#sapphire otter

[anemonequeen]

why i otter!

[yeyinde]

WILLOW TREE MARCH

John Price x Reader | Fae!AU

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go."  "Why?" You asked, blinking at her.  "Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't." 

—WARNINGS: 18+ | SMUT fae shenanigans, mythological nonsense; unsafe sex, smut in random places, slight exhibition kink if you squint; Dom-ish Price, soft Price, pining Price; fae trickery (dubious consent on account of the trickery but not really); unreliable narrator; ahhhhhh, body horror (??????????) —TAGS: Fluff, AU, mythology —WORD COUNT: 8,5k —Based on this ask

There's a thick forest at the edge of your town. It curves along the coastline, breaching the yawning maw of the inlet—the last safe haven before the open ocean—and can be found almost nowhere else in the entire world. A unique ecosystem comprising vaguely familiar flora and fauna. Brown and Black bears. Wolves. Sitka-black-tailed deer. Ravens. The waters that crest through the forest are full of salmon, steelhead, and river otters. On the coast of the inlet, you can find whales, sea lions, seals, orcas, and porpoises swimming offshore. 

It's protected, in large part, by its sheer vastitude. Spanning a massive chunk of your home, it stretches far north with curling fingers cutting through the granite of the crumbling coast, and as deep south as its knobby knees can reach. 

From above, it looks like a child curled on its side, knees tucked to its chest. It's this pose alone that makes others revere it as some sacred being, slumbering mindlessly until the day it cracks open its eyes, and awakens to the new world. A child god made of conifers, red cedar, spruce, fir, pine, birch, and hemlock. Mossy caves of granite and limestone. Thick colonies of moss, liverworts, plume moss, and common haircap. 

The forest is linked to your town only by a small strip of land that juts out from a raging ravine with currents too dangerous, too deadly, to try and traverse. An archipelago all on its own, untouched by greedy, human, hands because of its placement. 

It's insulated by the vast ocean on its front, and a series of insidious looking mountains ready to swallow wandering mountaineers whole if they get too close to the sleeping child. Protected and safe by anyone who might try to harm it. 

You used to dream about the forest. A nightmare dredged up about whispers and calls. Lured close to the edge of the river where a man would hand you his heart—sap-stained, and charred; a brittle piece of Bristlecone pine that felt fragile and worn—and told you to come back for him. To wait for him. 

You'd wake in a cold sweat each time, heart pounding so fast that it almost felt like you were dying.

(Maybe you were. Maybe you did.)

You don't know if you believe the stories told about people wandering into the gaping chasm of the forest and never coming out. It's not uncommon for people to get lost, after all. But it feels distinct and archaic. Old. Something about the way the wind howls sounds different from the other woodlands scattered around your home. 

It sounds like a beckoning call. A mother calling their child home for dinner. Come to me, the Chinook bellows. Come home now, dear. 

You never venture too close. You know all too well what happens to children who do.

His name is—was now, you suppose—Kyle, but no one called him that. To everyone in town, he was simply known as Gaz. 

Newcomers to the isolated archipelago are a rarity—so much so that news of the new family's arrival sent waves through the community, making Gaz an instant star overnight, all without him even setting foot on the shores. 

None of that mattered, though. He fit in with an ease that seems almost preternatural when you think about it, as if he was meant to be there. And maybe he was. Maybe the soft rolling valleys were destined to be his home where flowers bloomed in the spring, and Arctic tern trilled from the branches. 

Gaz was unique, different. 

He picked dandelions with the same intensity that picked fights with the bullies in the neighbouring town, the ones who tried to pick on the smaller kids in the community. 

With his fists always covered in dandelion oil and bruises, face caught between a grimace and a grin, like he was never sure if he wanted to spit at their feet or tell a joke, he stood against the onslaught with an anger that seemed to crackle in the air like fireworks. Ready for battle. Thirsty for blood. 

His anger never waned even when he turned back to the group, eyes cresting in satisfaction, and body trembling with adrenaline, and you could scent the rage in his smile, hear it in the soft words he muttered to the kids, telling them everything would be alright. 

Gaz was everyone's friend. The person you told your deepest secrets to, the one you planned adventures with. He was a rock—always armed with snappy jokes to make you smile, and advice when you needed it. 

He was everyone's friend—yours especially—but you can't remember if anyone was his best friend. He was polite. Distant. 

It started in the summer. His hands were always cold, and he kept them shoved deep in his pockets, clenched tight around the latchkey his parents gave him. 

He started to seem almost liquid then. Temporal. You'd reach for him, brushing your hands against his arms or shoulders just to assure yourself that he was really there.

You noticed that his eyes would list sideways, head tilted, slanting toward the forest. It looked to you as if he was listening to something. To some unheard noise or call that only he could hear. 

When you asked about it, he'd always blink, surprised, as if you'd woken him up from a dream quite suddenly. Then, he'd smile, and shake his head. 

"Don't worry about it," he'd say, shrugging. "Just the wind."

He'd bend down and pick a dandelion for you, holding it out between pudgy fingers with a grin that seemed to mimic the cresting moon. 

"For you."

He picked them for three springs before he, too, became another victim of the endless forest. Another empty tomb in the overcrowded graveyard.

Missing, they said, but not forgotten. 

You think about him often. 

(Even more so when you, too, begin to hear your name echoing through the forest.)

Beware the woods, your grandma says. Especially when it calls your name. 

(You never understood why something that sounds so comforting, so sweet, could ever be dangerous. It sounds like an old friend calling you over to play. 

"Never go," she snaps, her hands lashing out to grip your arms tight. You feel her knobby fingers digging into your bones. "Never listen, and stay away—"

"You're hurting me, gran—"

Her rheumy eyes burn into yours. "Stay away—!"

(You wisely never speak about the whispers in your head, keeping them to yourself. A secret just for you.)

You leave town when you're old enough, when the hisses in your head grow too loud to ignore, and it feels as though they're scratching at your skull. 

(Clawing at the walls.)

"Crazy weather, eh?" The first mate mutters nervously, eyes tilted upward as the sky darkens into an angry grey. "Came outta nowhere." 

You leave, and you don't look back. 

(But oh, how the forest screams.)

She calls you back several years later with a phone call. Your gran has passed. 

You think you should mourn, but it's been so long since you thought of home, that you don't remember what she looks like anymore. The sound of her voice is a whisper in your head—the cadence gone, the tone flat. 

But you don't cry, and you don't grieve—she's been dead for a long time now, after all. Ever since your mum went missing all those years ago, she's always seemed more of a ghost than a person. Living as if her body hadn't realised her heart was long dead. 

You go back only because you think your mum would have wanted you to. 

(And pretend it isn't because the silence in your head is suffocating. Without the whispers, it feels as if you're missing something. A part of yourself forever lost in the forest.

You wonder if anyone has found it by now.)

Nothing has changed since you turned your back on the town that raised you, the forest that stole from you. 

It's the same buildings. The same market. The same roads. The same houses. 

The people, too, seem largely unchanged by the years that have passed. 

The friends from your childhood who stayed meet you at the graveyard, eyes filled with sympathy as they ask how you're doing. 

She'll be missed, they lie sweetly to you. Everyone loved her. 

She was a hermit, you want to scream. A woman driven mad by ghosts and fairytales and terror. 

You nod, instead, and let them lead you around the town on a grand tour as if anything about this beautiful, haunting place had changed since you ran away. 

It gets easier to force a smile when they ask if you're okay. 

"Fine," you murmur and wonder if your voice even carries over the whispers. "Just—yeah. Fine."

North of the town is where the river separating the lonely forest carves a path, not at all dissimilar to an idyllic trough, through bedrock and sand, and flows into the sea. 

The estuary is dangerous in high tide when the rapid ascent of water on the sandy shores hides the rip current that is known to form when the two bodies of water meet. 

It's a dangerous place to get caught in. 

This beach was impressed upon you as deadly from a young age, almost in equal—if not greater—measure than the rapacious forest across the river. You know the dangers of standing on the slippery bedrock. 

But as the sun glows a burnt orange in the distance, and the endless ocean before you darkens into an almost unfathomable black, you can't help but find the view from the cliff's edge to be the most mesmerising thing you've ever seen. 

It looks like a painting. A brush stroke of tigers eye in the centre of the cresting sun that gradually fades out into xanthous, and rings of hazy peach; the light of diminishing star smears coruscating rings of persimmons into the indigo water. The gradual fade into gradients as the waves lap closer to the shore is reminiscent of liquid sapphire and smelting amethyst. 

The picturesque view is more befitting of a pastel postcard, an ethereal pastiche of the Ninth Wave—a moment of life imitating art, or—perhaps—the same view Ivan Aivazovsky stumbled upon when he set out to render the haunting beauty of the ocean in oil. 

The cresting waves arch into curled petals of white before setting upon the sloping beach with frenzy. It's the roar of those hungry waves that seem to, if only for a moment, drown out everything in your head. 

There are no whispers. No songs. No screams. Vengeful hissing can't climb to a higher decibel than the frothing waters slamming against jagged bedrock. 

All is quiet—except the sea. 

You lean into it. The closer you get to that precipice, the quieter everything in your head goes. Sounded sucked into the vacuum of the ocean. The endless song of the sea. 

Another step. Another. 

For a moment, you're free. 

The forest doesn't scream for you. Your grandmother doesn't dig her teeth into your gyri, hands clawing at the space behind your eyes. You don't think of her, or your mother, or Gaz, or anyone else unfortunate enough to get consumed by this damnable place where fairy tales split the seams apart, and merge with reality. 

It's peaceful. 

You take another step—

A hand curls over your shoulder, tugging you back. 

Anger pools, thick and acidic, on your tongue, but the flash of your ire, your vexation, is dashed by the sound the waves make when it slams into the spot you were just standing. 

It slashes across the concrete as the stranger pulls you into his broad chest, heat nearly liquifying your spine. 

He sucks in a breath. You feel his chest expand with it. When he breathes out, you taste gunpowder on your tongue. 

"Gotta be more careful n'that, love." 

You've had near-misses before. Flirted with the reaper. Ripped yourself from the jowls of death himself. 

This isn't anything new.

And yet—

Your eyes drag up, meeting flat black boring down at you. His hood is pulled over his forehead, casting shadows down to his jaw. 

