amorest viesse

🌷… a compliment.

🥀…. a complaint.

🌹… a confession.

🌺… a secret.

🌸… a curious fact.

🌻… a suggestion.

still, though, she laughs again, warm and bright, eyes narrowing like a cat in a sunbeam. "oh, your conviction is charming and i'm delighted you think of my bride and i so highly."

she means it, after all. how can't she?

i had a super SUPER productive morning and i was treating myself to the fancy shampoo (u know the shampoo u got as a gift that’s kinda expensive and v v Nice so u only use it when ur going out or have a social event going on?) and i came back to find a bunch of my mutuals reblogging the same post about hair, and i’ll be damned if i didn’t see that combination of events as some sort of sign! so here u go my dudes! another addition to the group! feel free to add “+ REVERSE” to switch the roles of this meme!

as always, DO NOT ADD TO THIS LIST! i’ll add to it as time passes! and i really hope you all enjoy this one bc i had a lot of fun making it! 

[ WASH ]:          sender begins to wash the receiver’s hair.

[ TUG ]:          sender grabs the receiver’s hair and pulls at it. ( SPECIFY A REASON! CONTEXT IS KEY! )

[ BRAID ]:          sender, sitting behind the receiver’s back, begins to braid their hair.

[ SNIP ]:          having discussed the matter, the sender gives the receiver a haircut.

[ BACK ]:          sender, noticing a strand of hair fall from the receiver’s hairdo, carefully tucks the strand back behind the receiver’s ear.

[ BURY ]:          sender buries their hand deep in the receiver’s hair.

[ BRUSH ]:          with a hairbrush, comb, or their hand, the sender begins to gently brush the receiver’s hair.

[ GLIDE ]:          sender runs their fingers through the length of the receiver’s hair.

[ BLOOM ]:          sender weaves a number of flowers through the receiver’s hair.

[ STYLE ]:          sender begins to arrange the receiver’s hair into an elaborate hairstyle to an unspecified degree of success (or failure).

[ CROWN ]:          having created a flower crown, the sender carefully places it atop the receiver’s head.

[ INHALE ]:          while embracing or in close proximity to the receiver, the sender inhales slowly, smelling their hair in the process.

[ TICKLE ]:          the sender uses the ends of the receiver’s hair to playfully tickle them.

[ PLAY ]:          the sender begins to play with the receiver’s hair while the receiver lies in their lap.

[ LAY ]:           the sender lays down in the receiver’s lap to let them play with the sender’s hair.

[ TOUCH ]:           just for the sake of the contact, the sender reaches out and gently touches the strands of the receiver’s hair.

[ MASSAGE ]:          with their hands buried in the receiver’s hair, the sender begins to gently massage their scalp.

[ ROYAL ]:          as part of a coronation ceremony, the sender places a crown atop the receiver’s hair, maintaining eye contact as they do so.

[ KISS ]:          the sender places a tender kiss on the receiver’s hair.

[ AWAY ]:          the sender, using their fingertips, tenderly sweeps a few strands of hair out of the receiver’s face so as to see them more clearly.

[ TOWEL ]:          the sender uses a towel to carefully dry the receiver’s hair.

[ DRY ]:          the sender uses a hairdryer to dry the receiver’s hair.

perhaps seating by shores for oh so long was indeed going to do more harm than good to him in the long run, and yet it still had him unmoving —lanky legs pressed aghast tattooed chest, gaze of gold lost where horizon would meet with the first lights of a dusken sun, a sigh muffled against his knees, sand oh so soft underneath his touch. " i ... should try and get something to eat. but the idea of getting up isn't exactly ideal. " as if bepo and the others would suddenly resurface if he dared looking away. foolish.

( @frothofdays ) &. starter call

for once, she's almost uncharacteristically quiet; she looks solemn, even, blue eyes narrowed into the last fading light of the evening - her mind is active, behind them, trying to pull things together, to make sense of them, and part of it is composing a song, but all of it comes to a halt at the sound of someone's voice.

"hm…?" her head tilts, shifting her gaze to find who'd spoken, at which point she lights up, realizing she isn't alone for the first time. "oh! you haven't eaten? i haven't either; perhaps we might go together?"

it seems peaceful. almost beautiful- this feral monster calmed by the song of the enchanting prince, this howling storm tempered by the lull of the twinkling blue sky.

but eventually, the song has to come to an end. the lyrics fade, and the gentle and calm voice that murmured them has to stop. when it does, mithra's eyelids flutter still closed. his black-painted fingers flex in the fabric of rustica's slacks, and his chest raises in a deep exhale.

she drags the song on as long as she can; she watches as mithra finds some peace, even if he doesn't fall asleep. she doesn't mind that, though - even though he's irritated, and even though she can't blame him for being so, it's simply a minor inconvenience.

next time, she'll just have to try harder. she smiles serenely down at him, as he mumbles. "perhaps we'll have to try again," she says, quietly, but with a keen edge of determination and intensity.

it's not only that she wants this for him - she wants to succeed.

"this time, maybe humming would be better. then i can keep it up as long as you like."

it's a genuine offer, as much as anything can be. she means it. there's nowhere else she'd rather be and nothing else she'd rather do; there's nothing that could interest her more than this.

All she can do is fly? That is it? What being runs this world that is even able to strip them of these powers they were born with. it is frustrating- It feels uncomfortable to even be in your own skin at this point. There are no spirits, there is no magic. It all feels fake and void. Where this bird now on your finger you'd be clenching your fists in frustration.

❛ I'll pass. ❜ Your words are harsher then how you'd usually address Rustica, but your frustration is mounting. You feel like you are going insane already and you've barely been in this place for 6 hours. ❛ Who else have you seen here? I've seen Mithra, Cain and you. ❜ You aren't sure if anyone else is here yet... But you are still exploring. It's the only thing you can do to keep yourself sane right now.

