#ninerivens

[vanade]

The eliksni quarter fundraising effort had the vibe of finding loose change in the vending machine and between couch cushions LOL. Guardians featured belong to these folks on twitter:  Hezart1 TidalWavesLion @JMarsTweets xEclipseWarrior ninerivens starflightart Lavenderarts_

[theknightartorias]

a beautiful refsheet by @ninerivens of my hunter, Damian, and his Ghost, Sunflower! 💜🌻

[flowers-of-io]

Inspired by the tags under this post by @ninerivens <3 I wrote the majority of this fic back in Haunted and kinda forgot about it whoops, hence why I’m posting it at such a random moment.

Read on Ao3

When the H.E.L.M. was being designed, there was one room tucked under its left wing that had a table with two chairs and a coffee machine, and many blinking monitors covering all of the widest wall. It turned out to be a good place to sit and talk when the main area was occupied, or just to and gather thoughts over a cup of awfully bitter coffee, and Zavala liked to watch it transform over the months of use: an Imperial banner looted from the Halpheas Electus strung over the kitchen counter, some spare parts left by Corsairs and gathering dust in the corner, a third chair brought here by an Eliksni technician when they were celebrating Crow’s “rez-day” here, back when things were simpler. Several mugs in significantly differing sizes clutter the cupboard. There is even a bedroll tucked behind the table, one Zavala has found himself sleeping on more than a few times lately. Crow has been talking about bringing more of those, maybe even a bunk bed, maybe some more folding chairs or a clock or a microwave. A Cabal-sized ottoman occupies one corner, next to a pile of blankets.

It is quiet here, now, save for the soft buzz of monitors and Crow’s measured breathing as he slumbers on the bedroll spread out under the opposite wall, curled around Glint like a cat. It must be horrendously late by City standards, but Zavala still holds a cup of fresh coffee, huffing on the surface and feeling hot vapour caress his face. The monitors blink—shifting images of the Leviathan’s rooms from different angles, awfully familiar by now, making his skin crawl all the same. He barely registers the quiet rustle as the door behind him slides open.

“Zavala,” the voice is soft, but he almost spills the coffee with how abruptly he turns around.

“Ca— Empress,” he stumbles, because this is an official space, even with all the mess and his lead scout currently snoring in the corner; but she only gives a weary shake of her head and he settles on, “Caiatl.”

“Could you… spare me a moment?”

“Always,” he moves to give her some room. With how small and cluttered the place is, her arm almost brushes against his shoulder when she comes to stand beside him.

Tension radiates off her, he can see it in how stiff her back is and how she clasps her hands in front of her, knuckles white, in the stained expression on her unhelmeted face. Worry curls in his stomach, but he doesn’t rush her—only watches as she stares at the monitors for a moment, then finally turns her gaze to him.

“The severance ritual,” she begins.

“Are you… alright?” An impulse makes Zavala want to put a hand over hers, but he resists it. Caiatl draws in a breath.

“Ghaul’s… the phantom’s words…”

“They’re lies,” he says immediately.

“They’re my own thoughts.” She looks away, and speaks slowly, as if every word was being pushed through her lips with great effort. “My own doubts. I… I fear putting the lives of my men in the Guardians’ hands. Every time, I’m second-guessing myself when I send them under someone else’s command.”

“That is a reasonable concern to have.”

“I fear I’m not taking something into account and will end up with a knife in my back, just like my father. I’m weighing the Guardians’ motives. The Red Legion razed your City; sometimes I have nightmares about my armada burning, a fair vengeance for that war.”

Zavala watches her wring her fingers, rings clicking against each other. Her hands must be warm, even in the coolness of the H.E.L.M., and they are soft and wide and safe, and he is trying not to think about this now but cannot help himself.

“Some time ago you said, ‘trust is still being built’.” He looks to her face half-turned away, blue streaks on her profile flickering in sync with the monitors. There is no accusation in his tone as he continues, “Are you worried I will betray you?”

“No,” she says this instantly, and then frowns, as if considering the words only after she had uttered them. “No, not you. I would lay my life in your hands.”

This is not spoken like a vow or a confession, but Caiatl is looking at him now, and something warm and so very soft coils in his chest without a warning. He puts the mug down.

