement or commentary. He’s all for ribbing at someone, but Scott takes it to an entirely new, rather impressive, level. “Love the guy, he’s great, but he was rather accident prone. I'm just making sure you don't hurt yourself.”

“Giving me the boyfriend treatment, Smajor?” He calls back, picking up the next piece of glass, bending it ever so slightly, careful with the amount of force he applies as he begins slotting it into its place.

“If you want, I've been told I'm rather good.”

The glass breaks in his hands, unable to withstand the sudden increase in pressure from his grip. And, hm. He stares down at his hands, brain not quite registering the pain yet, only that there is a lot of red. Probably a bit more than there should be.

“Scott?” He calls, not turning back around. Scott hasn't made any quip about him breaking the glass, so Martyn doubts he actually heard the glass breaking.

“Yeah,” Martyn can hear the rattling of ice against glass.

“Can you get tetanus from glass?” He asks. The pain is beginning to filter through his system, overtaking the shock and adrenaline of moments later to begin stinging. And then burning, a little.

“Uh,” Scott goes silent for a moment. “I don't think so?”

“That’s good.” He nods along. That is quite a bit of blood, and he thinks he might be going a bit light-headed from the blood loss. “You gotta promise not to make fun of me, alright?”

“I am not promising that.” Scott says. He can hear someone standing up. “Turn around, Martyn.”

He does, not sure what else to do. Scott is only a few inches from him when he turns around, and it’s enough to make him startle. Scott frowns at him for a moment- and they're both far closer than they've been during Martyn’s small stay here, and he can see the eyeshadow up close now, and it almost looks like-

“What did I tell you?” Scott interrupts his thoughts, and he snaps back into focus, slightly.

“Lots of things.”

“About the glass,” Scott stresses, grabbing his hand and shaking that as well a moment.

“Oh, yeah, don't bend it.”

“And what did you do?” Scott asks.

“Bend it?” He responds. “Look, man, I just wanna sit down, alright? I'm not…feeling great.”

“Yeah, no shit, Martyn. Look at this!” He shakes Martyn’s hand around a little, fingers smearing with blood. “This is why we don't play around with glass.”

“It’s your fault, anyway.” He frowns at Scott. “You surprised me.”

“I surprised you.” Scott deadpans. “And so it’s my fault.”

“Exactly.” He tries to point at Scott, but Scott is still holding one of his wrists, so the movement is far less confident and smooth than he had been hoping it would be.

“God, you're worse than Jimmy.” Scott drags a hand down his face. And his hand had blood on it, meaning he’s just smearing blood over his face. “How are you worse than Jimmy?”

“I take offence at that.”

“You can take offence at it when you're not about to pass out at the sight of some blood.”

“I'm not about to pass out,” he scoffs. Or tries to. He doesn't actually know how convincing it is, because everything sounds like it’s underwater. “It’s the blood loss.”

“You have not lost enough blood to feel dizzy.” Scott tells him, still gripping his wrist. “You're just squeamish.”

“Am not.” He tugs at the grip Scott’s got on him. “No way I’d have made it through so, so many of these games if I was squeamish.” It’s the blood loss- the same blood loss that is making the world spin around him like everything just’s been cranked up really high on speed, and his eyes ache with it.

“Martyn,” Scott sighs, but his voice is really muffled, and, wow, is that the ocean? The water is always super warm around here, he’s pretty sure it’s because of the biome they're in, but he always enjoys it. It’s like a slightly colder than usual bath- still warm but not too warm.

And it’s just as warm this time as he sinks into it, breath escaping him in a bubbly sigh.

There’s a loud splashing sound above him, and he squints his eyes open, but the saltwater makes everything blurry, and his eyes hurt already, so he squints them shut again. Something grabs at his arm, yanking him upwards.

And he resists, because this water is really warm and nice, and he actually rather likes it, really. Whatever is dragging him around, though, doesn't seem to care what he thinks, but he’s unceremoniously pushed onto dry land a moment later.

He breathes in, coughing a little and squinting his eyes open to watch as he coughs up water. His throat feels dry and scratchy, and his vision is still blurry. Blurry enough that he can't see much beyond vague shapes and colours.

Something moves in front of him, a little water lapping at his fingers as he opens his eyes a little more to try and get a better look at the- whatever it is in front of him. There’s a flash of deep blue, and then the whatever-it-was thing is gone. Huh.

Something flicks him on the forehead, and he blinks his eyes open again, finding that he’s lying on something far softer than the dirt ground, and blinking up at Scott. Scott is staring down at him, eyes flicking over his face, before he leans back so there’s more than just an inch of space between them.

“Good to see you're awake.” Scott says.

“When did I fall asleep?” He asks, going to push himself up, only to wince when sharp pain lances through his hand. He hisses beneath his breath, easing his weight off that hand.

“You didn't.” Scott smiles at him, but it’s the kind of smile someone wears when they're trying to hold back a laugh. “I didn't know you were squeamish.”

“I'm not.”

“Then why did you pass out at the sight of blood?” Scott asks, head tilting to the side. The bandages around Martyn’s fingers make them feel thick and clumsy, and the pain that sparks through his palm every time he flexes them is enough to stop him from moving that hand too much. “Sounds like you're pretty squeamish to me.”

“I'm not.” He protests, though his attempts seem to be in vain because Scott has actually started laughing at him now.

“Mhm,” Scott nods. “Seems like your hourglass is going on hiatus for a short while.”

“Ugh,” he lets his head drop back to the pillow, staring up at the sky. It’s cloudless. “Did I fall in the water?” He asks, after a moment.

“Yes, why?”

“My clothes feel all…disgusting.”

“Well, I didn't wash them for you. I'm not your personal servant.” Scott pokes him on the arm, just hard enough to hurt.

“Never said you were,” he rubs at his arm absently, frowning at Scott. “Did you see any big fish while I was attempting to drown myself?”

“Big…fish?” Scott’s back has gone a little stiff, and he looks down at Martyn with confusion.

“Yeah, kinda blue-y. Didn't see it for long, but.” He shrugs, which is actually a lot more difficult to do lying down than he thought it would be.

“No, I didn't see anything like that.”

“Hm.” Is all Martyn says in response. He doesn't buy it for one moment, but Scott’s stiffer than a stick of bamboo, and he knows when to leave well enough alone. “Alright then.”

=== === ===

He wakes up to something that is very much so silence, but there was also definitely something that just woke him up- something that was not silence. But it’s dark, and the moon is just past a new moon, meaning he is blind and left scrambling around in the dark for a light source that might reveal what just made a noise and then abruptly stopped making noise.

He fumbles around for a few moments longer, attempting to find a light source- any kind will do, really, he just wants to be able to see rather than scramble around helplessly and hope that it’s not someone come to kill him. Oh god, he hopes it’s not someone come to kill him.

He manages to find a torch eventually, hands closing tightly around it, before he begins another search for something to light it with. It takes him several more long and painful moments to find something to light it with. Because it is dark, and he is blind.

When he does light it, he almost expects to find someone looming over him, before unseen in the darkness now brought into the light and silhouetted by the moon before they kill him where he sleeps. But the torch doesn't light up any ominous figure, and it doesn't reflect off of any weaponry either.

He relaxes a little, laughing to himself slightly as he slumps down into his bed. He’s careful to keep the torch away from his bedsheets, as he’d rather not accidentally set himself on fire. He’s had enough accidents in the past few days, and his hand is still sore and tender from his most recent stunt.

But he still hasn't found whatever it was that woke him up in the first place- and it wouldn't have been the bamboo or sugarcane shaking in the breeze either, because he’s gotten used to the quiet sounds they make when the breeze leaps over the water and towards them- hard not to get used to them when he’s constantly surrounded by the sound.

The sound of the waves against the edges of the island also hadn't bothered him beyond the first night, where he’d had to cover his ears with his pillow because he just couldn't sleep and the waves didn't stop. But he can tune them out easily now, and it becomes just another part of the background noise of their island.

He laughs a little to himself as he continues to look around, because he is being far, far, too paranoid for his own good, really. No one has even gone red yet! It’s way too early for someone to be red, and the next boogeyman hasn't even been picked yet. So, really, the only thing he’s got to worry about is Skizz. And he highly doubts Skizz is going to make a trip over to their base in the middle of the night to murder him in his sleep. Especially when Scott is right next to him and it would be two-versus-one-

Or, it would be, if Scott was currently in his bed. Which he’s not. The bedsheets are pushed down to the bottom of the bed, lying in a crumpled heap that is a far cry from the way Scott normally makes his bed (Martyn’s convinced Scott does it just to shame him into making his bed as well. Which won't work! It’s been tried before, and it’s not going to start working now, of all times).

But the bed has obviously been slept in, which Martyn also knows because they’d gone to bed at the same time after putting the campfire out. Martyn had chucked a bucket of water over it for good measure, aware of how easily the fire could spread to the grass and then they’d be toast - literally.

He does a cursory glance around the island, holding the torch up a little higher as he peers around. But it’s not a very big island, and the only potential hiding spots are behind his hourglass (which is see-through) and behind the chests (which is just dumb). And Scott is nowhere to be seen, even as Martyn looks around again, in case he missed something on his first sweep.

But the results remain the same, and Scott is nowhere to be seen. But, when he presses a hand to Scott’s bed, it’s still warm, meaning he can't have been gone for very long. Which also means that Scott moving about was probably what woke him up in the first place.

