#moonstone's word weaves

[plathski]

courtney love prays to oregon - clemetine von radics / pearl (2022) / x (2022)

#happy halloween guys!! #moonstone's word webs #word webs #word weaving #wordwebs #wordweaving #mia goth #pearl (2022) #x (2022) #ti west #maxine minx #courtney love prays to oregon

[tadpolesonalgae]

Rhysand x reader: Peacock Feathers[*]

A/N: yeah, I like this one.

Summary: he always has something fun planned for Date Night.

Warnings: heavy voyeurism, heavy exhibitionism, fingering, not wearing seatbelts, sexual tension, 5.2k words

‘The most flamboyant lingerie set you have. Wear it for me.’

You huff at your husband’s minimal description for the dress code of tonight’s date. You rummage through your draws, flinging open the armoire, even the wardrobe in the corner, riffling for something. What did he even mean by flamboyant? Did he want you to strut out into the night cloaked in nothing but some sheer lace and heels? You bite your lip at the idea. It would be just like you husband to arrange something like that.

Flamboyant…flamboyant…

Flamboyant!

You rush back to the armoire, digging through the neatly set clothes, fingers searching for the material until you find what you’re looking for. You hold it up, and nodded. Yes, it would do. It would do quite well, in fact. Now, to find a way to conceal it…

You know he’s taking you out…somewhere. And unless he’s planning on smuggling you in, wrapped in a body bag, then you will need to find a way to hide the finely made lingerie from prying eyes. You sigh at yet another task to fulfil. You’re honestly going to bite Rhys’ cock off if this fails your expectations—for all the trouble he’s putting you through.

Once again, you search through your wardrobe, gazing at the menagerie of gowns and dresses. An array of satin and silk, garish and gaudy, jewels glimmering in the warm lamp light, winking at you temptingly. But no, you would choose something simple, something that would enhance your underclothes. You think about what your husband is likely to adorn himself in. If he asked you for flamboyant…it could be anything. Still, bright pops of colour weren’t really his style, preferring the brush of dark sleeves and silver cuffs than splashes of sparkling yellows or velvety oranges. The most flamboyant you’ve seen him in is a dark red suit, in celebration of a dear brother—and even then it had been so dark the crimson only showed if the light hit from a particular angle.

Having ruled out most options, you figure your best chances are either white or black, if he’s going to dress in a suit. White or black. You scan the wardrobe for anything that would fit with the lingerie. The choice is easy.

————

“Ready, darling?”

You silently move yourself to the top of the curved staircase, taking the one closest to your dressing chambers. Your husband’s eyes sweep over you, glinting with feline satisfaction as he drinks you in. One step at a time, you descend toward him, moving with elegant precision. You keep his eyes the whole while, basking in the heat of his keen gaze, and you wonder if you’ll even make it out the front doors.

A subtle string of rose quartz beads decorate your throat, the white satin of your gown flowing in smooth cascades behind you. The dress slims to your waist, the mini corset accented with small iridescent sequins that decorate the floral jacquard fabric. The heels you’ve selected hold a thin stilt to balance on, platinum lace weaving around your ankles, ensconced with silver thread keeping tiny beads wrapped snuggly against the ties. A single ring adorns your right glove, resting with grounding weight on your thumb. The band is silver, set with a moonstone, tiny amethysts framing it against the creamy silk of your gloves. Beneath the smooth fabric on your left hand lies your wedding ring, a beautiful sapphire welded delicately into the metal.

He drinks in the dusty red of your lips, matte in their texture and slightly dulled to not pull away from the rest of you. Divine. Enchanting. Refined. Perfectly attuned to him, having not gone too over the top when he’d requested flamboyance. Keeping in mind that you were a pair and would be seen together.

“You look positively delicious,” Rhys purrs as you reach the bottom of the staircase, gliding over to him. You give him a sultry smile, one that has heat shooting straight between his legs. He’s brought back to the Soirée last month, when you’d been sat on your knees between his thighs, dark rouge lipstick blurred at the edges of your mouth, perfect replicas stamped on his cock from where you’d kissed up and down the length of him until he couldn’t take it any more. He remembers how you’d swiped at the smudged tint, glaring up at him teasingly, “why is it whenever you take me out somewhere I always end up with my makeup out of place?”

Then there had been the masquerade party the month before, where you’d been set on keeping those damned masks on, hiding the beauty of your face from him. You’d insisted the anonymity had been thrilling, given a dark edge to the experience. It was this in particular that had him thinking. Turning over different venues and activities until he’s found one he believed would be pleasingly satisfying to your slightly sinister tastes.

“I could say the same about you, husband.” He looks ravishing. Charmingly debonair in his black suit, complete with smooth bow tie and crisp white shirt. Not a crease to be found. A kerchief makes a soft triangle atop his breast pocket, complete with a peacock feather decorating the smooth lapel of his jacket. “I don’t suppose you plan on informing me of tonight’s venue?” You inquire, settling a palm over his heart as you lean against him.

His hand raises to your jaw, tilting your lips toward his. “And ruin the surprise at the last minute? I think not.” He presses his lips to your own, coming away vaguely rosey from the rouge staining your mouth. You pout, fingers circling over his chest, “you like watching me squirm, don’t you? How cruel you are, truly. I cannot fathom—” you press another kiss to his lips, “—why I ever married you.” He offers you a feline grin, “maybe you enjoy the tension. The edge.” His fingers grip your hips, pulling you against him.

You’re pleased when his eyes darken as he feels the pattern of something thin beneath the satin. “What did you choose?” His voice has dropped, roughening and you suppress a shiver at the timbre. You peer up at him innocently, “and spoil the surprise at the last second? I think not.” Your teasing spurs him on, fingers deftly catching on the low collar of your dress, moving to pull it from your skin so he can catch a glimpse of what lies beneath.

Rhys gets as far as bringing a wash of cool air down your front before you’re jabbing two fingers into his chest—down his sternum. “Ah, ah, ah, husband.” You push him back, preventing him from peering down your top. “Leave something for dessert,” you chastise, a low growl sounding in the back of his throat. Pleasure sings beneath your skin at your husband’s antics.

Your fingers waltz upward, delicately hooking beneath his perfectly wrapped bow tie, pulling him downward toward your mouth. “Wouldn’t want to spoil your appetite now, would we?”

“I assure you my appetite is depthless when it comes to you, wife.” His fingers latch onto your own, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. You flush with pleasure, “shameless flirt.”

“Promiscuous madam.”

You raise a single, neatly groomed brow, “a madam?” You echo, then press against his chest, allowing him to feel the soft plushness of your breasts. “And what’s a refined gentleman like you doing in the arms of a lady of the night, hm?”

He growls, grip tightening on you possessively. “She’s taken something from me. Something very precious. Plucked it straight from my chest, weaving her sinful fingers between the bones of my ribs.” His mouth brushes over your own, an erotic caress of his lips. “I fear the day she returns it, for the pain it will bring.”

Your eyes dip as they follow their quiet movement. “I took yours as payment for my own.” You whisper back, “I am merely human, and cannot survive without it.” His arm snakes around your lower back, forehead pressing to your own, sharing in the intimacy. “You took mine first, Rhys.” He releases a soft breath at his name on your lips. “It’s only fair.”

He laughs softly against your mouth, and you keen beneath the sound, pushing up onto your tiptoes, desperate for another taste—

“Shall we?”

He’s pulled back, leaving your chest cold, heat warming between your legs. Your husband holds out an arm, waiting for you to latch onto him, arrogantly expecting. You gift him a saccharine smile, already planning how to overthrow him for the evening, “lead the way.”

————

The lamplights reflect in the puddles as it drizzles. Already you can make out the faint wisps of fog rolling through the dark streets.

“What’s on your mind, darling?”

You turn, propping your chin on your hand as you gaze at him before straightening, looking ahead. “I was thinking whether you’d enjoy the silk of my hands or the velvet of tongue.” You glance at him sidelong, pleased when he stiffens. You could swear you see his demeanour shift to match the darkness of the night. “Do you think it wise to begin this dance so early?” He drawls. You return your gaze to peering through the chauffeurs window, watching them cut through traffic. “That is true,” you contemplate, “it is usually your role to insist on foreplay.”

You turn in your seat, catching the dark glint in his violet eyes. You offer a coy smile, enjoying rilling him up before the event has even begun. He leans over, across the space between you, mouth lowering to brush the shell of your ear, “did you follow my orders for tonight?” You swallow as he pulls back to look at you, shifting to be beside you, the powerful lines of his body pressing to your own shape. “Are you so desperate to see me in my underthings?” A serpentine smile twists the edges of your rouge mouth, “I chose an appropriate set. I think it will appeal to your tastes.”

Again, his eyes dip to that teasing window of your chest, dress cut low enough to reveal mouth-watering skin, but not enough for him to catch a glimpse. No matter, he’ll find out soon enough.

Rhysand straightens, reaching to his pocket, “I forgot to give you this, for the night.” He retrieves a headband, accented with a single peacock feather at it’s crest, set with clear jewel you believe to be a diamond. “Put it on for me?” Your heart beat increases at the deftness of your husbands fingers, brushing strands of hair from your cheeks before setting the circlet atop your brow. “Perfect,” he murmurs, and you wonder if he meant to say it aloud.

His thumb brushes beneath your lashes as he stares into your eyes. You lean into the touch, indulging in the heat of his large palm over your jaw. He looks as though he’s considering kissing you, eyes dipping lower, a deep hunger roiling in their depths. “Go on,” you encourage, shifting your body to face his as your arms snake over his shoulders.

But the chauffeur pulls up a driveway, bringing the vehicle to a stand still.

Your husband pulls away with a grin, “enjoy.”

————

The red windmill.

An interesting name.

He’d guided you to the entrance, your silk encased hand gripping the satin hem of your dress to keep it from dragging on the floor. When the receptionist had asked for a name to place for the reservation, he’d given it over, and then the two of you had been escorted to a private suite. The server had shown you around, where things were, and then left you alone, together.

When the door clicks, you turn to Rhys. “Care to reveal your secrets now, sir?” His lips quirk as he settles in a large armchair, a deep red to match the atmosphere of the chamber, lit by warm lights and accented with blacks, reds and oranges. His legs spread as he gets comfortable, facing you. “Every garment you remove, I’ll let you in on a little more,” he purrs, readying himself for the show you’ll give him.

You roll your eyes, but pull the glove from your left hand, wedding band glinting in the light. He raises a brow at the small movement. “I didn’t take you for a coward,” he taunts, but you simply peer down at your nails, examining them. “Secret, please.” His mouth neutralises into an unreadable line, “we’re here for entertainment.” You roll your eyes again, “obviously.” He grins, silently ordering you to remove another item of clothing.

Teasingly, you remove the other glove, staring him down from across the room as you perch on the arm of the chair opposite him. You drop the silk onto the cushion, the pure white an erotic contrast to the dark colours shrouding the suite. “Both your voyeuristic and exhibitionistic tendencies will be satiated.” You blink, then narrow you eyes at the man. “Have you brought be to a sex club, Rhysand?” He chuckles at the use of his full name—you only use it when displeased with him. “Rhys, you haven’t,” you gasp, “what if someone sees?” Sometimes you really could strangle your husband.

But then he stands from his reclined position, prowling forward, hands wrapping firmly around your waist as his shadow swallows you. “Isn’t that the point?” He purrs, your spine arching against him. “Don’t you delight in their attention? Revel in it?” Heat flushes your cheeks at your husband’s accuracy. “I know how you like being perceived as an object of desire. Isn’t that why you didn’t bat a single, pretty eyelash when I made my request for the night?”

His hands glide up, tracing over your breasts until they cup your jaw, “I’ll ravish you in front of the whole world if it pleases you.”

“But a sex club!” You hiss, making him laugh. “Am I laughing, Rhys?” You snap, making him calm himself.

“I give you my word, it’s nothing as disreputable as a sex club,” he purrs, but the lilt in his voice suggests a loophole. “Why don’t you remove that dress of yours so you can get to the big reveal, hm?”

He steps away, allowing you to stand. To proceed with the show. You huff, turning your back to him as you begin slowly unslotting the tiny satin cushions from their holes. One at a time. Piece by piece.

Gradually, the smooth material begins its descent off the slope of your shoulders. His mouth dries as he finds the thin, platinum straps that loop atop your arms. The satin slowly gives way, showing off the latch of the brassiere you’ve donned. Pure, glittering white. He swallows as the gown lowers over your waist, caressing the intimate skin of your waist; hips.

The dress pools at the poised set of your heel adorned feet, the silver ensconced lace matching the delicious underthings you’ve selected. His breath catches as you glance at him over one shoulder, giving him a partially concealed view of your beautiful face. Your slim fingers waltz over the skin of your arm, trailing down as your eyes follow teasingly. The other hand is wrapped over your hip, playing with the thin band of your underwear: matching lace that clings to the plump curve of your rear.

“Turn around, darling. Let me see you.” His voice sounds rougher; more strained.

Ever so slowly, you step out of the waves of satin, turning to reveal yourself to him.

A low groan sounds at the back of his throat as he slips two fingers beneath the collar of his shirt, apparently in need of some cooler air. You smirk as you begin prowling closer, stopping only when you’re positioned between his muscled thighs.

Your husband enjoys himself as he drinks you down, eyes dragging so slowly over every fine detail, and you swear you can see the plans in his mind fading back to dust. He wets his lower lip, gaze darkening as he imagines where you’d enjoy being touched, whether you would prefer his fingers or his mouth over your perky nipples. Whether you’ll insist on keeping your lingerie intact, or whether you’ll be so desperate as he is by the night’s end that you won’t care about it being hastily removed. Strewn across the rouge carpet.

Sequins and pale glass beads are woven to the brocade fabric, indentations of peacock feathers shimmering in the light, iridescent thread glimmering. Tiny sets of diamond are dotted at the base of the brassiere, looping around your back and over your shoulders. Strings of pearls dangle from the base of the lingerie, hanging in crescent circles like ribs made of moonstone—reconnecting at the clasp. The underwear matches perfectly, accented with the same glittering platinums, silver embossed feathers curling over your hips.

“You’re divine,” he breathes, violet eyes reflecting your warm light. His hands reverently pull you closer, your own settling on the corded muscle of his shoulders as he places a kiss to your navel. “Divine,” he whispers, shakily. Your husband looks up at you, your fingers weaving through his blue-black hair, so soft to the touch. He keens at your touch, revelling in the press of the pads of your fingers, feather-light as you trace the sharp cleft of his cheek.

“What’s the big secret, husband?” You murmur, hooking one leg over his thigh as you slide into his lap. He moves for your mouth, lips parting, eyes sliding closed but you set a firm hand on his chest. “Now, now, Rhys. Behave.” He groans softly at the command, eyelids lazing open to look at you. Lust and hunger dance intimately, barely hidden in the now indigo hue of his irises. Your fingers settle either side of his chin, tilting his jaw toward you, his pupils dilated and burning.

“It’s your turn, Rhys,” you whisper alluringly, hips winding over his. He stifles another groan, “wicked, wicked woman.” A thrill of excitement brushes down your spine at his pained tone. His strong arms snake around your waist, clutching you to his body, hand settling between your shoulder blades, indulging in the drag of your breasts. He grips your ass, pulling you tight to his hips, feeling the prominent outline of something delicious between your thighs—against your stomach.

