#*❈ ‣ and are you beautiful and pale with yellow hair like her? — ( visage. )
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tags; general
*❈ ‣ nothing there sings not even my lark. larks never will‚ you know‚ when they’re captive. — ( study. )
*❈ ‣ i am hungry for touch and ashamed to be looked at— ( wishlist. )
*❈ ‣ in the wood even songbirds must be survivors — ( headcanon. )
*❈ ‣ i’m a silly little ninnynoodle — ( ooc. )
*❈ ‣ how can you jubilate sitting in cages‚ never taking wing? — ( aesthetic. )
*❈ ‣ outside the sky waits‚ beckoning‚ beckoning‚ just beyond the bars — ( queue. )
*❈ ‣ have you decided it’s safer in cages‚ singing when you’re told? — ( interaction. )
*❈ ‣ when she is alone in her room‚ i hear her humming to keep herself from thinking — ( starter call. )
*❈ ‣ and i stare like a haunted‚ wounded animal — ( psa. )
*❈ ‣ you have become a woman‚ my dear. by necessity‚ not by choice. — ( edit. )
*❈ ‣ did you get enough love‚ my little dove? why do you cry? — ( self promotion. )
*❈ ‣ i feared you’d never come‚ that you’d been called away — ( promotion. )
*❈ ‣ teach me how to sing. if i cannot fly‚ let me sing — ( meme. )
*❈ ‣ and are you beautiful and pale with yellow hair like her? — ( visage. )
*❈ ‣ whence comes this melody constantly flowing? — ( meta. )
#*❈ ‣ nothing there sings not even my lark. larks never will‚ you know‚ when they’re captive. — ( study. )#*❈ ‣ i am hungry for touch and ashamed to be looked at— ( wishlist. )#*❈ ‣ in the wood even songbirds must be survivors — ( headcanon. )#*❈ ‣ i’m a silly little ninnynoodle — ( ooc. )#*❈ ‣ how can you jubilate sitting in cages‚ never taking wing? — ( aesthetic. )#*❈ ‣ outside the sky waits‚ beckoning‚ beckoning‚ just beyond the bars — ( queue. )#*❈ ‣ have you decided it’s safer in cages‚ singing when you’re told? — ( interaction. )#*❈ ‣ when she is alone in her room‚ i hear her humming to keep herself from thinking — ( starter call. )#*❈ ‣ and i stare like a haunted‚ wounded animal — ( psa. )#*❈ ‣ you have become a woman‚ my dear. by necessity‚ not by choice. — ( edit. )#*❈ ‣ did you get enough love‚ my little dove? why do you cry? — ( self promotion. )#*❈ ‣ i feared you’d never come‚ that you’d been called away — ( promotion. )#*❈ ‣ teach me how to sing. if i cannot fly‚ let me sing — ( meme. )#*❈ ‣ and are you beautiful and pale with yellow hair like her? — ( visage. )#*❈ ‣ whence comes this melody constantly flowing? — ( meta. )
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tags; general
*❈ ‣ nothing there sings not even my lark. larks never will‚ you know‚ when they’re captive. — ( study. )
*❈ ‣ and i could use a canary — ( wishlist. )
*❈ ‣ sometimes i feel like i cry without a noise‚ sometimes i feel like somebody chose my choice — ( headcanon. )
*❈ ‣ i’m a silly little ninnynoodle — ( ooc. )
*❈ ‣ how can you jubilate sitting in cages‚ never taking wing? — ( aesthetic. )
*❈ ‣ outside the sky waits‚ beckoning‚ beckoning‚ just beyond the bars — ( queue. )
*❈ ‣ have you decided it’s safer in cages‚ singing when you’re told? — ( interaction. )
*❈ ‣ are you discussing or fussing or simply dreaming?— ( starter call. )
*❈ ‣ a runaway from everywhere she'd ever been — ( psa. )
*❈ ‣ how she had wrung out her girlhood like a death — ( edit. )
*❈ ‣ making herself even prettier than usual‚ if possible — ( self promotion. )
*❈ ‣ i feared you’d never come‚ that you’d been called away — ( promotion. )
*❈ ‣ teach me how to sing. if i cannot fly‚ let me sing — ( meme. )
*❈ ‣ and are you beautiful and pale with yellow hair like her? — ( visage. )
*❈ ‣ whence comes this melody constantly flowing? — ( meta. )
#*❈ ‣ nothing there sings not even my lark. larks never will‚ you know‚ when they’re captive. — ( study. )#*❈ ‣ and i could use a canary — ( wishlist. )#*❈ ‣ sometimes i feel like i cry without a noise‚ sometimes i feel like somebody chose my choice — ( headcanon. )#*❈ ‣ i’m a silly little ninnynoodle — ( ooc. )#*❈ ‣ how can you jubilate sitting in cages‚ never taking wing? — ( aesthetic. )#*❈ ‣ outside the sky waits‚ beckoning‚ beckoning‚ just beyond the bars — ( queue. )#*❈ ‣ have you decided it’s safer in cages‚ singing when you’re told? — ( interaction. )#*❈ ‣ are you discussing or fussing or simply dreaming?— ( starter call. )#*❈ ‣ a runaway from everywhere she'd ever been — ( psa. )#*❈ ‣ making herself even prettier than usual‚ if possible — ( self promotion. )#*❈ ‣ i feared you’d never come‚ that you’d been called away — ( promotion. )#*❈ ‣ teach me how to sing. if i cannot fly‚ let me sing — ( meme. )#*❈ ‣ and are you beautiful and pale with yellow hair like her? — ( visage. )#*❈ ‣ whence comes this melody constantly flowing? — ( meta. )#*❈ ‣ how she had wrung out her girlhood like a death — ( edit. )
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tags; general
*❈ ‣ nothing there sings not even my lark. larks never will‚ you know‚ when they’re captive. — ( study. )
*❈ ‣ i am hungry for touch and ashamed to be looked at— ( wishlist. )
*❈ ‣ in the wood even songbirds must be survivors — ( headcanon. )
*❈ ‣ i’m a silly little ninnynoodle — ( ooc. )
*❈ ‣ how can you jubilate sitting in cages‚ never taking wing? — ( aesthetic. )
*❈ ‣ outside the sky waits‚ beckoning‚ beckoning‚ just beyond the bars — ( queue. )
*❈ ‣ have you decided it’s safer in cages‚ singing when you’re told? — ( interaction. )
*❈ ‣ when she is alone in her room‚ i hear her humming to keep herself from thinking — ( starter call. )
*❈ ‣ and i stare like a haunted‚ wounded animal — ( psa. )
*❈ ‣ you have become a woman‚ my dear. by necessity‚ not by choice. — ( edit. )
*❈ ‣ did you get enough love‚ my little dove? why do you cry? — ( self promotion. )
*❈ ‣ i feared you’d never come‚ that you’d been called away — ( promotion. )
*❈ ‣ teach me how to sing. if i cannot fly‚ let me sing — ( meme. )
*❈ ‣ and are you beautiful and pale with yellow hair like her? — ( visage. )
*❈ ‣ whence comes this melody constantly flowing? — ( meta. )
#*❈ ‣ nothing there sings not even my lark. larks never will‚ you know‚ when they’re captive. — ( study. )#*❈ ‣ i am hungry for touch and ashamed to be looked at— ( wishlist. )#*❈ ‣ in the wood even songbirds must be survivors — ( headcanon. )#*❈ ‣ i’m a silly little ninnynoodle — ( ooc. )#*❈ ‣ how can you jubilate sitting in cages‚ never taking wing? — ( aesthetic. )#*❈ ‣ outside the sky waits‚ beckoning‚ beckoning‚ just beyond the bars — ( queue. )#*❈ ‣ have you decided it’s safer in cages‚ singing when you’re told? — ( interaction. )#*❈ ‣ when she is alone in her room‚ i hear her humming to keep herself from thinking — ( starter call. )#*❈ ‣ and i stare like a haunted‚ wounded animal — ( psa. )#*❈ ‣ you have become a woman‚ my dear. by necessity‚ not by choice. — ( edit. )#*❈ ‣ did you get enough love‚ my little dove? why do you cry? — ( self promotion. )#*❈ ‣ i feared you’d never come‚ that you’d been called away — ( promotion. )#*❈ ‣ teach me how to sing. if i cannot fly‚ let me sing — ( meme. )#*❈ ‣ and are you beautiful and pale with yellow hair like her? — ( visage. )#*❈ ‣ whence comes this melody constantly flowing? — ( meta. )
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Death is a Friend
I once was scared of what waited for me after death
A woman with long, messy brown hair with tired blue eyes can be seen walking through the forest during nighttime, her pace slow and careful, holding onto the trees at times. Her skin was pale, a scar decorating the lower part of her face from her lips to the top of her neck. She looked around before turning to the right, searching for something or someplace. It didn’t take long for her to find what she was looking for.
Once, long ago, I wished to never perish
It was a rather secluded place of the forest, the grass was short and the trees were tall, covering most of the forest in shadows except that one place. The woman, Joan, went and sat on the ground. She looked up at the starry sky, her tired eyes threatening to close. It was dark, quiet, calm. She sighed as she pulled her eyes away from the sky and took in the scenery around her. Moonflowers were everywhere, practically surrounding her. She sighed as tears filled her eyes. She was sick, she was dying, and she was scared. Why wouldn’t she be? She would not wake up once she finally went to rest. She knew she wouldn’t see her friends again. Friends who didn’t know she was sick in the first place…
To leave behind those who I cared for was torture
“I wonder if they got the letters…” Joan mumbled, her voice hoarse.
And yet, I still listen to others call for me…
Joan let out a deep breath as she wiped her tears before lying down on the soft grass. She was tired, so so tired… Her eyes were closing as her heart started slowing down by the second…
Death can be scary but…
“I am so sorry… But I didn’t want you to see me like this…” The woman in purple said as she spoke to no one but the visages of her friends.
She was never one to be cruel…
She couldn’t help but cry at the memory of her accidentally shrinking Ninja down to a rather miniature size as everything else starts to fade. Oh, how Kuno cried in laughter when she saw him, how Ninja got so mad at that but couldn’t do anything… What a day that was…
At least I can go with a smile…
Finally, her eyes closed and her heartbeat stopped as her now lifeless body laid there, surrounded by her favorite flowers…
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“Hey… Wake up…” A soft, unfamiliar voice spoke.
Death can be gentle, kind, loving
In front of Joan was a beautiful woman with skin so pale, it looked like snow, long, flowy dark hair that danced with the nonexistent wind and bright, yellow eyes holding nothing short of sympathy. She wore a dark mofuku, a funeral kimono. How fitting.
Death can be breathtaking, enchanting
“Wha…?” Joan awoke at the voice, and she sat up as she held her head. “Why does my head hurt…?”
It can be painful, there is no doubt
“Oh, that always happens to the freshly deceased, you’ll be fine in a minute or two!” The strange woman said.
But nonetheless, she is understanding
“Deceased?” Joan repeated before looking behind her, seeing her vessel lying on the ground, herself now being a mere spirit. “Oh… Right.”
Death is not a cloaked figure with a scythe
“I understand you are confused, or maybe not, you did see me for quite a while with that hat of yours.” The woman said. “Oh right, excuse my rudeness! I am Nephthys, Goddess of Death. Feel free to call me Neph though, if you so wish of course.”
Death is not who you flinch from but the one you embrace
“So you are True Death…” Joan said as she crossed her arms as she looked at the dark goddess.
She is nothing like how others said
“Yes, I am! To be truthful, it has been quite a while since I’ve taken someone to the afterlife personally. I usually have my Reapers do so but you… are quite the unique case.” Neph said as she smiled. “After all, you did defeat False Death and became a hero. Even if it did cost your loved ones’ lives…”
It is… relieving
“My sisters… Are they okay?” Joan asked.
I am calm…
“They are doing just fine, dear. They are actually waiting for you.” Neph said as her smiled softened. “They missed you quite a bit.”