The circumstances are still odd, but Scott has had multiple chances to let him die over the past few days, so he’s feeling rather secure in their alliance right now.

Scott’s mysterious disappearance aside, he’s awake now, and rather unlikely to go back to sleep anytime soon. Especially as Scott is still gone, and he probably won't be able to relax until the other returns. Safety in numbers, and all that. If it’s just him on his own, he’s much more vulnerable to an attack, but if Scott’s here, then there’s two of them, and they can both make sure the other doesn't die in a stupid way.

And he might also be a little worried.

Sue him! His teammate disappears in the middle of the night without so much as a word, a note, or even a private message to let him know where he’s gone. Instead, he’s left on an island in the pitch dark with no knowledge about his teammate’s whereabouts.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, shuffling towards where he’d kicked his sandals off earlier. The sound of his feet against the wooden boards is barely audible. He slips the sandals on easily, stepping down onto the grass a moment later, beginning to putter around their area.

Some of the sugar cane has grown tall enough to be harvested, and so he chops a few of the stems, bundling them together in one hand as he moves onto the next plant, repeating the process. Once he has enough sugarcane that he can't carry any more, he meanders over to their chests, dumping the sugarcane inside, organising it slightly so Scott doesn't complain about it in the morning.

He goes back over to the next section of sugarcane that has grown enough, cutting the stems again, repeating until he can't carry anymore. He returns to the chest with his second load. He doesn't return to cutting the sugarcane after that, mainly because there isn't any more sugarcane to cut, but also because Scott isn't back yet, and he’s beginning to get more than a little worried about his wellbeing.

He sits at the edge of their island, in a small gap he’s created in the bamboo and sugarcane, for easy access for boats from the rear of the island- perfect for a quick escape if they ever needed to make one.

He allows his legs to trail through the water, kicking them back and forth, watching as it laps at his knees, the waves breaking before they reach the very edge of the island. The water is as warm as it always is, just a little bit cooler than a hot bath, but it’s darker than it usually is as well.

During the day, the waters are a crystalline blue, allowing them to see to the very bottom. He’s spent more than a few hours sat watching the wildlife dart in and out of the coral, tracking the shimmering shoals of fish that make their slow way through the coral reef.

He can hardly see the coral now, only vague shapes clustered together, some of them stretching up higher than the others. He can't see anything swimming between the bits of coral, but that doesn't mean that there’s nothing down there- there is almost certainly something that he can't see.

Even the faint glow of the sea pickles is hardly enough to light up the seabed, only a small pool of light around each one that’s so dim he can hardly see it.

He continues to sit there, ignoring thoughts of something swimming up and grabbing his ankle to pull him into the depths- there’s not going to be anything large enough to do that to him, and a small clownfish isn't going to be big enough to eat him, even if it tries its very best.

The water is soothing, at least, and he allows himself to stare at the small ripples, forgetting about his worry for a brief moment.

At least, he manages to forget about it until he sees something move out of the corner of his eye. He freezes, hands twisting into the grass at his side, threatening to uproot it. He watches as the shape moves, glittering scales outlining the apparent size of the thing.

It’s…large. Very big. Easily half the length of their entire island, if not a bit over. And things that big are hardly ever herbivores. And it is with that thought that he rather hurriedly pulls his legs out of the water, standing up. He doesn't move away from the edge, though, watching as the shimmering scales- bioluminescent, his brain reminds him, continue to circle around the island, almost lazily, before disappearing from sight.

He swallows, brain flashing to all worst-case scenarios. All of which involve him still being stood at the edge of the island when that…whatever it was reappears.

He backpedals, maybe a little hastily, and it might be stupid to feel a little safer when he’s back in his bed, sandals kicked off at the bottom of it. But Martyn has long since accepted that he might be a little stupid.

That feeling of safety doesn't help him get much sleep, though. But he must have fallen asleep at some point, because when he wakes up Scott is back, and he’s handing him a mug of coffee almost immediately- and Scott is definitely a godsend at times like this, he can't even deny it.

He doesn't ask where Scott went the previous night, and Scott doesn't offer any explanations. He also puts the sea monster (he is perfectly justified in calling it that! He doesn't know what it is!) out of his mind as best as he can.

And his best is almost good enough for him to completely forget about it

=== === ===

VI.

In all honesty, he had expected Scott’s suspicious behaviour to have more of a dramatic conclusion to it- something that would be shocking and just! Something different from what actually happened, at least. Because the way it happened is possibly the most stupid way Martyn has found out someone’s big and terrible secret (and he’s discovered several big secrets, each of which had far more explosive endings than this one did).

He pushes the door open with his shoulder, both of his arms full of the logs Martyn had left to collect because they were running low, and he rather enjoys their evenings around the fire with nothing but the crackling flames between them, which cast a rather complimentary light onto Scott’s face and makes the eyeshadow he wears glow even brighter than normal.

He makes direct eye contact with Scott, and Scott stares back at him. Scott is dripping wet, arms braced on the edge of their grassy island and in the process of hauling himself up. Scott is staring at him, and Martyn continues to stare back at him. Scott is covered in scales, deep blue scales that are really quite familiar-

Scott disappears with a small splash. Martyn drops the logs, not really caring if they land on the island or roll merrily into the water, instead sprinting over to the other side of the island and dropping to the ground, peering down into the water, hoping to catch any glimpse of Scott.

There’s a flash of blue scales between two things of coral, and he spares about a second to think through his idea before he’s kicking his sandals in and dropping his jacket off. He hesitates for a millisecond after that, and then simply dives in, plunging beneath the surface.

The one thing he appreciates about this biome is that the water is never a cold shock. The worst part about diving into water is always the cold shock, but the water here is warm, meaning he doesn't have to regather his bearings before he starts swimming after Scott.

It takes him a few seconds to realise that there is absolutely no way he’s going to catch up with Scott when the man is some kind of aquatic hybrid adapted for swimming. And he’s struggling to catch up with the other man for god’s sake.

He swims between the pieces of coral he had seen Scott swim between, ignoring the burn that’s beginning in his lungs, glancing around and squinting for any flicker of scales that would betray Scott’s whereabouts.

Something grabs him from behind, and he thrashes around for a moment, bubbles spilling from his mouth, and he almost inhales again on instinct before realising that he’s underwater, and that he definitely can't breathe underwater.

He breaks the surface, gasping for air as the grip on his arm remains iron, keeping him afloat as he regains his breath. He hadn't even realised his vision had started greying out a little until it began to clear up.

“Man,” he laughs. “I have gotta stop drowning myself, huh?”

“You are so incredibly stupid!” Scott responds, voice growling as he yells at him. “What the hell were you even thinking?”

“Wasn't, really.” He would shrug, but he’d also rather not accidentally submerge himself again, so he settles for a grin.

“I just-” Scott cuts himself off, shaking his head. It’s then that Martyn really gets an opportunity to take Scott in, eyes drifting over his face, taking in every small detail. He can see now, closer, that the eyeshadow that decorates the edges of Scott’s eyes isn't actually eyeshadow and is instead small scales. Scales which now spread to cover his cheeks and nose like some kind of freckle. Like, deep blue freckles.

In contrast, the fins at the side of his head are an orange-pink, fluttering slightly in agitation as they fan open before snapping shut again. The membrane of them is thin enough that he can see the sunlight filtering through them, making them almost glow.

“Huh.” He says, which is apparently enough to get Scott’s attention.

“Are you even listening to me?” Scott asks, and, huh, he didn't know Scott could growl like that.

“Not really,” he says. “I'm more caught up in your whole.” He gestures, because he doesn't really have words for what he’s thinking or feeling right now.

Scott’s eyes narrow and he pulls the arm supporting Martyn back, meaning he has to work to keep his head afloat. He reaches out for Scott again, grabbing onto his shoulders- and, oh wow, he’s not wearing a shirt. Like, at all. Huh.

He stares at Scott’s chest, and the scales covering large parts of it. They glint in the sunlight, wet from the water, which only makes them shine even more. They're smooth beneath his hand, and he finds himself rubbing a thumb back and forth over Scott’s shoulder without even thinking about it.

“Martyn,” Scott’s voice is half-strangled as he speaks, and when Martyn looks back at his face, away from the tail he had just noticed, he finds that Scott’s fins are pressed flat against his head, face faintly pink.

“Ah, sorry.” He stops rubbing his thumb over the scales on Scott’s shoulder, even though the pink flush of his face is really quite pretty- and. He’s not going to think about that one too hard, actually.

“It’s fine they're just,” Scott clears his throat, “sensitive.” One of Scott’s hands comes to rest beneath his elbow, supporting him a little more. “Aren't you a little- y’know, unnerved?”

“By what?”

“The whole scales and fishtail thing?” Scott quirks an eyebrow. “Normally people run screaming the other way.”

“I was more worried you were gonna freak out, honestly.” Martyn confesses. You looked a bit stressed before you just ducked back under.”

“Well, I am fine.” Scott clears his throat again, glancing away. “As lovely as this conversation is, I’d rather not be caught looking like this.”

“Why not? You look quite nice, honestly.”

“I- what?” The pink flush staining Scott’s cheeks is only barely visible beneath the scales covering most of them, but the scale-less parts of his neck and shoulders have turned pink as well.