“Come on, now,” you chide, mouth dancing over his own, a sensual caress of breath. “Make good on your word, husband.” A strained sound of pleasure rumbles in his chest, eyes flicking up to yours. He swallows, and you trace the roll of his throat. Then both his hands drop to your ass, hauling you against him as he stands, your thighs wrapping snuggly around his hips. “Rhys…?” Your tones shifts to irritation and he chuckles.

Your husband moves fluidly through the suite room, opening a door the server hadn’t shown you. You try to turn but he presses your face to his shoulder, hiding the view from you. All you’re able to make out is the general volume of people, but it’s a bit far away, as if from a lower floor. Music rolls up to your ears, fiery, rhythmic, and you want to set your heels to the floor, if only to spin with your husband to the syncopated melody.

“Rhys? What is that?” Your husband sets you down on what feels like a balcony, his grip loosening, allowing you to peer about. “Look for yourself,” he smirks, stepping back a little. Your thighs tighten around him, tugging him back to your chest harshly as you take in your surroundings.

He’s seated you precariously on what is indeed a balcony, thick mahogany supporting you. Large, champagne coloured chandeliers hang from the ornate ceiling, light refracting through the glass diamonds, casting their golden glow throughout the hall. You’re on the highest floor, the room is cavernous compared to the booth he’d taken you to. Below, people chatter and make merry, dressed finely in anything from night robes to stunning silk dresses to flimsy underthings with a fan of feathers haloing their heads like crowns. A menagerie of fluidly colours: purples to yellow, stripes of pink and cream, splashes of oranges and greens, the glittering sparkle of sequins and jewels gleaming in the low light.

At the front of the hall lies what appears to be a small orchestra, and you zone in on the figure at the forefront of the music, just ahead of the elderly conductor. He’s playing what might be an accordion of some kind, the music frenetic, a frenzied tango of notes. “Is that a squeezebox?” You peer closer, still wrapped tightly around Rhys’ hips. He peers with you, “I believe that’s a copy of a French Flutina. Popular in the 19th century.”

You listen closer to the music, trying to place it. Your husband smiles as recognition sparkles in your eyes, “Libertango, Astor Piazzolla.” He nods, hand cupping your cheek, “indeed.” Your hold relaxes on him a little, allowing you more leeway to watch the crowd. His mouth drops to your throat, kissing a slow trail from your collar bones to your jaw. Your breathing deepens, then catches. His lips lift into a smile over your neck, “see anything interesting?” Then he receives a light smack to his shoulder, “Rhysand!” You scold, fuming, “it is a sex club!”

Sure enough, he can make out the groping hands on the floor below, the bent over bodies, the kneeling legs, the harsh snap of hips. All while the musicians play on. A symphony of pleasure singing through the room, a harmony of moans for accompaniment. “They prefer the term massage parlour. The clientele are free to engage with other participants in whatever way they wish. No one here is paid to do anything.”

Your raise a brow sceptically, “you’ve done your research, husband.”

“Only the best for my wife.” Your lower body tingles at the title. “I hope you know I refuse to step foot in that…pleasure hall. These heels are white. And very dear.”

He laughs against your skin, “why do you think I reserved a private room for us, my darling?”

You pout at the cunning man. “How obnoxiously sly of you,” you remark. “I’m always ten steps ahead of you, dear,” he murmurs over your lips, giving you a serpentine grin before twisting you round, so your back is pressed against his broad chest. “Rhys!” You squeak, hands flying for something to grip onto, feet weaving through the wooden beams withstanding the balcony railing.

“Enjoy yourself,” he drawls, opening his mouth over the unmarked skin of your neck, pressing hot, wet kisses to you. You moan softly. All those people, indulging beneath you, hardly an idea of what’s happening above them. “Relax,” he instructs, nipping at the pearled lobe of your ear. You whine. “You try relaxing with the potential of falling to your death,” you manage, even as his arm tightens around your stomach, letting you know you’re safe with him. “You know that, should you fall, I would plummet with you,” he whispers against your skin, drawing a bark of laughter from your throat, the rose quartz beads ringing at the sound. “I would have preferred reassurance you would not let me drop, Rhys,” you snap playfully.

“That too.”

You huff a laugh that turns into a hitch as his hand cups you through the finely woven lace. A moan slips from your lips as heat warms your skin, his fingers deftly rubbing over the apex of your thighs. “Rhys…” He kisses your jaw, “look below you. All those people revelling in one another, taking what they want until they’re drunk on pleasure.” Your breathing becomes shallow.

“Any one of them could look up—some already might’ve—see you spread out on the balcony, with my hand between your thighs.” You preen against him, melting into his warmth as his fingers dip lower, oscillating over your entrance. He pushes the damp silk to the side, scooping up your slick on his middle and forth finger before raising it to his lips, groaning at your taste. You release a sultry laugh at your husband’s actions, spreading your legs a little wider, “take more, if you want.”

Rhysand growls at the invitation, gripping your jaw, forcing you to look at the people below. “How many people do you think are watching you right now, huh?” You. Not us. You. “How many people do you think have seen how you’re dressed—how you’re acting—and hoped to themselves you’ll be gracing their mouths later?” The heel of his palm presses to the top of your thighs, rubbing gently as his fingers circle you, before pushing in. “How many people down there, do you think, are pleasuring themselves to you?”

Your back arches against him, his clever fingers curling and dragging against your walls. You swallow, desperate to find your words, “I…I don’t know…” you manage, and his teeth nip at your throat, biting lightly. “Have a look, darling. Seek them out.” You moan, trying to follow his orders, but the light is fairly minimal, and the bodies are fading to an erotic dance of shadows. “Can’t do it?” He drawls, pressing his fingers deeper, up to his knuckles.

He laughs darkly beside your ear, “down near the front, a little away from the cellist.” You follow his directions, landing on a figure with their head raised, pleasuring themself. “Beside the third exit on the ground floor, wearing red.” Again you follow, finding a figure strewn over a table, gazing upward. “The floor below is, opposite.” You moan loudly, the sound getting wisped away in the music.

In the booth he’s talking about, a woman is bent over the railing, her petite breasts exposed to the air—to the audience below—while an older gentleman stands behind her, and you can see how her body is pushed forward with each snap of his hips. Her lips are parted, and were the room silent you’re sure she would be moaning as you are. Her eyes are hooded, but watching you, watching as your husband’s fingers push into you, how your back arches.

He does something wicked with his digits, and you gasp, head tipping backward onto his shoulder as he presses against your clit. “Rhys…” you moan out, feeling so high already, practically weightless, as if you could fly away. “Easy,” he orders, arms tightening around you as your hips buck. “Not tipping over that edge just yet.” The possibility has your heart rate increasing, adrenaline thrumming beneath your skin, buzzing at your fingertips.

Your eyes return to the couple on the lower floor. “Do you think she’s an escort?” You manage, noting her scandalous clothing and exquisite gems adorning her throat and wrists. “Does it please you to fantasise about their outside lives, hm? Create a story for them, to get off to?” You moan at his words, nodding your head. “What do you think she’s thinking right now?” His fingers fuck into you harder, keeping their pace though the pressure increases over your clit. “I—…” you can’t manage anything: it’s so overwhelming.

“I think she’s wondering how you taste, what it would be like to have her fingers burying into you like this,” he punctuates his words with a flick of his wrist, digits dragging against that glorious spot inside you. “I bet she’s wishing you were coming on her tongue instead.”

You whimper, nails digging into the banister as you draw nearer and nearer. “Maybe she’s fantasising about you, what your story is. Perhaps she’s winding a filthy tale in her head of you being stolen away by a dark stranger, auctioned off to the highest bidder for your virginity.” You pant heavily, delighting in the wet squelching coming from between your thighs, proof of your arousal for your husband. At some point, dancers had appeared onstage, dressed in thinner and even skimpier clothing than you. Jewels, gems, and peacock feathers waltzing across the skene.

“Perhaps she’s creating a story of a failed marriage, love abandoned, so you’ve left to seek out some real pleasure, from someone who will treat this cunt right.” You whimper, so close to unravelling from his silver-tipped tongue. He’s always been quick on his feet when it comes to this, perfectly attuned to the darker parts of your mind, the more private thoughts you have. “Perhaps she’s telling herself you’re nothing but a dirty whore, trying to scrape together a penny or two by selling your pretty pussy.”

You suck in a sharp breath of air as your high hits you, fully seizing your body as you tighten wildly around his fingers, grinding your hips against his hand as he pulls you through the euphoria. “That’s it,” he encourages, “show everyone what a filthy whore you are.” Your cunt is still fluttering around his steadily moving fingers. The hot breath from his mouth brushes over your ear, fanning across your neck, “you’re no better than a prostitute, are you?” He whispers, circling your clit slowly, working you down.

You pant heavily as your heart beat begins to even out in the aftermath. You swallow as his fingers drag out of your slick heat, coated in glossiness that shines in the low light. “Open.” You hardly have time to follow the command before the pads of his middle and forth finger are sliding over your mouth, like an obscene lip gloss. He pushes them in, against your tongue so you can taste your own arousal. His hips buck against your ass.

“So good, aren’t you. My good, little wife.” You whine at the title, and he helps you down from the balcony—carefully. He spins you around, pulling you tight to his hips, pinning you to the railing. “Think you’re all warmed up for me now? Or do you need some time to cool off?” He taunts. You buck against him, “I can take you.”

He chuckles at your enthusiasm but his eyes flick to the stage, filled with dancing song girls. “Looks like some of the entertainment is starting,” he drawls, giving you a light pat on the ass before he’s guiding you to a chair. Your legs give out when he pushes you, collapsing into the soft cushions. “Why don’t we resume after this brief intermission, hm? I’ll fetch us some refreshments.”

When you look like you’re about to stand to follow after him, he sends you a look over his shoulder. Promising more. “All I want you wearing is those gloves when I return.” His eyes darken as they drag over your body, male satisfaction glinting in his sharp gaze as he notes the slick glossing your thighs. “After all, you were so keen on finding out whether I would like your silk or velvet more.”

Heat flushes your cheeks at the reminder, excitement zipping beneath your skin. Your eyes dip to his hips, “do you think you’re appropriate?” You smirk, noting the obvious outline of his cock, your tongue wetting your lower lip. He mirrors your grin, “think I should send you out there in my stead?” He drawls, sparking arousal in the pit of your tummy. “Maybe a dark stranger will whisk me away, auction me off to the highest bidder.”

“Precisely why I will be getting refreshments,” he smirks. “I’ll knock thrice, slowly, when I return.”

“Maybe I should lock you out. Make you wait like you’re doing to me,” you drawl, watching lazily from your half reclined position. His laugh is a lovers caress between your legs, “if you have the heart to.”

“It’s your heart,” you remind him, smiling.

“Exactly.”

Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020

#Rhysand #Rhysand x reader #Rhysand smut #Rhysand x reader smut #acotar #acotar au #Rhysand date night #date night #date night with the bat boys #Peacock Feathers[*]

[avonne-writes]

Balance

Lucemond, arranged marriage smut, 700 words

On AO3

A drop of sweat swells in the hollow between Luke's clavicles. The soft linen of his bed sticks to his back, cloud-light fabric woven with threads of gold befitting a royal marriage. His legs are spread to the edge of pain, an ache settled deep and unrelenting in his hips as his husband's weight pins him to the bedding. Where the hot brand of a palm kneads at his inner thigh, his flesh sizzles with pleasure, and he squirms for more of it, for the force to quench his hunger. Candlelight flickers on the coloured windows. 

Luke's eyes close. 

His chambers are hot and stuffy with the scent of crushed flowers. Jasmine, rose and ambrette from the Queen's garden. To ensure vigour, a servant said before she left him with the marble-cold figure of his husband. They stared at each other from opposite sides of a room split by a ray of moonlight. Flames reflected in sapphire, embers simmering in a dark brown gaze.

Are you going to fight? Aemond hissed under his breath, wary but eager in the same frightening way Luke was. Luke bared his teeth. 

Theirs is a marriage of necessity, but there's obsession and desire weaved into their resentment, and Luke loved the thrill of the fight more than the purpose of it. He loved it even more when Aemond's icy grip overpowered him. Gods, you are nervous, he taunted through a laugh and got kissed breathless for it. 

Aemond doesn't feel cool to the touch anymore, his nerves lost to his lust now. His warmth is the heat of a dragon as it prepares to devour its next meal, hard lines against Luke's chest and down where he craves him the most, and his breathing licks at Luke's lips like fire. 

"Good boy." Aemond dips his chin down to steal a kiss, a bite of sweet peach as Luke opens up for him. "Mine now. Mine to have as I please." 

"You wish." Luke chuckles. "As I please."

The next thrusts rock him deeper, but Aemond doesn't protest his words. As the loud slapping of their bodies echoes through the room, he seals his lips to Luke's skin and trails down over its heaving planes until he finds that ticklish little hollow where Luke's heart pounds, and soaks the saltwater right up from it. His sated sigh is the brush of a spring breeze. All Luke wants is to whine and whimper and beg him to make the pleasure peak, but he keeps his mouth locked, not willing to grant the sounds of his bliss to the maester listening dutifully behind the door. They're his and Aemond's only. His wedding night may be an affair of politics but his joy will remain his.

"Is it hard enough?" Aemond whispers into his ear. Barely-there stubble pressed tight to Luke's cheek. His back is slippery under Luke's hands, the moonstone spill of his hair stuck to the crease of Luke's elbows and the damp space between their chests. 

"I need more." Luke swallows around a desperate sound. "Higher."

His fingernails carve their love into the muscles shifting in his embrace and draw a hiss. Aemond captures Luke's hands in his rough touch, splaying Luke's softer fingers apart on the mattress, wedging between them and squeezing. Luke squeezes back. 

They stop fighting their bliss to fly on it instead.

 

 

When the waves are settled and there's nothing left to chase, they bask in the quiet glow of the candles for long minutes. Luke finds that he enjoys this almost as much as his first time being taken - being able to stroke Aemond's drowsy, naked body is a wedding gift to himself. 

The maester cracks the door open, peeking in to check what he needs to, but Aemond just fits his hand around Luke's jaw and turns his head away from the man to kiss him. Luke lets him taste his mouth to his heart's desire. 

"Most unusual." The maester mumbles but leaves them to it. 

Luke smiles. Aemond smells like fire and the thin air high up in the skies, and he wonders if his own scent is the sea that pushes them into a balance of souls.

#lucemond #aemond targaryen #lucerys velaryon #my writing #will also be available in the Lucemond community on Dreamwidth #wrote this instead of sleeping #best way to cope with stress

[iboatedhere]

(T) (Word Count: 1800) AU, Magical Realism, Developing Relationship

--

The shop is exactly what Henry was expecting it to be.

Dark wood and lit candles. Succulents and English Ivy growing in clay pots, its vines wandering and reaching, weaving themselves across a wall of books with worn, battered spines. Glass jars, cloudy with age and filled with herbs and spices. Two giant ravens are sitting on a perch on each end of the counter, feathers so black they're nearly blue, and when Henry steps closer, they tip their heads like they're studying him.

The place smells like earth and smoke, and it's like it was plucked right out of Henry's mind and dropped down on a quiet side street in London.

The only thing that looks out of place is the man behind the counter. Alex Claremont-Diaz. He looks as though he's been plucked straight from Henry's dreams.

Dark curls and some of the longest lashes Henry has ever seen fanning out across the delicate cut of his cheekbones as he reads from the book spread open in front of him, full lips moving silently around the words.

"Are you going to come in, or are you just going to stand there all day?"

Henry forgets how to speak, and the man looks up, pinning him in place with moonstone eyes.