I am safe…
A lump formed in Joan’s throat as she teared up at the thought of reuniting with her sisters after so long.
I am dead but I am no longer in pain
“Did I… Did I really do good…?” Joan asked as she looked down.
Tell me, my friend, was I good?
This made the goddess chuckle softly.
Please, say I was good…
“Well, you did have quite a few mishaps but your good deeds outweigh the bad ones.” Neph said as she extended her hand towards Joan. “So… you ready to go?”
Death is kind but the thought still scares
Joan looked up at True Death’s hand, looking hesitant to take it. She was already dead but… she was still afraid. To leave the mortal realm at last was a terrifying concept but to actually experience that was just as bad, if not worse.
But now…
Then again… she wanted to see her family. She wanted to finally be at peace with her family. She wanted to enjoy the afterlife with her family.
I can be free…
She wanted to stop fighting at last.
“I am sorry Ninja, Kuno… I wish I had told you in person…” Joan thought. “I have to go but I pray that you both have a good life before your time comes… Until we meet again…”
Thank you, Death, for being kind…
She then looked up at the dark lady and gave her a slight nod…
Thank you for being my friend…
And so she took True Death’s hand…
——Heeeeey, thanks for reading this! Hope it made you cry! :3——
Tagging: @ikari-shinsei, @fernnshxj and @willowthearts, I feel like you would like this cause it does involve Miori, kinda, ish!
And a special thanks to @asexual-angsty-writer for helping me out with this angsty segment!
#oc#au#rc9gn#rc9gn au#hehehehe angst#Love angst#rc9gn oc#häxa#my writing#rc9gn tag#angst#lady death#nephthys#goddess of death#poem#true death
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moonlight
in which you go out and meet neytiri in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep and have an important conversation.
fluff, slight angst
2k word count
neytiri x fem!reader
this is like my first time actually writing anything avatar related so bare with me sdfgk
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
The moon had always been a source of comfort. The cool light filtering through the tangled branches looming over the burrow as the rest of the clan slept while you lay awake, wondering what the next day would bring. It was never hard to let fatigue overtake her but it was more difficult than usual this night. It was what led you to rise from her nest to slip into the night where you prayed the answer for your restlessness awaited. Slender fingers lifting from your side to make sure your bolas were fastened to your waist, you golden gaze calmly swept the sleeping burrow as you took one step and then another to the entrance of the den. It was dark. It had always been dark but it was what the Nguway had grown accustomed to. While most Na’vi didn’t take easily to the lack of light, the Nguway clan embraced the darkness and so had you. You had light feet, knowing exactly where each pebble lay burrowed in the dirt and where the ground rose in the slightest by memory at this point. Many nights had been spent paying for the mistakes you’d made in your youth, tripping over another’s tail or something alike. Heart seemingly frozen in your chest, you finally took a breath once the warm night air was grazing over your skin and you could see the large orb lingering in the sky. Anyone could see the way your shoulders relaxed as you took in the forest, ears curving to pick up every little sound made whilst you dug your toes into the cool dirt. Slowly, your eyes fell shut and you released a long breath with it. At peace, finally.
“Finally.”
The single word was enough to make your eyes nearly fly open with alarm, more than ready to strike down whoever had been watching you in that moment. However, it only took but a moment for yoiu to recognize the voice before your shoulders were dropping once more and the corner of your full lips began to curve into the smallest of smirks. “Patience has never been something you succeed at, yawnetu.” Giving a faint tilt of your head, your attention rose from the land in front of you to the trees where your lover had seemingly been waiting for you. It wasn’t hard to see her matching smirk with how she laid, forearms resting against the thick branch and her head peeking over a few leaves. “I have missed you, Neytiri.” And you had. Time had stretched on for what felt like eons and yet none of it included spending time with the Omaticaya warrior.
“Have you? I could not tell.” Neytiri’s voice rang out once more, a playful tone lingering somewhere within her words and you didn’t have to actually look to know that she was grinning. “You are starting to get too busy for me…” Listening to the faint rustling of the leaves with the woman sitting up, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Always so dramatic. No one really knew just how dramatic your lover could be at times purely because of the stoic front she always put up but you knew. It had come as a surprise to you when you’d first met but you grew to love her even more now because of it. Taking a few steps closer to the tree, you lifted a hand to rest against the smooth bark of the tree that your girlfriend had climbed all the while scrunching your nose in the slightest at the words being spoken.
“Training takes a lot of time but you have not left my mind..” Warm voice just a hair above a whisper, you study Neytiri where she sits. The pale moonlight highlighting her visage, the illuminating dots speckled across her face calling eyes to every feature that makes her an Omaticayan beauty. The bright yellow flower adoring her dark hair was an afterthought with all of your attention solely on the woman. Eyes meeting her equally golden ones, there were no words spoken for a couple beats. Just you two studying and admiring each other in the moonlight. For a short moment, you considered climbing up the tree just to fully bask in the other’s presence, however you both know that your a terrible climber even for a Na’vi. There would be no use in sneaking out in the middle of the night if you awoke your people with your screaming as you fall from the branches. “Are you going to come greet me officially or will we talk to each other like this for the rest of the night?” Head tilting once more, your lips grow into a full blown smirk now with the teasing tone in your voice.
It was a bit..odd, your meeting, having been completely unintentional. It was many months before, when you were still training yourself to become a warrior having not yet had your iknimaya, and you had been struggling greatly. Mastering the art of the bolas had never been easy for any Nguway save for your father and only a handful of other warriors and it was more than frustrating that you hadn’t inherited her father’s grace with the weapon. After yet another unsuccessful training session, you’d wandered off to practice on your own. Ikinmaya was quickly approaching and bringing dishonor to her family was unacceptable.
~
“Shit!” Crying out in clear distress, you stared heavily at the spot where the twine and stone weapon landed within the brush. Heaving a long and heavy sigh, you considered just giving up for a second. You could just not have an iknimaya and become a forager or something alike…right? A scoff was escaping your lips before you could even fully finish the thought. You needed to be a warrior. Protecting the Nguway clan had been a part of your family since the ancestors walked the lands. There was no way you could become anything else. Fists clenching, you stepped through the underbrush in the direction of where you’d carelessly thrown your only weapon before stooping down to pick it up. “Stupid balls.” Too far gone in your emotions, you hadn’t at all noticed the airy chuckle somewhere among the trees. While you hadn’t picked up on the presence of another at first, another careless toss of the twine and stones into the trees quickly alerted you of Neytiri. The yelp followed by a string of curses was enough to make you freeze where you stood. Had you indirectly caused a war? Amber eyes wide as saucers as you stared at the young girl tangled by the ankles on the ground, you couldn’t believe it. “I did it!” Rather than being ashamed of hurting another, you were much too happy about catching something. Or someone in this case.
“You are celebrating? Just wait until I free myself of these..things and I will give you something to celebrate about-” Cutting herself off with another string of curses, Neytiri turned her attention to untangling the twine wrapped tightly around her ankles with violence clear on her mind. The sharp words she spewed were quick to cut your celebration short before you were rushing forward to help all the while spewing sudden apologies yourself.
~
“Well?” Breaking the silence now with the single word, you couldn’t help growing somewhat impatient. While being attracted to someone was nothing new to you, it was completely different when it came to Neytiri. Everything was different. Bright eyes holding a glimmer of excitement and anticipation, it only took but a second before Neytiri was slipping off of the thicker branch she’d perched on to descend through the thinner ones and laid on her feet beside you all with a certain grace about her. There was something else on your mind to say - perhaps yet another tease or something just as dramatic - but you didn’t have the chance to get it out with Neytiri’s lips suddenly meeting yours. It took only half a second before you were reciprocating the gesture, hands lifting for your fingers to gently brush over her waist before finding their place on her hips. Leaning into her touch with her fingers sliding into your braided hair, an airy hum was leaving you involuntarily at her touch. Chest pressing into hers with the slight arch of your back, you were always just a little needy when it came to her. Catching Neytiri’s lower lip between your teeth to nip in the slightest, the sound of her faint gasp was amusing. A familiar warmth began to bloom in both your chest and between your thighs and you grabbed her lover’s hips to pull her closer, doing good not to smile and get distracted. However, feeling the small twitch of Neytiri’s lips, you couldn’t help doing the same. She’d been right. It had been a while. While you’d gotten used to feeling the warmth of Neytiri’s body so close too yours, in even the most heated of moments, you couldn’t help just feeling..giddy now.
It went without saying but whatever heat had been starting to form at that moment collapsed into something softer and with the both of you pulling away from each other, albeit reluctantly, to just gaze at each other once more before the taller of one was taking your hand to lead you further into the forest. “Come.”
Now you weren’t sure where the hell Neytiri was leading you but you were obviously following. You’d follow her to the ends of the earth if you had to. Fingers intertwining with hers, the restlessness that you’d been experiencing before was nonexistent at this point. All you could feel now was excitement. You were with your lover now, for better or for worse. You both knew that Neytiri was to be mated with Tsu'tey after the tragic death of her older sister and yet…you didn’t care for it. The Omaticaya weren’t your people and Neytiri was her own woman. No matter the consequences, you’d chosen each other and you knew for a fact that Neytiri would stand by it just like you would. “Where are you taking me? Are we finally going to ride away on our ikrans? Has Tsu’tey finally gotten under your skin?” Only half-joking, it was hard to miss the warning glance in your direction.
“Don’t joke about that. You know my place is with my people.” It was something that you’d heard millions of times from Neytiri and yet it stung a little bit more every single time. Seeing the unshaken look in her eyes, you knew for a fact that she had to believe some part of what she was saying. Biting your lip, you stopped your walking altogether while still holding the other’s hand.
“And what of us?” Eyes searching Neytiri’s face for some sort of falter or break in the neutral expression on her face, you continued, “Your place is with your people, yes, but what about me? When the time comes for you and Tsu’tey to take your roles, what will become of us? I care deeply for you, yawnetu.”
She’d grown weary of this conversation.
The way Neytiri averted her gaze was the biggest indicator of that and you felt as if you’d taken a blow to the chest. You should’ve known bringing it up would garner such a reaction. A reminder of how “well” it had gone over the last few times should’ve been a sign to let it go. Taking a deep breath through your nostrils, you couldn’t yet tear your gaze away. Grip on Neytiri’s hand tightening, you averted your gaze as well after the silence that followed. Staring at the smaller creatures skitting to and fro was much easier than seeing what you feared the most coming true.
It was a constant thought in the back of your mind; the thought of what you and Neytiri had ending but you liked to believe that the two of you were stronger than that. “I-” Before you could add on anything else that would further your overthinking anymore, Neytiri’s soft hands were cupping your cheek and turning your head to look at her again.
“Come.” And with that, Neytiri was leading again.
Blinking once and then twice, you didn’t know what to say or think. Had she not heard a single word you said? Your lover’s reaction only made you descend even further into your thoughts and you could feel your chest beginning to tighten with a sudden panic slowly washing over you. Was this a game to her? Were her feelings all fake? Was this how it was going to end? Just as you’d been about to stop their walking again, a bright light further ahead caught your attention.
It only took but a second for you to realize that she was leading you to the Tree of Voices. Confusion was quick to follow after the initial shock, your eyes widening as you looked to Neytiri who looked more than confident and smug to be doing such a thing. “I can not! I’m not Omaticaya...Neytiri!” Other hand raising to place on the woman’s chest as you maneuvered around to stand in front of her, the alarm must’ve been more than apparent given the way she softened in the slightest.
“It does not matter. Not to me.”
Damn it. All it took were those seven words for you to follow Neytiri all the way up to the Tree of Voices, something that your clan very much didn’t stand for. If anyone were to learn of your presence here, there would be consequences. Even greater ones than the ones you would definitely suffer for courting the next Tsahik of the Omaticaya and yet...you didn’t care. At least not much seeing as you were much too focused on the sound of Neytiri’s laughter as she raced you up to the tree. It wasn’t long before your laughter was ringing out into the air right along with hers, blending harmoniously in the night air. Once you appeared to have reached your destination, Neytiri led you to sit beside her all the while reaching for one of the hanging strands with intention. Reaching back to take her braid, the woman connected to the strand with a soft breath and a slow flutter of her eyes before looking at you.