“Aw, c’mon, Scott,” he leans a little closer, which isn't actually all that hard with their current positions. “You've been flirting with me for several days now, don't think I didn't notice.”

“I am a fish, Martyn.” Scott deadpans. “I am a literal fish and you're still absolutely onboard with this.”

“Absolutely still onboard with this, besides.” He rubs his thumb over Scott’s shoulder again, summoning his confidence with the action as he leans a little closer, close enough for their noses to brush. “You look really quite lovely right now- I thought you were wearing some really nice eyeshadow this whole time, and instead it’s these wonderful scales.”

“Martyn, stop, you're being ridiculous.”

“Aw, Scott.” He frowns as Scott pushes him away.

“I am not kissing you while we’re both in the middle of the ocean.” Scott says. “Also you stink of sweat.”

“I do not!”

“Yes, you do.” Scott pats him on the cheek. “You've been chopping trees all morning, and you're definitely flattering me right now; but I also have standards, and those standards include not kissing people that smell of sweat.”

“You're so rude to me, and after I was so nice to you.”

“I’ll be nice to you once you don't smell of sweat, dear.”

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mothpawbs · 1 year

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edit: yooo part 2 is out go look at it!!

royal gals from arc 1! i used this as a way to further illustrate and explore my fashion headcanons, and i love how these turned out. design notes under the cut!

CORAL: i wanted her to look deceptively kind and bubbly, so i tend to draw her big and round like a whale. two inspiration for her design are king dorephan from breath of the wild and granmamare from ponyo. i give her a big coral crown and pearl jewelry. she has a lot of teardrop shapes bc she's probably sad about a lot of things

GLACIER: my favorite queen <3 i wanted her to look regal and no-nonsense but kind. with the exception of her crown, most of her accessories are very sleek and minimalistic. and of course i had to give her glasses because i'm obsessed with giving dragons glasses. i can't decide if the spikes on that crown are opal or enchanted ice, but the studs are black tourmaline.

SCARLET: the og bad bitch!! i love designs that make her look like the world's scariest, swankiest peacock, and the animated wings design was a huge inspiration here. her face markings are meant to look like a helmet. the mail vest she's wearing here is more for show than protection, an ostentatious piece she wears around the palace rather than something she'd don in battle. this is generally the fit i imagine she would wear to court sessions and arena matches.

MOORHEN: i would love to know more about her tbh. i like the colors i gave her, i think the shades of brown work really well together. the cord around her neck represents her sibs, the knot having four coils to symbolize each of them. she has agate embeds all over her, with the majority on her horns, wings, and wrists/ankles. i imagine she has tattooed wing membranes as well.

GRANDEUR: i wanted to make her look regal and positively ancient, and i think i succeeded well enough. her frill shape vaguely matches glory's, as well as her affinity for orange and gold color accents. the flowers are based on tropical rhododenrons.

BATTLEWINNER: ooo she was fun. basically no opportunity for fashion, as i'm sure anything she'd try to wear would burn or melt in her lava bathtub, but i got to do some fun scarring on her. her snout is all scratched up, one of her horns broke off at some point (i imagine that happened during her throne challenge, and that nightwings spar with their horns like rams or deer. she probably got slammed into a wall or something) and her ears are all kinds of shredded. any water vapor around her face and neck tends to solidify into ice, building up into big sparkly icicles over time.

#digital art #mag art #wof #wings of fire #royalty #queen coral #queen glacier #queen scarlet #queen moorhen #queen grandeur #queen battlewinner #seawing #icewing #skywing #mudwing #rainwing #nightwing #character design

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1anxiousbeancrying · 16 days

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Life series scott headcanon!

Ever since empires season 1 I have been obsessed with deer boi Scott. All the fanart I saw looked awesome so he's been I deer in my head ever since. So hears a fun little life series headcanon because I see way too much Scott hate.

I kinda feel like deer Scott kinda works for the life series (apart from limited life obviously), because Scott for some reason has extremely good hearing, especially in last life, he was able to figure out that impulse, mumbo, and grian were breaking into his base because he heard someone breathe while mid conversation with pearl, deers have extremely good hearing because to make up for bad eye sight.

Another thing is that deers are extremely skittish and cautious. Scotts main thing in near enough every series at this point is that he runs away from his problems, and this happens a lot in the life series. Scott is also one of the most cautious players which is why he survives so long.

I also saw someone a while ago for double life draw pearl as the wolf and Scott as the deer and it worked so well in my brain.

I remember during limited life a lot of people drew the coral growing on Scott as antlers (sometimes a crown) and it made me very happy so I came up with stages for green to red life Scott in other life series.

Green:

They would be small and hard to see just kinda poking out of his hair, would probably have another prong through.

Yellow:

Probably not this big but quite a bit larger than they were, they would still have the velvet on at this point.

Red: blood warning kinda

Red life Scott shedding the velvet would be kinda terrifying since it kinda is for actually deers. They lose the velvet and the antlers become sharp and dangerous also the red would match the life. He also absolutely has one of those long tails you see in media.

#scott smajor #grian #life series #secret life #last life #double life #limited life #pearlescentmoon #mumbo jumbo #impulsesv

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thereadingchallengechallenge · 2 years

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Review: Kingdom of Sea and Stone by Mara Rutherford Rating: 3/5

A satisfying end to the duology but the plot did feel a bit scrambled in places and I feel like the characters could have developed a bit more. They seemed to keep having the same arguments over and over through the bulk of the story and then, once the villain was defeated, everyone seemed to be just fine with everything and there was no attempt to wrap up loose ends. The main plot was wrapped up, sure, but the characters' individual journeys weren't and that leaves a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach at the end of a series.

#kingdom of sea and stone #crown of coral and pearl #mara rutherford #booklr #bookblr #trcc original #3 star reads #reviews #spring of the series

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atlaculture · 7 months

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Cultural Fashion: Earth King Kuei Pt. 1 - Head & Shoulders

The “Cultural Fashion” posts that no one asked for! ^_^

The Earth King’s design is inspired by the dress of Qing Dynasty emperors (1636–1912) in their royal portraits. Starting from the top: The hat worn is called a cháoguān (朝冠) in Mandarin, meaning “court hat”, and a mahala (ᠮᠠᡥᠠᠯᠠ ) in Manchu, meaning “morning crown”. This hat was only allowed to be worn by Qing emperors and members of the imperial family. The chaoguan came in two styles: one for cold weather (what the Earth King wears) and one for warm weather (pictured here).

Moving on to the neck, the little collar-cape is called a pī lǐng (披领), meaning “detachable collar”. This collar was worn by members of the imperial family, nobility, and court officials for formal occasions. The necklace is called a cháozhū (朝珠), meaning “court beads”. Traditionally, chaozhu were only allowed to be worn by Qing dynasty emperors, members of the imperial family, 1st through 5th rank imperial civil officials, and military officials above the 4th rank. The chaozhu of an emperor was typically composed of multiple valuable materials such as pearl, coral, amber, jade, and other precious stones. For animation purposes, the Earth King’s simplified chaozhu is composed exclusively of jade beads.

Fun Fact: Chaozhu were actually inspired by Tibetan prayer beads! However, they lost their religious connotation once they became adopted as court dress.

In Part 2, we’ll cover Earth King Kuei’s clothing and shoes.

Like what I’m doing? Tips always appreciated, never expected. ^_^

https://ko-fi.com/atlaculture

#avatar #atla #Avatar The Last Airbender #earth kingdom #cultural fashion

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greeenchrysanthemums · 3 months

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UPDATED list of roles for the GG rivals au

Wintertide Crown

Ren: The figure head king of Wintertide

Martyn: Ren's personal Guard + resistance mole

Gem: Commander of the royal army

Scott & Impulse: Gem's right-hand men and good friends + Royal Knights

Skizz: Combat medic + Impulse's best friend

Bdubs: Royal gardener

Resistance

Grian: Leader of the resistance

Scar: Grian's mysterious right-hand man

Mumbo: Grian's best friend + resistance engineer

Etho: Former royal knight + second resistance engineer

Cleo: blacksmith + resistance arms dealer

Tango + Jimmy: farmers who secretly supply the resistance with food and the likes

BigB: baker + resistance member

Pearl: Gem's best friend + secret resistance member + mercenary

Coral Crest

Lizzie: Queen of Coral Crest

Joel: Lizzies personal guard

#GG rivals au #hermitcraft #life series #grian #geminitay #and a lot of friends i feel bad tagging once more #skizz's role is a refrence to the heart foundation if that wasn't clear #it made sense to me

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illustratus · 1 year

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A Deep Sea Idyll by Herbert James Draper

The painting loosely combines themes from two sources. Firstly the story from ancient Greek mythology in which the sculptor Pygmalion fell in love with Galatea, one of his works, who with Aphrodite’s intervention, miraculously came to life. The story captivated artists and writers of the nineteenth-century as it provided them with subject matter infused with mystery, romance and classicism. Artists as diverse as Burne-Jones, Gérôme, Normand and Rodin, and authors such as Shaw, Tennyson, and Browning, all created their own individual interpretations on the theme. In Draper’s painting he has inverted the story and reversed the sexes, and it is the beautiful nymph who has risen from the depths and serves as the protagonist, her hair crowned with a wreath of seaweed and coral, as she offers a shell filled with pearls in supplication to the static figurehead carved into the wooden prow of the ship.