Read More On Ao3

#FirstPrince #FirstPrince Fic #RWRB #RWRB Fic #Where There Are Octobers

[krakensmaw]

you don't look half as bad now. @pyratezlife / hornigold.

𝐅𝐔𝐑𝐘 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃 𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐄, 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐅𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖. had it been days, weeks, or months since he'd been brought back to the towering slopes of mount olympus herself? caught within the palace they had once called home, by the man they had once been so very proud to call father. trumpets had flared, celebrations held : the sweet prince of spring had been returned to his rightful place alongside the true king of the gods.

he wondered, absently, if the olympians knew the real story of events, or were simply fed a fabrication by hornigold himself. perhaps it didn't matter. the only thing their father was more skilled at than lying, was molding the truth into a narrative better suited to his needs. the gods above would believe whatever was told to them, for the storyteller had spent millennia weaving brutal fiction to truth. even edward himself only saw it now, and only because their husband had lifted the veil of his father's influence from their eyes.

❛ thank you, father. but i hardly think virginal white suits me any longer. ❜ a tone sweet as honey, but the words were crafted as a reminder. perhaps even as a threat. that they were not the same godling who left this mountain. they were not an agreeable, innocent little thing, unmarred by sex or death. he was wise to the realm's flaws and his own ; there was a river of blood on his hands.

ah, but all evidence of such had been wiped clean. he himself had been stripped of any dread symbolism, any mark of the underworld left yet upon them ; black swaths of cloth and leather traded for loose and billowing cream silks, obsidian for fine gold jewelry and girdle, moonstones for flowers. all white, lilies and roses and daisies, woven into the loose plait of their hair or about bands at their biceps and wrists. even his beloved crown was missing from his brow, a very part of their heart shorn at its removal by their own hand. the condition for the guaranteed safety of their loved ones in the battles to come. the assurance that all would be well, everyone could live happily, if ed submitted to this one simple thing. how selfish would he be to deny?

in the absence of the dead king's crown, another took its place. a stunning golden tiara fashioned as laurel leaves and small buddings florals set atop their head. there was a time he'd have loved and cherished it, but now ... it felt wrong.

❛ jack said that i just have to sit here and look pretty. that when all's said and done, you'll give me back my crown and return me to ned. that everyone lives. ❜ he rose from the edge of his bed and away from the oppressive radius of his father. ❛ so, you lied to him, then? ❜ they stood, back to him a moment, before turning to face him with eyes black as pitch. their powers stifled by the other's own, but this one last bastion of darkness unable to be quelled when rage struck him.

❛ ned will kill you for this. he'll storm the mountain, and he'll take your life. i promise you that, father. ❜

#pyratezlife #' verse / goddess of spring ! #ben's just gaslight gatekeep girlbossing his way through this war alkdshj

[bakuliwrites]

Lunar Halo, Chapter 8- Yours Eternally

Rating: 18+ (for future chapters), Minors DNI!!!!!

Chapter Links: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, Ending 1, Ending 2, Ending 3

Fandom: Dark Souls

Relationships: Dark Sun Gwyndolin/OC, Dark Sun Gwyndolin/Chosen Undead

Tags for Whole Work: Major Character Death, Angst, Fluff, Smut, Romance, Grief/Mourning, Body Horror, Body Worship, Oral S*x, Penetrative S*x, Vaginal Fingering, Friends to Lovers, Bodyguard Romance, Blades of the Darkmoon, Marriage (and not in the Dark Souls 3 definition of it...), Marriage Proposal, Gwyndolin uses he/him pronouns, Falling in Love

Chapter Summary: SMUT AHEAD. Gwyndolin and his Beloved are wed, an event that is felt in the tenuous threads of the world. Read here or on my AO3

Gods do not require witnesses. So in the sanctity of the Holy Church of Anor Londo, Gwyndolin weds a mortal woman, a marriage that takes place with onlookers of sightless statues and eyeless stained glass figures. Yorshka is the only real guest to attend, acting as an officiant for this ceremony and beaming brightly at her brother as he meets her eye. The Dark Sun smiles from beneath his crown, his joy matched only by the elation of his Beloved. 

Wedding bells ring from the spires of the cathedral, the celebratory sound foreign to the ears of the residents of the valley. Despite such an unfamiliar chime, all who listen feel the weight of impending change. Legends will be told for ages to come, tales of the union of a mortal and a god. Some are whispered in disapproval, scathing recounts of a manipulative human worming its way into the heart of a deity. However, these rumors are often dismissed, replaced by hushed accounts that weave a bittersweet epic, one filled with hope and with everlasting love. It is one of the few precious, benevolent legends of the world. 

Veiled by cloth woven of moonlight, Gwyndolin guides his Beloved Star to the altar. Her robes are redolent of the night that enshrouds the earth, glimmering diamonds and sweeping swathes of indigo pooling around her feet as she glides up the aisle. Iridescent moonstone enamels her hand and with the promise of fealty, of love for eternity, the Dark Sun is wed. And a mortal has been anointed his wife. 

The consummation of the marriage between the Dark Sun and his Beloved Star binds not only body, but soul, as well. And in a world that hinges upon souls of all forms, the gravity of this union will be felt for ages to come. The Dark Soul of a human merging with the Light Soul of a god, while done in absolute privacy, will be felt in the fibers that weave this world together. Vibrations in a tenuous thread.  

In the sepulcher of Gwyndolin’s chambers, he strips away his robes of moonlight, casting them to the ground, making himself vulnerable for the first time in front of another. His Beloved Star sheds her cloak of night and reveals unto the Dark Sun every time-faded scar, every stretch mark, every beautifully human piece of herself. She is first to reach a timid hand out to ghost along Gwyndolin’s clavicle, her fingertips brushing along the bony protrusions of his ribs, and dancing gracefully down the knots of his vertebrae. She is gentle with Gwyndolin’s delicate frame, her kisses featherlight as she litters them along his jawline, down the slope of his neck, and across his chest. Her words are praising, uplifting, before she drags her tongue along the porcelain shell of his ear, complimenting the Dark Sun’s grace, his gentility. 

“Lovely Gwyndolin,” she whispers, a psalm hushed in secrecy to an adoring deity, “My most precious, Gwyndolin.”

He coos her name, an incantation imbued with ultimate devotion, with perennial love. In the dusky haze of this room, Gwyndolin and his Beloved are safe. Concealed from a harsh, unforgiving world. Moonlight guards them, silver and inviolable. 

When the Dark Sun rests his hands upon the skin of his Beloved, he feels the ridges of her hip bone beneath his elegant fingers, the knotted wires of tendon, the plushness of fat atop sinewy muscle. He finds himself lost in her humanity, drinking in her body, her soul like he’s parched. His touch meanders along her form, taking his time in memorizing every curve, every dip, every plush inch of her. Gwyndolin must know his Beloved in her entirety, and she, him. Each motion of theirs is meant to venerate the other, to worship and revere. The sheets beneath are hallowed in the union of dark and light. In the moon and the stars. 

Proof of Gwyndolin’s arousal grazes his Beloved’s inner thigh. She smiles coyly at him, pink feathering across her cheeks. 

“May I?” she questions, her eyes sparkling impishly in the sliver of moonlight cast across their shared bed. 

“Please,” Gwyndolin whimpers, desperation pooling between his legs. He ensnares her lips with his, moaning softly into his Beloved as her hands dip between his thighs. It is a sensation unlike anything the Dark Sun has ever felt before. She is attentive, languorous, each motion purposeful and sweet. He cannot help but sigh into her like a willow bending with the wind. She swipes her thumb over his tip, wetting him with the glistening bead of cum that sits atop it, dewey and warm. Her rhythmic pumps are slow and unhurried, sending voltaic shivers through Gwyndolin’s body. He feels lightning constricting his lungs as he rocks his hips in time with his Beloved’s motions.  

“My Star,” he manages through labored breaths as her mouth leaves its bittersweet marks: merlot lovebites painting his skin, skin stretched taut like canvas over bone, “I am yours, and yours alone.” 

She releases her grip, trailing kisses down his chest, her lips velvety and warm in the chill of the evening air. She tickles the tender flesh of his adonis belt with her fingernails, grazes his inner thighs with her teeth, before settling in between them. It’s all Gwyndolin can do not to buck his hips into her in his excitement, his hand flying to his mouth to cover his startled gasp. Graciously, she holds his legs to keep him in place, giggling at his eagerness. The movement of her tongue is euphoric: how it flattens against him, swirls around his tip, laps up his arousal, and drags up the underside of his cock. His mind is reeling with pleasure, his fingers tangled in her hair. Every nerve ending in Gwyndolin’s body feels as if they’re firing in deliciously overwhelming waves. 

“My Darling,” he huffs, his whole body flushed and rosy, “I beg thee. Let me please you.”  

He draws her up, his lips crashing into hers, kisses so terribly desperate and messy. She tastes of him and in some way it feels both deliciously sinful and potently sacred. She has sanctified him in her own way. Now, it is the Dark Sun’s turn to consecrate her. He lays kiss after kiss over her soft skin, attentive to each of the sensitive buds of her nipples, mouth closing gently around one and then the other. He revels in her needy moans, her stifled gasps as he reaches her heat. His tongue searches, circling when he finds a spot that makes his Beloved moan his name so exquisitely, Gwyndolin is convinced he could come right then and there. Her  mewls are salacious as his tongue teasingly darts in and out of her entrance. Lips wet with her arousal, Gwyndolin laps her up like he’s famished, his nose eagerly bumping against her with each rut of her hips. 

Gwyndolin truly does feel as if he has been starved of affection the whole of his life. Of praise. His Beloved’s celebration of the way he makes her feel is utterly enriching. The way their bodies move together is a gift. How is it that this human woman fits so perfectly against him? And he against her? 

The Dark Sun and his Beloved Star breathe as one. Their hearts beat as one. His lips find hers again, while his hand slips down to her heat, fingers slick with her arousal. With permission, Gwyndolin buries two within her, pumping slow and rhythmic. The tiny, aching whines that fall from her mouth only serve to fuel the Dark Sun’s passion. And he cannot help the soft, yearning moans that escape his throat. Wordlessly, she stays his hand and adjusts herself, ready to take him in. Slowly, Gwyndolin sheathes himself inside her, exhaling as he feels her tighten around him. She’s warm, so very warm, and feels so utterly perfect around him. When she’s had a moment to adjust, the Dark Sun and his Beloved star grind their hips in tandem. 

“My heart is yours, Dear Gwyndolin,” she breathes, the heat of her mortal flesh utterly intoxicating. He is coiled around her body, holding her close as he presses deep inside her, his tip pushing against the soft pad of her cervix. She dissolves under his touch, turns to ash in the cyclic passage of time. She is the last ember of a fading hearth, born in the womb of a dying star. She is a human wreathed in darkness, darkness warmed by ancient starlight. 

“My Dearest Gwyndolin,” she speaks through constricted vocal cords, her grasp desperate on his thighs as she grinds her hips into him, “I grow close. Please, I-”

Her words are lost when Gwyndolin captures her lips with his, fervent kiss after fervent kiss no doubt leaving behind their wine-colored marks. He can feel her walls pulsing around him, and he is not much further behind. Gwyndolin’s free hand reaches to her breast, massages and kneads. Her fingers tangle in his snowy hair, tugging gently to angle his head so she might have better access to the tender flesh of his neck. She suckles gently beneath his ear, delighting in the strained keens that fall from her dearest Gwyndolin’s pink lips. 

The world falls away to nothing as the Dark Sun and his Beloved Star bring one another to ecstasy. In an almost febrile haze, Gwyndolin feels the coil in her release. And as she brings him to completion, Gwyndolin feels himself unfold. Like she’s cracked open his ribs, carving out the hollow bone and scooping out the rot that has buried itself in the cavity of his chest. She nestles within him, blooming in the fibrous organs beneath his sternum. Together, they are a tangle of limbs, scales, moonlight, and constellations. Threads of shadow and lunar halos, flares of sunlight and tendrils of darkness. Should flame extinguish, it would not matter, Gwyndolin thinks. He and his Beloved can ignite flame of their own, kindling for a fire that knows nothing of the festering world around them.

In the silence and the bliss that follows, the Dark Sun presses his hand to his Beloved’s abdomen, and she to his. Gwyndolin wonders aloud to her if they should conceive children. If they should birth beings from the union of shadow and light. To carry out a primordial lineage. To let the world not fall to ruin. Surely, this would be their fate. Surely, some being somewhere would smile upon this union. Upon conception of a creature that houses both a Soul of Light and a Soul of Dark. 

Gwyndolin’s eyes fall shut in the murky twilight, comforted by his Beloved humming a tune long forgotten by the ears of man. She rubs gentle circles into his back and holds him close. His dreams at first are pleasant: images of a future with her. Little feet pitter-pattering through the grand halls of Anor Londo. The soft caress of his Beloved. Life lived at one another’s side, basking in the warmth of the sun. Love ingrained in every surface, every action, every word, eternal and unwavering.

And then the Dark Sun’s dreams turn to ruin. In them, foul beasts lurk in his dungeons. Massive shadows writhe in the dark, burbling forth from tombs disturbed, fetid and bloated, stinking of rot. He dreams most vividly of being consumed. Whittled away to nothing but bone and ruined flesh. A bolus of sinew and chewed gristle or a bezoar housed in the stomach of a grotesque creature bloated by unfathomable sin. And what of his Beloved? Hollowed, withered. Or perhaps consumed, herself. Gwyndolin, too weak to protect her. And she, too human to change the course of fate. 

He wakes with a start, gasping shallow breaths as if having been drowned in the depths of a deep, dark sea. His Beloved is beside him, drawing him close and littering his face with kisses.

“My Darling, what troubles you?” she questions, her voice muted with exhaustion. He does not know how to explain these terrible visions. Visions that felt so utterly real, he wonders if they aren’t prophecy. When Gwyndolin finally manages, his Beloved gently cups his cheek in one hand and leans her forehead against his.

“I will not allow that to happen,” she vows, letting her eyelids flutter shut, “And if it does, then I, too, shall be consumed. For my love for you does not end with death.”

A/N: We are nearing the end of this story. It is hard to believe! I've gotten a couple comments about what is going to happen at the end of this story, if the ending will be happy or sad. Worry not! I plan to do three different possible endings that you can choose from, one of which will be a happier ending :) I wanted it to be a little like a choose your own adventure. So the last three chapters (chapters 10-12) will be the three different endings. Those will all go up at once when it comes time. Thank you so very much for reading, for your support, and your comments! I hope you have had a wonderful weekend and have a wonderful start to the week!

#dark sun gwyndolin #dark souls #dark sun gwyndolin x oc #spicy #lemon #dark souls 1 #dark souls 3 #gwyndolin #my writing #dani writes

[therisingphoenixden]

Prompt #15: Floral Forgiveness

Prompt: Row

Characters: Azem/Hythlodaeus/Emet-Selch, Berude Eijinn

Content Warnings: The usual ShB and EW spoilers within for the Ancients!

Author’s Notes: Happy halfway point everyone! It turns out that not just Emet-Selch is prone to memories of what was!

“Had another disagreement the future esteemed Emet-Selch?”

Thalia gasped at the sudden intrusion and stared up into gentle, lilac colored eyes. Hythlodaeus was perceptive as ever. Even when they were young, she would retreat to this small garden within the city if Hades angered her when he got into one of his more…prickly moods.