"You—"

Your teeth sink into your tongue. Emotions lash through you like the flick of a bullwhip, shredding your skin until it's raw and oozing. The tail pulls away whenever you try to wrap your fingers around one of them—relief: you're not dead; embarrassment: how could you be so stupid; shame: saved by a stranger; and—

Visceral terror. Panic. 

It bludgeons its fist down your throat, barbed knuckles clawing at the soft tissue of your esophagus until you taste blood on your tongue. 

Panic tastes of ozone and leaks, thick and warm like molasse, down your throat. 

"Hey," he murmurs, and the sound of his voice, his low timbre, is porous, calcined. The rough scratch scours through the haze of fear threading through your sternum. "C'mon on, now. Gotta breathe, yeah?" 

It's his hands on your shoulder—hotter than grenade fire—and the thick scent of musk, of stale smoke and kerosene sweat, that break through the gossamer of your acrid panic. He spins you around to face him, eyes fixed on your face. 

"That's it," he says, soft, soothing. "Keep breathin'. You ain't dead yet." 

You come to yourself in pieces. The world bleeds with startling clarity around the blurred edges. Home, you think. Maybe.

Once upon a time. 

You blink. Blink again. 

The hand still on you—heavier, you find, than an anvil—lifts, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw, swiping over the sweat-stained skin.

You can't see his eyes through the shadows cast over his face. A stranger. You've never seen him before. 

They didn't say anyone new moved to town. 

"Who are you—?"

"You don't know?" 

And then his hand is gone, taking all the heat in your body with him. 

It lifts to his vest, thick fingers, gloved in yellow, curling over the butt of his cigar. 

You must make a face. A grimace. A whisper of bemusement. Whatever it is, it makes his lips twitch under the shorn burnt umber of his beard. 

"I'd share," he mutters, teething sinking into the hilt as he pats himself down for a lighter. "But I ain't got the time."

"Shouldn't be smoking in a provincial park, anyway." 

The words are dragged out of you. Numbed, gritty. 

It makes him snort. "Maybe—;" he cups his hand around the end, thumb striking the ignition of the lighter. He inhales, and the red circle at the tip illuminates the cerulean blue tucked away into the folds of his hood. The plume of smoke curls over him like a shroud. "But I doubt a cigar is gonna bring the whole forest down, mm? 'sides, we all have our vices, don't we?"

With that, he leaves you standing in the tendrils of smoke that billow out from his caustic mouth. No goodbye. No name. Nothing except the hum of his touch buzzing through your veins. 

Your head is numb. Thoughts congealing into hardened clay. 

Yeah, you think sluggishly, eyes dropping to the drenched pavement where the ocean narrowly missed you. Swallowed you whole. We do. 

(Yours is bad decisions that reek of napalm. 

Men who scour your hands raw when you touch their coarse surface.)

You find him again in some desolate pub on the fringes of town a few days later. It looks like it's one strong gust of wind away from blowing down. Dilapidated. Rusted from the harsh salt of the ocean to the north. 

He lifts his head when you slide into the empty chair on the left, but says nothing about your unexpected company. 

Instead, his lips curl over the cigar sawed between his teeth. A grin, you think. 

You wonder if he was expecting you. 

(Wonder, then, with a touch of something warm gnarling in your belly, if you surprised him.)

The barkeep wanders past, brows lifting at you in question. 

"Um, a vodka soda—"

The man, Price you learned from the locals with a great of digging, snorts. 

"Ain't got none of that here, love. Two scotches. Neat." He leans over, thick fingers grasping the middle of the cigar, an inch away from the bristles on his upper lip, and pulls it away, ashing it in the tray in front of him. "And a bottle of spring water." 

"Scotch?" You echo, leaning your elbow on the sticky counter. He reeks of smoke. Sweat. Blood. Gunpowder. You veer closer, soaking in the astringent tang of him. Everyone on this island smells of daffodils and cotton; clean and neat and innocent. He reeks of danger. Everything inside of you screams to stay away. "I don't drink scotch."

The cigar burns in the tray. He pulls back, shifting in the chair. His elbow rests on the counter, the other arm is slung over the back of his seat. The picture of appeasement, of a satiated tiger eying a little mouse sniffing past it. There's no immediate danger, and his posture is relaxed. Open. But his eyes—

Price turns to you, then. His legs are spread, knees notched apart, taking up more space than you offer him. A looming presence. Dominating. Confident. He's not doing it on purpose, you don't think, he's just—

Big. 

His legs are too long. Thighs are too thick. 

Something gnarls behind your ribs when you take in his bare face. It's different, smaller, without the bulky black hood thrown low on his brow. His hands bare, leaving him in only casual clothes that stretch taut around his broad body. 

The beanie on his head, pulled low on his forehead, makes him look roguish, rough. The picturesque presentation of a bad boy down to the pelt-brown leather Levi jacket stretched taut around his broad shoulders. 

He looks older, somehow, without the tenebrous of night shading him in dark indigo. Aged like a fine whisky. All burnt umber and ivory. 

The charcoal colouring brightens the heavy blue of his eyes—crushed bluebonnets and powdered graphite; a black hole centre—and the frame of his brown lashes dusting over his clean cheeks makes something pool in your lower belly. 

(You wonder if he'd taste of whisky sour.)

"Well," he murmurs, brow lifting. It makes the skin on his forehead crinkle. He has laugh lines cresting around the corners of his eyes. They stand out to you, now. Void of the shadows you're used to. "You do when I'm paying."

The scotch, the cigar, the dingy pub that reeks of stale cigarettes and is perfumed in a dusting of nicotine that films every surface coalesces into incipient vice. 

His hand moves from where it's loosely curled around his glass, and rests, heavy and warm, on your thigh. 

When he leans in, you taste calcine on his breath. 

The acrid tang is a balm to the blisters in your raw esophagus. You meet him in the middle, smaller hands curling over the wool lapels of his jacket, tugging him into you. 

"Never thanked you for saving me," you murmur, his beard grazing your lips. A tickle. A brush. 

Price sucks in a deep breath, eyes liquifying into an intense azure. "No need to thank me, love. As much as I love the ocean, you don't belong there, do you? No," he adds, decisively. Sure. "You belong on land. The earth. You're wild, like the forest, aren't you?"

It's an out. An escape. An option to flee from the cosm that folds around you like a nebulous cloud. 

You could take it. Back up, away. Walk out of this dingy pub on the wrong side of town, and forget the man who reeks of nicotine, smoke; who leaves ashes behind on your skin when he touches you. 

The only one who stares at you from the unfathomable black of his eyes, lashes shrouded in tenebrous, and makes you falter. Makes your heart lurch, jumping to sit at the bottom of your throat.

You should pull away. Stay away from the man who leaks ethanol and nitroglycerine. From the man who smells of acrid smoke. Gunfire. 

You should. 

But your fingers tighten in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. Closer. 

The bridge of his nose is warm when it presses against your own. 

His eyes spark, wildfires. A blazing forest. 

"You said something about vices." His chest rumbles in response to your hushed words. 

"So I did." 

Smoke singes your nose when you brush your lips over his. Warm. Chapped. Dry. You taste ash. Humus. The bitter tang of dandelion oil. 

"Got some time tonight?" 

"Thought you said I shouldn't be smoking."

"We're not in a park, near flammable trees," your hand falls to his chest. His heart thuds beneath your palm. Thick, full. Your eyes lift to his, lidded and heavy. You gaze at him from under your lashes, coy. Demure. You wonder if he can see how eager you are beneath the sly cut of your lids. "Are we, Price?"

The use of his name makes his lips quirk. A small, secretive thing that you can't read. 

"No, we're not." His hand slides down, curling over your knee. "Don't know what you're gettin' into, love." 

"Oh, no?" You taunt, breathless. Even through all your layers, you still feel his searing heat on your skin. His eyes drop when your tongue lashes out, wetting your lower lip. "And what's that?" 

A frisson shudders over his face. Lashes fluttering. He leans forward, resting the rim of his beanie on your forehead. 

When his eyes slide open, all you see is arsenic white pooled around Prussian blue. "More than you could ever dream of." 

Your trembling fingers curl into the lapels of his jacket. For leverage, maybe; or to hide the quiver in your joints from his widening eyes. 

And so, you kiss him. 

A messy punch to the mouth with your sun-blistered lips. 

His mouth parts, wry curls flutter when he inhales sharply. And then—

He devours you. 

It's messy. More sealed lips glueing together than it ever could be considered a proper kiss, but it feels more like a homecoming than stepping off the boat, and you tuck that inside your pounding chest. 

(The whispers in your head seem to sing when his lips touch yours.)

You taste bark on your tongue when it slips over his. Loam. Moss. Something earthy and rich. His beard scratches your chin, your lips, but you pull him closer, hungry for more—for the taste of wilderness on his tongue, for the respite from the whispers, the screams. Like the ocean, he, too, is a vacuum, swallowing everything whole until just you remain, stripped down to nothing but sensation and want. Bare, raw. 

Your teeth ache when you pull away, fingers curling into the coarse hair along his chin. The whips of his wry curls scratch your palm. 

You never want to let go. 

Price's eyes are noctilucent clouds; a storm over a rainforest. He'll ruin you. Devour. Destroy. Take, and take, and take until there is nothing left. 

Your lips tremble when you speak, words tremulous with your desire, your eagerness, when they slip past your bruised mouth. 

"I can think of a few that are better than smoking." 

Price shudders. 

"Where did you go?" Your friend asks, eyes swinging from the cards spread out in front of him—the Idiot, Solitaire—to you. They burn into the side of your face, the same place Price touched with bare knuckles, and said you belong to the forest, don't you? "Missed dinner."

You ate Doro Wat in a small shop after Price fucked you stupid in the dingy bathroom of the pub, face scraping against the waterlogged wallpaper that chipped with each brutal thrust of his hips. 

Like that, hmm? Can barely take me, love, but you're so fuckin' greedy for it, ain't you? 

You're sure the barkeep heard your moans as they bounced off the jaundiced walls. 

(You still hear him hissing in your ear. Still feel him splitting you apart.)

You try not to shiver. 

"Ate already," you shrug, bundling your sleep clothes tight in your trembling hands. When you stand, his eyes follow you. "So. Um—"

"You okay?" 