The painting is also suggestive of Hans Christian Anderson’s tale, The Little Mermaid, published in April 1837, in which a mermaid falls in love with a prince and is willing to give up her life in the ocean to gain a human soul and follow her love onto land. Tragically, as in Draper’s interpretation, the relationship cannot be fulfilled and the beautiful hero and heroine are destined to remain apart.

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vulpes-fennec · 11 months

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Calanmai's Pearl 🦪

Summary: Tarquin, High Lord of the Summer Court, participates in his first Calanmai as High Lord. Will he slip into his beast form? Who will be the lucky female?

Happy MerMay and Calanmai Month! Thank you to @thelovelymadone for the beta 💖 | Read on AO3

Warnings: Monsterfucking, Mer-males (?), Porn Without Plot

Masked fae pounded seal skin drums in perfect unison, their sonorous beats vibrating the High Lord of Summer’s very bones. Standing on the pleasure barge, with heat from the blazing torches warming his back, Tarquin gazed across the moonlit sea.

Fire Night out on the water.

His court’s magic had been severely weakened due to his confinement Under the Mountain—in fact, most of Prythian’s courts were in total shambles. Tamlin, who was the only High Lord routinely keeping up with Calanmai, had been burdened with resolving Amarantha’s curse. Tarquin couldn’t decide which was worse: not being able to renew his court’s magic, or being tasked with such tremendous duty. Last Calanmai, Amarantha had been overconfident about her impending success, and released the High Lords. But she still prevented them from partaking in the Great Rite in their home courts.

For the first time in forty-nine years, the Summer Court would celebrate Calanmai to its fullest extent. Already, the streets of Adriata were crowded with revelers, the beaches stacked with cots, blankets, and plenty of food and drink vendors. All sorts of fae would be engaging in lascivious activities—young, old, High Fae, Lesser Fae, males, females—all doing their duty to regenerate their court’s magic.

With tonight being Tarquin’s first Calanmai as High Lord, the pressure multiplied by two-fold. The Great Rite was a ritual of tantamount importance; he had done his research but still wasn’t sure what to expect. The possibility of slipping into his beast form during Calanmai stressed him out. Tarquin had never attempted the switch, and had no inkling what his beast form would even be having returned to full power only a few months ago.

He was expecting tonight to be full of surprises.

Silvery-white hair hung loosely at Tarquin’s shoulders, pulled back from his forehead with a coral crown. His dark brown skin had been massaged with an oil so fragrant, it nearly overpowered the salty brine of the sea. Beads of sea glass fanned over his collarbone from the gold necklace encircling his neck.

He was bare-chested and bare-footed, with only a knee-length swath of geometric-patterned fabric clinging to his hips. Two slits in the skirt allowed freedom of movement, something Tarquin was thankful for. What good was it to possess otherworldly sexual prowess tonight, and end up struggling with formal attire? That would certainly be a mood-killer.

The chatter of priestesses and other beautiful females in the backdrop was a constant reminder of the task to come. They mingled closely in hopes of being chosen by the High Lord for the Great Rite, but were still eager to settle for the myriad handsome Fae males on the barge.

It was time to begin. The High Priestess of the Summer Court, adorned in a two-piece navy garment, approached Tarquin and scooped up a goblet of seawater from the ocean. Her mate, a High Fae female hailing from Autumn, stood by proudly. From the heated looks and small smiles they gave each other, Tarquin could tell both females were looking forward to the revelry tonight.

Her voice rang out loud and clear as she spoke a prayer to the Mother, and a blessing for the fertility of the court.

“My lord,” she intoned, extending the goblet to Tarquin. “You may drink from the life-giving waters.”

Here in the Summer Court, the Great Rite was activated by drinking seawater, reflecting the essence of the High Lord’s power. Tarquin swallowed down not only the lukewarm salty water, but also the strong urge to cough it right back up.

Almost at once the world shifted. Tremendous power churned in the sea, an invisible wave rushing up Tarquin’s feet. The primal part of him reacted with excitement, like a surfer sighting the perfect wave. He clenched his fists. Well shit. That was the beast inside responding to magic’s call.

As if the seawater was laced with hallucinogens, the contrast between light and shadow deepend, the world pulsating with kaleidoscope color. Tarquin winced, applying pressure to his temples. There was a bellowing sound—was that him, making that noise? Tarquin ground his teeth as the assailing power rearranged his skin and bones. His legs wobbled; he could barely stand.

He couldn’t stand.

Tarquin tried to grab onto the wooden railing as his knees buckled. But he completely missed, toppling into the water instead like some inebriated drunk.

Splash! Being weightless in water only added to the disorientation. Tarquin’s lungs tightened, his blood pumping hot with adrenaline.

The surface! He had to get to the surface. He needed air. Tarquin kicked his feet trying to figure out which way was up and which way was down. His body jerked clumsily in response, causing him to glance down. Tarquin’s stomach dropped. His legs weren’t listening to him because he had…a tail.

The High Lord of Summer had transformed into a mer creature.

Gasps arose from the barge when Tarquin broke through the surface. Tarquin treaded water, struggling to familiarize himself with his new body. He had webbed fingers now, tipped with sharp nails. Those same fingers traced the edge of his abdominal v-line, where his dark skin transitioned into iridescent turquoise scales the size of large coppers.

The end of his long tail tapered into a fin of matte dusty blue. Two pelvic fins of the same color flared elegantly off his tail, like the billowing fins of a betta fish. Tarquin tested out his new appendage with a dolphin kick, flexing the muscles in his abdomen. His tail continued the fluid motion far better than his High Fae legs ever could, propelling him swiftly through the depths.

He could even breathe underwater, thanks to the two sets of gills positioned along his ribs. The slitted openings flared open and shut, allowing warm water to pass through his lungs as if it was air. And his new ears—they heard things underwater more keenly than ever. Like the clicking of crabs, the murmurs of fish. They sensed the drums’ vibrations through the water, a reminder that there was no time to waste.

Tarquin smiled, a fearsome sight now that his teeth had transformed into gleaming sharp points. In his beast form, he could be one with the sea. And as a beast, there was only one thing on his mind: the hunt for the right female.

She wasn’t on the pleasure barge.

Tarquin cut through the dark ocean with deadly stealth, following the flow of magic winding along the coast like a fish swimming down a stream. He could see perfectly well in the muddled gray water thanks to mer vision. Coral reefs buzzed with activity, with schools of fish oscillating in perfect sync and larger animals on their nightly hunts. Like a shark driven by blood, Tarquin zig-zagged between rock formations and kelp forests with powerful tail strokes and hungry maw. Find her, his instincts pressed. Take her, they said.

There it was—right there, in the waters of a moonlit cave, was where the alluring symphony of magic finished its final note.

Lanea was standing in the cave’s shallow waters when a monstrous creature twice her size erupted from the depths. She stumbled back, for the creature’s white pointy teeth were bared in a territorial hiss. A sharp intake of breath loosed from her lips, causing it—him—to snap his head towards her, eyes glowing like a cat in the dark. With those turquoise eyes, coral crown, and shoulder-length white hair…the monstrous creature could be none other than—

“High Lord?” she whispered shakily. She noted the powerful tail sending waves rolling in its wake. The small fins protruding from where his pointed Fae ears would have normally been. And the smattering of turquoise scales across his high cheekbones and down his neck. Cauldron boil her…the High Lord was mer.

Tarquin’s ferocious gaze abated slightly as he registered the female before him, with her large, wide-set yellow eyes and muted green skin. Her waist-length blue hair draped over a heart-shaped face, complete with a supple mouth, flat nose and small nostrils, and dappled white markings on her cheeks. His instincts had led him to a water nymph.

That trembling mouth was the target of his fixation as he slowly closed the distance between them. He would kiss that mouth again and again to find out what she tasted like. Maybe he would have those pretty lips wrapped around his cock before the night ended.

The white gossamer fabric that swooped loosely under her breasts and over her hips turned translucent in water, revealing long mossy green legs. What a pleasing sight. Tarquin’s tail instinctively swished with excitement.

Lanea had heard plenty of stories about Tarquin’s passionate and genuine heart in the last few months. She was even guilty of gossiping with her friends over how handsome he was.

The first time she saw her High Lord, he had been newly freed from Under the Mountain. The young male stood tall and proud as he rode down Adriata’s streets, acknowledging his people with a warm smile. Lanea had avidly cheered not just because his return signaled the end of Amarantha’s reign, but also because his kind face promised a new era for Lesser Fae like her.

But the gentle, smiling High Lord was gone. In his place was a beast simmering with primal magic, looking at her like she was a delectable thing ready to be devoured. It was Calanmai. And if she was the first female Tarquin sought out…the realization set her face aflame.

“Is this what you want?” Tarquin gritted out. His gills flared open and shut—whether it was from arousal or restraint, he did not know. It took every bit of focus to stave off his urges to bed the nymph right then and there. He needed to get a hold of himself before he scared the female off—or did something he would regret once the Great Rite’s magic wore off.

Shock and desire flitted across the nymph’s ethereal face. Fear. Lust. And then trepidation once again. He could smell her sweet arousal over the water, and he knew she could smell him too.

“Yes,” she replied in a small voice. The mer High Lord drifted closer with predatory intensity. “But—”

“But what?” Tarquin cringed internally at his impatient snarl. He was thinking with his dick, which was getting harder to ignore. He could feel it now, the foreign appendage extending from a flap of skin-and-scales in his tail, threatening to show through his skirt. The longer he gazed at the beautiful water nymph, the harder it grew.