 “You know me so well, dear ‘Daeus.” She patted the grass with a soft, if troubled smile. “Hades is…unhappy that he was chosen to assume the seat of Emet-Selch.” She sighed, a deep bone-weary sigh. “He doesn’t think that he is the best candidate possible, doesn’t want the responsibility, afraid he’s going to fall into old habits and work too long hours at the cost of time with us. You name it, he presented it as an argument why he was the worst possible choice.”

Hythlodaeus hummed as he sat behind Thalia and slowly ran long, elegant fingers through her fire-red curls. “That does sound like our dear Hades. Always worried and willing to sacrifice for us.” He sighed softly at the thought of their white-haired lover. One of these days, that desire to sacrifice for them would prove bothersome. “I know you aren’t normally allowed to discuss Convocation matters outside of the Chambers,” he started, his hands staying busy as he sectioned her hair off to braid.

“But you want to know where the discussion turned in his favor,” she murmured with a hint of a smirk. Thalia was torn between absolute mischief and actually staying silent on Convocation matters for once. She decided to throw discretion to the wind, letting herself relax into her dear Daeus’ ministrations.

He noticed that the spark had returned to her moonstone colored eyes. “And you still wonder why Venat chose you to succeed her as Azem,” he chuckled, fingers nimbly working her hair. “Of the three of us, you’ve always been the best at reading people.”

She sighed and let herself relax further, all anger she felt toward Hades for their argument dissipating. “I will tell you. It’s not like the Convocation hasn’t already censured me several times, mostly for acting without ‘just cause’ and ‘meddling with the fate of the Star’ when they take too damn long to make a decision.”

Hythlodaeus paused in his braiding, the sight of pale green flowers catching his eye. “Hold onto that thought for a moment, and please forgive my abruptness, dear Thalia.” He took one of her hands into his, pausing just a moment to brush a gentle kiss to her knuckles, before he threaded the sectioned hair between her fingers. A few minutes later, he returned with a number of the large, fluffy blossoms. “I can’t resist adding a few to your braid, my love.”

Her cheeks warmed at the thought. “You’ve always been so wonderful, ‘Daeus, to the both of us.” She handed back the sections of hair and winced slightly at the tugging to weave the flowers securely into her hair.

“So, the Convocation…”

Thalia swallowed. “It came down to Lahabrea, in the end. He was quite fond of keeping you on as the Chief to the Bureau of the Architect.” She turned her head slightly. “I argued for you - for both of you, really, because I would be happy with either one of you on the Convocation. But Lahabrea’s word is far more respected than mine.” She wrinkled her nose. “He would be very displeased if Hades turns him down.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head, not having the heart to tell her that he had politely declined the position. “Then we’ll just have to talk our grumpy love into accepting.”

“We’d just be starting another row with him, you know.”

Hythlodaeus chuckled and tied off her floral braid with a thin strip of leather. “I’d wager he would be more than happy to accept if presented in the right way, especially now that the shock of their decision has worn off!” He stood with a soft grunt and held out a hand to Thalia. “Come, my dear. Let us try and speak reason to our beloved.” He leaned close and kissed her softly before she had a chance to fix her mask in place. With a smirk, she twirled his braided lavender hair around her fingers before she pulled back.

As they walked back to their apartment together, perhaps standing just a bit closer together than was proper, Hythlodaeus smiled to himself. This was why he could never have accepted the seat of Emet-Selch. He made his loves the best versions of themselves, despite their rows when the odd personality clash happened. This was his purpose. And when the both of them had fulfilled theirs, he will have fulfilled his. And they could return to the Star together, as it was meant to be.

-

Berude blinked owlishly in the dim lighting of her suite. That was an odd…dream? Memory? Ever since she had accepted the soul crystals from the shade of Hythlodaeus, they had been growing more frequent. Aumarot still called to her, a longing buried deep within her soul. It was only by pure luck, and the surprisingly well-muscled arm of Urianger around her waist, that had kept her from attempting to travel there while sleeping. She needed answers before the city finally faded away. But not now. It could wait, perhaps, a little while longer.

#ffxivwrite2022 #ffxivwrite #ffxiv #azem #named azem #hythlodaeus #emet-selch #emet-selch x azem x hythlodaeus

[slateofthesea]

The Slate of the Sea: Silver Kings

(A03) (Vibes)

Power, what does that word mean to you? Does it feel untouchable? Do you picture the raw power that mother nature gifts us, hurricanes, volcanoes, and earthquakes, or does your mind think of everything you could protect with such power? What price would you pay to acquire such power? Could you sacrifice someone dear to your heart to obtain such a thing or to keep it?

It was always the same dream that haunted the twin's daughter of the Weismann family. A cloud of smoke, no, it could be better to describe it as fog. Once their eyes close for sleep to take them by the hand, a strange fog creeps into their room. Yet, their bodies couldn't respond to the fight or flee as the mist weaved over and under until wrapping itself around their bedpost before slowly moving toward its prey, hoping to learn the unspoken truth from generations of letters between two of the oldest family line.

"Sleep, my beautiful pets; tell me everything that is yet to be revealed to me," Sinter whisperers ring in their ears as images flash in their dreams.

A slate table? No, a stone tablet with foreign languages written all over it with seven color glimmering under a full moon… Seven gems were shining from underwater; the seventh gem kept changing between two colors, black to transparent, like a moonstone. Clear images show the gemstone of opal to an onyx.

Another flash gave them a version of their great-great-grandmother writing near an open window looking over the sea, writing down notes beside sketches of many sea creatures. However, only one of the twins saw this, the youngest. The one with their nose always in books, who made their nursemaid tell them over and over the folktales that have been passed down, the story of the sea creature's treasure that could grant the power of nature.

The peaceful dream becomes a nightmare as the crystal clear water turns red, and the sweet scent of salt water turns foul with an almost sickly sweet as the odor of blood fills the air. Screams, crying, and cursing filled their eardrums without a way to block out the noise.

'Why us?' The wind howled out as the clouds began to weep 'must not cry… do not shed a single tear…that monster should be-' the weeping turned into a muffling sound.

Who were these 'us'? What monster?

So many questions were already haunting the twin's minds as their dreams continued showing them countless images, none being connected to the last; a pale hand appeared to be holding back a wall of water? A spotted seal crying? A tablet underwater? A gentle voice kept repeating, 'I'm alone' before releasing a panic scream, "Why!?"

Another sleepless night left them wondering if they were going mad like their great-grandmother before them, who used to tell stories of the sea speaking to her, revealing the unspeakable truth of seven sea gods whose hearts were ripped out and placed inside stones to end a war. This war occurred under the sea, or so said the raving of a mad woman.

Klaudia thought it was only her who had these dreams. Yes, her sister was beside her during some of the events inside the dreams until a wave of tear shape gems swept Addi away.

Addi believed the same thought; only she was plagued with such nightmares. A silly little nightmare that was brought on by travel fatigue to their coast side villa for the summer. It was a logical thought, easy to blame, but more to the point, twenty-year-olds don't have nightmares anymore; such things were for children.

Even if the pair share dark circles under their eyes, they did not speak on such matters as this summer would be unique. This was the summer the Wiesmann family would have two weddings to plan. As the elite family all flock to the seaside for this season.

Morning wake-up calls come earlier as their nightmares last all night. Like clockwork, their handmaids open up the curtain to let in the soft morning light, telling them about the latest gossip from the port town, yet this morning felt different. Excitement mixed with panic affects the whole household.

It only meant one thing… one silly thing; they had a visitor… he came to see them—the young Lord of the Kokujoji clan from across the sea. The two families have been close for generations, yet both great-great-grandmothers suffer from the same disease of madness. Both talk about the song of the ocean if you listen close enough.

Weeks upon weeks, the young Lord practiced his proposal until it felt right, and it felt natural since he was put on the spot by the younger twin for sounding too stiff, too proper. Compared to Klaudia, who tried never to be overly formal if she could help it.

"Sneaking out again, dear sister?" Klaudia didn't have to open her eyes to know what Addi was doing, trying to tip-toe toward the secret exit in the bookcase. "This is an important day for our family."

"An important day for you, maybe," Addi stood there, barely dressed, with toast hanging out from her mouth, inky writing all over her wrist, and some doodling. "I have other plans for today," Holding the worn leather journal before declaring a new breakthrough. "but do give my regards to Daikaku. His insight was most helpful."

Disappearing before the handmaid came in with today's new grown to try on but mostly avoiding her sister's famous lecture on ladylike behavior, family honor, etc. "Ugh, that girl."

It was known that the younger twin had no interest in wedlock and all the responsibility that came with it. Being someone's wife, the Lady of the house, a mother- with so much knowledge out there, why choose to be forced to live by another's standards? There was a pull- no calling in her bones; there was something more out there for her. What that something was… Addi had no clue. It was just a strange feeling she got when standing ankle-deep in the ocean as she tried to translate the writings of a mad woman. Was that even the right words to use? Perhaps.

"Ah! What does this mean!?" yelling up at the sky to release the tension from reading the same five pages countless times. "Diamonds do not float like clouds above our heads. Wulfenite does not see the unsee-no wait-" Her blue eyes scan over the scribbles once more, trying to recall the native tongue of her people. A dead language, of course, could be quickly taken out of context. "hold upon the earth?"

Making notes' Silver=Air, Gold=possible meant unseen or gravity?' "Rubies could easily mean blood.. like blood rubies? Then again, blood could also mean power since it holds the highest regard in so many spells and folktales."

Talking out loud to herself as she paces in the warm salt water, stopping only to curl her toes in the sand out of frustration. "Blood, as in fire, making an oath to the Suoh goddess herself."

"You choked, didn't you, Daikuka," Those ever-seeking eyes never left the old page as Addi spoke to her oldest friend, who happened to turn his back to her as he tried to hide a glimpse of embarrassment." We practice, remember. You wrote out the whole propose- even I could recite your words if you like?"

"No!" Daikaku didn't mean to raise his voice toward the young woman as it was very out of character for him, being raised to be a true gentleman, upholding and acting all on virtue. "I mean-" Clearing his throat some before speaking, "that won't be necessary as I came to give you a gift," Holding out a small wooden box. "it was found among my grandmother's belongs."

The box contains another leather-worn journal that Addi flips from cover to cover before complaining, "There's nothing but numbers on here- wait! I've seen these ones before." Comparing the two side by side, rushing through the wore out pages until. "they are repeated here too! Could these numbers be representing stars? Where did I put the book that you gave me…the library?" Leaving her friend alone on the seashore as she talked to herself about each star constellation, where they were located, and their legacy.

Addi spent most of her youth studying the stars, learning how to use them to navigate the land and sea. Some would say she wasted her prime years on such a foolish- unladylike hobby. "Old map? Old map.. oh yes. I see following this route would bring us to this bay. What at this bay? What are you trying to tell us? What was found there?"

"Wasting another beautiful day indoors again, my dear baby sister." Klaudia wasn't hiding in the dusty library; she was returning the book pile her sister forgot to return. Or went her cover story.

"Drinking so soon, my kind older sister."

Her older sister only raised her wine glass to those words, reminding Addi precisely what time of day it was. "Dinner will be served within a few moments. Please do the curiosity of being on time- and properly dress." She knew her words fell on deaf ears as someone's nose was already back in her research books.

-----------

--------

"I wouldn't worry yourself, Klaudia. Knowledge has always been your sister's weakness. Even a god once fell for such things." Daikaku chuckled, watching the woman who had held his heart for so long vent her anger into the wine glass. "He even gave up one of his eyes, or goes the legacy."

The young pair spoke freely to each other tucked away in one of the many water gardens away from all prying eyes of society.

"With that logic, my sister will forsake all society's standards of a woman for such knowledge." The pair was supposed to be enjoying afternoon tea, but with no one around to say otherwise, tea was not on the table as a wine tasting was more crater toward Klaudia's liking.

"Maybe forsaking those standers is what Sneeds." Daikaku's shaking fingers outline the ring box hidden within his yukata's sleeve.

"Sneeds? Are you feeling unwell, Daikaku?" His dark eyes couldn't stay focused on the young maiden in front of him as his cheek held a faint red tint to them, with his speech pattern turning to a broken language between his native tongue and the common tongue.

A flaw that many know yet dare to speak of, Klaudia's drinking habits are often compared to that of a mass navy battleship.. fully loaded with twenty or more guns, that still stays afloat after taking much damage.

Daikaku's drinking habit was like a liferaft with a leak; once it's in the water with a person, it becomes completely submerged. Mixing that with someone who is beyond nervous, they tend to seek out liquor courage.

"Honestly, you're just as bad as she is. Maid, please help Lord Daikaku to his bed. I fear he may have too much afternoon sun."

The second attempt at proposing marriage was wasted with the help of foreign wine. ---------------- ----------

"Maybe you should try writing to her? As you two have no issues commuting through those. Many nights she stays awake writing to you--is that something I shouldn't say out loud?" The proper and improper topic was never Addi's strong forte as she tended to say things without giving them much thought.

"You seem to be in a better mood. Have you discovered something new?" Not waiting to dwell on his failure, Daikaku moved on to another topic hoping Addi would do the same.

"If I'm correct in my navigating skills, I found the cove our grandmother spoke about. So when do we leave?" The Weismann family might have many things. However, a worthing sea vessel was not among them. "You two engage! There I declare it." Addi, long-time companion, only let out a deep sigh. "or what's more romantic than an out on the open sea under the stars proposal?"

"And what are we discussing so intensely?" Speak of the devil, and they appear as Klaudia joins them in the music room where someone was to be practicing at the piano.

"Daikaku graciously invited us on his ship tomorrow to refresh us with sea air." The villa they were staying in was along the coast, which had plenty of sea air.

"Only if you two would like to accompany me." Addi rolled her eyes at Daikaku, giving him a very unpleasant face.

"You spoil her too much, Daikaku Kokujoi. Fine but… you get to practice for another hour. Don't give me that look, Addi. I know you two were sitting in here to avoid that gentleman caller." Actually, Addi was too busy studying maps even to realize they had a guest, let alone know that person was here to see her.

That night was spent plotting the route they would be taking. It wasn't far in a sense, but it wasn't close at the same time, possibly a day trip at most. It was going to be a pleasure cruise, where Klaudia would be engaged by that night. However, they got far from that idea as a wicked storm tore the sea apart, waves hammering the Timeless palace and throwing the battleship around like a child with a ragdoll.

"Why did I let you two talk me into this!?" This type of storm was nothing Klaudia hadn't seen before as she took the helm, screaming with the thunder, cursing the sea mother herself out as she stayed her course. "Once we make landfall, I want to hear everything!"

Addi quickly elbows the person beside her repeating everything to Daikaku. Everything from translating some of the journals to discovering the cove they often heard stories about would be told to Klaudia from his lips… to even asking her for her hand under the starry skies would not be spoken… ever!

The battle wore ship seemed to fair enough through the storm with minor damage, a strange storm that almost felt like a summon from the gods to keep them from finding such a place.

"What's that awful odor?" Addi quickly covers her nose, trying not to breathe it in. "Rotten fish? Dead whale?" As the rotten smell of decay completely overtook the air.

"My god… look at the coast… look at all the corpses?" Klaudia's voice gave out as her blue eyes noticed the red wave beating over the blood-stained sand to what appeared to be seal bodies floating in the shallow water as many were baking under the sun's heat on the shore.

"Judging by the smell, I would say five days at most," Daikaku military background came through at sight like this, from human bodies to the carnage left behind by poachers.