“I have been thinking a lot about what you say to me.” She starts, “I..I care for you deeply, __. At first, I was sure I would be able to live my life freely but after...” With the pause that she takes, you immediately reach forward to take her hand and it appears to be just what she needed as she continues. “After, I was given a lot of responsibility and my freedom became limited. Even so, I want a life with you.” Wide eyes meeting yours with a seemingly doe-like expression on her face, it was enough to make you more than weak in the knees. It was like music to your ears and yet there was a small part of you that still doubted her words.
“Are you sure? Perhaps we are being reckless. I know-” And once again, you’re being cut off with her lips meeting yours. Humming out, you reach forward to wrap your arms around her waist before pulling her up into your lap in the slightest. Hands rising and falling with your fingertips tracing every curve of her body, you leaned into her touch with her hands cupping your face once more. Leaning even further into Neytiri, a small whimper left you once you realized she was slowly pulling away. However, any doubt in your mind faded in an instant with the words she spoke.
“Of course I am sure, skxawng.”
#avatar#avatar 2#neytiri#neytiri te tskaha mo'at'ite#neytiri x fem!reader#oc na'vi clan#na'vi#avatar fluff#avatar 2009#neytiri x fem!reader fluff#neytiri x fem!reader slight angst
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About: Feren
I was tagged by @curiousartemis and learned all about Imryn Dyre! I love this sweet doctor man and I wish him the happiest of endings with Mr. Waterdeep.
Name: Eys’feren Sylvhare
Alias: Feren is a simpler and less regal form of Eys’feren, so Feren’s noble background can remain unknown.
Age: 22
Species: wood-elf
Zodiac: aquarius / aries / cancer / capricorn / gemini / leo / libra / pisces / sagittarius / scorpio / taurus / virgo / unknown (idk if this is applicable to dnd lore but he gives me leo vibes)
Abilities/Talents: Feren is a druid/ranger of middling talent, but has a strong enthusiasm to develop his skills. He talks to animals with ease and tends to thrive in the wilderness, which is where his druidic magic is strongest. He’s a decent cook, knowing how to make a lot out of a little and how to work with what nature provides. This doesn’t mean he’s a stranger to city living, in fact, he’s travelled to many of the cities in Faerûn, getting by on a smile (or sleight of hand). Being able to (talk shit) think on his feet has enabled him to survive many close calls. His skill as an orator enables him to sell artefacts of variable quality in a low-end but cozy shop in Baldur’s Gate. Singing was a common past-time in his clan so he can carry a tune if the mood takes him.
{𝑃𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙}
Alignment: lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil / true
Religion: non-religious, although is partial to Silvanus.
Sins: envy / greed / gluttony / lust / pride / sloth / wrath
Virtues: charity / chastity / diligence / humility / justice / kindness / patience
Languages: He can read and write in many Elven languages, but has a habit of mixing them up. Although he can speak common very well, he cannot read or write it. Anything else is unknown to him, beyond a turn of phrase he may have learned in the city slums. He knows pretty much every swear word in all languages though.
Family: His parents lived in an ancient and secluded clan in the starwoods of Cormanthor, bordering the ruined elven city of Myth Drannor. Feren greatly takes after his mother, who was said to have the look of Corellon with her shimmering blonde hair. He was very close to them both when he was little, although they could be distant at times as they bore the responsibility of ruling their clan. Their deaths broke him.
Friends: Feren has no shortage of friends, having known many inhabitants of the Lower City in Baldur’s Gate for many years. Looking deeper, however, reveals that these friendships tend to be quite shallow, as none of them know much about Feren at all -- save for his employer Guffwin Barebones, owner of Guffwin’s Antiques. He’s the closest thing Feren has to a guardian.
Sexual Orientation: heterosexual / bi-/pansexual / homosexual / demisexual / asexual / unsure / other
Relationship status: single / dating / married / widowed / open relationship / divorced / not ready for dating / it’s complicated. (He’s... cautiously receptive to a relationship, but is more comfortable with something casual.)
Libido: sex god / very high / high / average / low / very low / non-existent
{𝑃ℎ𝑦𝑠𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙}
Build: twig / bony / slender / average / athletic / curvy / chubby / obese - I’d say he has kind of a stocky build but he’s still thin; he doesn’t eat much
Hair: white / blonde / brunette / red / black / other
Eyes: brown / blue / gray / green / black / other
Skin: pale / fair / olive / light brown / brown / very brown / other
Height: 5'4″/162cm
Weight: 120lbs/54kg (i’m bad at visualising height/weight)
Scars: very faint scars on the backs of his thighs.
Facial Features: He is generally considered quite attractive, said to resemble Corellon’s gender ambiguous visage. He has full lips, a heart-shaped face with a sharp jawline. In summer, freckles line his cheeks and the bridge of his slightly upturned nose. His eyes are a deep greenish-blue with full, blond lashes. Despite keeping his hair short, he can never quite tame it, and it usually hangs over his face and ears. Some days he might weave flowers and braid parts of it.
Tattoos: He has no tattoos as he doesn’t want to be easily identifiable, but longs to one day tattoo the intricate markings that were common in his clan.
{𝐶ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑠𝑒}
Dogs or Cats? He loves all animals, but after being raised with dire-wolves he has a deep fondness for canines in particular.
Birds or Nugs? In this case, he would prefer a creature of flight to one of the earth.
Snakes or Spiders? He likes them both but has a strange affection for spiders.
Red or Blue?
Yellow or Green?
Black or White? either ig?? 🤷♂️
Coffee or Tea? He’s used to collecting herbs for tea drinking, not to mention coffee makes him a little too jittery.
Ice Cream or Cake? These tend to be luxury foods which Feren hasn’t tasted much in his life, so as soon as he gets a taste, he’s obsessed. Ice cream only wins because he’s fascinated by cold food.
Fruits or Vegetables? He finds vegetables more filling and tends to snack on fruits. His favourite fruit is moon fruit, and not just for the benefits.
Sandwich or Soup?
Magic or Melee? Depends on the setting mostly, but as he gets more powerful he comes to depend on (and enjoy) magic the most.
Sword or Bow? He’s decent with a bow, but he has a deep attachment to his ancestral sword Skallga, descended from the Sylvhare and blessed by Tar’Ael Veluuthra. It was a gift from his mother.
Summer or Winter? He despises winter. He’s spent enough nights on the streets to know its bite. Summer is not just beautiful, to him it is the essence of life itself. He eventually comes to appreciate winter when he finds a stable home.
Spring or Autumn? He’s weary of the months when it starts to get colder. Spring is a lot more of a hopeful time for him.
The Past or The Future? Feren is someone who very much lives in the moment. Most of his life has involved winging it, he’s not great at abiding to firm plans. Secretly though, he is still deeply haunted by his past and most of his future entirely revolves around it in some way. It’s a bit circular at this point. Ahem, @aghxst, @rosewaterhag, @sunflowerwizard, @aredhairedhunter if you guys have any OCs you wanna talk about have at it. ilu guys <3 <3
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To Put a Name on It
Commission made by a lovely anonymous.
What if Hadrian had met you while still with the Templars?
The breeze brings with it the scent of flowers.
Gentle and airy, it sweeps across the long, open fields surrounding the village. Eternal plains where the grass is tall and bright green and seems to dance like an ocean made of plants instead of water. Hadrian shields his eyes, one massive gauntlet hand protecting his sight from the mellow, afternoon sun.
Sunflowers sway in the breeze too. He orders his horse to a halt for just a moment, watching the countless yellow heads seek the approval of the distant sun. Drinking the sunlight like moths to a flame. It brings a faint smile on his face. Far beyond the fence of the earthy road, rising from the line of the horizon, Hadrian can see the faint outline of the lord's castle.
The noble who called them here. His smile dies on his face, even before a hard voice breaks the peacefulness of the countryside air. "Bother Hadrian," his Commander calls. The winged helmet carves deep lines into his cheek as Hadrian turns his head.
Standing tall on his stallion, with a heavy sword hanging from his belt and full Templar garb, Commander Ryder makes for an imposing visage. Just as intended. "My apologies," Hadrian says, spurring his horse forward, rejoining his brothers. There are only three of them. Hadrian, the Commander, and brother Clark, who gives him a cold glance when Hadrian's horse approaches.
He hardens his face and sets his green eyes on the small village in the middle of illicit fields peppered by flowers enamored by the sun. As he looks at the frail wooden gates and short, basic wall, he can't help but think one Templar would have been more than enough.
A young man waits for them by the gates, his eyes pointed to the ground. "M-my lords," the boy's voice rings too loudly, and he bows so deeply, his nose bumps into his knees. He then lifts a trembling hand. "I'm to get your horses."
Hadrian hears brother Clark's laughing scoff, and he tightens his hands on the reins. "Take them," Commander Ryder dismounts with a heavy thud and tosses his reins to the boy. Hadrian and Clark follow suit, but he makes sure to step closer to the boy and seek his gaze.
The lad looks up when Hadrian approaches, and he sees the fear then. Stark and clear in the pale lines of his face. His brown eyes are blown wide, and he quickly looks away. Hadrian can see his shoulders shaking, his knuckles turning white on the reins.
He always hated it. Always hated the fear the cross evokes. It was supposed to be the opposite. We are supposed to bring peace. "Here you go," Hadrian speaks gently, handing his reins. He accepts it with shaking fingers.
"The Inquisitor awaits in the town's center," the boy says to the Commander in a wavering voice. He points ahead. "He- he ordered me to-"
"God be with you," Commander Ryder coldly interrupts, already walking ahead. Long, white cape with the red cross swaying with each step. Brother Clark barks a laugh before following, and Hadrian tries to smile at the boy.
But he is already running away, horses in tow.
Letting out a long breath, Hadrian follows his brothers. The sun reflecting back on the three suits of armor, their steps echoing each other, bouncing ominously in the empty streets. Houses and small stores stand to either side of the dusty street, and it doesn't take long before it opens to a round, smallish square.
There's a stone well right at the center, and a large storehouse with a flat roof stands to the left. On the right, a crude church has its cross pointed at the heavens. Lone, wooden door firmly shut and barred.
The breeze carried the scent of flowers. But even those could not mask the stench of blood.
Hadrian covers his nose, nearly choking as the air turns heavy. Death lingers. It makes his hand fall on the hilt of his black sword, makes his eyes harden. Makes the small group gathered beside the well the only thing Hadrian can focus on as they approach.
At the head, like a shadow cladded in shreds taken from the night, looms a Holy Inquisitor. His hood ends in two peaks, like horns that come together above the head, and the gold threads that are sewed to the black robes sway gently in the breeze.
"Inquisitor," Commander Ryder bows his head, making a quick and practiced sign of the cross. Hadrian does the same. The Inquisitor wears his mask, a smooth plate of white wood with only two holes for the eyes.
They shine underneath. "Sir Templars, so you arrive," he points a gloved hand towards the people, and Hadrian follows the movement. Peasants and farmers, all huddled together in fear. His heart clenches when he sees a little girl with fat tears rolling down her hollow cheeks, but he forces himself to focus on the conversation.
They have a holy duty.
"The local head priest, along with the entire church congregation has been slaughter in the night," the Inquisitor's sizzling voice echoes through the gaps in his mask. The air turns colder, and Hadrian's eyes shoot to the doors of the church. Father in Heaven.
"By whom? Who dared commit such an atrocity?" Commander Ryder's voice is harsh. Brutal. He turns to look over the group of villagers, and Hadrian sees them cower. He has to bite his tongue to keep still, to keep the words from spilling out of his mouth. It couldn't be them.
But he should be silent, and years of training enforce that he does. The Inquisitor spreads his hands, but before he can speak, a voice drifts through the air like a gentle breeze on heated skin. A voice that rings between his ears and has his whole undivided attention.