“Why me? Why not a High Fae female?”

Right. With his courtiers and advisors deeming Lesser Fae unworthy of even sharing the same opportunities and spaces as the High Fae, it seemed that this water nymph was more anxious about social stigma than the prospect of bedding the High Lord himself.

“You know I don’t care about that,” Tarquin replied roughly. He meant it, and could only hope his sincerity went through.

A moment of silence passed. Then the female bowed her head, blue hair half-concealing her small smile.

“Then I would be honored to participate in the Great Rite.”

Lanea had some experience with the feral lust that clouded one’s senses during Calanmai, but she still bleated with shock when her High Lord closed the gap between them in two powerful strokes of his tail and pulled her into the water. The cave’s saltwater pool was deep, its waters cool. His massive hands encircled her waist, holding her close as they bobbed upright.

Lanea pressed her palms against his sculpted chest, peering up his towering form. Up close, Tarquin’s mer face was sharper. Almost cruel. And as merciless and beautiful as the sea.

They remained locked in a breathless embrace for several moments, until Tarquin’s tail swished between her legs. Its flared end and the current flowing in its wake were like a lover’s touch against her skin, making her moan. The mer’s razor sharp teeth, however, reminded Lanea that the High Lords’ beast forms were the most unchecked version of themselves. He was dangerous.

“What is your name, pretty one?” he rasped. It had been so long since Tarquin had been able to let his inhibitions go. He certainly couldn’t let his guard down while Under the Mountain, and he barely had time in his busy schedule to sleep with any females. Now that he was gripping her plush hips and hearing the little noises of pleasure wrought only from his tail, Tarquin was fighting against the animalistic urge to fuck her senseless. Breathing deeply in and out through his nose helped. A little.

“Lanea,” she answered softly. There was still doubt written across Lanea’s face regarding her suitability, so Tarquin lifted her other hand out of the water, flattening his palm against hers. Webbed fingers against webbed fingers. Shit. His sensible manners were eroding faster than a sandcastle come high tide.

“My hands look just like yours,” he said. “The magic chose you, Lanea. Don’t you see how well we would fit together?” Lanea noted the tight edge to his voice that implied they would be fitting together in other ways shortly. Tarquin’s lips pressed against hers. Gentle and sweet, which was everything she’d expected from kissing her gallant High Lord. Lanea smiled bashfully, looking down.

“Yes, my lord,” she responded obediently. Acknowledging his rank had Tarquin’s luminous turquoise eyes shifting into dark saucers of desire. As if something primal in him had snapped.

“But no more niceties.” Tarquin’s sharp nails pressed into the soft skin of her chin as he tipped her head up. His mouth curled in a sinful smile, all gleaming white teeth ready to devour like the beast he had become. “What’s a pretty female doing out on a night like this? When so many dangerous creatures are on the hunt?”

“I wasn’t expecting you to—ah!” Lanea’s words were cut short when Tarquin’s nose skimmed the side of her neck, breathing in her arousal deeply.

“You smell delicious, little nymph. And right now, you are the only one who can satiate me.” Tarquin’s teeth nipped her plush bottom lip, drawing blood. He savored the iron tang on his tongue, the taste of it only heightening his prey drive.

“H-high Lord,” Lanea whimpered as his tail swept past her calf again. She hooked her thighs around his torso, rubbing against his clothed erection. Tarquin kissed her more insistently to soothe the ache, grunting appreciatively when Lanea’s tongue delved into his mouth. Either she was courageous, or incredibly turned on if she was willing to cut his tongue on his razor sharp teeth. He swam them both into shallower waters, propping her onto a sandbar.

Lanea spread her legs instinctively, tightness pooling between her legs when she recalled how his stiff length pressed against her lower belly. Her hand seductively trailed up her thigh, bunching her flowing gown around her waist.

Fuck. Everything waist down was submerged in water, but Tarquin saw she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Her labia was the same shade of green as the rest of her skin, with a groomed tuft of dark blue hair on her mound. Tarquin’s pointed tongue swept his lips at the sight of her, splayed out before him.

“Aren’t you a beautiful thing,” Tarquin rumbled with approval as he dragged himself between her legs, his tail slightly cumbersome in the shallow water. Water dripped down the High Lord’s face, his massive frame blotting moonlight. ��Spread nice and open for your High Lord.”

The wet gown clung to the nymph’s body, inviting Tarquin to lean in and lick her pebbled nipple through the fabric. Her back arched in response, and he licked her again, drawing a pained whimper from her pretty mouth. Tarquin slit the front of her dress from neckline to waist, pushing the damp fabric aside for better access to her breasts. He would apologize later—right now, his mouth needed to taste her bare skin.

Lanea undid the knot that held Tarquin’s skirt up with trembling fingers. She’d heard stories from her adventurous cousins who dared interlope with the mer, but nothing could have truly prepared her for what she saw next.

“Beautiful,” she breathed, staring at the turquoise scales that speckled Tarquin’s abdomen, growing denser and denser as it melted into his magnificent tail.

And then she saw his cock.

Larger than that of an average Fae male, it looked like a tentacle: smooth, with the tip tapering into a pointed end instead of the round cockheads she was more familiar with. Instead of being colored pale white or pink, Tarquin’s mer cock was an earthy brown shade that matched his upper body skin tone. It was already leaking precum.

And it cast a long shadow over her body in the silvery moonlight.

Lanea gulped.

Tarquin let out a throaty chuckle. “I can’t promise to be gentle.” His sensual mouth leaned in, tickling her ear. “But I am not a selfish High Lord, and I will have you cumming for me before the night ends.”

Lanea was tempted to grasp it in her hand first, to see how a mer penis really felt, but Tarquin already positioned himself between her legs, his heavy cock running along the wet folds of her pussy. That preemptive rocking motion, with its tapered end brushing her clit underwater, was the only warning before—

“Fuck,” Tarquin bellowed—

“The Mother be with me,” Lanea gasped as her High Lord thrust himself into her with a mighty stroke. A heady sensation swept over her, heightening her five senses to the point of unbearable.

The water nymph seemed to pass out momentarily from the tsunami-like wave of pure magic slamming into both of them. Even Tarquin’s elbows shook under the weight of it—it was like regaining his powers in a sudden rush after Amarantha died all over again. He stiffened, breathing hard against the onslaught. After several moments the nymph’s pretty yellow eyes fluttered open, breasts heaving as she tried to acclimate to his cock inside her.

Tarquin withdrew, and Lanea sighed with relief. But she wouldn’t remain empty for long. Not while the essence of his court flowed through him, searching for an outlet. Tarquin bucked his hips, plunging into her again with a loud groan.

“T-Tarquin…please. It’s too much!” Lanea keened unintelligibly, her legs trembling. Was it possible to die from fucking mer cock? It was the thickest at the base, stretching her entrance just the edge of painful. Not to mention the tapered end deep inside her writhed with a mind of its own, prodding sensitive areas that had never been touched.

“Relax, sweetling” Tarquin panted, voice ragged. “You can take your High Lord’s cock, can’t you?”

Lanea nodded, eyes watering. “Y-yes, I c-c-can,” she stuttered, as Tarquin sank into her for the third time. Her body was adjusting. It did feel nice, would probably feel nicer if he was being gentle. But Tarquin was not in the mood for slow love-making. Calanmai was for fucking.

“Shit,” he growled, slamming into her again. Scales clapped against skin, the noise exaggerated by the smacking of water between them. The nymph’s back arched, his cock’s slight bulge in her lower abdomen visible even through her sodden dress. A feral sound arose from his throat at the sight. “So fucking tight. So perfect, Lanea.”

Lanea nodded dazedly, unable to comprehend her name falling from her High Lord’s lips. Her hands scrabbled for some sort of purchase on the ground, but there was only crumbling sand. That left her with no choice but to cling to Tarquin’s broad shoulders, threading her fingers through his damp white locks as he fucked her.

Raw magic, more powerful than anything Tarquin had ever known, filled every pore of his body when he withdrew from Lanea. Every thrust forward channeled the crackling energy through her form and into the water. Into the land. This—this was the true Calanmai experience.

“I’ve never—ah!” Lanea stuttered at Tarquin’s sharp nails tracing the sensitive underside of her exposed breast. The sea glass beads on Tarquin’s gold necklace clacked against each other as he moved above her. “Never f-fucked a mer before.”

“Good,” Tarquin’s voice was edged with possessiveness. “I’m the first one to fill you up, hmm? Molding you to the shape of a mer cock?”

The magic was clearly driving him wild, making the sweet-mannered High Lord say the most salacious things in her ear. But Lanea loved seeing this side of him, and even preened with satisfaction as well knowing she was the first female to experience this.

“Yes, my lord,” Lanea said, throwing her head back and allowing him access to her throat. “Please, Tarquin. I need more.”

“Good girl,” Tarquin purred as his nail swiped the curve of her breast with a touch more pressure. “Because you’re mine tonight.”

“And I’m the first female to fuck the High Lord of Summer in his beast form,” she panted through her teeth.

“Damn right you are,” Tarquin’s turquoise eyes darkened with carnal lust. “You’re taking me so well. Keep your pretty eyes on me, won’t you?” he crooned, relishing in the way the nymph’s eyes were heavy-lidded with desire, struggling to maintain eye contact as his cock burrowed into her.