Only Klaudia notices his facial change quickly from calm to angry back to peaceful. Only his eyes… seem to change color? The young sea captain dismisses the thought no one's eyes can change color, nor do gemstones begin to glow. It was a trick caused by the sun's reflection, as she told herself as they launched the long boat to make for the coast.

"I will never understand why people would do something this horrible for a simple coin." Addi has always been a kind soul, always choosing to see the good in others.. even if that task is impossible.

"People will always choose greed over life no matter how society advances. Money and power mean everything, no matter the cost." Even though they were born minutes apart, Klaudia's mindset has always been more mature than her kind-hearted sister's. "We should burn the corpse to stop the spread of disease."

A task that wasn't easy to complete as more and more dead bodies were located, as the young ones were not spared from the slaughter.

"Why?" Addi kept asking herself over and over as grief tore through her. She had never felt such sadness; her hands shook, her stomach clutched, and her eyes burned from tears trying to fall as she kept rubbing her arms. They didn't feel cold, yet Addi kept running her hands up and down her arms, not realizing how far she had walked up the coast and from the group.

She couldn't be there when they placed the young ones in flames. That idea caused her tears to fall as a sob escaped from her lips. Even putting her mouth over her mouth didn't silence them once her eyes saw the black smoke.

A frustrated scream tore from Addi's lungs as she kicked at the waves around her feet. Everything she wore felt like it was trapping her at this time. Letting out another scream, Addi started tearing and ripping at her grown. The sleeves were the first to rip off, followed by the heavy water log skirt; she kept pulling and screaming as tears fell one by one into the water.

Being consumed by rage and anger, Addi didn't realize the once ankle-deep water was now at her waist until something swam past her legs. The once bright sun disappeared behind the horizon, making the sky appear on fire with pink, purple, and red colors. Once more, she felt something bump into her as her sense started returning. She was standing a bit from shore only in her undergarments in shark-infested water, and something was pushing her to the beach.

"Oh my god," Addi wanted to scream to her sister and Daikaku once she saw their figures coming into focus, recalling everything she had read about what not to do as the book clearly stated rapid movement could cause an attack. "Kl-Kl-uadia," came out like a soft screech from her throat as her body pushed forward again.

With her entire focus on the people walking the beach, Addi lost her balance as a wave knocked her under the water. The saltwater burnt her eyes as she opened them, trying to see the shark that was about to devour her. Instead, she saw a spotted seal with unique heterochromia eyes, with the right side blue as the seawater and the left green as the evergreen tree.

Without thinking, she reached her hand to the sea creature as the seal lets its head rest in her hand before her body was lifted out of the water. "Addi, speak to me! Tell me she's breathing, Daikaku. Please tell me!"

"Addi, look at me. You saw him, didn't you?" The young maiden in Daikaku's arms only blinks at him before nodding.

"Thank the heavens you're alright! What the hell were you thinking!?" Klaudia's good manners and grace disappear as she lectures her sister about scaring her to death. "I thought you drowned! What did you mean by Addi seeing him? Who is he?"

There is a moment after having a life-and-death situation that feels strange. You know it happens; your body remembers every moment as it enters the survival mode of fight or flight. As your eyes dart around, trying to seek a way out, yet your mind is very weird about it as it replays it repeatedly in slow motions, even backward if it has to, and time-loop parts of the event as it tries to process the event. Then it goes numb, almost like it was saying, 'yes, that happened to us, and no, there is nothing differently we could have done to prevent it… but we survive. Shall we move?'

"She's in shock. We must get her warm!" Addi heard the panic in her sister's voice, and she heard Daikaku's heart racing as he carried her bridal style out of the water. "Here, place her here and get all the blanket you can. Addi, you're going to be alright."

Addi gave her sister an automatic nod as her eyes searched the water line before staring at her hand. Her fingertips remembered brushing against something soft… softer than anything she had ever felt.

Silk? No softer. Satin? No, it was different. Her family took their stand on no fur two generations ago. So Addi can not recall feeling any fur beside her white Persian cat. But even his fur didn't feel that soft compared to what her fingertip remembered. "Addi. Addi, here drink this. It will help warm you up." The warmth of the teacup in her hand helped keep her focused on this moment.

Even if her body only remembers how cold the water felt only a second ago… as her mind fought to make sense of the event. "You're not him, but you feel that same." Addi doesn't remember talking to anyone before standing in the water, yet her mind replays that soft-spoken voice that holds such sadness.

"I felt the same as whom?" Addi thought aloud, keeping her eyes on the dark water as nighttime fell upon them, watching the calm and steady white wave crashing into the beach with the full moon sharing its pale yellow light.

Addi didn't recall when her sister raided her of her wet clothing, nor when she was wrapped under many blankets to the point the only motions her body could do were fall over and roll closer to the fire. "I think you overdid yourself, sis.. maybe I should fear that marriage between you and Daikaku." Trying to make a slight joke to ease the tension only helps a little as the images of the massacre flashback into her mind, and her stomach turns as it recalls the foul odor.

Wrapping her arms around herself as she tried forcing her mind to stop. "Red to orange are the flames, silver star carefully placed on the dark blanket that covers the sky."

Trying to stop the racing thoughts is much like touching the same place in a flowing river. Yes, you may be able to touch the same area but not the same water. That's impossible when you place your hand into the flowing river. That water is gone as it flows further away from you. Playing mind games to keep your thought active and trying not to settle it can help if your mind isn't overwhelmed.

Exhaustion finally overtook Addi as she fell asleep on her sister's makeshift camp, unaware she was being watched from the dark water by two-tone eyes. The sea creature waited for their chance to get closer, waiting for Daikaku to lead someone look alike away to discuss the event that led them to this moment, standing on the island of Tears.

Most people believe these island got their names from looking like teardrops scattered across the ocean. Folktales will tell you a different story… a darker tale of young women being dragged here against their will to be sacrificed to the Sea Witch or The Sirens.

For the sea witch, their bodies were tied to post out in the shallow until high tide. Beautiful tainted maidens were left to drown so the sea witch could absorb their youth. Pure maidens were dragged into the water, having their throat cut for the witch to drink as their dark red blood gave her the ability to keep her foresight.

For the Sirens, all they requested were for you to murder and sacrifice a loved one to the Syrens for them to lend you their dark magic.

There's no power without cost. Power itself must have balance. Those words are carved into a stone here. The stone tablet may be covered in moss now. Years of seawater and rain might have washed some of the wording away. Yet, it still stands here as a reminder to everyone- Everything comes at a cost. ------------- ----------

That cost came to light as the sun rose, sharing one of its many breathtaking sunrises as darkness gave way to light orange before fading to yellow. The light almost blinded Addi's sleeping form.

Without thinking or recalling yesterday's event, the sleeping form blew air from her lips, like she was blowing out her night lamp, yet the light wouldn't go out. She groaned as she tried to move her arms to smack around on the nightstand to teach that oil lamp a lesson not to cross her. Only one arm could break free from the covers as her other arm felt trapped under something warm… almost soothing type of warmth.

"Stupid…lamp.. go out…need sleep. Sand?" Her right hand flopped, swatting around, trying to locate the nightstand, but she kept feeling sand. "What mean prank is my sister playing at? Why sand- wait, I hear waves… Oh, that's right."

Her blue eyes snapped open as memories came flooding back to her. Strong emotions overtook her… there was so much sadness in this place, and Addi finally let herself feel that. She knew the moment her eyes caught sight of this island on the deck of the sea vessel, that's all she felt inside her heart… overwhelming sadness.

Before she could throw her arm over her eyes to block out the sun and hide the newly forming tears, there was a gentle touch on her face. "Please don't cry… we thank you for your tears but don't cry anymore."

Rolling over on her side, coming nose to nose with those unique eyes from before.

#Silver pirates Silver Kings

[thetrailthestarsblaze]

What do all the other ranks do?

Healers are medicine cats with a more appropriate name. In charge of making sure injuries or disorders are treated to the best of their ability. Are allowed to speak to Starclan for guidance.

Heart-Warmers are therapists working alongside Healers to make sure cats are getting the best possible treatment. Heart-Warmers also have meetings to discuss treatment plans, Healers are welcomed to go as well.

Strategist are in charge of direct threats and how to tactically handle them. They are in charge of making detailed battle plans.

Rescuers are Riverclan specific (usually)- These are the best swimmers and are in charge of saving other cats and invacuating the clan in case of flooding.

Marshtrotters are the Shadowclan ver. but they also are in charge of spotting snakes and snapping turtles and marking places to avoid. It's hard to see where you shouldn't step in the mud

Climbers are in charge of flushing out tree born prey and getting eggs in Thunderclan. are the best climbers.

Scouts are in charge of viewing new places, heading out after times of peril like storms to see what has changed and what will need to be taken care of. As well as watching for dangerous animals. Scouts go the four trees, moonstone, moonpool, island before every big meeting to make sure all is well.

Painters paint! Usually a creative type and considered a secondary skill to your main skill. Sandstorm is a painter!

Traders hold events and gather crafts and such to trade with other clans during these events. They are usually craft-makers themselves. Making jewelry or something similar.

Assistants are your nurse types. They keep an eye on apprentice and kit development, take charge of elder care and the disabled, and typically all around help with unsorted tasks.

Builders are in charge of structures and their upkeep. Need a new nursery? Builders. Elders den sprung a leek? Builders. Need a new structure after a storm to connect to places together? Builders.

Nursery Tenders are also in charge of kit development. They help mostly with child raising however. Babysitter, need someone to help with milk?, teachers, all that.

Messengers take either generalized or specialized messages between clans. For one person? for a small group? for the whole clan? Messengers baby! Their quick and have a good memory for words.

Weather Keepers predict and keep track of weather patterns. Part of this is to make sure the clans are prepared for storms, high winds, rain, ect. and Part of this is mystical in nature!

Tunnelers are in charge of build the underground tunnels in Windclan. usually for food storage and safer walkways, this catches on and isn't Windclan specific after awhile.

Guards go on hunting patrols and most scouting missions and watch from a high location for predators or danger and will send alarm if something appears. They also stand guard outside the clan.

Farmers use to be only a Windclan thing but Healers loved the idea and it caught! They grow herbs, plants used for weaving or paint, plants for building, plants for decoration, plants for bait. All kinds!

Chaser is a Thunderclan and Shadowclan thing mostly? but it can catch sometimes. Your the first to charge in and distract or overpower a predator. First line of active attack.

Cave-Guards are the Mountain cats version of a Guard. They also follow patrols look for predators and keep openings safe. They also have a type of code that's easily passed from guard to guard.

Legend Keepers are your historians. Making long records of any special events.

Scent Maker make perfumes basically! if its for something spiritual. Helps hide something like cats on the hunt. Ect- that's them!

Ally is more of a mark. It usually means you are a cat not in the clan but are friendly with the clan and interact with them pretty often in a positive way. Like Henry and Barley are allies.

Sighted is a Gazing Firelight cats specific word, meaning your the chosen one destined to lead the group through something.

Founder is just. your the founder of a group. usually a post mortem title.

Mediators prevent clan fighting between groups and inside clans.

Moor-Runner basic hunters for the majority of the day.

Singers are just that. singers of important meetings, events, celebration, ect

Dog/Fox/Badger/Bird speaker is a secondary skill meaning you speak the language of dogs or foxes or whatever

Hunter is a old clan term that means your a basic hunter

Warrior can mean 1. an old clan term meaning fighter. or a basic adult clan cat

Fighter is a term used in Bloodclan and a few other groups meaning your skills lie in fighting all kinds of creatures.

Sharpclaw is a term meaning an adult cat in the ancients and old mountain group.

Bird Watcher- a skyclan title for those specific in hunting/fighting large predatory birds

Star carrier- a Starclan only title meaning you hold a major star or major core concept

Spirit title- can be anything but is your Starclan job.

Dancers are similar to singers.

Weavers are in charge of building more delicate things, can be a subsection of builder or trader. in Riverclan their in charge of making float mats.

Council Member is apart of the Leader's trusted and wises members to ask for advice

Adviser is a Skyclan title for the main cat used for guidance for the leader.

Elder is congrats ur old and retired

Deputy- we know already

Leader- we know already

Human Ambassador tends to spread after its start in Skyclan. You understand decently how to interact and understand humans, providing information or location guidance to others.

Mouser means your human uses you as a cat to hunt mice usually for a barn. Non clan only.

Wanderer is a non hostile loner who doesn't stay in one place long.

House cat/House pet/ ect- your a kittypet. thats ur job. just being with ur humans as a companion.

Second in Command- Bloodclan's version of a deputy

Helper is the Guardians cat word for nurses, a bit like assistants

Head General is the Bloodclan's highest fighter and in charge of other fighters

Prey Hunters are the Mountain cats basic hunters

Watcher is a guard for Jingo's group

Beekeeper/Butterflykeeper/ect- You keep and care for that insect.

Flower Devoted- Shadowclan. A special type of Farmer for Shadowclan's special flowers.

Defender is the Guardian cats first line of defense. Their motto is disarm not harm.

Mushroom Collector- Mushroom specific collector tends to mushrooms

Collector- you go out to multiple places to find useful objects for the clan.

Mask Maker is ceremony specific and for celebrations. you make masks!

Explorer- old cat term for a mix between a collector and scout

am I missing any? Well most of in wip so you'll hear more about them soon!

[plathski]

medea killing her children - pelagio pelagi / susan smith - wych elm / saturn devouring his son - francisco goya / ivan the terrible and his son ivan - ilya resin

#moonstone's word webs #word webs #word weaving #wordwebs #medea #euripedes #susan smith wych elm #saturn devouring his son #francisco goya #ivan the terrible and his son ivan #ilya repin

[wandering-the-fae-wyldes]

Samael's Dream Before the Portal

Samael leaned back as she rested her hands on her now large belly. She all but radiated beauty, her long silver hair framing her face, pooling on the bed under her. Her small yet firm breasts shook softly, her mouth opening as she gasped with pleasure. She looked down, past her pregnant belly full with her children soon to be born, down to the man currently thrusting into her. Her young brother Jacwyn. A look of love and desire on her face as she watched him thrusting into her, the father of her children. It was adorable how he tried so hard, his little cocklet thrust into her, trying to reach as deep as it could to pleasure her. She slid a hand down to her pussy and rubbed her clit, gasping in true pleasure as he continued to fuck her, the collar around his neck shaking with each slap of his hips against hers, proof that he was hers if any was needed.

Jacwyn: "Ahh~ S-Sam! Mmm, I-I can't hold it! Mmm, I-I'm going to cum!" Sam looked up at him with a loving smile and wrapped her legs around his waste, the sound of his wanton moans and gasps was music to her ears. Sam: "Yes, cum for me my sweet brother~, fill me with your love again~." He arched his back as he came inside of her, his voice rising in a high pitched moan of pleasure, his cum pumping into her. She moaned softly in return, feeling his seed pumping into her, spraying inside her pussy. It didn't fill her, but it didn't need to. She loved it anyways. As he slowed down and leaned against her, his hips shaking convulsively a few times before slowly pulling out of her, a small dribble of cum flowing out. "Mmm, that was good Jackie~. Now though, it's my turn." She sits up and places a hand on his chest, pushing him back so he lays on his back. She leans on him and kisses him passionately, her tongue flowing into his mouth and wrapping around his own. She moaned at the taste of the forbidden fruit. Threads of iridescent green flowing around her as she casts a simple spell, a large cock growing between her legs, she bites his lower lip and pulls back, letting go after a moment as she lines her cock up with his ass. "Are you ready?" Jacwyn gasped, looking up at her with absolute desire and love. He opened his mouth, words of confirmation, of adoration right on the tip of his tongue. She waited with bated breath as she prepared to fuck him, to cum inside of her younger brother, to give him her love just as he'd given her his own. Jacwyn: "Lady Silverquill, the portal is opening!" Sam frowned as she looked at not her brother, but the royal scout commander Erikas beneath her. Samael: "What?" Erikas: "Lady Silverquill, wake up!" Feeling someone grabbing and shaking her shoulder Samael Silverquill opened her eyes and sat up quickly. Biting back an angry retort as she shoved Erikas away from her, already weaving spells to conjure her clothes onto her body. Samael: "I'm up! Damn it, get the others, anyone who doesn't make it through will be left behind. Gather what you need and lets go!" Her voice brokered no debate, the scout saluting smartly and running off. She tsked angrily as she watched them go. Another lonely dream. She'd imagined Jacwyn, her beloved Jackie there, but it hadn't been truly him. Ever since he'd left all those days ago, it's been the same thing. She'd dream of him, but not with him. That was to end tonight though, even if they didn't find him immediately, she'd soon be on the same plane at least, and that would be enough to tide her over until she could reclaim him again. Samael: "Wait for me my Jacwyn, I'm coming for you."