"Yeah," you say, shifting on the balls of your feet. "I've—" You think of his eyes, gyre white, and wonder if this is what it feels like to get swallowed by the sea. "I've never been better."

"Good," he says, smiling. "I worry about you, you know?"

You nod. "Yeah," you say. "Me, too."

You break apart in the shower, falling into pieces as you make yourself finish, thinking about nothing but the phantom stretch of his cock seated deep inside of you, the taste of his come pooling on your tongue.

It balms the residual burn in your esophagus, and you know, then, when you throb, still wanting his touch on your skin, that you've always been terrible at telling yourself no. 

It can't happen. It can't.  

There's a strange magnetism about him—an uncanny sense of mystery and familiarity sutured together. 

It feels a little bit like staring at the looming maw, the event horizon, of a black hole. Unfathomable black. No way out. 

There's something that feels a bit like forewarning inside your chest when he brushes against you, and presses his lips on the skin behind your ear—a secret place only he knows, where only his fingerprints have ever been. You feel his touch even when he's gone. Haunted by the memory of his rough hands and rasping tenor. 

Running would make sense, you think, watching the ferries come and go. You have enough money for a ticket, and you've yet to even unpack your bag. 

You don't know who he is, but you've given him everything. All of it. There's nothing left inside of you to hand over, but he keeps looking at you as if he's waiting for more. 

"Waiting for a ride?" 

You glance back at the operator with a divot between your brow and cotton inside your ears. 

You want to say yes, but you shake your head instead. 

"No." I can't leave. "Just enjoying the view."

You find birch branches stripped of leaves, juniper berries, maple leaves, spindles of dogwood, bushels of fir, and bouquets of bog rosemary, northern bluebell, fireweed, and wintergreen on your doorstep each morning, laid gently against the old welcome mat. 

You should toss them out, and throw them away. How does he know where you live, anyway? It would make the most sense; be the wisest decision. 

Instead, you tuck them inside your notebook, pressing them against the pages where they'll be safe. 

(You try not to think too much about why they never die.)

It happens again. And again. Again—

It becomes a ritual for the few months you're back in town. The leaves, twigs, petals, pines, and seeds all show up at your door each morning and come nightfall, you're drawn to him like a moth to a flame. 

He finds the nastiest looking pub in the city, and you find him there after dark. 

He sits, smokes a cigar. Orders two scotches, and a bottle of spring water. Teaches you how to drink it properly—none of that sugary cocktail shite; just pure whisky, love, as it should be—and lets you puff on the damp end of his cigar, eyes gleaming in the soft yellow light above as he takes in the way your lips curl over the wet tip.

He stares at you like he's indulging you. 

Like he knows. 

And maybe, he does. 

Maybe he sees the way your jaw works, tongue lashing over the tip just to chase his taste. The heat in your cheeks, your eyes, as you gaze at him, open and raw and wanting. The way you list toward him. Eager for it. For him. His touch, his smell. 

He must, you think, but he's a right bastard. 

He doesn't give it until the end of the evening, when everyone has gone home. When it's just you and him and the barkeep that glowers at you something ugly when you stand on shaky legs, and whisper you're going to the washroom. 

Your fingers curl over the chipped porcelain, back arched as you stare at the face in the mirror. 

You can't remember if it's you. 

Whisky has polluted your synapses. The thick scent of smoke, the tobacco from the cigar, has congealed into resin over that little bundle of axons and nerves that control your impulse, logic. 

Stupid. 

You stare at the thing in the mirror, and wonder if the basal want on your face was so apparent to him as it is to you. If he saw the dark gleam of hunger, greed, impatience, swimming in your ink-smudged depths. 

The door rattles. Clicks. 

The squeak of the hinges is the only warning you get before Price is there, liquified in the doorway and clouded in smoke. 

His hand curls over the worn, peeling frame. Eyes dance with the same hunger, same want, as the ones that flicker across the surface of the mirror. 

"Couldn't wait for me, eh, love?" He breathes, his chest expands with his exhale. Scenting you, you think. You wonder if he can smell the slick pooling in your panties. The desperation brimming in your veins. "Wanted it that bad, huh?"

He moves. A mountain of a man now filling up the entirety of your gaze until all you see is him. 

You used to want to climb mountains. In training, they always warned of summit fever. Of that little part of your head that just wanted it to be over, to reach the very top of the precipice. Impatient, it couldn't wait. It made you spring up, and climb higher and higher before you were ready, prepared. 

You think of it now when your hands lift, curling over his broad shoulders. 

("Summit fever will get you killed," they say.)

"Just shut up and fuck me, Price." 

His eyes flash. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?"

You are. Painfully so. 

It etches in your ribs like a sickness, festering in your mouldering bones. Rotting you from the inside out. 

A crutch in the searing heat of skin, sweat, and sin. The feeling of him taking you apart, breaking you down into atoms and molecules that bubble in the lining of your head becomes so commonplace, so often forget who you are when you're pushed up against a wall, being filled to the brim by him.

He leaves madness behind when he goes, and the world that divides fantasy from reality begins to crack, to splinter. 

You hear his voice in your head late at night when the wind blows through the window, carrying the scent of the forest.

"Come home," he rasps in your ear. 

The scratch of his beard seems to scrape against the little thread keeping you tied down to reality. It's frayed and worn by his hands. You wonder when he'll sink his teeth in the silk, and snap the line. Untethering you from your binds.

Come home to me. Come back to where you belong—

Price takes you out to dinner three months after this—whatever it is—starts. After your house becomes more of a garden, writ with the wild remnants of the forest, after each passing day. Full of bushes, and branches. Twigs and precious gems. He gives you raw gold, and open geodes full of amethyst, and sapphire. Canopy leaves, and bark from the trees. 

He leaves a whittled deer made from the red wood of a giant sequoia, and the likeness of the little fawn makes you believe that one day, it'll come to life in your living room.

(You leave a dish of water near the doorway—just in case—and wonder if you're becoming just as mad as your gran.)

He shows up at your doorstep, the bleached antlers of a great pronghorn in his hands. It's decorated with vines and moss weaved over the ivory in intricate braids and knots that you can't even begin to unravel. You marvel at the gift as he tells you he's taking you out for dinner. 

There is no discussion. He doesn't ask, he just—

Does. 

"Found a spot," he says, arms crossed over his broad chest. The cable-knit sweater pulls, stretched taut over his bulk. "Think you'd like it."

You don't know what to say. The antlers feel heavier in your hands, and warm to the touch. You try not to shiver when you set it down beside the little fawn.

"Oh," you say, but know you've never turned him down yet. It's all—

So much. 

Your home is slowly becoming one with nature, with vines growing on the walls in great blooms of wisteria and lilac; the old floor boards under your feet shudder and creak as little saplings sprout through the cracks. You wake up at night and taste earth in your throat, feel the grass beneath your fingers. The breeze in your hair. The call of an arctic tern. 

You dream of running through the forest. Of being chased. You breathe and feel the little seeds inside of your lungs start to take root. Soon you'll bloom with dandelions.

"Okay," you say, and wonder if the madness rummaging around your head will turn into a beautiful sequoia in the end. "Let's go."

The tavern is busy on a weeknight, crowded with a swell of mainlanders who'd ventured out for a camping trip over the long weekend. 

You sit with your back straight, and listen to him talk about a hike he wants to take with you in the morning. Through the woods, he says, and you don't ask which one. You know. You know. 

(It's time. It's time.)

There are alarm bells ringing in your head, but they're drowned out by the crooning whispers. 

But the line is only frayed and worn, and despite the lure in his voice, the itch in your head to say yes, you hesitate. Falter. 

The woods are dangerous. 

You don't want to go. 

He seems to sense it. His brows knot together. 

"You want to, don't you?" 

You fiddle with your napkin and try not to meet his arsenic stare. "It's… dangerous."

"I'll keep you safe."

"It's probably time for me to leave, anyway." 

The air in the room turns frigid all at once. You think you can see white plumes of condensation when you shakily breathe out, teeth chattering. 

"Price—"

"Didn't wanna do this, love," he says, voice hushed. Barely a whisper. His eyes are lavascapes. "But you ain't givin' me much of a choice, are you?"

"What—?"

The words die on your tongue when movement flashes in the corner of your eye. A man weaves, liquid, through the mindless crowd, cutting a path like the parting red sea. 

His eyes are honeycombs. In his hand, he holds a limp dandelion. 

It takes you a moment to make out the strange man who looms in the background. A splash of colour among sfumato. 

It's Gaz.

The childish swell of his cheeks has sunken into angled, sharp bone. Slender fingers twirl the flower around, around, around—

It's hypnotic. You stare, horrified and awed—a strange amalgam of emotions that slip down your spine: worry, elation, panic, comfort—as his pink lips part into an easy, familiar grin. The cresting sun breaching the horizon. Eyes slanting in playful derision. 

He looks like he's torn between telling a joke and spitting vitriol. Making you laugh, and then making you cry. 

It buzzes in the air, electrified fingers dancing down your spine, and then just as quickly as the boy who disappeared reemerges into the land of the living, into this bastardised reality, he gives one last sharp, fanged grin, a mordant wink, and then he's gone.

He slips through the door, and without hesitating, you give chase. 

Price says nothing when you go. Or maybe he does, but you can't hear anything except the rustling of leaves in your head. 

Gaz, it whispers. Gaz, Gaz, Gaz.

(It's time for the lost little boy to come home.)

The rocks sit in a zigzag pattern through the frothing waters, a deceptive bridge that connects the valley to the coast. You feel the tremulous rattle of the water slicing against the hollow cavern beneath your feet. A ledge chiselled from the blunt erosion of the rapid currents below. One day, they say, the granite shelf will give and a massive hole filled with howling water will fill it. 

Try not to be the idiot standing on the ledge. 

You feel the power of the currents even on the peat-covered edge. 

The water in front of you is deceptive. A calm, rolling surface at the shoreline almost seems to beckon you inside. Come take a dip in the cool waters. Grow fins and gills and chase the river otters through the currents. Feast on the wily salmon, and see if your feet can touch the sandy streambed. 

But the river's fatality is nearly assured. No one has survived a dip in these waters that act as a serrated knife, carving chasms and channels through the granite below. The currents will rip into you, pulling you until your body is crushed against the wall, or into an unsearchable cave. 