"By those long gone," it says. It's feminine and spoken quietly, but there's a strength beneath it. A strength mirrored in the eyes that hold the Commander's gaze without a hint of fear.
Grey and wide and catching the sun like the gems he has seen engraved in the altars of the fairest cathedrals. Hadrian's heart leaps to his throat as his eyes land on you. You who walked to the head of the group, your hair pooling around your face in gentle waves of gold that remind him of the brightest halo. His mouth hangs open, and Hadrian knows he stares.
But as much as he wants to, he can't look away. Your clothes are travel-worn but of good quality. Trousers that hug your curves and make him avert his eyes as heat blooms on his cheeks. Hadrian sees the empty quiver that shoots from your back. An archer. Perhaps that explains the fingerless glove on your hand.
The grey in your eyes is not like steel, but silver instead. And the gold in your hair is not blond, but bright yellow. Like the sunflowers that seek the sun. But it's him that seeks you. The world seems to come to a halt as Hadrian's limbs feel too heavy. His cross burns over his heart. His thoughts both spin and freeze. Fall and soar.
Beautiful.
(…)
Here is a sneak peek! The full commission is available on Ko-fi for supporters!
The Commission.
Thank you so much for making the request! ♡♡♡
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it was all yellow
read on AO3 [here]
Jaskier hummed as he chewed the edge of his quill in his mouth. His eyes slid to Geralt, on the other side of the fire from him, his visage flickering in the light.
The warm glow from the fire seemed to reflect in Geralt's eyes, turning his normal yellow gaze into a golden honey, drawing Jaskier in like a trap. When gold flicked to blue and Geralt raised an eyebrow in question, Jaskier hummed and turned back to his notebook, jotting down a few more words for the song he was composing.
It was one that had come to him earlier that day and a decade ago, echoing in his mind of now and then, following him just as he follows Geralt. A song his heart had been composing for years before his mind caught up.
It had demanded to be written, just a little while ago, after almost an hour of Geralt pointing out the different constellations in the sky and explaining their meaning to Jaskier. His low voice had been murmuring just to Jaskier's left, the both of them laying on their backs in the field where they made camp. They had been laying for only a few minutes before Jaskier had tilted his head, watching Geralt watching the stars instead of looking at them himself. It wasn't the stars he was fascinated by.
Jaskier read through the words he had already written, humming a short melody to himself.
Look at the stars
Look how they shine for you
And everything you do
His eyes once more slid to Geralt, with his golden eyes and the fire casting a soft, yellow glow on him. He adds a few more words.
And it was all yellow
Julian was 5 the first time he managed to slip from his nanny's watchful eyes and start his first adventure. It wasn't far, his short legs carrying him as fast as they could as he ran through his family's estate to the fences on the far side. He had never seen what lay beyond and the excitement had him tripping over his own feet. His small hands grabbed at rocks and hauled him up onto the top of the fence. He remembers his shock.
The other side of the fence held rows and rows of corn, their pale yellow tassels waving gently in the wind. Bright flashes of yellow corn peeked out of the field, winking joyously at him. As far as his eyes could see, yellow hands waved hello at him. His own grubby fingers waved back, a gap-toothed grin wide on his face. He doesn't remember how long he sat there before he felt his nanny's arms wrap around him and haul him back to the ground, her shrill voice background noise to Julian’s thundering heart. He doesn’t remember what she said, cause it was all yellow.
And that was where Julian's love of yellow began. From then on, yellow was Julian’s favorite everything. He sought it out in his textbooks, learning the names of all the brightest yellow flowers, even choosing their names for his own. He was 12 when he first demanded to be called Jaskier, after the flowers found in the meadows the cattle grazed in. He was 17 when he chose Dandelion as his stage name, finding comfort in the resiliency of the yellow flower everyone considered a weed and disregarded.
Jaskier was 18 when he approached a brooding stranger and felt his heart stop as his blue eyes met yellow.
I came along
I wrote a song for you
And all the things you do
And it was called “Yellow”
The song that Jaskier wrote was called “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher,” at least the song that everyone sings. But this song started that fateful meeting in Posada, born of the longing that Jaskier felt that day, that he had always associated with yellow. That made him chase Geralt out of that inn.
So then I took my turn
Oh what a thing to have done
And it was all yellow
Jaskier’s quill scratched across the paper, the fire crackled, Geralt’s rag made soft sounds as he polished his swords, and Roach stamped softly in the flowers.
The flowers.
Just a few short hours ago, they had been traveling the Path on their way to a contract in Verden when they reached the crest of a winding, uphill path. The trees had opened up onto a plateau filled to the brim with yellow wildflowers. The slowly setting sun cast a hazy golden glow across the entire area.
Jaskier had turned to Geralt to make a comment about appreciating the beauty of the world when the words had died in his throat. The soft yellow light, the backdrop of yellow flowers, the piercing yellow gaze… Jaskier’s heart had flipped in his chest. He’s always been a simple man, well relatively simple, especially when it came to yellow. He wanted.
Geralt took one look at his face before he sighed and swung off Roach. “You’ve got your composing face on. Let’s make camp.” And he walked off into the field of flowers, leaving Jaskier gasping for air on the path.
With a rueful huff, Jaskier brought himself back to the present, jotting down a few more words in his notebook.
Your skin
Oh yeah, your skin and bones
Turn into something beautiful
You know, you know I love you so
You know I love you so
That’s how it’s always been with Jaskier. When he felt desire, when he felt contentment, when he felt love... It was always yellow.
It hadn’t been easy to love Geralt. He tried so hard to keep everyone away, his animosity and snarls creating an ocean, a chasm, between those who would love him and himself. But that doesn’t mean much to Jaskier, because Geralt was yellow. When Jaskier had seen those yellow eyes glaring back at him in Posada, he was intrigued. But as he got to know Geralt more, know his goodness and his noble heart, it was no longer just interesting. Geralt was yellow. And Jaskier wanted.
I swam across
I jumped across for you
Oh what a thing to do
'Cause you were all yellow
I drew a line
I drew a line for you
Oh what a thing to do
And it was all yellow
Oh how he had tried, at first. He had tried to build a line to signify what he wouldn’t do for Geralt. To create some sense of a separation between where Geralt ended and Jaskier began. But he was helpless to it. Jaskier had always been drawn to yellow, and Geralt, well… Jaskier met yellow eyes across the fire and sighed. Geralt was yellow.
Your skin
Oh yeah your skin and bones
Turn into something beautiful
And you know
For you I'd bleed myself dry
For you I'd bleed myself dry
There wasn’t anything that Jaskier wouldn’t do for Geralt. Sometimes he thought that Geralt knew, that he knew how much Jaskier loved him and that he knew how much he would do for him. But it was all wishful thinking, for Geralt never said anything.
“Will you sing it at the next tavern?” Geralt’s gruff voice called across the fire. Jaskier smiled softly.
“No, I think this one will only be for my own ears, dear heart,” Jaskier replied, as he wrote a few more lines of the song. The song that his eyes reflected and his heart sang. His love was yellow.
It's true
Look how they shine for you
Look how they shine for you
Look how they shine for
Look how they shine for you
Look how they shine for you
Look how they shine
Look at the stars
Look how they shine for you
And all the things that you do
They left at dawn’s first light in the morning, and Jaskier trailed behind Geralt a few steps as he watched the yellow morning light crawl across the yellow wildflowers and tangle in Geralt’s hair. He may not be looking at Jaskier, but he knew Geralt’s eyes shined yellow. Geralt was yellow.
And Jaskier followed.
#is this super self-indulgent?#yes#i have been in a yellow mood for months#so surprise surprise i find inspiration in this song#my writing#katie writes too#my fanfic#geraskier#geralt x jaskier#geralt#jaskier#roach#dandelion#witcher#witcher fandom#witcher fanfic#fanfic#come say hi on AO3!
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Shipping Jelsa
The Man of The Moon is an ardent Jelsa shipper. How does he convince his old friend, the Spirit of the Ahtohallan, to ship Jelsa too?
Fandom: Rise of the Guardians + Frozen
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Warnings Apply
Categories: F/M
Pairing: Jack Frost/Elsa and a pair of random ships we mnade on JHaven Discord Server
For @victortky and @ariddletobesolved
Ahtohallan knew one thing for sure.
Had Manny been on Earth, she would have frozen that round face of his and made it the best exhibit of her temple.
Then again, his face was too round to be showcased — it would just roll away and knock down the icy pillars, something she was sure she would regret.
It wasn’t everyday that one of your girls rebuilt your entire house in just a matter of 15 minutes, was it?
The Mother Spirit had been relaxing in her freshly-reconstructed home, the ice glimmering around beautifully as Nokk rested beside her. It was all calm and serene — Northuldra and Arendelle were at peace, the bridge between humans and magic finally restored. The Spirits were happy to get their missing member back in the family, and Nature was finally at peace.
No more siren cosplay, no more singing. Just peace, calm, serene —
A light, cold tingle on her cheeks had made Ahtohallan turn her icy-blue gaze to the entrance. A few autumn leaves fluttered in, as the cool air brushed against her face and tickled her again, her snow-white hair with blue highlights flowing lightly behind her. Giggling, the regal woman waved her pale hands lightly, whispering, “There, there Gale, I know you are happy to have found the final Spirit family member.”
The stray leaves rapidly circled her head for a moment before sifting out of the place. Sighing, Ahtohallan let her gaze travel around her home again, before settling herself down on the oh-so cool ice. Nokk moved over to wrap himself around her and with a soft smile, Ahtohallan rested her head on its belly, petting his mane as he whinnied in delight.
The soft neighs of Nokk, the light tingles from Gale and the overall peace had relaxed her so much that it wasn’t long before golden sand filtered into the glacier. With a happy smile, the Mother Spirit allowed the dream magic to work upon her, lulling her to a much-needed peaceful sleep.
A peaceful sleep that was interrupted by the stupid man with white and blonde hair who had decided to ruin her peaceful Spirit life.
It was first the strong beam of moonlight that hit her eyes. She merely turned around a bit, burying her face in Nokk’s soft and comfortably damp fur.
It hadn’t been two minutes of enjoying the new darkness before —
“Knock. KnockKnockKnock. Knock. ”
She ignored it, a soft sound of irritation escaping her lips.
“Knock. KnockKnockKnock. Knock. ” Came the sound again.
Taking in a deep breath, Ahtohallan sang slowly to herself.
“Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let it show— ”
Only to be interrupted by a cacophony.
“DO YOU WANNA BUILD A SNOWMMAANNNNNN?~~ ”
Letting out a nearly frustrated growl, the woman pushed herself up and glared at the platinum blonde man who peeked at her from the roof, his cheeky grin reflected in the glacier as multiple images.
“Your voice doesn’t match Anna’s at all, you know that right, Round Face?”
“Well then My Liege,” Manny chuckled, “ JUST LET ME INNNN~~ ”
“Ugh! Go away Manny!”
“SHOW YOURSELF GLACIER LAD— HEY! ”
Ahtohallan could feel Manny’s glare on her through the extra layer of ice she had added on the roof.
“It seems like you have been spending a lot of time with Dyn, haven’t you?” she teased him, a smirk on her face for she knew he couldn’t see her clearly — there was only a sliver of moonlight that was able to pass through the roof.
“Maybe I am,” came his sing-song voice, before it turned to a teasing lilt and Ahtohallan could imagine the smirk he wore. “I guess someone’s all jelly-jelly~~”
“I AM NOT! UGH!!” Ahtohallan nearly screamed, stomping her foot in frustration.
“Well, well, whatever,” Manny said nonchalantly, “Aren’t you being a lot in Liv’s company too, Glacier Lady?”
The Mother Spirit glared at the roof, attempting to burn a hole into it from her anger. However, knowing it wouldn’t work, she let out an exasperated sigh, waving her hands around to melt the additional layer of ice she had created not a few moments ago.