His iridescent tail undulated between her legs in smooth, liquid motions that splashed the water with each rhythmic thrust. Sounds of sloshing and slapping reverberated off the cavern walls.

Tarquin could see his cock sliding in and out of her with ease, thanks to some mer secretion that provided lubricant for underwater fucking. His webbed hands dug into the soft sand as the water nymph’s delicious noises heightened his primal drive.

The more erratic his thrusts became, the more his scales chafed against her inner thighs. The nymph was reduced to a mewling and moaning mess, her blue hair and shoulders sandy, moonlight glowing on her beautiful face.

“I love the little noises you make when I fuck you,” Tarquin praised. “Go on, scream a little louder for your High Lord. No one is around to hear.”

Her walls clenched at his words, the incredible heat squeezing his cock perfectly. “Oh? Or would you prefer others to be here, watching us?” He chuckled lowly. “Such a naughty female.”

“Harder, Tarquin. Please,” Lanea begged. “I want—” his cock pounded into her. “I want them to hear how—” a loud, wet sound echoed off the walls, “how you fuck me.” She gripped his hair tightly, earning her a particularly territorial growl. “All the way in Adriata.”

Tarquin embedded himself to the hilt, drawing a loud whimper from her. He leaned in, panting. “Then scream.”

Whether it was the unique sensation of mer cock in her pussy or the headiness of the magic passing through them that caused Lanea’s eyes to roll with pleasure, she didn’t know. She didn’t care anymore. She opened her mouth and let her screams of pleasure pour forth.

Tarquin mindlessly rutted into Lanea’s heat, chasing his high as his body grew more taut with each passing second. Pleasure wrought from the snug fit of her walls traveled down the length of his mer tail, lighting up thousands of new nerves along the way.

“T-Tarquin,” Lanea half-stuttered, half-cried out. “Fuck!” The High Lord’s panting grew louder, water from his erratic thrusts spraying onto her bare chest. She could feel the upper half of Tarquin’s cock stiffening in response to her fluttering core, and braced himself for the final slam of magic.

Tarquin snarled as he came, nails digging into Lanea’s waist as he emptied himself into her warmth. The ground rumbled, the tide momentarily stilled. Blue threads of pure magic glowed on the ground, spreading from their conjoined bodies. The threads would criss-cross the land in an intricate web, signaling the completion of the Great Rite.

Now, all of the Summer Court’s inhabitants would be free to engage in a night-long orgy.

The faint buzzing sensation in his head ebbed after his climax. Tarquin extricated himself, sinking back into the water. A beseeching noise escaped Lanea’s lips at the gaping emptiness. Tarquin watched the female carefully as she sat up to regain her bearings. Her cheeks were flushed a deeper shade of green, a well-fucked look in her gold eyes.

“If you have another place to be, I cannot stop you.” Tarquin finally found his voice. She had just completed the Great Rite with the High Lord, and she likely had enough. “I am sorry if it was unpleasant. It’s my first time shifting into a mer, I’ll admit this tail is a bit unwieldy.”

Lanea only tilted her head, contemplating him with a small smile. She stood up, rearranging the torn bits of her dress.

“You’re lucky water nymphs can breathe underwater, High Lord, because there is a thing or two I’d like to explore with your mer form.” Tarquin’s grin matched Lanea’s as she waded into the water, looking every bit like a beautiful sea goddess. He gallantly held out a hand, pulling her into the deep water gently.

“I suppose I haven’t made my sweet nymph come yet,” Tarquin murmured, tucking a strand of blue hair behind her curved ear. He could feel his cock hardening again. “Good thing we have all night.”

***

Salty water sprayed Lanea’s face as she took her High Lord’s cock in her mouth. She lay on top of him in the water, her legs split open as he feasted on her from below. Mer tongue…Lanea couldn’t see it, but it felt longer and thicker than an average Fae male’s. It certainly felt better, too.

Lanea alternated between swirling her tongue from his base to his tip and bobbing her head up and down. Tarquin’s member was not as smooth as she’d initially thought—there was a ridge of small bumps that scraped the back of her throat. The entire thing was lubricated with musky precum, amplifying the wet sounds she made as she sucked his cock.

Tarquin was careful with his pointy teeth as his expert tongue lapped at her pussy, hot and insistent. Gods, the High Lord sure knew what he was doing. The snapping release in her core arrived unexpectedly. Lanea’s garbled moan around his cock sent vibrations down Tarquin’s tail once more, pushing him over the edge. His tail jerked suddenly, hot cum flooding her throat as he came in her mouth.

The nymph sagged on top of him, quivering from her climax. Both parties providing oral pleasure in the water—now this was Tarquin’s new favorite position. His sharp canines scraped her inner thigh as he smiled with male satisfaction when Lanea’s legs clamped around his head, trapping him in bliss.

Tarquin only continued his ministrations, taking his sweet time edging Lanea closer to orgasm before backing off. And again. And again.

“Prick,” he heard her hiss.

Tarquin chuckled. “I made you cum, didn’t I? Now it’s time for some fun.”

Why did Lanea ever think her High Lord was a sweet, courteous male? His wicked tongue swirling around her clit clearly indicated otherwise. Lanea’s thighs shook with sensitivity as she squirmed on Tarquin’s face. His clawed hands dug deeper into her thighs, preventing her from moving too far away.

She stroked the dusty blue fin at the end of Tarquin’s tail, marveling at the delicate softness of it. Tarquin groaned, bucking his hips abruptly. The tapered end of his cock slammed into the back of her throat; Lanea choked. Was his fin hypersensitive? Well, well, well. She now had a trick up her sleeve—two could play this game.

***

Tarquin finally rewarded her with the long-awaited climax. Lanea floated on her back, feeling like her limbs had turned into jelly. Once she got her bearings again, she realized the High Lord had disappeared. Lanea frowned, wondering if this was how he planned to leave her, even after declaring they had all night to spend together. Did she do something wrong?

Several moments passed.

“High Lord?” Lanea called out, treading water upright. Waves crashing against the mouth of the cave and the soft dripping of water were the only sounds she heard. “Tarquin?”

The upper half of her gown was in tatters, thanks to his claws from earlier, but her skirts were intact. They floated around her, like the billowing membrane of a jellyfish.

“Oh!” Lanea gasped when a feathery-light fin brushed her clit. Tarquin snuck up on her from below, his turquoise scales flashing in the depths. A webbed fin replaced the tail by caressing her thigh possessively.

So this was what the High Lord had in mind. Lanea resorted to using only her arms to tread water. A finger ran along the seam of her pussy, not once, not twice, but three times. She stifled a whimper. A mer creature, fingering an innocent swimmer…Lanea closed her eyes, allowing her imagination to take hold.

Tarquin was having the time of his life, even without the Great Rite’s magic egging him on. He dipped his finger past Lanea’s folds, slowly. He was still getting used to his new body, and didn’t want to accidentally maim her with his sharp claws. Tarquin frowned, honing his magic a little more. There; the sharp claws had been magicked away. His tail swished with delight: now the fun could truly begin.

“Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods,” came Lanea’s muffled voice from above, as Tarquin probed her pussy with his finger. In, in, in it went, until he could go no further. She was so soft, so warm. He missed having his cock buried in her already, but he wanted to play with her a bit more. Tarquin began to jerk his wrist, buoying the nymph up and down, up and down whenever he sank his finger into her.

He stroked the slightly ridged walls of her sweet cunt, relishing in the splashing vibrations Lanea created as she bounced on his hand.

Tarquin could hear her stammering a mixture of curses and pleas as he added a second finger. Sound did not travel as well between air and water, and he yearned to know what she was saying. The High Lord of Summer smiled wolfishly under water. He could be a patient male, and wring those exact words from her mouth later.

Her walls tightened around his fingers as she came.

***

They rested for a bit, lazily treading water and silently admiring the constellations that shone through the hole in the roof. Lanea ran her fingers through Tarquin’s hair, an act of intimacy she never would have dreamed possible. A companionable silence fell over them as the High Lord tucked her into his muscled arms, her back pressed against his broad chest.

***

The tender gestures from her High Lord were tossed out the window when he pounded into her from behind, wholly underwater.

When Tarquin had approached her with a length of thick kelp, Lanea couldn’t help but giggle with amusement. The High Lord of Summer was truly a male of duality. She breathed in the warm water as Tarquin pulled her down into the cave’s depths. She had allowed him to tie her hands behind her back with it, bending her torso forward and keeping her legs closed together.

Lanea’s third eyelid permitted underwater vision. Not that there was much to see, since Tarquin positioned her from behind. His mer cock thigh-fucked her with slow, luxurious strokes. Lanea let out a little moan, wiggling her hips in anticipation.

“Behave,” she heard him growl, lightly tapping her bare ass.

“It’s not fair of you to tease me. We need a mirror in here,” she had commented as nonchalantly as possible, knowing that it was wishful thinking for the High Lord to seek her out again after tonight.

“That I can agree with,” Tarquin had conceded with a grin as he notched his tapered cock against her opening. She held her breath in anticipation, emitting a moan when Tarquin plunged in again. That initial sensation of being filled to the brim still made her eyes roll with bliss.