She stood in front of the swirling portal of chaotic magic, watched as the webs of magic sprang forth and dissipated, twisted and warped before her eyes. The musical harmony broken and beautiful, an otherworldly cacophony impossible to make sense of, yet undeniably exquisite. Clad in mithril chain and draconic leather, a moonstone rapier at her hip she stood as a battlemage ready for the battles to come.

#fantasy #fiction #oc #main canon #elf

[becoming-persephone]

Words spoken and written have vibrations that weave themselves around us. If you are connecting with words of positivity, trust, and gratitude, you will welcome that energy into your life. Like the Buddha said, “what you think, you become.  What you feel, you attract. What you imagine, you create.”

Before You Manifest

ground into gratitude: journal every day or week about what you are grateful for in your life right now. This allows you to root into what is important to you, providing a sense of clarity.

The Core of Manifesting

what do you want to FEEL?:

what do you DESIRE?:

what do those feelings and desires look like? visualize.

Ways to Manifesting

create a vision board with images that capture how you to FEEL and what your DESIRE. 

on the back of the vision board write your intention with the belief and expectation that it is going to happen

tip: don’t specify a day or time rather choose a month or season you want it to happen on/by

create a dream box, a place where you can write out your intentions and place them inside with a clear quartz crystal

this allows for your intentions to be “planted” but not your sole focus, giving them time to be nurtured by the universe

create a personal mantra for yourself to repeat daily, like a prayer

ex: I Trust (say x3) or My Trust Is In The Universe etc. 

take a clear quartz chunk and speak what you want to manifest into the quartz, allow the vibration of your voice to blanket the crystal. 

place the crystal in a dark bag for protection (black or blue)

during morning prayer or spell work place this stone by your heart as you recite your personal manifestation mantra 

Words of Wisdom

ask the universe and your guides for messages and signs

have an affirmation that keeps you connected to your intention

Ex: I found my home. I love my new job. I will have a daughter

Crystals for Manifesting: Clear Quartz, Tree Agate, Aquamarine, Amethyst, Citrine, Moonstone

Gods & Goddesses To Connect With

Ganesh (hindu): a god who removes obstacles

Tyche (greek): a goddess of fortune, chance and fate

Spider Woman (native american): a goddess who creates a webbing of energy to put you on your fated path

#manifesting #journaling #journal #desire #trust #law of the universe #witch #wicca #pagan #druid #buddha #healer #crystals #manifestation #manifest #manifest 101 #101 #goddess #spirit guides #wisdom #yoga #yogini #prayer #buddhism #clear quartz

[away-from-anthills]

chapter three-

(prologue) (chapter one) (chapter two)

Although WindClan was the closest of all the Clans to it, the road to Fourtrees had never seemed longer.

The thick-barked trees seemed to stare down at Antstar as he led WindClan towards the hollow. On one side of him was Whitetooth, always looking ahead and always alert; on the other side was Russetfoot, who Antstar had decided to make his deputy almost as soon as he had returned from the Moonstone when he had received his nine lives.

A shiver scattered down his spine as he remembered the events that had happened after the last gathering. Rainleap gone, in an instant; a Clan suddenly left midair after being thrown off the cliff. And yet in all the turmoil, he had risen triumphant.

Or at least that was the impression he had gotten. He was supposed to feel triumphant, wasn’t he?

It had been a long ladder for Antstar to climb from Clanless kit to leader of all of WindClan, but he was beginning to realize at the top that he had a fear of heights.

Eventually, Fourtrees began to come into view, and Antstar could identify the four feline figures who sat at the Great Rock. All of them- even Currantstar, although he had only been leader for about twelve moons- seemed so used to it all, not even reacting to the leagues of chatter that surrounded them. It was as if their paws had melded with the granite below them.

“And I thought ShadowClan was bad with being late…” Pigeonstar’s coarse tone rang out above the crowd. The blue-gray tom was sporting a new scar that framed his left cheekbone.

“WindClan will be here soon enough,” said Tulipstar reassuringly. She had a tangy quality to her voice- not hostile, but not exactly warm either, like a mentor about to take their apprentice to a rigorous day of battle training. “I’ve heard rumors that something’s happened to them. Surely Shalestar will tell us.”

Shalestar. That was another thing. How was Antstar going to explain all that? Rainleap and Shalestar, both dead in the span of a month.

Part of him worried the others would think he killed him.

WindClan dispersed into the clearing, blending into the crowds. Spiderpaw was, very clearly, trying her best to not brag about her mentor now being the Clan leader. Toadpool and Webwhisker were striking a pleasant conversation with a dark red tabby tom from RiverClan with tufted ears. Adderthorn, a rather reclusive WindClan cat, kept to herself, although her gaze seemed to be fixed on a small dark brown tom from ShadowClan who had a marbled coat.

“Come, Antstar.” Whitetooth, with Marblepaw by their side, led Antstar through the gathering crowd, weaving in and out of the clouds of conversation. Eventually, they reached the medicine cats, who were having a friendly debate about whether yellow or orange marigold was more effective.

“I leave you here.” They pointed their tail at the top of the rock, where an empty spot sat between Tulipstar and Currantstar. “Best of luck. May StarClan look upon your first gathering with smiling faces.”

With a bit of effort, Antstar leapt onto the rock. He was surprised at how smooth the summit was- as if generations of pawsteps had carved it.

“Greetings, Antstep.” Tulipstar bowed her head.

Currantstar, however, looked a tad more confused. “Have Shalestar and Rainleap taken ill? I wouldn’t expect Shalestar to skip a Gathering. That old workhorse would go even in downpour…”

Antstar stammered. “I…”

He looked to Whitetooth for a second, who gave him an encouraging nod. He then looked to the other leaders. Their eyes felt like hot coals launching towards him.

But he would have to say it now.

“…Shalestar and Rainleap both passed away this prior moon.”

A sudden commotion hit the Gathering. Cats of the other Clans looked to their WindClan acquaintances in shock; WindClan simply nodded their heads and sighed.

“Both of them? How?” Pigeonstar’s eyes narrowed as his face twisted itself from comprehension into a scowl.

“On the way back from the last Gathering, there was an accident involving a monster. Shalestar appointed me as deputy in his stead-“ -he shot a quick glance into the crowd, seeking approval- “-and he passed away of illness not long after. We in WindClan mourn them both greatly, and have spent the past moon grieving for them.”

Pigeonstar, however, looked unconvinced. “How do we know you didn’t kill them?”

Antstar felt ill, unsheathing his claws to keep himself from falling off the Great Rock from dizziness. But the SkyClan leader continued, fashioning himself the great detective. “For all we know, you could have killed Rainleap, made it look like an accident, have Shalestar elect you as deputy, and then kill him, too!” He drew his lips in a snarl. “And it doesn’t help that cats of your kind don’t become WindClan leader so easy.”

But then, Currantstar stepped forward. “Many of us in ShadowClan are not Clan-born, like Antstar here. One of my medicine cats, Rosettepelt, is among them, and she is one of the most gifted healers we know.” He advanced forward towards Pigeonstar, his gaze steady and stern. “So if you want to remain on positive terms with us, I suggest you watch it.”

Pigeonstar seemed as if he were about to say something, but reason got the better of him.

“Furthermore, my friends,” started Whitetooth from the medicine cat crowd, “I can assure you that Antstar speaks truth. I prepared both bodies and aided Shalestar in his final hours. As he lay dying, he was content with his choice in Antstep.”

There was a low murmur throughout the Gathering discussing the death of the old leader. Even though Antstar tried not to, he bent his ears towards the crowd to get a better listen.

“Well,” said Pigeonstar, “we have no proof he didn’t kill Shalestar, now, do we?”

Currantstar and Tulipstar looked unconvinced as they looked over the Burmese tom in front of them. “You realize Antstar was Shalestar’s own apprentice, Pigeonstar,” added Tulipstar dryly. “And Shalestar took quite the liking to him.”

Tatteredstar of ThunderClan, however, was studying him, very very deeply, like she was inspecting the double barrel of a rifle she was about to stuff with gunpowder. Finally, she stepped back. The massive molly sat down, her expression unchanged as always.

“I don’t think the boy killed Shalestar.” She spoke in a thick ThunderClan drawl. “But we shouldn’t underestimate him.” She paused, as if she was taking the moment to rehearse her thoughts to herself. “He’s got killer between his eyes.”

Killer in his eyes. Antstar felt unsettled. Killer? What does she mean? And why-

But the other leaders simply seemed to nod, as if a silent agreement had been reached that they shouldn’t further push Antstar.

Perhaps they all had killers dancing in their eyes.

Pigeonstar seemed to back off, although he didn’t look pleased.

“Is there any other news in WindClan to report?” asked Tulipstar.

“…There is nothing else to report.”

Antstar stepped back, and Tatteredstar began to prepare herself to speak. Tatteredstar’s mere presence alone made Antstar feel weaker. Tatteredstar was an almighty oak; massive, muscular, battle-scarred and a pillar of her Clan, he was a mere dandelion, who bent over and crumpled in the slightest breeze, beside her. Having a good look at her didn’t help. He saw more scars on her now than he ever had before- across her face, across her flank, even down her legs. Her claws were off-white and long, jutting out from the tufts of fur betwixt her toes, and while her fur was generally well-groomed, a mat or two seemed just under the surface in the ruff of fur around her neck. She had two bottom fangs that stuck out; they had yellowed in their years of exposure and her bottom lip seemed to have shaped itself around them. Her tail was short, compared to her body, and it would not surprise Antstar if she had lost part of it in the throes of battle. Her big, yellow eyes, which were surrounded by oily discharge that discolored her fur, seemed to both stare into the horizon and at whatever was in front of her at once.

“ThunderClan has been doing well this past moon. We extend our condolences to WindClan for their loss of Shalestar,” she began. “He was leader alongside me for many years. We had our disagreements, but I held the tom in high regard, as I am sure all of us do.”

Shalestar and Tatteredstar had been the two oldest leaders, Antstar recalled. She had been leader for about twelve seasons by the time Shalestar ascended, and while the two didn’t interact much and had their differences, there was an air of respect between the two.

Antstar recalled how hollow-looking and feeble Shalestar had appeared in death. Tatteredstar, however, had no sign of slowing down. He wondered how she managed to do it.

“We have been lucky to have had two healthy litters of kits born into our Clan. Sleetwhisker has given birth to two mollies, Vinekit and Shrikekit; and Sootspots has given birth to four toms and a molly, Mothkit, Fogkit, Stumpkit, Cedarkit, and Clawkit. In addition, Foxbriar is set to give birth to her kits within the next quarter-moon. We will have our paws very full… and it will also mean we will have more mouths to feed.” She shot a pointed glance at Tulipstar.

“Also- in addition- there was an attempted uprising by a ThunderClan cat named Rosefire.” The Gathering crowds pricked their ears- Rosefire was a cat who had been known by many for his friendly nature and how he disliked Tatteredstar and her deputy, Eelwhisker. He was a very vocal cat, and would often joke about starting genuine rebellion against them in order to pursue a dream of all five clans being united. Many thought he was a tad extreme, of course, but he was generally well-liked.

But Tatteredstar never minced words. “The so-called uprising was over as soon as it began. I dealt with Rosefire. You will not be seeing him again.”

There was a stunned silence.

It was only then that it really struck Antstar what cat he was dealing with. The matter of Rosefire, to Tatteredstar, was not a personal matter, and there was not a look of cruelty, resentment, or even annoyance in the ThunderClan leader’s yellow eyes. Rosefire had intruded on ThunderClan’s safety, and Tatteredstar had dispatched him. It began and ended there.

And then, Tatteredstar stepped back. “ThunderClan has nothing more to report.”

After what seemed like forever, Currantstar stepped up to speak. “ShadowClan has spent the moon recuperating after the fire we reported at the last Gathering. We are, again, very lucky that it did not affect us too harshly. Besides that, we have no new news to report; we are deeply sorry for WindClan’s loss of Shalestar and Rainleap.”

As soon as he had begun, he had ended. Antstar admired his charisma, his charm, the way he looked like a sculpture; Currantstar was a perfect leader.

And he had become leader so young, too. He and Antstar were about the same age, after all.

If he can do it, and be a perfect leader, I can do it, too…

“We have been experiencing difficulties with rogues on SkyClan territory,” Pigeonstar announced. “I suspect this is the same group that has been bothering RiverClan territory. However, we have fought them off successfully,” he said. He was very pointed with his words. “In addition, two of our apprentices became warriors- Bumbleshade and Silverskip.”

There was a round of cheer for the two freshly-graduated warriors. Pigeonstar then backed away, and Tulipstar, the very small white molly with ginger splotches, at long last took the stage.

“We are continuing to deal with the rogues on our territory. We have started to drive them off, but it’s a tough process. Just this moon alone we have had to deal with the untimely deaths of Yellowstripe and Sleekwater, and our resources are running dry. However, there is hope. Oatwhisker became a warrior this month, and one of our mollies gave birth to two fine young kits, Magpiekit and Frondkit.”

The little white-and-orange molly kept a steady eye on Tatteredstar- giving a clear implication about how much she wanted Sunningrocks. Their agreement would run out by the next Gathering- and, by the looks of it, Tulipstar had every intention to keep the territory.

Slowly, the gathering would down like a spring-powered toy. SkyClan was the first to leave; then ThunderClan, and then ShadowClan, until only WindClan and RiverClan were left. Antstar would have left earlier, but he still felt dizzy and his head felt sore from sheer mental pressure.

“Are you alright?”

He turned and looked down to see Tulipstar. She looked… genuinely concerned, or at least as genuinely as Antstar could convince himself another leader could be.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, as reluctance tried to keep his lips locked together.

“…You sounded nervous. I get it. Don’t fear the other leaders; they’re really not as scary as they like to make themselves out to be.” She thought on her words for a moment. “Well, except for Tatteredstar.”

“…What is it to you?” Antstar backed away slowly. Did she want something out of him? Then he doubled back in his mind- what if that sounded too rude, and now she was mad with him?

“Antstar, relax. I was especially close with your mentor and predecessor, Shalestar. We were very good friends, and under our allyship our two Clans were very close. I would like to continue that partnership with you.”

RiverClan had been friendly with WindClan for at least as long as Shalestar and Tulipstar had led them both. Slowly, Antstar let his guard down, correcting his posture so he didn’t look so hunched over.