“I would rather prefer for you to state your business fast and scurry off to your weekly twirling around Earth, rather than eat my brains for your nightly snack. Come down here and then, let’s get this over with.”
Moonlight beamed into the icy premises of the glacier, and specks shimmered in it, slowly coalescing together to reveal the form of a tall man, his posture regal and wisdom shining on his visage.
Well, the wisdom lost its lustre thanks to that cheeky grin that was stretched on his lips.
Ahtohallan gawked for a minute, before lifting a shaking finger at the man, “You—you—”
“Yes me?” the man, Manny drawled, wiggling his eyebrows a little.
Ahtohallan took a deep breath, then nearly screamed, “WHY THE ICE ARE YOU IN AGNARR’S FORM?”
“Umm, ‘cause you look like Iduna?” he said, shrugging.
“But—But that’s how I actually look!” Ahtohallan said, clearly exasperated. “You are supposed to look like a tiny, round old man! Not like, like—”
“A dashing, handsome royalty?” Manny offered, smirking, only to sober up at the icy glare he received.
“UGH!” Ahtohallan harrumphed and stomped her foot. “You are just...just incorrigible!”
“Is that a compliment? I guess I will take it as a compliment.”
Ahtohallan facepalmed and then asked in a frustrated voice, “What are you here for again?”
“Oh right!” Manny said. “I heard you just got a female fifth spirit, one with ice powers?”
“I did. So? Is it wrong?��
“No! Everything you do is right, my liege,” he winked and then continued, “I have a male spirit, and what a funny coincidence that he has ice powers too! So, I was just going to propose that—”
“No.”
“But why?”
“Because your shipping attempts have always resulted in disastrous consequences, Manny.”
“I beg to differ! And I swear this ship would be the best!”
“And why do you think so?” Ahtohallan asked, checking her nails.
“Well, they have cryokinesis powers to start with.”
Ahtohallan looked up at the man, her eye twitching a bit. “So?”
“SO?” Manny said out loud, his jaw dropping open. “You ask so? C’mon Glacier Lady, they have freaking cryokinesis powers! As in ice powers! I-C-E ICE! Have these confines frosted that beautiful brain of yours? You should come to the Moon someday to get some fresh air!”
“Is that—” Ahtohallan spoke slowly, her voice dangerously low, “Is that some weird way of yours to ask me out?”
Manny started tapping his fingers nervously, “I guess?” he squeaked nervously before masking the embarrassing tone with a cough. “Well, that’s not the only reason I have for shipping them, you see.”
“Oh really?” The Mother Spirit raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him. “Enlighten me then, my old friend.”
Furnishing a scroll from the inner pocket of his coat, Manny presented it to the Ice Spirit. She took it with confusion and opened it, her eyes going wide at the beautiful calligraphy etched onto the yellow parchment.
------------------------------------------ It’s a very long fic, so I am just going to link the AO3 site here! Plus, you can find the pact that Manny is talking about on this Tumblr post :D
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Setting Prompt: A crowded market on a humid night where you keep getting turned around - haven't you passed that stall five times now?
“Shall I peer into your fate, lost one?”
Calria slows her steps and looks to her left. A woman both young and old sat beneath the shade of an elaborate, deep blue tent. The stall sat skinny and high, cloth top held by a gnarled tree branch. She sat in a darkwood chair on the right side of a table with her hands rested neatly atop a silk covering. One hand was smooth and pale while the other had curdled with time and shook uncontrollably. The aged fingertips tapped broken fingernails at the edge of the table while she regarded the Sindorei with interest.
Deja vu rose in her stomach and alarm throbbed at the forefront of her head. Calria regards the seer cautiously then turns, trying to determine where she was. No...she was not mistaken. This was the third, maybe even the fifth time she’d passed by this stall. She’d been walking a straight line as far as she could tell, searching for the friends she’d tended to the Festival with. The Knight runs a hand through her hair and knits her brows. She ignores the call and quickly starts down the main stretch of stalls, this time going the opposite direction in hope this would prove more yielding results.
Calria marches onwards, trying to keep her gaze straight. A myriad of different vendors and food stands blurred together as she set course for the exit. The elf tried to steady her mind and focus inwards. Perhaps it was a trick, or she’d been walking for longer than she intended. Was she truly just tired? Lost? Lanterns dangled from the tops of leafless trees that depicted a multitude of different faces that taunted Calria as she pushed forward. Minutes turn to what feels like hours until the Sindorei spots a familiar face out of the corner of her eye. She turns her gaze away from the main road and rushes for a nearby stall. A hand grips the shoulder of a coppery-haired woman and turns her around.
“Miss Cassandra, we need to leave immediately--”
The human woman knits her brows and glares up at Calria. Brown, short curls wrapped about her rounded face that were pushed up by a large Pandaren plush in one arm. “What’s your problem?” She touts in an accented tone. She shoves Calria away then turns back to the stall, free arm wrapping around another. Calria takes a few steps back, several festival-goers brushing past her as the crowd thickens. She whispers apologies and reaches up, rubbing sweat from her face. The humid air felt like a wet, hot blanket that weighed heavily on her body. Her clothes were damp with sweat and her single eye wildly looked from side-to-side in distress.
“Shall I peer into your fate, lost one?”
Calria inhales sharply and turns on her heel, nearly tripping over herself. The woman was sitting in the same spot under the shadow of her tent. The candle that burned fervently at the center of the table dripped no wax and emitted a soft, yellow light. The Sindorei gives a gentle shake of her head and lumbers forward, sifting through the packed road. She approaches the seer and narrows her eye, words leaving her throat in a tired, exhausted timbre.
“Release this spell, stranger. I have no time for this game you wish to play.”
The woman leans back in her seat and chuckles in a low, raspy manner. The left portion of her face was wrapped in bandages, gray hair tucked over the edges pulled behind her in a messy bun. Despite the aged visage of her one hand, the right side of the seer’s face was porcelain. A calm, serene woman who watched Calria with interest with a singular brown eye. Though seemingly young, her voice was hoarse and quiet.
“It is no magic of mine. And now that I can see you clearly, I believe perhaps you are not even truly lost.”
Calria curls her fingertips into gentle fists and gives a tilt of her head. The woman within the tent moves her hands, one mortal and another timeless, up under her chin. She leans forward in her seat and gestures with her head to the seat across from her. “Fate calls you here and there is only one way to appease it,”she whispers in a gutteral tone. “Please, have a seat.”
The Sindorei closes her eye briefly and relaxes her posture. She wipes her hand across her face then ducks under the entrance of the tent to step inside. The ache that had been present in her head had moved down to the back of her neck. She felt sore and ill; her memory addled. Calria had forgotten why she’d come in the first place, but the moment she sat across the seer something felt...right. Calria takes a deep breath then regards the stranger.
“Do as you will, then. If you insist upon peering into my future or my past be done with it so I may leave.”
The woman smiles gently then moves her hands down to the table. Her hands busy themselves with shuffling an ornate, gilded deck of cards while the flame at the center of the table burned bright. Her eye was half-lidded as she turned to address Calria. She places the cards beside the candle, fingertips resting atop the deck.
“Cursed soul, you know why you are here,” the Seer states firmly. She lifts her hand from the deck and rests them across her lap. “And I, know why I am here. It would do me no good to tell you of a past you have lived. To tell you of a future you know is destined to occur.”
Calria leers at the woman. Her look had greatly soured and the ache bubbled in her throat, making it uncomfortable to speak. Sweat glistened across her face as the flame danced in between them. She wipes her hands against her legs then reaches forward, picking a card from the deck at random. Her gold eye looks over the illustration presented before her. She seemed unsurprised at the draw, though her hand shook in frustration. Calria closes her eye as the seer watches her carefully, a muted expression on her face.
“Your fate is still unchanged, child. May this serve as a fair reminder, it is the only choice left.”
Calria slowly opens her eye and looks towards the woman. The seer’s beautiful and tarnished palms lay on either side of the candle, an offering to the Sindorei who sat across from her. Calria takes a slow, deep breath then reaches forward with the card in hand. She hovers the card over the candle and touches the flame.
“Shall I peer into your fate, Cursed One?”
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truly the prettiest girl
#she's in her 40s/50s era#look at that HAIR#look at HER#everything about her is perfect#*❈ ‣ and are you beautiful and pale with yellow hair like her? — ( visage. )
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Wedded, pt 1/3
A little Crimson Peak 3-parter, eventually smutty. I lay this at the feet of @nildespirandum in homage to her amazing fic, Perfection.
***
“Your finest suite of rooms, please.”
The gruff innkeeper looked askance at you and your new husband of a few hours, his brow furrowed. This ramshackle little coaching inn had likely never entertained a baronet before.
You rubbed your thumb absently over the gorgeously engraved band of yellow gold on your ring finger.
I’m a lady now.
The arranged marriage hadn’t shocked you. As very minor nobility, your father had struck the match between you and Sir Thomas Sharpe, using the only thing he had as leverage - land. Sir Thomas wanted the land to mine; your father wanted to secure your future.
Love hadn’t been on the table. That was a pity for your girlish fantasies, but you had a practical head on your shoulders. Many women these days barely had enough to eat; you were in a better boat than a large proportion of England.
“Begging your pardon, m’lord, but we only have one room available. It has a window,” he added brightly.
Your husband - husband! - glanced over at you. His eyes, the shade of the sea during a roaring storm, searched yours. In the candlelight of the inn’s tap room, his dark hair was black as a raven’s wing, the soft room’s glow catching on the planes and angles of his starkly handsome face.
“This is your wedding night,” he said softly. “If you wish, we will stay.”
You glanced out of the inn’s windows at the rain lashing the panes none too quietly. You didn’t see that you had much of a choice, although it was kind of Sir Thomas to give you the illusion of one. The narrow path you needed to take to your new home had been flooded by the constant rain; the horses couldn’t pass it until the morning.
“Let’s stay,” you decided with a nod.
“Hot water at once, if you would,” Thomas told the innkeeper, pressing some coins into his palm. “And extra blankets for my new wife.”
The innkeeper inclined his head in what might have been a parody of a bow. You didn’t care. The room had a warm bed and you would soon have a bath to recline in. What else mattered on a stormy, rainy night like this?
Thomas tucked your hand in the crook of his elbow and led you upstairs.
As it turned out, you found the appointed room better than you’d expected for an inn in a small hamlet like this. An oriental screen, faded but exquisitely painted, separated the large bed from a large tin bath; again well used but scrupulously clean.
An oil lamp had been lit on the scruffy chest of drawers by the window, casting an old-gold glow around the room. The oriental screen cast a shadow over the bed, mirroring the shadow in your mind about spending the night with your new husband.
Did he want to exercise his marital rights?
Did you want him to?
“Perhaps, a bath?” Thomas asked, his soft baritone suddenly loud in the room. The thick floorboards muffled the noise from the taproom downstairs and you felt very alone with him, his tall frame dominating the room.
Just as you opened your mouth to reply, a pounding sounded on the door.
Thomas opened it, and two serving boys walked in slowly, a large pail of steaming water between them. You stepped aside as they carefully upended it into the tin bath and then took their leave, after Thomas gave them each a coin for their trouble.
He gestured to the screen. “You first. Would you prefer it if I took my leave?”
You drew your lip between your teeth, nervous. You were married. But he’d thus far done no more than kiss you at the chapel, just a butterfly wings brush of his poet’s mouth over your own closed lips.
Sir Thomas Sharpe looked like he was made for sin, but he’d behaved impeccably.
Perhaps he didn’t want you … that way.
Perhaps yours was to be a usual ton marriage, where husband and wife did as they pleased in private and appeared together at balls and luncheons for society’s sake.
Your belly clenched in distress at the thought. But your father had wanted this match. So you had made it. And you would make the best of it. Even if transpired that Sir Thomas had no desire for you in his bed.
Even if you desired him in yours. Braced over you, his body bowing into yours, gifting you the pleasure you’d never known but desperately wanted to feel. The pleasure you knew women whispered about at balls behind the walls of their fluttering fans.