“Fuck, Lanea,” Tarquin groaned, his voice clear in the water. “You feel so good.” One hand gripped her hips firmly. The other hand maintained a tight hold on the kelp rope, leveraging it as he slammed his scaled hips against the nymph. His abdominal muscles flexed, his gills flared rapidly as Tarquin increased his pace.

Mother above, she was truly divine.

The rippling current of water from Tarquin’s thrusts tickled Lanea’s clit, spiraling her into an orgasm. She let out a garbled wail, bubbles escaping her mouth. The High Lord was not far behind, pulling the kelp rope taut as his rutting became more erratic. The mer cock throbbed twice before spurting ropes of hot seed against her still-pulsating walls.

***

From the speed at which Lanea came from fucking underwater, Tarquin had an idea. He hauled their panting asses onto a sandy alcove in the cave, peppering kisses along Lanea’s mossy green throat.

“Tarquin,” Lanea moaned, trying to sit up. Gods, how he loved the sound of his name on that female’s lips. He couldn’t get enough of her.

“Relax, sweetling.” Tarquin gently pushed her down and tapped her legs. “Open up for me, again, won’t you?”

“Yes, my lord,” Lanea sighed, letting her head drop down on the pillowy sand. Her pretty pussy was bared open, tantalizing in the pale moonlight. Tarquin summoned a thin stream of water from the sea, purifying it with his magic, and sweeping it over her clit. Lanea’s head shot up in surprise. “Tarquin!” she cried, voice a mixture of embarrassment and shock.

“Shhh,” Tarquin pushed her down once again, holding her chin with his webbed hand. His ravenous expression, complete with flashing teeth, reflected back at him in her large, dilated eyes. “Let me take care of you. My darling pearl has been so good for me tonight.”

“Mmmmhh,” Lanea let out a muffled moan when he kissed her on the lips, the stream of water still running over her sensitive clit.

Tarquin lay beside her on the sand, directing the flow of cool water to dance up her legs and swirl over her clit. Lanea bit her lower lip and panted softly as he lavished attention on her breasts, tracing her curves with his claws and licking her peaked nipples like a male starved.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she begged, turning her golden eyes up at Tarquin’s blue ones with a beseeching expression. She had never been so shameless with another male before. “I’m so close, Tarquin. Please—”

“Come for me, Lanea.” Tarquin increased the water’s pressure just a notch, extracting another bone-shaking orgasm from her. Lanea’s sobs and moans echoed off the cave walls.

She lay shaking on the sandy cove, starlight swimming back into view. The climax had rendered her weightless, as if she was floating on the ocean and drifting into relaxed sleep.

“Tired?” He murmured, brushing her damp blue hair from her forehead. His dick was ready to go again, but Lanea had just come four times in a row. Perhaps she needed a longer break.

“What time is it?” Lanea panted. Tarquin glanced up at the sky, marking the position of the constellations.

“Four hours until dawn,” he answered. Lanea glanced at his hardening cock and subconsciously licked her lips. She blushed prettily when he caught her, dark green blooming over her cheeks.

“We go until dawn, then,” she proclaimed, pushing him flat onto the sand and climbing over his turquoise tail.

Tarquin laughed, feeling more free than he had in months. “Gods, you’re so fucking perfect.”

🧜🏾‍♂️🧜🏾‍♂️🧜🏾‍♂️

For the Tarquin fans (I have a non-smutty Tarquin one-shot WIP, please let me know if you do not want to be tagged): @thesistersarcheron @ultadverb @starfall-spirit @ladyelain @feiwelinchen

#tarquin #tarquin acotar #smut #calanmai #monsterfucking #mermay #merpeople #acotar #acotar fanfic

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life-winners-liveblog · 4 months

Note

Since a couple people are asking. could you.. describe how you view the winners’ appearances? Like the injuries and outfits maybe, me personally will figure it out from there cause I too wanna make fanart of this ✨

Also if you want, you could include some of the others like SL! Or LimL!Jimmy, DL!Scott & 3L!Scar 👀 /nf

-winners-

3L!Grian- Constantly bleeding from hi head, at this point in time the wound is covered by bandages and his hair. He has 2 purple wings one of which is bent and halfhazardly bandaged as well. For clothing either the classic red sweater (or the orange sun sweater) + a brown poncho... Eyes should be purple but sometimes have a red sheen.

LL!Scott: Start with Last Life Scott, add a star crown, lightning scars on his arms and neck and make his eyes kinda glowy and red or cyan in color whatever you prefer... That's about it.

DL!Pearl: Wears her Scarlet Pearl outfit except the hood has like crescent moons on it. She has a heart shaped burn on her shoulder (kinda unlikely you will need to know that for a drawing but who knows) and her fingers are a little blue... Her eyes are green but sometimes go red.

LimL!Martyn: Missing his left ear, there is no scar or anything It's just not there, only one whose eyes are still red constantly. Wears his mean gills fanon outfit and has coral growing on him.

-others-

LimL!Jimmy: Wears bad boy outfit glasses included and has 2 golden wings one of which is a bit burnt because of the tnt minecart exploding, before the enderian-ification his right eye was completely white like no iris or anything but now It's completely purple like that of an enderman ...he also has ender particles around him now.

3L!Scar: Still has gray skin but the color scheme of his clothes has changed completely. The brown of his pants, shoes and hat has been replaced by a very dark purple and his poncho is white and purple (normal not dark) with a repeating eye shape pattern. Ironically only one without wounds as the Watchers healed him.

DL!Scott: Just Double Life Scott except for 3 things, the cloud of explosion smoke that surrounds him, the glowing string (the soulbound) around his neck and his almost gray eyes.

SL!Jimmy: Similiarly to LimL!Jimmy he has two golden wings, the difference being that his are completely unhurt... his shoulder is covered in sculk but it doesn't seem to do anything.

[redacted]: gray skin, gray hair, the only color that can be found is the ////// of his sweater and the //// in his hands.

#asks #trafficblr #traffic series #author answers #character description

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minaturefics · 12 days

Text

Whispered Words

Request: Can I request an aragorn x reader where the reader is a queen from a faraway land? The fellowship came to his land to ask for help and Aragorn instantly fell in love? Whatever you like to add!

A/N: Ngl, I feel like I went off the rails a bit here (still trying to get into the groove again). I tried to create and integrate a somewhat convincing land/people. And the fic is mid-war so idk how romantic it really is. Still, I hope you enjoy it!!!

Aragorn x Reader

Fem reader

No content warnings

2.5k words

---

You sat back in your throne of twisting coral and straightened the crown of mother-of-pearl shards on your head. All the torches in the throne room were lit, the fires flickering blue and purple, and the faded banners of your country adorned the walls. The coastal guard had alerted you to intruders — a company of four — that were swiftly captured and brought to the crumbling castle.

Who would dare sail the black waters? Who would dare to venture so close to the graveyard of the Númenóreans? There was only one, you thought, who would be desperate enough, bold enough, to endeavour such a treacherous trip — the returned heir of Gondor.

The rumours had flowed to you, to your kingdom, carried by the waters of the Anduin and the creatures that inhabited it. There were stories of the encroaching shadow of Mordor, of the growing strength of the Corsairs of Umbar, even of the awakening of the Ents. For years you had hoped that the dangers would remain on the continent, but it seemed that the kingdom’s luck had run out.

You reached for your sceptre, a beautiful thing of wrought gold and pearl, and nodded at your guards to let them in.

The large wooden doors creaked open and revealed a curious array of companions — a man, an elf, a dwarf, and a wizard. The wizard you knew, one of the fabled Maiar, but the rest…

They walked forward hesitantly, eyes scanning the room, until they stood before you. They were waterlogged and bedraggled, their clothes creased, sticking to their forms, their hair hanging in stringy strands. Even the elf, so noble and graceful, stood in a dishevelled mess, and you fought a smile.

The wizard bowed first and the rest followed suit. You eyed the man, taking in his dark hair and his ripped clothing. This was the heir of Gondor? He looked like a mere Ranger, a man of the land. He raised his head and a pair of keen grey eyes pierced you.

Your breath hitched in your throat and your fingers tightened around the sceptre.

“I know why you have come,” you said.

The elf and the dwarf shared astonished looks, but the man stood straighter and said, “Then you know there is not a moment to lose. I will speak plainly if Your Highness allows.” You inclined your head and he continued. “I am Aragorn, son of Arathron, heir to the throne of Gondor. My companions — Gimli, son of Gloin, Legolas of Mirkwood, and Gandalf the White.

“We have come to request your aid against Sauron of Mordor. Your kingdom may be safe for now, removed from the continent, but it will only be a matter of time before Sauron turns his eye towards the west.”

That, you already knew. But even so, to send your creatures, your people, into battle… There was little hope in defeating the overwhelming forces of Sauron, but here, sequestered away and shrouded by a vengeful sea, your people might still yet live.

“What will you offer me in return?”

“In return?” Gimli frowned, his chest puffing. Aragorn raised a hand to silence him and the dwarf fell to quiet grumbling.

“Land,” Aragorn said. “A home, an island, close enough to the continent for trade. It is wild and empty, but the land can be worked.”

“You speak of Tolfalas,” you murmured, thinking of the rocky and lonely island in the Bay of Belfalas.

His offer was a good one. It was not an easy life for you or your people, surrounded by tumultuous seas, battered by frequent storms. The bay would be sheltered, there would be plenty of catch and the weather would be temperate enough to farm properly, and of course, there would be trade with the coastal cities. It could be a place where your people could grow and thrive.