One slip, you think. Just one. 

But—

The man in the bar flickers through your mind. His honeycomb eyes, fanged grin. Ethereal in his beauty like a painting of a god in oil and raw canvas. Carved likeness of a Stygian prince. 

It was Kyle. It was Gaz. You know it. Know it deep within your bones, your marrow.

Taking the first step to the jutting slate that peaks just a few precious inches from the raging waters is easier, then, when you think of the boy who plucked a dandelion from the earth, and tucked it behind your ear. It makes the risk less daunting when it's for him. 

For his parents who sunk into themselves, into the crater his absence left behind. A deep depression into the earth that swallowed them whole.

They moved last year after laying down a bouquet of flowers at the mouth of the forest. 

You toe your shoes off, leaving them at the embankment, and then you leap. The perch is slick with waterlogged moss, slimy. It wobbles under you, but you catch yourself, stabilising. Steady. You huff. One down, four more to go. 

Up close, they look so far apart. A chasm between each rock. An endless abyss that will rip you into pieces. 

Still. Still. You have to find him. Have to. 

You step, toes sliding in the algae. The rock beneath is stained green. It wobbles again when you bring your other foot down on top of it. The loud clack of rock scraping against rock is heard, unmuffled by the roaring water that tugs on the stone. You feel the push against your feet. 

Two more. Two more. 

You take another step, and then—

You fall—

The world drips into focus, a steady trickle of cognisance that paints the world in shades of greens and browns. An eagle soars above the canopy, their shadow swooping through the thick tangle of conifers reaching to the heavens.

The bed of moss beneath you is damp—lush with dew and softer than your mattress at home. You sink into the ground when you breathe, caught in an embrace. The vines curl over your wrists, your ankles, as if refusing to let go. 

It should scare you—and maybe it does—but there's something against your head, fingers digging into your temples, and you feel nothing except a warm serenity leaking in. Thought spool into liquid gold, threads that weave together in a knotted clump. Indistinguishable from each other, and unreachable when they slip deeper into the honeyed-thick fog that curls around your mind. A temper from logic, from fear. Anything that isn't pure, artificial comfort is filtered through and cast aside. 

You don't know why you're here. 

One moment, you felt the coils of the raging currents sinking its claws into your flesh, pulling you under the deep waters, and then—

Heat on your face. The sun's desperate attempt to filter through the corded canopy and touch the forest floor. The shrill call of an eagle on the prowl. The tender caress of the moss below cushions your body. 

You should be underwater. Pressed tight against the side of the rocks until you were swept downstream and spat out in the inlet, waterlogged and dead. 

You draw humid air into your lungs until it swells against your ribcage. The steady thud of your heart tells you that somehow, somehow, you're alive. An empty brag—thud, thud; thud, thud—that seems to call out to the birds in the emergent layer, the ones nestled in their branches as they watch your feeble attempt to reconcile how you survived. 

It's strange, you think, but the soporific warmth coursing through your veins does not let you panic. 

You are—

"Foolish." 

The warmth turns molten. You try to sit up, but the vines tighten around your limbs. If you weren't so vulnerable, you think it would almost feel like a hug. 

The soft crunch of the moss tells you the voice—the man—is moving forward, toward you. You want to scream, but your tongue is thick, and your mouth is numb. 

"What you did there was stupid," he says, and the forest around you seems to come alive in his anger. Pulsing. The branches sway and the leaves rattle without any wind. The trees bend down, coming inward. You hear the scream of a fox in the distance. The chuff of an agitated brown bear. 

Primordial signs tell you to run.

But you're trapped. 

Price steps closer, falling to his knees beside you. You can see him now, and suddenly you wish you'd been swallowed by the waves. 

His face is writ with anger, brows tightening together in displeasure. 

He seems imbued with the forest. One with the lush green that swells around you. Burnt umber and icy blue. Ethereal, unnatural. Something in your hindbrain tells you to run from that man that looks as if he could swallow you whole.

"Tryin' t'die on me, hmm?" 

His hand lifts, and you feel his warm knuckles graze your temple. Soft, gentle, despite the ire in his eyes, and the irritation clenched in his jaw. 

"Gonna hav'ta try harder than that, love." 

You weren't trying very hard at all, you think, dazed, dizzy. You weren't trying at all. 

"You're mine," his eyes flash, and you feel the press of gravity against your skin, pulling you down to the soft earth. Your fingers twitch. The fog inside your head clears. 

Blinking up at him, you catch the scattering supernovae echoing in the corners of his eyes; galaxies of pine and cedar, humus and tussock. They bloom from the black hole in the centre, surrounded by sapphire blue. He's not human, you think, but it doesn't surprise you because you already knew. Have known, really—ever since you asked around for his name and watched the same strange fog seep into their eyes as they struggled to remember a man they claimed to know. 

Ever since you found bushels of figs on your doorstep. 

A crown of pine needles and crow feathers. 

Price leans over you, brows knotted together like the gnarled, weaving trunk of a Great Basin Bristlecone Pine. 

There's a forest fire in his eyes. "You're mine, aren't you?" 

You think about the trinkets left on your doorstep. The whispers, the screams. 

"Did you ever give me a choice?" 

The tension in his brow snaps taut. Agony frissons through the spaced canyons; whet from ire and slick from sorrow. He bends down, and shakes his head. 

"I've always given you a choice," his words are smouldering logs, crackling with his pain. "I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?"

Price takes you on the mossy forest floor, fingers digging into the peat as you sink, down, down, down—

His hand under your head, cradling the back of your skull, keeps you from getting swallowed by the grass knoll that breathes and trill against your spine. 

Fire licks in the crevasses of his eyes, molten desperation you can't ignore. He rages above you, quivering in the fading glow of the sunset struggling to slip through the canopy. No longer a man but a myth. He hangs over you with his canines bared, and flashes of anger and sorrow scorch the path his teeth leave behind on your skin. 

You're becoming unmoored. Each touch, and brush; each sweep of his tongue soothing the indents of his razor-sharp teeth all seem to loosen the ties that thread through your soul, anchoring you to the world that stands in full bloom before you. 

The forest shudders with his frantic pace; each piston of his hips leaks his fervent anguish and makes the trees croon, and creak as they bow their foliage in sorrow. His pain lashes through their roots, and rent the air in two. A fox mourns his loss in the distance. A wolf yowls in agony. His brethren lifting their muzzle to the sleepy moon, and howling out the melody of their despair. 

It's too much, too much, and you fall into pieces in his hands, shivering beneath him as the woods around you tremble and quake. It's a mesmerising dance. 

He finishes with a grunt that makes the world shudder anew, spending himself as deep inside of you as he can, as if he could overwrite your empty spaces with himself. Fill you to the brim until you are bursting with him, with life. Tulips for your eyes. Furze for veins. Moss for hair. Peat soil for blood. 

When he speaks, the world falls silent. 

"You don't know it yet, but you will. You've always been mine. Always belonged to the forest, to the earth. To me."

Despite his words, he lets you go. 

And you run, run, run—

Your toes dig into the wet soil near the stream. The desperate catapult across the ravine halted at the very last moment, leaving you winded and shaking. Hands clenched into tight balls by your side. Quivering with fear, with the adrenaline rush still roaring in your veins. 

You don't know what you're doing. 

The whispers in your head go silent. 

The absence of sound makes you mourn, and you think about his agony. The pain when he took you, the resignation when he let you go. 

You think of him, and you know. 

I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?

You scent napalm in the air, cloying despite the acrid burn that scalds your lungs when you breathe in deep, holding it there. 

You think of the chest inside your closet. The pieces of yourself you left behind. The way he fits you like a puzzle, like he was made for you. Designed with your rough edges in mind. Softening your hard lines; scouring your gritty surface it was smooth and shiny like fire Opal and precious gems. 

Ever since you felt his hand on your shoulder, you haven't been able to let go. 

(You don't even think you ever really tried.)

Come to me, the forest says, honey in your ears. It sounds like the rapid beat of a million birds' wings, ready to take flight. Pulsing and alive and full of wonder, childish glee. 

The earth blooms in your chest. You feel the soft, tender caress of the leaves against your skin, the moss sinking between your toes. Clinging to your flesh, desperate to get inside, and take refuge in your heart. Come home to us.

Your grandmother warned you to stay out of the forest, that it was dangerous. Deadly. Wrong. But how can it ever harm you when it touches you so sweetly? 

The branches curl around your ankles as you walk, leading you, guiding you, to the place where you belong. The forest opens around you, spreads apart and makes room for you to pass, touching you as you go, taking little pieces of you. Strands of your hair, the salt from your tears. Pieces of clothes. Parts of your soul. 

You pluck your heart out of your chest, and leave it beneath a gnarled sequoia. She will protect it forever. 

Moss grows inside of the empty space. A tern makes a nest inside of it, filling it with a bed of pine needles, and twigs from the junipers. You feel a mouse make a home in your rib cage, burrowing between your bones. You place your hand over your side, and feel her nuzzle against your palm. 

"You're safe now," you say. "We're almost home."

It's Gaz who greets you with a crown made of sugi. When he cups your face, you feel raging rivers and streams in his palms, and now that you are home. 

"Missed you, dandelion," he breathes, and his voice turns into a Chinook that crests over the mountains. "But there's someone who wants to see you."

His hands slide down to your wrists, and you feel the sun grazing your skin when he spins you around, around, around—

"Now," he leans down, pressing his lips to the shell of your ear. You hear the Falcons nesting in his chest, and smell pine in his breath. "He's been an impatient bastard, you know? Just moping about ever since you left—"

A scoff. You lift your head and feel the swell of the earth beneath your feet. Dizzying. Wanting. 

He waits for you in the thicket, eyes made of sapphire and stone. When he breathes, the forest swells with his breath, and you taste loam when you swallow. 

"A sorry sap, thinkin' you were runnin' away, and all. But you won't, will you?" Gaz pushes you forward, and his laughter rings in your ears. "Not anymore."

Price meets you in the middle, his eyes sparkling embers. A baptism in fire. You feel the heat on your skin, and shiver. 

You used to be afraid of forest fires, but you know, now, that sometimes trees need to burn before they can truly grow. 