Even if just the once.
“Thank you, no need,” you murmured instead of voicing your concerns.
You stepped behind the screen and began to undress. Once you got to the laces in your corset, however, things became a little tricky.
You heard Thomas moving around in the bed area, and pressed an eye to one of the folds in the oriental screen. He shrugged off his damp coat, hanging it on a peg on the door of the large room. Beneath he wore a velvet waistcoat, his white shirtsleeves billowing around his elbows and wrists.
Your mouth watered as he began to unbutton the thick velvet brocade of the waistcoat. Each button slipped through its eyelet and finally the garment was laid aside on the bed linen.
He started on his crisp white shirt and you turned away, feeling ashamed of the desire pooling between your legs.
In vain you struggled to reach your own corset laces. It was useless, and your lungs constricted from the effort.
You bit off a very unladylike word, and Thomas knocked courteously on the screen as if it were a door. “Are you well?”
You took a deep breath. Well, you couldn’t put off him seeing your body forever. Might as well be now.
“I can’t get my corset off. Could you help?”
Thomas rounded the screen, his face serious as he gazed down at you. The snapping oil lamp reflected in his eyes. “Turn around, darling.”
His voice had roughened, deepened an octave. The endearment in the beautiful notes of his vocal cords made you press your thighs together in anticipation. You turned slowly to face a big mirror hung on the wall opposite the bath.
Your gaze was drawn to Thomas’ face in the mirror, his eyes dipped to your back. He cupped his hands over your shoulders and slid his palms down your arms, acquainting you with his touch, before he started on the laces of your corset.
At the first gasp of freedom, you shivered with relief at the release of your ribcage. Corsets might give you an enviable waist, but they were vile instruments of torture.
When he reached the last lace, he dropped his head to your shoulder, kissing the curve where your neck met your shoulder. The skin there was sensitive, and you instinctively sucked in a breath when he moved his lips to your neck.
You watched the reflection of your bodies in the mirror as Thomas gently laved your earlobe and then the pulse point hammering under your jawline.
“Nervous?” he murmured.
You’d both had a long day and the beginning of whiskers showed in a five o’clock shadow under his pale skin. The light scrape of them aroused you as much as his kisses.
“This is all new,” you heard yourself say in reply.
His arms slipped around your waist, pressing your back to his front. “Are you afraid, little one?”
You swallowed. “Of you? No.”
“Good. You never need to fear me.” He stroked a curl of hair back behind your ear. “Tell me.”
I’m afraid that this will be a marriage on paper only.”
He smiled against your neck; you felt the curve of his lips on your skin.
He pressed his hips into you lightly, but enough to feel that part of him swelling against your backside.
“Does that feel like a marriage in name only to you, darling?”
Darling. You could get used to that endearment in his made-for-sin voice.
You turned back to face him, sliding your hands up the wall of his chest. The crisp linen of his white shirt felt soft with his body warmth under your palms.
The lamplight cast shadows on his breathtakingly handsome visage. His raven’s wing curls framed his face, a few disobedient strands curling under his ear to kiss the line of his jaw. Oh, but you could not countenance that he was yours and yours alone.
Your heart fluttered as you brushed your lips over his.
“Show me how our marriage will be,” you whispered, and let the unlaced corset fall to your feet.
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When Angels Fear to Tread: Chapter 1
⁂
Magnus Bane was five years old, a little boy in Batavia of the Dutch East Indies, when the first of the five most important events of his life came to pass. It went a little something like this:
One—his warlock mark appeared, two distinct green-yellow cat eyes that stared at him in the glass behind his mother’s washbasin.
Two—he told his mother, and watched her blurred face grow pale as she realized he wore the devil’s mark.
Three—his mother, after months of silently suffering with the revelation that she’d born the son of a prince of hell without her consent, committed suicide, and…
Four—several years later his step-father tried to drown him in the river by their house for his demonic inclinations.
Such was life as a warlock in the 1600s. Being a scared child, watching as his mother’s body was lowered into the ground, lashing out with magic against the man who tried to kill him… it was all par for the course. Now, meeting his soulmate, on the other hand… that, though he didn’t know it yet, would be the fifth and final of the five most important events of Magnus Bane’s life, and that event would be anything but mundane. And it would go a little something like…
⁂
“Magnus! Whit like are ye? Ye’ve got a face lit a melted welly.”
His face was what, now? Magnus turned away from the group of fae he’d been conversing with, blinking over at the decidedly Scottish-sounding werewolf who was currently accosting him, sloshing drink in hand. Two more wolves were at this one’s back, both equally sloshed—they slapped him heartily on the shoulders as they waited for an answer.
“I’m fine, but—who even are you people?” Magnus asked, guiding the drink of the wolf in front away from him so it wouldn’t splash on his shirt. He’d rather not smell like beer for the rest of the evening, thanks.
“A dinnae ken, a’m fae ye grocery hain? A hae an invitation—”
Dear god, and people said New Yorker English was hard to decipher. Not that Magnus had much of a New York accent. He’d had so many accents and dialects over the years that his English couldn’t be pinpointed to any one location. Which was for the best, really—it lent to the air of mystique he liked to seep himself in. Not that drunk werewolves would appreciate a thing like that. Why did Magnus even try.
He shook his head a little, shaking himself. He was zoning out. Besides, he knew why he tried—it was because he was four hundred years old and he’d promised himself that he wouldn’t stagnate. That was the entire reason he hosted these things in the first place. Didn’t stop him from wishing he could just kick everyone out and go to sleep, though.
A moment later, Magnus was, mercifully, spared from trying to decode the rest of the conversation as he felt his wards thrum a little higher around them.
Someone was here. Well, a lot of people were here—it was a party, after all. Generally speaking, however, his wards didn’t get up in a huff over having fae or children of the moon or blood-suckers—not at the same time, of course—in the near vicinity.
Who could it be, in that case?
“Excuse me, I need to get the door,” Magnus said, just as the buzzer rang out, barely audible over the din of the music. He paused a moment before clapping the wolf on the shoulder and pivoting gracefully away to start fighting his way through the crowd.
By the time he made it to the door, the buzzer had gone off twice more, the third time cut short as if someone had knocked the person’s hand off the button. He wasn’t quite sure to expect as he pulled the door wide, but a group of shadowhunters was certainly not it. And yet here they were, four of them plus a mundane, all with the Veil blurring their faces. All except for…
Wow. What beautiful blue eyes.
“Magnus? Magnus Bane?” one of the girls, one with a pale face and long black hair, asked after a moment.
“That would be me,” Magnus said, cocking an eyebrow without tearing his eyes from the face of the young man who was very clearly staring straight back at him. Magnus was suddenly grateful that he’d taken the time to do his make-up today. He had never seen someone’s face so clear—a few times in his past he thought the Veil had begun to lift for one lover or another, but it had never left anyone so unmasked as it had this kid. This kid and his vibrant blue eyes.
Unbidden, Magnus thought back to his time with Camille. How many times had he asked her what color her eyes were? Too many to count. Every time she’d give him a different answer, and he’d spend the day imagining her as she described herself, imagining that she was the most beautiful being on this earth.
She used to ask him, when they were together all those years ago, why he always put on his make-up when he knew no one would see it. He would always respond that it was for her, that one day the Veil would lift for her and reveal his face to her beautiful eyes. He kept waiting and waiting, imagining the day that he could finally look her in the eye, but alas, she was never unveiled for him nor him for her, and in the end that was probably for the best. She wasn’t so great after all. And those fantasies, all those daydreams about how her face must have been more beautiful than the finest art in the world… they all paled in comparison to the visage of the boy standing before him now.
Which, of course. Magnus smiled over, winking to the shadowhunter, who flushed up to his ears, as the girl handed over an invitation. Of course fate would give him the most handsome of all God’s creations as a soulmate.
This was going to be fun.
⁂
Thanks for reading! This is a work in progress and I would really like feedback, if you have it!
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[ A Gathering of Threads ]
Part Three: Ghosts
( @ivaan-ffxiv )
"Come then, let us discuss what sort of compensation you might require in exchange for a look at that key."
It took a moment for Ivaan to process that he had gotten through to her, a revelation which came as a pleasant surprise. Nodding, Ivaan bent down to pick up his own lantern, keeping an eye on Bee all the while. Slowly, he advanced. His polearm was kept with its point low as he walked, being sure to keep a good berth between him and the stranger. Though she appeared to have been mollified for the moment, he would not put it past her for this all to be some sort of ruse. There was a soft scraping sound of metal against stone as Bee seated the lantern back in the little flat nook upon the remains of the pillar, tracing a finger along its top rim once she had set it down fully. A quick shimmer of aether lit the ring along its edge and within moments the lantern had relit itself, glowing with a soft, warm glow akin to that of a regular flame. Bee stood on the opposite side of the pillar, keeping it and the lantern between her and Ivaan, the light fully revealing her to Ivaan as she waited.
The deep blue of the cloak was now visible from the gloom, the mass of ginger curls fully aflame in the new light set before her, golden clasps which held the cloak in place at her throat, glittering. With her hands on her hips, she waited for him, the cloak pulled away over one shoulder to reveal to him the strange silver hilt attached to her hip which boasted no blade as well as the smart black blouse tucked carefully into her pants. The onyx buttons glimmered in the light alongside a teardrop shaped stone of deep-red which hung from her neck. The color was cut diagonally up the center in a jagged line, as black as her outfit beneath the cloth.
"I haven't much gil on me, but I can promise you, if what you have truly is the key which opens this door, I will see to it that House Moineaux compensates you properly for your cooperation."
As the pair settled at the site, Ivaan had just set his own lantern down adjacent to hers when the rim of the whole pillar flared alight with a shimmer of aether. The sudden brightness had Ivaan take a step back, raising a hand to shield his eyes for a moment. Strangely enough, it was now plain to see that there were no slits in his helm to speak of. His grip on his weapon tightened for a moment... and relaxed as no attack came.
"I do not care for gil. As I said before, I want to be sure that..."
As he had spoke, Ivaan had taken in his company's newly revealed visage, the shadows pulled open like a curtain by the swelling light. The armored figure was as a statue again, staring. The warm glow of the light they shared caught her long curls, wreathing the woman's crown like flames, framing a freckled face... Mismatched hues of blue and green stared back at him, the round pupils of a Keeper of the Moon at their center. She was beautiful, he thought, and reminded him of... A glint caught the lower periphery of his sight, a flash of crimson. From behind his helm, his eyes darted downward like a hawk upon a rabbit to the source. Somewhere well outside of his universe, which had shrunk to the edges of his tunneled vision as he stared at the stone, something metallic clattered to the floor. His weapon had fallen from his hand, Ivaan not even having noticed its slip from his loosened grasp.
Bee watched his approach in silence, choosing to remain still so as to not accidentally move in a way that might be perceived as a threat. He had the reach on her with that polearm of his and while she knew she was fast, she did not yet know how fast her opponent was. As he came fully into her light, now within a distance for details, her eyes began their slow crawl over his form. It was not an armor she had seen before and as she studied the strange curves and points along the shoulders, she wondered just where it had been forged; as if knowing its origin could offer her some clue as to the wearer's identity. From toes to head her eyes roamed, coming to rest at that featureless helm which stirred a slight amount of unease now that she was looking at it up close. From a distance it had looked like any other full helm, its defining feature, or lack thereof, not immediately noticeable until he was closer. Her thoughts were pulled away from from the stranger's appearance by the sudden clatter of metal upon stone.
"T-That stone... No..."
Immediately Bee tensed, her hand sliding from hip to hilt to grasp it tightly as she took a tentative step backwards in surprise. Staring at him wide-eyed for a moment, her eyes darting from helm to hand to the ground, double checking to ensure that he had indeed just dropped his weapon. She barely registered what he had said through the sudden confusion which followed watching such a fierce-looking man discard his weapon as though in fear. She had meant to check behind her, to see if his reaction had something to do with the door which stood a few fulms away...and then it fully registered what he had said. Instinctively, her left hand flew to her chest, grabbing the stone in question and hiding it behind pale fingers.