“Our people once were allies,” you said to Aragorn. “When your ancestors’ hubris destroyed them, it nearly destroyed us too.”

“This is not hubris, Your Highness,” he said, voice firm and impassioned, stepping forward. “Hubris would be to sit here and think that your kingdom would be beyond his reach. Hubris would be to think that you alone could survive him. Together there is still a chance we might drive his forces back, but alone we would fail.”

Aragorn straightened and squared his shoulders, he lifted his chin, and there in the ghostly light of the hall, he stood, a true king.

A heat flared in your stomach.

“Very well. You have our support.”

He broke into a smile, and gone was the solemn son, the honourable heir. Instead, before you stood a man, handsome and strong, and your traitorous heart thudded in your chest.

Aragorn settled down in the hull of the ship, feeling each sharp rise and fall of the waves, and tried to get comfortable on the cushioned bench. Rain pelted the deck above him like a volley of arrows and the sky rumbled like a distant war drum. It was unfortunate that they had to sail back to the continent in a storm, but you had supplied them with a ship of your people, sturdy enough to withstand any tempest. He was glad that they had secured your allegiance, and he had no doubt it would be invaluable when Sauron began his assault in earnest.

He had heard and read about your kind, the Númenórean’s oldest allies, people of land and sea, shapeshifters of a sort, but to meet one, to meet you…

He thought of how you looked on your throne of dead coral, formidable and beautiful, your gaze sharp and your painted lips grim. He had seen the flicker of amusement on your face, the hint of a smile, when they stood, dripping onto the black marble floor. Such a lovely, lonely queen, the leader of a dying race, the steward of a fading land.

Were it not for the weight of war on his shoulders, he would have been convinced that he had wandered into a fairy tale. For so long all he had been concerned with was his relentless work as a Ranger, of his inescapable duty as king, and yet when he had laid eyes on you those swirling thoughts vanished. Proud, noble brow, beautiful, determined eyes, graceful, strong shoulders.

His heart had leapt from his chest and he was still yet to retrieve it.

He reached for the strange pendant around his neck and held it up to the lantern. It was an iridescent shell, gleaming purple and pink, that curved and spiralled to a point, much like a war horn. The memory of you giving it to him rose in his mind.

“It is the custom of our people,” you said with an amused smirk. “It allows us to speak across leagues of land and sea.”

“I have not heard of such a thing,” he muttered, turning the shell in his hand, running his dirty thumb over the polished surface.

You tugged a similar shell out from under your robes. “They are a matched pair.”

His heart stuttered. Was it possible that you felt the same inkling of connection as he did?

“They were originally used by lovers, but they were soon adopted for logistical arrangements,” you said and he pushed down the rising feeling in his chest. “Though,” you continued, smile growing mischievous, “the way to use them has not changed.”

“What do you mean?”

“To harken to the paired shell, one has to kiss one’s own. There is a limit to how much one may speak, but it should be sufficient for us to arrange where and where to deploy our armies.”

Aragorn twisted the shell between his fingers. It felt too intimate to press his lips to it, to speak, knowing you would be holding yours close to your cheek, listening.

“Aragorn!” Gimli called from the top of the stairs. “We are emerging from the storm.”

“I can see the continent on the horizon,” Legolas added.

Aragorn glanced down at the shell. Perhaps now would be a good time to test it. He listened for their retreating steps and, feeling foolish, brought the shell hesitantly to his lips. It was cool and smooth, and it carried the scent of the ocean. It glowed, illuminating a sphere of light around it.

“Aragorn?” Your voice was clear, but quiet, and he brought it closer to him. “Has something already gone awry?”

“No,” he chuckled, strangely relieved and soothed by the sound of your voice. “I simply wish to inform you that we have made it out of the storm. Dol Amroth is in sight.”

“That is good news. I am corralling my forces, we will soon follow behind you. The larger fleets we will send to Dol Amroth to defend against the corsairs, and our smaller army of creatures we will send up the Anduin.”

“That will do for now.”

The shell’s light pulsed and began to fade.

“We will not be able to speak for a few more hours,” you said, voice faint and thin. “Until then…”

“Until then,” he murmured but the shell’s light had already vanished.

It had been a gruelling three weeks. True to your word, you had deployed your armies as you had planned with Aragorn. In the Bay of Belfalas, the dark ships of Umbar were repelled by the hallowed vessels of your people, and up the Anduin swam swarths of sharp-toothed monsters to Pelargir and Osgiliath. For three weeks you had muttered into your shell, had cradled it to your ear, savouring the snatches of conversation with Aragorn.

“We are entering the Paths of the Dead soon,” he said. “I hope we will emerge with good news.”

“Be careful, Aragorn. I, too, have heard the stories of that path. The Dead will not be forgiving.”

“I do not fear them.”

“But I fear for you.”

“I promise you, we will be on our guard.”

“I had forgotten how enchanting the race of men can be,” you said. “Even in war they play their flutes and harps.”

“The people must take pleasure where they can.”

“When this is over, I think I shall learn.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and soothing. “Dol Amroth is known for its skillful harp players. I’m certain you will be able to find a good teacher.”

“Perhaps one day we can welcome you to Tolfalas with the sound of harps.”

He hummed, a low, pleased rumble. “I look forward to that day.”

“Aragorn, for Valar’s sake, please answer,” you grit out. “Word of Pelennor has reached me. Are you alive?”

There was silence, and then, a whisper, “Yes. But we have suffered greatly.”

“The sun, it has been blotted out.”

“The men are losing hope.”

“I have faith, Aragorn,” you whispered, picturing him standing in your halls, strong and noble. “I have faith in you.”

“That brings me more comfort than you know.” His voice was soft and tender, and your heart stirred. “You bring me more comfort than you know.”

“We are marching for the Black Gates,” he said, grim.

“You go beyond my aid. We will repel what forces we can here in the bay and along the Anduin.”

“If you do not hear from me —”

“No. We will see each other again, Aragorn.”

“We may not,” he said. “And so now I say: I am glad to have met you. I am glad that we were able to honour our ancestors’ history.”

The shell pulsed.

“Aragorn…”

And the light faded.

You had seen, had felt, the destruction of the ring, even all the way in Dol Amroth. There had been cheering in the street, tears of grief, of relief, and the Sea-ward Tower’s bell chimed in victory. Aragorn had answered you desperate calls, assuring you that he was alive, and made promises to ride down to the coastal city when his troops had settled.

You sat on the docks, dangling your bare feet into the cool water, and watched the setting sun paint the sky orange and pink. An odd look perhaps, for a dignified queen, but after the horrors and terrors, you felt that it was a necessary indulgence. You stared at your rippling reflection, wishing you could shift form and vanish into the embrace of the ocean, just for a moment. Alas, that would be too much of an indulgence; you needed to be available should any matter arise.

You thought of Aragorn, of his steely grey eyes, his peppered beard, his toothy grin, and your heart fluttered. Who would have thought that a descendant of the Númenor would stir your heart so? Or perhaps it was not so much of a surprise, given the blood that ran through both your veins.

Aragorn’s voice rang out, calling your name, and you fumbled for your pendant.

“Are you on your way? Shall I inform the Prince of your arrival?”

He chuckled, sounding clearer and closer than he had in weeks. “I am already here.”

You whipped around and he stood a few paces from you. You rose to your feet, taking in his eyes, soft and silver in the evening light, and his lips, cracked but smiling. He was unarmoured, but dressed in his kingly robes of black and silver. You swallowed, suddenly conscious of your damp robes and bare feet, flush rising in your cheeks.

Valar, what had come over you? You were a queen of your own right.

“I wish you would have told me of your impending arrival. I would have sent word to the princes to prepare the city to welcome you.”

He waved his hand. “There is no need for such things.”

“You are a king.”

“I did not come as a king.”

His gaze was sure and full of meaning. He stepped closer and the breeze carried his scent of cedar and pipeweed to you. He was so much larger up close, broad and imposing, but also so much more charming. You ran your eyes over his face, the lines on his forehead, the creases at the corners of his eyes, his slightly unruly beard. Yes, underneath it all, still a man.

“I did not come for them, the people of the city,” he muttered. “I came for you.”

“Aragorn…”

He reached for your hand, and when you did not move away, he wrapped his fingers around yours. “Do not tell me you do not feel this also. I have heard the change in how you say my name.”

Your heart swooped, but you shook your head. “I have my people to care for, a home to build.”

“As do I. We need not make any formal promises as of yet.” He squeezed your hand. “I only ask that we continue to speak as we have these last few weeks. I do not wish to go a day without hearing your voice.”

You nodded slowly and he brought your hand up to his lips. He pressed a kiss to your knuckles, a smile breaking over his face. “How long do you have before you must return?”

“A day or two.”

You hummed, gripping his hand tighter, and faced the sun. The air was crisp and clear and the rays warmed your skin. There was laughter from the homes and music in the streets. The Sea-ward Tower’s bell rang out, loud and joyous. Aragorn glanced at you, smiling, and you grinned.

“Then let us enjoy this peace for a moment longer.”

---

Aragorn is so grim and broody sometimes I find it so hard to write him, to show passion and feeling in a way that's not out of character. I hope he didn't come off as too flat here.

#aragorn x reader #aragorn x you #aragorn x y/n #aragorn #lotr fanfic #lotr fic #lotr fanfiction #lotr

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