“I would like to continue it, as well.”

“Great,” she said. She smiled, and Antstar could see how middle age had made her face look bony and her dimples more noticeable. “Besides- I was in a very similar scenario to where you are now, when I became leader.”

Antstar sat up in disbelief. Perhaps he wasn’t alone! Perhaps someone, somewhere out there… someone might just understand! “You… you became leader the same way?”

“Similarly. I mean- there weren’t as many accusations as you had to face from Pigeonstar, that joyless rat, because both my parents were RiverClan and the previous leader’s death wasn’t exactly a private occasion.” She leaned in, her jade eyes wide. “Did you hear about how I came to be leader, Antstar?”

Antstar shook his head.

“I feel you will find it very similar to your situation. The leader before me was a tom named Boarstar.”

Antstar remembered hearing of a Boarstar in nursery tales when he was a kit. Everyone knew him as a leader who had died in a battle he himself had started, but Antstar had not heard much of what he was like beyond that.

“Boarstar was very, very young when he rose to power, younger than you by a few seasons. He was a mean thing. Always picking fights with ThunderClan and WindClan, always on the attack. He was a serial womanizer and deeply narcissistic. Not many of us liked him much. He placed his brother, Oakbelly- who shared every ideal with him- as his deputy, and the two wreaked havoc on RiverClan. Boarstar lost his lives quite quickly because of all the battles he started…”

“So how did he choose you?”

“I honestly don’t think he did. We were in the midst of a battle with ThunderClan in their camp, and Oakbelly was fighting some ThunderClan cat while trying to get to the nursery. As he was taunting them, he made a miscalculation- and the ThunderClan cat shredded his belly open. And now, you know I and ThunderClan do not get along, but…” She smirked.

“And Boarstar?”

“Boarstar was filled with more rage than his namesake as he saw his brother bleed out… So he ran right to Tatteredstar herself and attacked her. She and him went one-on-one. It was a quick battle. I didn’t see much of it, but in the glimpse of his death that I got from the other side of their camp, she was clamping down on his head with her paws, crushing his skull.”

Antstar grimaced.

“The next thing I knew, the medicine cat rushed up to me and asked if I could take the mantle of leadership, telling me it was what Boarstar wanted in his last moments. In hindsight, it was probably the last thing he wanted, and the medicine cat was the one who made the decision. But it was my duty to my Clan, and so, I became leader. I cannot say the road of leadership has been an easy one, or a gentle one. But I want to be the cat for you who I wished was there for me.”

Antstar stepped towards her. “You mean, you’re going to help me?”

“I can’t lead for you, Antstar. Only you know your people. But I will be here as your mentor in leadership. Our Clans will be close. Feel free to ask me if you need help, and I will do my best to be there. It’s what Shalestar would have wanted.”

Antstar’s shoulders felt lighter. Someone out there was on his side!

“Trufflepelt, organize RiverClan so we can leave.” A tall, gaunt cinnamon tabby tom, twice the height of his leader, stood at the end of the hollow as the trademark plump bodies and shimmering pelts of RiverClan surrounded him. Pebblesky, RiverClan’s medicine cat, receded into the crowd, leaving Whitetooth and Marblepaw alone. They disappeared into the forests, southward; towards the faint smell of freshwater that beckoned from their territory.

Antstar stood alone on the rock for a moment. It was smooth, cold; almost calming now that the other Clans had left. He looked above and saw the leaves of the great oaks shiver above him; and a sky full of stars, who all blinked and winked as they stared upon him.

He heard pawsteps behind him, and turned to see the familiar face of Whitetooth, staring him in that inquisitive way they always did. “Are you alright, my leader?”

“…Yeah.” Antstar didn’t break eye contact as he stared at the stars above him.

“...You’ll get used to it,” Whitetooth added.

“I know.”

And then, after a further moment, Antstar left the Great Rock, where Russetfoot was already organizing WindClan to go home. Whitetooth followed, and then Marblepaw, and away they went, into the night.

 “He did terribly,” said Sparkthistle dismissively as soon as the Gathering group got back.

“It couldn’t be that bad,” said Houndnose, a tortoiseshell tabby-and-white permaqueen, who emerged from the nursery with two of Cherrycloud’s kits clamping themselves onto her fur like a pair of bread clips.

“Oh, he made the biggest ass of himself- which is saying something because Pigeonstar was there.” The ginger molly rolled her eyes. “You really hate to see it. I’m astonished Rainleap hasn’t unearthed himself with all the spinning he must be doing in that grave!”

“Don’t talk that way about my brother!” growled Stripedwing, who was just outside the nursery. The gray tabby molly, who was visibly pregnant, had been inspecting the nursery while the gathering group was gone.

But Sparkthistle simply groaned and sauntered off, as if she was annoyed at Stripedwing for not liking the joke.

Antstar passed by the nursery, and something bit his foot. He looked down to see Brindlekit, a little tortoiseshell, gnawing at his toes. “Got you now, ThunderClan rat!” she squeaked.

“Brindlekit, that’s our leader!” said a ginger tabby tom-kit, panicked- but with a slight edge of authority. But Brindlekit, pugnacious as ever, simply pounced onto her brother, and the two began to wrestle. Eventually, Cherrycloud- her ginger coat near identical to the one of the little tom-kit- pried them apart. “Brindlekit, be nice to Antstar. Rosekit, it’s my job to parent her, not you.”

“Antstar! Antstar!” cried another ginger kit, who pushed her way out of the nursery between Houndnose and Cherrycloud. “Didja see Tatteredstar?”

“Is she really the size of a dog? That’s’ what Amberkit told me!” added a tiny solid black tom next to her. “…She’s big. Definitely one of the biggest cats I’ve seen. But not that big.”

The black tom-kit looked smugly at Amberkit, who seemed flustered that her descriptions weren’t accurate. But they had more questions to ask.

“Do the RiverClan cats really smell like fish?” “I heard ShadowClan eats frogs!” “Can Tatteredstar really kill a rat just by looking at them?” “Is the RiverClan medicine cat really secretly from ThunderClan?”

Antstar felt bombarded, but he still tried to answer each question. “They kind of do… they do eat frogs, but they seem fine with it… I don’t know, but she is scary… She is, and it’s not much of a secret, both Clans agreed to it…”

Cherrycloud gave a motion to the two kits, and they silenced themselves. “I’m sorry if they’re being a bother to you, Antstar,” she said apologetically.

“Oh, it’s no bother,” Antstar said. “They’re the next generation of warriors, after all.”

“Patchkit, would you like to say hi?” Cherrycloud asked to a little tortoiseshell, similar in shape and appearance to Brindlekit, who clung next to her. Patchkit gave Antstar a small glance and then buried herself further into her mother’s fur.

“She’s very shy and anxious,” Cherrycloud said. “We hope she’ll step out of her shell a little more soon.”

Antstar recalled he had been a similar way, as a kit. He recalled the permaqueen who had nursed him- a kind, pleasant molly who had passed away a few seasons ago from a wound infection- had a conversation with him about how he was then.

“You were a shy little thing. Very quiet, very meek. But when we were alone, you’d do these little tricks- kneading the ground, cuddling up to clumps of moss and cotton. It was cute, but… it was weird. It was like you were putting on a show for approval. And maybe it was coincidence- but sometimes it felt like you knew what you were trying to do.”

Antstar had thought about that a lot, since he had became leader.

“Oh,” Cherrycloud added, “and I’m sorry for how my sister, Sparkthistle, has been acting recently. We don’t talk much anymore. I will never understand why she has such a bug up her tail about everything... She should mellow down soon, I hope.”

She picked up Patchkit and went back into the nursery, with Houndnose alongside her and her other kits soon following. Antstar soon found himself alone again outside the nursery, the pale moon giving everything a glow. He saw Sparkthistle from across the clearing. The ginger tabby, her teeth in a permanent scowl, made brief eye contact with him before turning away into the warriors’ den.

Antstar worried. What if they began to believe her? What if she’s not an outlier- but an early critic? What if she turns the Clan on him? What if-

Something white caught his eye, and he turned to see Whitetooth, watching him from the edge of the medicine cat on the far side of camp.

He couldn’t fully read their face, but they had the glint in their eye of someone with an answer.

#warrior cats #warrior cats ocs #story

[mallowstep]

holy days. holidays. games kits play.

THUNDERCLAN has no holy days. there is no day more worth celebrating than any other. each day has chance for tragedy and happiness. informally, the dark days of leafbare are something of a holy, hallowed time, when even kits know the severity their clan could face.

neither do they have holidays. ceremonies celebrate individuals, and after a hard leaf-bare, a leader might congratulate the clan, but there is no such thing as a holiday. there’s a reason cats leave thunderclan more than they join, but  there’s also a reason outside cats are attracted to thunderclan.

but kits in thunderclan are joyous. they play moss ball, practice hunting, and act out scenes from battles elders told them about. for thunderclan, there is no such thing as a kit acting too immature, because the joy of kits playing is why they need to defend camp.

RIVERCLAN has holy days like the river has fish. new moons and the end of seasons and the beginning of seasons. the first morning where ice on the lake has broken and every time it rains. **other clans call them frivolous, but it is how they honor their fortune, how they commune with those who have passed, and this is why riverclan believes they, above any other, are most spiritual. [1]

a holy day is a holiday as far as riverclan is concerned. there is no event not worth celebrating, each stage of life moving them onward. they honor the river and the way the water moves but the river keeps its course. feasts are common, as are flower decorations, and swimming competition.

maybe this is why riverclan kits are so calm. they grow up sheltered by reeds and water, water dangerous if they fall in too soon. kits play in the nursery as much as possible, never leaving without a careful eye on them until they are capable of swimming. they can be patient, because once they are older, there will be plenty of time for play. [2]

SHADOWCLAN has holy days like the sky has stars. they are serious, though. half moons are a sanctified time, with the medicine cats away, and the first frost is a warning day, filled with prayer, that they won’t starve for loss of the frogs and lizards that make up much of their new-leaf and green-leaf diet.

holidays are minor, the days before and after holy days surrounded in preparations and feasts, fasts being prepared for and broken, and kits, who sense the coming changes even if they’re not explicitly told, exploiting the minimized supervision, running around camp like they’re half-loner.

kits are a playful bunch. they play out their wars across camp, claiming swaths of land as shadowclan and thunderclan and windclan. they play battle, mock fights, hunt leaves. after brokenstar, queens are cautious, trying to keep their kits in, fearing them appearing too old once again. but they can't keep them in the nursery forever.

WINDCLAN has few holy days, but they have fasting days and hymn days, new moons and quarter moons and rain. they have winds of change and stability, winds from south and north. they don't need a day to venerate the stars, they say. it's something a good warrior is always thinking of. each day has something holy in it, whether it is a lucky catch, a new birth, or an apprentice's first trip to the moonstone.

their holidays are singing days, part prayer and part celebration. the medicine cat will choose the section, or start from the wind and go all the way through, but apprentices revel in a day off from training and mates choose duets to sing together. kits mostly listen, and sit with their parents, but sometimes a group will petition for a chance to sing, and sometimes, that request will be granted.

kits race around camp, playing in flat areas left for their amusement. there's little structure to their days, and they exhaust themselves chasing and pouncing. windclan has no dens; warriors often becoming unintentional obstacles as kits duck under them and weave between their legs. but there is still join in this; windclan has long been troubled and having enough kits to play is a relief.

SKYCLAN was reborn by the paws of thunderclan. firestar left them no holy days, and yet, they found their own with time. full moons and half moons, hallowed time of gathering, when the spirits were close enough they could reach them. the days the river flooded became mourning days, the day they found the cave of shining moss became a day of prayer.

holidays and holy days are one and the same. loners and rogues have neither, and kittypets could only bring word of twolegs acting strangely at somewhat regular intervals. they celebrate the dead of winter, doing the best they can to feast with everything they could. skyclan has no time to waste; each day is to be utilized to its fullest.

kits play the games of their parents, chasing moss balls or collecting sticks. loners come with their own traditions, and skyclan's nursery is a mixture of them. clovertail had the biggest influence, raising kits on her games of hiding and catching. their nursery now has never seen her, but with each season of kits, the games morph, hiding leaping for feathers and telling the story of reassembling the clan.

YELLOWFANG joins thunderclan and growls at kits playing and really, who can blame her? she knew to fear kits seeming older than they were; she knew kithood was a fragile time. and if she was irritable, maybe it was in part because the rhythm of her life had been shattered, with no days of quiet reflection to break up the chaos.

GREYSTRIPE enjoys the lighter moments, when he is with riverclan. crookedstar took him into his family, introducing him to the traditions. he watched featherkit and stormkit play, told them stories of their mother when it rained, and for some amount of time, felt like he belonged.

IN STARCLAN, the seasons often merge together. there is no need to honor the ancestors you are a part of. the youngest members of starclan are the most energetic, running across the fields and forests. they never learned about differences between clans, not properly, but they bring the smallest traditions they were taught.

obviously the ice is a new one. cultures change. ↩︎

of course, this logic is the product of raising kits in a dangerous environment. kits are kits, and they will play. they’re just basically never left unsupervised. riverclan kits would never get up to the hyjinks we see in thunderclan. ↩︎

#folklore #warriors worldbuilding #worldbuilding #lore #warriors #q #mine #txt #24th #April #essay #long #2021 #April 24th 2021 #mhrw

[softgreysentences]

TTS Fic - arms outstretched

id like to preface this with 1) @woogwoo-wren​ is an enabler and 2) @finnoky is an absolutely fantastic source of inspiration. that’s all folks

ao3

Varian skitters across the cold stone floor, grappling for purchase and breath stuttering violently - he can’t believe it, at first, he can’t - and slides to a stop too far away. The gap between them feels enormous; not just in a physical sense, but in how Eugene’s fists clench at his sides. In how his eyes narrow, a complicated mix of raw anger and concern, in how Varian’s ribs bend and catch fire in his chest, forcing out the air rotting in the bottom of his lungs. His vision swims and cuts out altogether, a dizzying black - his head cracks against stone, lolling sideways, smearing red - before he blinks and the blues above him waver back into focus.

He’s quick to kneel, to reach. “Listen, please!” Varian cries out, one arm outstretched, the other curled close. With anyone else - he might be composed. His voice might ring strong; he might have the upper hand, a fighting chance at changing their mind. 

But this is his brother, and in this one moment, he has everything to lose.

“You have so much to hold onto,” he pleads. It’s not a scream, not a breath, but some rough mix of both, tearing and forcing its way up his throat. He’s right here in front of Eugene - is he not enough? Is he not worth casting aside the stone for? Tell me I’m right, he begs. But those words do not make it out. They die deeper in his chest, in the space below his heart.

Anger flashes across Eugene’s face, brittle and offended as if perhaps - perhaps he thinks this is holding. As if he believes he is the one in control. As if the stone does not glitter like a shard of glass on his chest, ready to cut its holder into pieces, ready to prick the finger of the hand that dares to touch it. And Varian realizes...he can see. But Eugene can’t.

He needs Eugene to think. He needs Eugene to-

“Choose!” he screams, voice tearing through the cavern. Varian gains ground in his desperation, stepping forwards and fisting his brother’s tunic and reaching, reaching, reaching - but his arms aren’t strong enough, fingers not steady enough, and he can’t manage anything but lunges far too weak to accomplish his goal.