Lodgepole roots bud under his skin, rippling veins across a ravine. He rests his hand against your cheek, thumb brushing the dawn redwood needles that bloom under your skin. 

"Welcome home."

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go." 

"Why?" You asked, blinking at her. 

"Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't." 

You don't tell her that you already have. You don't mention the sticks and precious stones that always ended up on your windowsill. The whispers of the forest calling your name. 

You nod sagely instead, fingers tightening around the sap stained heart chiselled from Bristlecone Pine. The charred ends are warm in your palm. You feel it pulse. 

Will you accept this? My heart? Will you keep it safe for me? 

"I will."

This was meant to be light and fluffy and smutty but now it's. This. And um. Oops. I hope you enjoyed it!

JOHN PRICE MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION PART THREE OF COD X MYTHOLOGY ⁞ SOAP ● DRAGON PRICE

[cryptidclaw]

Cryptidclaw's WC Prefixes List!

Yall said you were interested in seeing it so here it is! 

This is a collection of mostly Flora, Fauna, Rocks, and other such things that can be found in Britain since that’s where the books take place! 

I also have other Prefixes that have to do with pelt colors and patterns as well!

Here’s a link to the doc if you dont want to expand a 650 word list on your Tumblr feed lol! the doc is also in my drive linked in my pined post!

below is the actual list! If there are any names you think I should add plz tell me!

EDIT: I will update the doc with new names as I come up with them or have them suggested to me, but I wont update the list on this post! Plz visit my doc for a more updated version!

Animals

Mammal

Badger

Bat

Bear

Beaver

Bison

Boar

Buck

Calf

Cow

Deer

Elk

Fawn

Ferret

Fox

Goat

Hare

Horse

Lamb

Lynx

Marten

Mole

Mouse

Otter

Rabbit

Rat

Seal

Sheep

Shrew

Squirrel

Stoat

Vole

Weasel

Wolf

Wolverine

Amphibians

Frog

Newt

Toad

Reptiles

Scale

Adder

Lizard

Snake

Turtle

Shell

Birds

Bird

Down

Feather

Albatross

Bittern

Buzzard

Chaffinch

Chick

Chicken

Coot

Cormorant

Corvid

Crane

Crow

Curlew

Dove

Duck

Dunlin

Eagle

Egret

Falcon

Finch

Gannet

Goose

Grouse

Gull

Hawk

Hen

Heron

Ibis

Jackdaw

Jay

Kestrel

Kite

Lark

Magpie

Mallard

Merlin

Mockingbird

Murrelet

Nightingale

Osprey

Owl

Partridge

Pelican

Peregrine

Petrel

Pheasant

Pigeon

Plover

Puffin

Quail

Raven

Robin

Rook

Rooster

Ruff

Shrike

Snipe

Sparrow

Starling

Stork

Swallow

Swan

Swift

Tern

Thrasher

Thrush

Vulture

Warbler

Whimbrel

Wren

Freshwater Fish 

Fish

Bass

Bream 

Carp

Dace

Eel

Lamprey

Loach

Minnow

Perch

Pike

Rudd

Salmon

Sterlet

Tench

Trout

Roach

Saltwater fish and other Sea creatures (would cats be able to find some of these? Probably not, I don't care tho)

Alge

Barnacle

Bass (Saltwater version)

Bream (Saltwater version)

Brill

Clam

Cod

Crab

Dolphin

Eel (Saltwater version)

Flounder

Garfish

Halibut

Kelp

Lobster

Mackerel

Mollusk

Orca

Prawn

Ray

Seal

Shark

Shrimp

Starfish

Sting

Urchin

Whale

Insects and Arachnids

Honey

Insect

Web

Ant

Bee

Beetle

Bug

Butterfly

Caterpillar

Cricket

Damselfly

Dragonfly

Fly

Grasshopper

Grub

Hornet

Maggot

Moth

Spider

Wasp

Worm

Trees

Acorn

Bark

Branch

Forest

Hollow

Log

Root

Stump

Timber

Tree

Twig

Wood

Alder

Apple

Ash

Aspen

Beech

Birch

Cedar

Cherry

Chestnut

Cypress

Elm

Fir

Hawthorn

Hazel

Hemlock

Linden

Maple

Oak

Pear

Poplar

Rowan

Redwood

Spruce

Willow

Yew

Flowers, Shrubs and Other plants

Berry

Blossom

Briar

Field

Flower

Leaf

Meadow

Needle

Petal

Shrub

Stem

Thicket

Thorn

Vine

Anemone 

Apricot

Barley 

Bellflower

Bluebell

Borage

Bracken

Bramble

Briar

Burnet

Buttercup

Campion

Chamomile

Chanterelle

Chicory

Clover

Cornflower

Daffodil

Daisy

Dandelion

Dogwood

Fallow

Fennel

Fern

Flax

Foxglove

Furze

Garlic

Ginger

Gorse

Grass

Hay

Heather

Holly

Honeysuckle

Hop

Hyacinth

Iris

Ivy

Juniper

Lavender

Lichen

Lilac

Lilly

Mallow

Marigold

Mint

Mistletoe

Moss

Moss

Mushroom

Nettle

Nightshade

Oat

Olive

Orchid

Parsley

Periwinkle

Pine

Poppy

Primrose

Privet

Raspberry

Reed

Reedmace

Rose

Rush

Rye

Saffron

Sage

Sedge

Seed

Snowdrop

Spindle

Strawberry

Tangerine

Tansy

Teasel

Thistle

Thrift

Thyme

Violet

Weed

Wheat

Woodruff

Yarrow

Rocks and earth

Agate

Amber

Amethyst

Arch

Basalt

Bounder

Cave

Chalk

Coal

Copper

Dirt

Dust

Flint

Garnet

Gold

Granite

Hill

Iron

Jagged

Jet

Mountain

Mud

Peak

Pebble

Pinnacle

Pit

Quartz

Ridge

Rock

Rubble

Ruby

Rust(y)

Sand

Sapphire

Sediment

Silt

Silver

Slate

Soil

Spire

Stone

Trench

Zircon

Water Formations

Bay

Cove

Creek

Delta

Lake

Marsh

Ocean

Pool

Puddle

River

Sea

Water

Weather and such

Autumn

Avalanche

Balmy

Blaze

Blizzard

Breeze

Burnt

Chill

Cinder

Cloud

Cold

Dew

Drift

Drizzle

Drought

Dry

Ember

Fall

Fire

Flame

Flood

Fog

Freeze

Frost

Frozen

Gale

Gust

Hail

Ice

Icicle

Lightening

Mist

Muggy

Rain 

Scorch

Singe

Sky

Sleet

Sloe

Smoke

Snow

Snowflake

Soot

Sorrel

Spark

Spring

Steam

Storm

Summer

Sun

Thunder

Water

Wave

Wet

Wind

Winter

Celestial??

Comet

Dawn

Dusk

Evening 

Midnight

Moon

Morning

Night

Noon

Twilight

Cat Features, Traits, and Misc. 

Azure

Beige

Big

Black

Blonde

Blotch(ed)

Blue

Bounce

Bright 

Brindle

Broken

Bronze

Brown

Bumble

Burgundy

Call

Carmine

Claw

Cobalt

Cream

Crimson

Cry

Curl(y)

Dapple

Dark

Dot(ted)

Dusky

Ebony

Echo

Fallen

Fleck(ed)

Fluffy

Freckle

Ginger

Golden

Gray

Green

Heavy

Kink

Knot(ted)

Light

Little

Lost

Loud

Marbled

Mew

Milk

Mottle

Mumble

Ochre

Odd

One

Orange

Pale

Patch(ed)

Pounce 

Prickle

Ragged

Red

Ripple

Rough

Rugged

Russet

Scarlet

Shade

Shaggy

Sharp

Shimmer

Shining

Small

Smudge

Soft

Song

Speckle

Spike

Splash

Spot(ted)

Streak

Stripe(d)

Strong

Stump(y)

Sweet

Tall

Talon

Tangle

Tatter(ed)

Tawny

Tiny

Tough

Tumble

Twist

Violet

Whisker

Whisper

White

Wild

Wooly

Yellow

[chic-a-gigot]

Le Petit écho de la mode, no. 48, vol. 18, 29 novembre 1896, Paris. 1. (1.) Capote Mercédès à 7 fr. 45. — (2.) Col en castor à 53 fr. 95; Manchon assorti à 12 fr. 95. — (3.) Eventail à 4 fr. 95 et Capote Antonia pour théâtre à 5 fr. 85. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

No. 1. (1) Capote Mercédès à 7 fr. 45. — La forme très gracieuse est en velours avec fond doré. Devant antennes en plumes de paon. Cache-peigne de roses de velours dont la nuance est au choix entre: rose, rubis, crème, paille, thé, mauve et violet. Le velours est dans les teintes suivantes: noir, tabac, rouge, émeraude, vert foncé, ciel, rose, marine, crème, vert Nil, héliotrope, violet et rubis. Le fond est doré ou en jais.

No. 1. (1) Mercedes capote at 7.45 fr. — The very graceful shape is in velvet with a golden background. Front peacock feather antennae. Velvet rose comb cover with a choice of shade: pink, ruby, cream, straw, tea, mauve and violet. The velvet is in the following shades: black, tobacco, red, emerald, dark green, sky, pink, navy, cream, Nile green, heliotrope, violet and ruby. The background is gold or jet.

—

(2) Col haute nouveauté en castor Colombie loutre très foncé, entouré d’une large bande en mouflon gris clair moucheté noir. Dos forme pèlerine légèrement ondulée se termine en pointe devant. Col Médicis, pouvant se rabattre à volonté, en castor doublé à l’intérieur en mouflon. Hauteur devant à partir du pied du col 0m40 et dos 0m30. Prix 53 fr. 95. Manchon assorti en castor 12 fr. 95. Pour le col envoyer le tour de cou.

(2) New high collar in very dark Colombian otter beaver, surrounded by a wide band in light gray mouflon with black speckles. Slightly wavy pilgrim-shaped back ends in a point at the front. Medici collar, which can be folded down as desired, in beaver lined inside in mouflon. Height in front from the base of the collar 0.4 m and back 0.3 m. Price 53.95 fr. Matching beaver sleeve 12.95 fr. For the collar send the choker.