Staring at him with a mix of confusion and suspicion, Bee ventured a defensive, "...What? What of it?" It was a harmless river rock, after all, its value held merely in sentiment...so why was he reacting as though he was seeing something unnatural?
Ivaan did not even see the hand move to the odd silver hilt in surprise at the sudden racket. What of it? It should be the most obvious thing in the world! How was this possible? How could she be alive? Ivaan had seen the corrupted crystal formations splashed across the coasts, heard of the eye-witness accounts of Bahamut himself swooping over Limsa Lominsa. How. Was. She. Alive? In his stunned stupor, he managed to take a step forward, that armored head tilting as his gaze scoured her anew... If he squinted, he could imagine that long hair of hers at shoulder length, with the tips of her canines just barely poking out from under her upper lip.
"Bee..." The armored figure rattled, his voice strained to the breaking point between hope, fear, and heartbreak.
Her grip tightened on the hilt as she tensed, the armored man suddenly taking a step towards her with his head tilted at an odd angle. What was he doing? She held her ground, watching him with a confused frown, trying to understand his movement. It wasn't a hostile step and he had made no move to pick up his weapon. It was as though he were in a trance and for a brief moment Bee wondered if perhaps whatever lie beyond that door might be affecting him...and then he said her name. The confusion was doubled, ears flat back to her head now as she looked him over, alarm bells ringing in her mind. He had only moments ago acted a mere stranger...so then how was it that he knew her name? Her grip on her necklace tightened as she tried desperately to figure out if she had perhaps met him somewhere...worked with him on something...perhaps he was familiar with her through someone else? Yet, she knew at her core that she had never seen that armor. This was not a man she had met before...was it?
Cautiously, she replied, "I'm sorry...have we met?”
The confirmation nearly sent him to the floor. Bee... His heart thundered, a maelstrom of emotions washing over him. Elation, regret, relief, shame... He was actually glad for a moment that she had not been able to suss out who he was. Gave him time to recover from the emotional shock of this revelation. His hand, shaking, moved to the bag slung over his shoulder. Sight was not required to retrieve what he was looking for... Innermost compartment, all the way at the bottom. A blocky shape wrapped in fabric was placed upon the flat part of the broken stone pillar. Pulling the knots in the thick twine free, the waxed fabric was unwrapped to reveal a polished walnut box. The top of this box was pushed sideways, not lifted, the top panel sliding along a hidden groove expertly carved into the wood where the two parts met. Within, nestled in soft fabric... a spiral seashell. The lanterns flanking the box set the pearlescent surface of the trinket alight in the yellow glow that now lit their little corner of the room.
Bee had continued to watch his movements carefully, keeping absolutely still, tensed and ready to spring away if need be. Yet the man simply pulled a small box out from his bag, setting it between the two lanterns on top of the pillar. Her fear of an attack was slowly fading, overtaken by the sudden curiosity over just what was in the box, who this man was. Relaxing slightly, she watched him unknot the twine, pull away the fabric, and slide the carefully crafted box open. Unbeknownst to her, she had begun to lean forward slightly, curiously peering into the box as it was opened. The gleaming shell which met her eye gave her pause and for a moment she merely stared at it, a sudden sense of familiarity now overtaking that previous fear and suspicion. It looked like--
"I-It is me, Bee. Your Ivaan..."
His words reached her ear, a name which she had not heard in what felt like forever, causing her to tear her eyes from the box to stare at that featureless helm wordlessly. Gone was that cautious frown, the suspicion and the worry, replaced with naught but wide-eyed shock. Her lips parted slightly, as though to refute his claim, yet no words came. The shock had taken all the thoughts from her head, dashing them to fragments which rattled uselessly around her mind as she stared at him. Bee no longer held her weapon, her right hand moving up to cover her mouth as she began to shake her head slightly, refusing to believe what was presented. It couldn't be!
"But you..." the words seemed distant, as though someone else were speaking them, "...this can't..."
It was hard to speak, her voice quiet and beginning to tremble along with the rest of her as she fought the swell of emotion within her chest, "...you're..."
She had taken a step around the pillar, continuing to stare at him as she tried to make sense of it all. "You can't be. I-Ivaan is...he's...."
She couldn't quite say it. Couldn't get the words from her lips. She looked at this armored ghost wordlessly, helplessly, desperately trying to piece her words back together from the jumbled fragments of thoughts and emotions in her head.
Ivaan nodded gently, "I know..." He placed his hands upon the edge of the broken pillar, leaning his weight into stone. "You gave me this, the summer after I gave you that stone."
A motion of the head toward her accompanied his words. "The summer we made our plans for us to come visit your village... Our last summer."
Not that she needed reminding, of course, but it was something to bolster his claim a bit. He fell silent, just trying to make sense of all of this. Just... how? The shock was overriding all other thoughts still, such as vaulting over that stone to take her in his arms. To cry out in elation, to shed tears, all of it just bowled over by how impossible this was. Part of him expected to wake up at any moment, with naught but the shell.
"Our last summer..." She echoed his words with a whisper, taking another small step around the pillar as she continued to stare at him.
She didn't dare move her eyes from him on the off chance that he would disappear into the darkness which hung about the rest of the room, leaving her there with nothing more but a pair of lanterns and an old shell. She had so many questions, so many things she wished to say. Our last summer. There was no way around it. It was Ivaan. It couldn't have been anyone else. There was only one person that would have known about the shell, only one who would've remembered which summer she had gifted it.
Bee was moving before she realized it, rounding the pillar fully, moving with a desperate step. She closed the distance between them, gaining speed as she did, springing forward upon that last step. Everything seemed to move in slow motion for her as she extended her arms towards him, letting that last small leap carry her the rest of the distance towards him as she made to do the very thing his shock was keeping him from doing. "Ivaan..." It was the only warning she gave him as she leapt forward to embrace him, heedless of his armor which separated them from any real hug. She didn't care. She couldn't stop herself, carried by the desire to touch him, to make sure he was real, to close the gap both in distance and years with a tearful embrace. In the absence of words, only action remained.
<< Two || Four >>
#ffxiv#ff14#ffxiv rp#rp#balmung#crystal data center#Ivaan Arkwright#Bee Ohkabe#[ Reunion ]#A Gathering of Threads#Part Three: Ghosts#A Gathering of Threads Part Three#;w;
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Chapter 19: Cousins
Regulus was surprised when Narcissa replied to him. He hadn’t been sure that she would believe he was really alive after all this time. He was sitting in the library when Kreacher brought her response. The library had become his refuge- his and Iset’s. Now that the room had been cleaned, it was a nice place to stay. There was silence and the bookshelves muffled the sounds coming from the rest of the house to some extent.
At first, when Kreacher set the letter on the oak desk in front of him, Regulus could only stare at the letter. His name was written in a familiar neat, cursive hand. The handwriting was a bit different than he remembered, but it had been seventeen years. Part of him was scared to open the letter. He could feel Iset’s eyes on him as he reached into the desk and pulled out a heavy silver letter opener.
His eyes raced over the short letter, and he glanced at his watch. He really hadn’t expected Narcissa to want to meet with him; let alone do so so urgently. Still, he had asked for this. He carefully folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.
“She wants to meet me,” he told Iset as he stood up. Iset set her book down.
“That's good right?”
“I think so,” he said. “Tell Mrs. Weasley that I won’t be in for lunch.”
Iset nodded and picked up her book again. Her movement was casual, but he thought he could see the worry in her brown eyes. “Be careful, someone might recognize you.”
“Don’t worry.” Regulus left the library and went to his room. He glanced at the place where the newspapers about the Death Eaters had been. Someone, his brother or Remus, had taken them down. He hadn’t thanked them though he should. But for now, he went to his closet and took out a white silk button-up shirt. The black one he was wearing would be too hot in the sun. He hoped that what he was wearing wouldn’t stand out too much as he had no practice blending in with muggles. While it was strange to hear that Narcissa wanted to meet him in St. James Park, it was smart. There would be no Death Eaters in a place so packed with muggles. After he changed his shirt, he brushed his hair again. Then, he picked up the heavy silver ring that Kreacher had left on his desk. The Black Family signet ring. He turned it over in his hands a few times, before sliding it on his finger and heading out.
Regulus managed to apparate close enough to St. James Park that he didn’t need to use a point me spell to find it, which was good because there were muggles everywhere. Regulus wasn’t sure he had ever seen so many of them, not even in Kings Cross Station. He wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to find Narcissa in this mess. Still, he moved into the park as she had said. The grass was brilliant green in the sun and it would have been beautiful if there weren’t so many people.
Some muggles gave him curious or appraising looks, but nothing that suggested they thought he looked absurd. He wasn't sure he could say the same about some of them. Jackets made out of plaid. Tank tops over shirts. Strange fabrics with geometric patterns and bright colors. Had muggles always dressed this strangely? Regulus had never really had a chance to observe before.
Regulus was relieved when he reached the spot mentioned in the letter. He was early, but that didn’t bother him. Moving so that he was in the shade, Regulus leaned against a tree trunk. It was nice to breathe fresh air after days stuck inside Grimmauld Place. Letting his head fall back and rest against the wood, he waited as the people walking by made a constant background chatter.
The sound of a gasp, much closer than the other voices got his attention. His eyes flew open. Narcissa was standing there; she had her hand over her mouth and her blue eyes were wide. Regulus studied her, even as he straightened up and took a few steps towards her. Her hair was still dyed white blonde. There were fine lines around her eyes and mouth, but she still looked like herself. He’d expected her to look older after having seen Sirius, but he supposed that Azkaban had aged Sirius beyond the twelve years it should have been.
“Reg,” she said. There was a small quiver in her voice and the sunlight made her eyes shine. Regulus opened his arms, offering a hug. He was slightly surprised when she accepted it. He breathed in the smell of her expensive perfume, it was still the same. Though she also smelled like roses.
“Cissy,” Regulus said, not sure what else to say. He released her from the hug.
“I can’t believe it,” her eyes were searching his face, though what for, he didn’t know.
“It’s rather insane, I admit.”
“I’m so glad to have you back,” her voice was still full of emotion. “At least I got you back. Merlin, you look so young though.”
Regulus let out a single chuckle. “I’m the same age I was the last time you saw me.”
“Yes,” she said, and her eyes were sad now. “But I was young too. We were all so young. I didn’t realize it until… until…”
“Your son,” Regulus finished for her. She nodded. “You’re only two years older than him.”
“I guess it’s true then, that he’s mixed up with the Dark Lord.”
Narcissa let out a single, brittle laugh. “How could he not be? With Lucius,” Regulus noted that the way she said Lucius was much colder than it had been seventeen years ago. “And Bella. He is living in my house, Regulus. How can Draco not be involved.”
“I’m sorry, Cissy. I am. I wanted…” He trailed off. He wouldn’t tell Cissy about the Horcruxes. The Dark Lord could dig the information out of her brain if he wanted. “I wanted to stop anyone else from being stuck like I was.”
“Can you do it, Reg?” She said. Her voice was completely serious, and her eyes were focused on him.
“I’ve already started.” He forced himself to sound confident. For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Blue eyes to blue eyes.
“Do it,” Narcissa said at last. Regulus didn’t have to ask what it was. His stomach flipped uncomfortably; he didn’t want to do this. Gritting his teeth, Regulus reached out for Narcissa’s mind.
Narcissa and Bellatrix are standing together in an expensively furnished sitting room. They’re young.
“He trusts me, Cissy. Me!” Bellatrix’s eyes are bright, almost fanatically so. “He’s trusted me with something special.”
“What is it?” Narcissa asked, curious, but not nearly as excited as Bellatrix.
“I can’t tell you,” she said with a smug smirk.
~
“What did you do?” Narcissa’s voice was hard and accusatory. She was toe to toe with her husband. Lucius was older than Regulus remembered, his hairline was receding and starting to show grey.