The moonstone gleams in the center of Eugene’s chestplate. It’s a bright, bright blue. It calls, and for a second, he almost wants to answer. But there is a haze in Eugene’s eyes that not even his little brother’s frantic, sobbing pleas can get past. There’s a struggle under the surface of that unfamiliar electric blue, violent and twisted. There’s a disjointed mess to the logic his brother is weaving for himself, a tightening in the noose his brother has slipped his head into.

His broken choose still echoes louder than the other words he’s breathed. He needs Eugene to choose. He needs Eugene to think. And Varian fights, shaking, pushing, pulling. He grits his teeth, snarls and tears and bites out words until he can barely make out his own voice, jumbled together in a panic-

“That’s enough, Varian.” The grip on his wrist latches on, tightens impossibly. Varian can’t breathe. His chest burns.

He stretches his fingers, reaching out for the stone, but Eugene’s hold doesn’t flinch. It merely shifts slightly, twisting, and Varian resists the instant urge to fall to his knees. 

“Yes, sir,” he chokes out, hopelessly small. It is all he can say.

Please, he thinks. 

I can’t lose you, he thinks. 

The tension builds in his lungs. It writhes under his skin, coiling around his spine and blurring his vision with tears. 

It’s time to choose. And Varian knows he can’t stop fighting. Not until he has his brother back. Not until he can yell and chip away at the pocked marks in his brother’s soul; not until brown eyes stare back.

And when Eugene forces him away, watches him stumble on feet caught unaware and twists a cage of rock around him, something in his chest fractures. It’s to keep him safe and nearby, he reasons with himself, frantic in the face of Varian’s horror. His brother’s eyes shutter - the fear melts away, the determination rears its ugly head. Can’t he see that he shouldn’t fight? That this is for him, not against him?

But a part of Varian closes off, in its own defense, and Eugene is left colder than he’s ever been. Now I have nothing left to lose, he whispers to himself. Because - he’s lost Varian. He’s lost his brother’s trust. He’s lost his brother.

The murmurs in his ear ring too great to ignore, silvery and soft and everything the black rocks he’s twisted for himself aren’t; strong where he is fragile, venturing where he hasn’t thought to go. The mindtrap, they tell him in impressions, in feelings that aren’t words at all, but somehow slipped past his defenses and strung his fears into thoughts. You haven’t lost anything yet, not at all.

He could get his little brother back. If Varian wouldn’t see…

Well, Eugene could just make him, couldn’t he?

There is a shard of light in his hands, jagged and blue, etched with the same symbol emblazoned on his chest, the same one printed neat and small behind Varian’s ear.

There is a boy he needs to protect held tight in the cage he created, broken and fighting, scrabbling against the rocks with an unrestrained fury and weakening by the second. There is red dripping from the corner of Varian’s mouth, a color that would shine bright scarlet if the rocks surrounding them didn’t leech all the warm tones from the cavern. There are tears tracking down his face and cutting deep fractures. There are bruised fingers clenched around the sharp spikes.

There is a moment, between them - there is a second where Varian’s eyes land on the power in Eugene’s hands. There is a flicker of recognition. A flicker of grief. The rush of blood in Eugene’s ears is too loud to hear past - but he can read the no on Varian’s lips clear as day. He can time the beat of his heart with the repetition of that one word, as if by speaking it Varian could delay - could delay -

Eugene doesn’t know what to call it. How to think about it. He needs to do this, he insists. You must. 

He must.

There is a second moment, between them. Varian fights even harder, but they both know his bonds are unbreakable. There is nowhere to run. From Eugene? From his brother?

No, from his own fear of what he does not know. Why would he be afraid of Eugene? This is for protection. This is their only option.

Eugene is sick of helplessness. He’s taking what’s his.

His hands tighten around the mindtrap.

Varian’s struggling ceases immediately. He slumps against the black rocks, cradled in their curves, and goes frighteningly still.

Varian, he whispers. Varian?

There is doubt, sour in his gut. Hesitation. A what-if question so painful he can’t put it to words. Then Varian’s head lifts so slowly, eyes blinking open, fingers raising to curl loosely against stone. Gentle. Every move he makes wavers and softens; Eugene remembers early mornings, shaking him, watching him wake. It feels much like that. 

The sourness won’t fade. The haze in his thoughts thickens. He waves a hand, dispels the cage. Now that he has Varian; well, there’s no need. His brother spills limply onto the ground at Eugene’s feet.

Varian, he whispers. It’s okay. It’s okay.

The boy shudders and trembles and pushes himself off the ground with unsteady hands. He tucks his legs under him, looks up with wide and blank eyes; and he is kneeling before Eugene, head drifting forwards, neck arched. He does not speak. He barely breathes.

Eugene holds out a hand, bracing their forearms together and pulling. Varian comes up easily, fine movements still weak but supported by the steel in his bones and the magic in his blood. It is so easy to pull his brother closer. It is so easy to press a hand to the top of his head, protective, possessive. 

He can’t help the dry, small smile. Varian tilts, just barely, nudging into the palm of Eugene’s hand. See, kid, he says. I knew you’d come around eventually.

He leads. He pushes forwards. Varian follows, always at his side.

Eugene shifts his hand to Varian’s jaw, lifting his head with a gentle, firm nudge. Relief trickles cold down his spine, a feeling adjacent to pride rising at the blue glow that casts a highlight on Varian’s cheeks, the unburdened and quiet expression, the slow and steady beat of Varian's pulse under his fingertips. 

This is how he will protect them. This is how he will keep them together and keep them safe. This is how he takes power; claims it for himself.

(He remembers life in these eyes, just minutes ago. A fire he hadn’t wanted to put out. But this was necessary, just so Varian could understand. Just for now.)

(But Varian never will - never would - never gets the chance. Because the mindtrap will never be shattered and his eyes will never clear, not so long as the stone has a grip on Eugene's mind.)

And it is those two - one standing tall, unable to see the world for what it is; the other leaned forwards, drifting, unable to see the world at all - together with the black stone that rises around them-

It is them that cuts a tragedy into the dark of the night.

#tts #tangled the series #tts fic #varian #eugene fitzherbert #team awesome #kinda nervous to post this because i dont know a whole lot of the detail behind the au but damn did i love that art #take all this with a grain of salt ig anxious laughter #my fic #the google docs title for this is thoughts many mind(trap) full #im hilarious thanks its like 3 am i dont really know what im doing anymore #anyways jazz hands #dk au #i think thats the tag? #moongene #if this doesnt fit with their characters in the au... oops ;-;

[phoenixtakaramono]

The Untold Tale - ch2 Preview

SUMMARY: Let it not be said that Shen Yuan didn’t know how to be an accomplished—arguably better—writer than Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky! A middle-aged author in his hubris, he’d unknowingly triggered his fate and had his consciousness whisked away into an unfathomable mystical world that he would later learn to be based on Proud Immortal Demon Way and his very own work-in-progress. When given the opportunity to customize his character’s stats and to design his one remaining Customizable Skill Slot, as a veteran reader of transmigration stories and its tropes, Shen Yuan demanded, “Grant me the protagonist’s halo of course!”

The SYSTEM was silent all but for a minute.【Understood. Unique Skill <<PROTAGONIST’S HALO>> activated. Esteemed Host, you share the Unique Skill <<PROTAGONIST’S HALO>> with one other.】

“Who?”

【This world’s Luo Binghe. From the original novel series.】

“...Hold on, I need some time to process this.”

(Little did Shen Yuan know that this world’s Luo Binghe is the same sadistic Heavenly Demon “Bing gē” who’d stumbled upon the alternate universe version of his “Shizun” enjoying marital bliss with “Bing mèi” in one of the released Extra short stories. It was also too bad that Shen Yuan, in his mortal form, resembled Shen Qingqiu by a good thirty-to-forty percent.) 

(It’s a sort-of redemption fic. I think Bing gē deserves his own Shen Yuan. Some soulmates are just meant to be....)

Luo Binghe didn’t reply immediately when the low voice graced his ears. He was content to drink his fill of the fortuneteller before him, his breath stolen. 

It was as if the Heavens had sculpted this extraordinary fairy from the white nephrite mines of the Tian Shan Mountains and had breathed life into their creation. Such a man gave the impression of a heron found resting in the wetlands, with an immaculately majestic white plumage and tall stature and long legs. The crown had lent him a dignified air, with its moonstone threads giving off a resplendent iridescent sheen in the moonlight. Aside from the face, any sign of skin was covered up beneath the many fabrics of dark blue finery and silverspun threads. The gossamer tips of the white embroidered wings on the back of his outer robe fanned out along the bend of those wide sleeves as though the wings of the egert were extended around the wearer himself, the outstretched tips of the chiffon weaving gracefully in the air from any subtle breeze or movement. 

Luo Binghe stared brazenly at the man’s high collar which was fastened securely around the throat, not allowing a sliver of skin to be exposed. In contrast, the mink fur of the man’s outer robe looked luxurious and soft to the touch, begging for him to sink his fingers into it. 

He was the very representation of how Luo Binghe had imagined a celestial being to appear sequestered away in the coveted Heavenly Realm, mature and self-restrained and untouched by matters of the secular world. Luo Binghe shifted, briefly scanning the surroundings. Like seeing through a fog, colors of this mystic world were not as vibrant as that in the Mortal Realm. Frozen clouds hung in the outskirts of the infinite pond, the picture of twilight outside, with heaven and earth enveloped in silver and white.

Because Luo Binghe was once brought up with the common people who believed in everything divine—or supposed to be divine, no matter whether it was associated with Buddhism, the Dao, or the cult of the dead—he was familiar with the folklores and fictions that populated the imaginations of his countrymen. The educated class never made it an occasion to question the validity of the myriad of deities worshipped by the illiterate masses. Except for deities, everything under the sky was the King's land; everyone on these lands were the King's subjects. For reasons of courting blessings and averting calamities, mortals in their middle empire followed the teaching of Confucius in their religious beliefs, including the lesson to treat all divinities with reverence and to regard them at a cold, respectable distance. 

And among those popular tales, Luo Binghe was familiar with the mythology of the Eight Great Fairies. Like cultivators, they represented the pinnacle of human beings who had acquired immortality and magic through the constant practice of the esoteric discipline of Dao, achieving a status of divinity and ascending from the secular world. If this celestial was a fortuneteller, then his situation reminded Luo Binghe of the story of Ho Hsien-ku. Endowed with a supernatural power, the magician could make divinations and prophecies without the slightest mistakes.

“My story?” Luo Binghe rasped, intentionally obtuse. His expression relaxing, he permitted his hand to be lowered but he kept the tight grip on the man’s wrist. 

When the immortal had spoken, contrary to his aloof and handsome appearance which resembled white frost, his voice was as refreshing as a spring brook. Every word he’d uttered was infused with a bit of warmth, reminding Luo Binghe of the afterglow that followed the setting sun—even with the slightest warning lodged in that tactful entreaty. He’d called him xiōng dì, so Luo Binghe could surmise the celestial considered himself as Luo Binghe’s senior.

It was obvious that while he was wary of a Heavenly Demon’s sudden appearance at his residence, the ethereal being didn’t seem to bear him any misgivings. He seemed more curious about how Luo Binghe ended up here.

“...This lord doesn’t recall crossing a silver bridge,” Luo Binghe continued slowly. In their tales, the Heavenly Realm was ruled by the Jade Emperor who presided over a court of deities worshipped throughout China. Only human beings who had lived exemplary lives were allowed entry after death by crossing the “the silver bridge” into this domain and being reborn as gods.

His body and mind felt strangely refreshed, the internal fire no longer consuming him. There was a faint recollection of the feeling of fire abetting as the yin energy flowed through him, and even when he’d begun to regain consciousness, he remembered registering the feeling of a pair of hands on his back guiding him to lie back down. Realizing the significance of his position on the immortal’s lap after falling into the river, his eyes were overfilling with indescribable emotions after piecing together what must have happened. It was a small revelation that made his head dizzy.

The serene gaze settled upon his face, and beneath the thick eyelashes that were devoid of color, the immortal was assessing Luo Binghe with an intensity that he himself didn’t mind returning. 

In the deep recesses of his mind, Luo Binghe compared the differences of his features against two similar faces. He committed to memory the beguiling shade of jade found in those pale eyes, with the emotion that swum in them as calm as the surface of a lake. They were quite different from the cruel bottomless storms of his Shizun and the gentle overcast skies of the other “Shen Qingqiu.” 

To Luo Binghe, the existence of this person was akin to finding a painting that had been carefully preserved and well-hidden, like a fairy who has hidden his existence from the realms for centuries. His unusual appearance could even be likened to the seven wonders of the world, a peerless beauty that could even overshadow the female white snake spirit Bai Suzhen from fable. Celestials were naturally an enigmatic sight that stole a second glance and set the heart at ease. Luo Binghe felt as if he’d discovered an elusive treasure of indescribable rarity which had never before been gazed upon by the likes of mere mortals or demons. 

And he was undoubtedly his shizun, even with the differences. 

This was the one—the special existence that belonged to him. A chance encounter between a celestial and between a human who had the blood of ancient demons fallen from heaven running through his veins could only be testament to the natural balance of order.

The sudden damp touch against the side of his face made his eyelids jolt slightly, reacting to the drag of fabric along his skin. 

A pensive air seeped into the celestial’s demeanor, and Luo Binghe could sense he was contemplating Luo Binghe’s facial features. Deep in thought, the pad of his thumb carelessly brushed against his jaw, making Luo Binghe’s pupils constrict.

They were a pair of scholarly, masculine hands. Although the fortuneteller wore gloves, Luo Binghe could presume that those long fingers held a bit of roughness to them, calluses formed from training with a sword or from other extraneous activities. Having trained in the art of cultivation himself, Luo Binghe could not disregard the white sword sheathed at the immortal’s waist as being worn for decorative purposes. He gave the deceptive impression of being quiet and harmless, but Luo Binghe had discerned his body to be capable of releasing stored-up strength at any time. From his position lying on the immortal’s lap, Luo Binghe could sense the contoured muscles hidden beneath the folds of fabric. 

A mental image suddenly appeared in Luo Binghe’s mind which made him want to slide those offending garments off and sink his teeth into that pale, untarnished flesh which resembled the moonlight. The emotion in his gaze became all the more lascivious as he imagined the colors that’d bloom, branded by him.

In the same measured tone, the immortal proclaimed, “You are Luo Binghe?” When the smile spread across Luo Binghe’s face, the fortuneteller soon matched it. He answered himself amicably, “Yes, you are the one whom the fates smile upon…. It is an honor to finally meet the reputable young lord who presides over the demons. I present to you my greetings.”

“And to be able to meet you is seven lifetime’s worth of blessings.” He saw those snowy lashes flicker as the brows flew up. Seeing surprise coloring those features, Luo Binghe swallowed and rasped, “Permit me to be so bold, but this xiōng dì would be honored to know what this simple fortuneteller’s name is.”

Those pale jade eyes flickered past. “...I am known as Shen Yuan.”

Luo Binghe mouthed the name, repeating the consonants and the syllables. A look of hunger flitted across his face, before his expression soon resumed its natural state, sweet and indulgent. 

He can be good to this Shen Yuan.

(Chapter 1 can be found on AO3. Link is in my profile)

#svsss #luo binghe #bingqiu #shen qingqiu #bingyuan #shen yuan #the untold tale #phoenixtakaramono #WIP #preview #ch2 #If I'm lucky I can maybe eke this out by Nov #if not then you can consider it a December gift #bc good lord the sheer number of comments from just the prologue alone #I am flabbergasted #TUT will be updated b4 G&G #my writing #scumbag system #the scum villain's self saving system