—

No. 2. Capote Antonia pour théâtre et cérémonie â 5 fr. 85. — La forme gracieuse et distinguée est en velours; avec fond doré. Devant draperie de velours retenue par deux coulants eu perles. Sur le côté piquet de plumes frisées. Derrière nœud formé par deS coques de velours assorti. Les plumes et les coulants sont noirs ou blancs. Le fond est doré ou en jais. Nuances du velours au choix: ciel, rose, émeraude, vert foncé, tabac, loutre, saphir, turquoise, grenat, or, marine, mauve, violet, héliotrope, rubis, mousse, noir et crème. Corsage garni de mousseline de soie, de forme blouse, froncé devant, dos uni. Manche garnie dentelle. Matèriaux: 5 mètres soie, 2m50 plissé mousseline de soie.

No. 2. Antonia capote for theater and ceremony â 5.85 fr. — The graceful and distinguished form is in velvet; with golden background. Front velvet drapery held by two pearl slides. Curled feathers on the side. Behind bow formed by matching velvet shells. The feathers and runners are black or white. The background is gold or jet. Velvet shades to choose from: sky, pink, emerald, dark green, tobacco, otter, sapphire, turquoise, garnet, gold, navy, mauve, violet, heliotrope, ruby, moss, black and cream. Bodice trimmed with silk chiffon, blouse shape, gathered front, plain back. Lace trimmed sleeve. Materials: 5 meters silk, 2.5 m pleated silk chiffon.

—

Eventail Louis XV à 4 fr. 95. — Monture os ou laquée avec incrustation or et satin orné de peinture fine. Hauteur totale de l’éventail: 0m24. Nuances au choix: Rose, ciel, crème, blanc, rouge et nil.

Louis XV fan at 4.95 fr. — Bone or lacquered frame with gold and satin inlay decorated with fine painting. Total height of the fan: 0.24 m. Shades to choose from: Pink, sky, cream, white, red and nil.

[prismaticpichu]

This is for you, I didn't draw these, I just found it, so can you make like Sephiroth and Zack Fair watching the stargazing at night? I hope its okay for you,

Ayyyy! More adorable arrrrtt!!!! Tysm again for sharing!! 💖💕

Stargazing??? Sounds perfect to me!! <33 You got it!!

~

The velveteen underbelly of the sky blazed bright with stars that night, millions upon millions of luminous shapes peppering the cosmic swirls and spirals that threaded its celestial canvas, weaving into its almost ethereal tapestry. Seldom was the sky ever this pure and beautiful (even with the Mako that breathed smog into its veins), and it was for that reason alone wherein Zack decided to persuade his best buddy to join him on the rooftop of ShinRa HQ.

“And if you squint reeeaaaal hard… you can make a seahorse!” Zack’s spirited chirp lit up the night almost as much as the stars themselves, lying flat on his back against cool concrete, one gloved fingers tracing bestial figures in the dazzling ornaments above. “You see it?”

Even squinting, Sephiroth did not see it.

“…No,” he admitted with a playful scoff, emerald eyes drifting aside to gaze curiously at his companion. “Just as I didn’t see the table, sock, otter, seashell, or flamingo.”

“Well, I don’t know how you didn’t see the flamingo,” rang Zack’s equally-playful laughter. “Like… c’mon. It’s those two stars connected to those to stars—y’know, the legs—and then it’s thaaatt star that makes the neck…”

All Sephiroth could do was shake his head, starlit strands dancing in the night.

“You’re delirious.”

“Am not!”

“I don’t see anything.”

“You’re not lookin’!”

“Of course I am.”

“Look at the right stars, bud!”

"Heh. And what is that supposed to mean? I'm looking at the same exact stars as you, Zack. The same exact..."

Funny, how the man's sentence seemed to drift off on its own accord, transforming and evolving in that small swath of breath until the thought that left his lips in the end was a new thought entirely.

"...Heh," left a small, wistful sound. "I wonder."

"What is it, pal?" Zack turned his head to face him, sapphire eyes blinking inquisitively.

Sephiroth closed his eyes before responding.

"Our lenses..." he said after a few moments, the lithe black shape shifting slightly against the rooftop. "They're so incredibly different. Almost polarizing. We live on this same planet, look at the same exact objects... and yet see entirely contradictory things."

Zack cocked his head, smiling curiously. "Yeah?"

"Mmn. Yes. Take a half-filled glass, to be cliché... I will look at the vessel and see that it is empty. Perhaps that it needs to be filled, that it is lacking in its full potential." Sephiroth turned his head to face the teen. "You, on the other hand..."

"Will see it half-full!" Zack completed brightly.

"Heh…” Sephiroth’s expression softened with a faint smile, clearly not needing to explain any further. “Yes. Exactly.”

Zack mirrored his grin. “True polar opposites, huh? You and me?”

“Mmph. I suppose so.”

“And yet the bestest of best friends?”

Amused, Sephiroth’s smile curled into a smirk. “I never said that.”

“Aww, c’mon. I’m your best bud!” Zack scooted a couple inches to be closer to his friend, curling cozily against the warrior’s side. “Right…?”

Sephiroth pretended to think for a moment.

“Seppppph.”

“Yes, yes. Of course you are,” Sephiroth rested his head against the feathery black spikes, pillowing his cheek against his own soothing stretch of space, silver bangs threading through the cosmic spikes like argent moonlight. “You are my ‘best bud.’”

[sapphirothcrescent]

Sapphire Aphelion Favorites

Favorite Color: Blue

Tea or Coffee: Tea. She only likes coffee FRUIT, not the burnt roasted bean juice.

Spicy or Mild: The spicier the food, the better.

Favorite Fruit: Mangoes and coconuts.

Favorite Season: She comes from a jungle so it's got two seasons wet and dry. She prefers the wet season. "Normal" seasons, she likes spring.

Favorite Meal: Breakfast for Dinner. Especially bacon.

Favorite Flower: Water Lily

Favorite Animal: Since she's a big animal person she likes ALL animals but some of her favorites are pigeons, butterflies, cats big and small, pythons, boas, otters, and parrots.

Favorite ice cream flavor: Mango or cookie dough.

Favorite scent: Sephiroth Cinnamon or Lemon

Hobbies: Drawing, Reading, Climbing, Gardening, Bird Watching, Teasing Sephiroth.

Favorite TV Shows: FF7's equivalent of "old" shows. Think OG Star Trek, M*A*S*H, Brady Bunch esque shows.

Favorite Music: Rock n' roll.

[sh1ny67]

Wanted to make a few fantasy mage characters so here's Onyx the Mouse, Sapphire the Otter and Cory the Bear (short for Corundum)

They were a lot of fun to draw, would be happy to possibly do more with them in the future

[greekstar]

Warrior cat name Ideas Prefixes - A-Z A Acorn Adder Amber Ant Apple Arch Arrow Aspen Ash Asher Alder Amber B Badger Bark Beech Bellow Birch Berry Bird Black Blizzard Brave Breeze Bright Brown Bell Bug Beetle Bluebell Blue Bounce Brindle Brush Bush Buzzard Buzz Bee Bumble Bass Basil Bubble Brine Beaver Bison (I feel like this only goes good with ‘horn’ or Bisonpelt/fur.) Bat Bone Butterfly Burdock Broken Bramble Bracken Bay Brisk Blossom Briar Boil Branch Bud C Cloud Cloudy Crystal Cold Cricket Cliff Cardinal Crying Cougar Coyote Cobweb Chick Cow Cave Cheetah Carrot Coral Cactus Claw Cedar Cherry Cinder Clover Copper Creek Crooked Crouch Crow D Dew Dewy Duck Dusty Dust Dune Down Dagger Dodge Dolphin Daisy Doe Dapple Dappled Dark Dawn Dead Dove Drift Dusk E Eagle Ebony Echo Egg Eel Ember F Fallen Fallow Fawn Feather Fennel Fern Ferret Finch Fire Flame Fleet Flint Flower Flow Fly Fox Freckle Frog Frost Furze Fuzzy Foal Falling Fall G Gale Gust Golden Gold Goose Gorse Gorge Grass Gray Green Grass Goldfish Guppy Ghost H Hail Half Hare Hawk Hay Hoot Hazel Heather Heavy Hollow Holly Honey Honeycomb Hummingbird Horse Happy Hornet Hound Heron I Ice Ivy J Jagged Jay Joy Jaguar Jackdaw Jump Juniper K Kestrel Kink Koi L Lake Larch Leaf Lark Leopard Lichen Lightning Lily Lion Little Lizard Log Long Lost Loud Low Lynx M Maggot Mallow Maple Marsh Meadow Milk Minnow Mint Mist Misty Mole Moon Morning Moss Mossy Moth Mottle Mouse Mouth Mud Mumble Mink Muddy Moonlight Mountain Mushroom Monkey N Nettle Needle Nut Newt Night Nimble O Oak Oat Odd Olive One Otter Owl Orange Ocean Orca Opal P Pale Perch Pool Pike Peak Prickle Pounce Pine Petal Petal Pebble Pear Patch Pirate(kittypet or loner) Polar Peach Panda Pond Pigeon Plum Q Quail Quick R Rabbit Rain Ragged Rat Rattle Root Raspberry Reed Red Robin Rock Rose Rowan Rubble Running Rushing Rush Russet Rust Rye Raven Raccoon Rustle Rattlesnake Ravine Rapid S Sage Short Sheep Sedge Shrew Slate Slow Snail Sneeze Sorrel Soot Spider Spruce Sun Sunny Swallow Shallow Shade Sharp Scorch Sand Sandy Sky Silver Smoke Snake Soft Snow Sparrow Speckle Splash Spotted Squirrel Stalking Stalk Stalker Starling Stone Storm Stumpy Stump Sweet Swift Shred Sloe Shell Seed Shimmer Shimmering Skunk Spirit Squid Shy Sound Summer Sapphire Spiraling Spiral Shark Saturn T Tall Talon Tooth Timber Tiger Twig Tumble Thorn Thistle Thrush Tawny Tangle Ting Trout Torn Toad Tiny V Vine Vixen Void Vole W Wasp Weasel Web Weed Wet Whisker White Whale Wild Willow Wind Wolf Winter Wisteria Whisper Whispering Water Wave Waver Whisper Watermelon Whistle Wood Y Yellow

Yew

Yarrow- suggested

You guys DONT WANNA KNOW how LONG this took. I’m crying. And I might’ve missed some so feel free to send me messages in chat to request me editing it and putting it in some (not like messaging but the. Chat in this post lol.)