“I wanted this to be clear between us,” she presses on, “and that what you heard—”

“It doesn’t change anything,” he interrupts, and shakes his head when she opens her mouth to speak. “You’ve never given me a reason not to trust you. We all have fears, but they’re not who we are.”

She sighs, “Zavala…”

“Caiatl.” He moves, because the tension is unbearable, because she keeps looking at him like she wants a way out but can’t find it, because her eyes glow dimly in the darkened room and he couldn’t break their gaze even if he wanted to. His hand touches her forearm and he marvels at the softness of her skin, at the electricity upon contact that has nothing to do with the Light. Caiatl’s shoulders slump, and she reaches back, her fingers brushing the side of his face.

From there it is easy to lean in, his forehead coming to rest against her chestplate and her chin atop his head, and then her arms curl around him, and he breathes in the mixed scent of musk, iron and herbs. They stay like this for a long, wonderfully warm minute; until a soft chuckle escapes Zavala and Caiatl hums at this inquisitively.

“You’d think it would be harder. This,” trapped in the embrace all he can do is shrug unhelpfully, though Caiatl’s gentle nod suggests she understood. “But frankly, I’ve found it quite effortless.”

“Easier than most things lately,” the small scoff she breathes out is almost a laugh. He shifts to look up at her, at her golden eyes and glimmering ring-bands, the long carved tusks casting strange shadows across her face.

Facing the risen Hive. Losing his faith. Falling in love. Losing his son, again, in a whole new and terrifying way, almost losing himself in the process. That moment in the Hangar when he watched Caiatl storm towards Crow and for one horrible second was ready to kill her.

He wants to speak but finds himself choked up.

Caiatl releases him and takes half a step back, though her hands still linger loosely on his shoulders. Her gaze wanders to Crow, curled up in a fetal position on the bedroll, his face smooth and calm under the few strands of hair that fall over it.

“I envy such peace.”

Zavala follows her eyes and for a moment they stay in silence, listening to the Hunter’s measured breaths. He moves slightly, only once, and his arm curls to hold Glint tighter to his chest.

“Sometimes I worry the only peace he ever gets is when he’s sleeping,” Zavala says quietly.

“And you?” She turns back to him, assessing him with her gaze.

“Hmm?”

“Have you been sleeping lately?”

He opens his mouth and stumbles, because it’s hard to lie straight to her face, “…there was a lot of work.”

“I see.”

“I’m fine, Caiatl.”

“If so, why are you making excuses?” She tilts her head, humour twinkling in her eyes. “Another thing I told you was that a true warrior knows when to fight and when to rest. Do not make me doubt your prowess, Commander.”

From his corner of the room Crow gives off a single, definitive snore, and this seals the spell. Caiatl chuckles, a warm and rumbling sound, and Zavala suddenly realises just how heavy his limbs feel—between coffee and the crutch that is Targe’s Light, he really hasn’t been sleeping for days. The Cabal otoman in the corner now looks incredibly appealing.

“Maybe I should heed your advice more often,” he says with a small smile. Caiatl lifts her tusks in amusement.

“You’d better.” The hand ghosting over his shoulder moves to scoop up his palm, and he squeezes her fingers. “See me tomorrow?”

“With pleasure.” A cynical voice in his mind whispers that the rate of crises as of late would have them meet whether they’d like it or not, but he brushes it away. They linger like this for a moment, until Caiatl lets go of his hand and pointedly gestures to Crow with her chin.

“Go rest. It must be late for you.”

She leaves with a smile in her eyes, and the warmth of it settles inside Zavala’s chest somewhere between the lungs, making him breathe deep and easy. He sinks into the otoman, head turned away from the blinking screens that buzz with a pleasant white noise. It is oh so warm, warmer still when he pulls a blanket over himself, and his bones all but melt into the plush as he drifts off. Crow mumbles something in his sleep. The measured footsteps of security frames come from the other room. A sensor beeps, somewhere far enough not to care.

And then there is no sound at all.

[orphidian]

hey idk how many of you are still here, idk if i’ll ever get back into the swing of rping, but if you wanna keep up w/ me my personal/art tumblr is @ninerivens (feel free to DM me if u follow from a personal account so i can follow back my notifs are kind of ridiculous rn bc of the twitter shit and i’m missing ppl in the shuffle)

[northernhare]

@ninerivens made a new girl and I'm absolutely in love with her.