(Sometimes he bites and does mean it - still, though, you find that endearing. You find him endearing. Who can mind sometimes being bitten? Love is pain, on occasion, for you, for everyone, especially when it involves a Northern wizard.)

"I haven't even seen Cain - only Mithra and now you, so my thanks for that news. What a lovely thing, for another one of us to be here." You mean it - perhaps it's the way that you don't quite parse things the way everyone else seems to but, as much as this might be a disaster, as much as you might miss your magic, as much as you might want to try to find your bride; how can you look down on the chance for another set of experiences? The chance to grow and change?

"I'm sure they do exist here, in some form. They have to, or else we wouldn't be able to do any magic, at all." You say it simply, like a matter of fact - for you, it is. What else could it be? "They're simply finicky. More like cats than ordinary."

You pause for a moment. You think.

Rustica is easy enough to talk too.. even if she'll lead you in circles sometimes. Westerners are hard to deal with.

❛ I'm not surprised to see you here... Out of anyone, you are the one that makes the most sense. ❜ Though, any westerners would make sense to be in such a strange situation. Their want for knowledge and curiosity for the unknown would lead them into such a place. ❛ A little birdy told me you'd be here. ❜ People usually say that as a joke, but you are being rather literal... You have at least 5 birds following around you.

❛ Or rather, I was told a "pretty sound was coming from here". Hmph... Heyyy~ Rustica. Did you also lose your powers? What about your magic items~? I'm pretty annoyed. ❜

They like you anyway - and you, of course, like them. So your gloved hands are out, a songbird perched delicately upon your fingers as if it belonged there, your eyes narrowed as you smile at it, and you play a game.

It's simple - it sings a tune and you riff on it; you spend time this way, perhaps hours, perhaps more (it's so hard to tell without your dear Chloe. He kept you right; he kept you making sense.). A voice behind you makes you tilt your head back from where you're sitting, eyes widening with delight before re-narrowing; there's a pause, searching things out to decide what you want, wheels turning in your head to pick things out of your memory.

"Oh! Owen - it's so wonderful to see you." You lift the hand with the bird to him, as if expecting him to take it. Perhaps he will. He's a sweet boy, and he does like them.

"The spirits are quiet, for now - it's disconcerting, to not hear them, isn't it? They normally whisper to my heart, a constant soothing presence, but they're so silent.

"... Ah! I can fly, though. It would be so much more lovely to have a concert though, wouldn't it?"

You pause a moment. Thinking. It clicks and, then, "But - with you here, dear Owen, we might be a duet."

no, really. he lays down right there on the sidewalk, knees cracking in his pensive, climbing age.

the scant passerby give a scant passing-by look of worry, seeing by all accounts, the troublesome mithra who had been causing problems across spirale for a month and a half suddenly on the floor in front of this doe-eyed, sweet looking nobleman. (they of course, might have assumed rustica's gentle demeanor belied a power that couldn't be contained. they were not aware that their assumptions were nearly correct.)

he throws his arm behind the back of his head as a pillow and releases a fangy, cat-like yawn. red lashes flutter close prettily, dusting his cheekbones. "well?" asks the northerner impatiently. "please hurry up."

the sun was warm, the weather nice; it would have lulled her to sleep, if she were still and patient enough, and the quiet susurration of the crowd and passersby was only more soothing, a pleasant equivalent to white noise so far as the western wizard was concerned.

"yes, yes," she chuckles quietly as her fingers again reach out, easily carding through his hair, stroking and petting the red strands that she can, and she considers a moment.

leaning over him, offering a bit of shade, at least over his eyes to help making resting easier, she takes a breath in, beginning to sing a quiet lullaby.

when they leave, then, it's not offensive - it doesn't bother her at all. her fingers rest upon the keys, mostly still but for the twitching with a want to play more; perhaps she might have, had a familiar voice not had her lift her head.

"oh!" her eyes light up as she takes in the southern doctor; she plays a quick crescendoing trill before pulling herself standing. she bows at the waist, ever a gentleman. "why, of course i can make time for a doctor's attention; is it an autograph you want or simply time?"

(after all, tiletta must have known the man too. had she lusted after him, seeking children with that brilliant mind? mithra's eyebrows knit at the thought.)

her hand against his face must feel like a shock. proud cheekbones that were pale as ice and just as temperate, like despite the warm summer air he had simply walked out of the winter itself.

"yes, i suppose they would." comes the curt reply, solid. he doesn't pull away from her tender touch, her warm fingers and the perfumed cuff of her sleeve that lacked the notable acrid and metallic tang of miasma and blood. so unlike a northern wizard.

"if you want to sing, i will listen. if i get bored or if i don't feel relaxed, i suppose i can lop your head off and shrink it into a totem."

mithra's own cold hand comes up to fold over rustica's fingers, though there's no affection in the gesture. it's simply reciprocal, automatic. a tree that bends under the weight of ice; a snowflake at the whims of the turbulent storm.

she leaves her hand there, as he threatens her in his casual, apathetic way, as his fingers curl around hers - she doesn't seem at all bothered by the content of his words. and why should she be? she demonstrates the exact reason and what she's not worried when she smiles at him and says:

"oh, i never disappoint. you should know this." she says it without vanity, without bragging; she says it like it's the calmest, most obvious thing she's ever said in her life. she's a musician - and a good one. a skilled one. why would she need to fear disappointing?

her fingers instead play with his sideburns, with the hair there, tempted to thread through the hair properly, as if they weren't in public, as if they weren't quite obvious, as if this couldn't be misunderstood.

(and why would she care?)

"we should get you laying down, shouldn't we? i'd be honored if i could get you to sleep for even a few moments."