@cryptidclaw I also did this for our Au to help us with renaming.

I will get to suffixes soon I promise.

[honey-minded-hivemind]

I've decided to make a list of some of the things the royal SeaWing! Reader likes:

Favorite Jewels:

• Hoop earrings

• Pearl necklaces

• Emerald chain earrings

• Sapphire-twined circlet

• Skyfire-studded armband

• Shiny coins

• Shiny jewels

• Shark teeth

Favorite Foods:

• Salmon filets

• Crab legs

• Sushi

• Grilled shrimp

• Catfish

• Coconut rice

• Flounder

• Kalimari with lemon juice

• Octopus salad with lemon juice and salt

• Mangoes

• Chocolate

• Oranges

• Lemon tarts

• Roasted pig

• Roasted seagulls

Favorite Drinks:

• Lemon-lime fizzy drinks

• Mango-lime drinks

• Fruit punch

• Coffee

• Milk with cinnamon

• Tea

Favorite Scrolls and Books:

• Ash of Green Ginkos

• A Midsummer NightWing's Dream

• Rowan and Juniper

• Goodnight, Moons

• Ten Little Scavengers

• The Very Greedy Scavenger

• One Moon, Two Moon, Three Moons

Favroite Colors:

• Yellow

• Red

• Aquamarine

• Silver

• Gold

• Soft gray

• Forest green

• Wisteria purple

• Sapphire blue

Favorite Animals:

• Dumbo octopi

• Tiny squids

• Otters

• Cuttlefish

• Small crabs

• Seals

• Puffins

• Ball pythons

Favorite Family Members:

• Parent (died when younger, possibly due to the old queen)

• New queen (a relative of the reader who is around their age if not a few years older or younger, a lot less evil than the previous queen)

• Great-great-aunt (an elderly family member who snuck them treats when they were a baby dragonet)

Favorite Items:

• A woven kelp blanket made by their deceased parent

• A pale pearl earring with three dangling pearls

• A stuffed octopus toy

• A scroll full of poetry

• A small stone statue of a SeaWing

[asexual-spongebob]

The Waves That Lap The Shore - Chapter 27 - The Discovery.

The waves that lap the shore

Kittysboba

Chapter Management

Edit Chapter

Chapter 27: The Discovery

Notes:

Y’all learn some stuff in this one. :) Anyway um. I’ve been binge watching Saberspark and Danny Gonzalez so that’s why Paani and Kwazii were watching Saberspark and Danny Gonzalez. also don’t ask why they were watching sharkboy and Lavagirl. I thought it’d be funny if peso and shell were watching power rangers cuz I used to that show as a child <3

Chapter Text

“I want to know more about this whole Edda thing.” Kwazii meowed, the other three nodded in response.

“Well… if she sailed the sea’s of South America it’s probably best we check there.” Peso pointed out, the other three nodded in agreement.

The four were swimming in South America. The two of them had spilt up. Kwazii and Paani went to the sea in Mexico, Peso and Shellington went to the Amazon river in Brazil.

Shellington and Peso swam together, holding hands.

Shellington noticed something strange in the distance.

“Hey Peso, look.” Shellington directed “Oh! It looks like a tunnel. Maybe we should go see what’s in there?” Peso suggested, Shellington nodded.

Shellington and Peso swam inside “I think there’s something above.” Shellington whispered “me too” Peso whispered back. 

Shellington and Peso went up, they were a cave!

The water was the same strange sapphire blue shade that the Moon Pool and Irish Sea Caves were!

Shellington glanced at Peso “I think we just discovered something.” Shellington remarked, Peso nodded in agreement, Peso then looked down at the bottom “Hey what’s that thing?” Peso questioned, pointing to something at the bottom.

“Hm… not sure?” Shellington mumbled, the two the took a dive.

Shellington and Peso took a closer look. A half of a locket! “I bet it’s connected to that compass!” Shellington bet “yeah!” Peso agreed.

Shellington put it in his satchel for safe keeping.

“How about we tell the others what we found after we eat.” Peso said Shellington nodded in agreement. 

•••

Kwazii went exploring, him and Paani had split up. He noticed a shipwreck. “Hey pancake. Take a look at that!” Kwazii pointed out. 

“Oh! A ship wreck!” Paani said as he glanced over Kwazii’s shoulder. 

Kwazii then grabbed Paani’s hand and dragged them towards it. 

The two of swam into an opening on the side. 

The two of them glanced around the abandoned, sunken ship. Kwazii admired Paani’s colorful tail as they floated in the water.

“Hey carrotcake! Take a look at that!” Paani pointed out, gesturing to a treasure chest with their tail. 

“Shiver me whiskers! A treasure chest!” Kwazii beamed, swimming towards it, then carefully opening it.

In there lied a map. An old one. 

“Shiver me whiskers! A map!” Kwazii beamed, carefully taking out the old map.

Kwazii carefully unfolded it “Shiver me whiskers! Look!” Kwazii directed, grabbing Paani’s attention.

The two of them stared at it for a moment 

There was two other Moon Pool’s listed on the map. Not just the Irish Sea Caves or Mako Island. 

“There’s two other Moon Pools?” Paani gasped “Looks like it! Kwazii meowed.

“We need to tell Shellington and Peso!” Paani insisted “yeah!” Kwazii agreed, calling the otter and the penguin from his Octo-Watch.

Peso and Shellington were eating sandwiches. 

“Ahoy mateys! We found some stuff!” Kwazii explained “oh? What did you find?” Shellington asked.

“A map!” Paani answered “With more information on the Moon Pools! There’s one in Brazil and one in China!” Kwazii explained “We must be in the one in Brazil then!” Shellington smiled, digging around in his satchel “We stumbled upon this locket at the bottom! We think it may be connected to the compass.” Shellington adds.

“Hm… you’re onto something Shellington.” Paani remarked as he fiddled with his bangs, Kwazii nodded in agreement.

“Well… me and Peso should be gettin’ home now. We’ll be headin’ back to the Gup-E now.” Shellington said “and Peso’s drivin’” he adds, glancing at Peso. “Me and Paani are going be at his house” Kwazii smirked, glancing at Paani who was smirking back at it.

“Oh okay have fun! don’t do anything stupid!“ Peso said before hanging up.

“I hope they don’t do anything dumb…” Shellington hoped “same…” Peso agreed, the two of them swam out of the cave and back to the gup.

Peso started driving “what do you think we should do when we get home?” Peso asked “hm… maybe we can watch something? How about you chose.” Shellington suggested “hm… are you fine with watching Power Rangers?” Peso asked “Yeah that’s fine.” Shellington answered with a smile. 

Peso and Shellington got back home, they went to Peso’s room, Shellington ripped off his lab coat and shirt and kicked off his shoes, he put on his night cap and pajama pants. He didn’t feel like wearing a shirt.

Peso put on its pajamas before it and Shellington cuddled up in bed together. 

After watching at least six episodes of Power Rangers, Peso began to fall asleep, he let out a yawn, crashing onto Shellington’s chest. 

“Hey Shellie… I don’t think I can keep my eyes open for much longer.” Peso yawned “alright then, good night. Get some good sleep.” Shellington purred, giving Peso a kiss on the head and cuddling him close.

I might also well get to bed to… Shellington thought as he gently stroked Peso’s feathers, the Vegimals came running into the lab and hopped into bed.

Shellington tucked Peso and the Vegimals into bed, “Goodnight love, night kiddos. Nighty night, don’t let the sharks bite.” Shellington said softly before drifting off to sleep. 

•••

Kwazii and Paani were lying on Paani’s couch “Wanna pull an all nighter??” Paani asked as he gently stroked his  partner’s back “yeah” Kwazii smirked “should we… go for a swim… maybe? Kwazii suggested “yeah” Paani agreed, the two got off the couch.

Kwazii jumped in the water, they felt a tingling sensation, their shark tail appeared before their eyes.

“Paani, me hearty, are ya coming?” Kwazii questioned as they glanced at Paani “y-yeah… coming..” Paani said hesitantly, looking down at his feet. “What’s wrong matey? You seem anxious.” Kwazii asked. 

“I’m scared… what if I form a storm again?” Paani stammered.

“It’ll be fine matey! You were moonstruck, that’s why the storm formed.” Kwazii assured, holding out a paw, Paani reluctantly grabbed it.

Paani jumped in the water with a huge splash. She then felt a tingling sensation, her angelfish tail appearing before her eyes.

Kwazii held Paani close, tails intertwined, Paani rested his head on Kwazii’s shoulder as the two of them swished around in the water “I would call this merperson style ballroom dancing.” Paani said  “yeah” Kwazii agreed.

“I love ya pancake” Kwazii whispered softly “I love you too, carrotcake” Paani whispered back, however the two noticed it was getting dark.

“How about we head back in? Maybe we can watch Danny Gonzalez?” Paani suggested “and I can cook you spaghetti with some oregano.” Kwazii smiled “Don’t burn down my kitchen. And don’t cook raw pasta in the air fryer.” Paani adds. 

“Don’t cook pasta in the air fryer” says the person who cooked their pasta in the microwave” Kwazii mocked playfully “I surprised that that actually worked out fine though-“ he adds.

“Anyway let’s get inside-“ Paani said “please no tail please no tail” Kwazii and Paani said in unison.

Their tails disappeared, they then climbed out of the water.

Kwazii and Paani went inside and changed. Paani put on one of her fancy looking nightgowns with white socks and Kwazii put on his pajamas.

“You look wonderful” Kwazii complemented, Paani started blushing with a smile. It’s the only person who gets me.. only person who isn’t weirded out by me wearing girly clothes.. Paani thought.

Paani stood in the kitchen, hovering over Kwazii’s shoulder to make sure It wasn’t burning anything.

Once the spaghetti was finished, the two ate, wheezing at Danny Gonzalez in between bites.

“CHOWCOLEETS-“ Kwazii laughed, nearly falling out of his chair, Paani started laughing as well.

Once they finished the spaghetti, they put the dishes in the sink.