[princessnijireiki]

oh also David 8 cause i think that’d be funny

Not quite as severe a disjoint as Matt Smith being a literal genius villain wasted on the shitshow film that is Morbius, but damn near close enough lmao. He's just a mischievous little guy who hates his dad & stans Peter O'Toole & wanted to kill "god" but got broken into little Legos for his hubris so he keeps attempting bioweapon genocidal experiments about it. Bleaching his roots in a room by himself while repeating movie dialogue from a very gay role 3 inches away from the TV screen in space was not even his gayest behavior by a long shot. Horrible man. Aesthetically very much walked so Homelander could run. If Ridley Scott wasn't so repressed about his religious trauma & daddy issues we could've really heightened the camp and had an even better time.

[taulupis]

Rowan von Rosen, my pilot for Flying Circus.

Thank you @ninerivens for doing amazing work as usual!

[antlerlad]

idk if the pink sauce thing has reached tumblr yet but I drew this because of this tweet from @ninerivens​

[bedabug]

@ninerivens did this commission of my hunter Nyx-2 and her ghost Aten and its amazing i love it so so much. cannot stop looking at it

[saprophetic]

i ordered stickers of my poor little meow meow from @ninerivens redbubble shop and they look SOOOOOOOOO GOOD im so excited to figure out where to put them

[mercysought]

I totally didn’t cry when @orphidian / @cybled surprised me with this wonderful, beautiful, perfect, just!!! portrait of the priestess. I am absolutely floored and I want to scream into the abyss at how beautiful and how much it means to be 😭 their drawings, all of them are so stunning, just look at IT!! LOOK!

(@ninerivens / twitter)

[princessnijireiki]

please do character opinion bingo for aria & jax I’m begging you

My baby girl, my sweet cheese, my rotten soldier... she got done dirty by having an at the time unpredictably stupid FC though lmao. If you're gonna play stupid games you gotta be better at scamming! Still glad I chose her (that's how I met McJack!), but in an alternate universe where the RPC wasn't so aggressively racist in 2012 & more resources were available from the jump, her FC would've been Miss Keke Keep A Job Palmer!

Nobody else saw the vision that this rotten man needed a rotten adoptive sibling!!!!!!!!!! Also all our AUs were/are elite, like WW2? Vampires? They work at Blockbuster? Medieval fantasy? Love it love it love it, the absolute pinnacle, can never be touched!

[taulupis]

Tell me about your ocs

I'm glad you asked! I have a few, that i sorta swap between settings as needed.

Rowan de la Rosa

(Lancer, Flying Circus, TTT)

Rowan is the Ace Pilot. Whether it's in a mech, a fighter (biplane), or a fighter (space), she likes to take the fight up close, ducking and weaving between foes. She'll generally have a shady past, working for The Man (whether that be space fascists, sky pirates, or other space fascists depends on the detting). She quickly realizes, once exposed to the Real World, that no, this isn't right, and promptly fuck off (possibly with stolen expensive military hardware). She tries to be smooth and self assured, and is pretty good at turning up the bravado, but past that facade she is pretty shook by the whole shattered worldview thing.

Astrid

(Destiny, Lancer)

Astrid... Astrid is, above all else, tired. She is tired, lonely, and self-isolating. She was shunned from her community for not meeting their expectations of her, and while she found comfort in another group of outsiders who she came to love, she would loose both to violence. As the only survivor (she should not have lived, she doesn't know how she lived), she carries that grief around and grew bitter with it. She deals with this in healthy, productive ways, like extreme-range sniping and getting in hectic gunfights. I wrote Astrid when I was in a bad place, and she ended up being a big ol trans allegory for me, even before I realized I was a girl too.

Lysse Marcipio

(Elder Scrolls, DND)

The oldest of my OCs, Lysse is a fighter through and through. She grew up on a river boat, captained by her adopted father. Her adopted Papa taught her how to fight, and once she got old enough she set out adventuring and selling her sword arm. She is probably the most well-adjusted of any of my OCs. One day I'll actually commission art of her!

All the art here was done by the amazingly talented @ninerivens ! Check out their page they are so incredible I can't gush enough about how happy I am with how their art came out 💜