“The Dark Lord left it in my care.”
“And you should have kept it safe, not sent it to the school. They are kids, Lucius. What if something happens to Draco.”
“Everyone knows the monster only attacks mudbloods.”
“Everyone thinks that!” Her voice was going shrill. “We don’t know anything.”
~
A woman with matted black hair that fell past her waist was standing in the Malfoy’s marble foyer looking incredibly out of place. He hardly recognized Bella when she looked up. Her cheekbones stood out in her emaciated face. Her black eyes stood out against her ghost pale skin, shining with madness.
“Hello little sister,” Bella said with a grin that showed yellowing, horrible teeth.
“Bella!” Narcissa’s gasp was half horror, half surprise.
“Did you miss me?” Bella still had that horrible smile.
“Of course I did!”
~
Bella, older and still haggard, but cleaner and more filled out. She was pacing up and down the library while Narcissa sat on a bench to read.
“I need to make sure that it’s safe!”
“I don’t know what you are talking about Bella.”
“The Dark Lord, he entrusted it to me!”
Narcissa sighed and turned the page of her book. The contrast between them was incredible. Narcissa was like ice, sleek, blonde, cold, elegant. Bellatrix was like a midnight storm, dark-haired, wild, and barely tamed.
“I can’t help you with that, Bella. You never told me anything about it.”
“I need to get to my house!”
“You stand a good chance of getting caught that way,” Narcissa said, frowning over the top of her book. “Send someone else.”
“No one except for me can open the gates.”
“Not even Rodolphus?”
“Not even Rodolphus,” she said with a wicked grin.
~
The Dark Lord sat at the head of the Malfoy dining table. The light from the overhead chandelier was not flattering on his pale, snake-like visage. His crimson eyes were on the table in front of him, and one gaunt hand was stroking the head of a massive snake.
“Draco,” the voice was cold and high. The boy sitting next to Narcissa stood up. He had the pale Malfoy hair and a slightly narrow face. He didn’t look like a Black.
“Come here,” the Dark Lord spoke again. “Your aunt speaks highly of you.”
Bellatrix was sitting to the left of the Dark Lord. Her eyes were shining with devotion.
“Come on Draco,” she said. “The Dark Lord wants to honor you with the dark mark.”
“Silence, Bella!” She shrank back in her chair, but the devotion in her eyes did not so much as flicker. “She is right, Draco, I wish to invite you to join us.”
Narcissa was frozen in her seat. Her pale face was a mask of calm. But her hands were gripping tightly to her skirt.
~
“You will kill Albus Dumbledore, Draco.” The Dark Lord’s voice was somehow colder and crueler than before. “You are in a unique position at the school. I believe you can do this.”
“I won’t fail you, Lord,” Draco said. He stood back ramrod straight and head appropriately bowed. His hands were pressed to his sides to hide the shaking. But, the Dark Lord wasn’t looking at Draco, he was looking at Bella and his eyes were wicked.
“Good,” the Dark Lord stroked the head of the massive snake by his side. “Because if you don’t, both of your parents will die.”
Draco’s hands clenched on his pants, but he didn’t say anything.
Regulus gasped and took a step back when he felt his mind return to his body. His emotions swirled chaotically. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself. He could deal with his own emotions later, right now he needed to deal with Narcissa.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. He wanted to hug her, to hold her, as he had done all those years ago when they lost Andy. But, that wasn’t how Blacks did things. “I promise that I will do everything I can to end this.”
“Everything?” Narcissa asked him.
“On the family name, Narcissa. I’ll do my best to end this.”
“Good.” Narcissa’s face was cool and collected, but her eyes were dangerous. “My son means more to me than anything. I lost Andy, Sirius, you, Bella, my parents, and Lucius. I had my son. I can’t lose him.”
“You won't,” Regulus said, turning away. “I’ll write to you. It’s best if we don’t stay too long.”
“I’ll see you when this all is over, Reg.”
“When it’s all over.”
Keep reading on AO3
#good slytherins#regulus black#regulus lives#regulus deserved better#narcissa malfoy#draco malfoy#ancient and most noble house of black#harry potter#hp fanfic#fanfic#fan fiction#ao3#ao3 link
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Ya’ll.
ya’ll why am i doing this
A Monastery Holds More Than Bones
Vampire: the Masquerade, Anatole/Beckett
CW: death mention, it’s the 1700s so I personally would like to scream
Chapter 1: Ethos
Night unfurled across the Court of Love, and the Kindred came out. Beckett grumbled.
“Your cuffs are adequate, young one. Stop teasing the lace,” Aristotle said. The low nasal hum of his sire’s voice mollified him somewhat. He gave one last indignant tug and let his clothes be.
Before his first death, Beckett had never been to Versailles, let alone walked the royal grounds. Now the lush gardens and precision hedgerows grew in familiar places. Yet he could not walk it blinded, like Aristotle could. His footfalls scuffed the marble steps down the terrace while his sire glided without a sound. A breeze blew past his nose and their dark cloaks fluttered behind them. Beckett took a deep breath. The enhanced senses had been the first thing he’d become accustomed too, in this unlife. All that information from the wind—the fruit scent of lady’s perfume, the musk of men’s cologne, and the pure smell of roses. Kindred gathered to the northwest of them.
Their footsteps pressed across the dry lawn, and they approached a hedge maze. At the pulsing center would be the blood-addicts, of course. They were dramatic like that.
Aristotle said, “I know you would rather be home and reading our books, but tonight’s Court will interest you. We are to meet Lady Lucita de Aragon and Anatole,” Aristotle said.
“Our fellow ‘memory-seekers,’” Beckett said, trailing behind and noting the fading animal and insect noises. “Nothing would please me more. No, wait. I can think of one thing.” He paused for effect and to glance at Aristotle. The man already had a smile sneaking onto his face. “The next paragraph of that awe-inspiring history of the Salubri.”
The usual serious mien of Aristotle’s face cracked in mischief. “I assure you the book will be there when we return, young one.”
Beckett rolled his eyes. Another breath and the roses’ scent rushed closer. Four turns more, and he entered a garden of blooms and pale statues gleaming under the full moon.
Beckett shook his head to clear it. No, they weren’t statues. They were Kindred to him: the dead. They clustered in close little knots of coterie and uneasy alliance, any rotting smell covered by the overwhelming scent of flowers. The petals were painted darker the further one delved into the garden. The ones at the edge were white as the purest lamb’s wool; the ones at the middle the velvet red of iron-rich blood.
At the center of the garden in the center of the maze was an elaborate twisting gazebo of iron and wood. And without fail, his long red-brown hair artfully tousled and scandalously down, Prince Villon sat on his cushioned throne under the gazebo. Ghouls were positioned on either side to fan him, as if a Kindred could feel heat-sickness at the dead of midnight. Beckett scowled and adjusted his glasses. He did not want the Prince to notice him or have any more comments on the “unique eyes of the Gangrel.”
Thankfully, Aristotle chose to stand far from the gazebo, still only paces away from the entrance. Presumably to ensure these colleagues would spot his face as they entered. Beckett stood a little behind him, next to a bush of white roses. The moon coaxed an almost glowing visage upon them, and such excess of nature settled the Beast. Aristotle labeled Kindred as urban creatures, but Beckett did not find the descriptions accurate.
The Herald of the Court—some toady man Beckett had not bothered yet to remember the name of—cleared his throat, and all eyes instantly took note. The toad stepped in front of the throne. “My Prince, we have guests who wish to pay homage and beg hospitality of you.”
Prince Villon smirked. His leg gave an odd twitch, which might be construed as arranging that his calf was more visible and at its best angle. The satin stocking did look very nice, and Beckett was impressed by the sheer French-ness of the gesture. “What are they named, Herald?”
“A Lady Lucita de Aragon of the Clan Lasombra and Master Anatole of Clan Malkavian.”
“Show them in.”
The Herald hopped to it. He passed Aristotle and went into the hedges to emerge moments later with two Kindred. The woman’s dark coloring and black hair spoke of a Spanish origin, and he received the impression that her dress was in the latest Spanish noble style. While she appeared rather muscular, the man beside her was thin as a collection of sticks with a wild, deep yellow thatch of hair on his head. He wore the black robes of a Benedictine monk—a rarity in Beckett’s Anglican homeland, a sight slightly more common in Catholic France, and absolutely extinct in his unlife until this very moment. Yet this Anatole did not have the title “Brother” before his name. An impersonator?
Lucita and Anatole bowed. “Great Prince, we seek hospitality.” Lucita’s Spanish accent rose determined and clear in the night air. “We crave time with the scholar Aristotle de Laurent.”
The Prince made a show of consideration, stroking his chin. Beckett’s Beast paced in the cage of his ribs. He’d wanted to leave the moment they passed through the palace gate. Now he wanted to leave and quiz this faux-monk.
As if Anatole had heard his thought, the blonde head turned. Deep blue eyes pierced him true, and Beckett couldn’t stop the gasp. A phantom beat of the heart. He stepped backward and deeper in Aristotle’s shadow. Something…this Anatole knew something.
Time blurred. Anatole’s gaze did not find him again, but Beckett turned the memory of the look over and over in his mind, trying to find sense. One could always find logic. He supposed the Prince said something flirtatious, and Lucita demurred.
Beckett turned away, faking like the bright white roses held his attention. He hunched his shoulders so more of his cloak covered him. Perhaps what he was doing was foolish, but it had always worked to get the other Oxford professors to ignore him. He sensed rather than heard the Court breaking for social chatting.
The roses looked the same as the silk of the Prince’s stockings. Beckett touched them with a light finger at the same moment a light finger pressed into his cheek and traced his jaw. A voice breathed like a prayer. “Dr. Matthew Lowell.”
Beckett had been laboring under the impression that everyone who knew that name was dead. He turned sharp on his heel with a sharper word. “I go by Cuthbert Beckett now.”
While Beckett still felt the stray regret for his unlife, gladness flooded him now. He did not blush, though instinct told him this was an appropriate moment. He’d met many beautiful Kindred—besides the Nosferatu, many, many Kindred were beautiful in his experience. But to be so near Anatole, to have that deep, mesmerizing gaze on you…. It was like those surgeons who sliced open eyes and removed cataracts.
“Oh.” Anatole’s face was long and angular, cheekbones delicate and perfect. Emotions flashed on it faster than Beckett could follow. “Forgive me.”
Beckett straightened. “It’s all right. Aristotle said you were Malkavian, and it’s been my understanding that you cannot control your knowledge. Is it that way for you?” Where was Aristotle? Beckett glanced around and found that he had been entirely abandoned for an apparently fascinating conversation with the Lasombra and that Brujah Nicholas.
Anatole made a noise of surprise and dismay. Had Beckett said something wrong? Anatole frowned, and the skin between his eyes crinkled before relaxing again. “You’re not…?” Without warning, Anatole grabbed Beckett’s hand, and his long fingers pressed into the pulse point. Alarm roused his Beast, but in the next moment the huffing anxiousness turned to a purr. Anatole cradled his hand, nuzzled the palm, pressed fingers against his temple. He looked indescribably sorrowful. “You can’t hear me, can you?”
Beckett was nonplussed. “I beg your pardon?”
Anatole shook his head. “You’re not a childe of Malkav, bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh. Neither brother or father or cousin. God has places us in separate skins.”
“I’m not your brother, no,” Beckett said, and he could not find it within himself to be sorry. His thoughts on Anatole so far tended not in a family fashion. “But we are both Independents and memory-seekers. We can trade information pleasantly enough by voice. It’s a very popular form, I understand. I’m very interested in why you dress like a Catholic monk, for example.”
#vampire the masquerade#beckett#vtm#beckett vtm#cuthbert beckett#vtm anatole#aristotle de laurent#lucita de aragon#malkavian#salburi#gangrel#francois villon#Nicolas de Brabant#nick knight#forgive my assassination of anatole's character#I'm poor and only have wikis#vtm beckett#a monastery holds more than bones#text post
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