Kwazii was in the freezer searching for some pistachio ice cream “Hey Kwazii, can you pass me some of that Pista ice cream?” Paani asked “Yeah sure!” Kwazii answered with a giggle.

“You were referencing Danny Gonzalez” Kwazii giggled. 

“Yes, but it also means “pistachio” in my language. Just like how chai means “tea” in my language.” Paani explained “remember when you were confused when Dashi was talking about chai tea?” Kwazii recalled, Paani nodded. 

“Wanna watch Sharkboy and Lavagirl again?” Paani asked “Yeah.” Kwazii answered with a smirk, the two took their bowls of pistachio ice cream over to the couch. 

Paani rested his head on Kwazii’s shoulder as they watched the movie and ate ice cream together. Once the movie ended Paani got off the couch and started rummaging through his closet.

“Whatcha lookin’ for matey?” Kwazii asked “My PlayStation 2. I swear it’s somewhere in here.” Paani replied, “Aha!” He remarked “I thought that maybe we could play Guitar Hero together?” Paani suggested “oh I like that idea. Haven’t played that game in forever.” Kwazii agreed.

Paani then got everything set up, they started playing “Heart Shaped Box”.

“Damn this is hard.” Kwazii remarked, Paani nodded understandingly. 

After playing some rounds of Guitar Hero the of them grew bored of it.

“Hey pancake, wanna watch more Danny Gonzalez?” Kwazii asked “sure!” Paani replied, then putting some Danny Gonzalez on the TV with their Fire stick remote.

“HELP MY BONES ARE GETTING SQUISHY-“ Kwazii wheezed, laughing so much that he almost fell on the floor. 

After hours of bingeing Danny Gonzalez and Saberspark, the sun began to rise. 

“Hey carrotcake…I’m getting sleepy… I kind of want to get to bed.” Paani yawned, desperately trying to keep their eyes open. “Me too pancake. How about I turn off the game and take you to the bedroom.” Kwazii said, Paani nodded.

Kwazii got up and turned off the PlayStation and scooped Paani up into his arms and took them upstairs.

“Alrighty here we go.” Kwazii purred as they put Paani in bed, then joining them. 

Kwazii pulled the blanket and fitted sheet over the two of them “Goodnight pancake. I love you.” Kwazii purred, then giving Paani a kiss. “Love you to, carrotcake. Get some good sleep.” Paani whispered softly as she pulled Kwazii closer.

With Kwazii purring as if it was a lawnmower, the two soon drifted off into a nice, good sleep.

[beezonia]

Okay before I go to sleep I wanted to do some stuff with the toontown au!!

Most of it will be bits of randomly ideas or relationships I have for it.

Who am I kidding in this is sort of an overview I guess

———

So it’s lovers to enemies to act acquaintances to friends to loversish for layclaire (sorry)

It takes place in a london where gangs rule the roost and toons are there to entertain or help with dodgy dealings

Claire is just living her “normal” life as a dr before this all happens

Until Clive dove her kind off apprentice/ward gets framed for murder (bill hawks) and comes to her to help uncover who did it

This leads to Claire and her toon friend Rickie the Rooster to realise oh their gonna have to go back to the underground again cause this is totally the work of The Devil In The Tophat

So to clarify future Hershel is TDITTH in this along with his gang the Crimson Roses they rule the underground

So Claire, Clive, Rickie and Claire’s close friend Desmond have to sneak around to find clues and gather information on who could have framed Clive and why

In come Claire’s old friends the Sapphire songbirds who have been searching on this for years

This is where Clive finds out Dr Foley is not what she seems and is actually the head of a huge underground organisation

In this group is Celeste her younger sister, Dimitri fellow scientist who has a debt to pay

Marie one of the eldest in the group along with Drake

Also turns out the DITTH is looking for not only Clive but her too

And that’s how it starts

———————-

Some extra stuff

Clive technically is Claire’s godson because his mother was quite close to her before she died and left him in her care

Hersh is extremely protective over his daughter’s and son, he will not hesitate to go apeshit if you hurt them

Claire is the more fight now think later one out of the two whilst hersh is much more calculating and orderly

Luke is the oracle figure in this au again in a sort of neutral way along with his toon friends Toppy the mouse, Enna the rabbit and Lumi the otter!

This also includes Aurora who’s his best friend and is able to know where the next fight will break out

Clark and Brenda are on opposite sides (I’ll leave you to figure out why and which groups they decided to be in :3)

—————

That’s kinda it for now hope you enjoyed reading more about this au!!

[anemonequeen]

[jedusaur]

it's my partner's birthday today! I drew them an otter on a beach wearing the sapphire necklace I bought them a few years ago (can you tell which gift was given when I had a job and which during a period of unemployment lol). I couldn't get a pic where the lighting worked for both the pencil element and the metallic element, so here's two!

and here's the actual necklace:

[snikt111]

welcome to the xmen. hope you survive the experience! (or dont.)

m ✨ he/no prns+ 🦦 yt + ndn 🕯️ a dult

anarkist. pumpkin rubber duck enthusiast. clifford AND snoopy lover. indigenous wolverines & northstar truther. glc’s fav faggot. converted sabrevine enjoyer. average the authority fan. secretly cringe. irl otter. fagdyke, gay both ways.

currently reading… dude idk

currently playing… rdr2, ponytown, too much sims 4, stardew valley…

currently watching… THE WALKING DEAD! life series, hermicraft, sims vids

DM FOR COMMISSIONS / ART TRADES — dont use my art for anything w/o perms or if it’s from a trade or comm.

dni's don't work but... i don't accept bigotry (lgbtqphobia, racism, ableism, sexism, etc), pro-genocide, anti-recovery and rehabilitation, proship, icky stuff, etc. only follow me if you’re 17+, thanks.

banner by @perenians <3

who is hal jordan?

my abt me is is back !! and only kinda outta date! check the strawpage instead!

| abt me | strawpage | bluesky | panel dumping |

TAG LIST! (its out of date tho mb)

#m speaks — anything made originally by me

#reading! — reading tag, mostly comic liveblogging

#scribbletastic — art tag! mostly fanart

#m answers — ask tag

#get the queue ball rollin — queue tag :3

#check out my playlists — what do you think this means?

#ch: whos got time for heavenly things? // #hal jordan — hal jordan character tag

#kyle rayner — kyle rayner character tag

#wolverine // #ch: i aint alone ive got you bub — wolverine character tag

#death stranding // #it takes a real man to be a cringeful motherfather — death stranding game tag

#SIR BEETLESON 🙏 — blue beetle (ted kord) character tag

#jo mullein — jo mullein character tag

#ch: awooo — jack russell (wbn) character tag

#ch: masked marvel — speedball character tag

#ch: i have forgotten who i am — azrael/jean paul valley character tag

#ch: give jp back his medal — jean-paul beaubier character tag

#ch: boy who shatters stars — shatterstar character tag

#ch: ALL HAIL STAR SAPPHIRE! — carol ferris character tag

#ch: i ask the questions here — the question (vic sage) character tag

#ch: bloodlust — astarion

note: i will update these when i think of it, and not ALL of my posts with these characters will be tagged bc quite frankly i always forget

[richardxoliverxmayhew]

Character/Blog Association

ANIMAL :    Otter COLOR ( S ) :   Warm/old sort of gold. Deep, midnight blue. Dark forest green. MONTH :   February  SONG :   Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons // Miles from No Where by Cat Stevens // The Passenger by Iggy Pop NUMBER :   7 DAY OR NIGHT :   Night PLANT :   Weeping Willow SMELL :   Pine, mint, freshly laundered clothes, petrichor, freshly baked bread GEMSTONE :  Sapphire SEASON :   Autumn PLACE :   Scotland & London FOOD :   A Full English Breakfast ELEMENT :  Water & Earth DRINK :   Scotch

TAGGED BY: @ericbrandonrp​ ​ TAGGING: YOU

[ravendas-xiv]

About | Hyperia Quinntus / Sanji Oronir

14 Associations

Animal: Hyperia: Crow: Highly-intelligent, tool-using, and loyal to a single mate...but also looked upon with distrust and superstition as a harbinger of death Sanji: River otter:

Color:  Hyperia: Dark red. The color of her hair and one of her favorites to wear. A hint to the fiery nature that lies beneath her serious demeanor. Sanji: Sapphire blue. The color of his eyes and the endless skies above teh Azim Steppe that he loves. A color of soothing calm.

Song: Hyperia: "Unstoppable" by Sia. "I put my armor on to show you how strong I am." All about putting on a brave face to hide the pain she's been through. Sanji: "Second Chance" by Shinedown. Tell my mother, tell my father / I've done the best I can / To make them realize this is my life /I hope they understand / I'm not angry, I'm just saying / Sometimes goodbye is a second chance

Number: Hyperia: XIV. No, really. The number of the Legion that changed her life. Sanji: 25. It's his age when his life finally turned for the better.

Day or Night: Hyperia: Night. Even though she tends to be an early riser, she devotes the day to work and the night is for relaxing and enjoying the company of friends and family. Sanji: Day. He loves being out in the sunshine and enjoying everything the day has to bring. He enjoys the night as well, for similar reasons as Hyperia, but he's still more of a day person.

Plant: Hyperia: Holly. Thrives in the winter, but rather prickly (and the berries are, of course, her favorite color of red). Sanji: Lavender. A hardy herb to truly blooms when cared for.

Smell: Hyperia: Ceruleum, smoke, citrus, cardamon, ozone Sanji: Fresh grass, sage, baked bread, lemon

Gemstone: Hyperia: Sphalerite. The mineral itself appears to be a dull, metallic grey, but the rare crystalline form can be a beautiful fiery mix of red and oranges. Sanji: Blue aventurine. A calming stone that encourages one to speak their heart.

Season: Hyperia: Winter Sanji: Spring

Place: Hyperia: A bustling city or a snowy forest. Sanji: The beach or a lush forest.

Food: Hyperia: Hearty soups and stews. LIght pastries. Anything with mangos. Sanji: Spicy curries and anything sweet!

Astrological Sign: Hyperia: Scorpio Sanji: Libra

Element(s): Hyperia: Fire. Sanji: Water

Drink: Hyperia: Coffee! Sanji: Chamomile Tea

Whew! This took a bit! Thanks for tagging me @cactusxwren!

As usual, I'll tag anyone who wants to do it!