#amaranth-speaks

[amaranth-writing]

just got into supernatural, but my real name is amara, so it's hard asf to read dean fics since a solid 50% of them so far have referenced "getting over amara" or "since that whole amara thing (x amnt of time) ago" and i feel like i'm fighting my alter ago LOL

i will say it was nice reading "Amara Winchester" in one of them (;

[little-sacrificial-lamb-amaranth]

...Hi.

...What happened?

( - @mist-in-thedark )

I was brought back to where I belong.

[wizardlocation]

made a convoluted and messy relationship chart a few days ago ? and i wasn't gunna post it anywhere but i keep thinking abt it so here..... !

[aboutnavi]

are you still updating your jegulus fic on ao3?

If you mean speak to me… then yes! I’m! I have the next 6-ish chapters drafted but I’m working in how to write them because they are very emotionally charged and I have no idea how to navigate that with everything I’m going through right now 🙃 but new chapters soon!!!

If you mean the amaranth hyms, the fic I’m writing with thisliminalspacedaydreams then, also yes!, we will be updating soon and it’s entirely my fault that we are not updating because I’m up to finish the next chapter so pretty please a bit of patience 🙏🏻

[jasmancer]

Xena and Gabrielle and their many scrappy teen sidekicks.

[crmsndragonwngss]

Welp, it’s 2:00 am and looks like it’s time to make a power metal tag

[aventurineswife]

The Language of Flowers | HSR Men x Reader | Completed

“The Language of Flowers” is a short, symbolic series where you, the giver offers flowers to various HSR Men, each bouquet chosen to reflect their personality, story, or emotional state. Through carefully selected blooms, themes of admiration, healing, remembrance, and unspoken emotions unfold. The flowers become a silent form of communication—revealing what words cannot, bridging distances, soothing wounds, and deepening bonds. Each interaction highlights how something as simple as a flower can carry powerful meaning, offering quiet comfort or heartfelt recognition.

Part 1: Yellow Acacia

Symbolism: Secret love, optimism, enlightenment, happiness.

For: Sunday, Aventurine, Ratio

A quiet offering of Yellow Acacia—bright and warm like sunlight held between fingers. It speaks of unspoken affection, of feelings tucked safely behind smiles and passing glances. To each, it carries something different: a hidden heart, a shared spark, or the hope of something more. Whether noticed or not, the meaning lingers in the petals.

Part 2: Amaranth

Symbolism: Unfading love, faith, immortality.

For: Sunday, Dan Heng, Blade

Amaranth, ever-blooming and defiant of time, is left behind like a quiet vow. It is love that endures beyond distance, beyond silence, beyond scars. To some, it is a reminder that no matter the path taken—or the pain endured—what was once true remains untouched. A bloom that never fades, even in the harshest hands.

Part 3: Aster

Symbolism: Patience, daintiness, good luck, admiration, elegance

For: Sunday, Aventurine, Jing Yuan

Aster—soft-spoken yet steady, offered like a wish whispered into the breeze. It carries grace in its petals, a quiet kind of charm that lingers long after it's gone. Given in admiration, it says: 'I see the poise beneath the bravado, the calm behind the smile.' A small bloom, but never insignificant—just like the moments shared.

Part 4: Arbutus

Symbolism: Love, resilience, endurance; the strength and beauty of the human spirit through suffering

For: Dan Heng, Boothill, Blade, Jing Yuan

Arbutus is not a loud declaration—it’s the quiet strength in staying, in trying, in healing. It’s offered when words fall short but presence says enough. In moments of stillness and shared glances, it speaks of hearts learning to trust again, of pain not erased but understood. Beneath the bloom is a promise: we grow, even here. In soft confessions and silent protection, something fragile begins to bloom—resilient, and real.

Part 5: Asphodel

Symbolism: Death, mourning, the underworld; remembrance and the afterlife

For: Blade, Phainon, Mydei

Asphodel is not a flower given lightly. It speaks of things that linger—grief that doesn't vanish, love that refuses to fade. It blooms in shadow, not to glorify sorrow, but to honor what was and what still aches quietly within.

To offer Asphodel is to say: I carry your memory, even when you cannot. It’s laid down in moments of silence, of held hands, of choked-back words. For those who have lost parts of themselves in battle, in time, or in love, it is a fragile balm—reminding them that in mourning, there is still connection. That in darkness, a soft bloom can still rise.

Part 6: Baby’s Breath

Symbolism: Everlasting love, purity, innocence, new beginnings

For: Sunday, Aventurine, Dan Heng

A sprig of Baby’s Breath—delicate, almost weightless, yet carrying so much. It’s the gentleness of feelings unspoken, the quiet wonder of something new. In tender moments and lingering silences, it offers comfort without expectation. There’s no rush here, only the slow unfolding of trust, of hope. It speaks of hearts finding light again, of beginnings wrapped in softness. Not a grand gesture, but a gentle one—pure, and full of promise.

Part 7: Belladonna

Symbolism: Danger, deceit, mystery, and beauty

For: Aventurine, Blade, Moze

Belladonna blooms with a beauty that warns—elegant, but edged with shadow. It’s the flower you don’t pick without consequence, the feeling that lingers long after it’s gone. Given in silence, it reflects truths too sharp to speak, desires tangled with doubt. In them lies conflict: the fear of being seen and the aching need to be understood. Love here is not soft—it is complicated, aching, cautious. But in its weight, there’s growth. In the darkness, the first flickers of clarity.

Part 8: Strelitzia

Symbolism: Joyfulness, paradise, freedom, anticipation, faithfulness, love, thoughtfulness

For: Sunday, Aventurine, Phainon

Strelitzia stands tall—vivid, striking, impossible to ignore. It’s the promise of something just ahead, something worth the wait. Given with a quiet smile, it carries both joy and yearning: the kind of love that grows not from ease, but from choice. In every glance and softened word, there's faith—faith in what could be, in what’s already blooming between the lines. Even in sorrow, the flower does not droop. It looks forward, always, to the moment hearts finally meet without fear.

Part 8.5: Carnation

Symbolism: Love, devotion, distinction (meaning shifts with color)

For: Mydei

They looked away not out of disinterest, but out of self-preservation. In the face of a warrior too striking for their own good, they found safety in petals—carnations soft at her feet, blooming as if to catch their heart before it wandered too far. From then on, their hands tended to flowers, not men. Their devotion became silent, their affection buried in soil and scent.

Years passed. War changed faces, titles shifted, and one day—he remembered theirs. Not the shy glances, but the stillness. The calm. And now, when the weight of his battles becomes too much, it’s their presence he seeks. The herbalist with a quiet heart and a garden full of memories. He doesn't need to ask for flowers. They give them freely—while he’s still here to hold them.

Part 9: Amaryllis

Symbolism: Love, beauty, strength, determination, resilience, hope, achievement

For: Ratio, Boothill, Mydei

Amaryllis stands proud—bold in bloom, yet born from quiet persistence. It doesn't open all at once; it unfolds slowly, purposefully, like feelings long held close to the chest. This flower is given not in the height of certainty, but in the glow of almosts—of long glances, lingering touches, and unsaid things that echo between shared moments.

To love like this is not weakness—it is strength. The strength to wait. The strength to feel. To hope. In every gesture, there's a silent promise: I see you, and I won’t look away. The bloom is not a confession, but a beginning—bright, unshaken, and steady. Just like them.

Part 10: Yarrow

Symbolism: Healing, youthful love, everlasting love, protection

For: Phainon, Aventurine, Dan Heng

Yarrow is a healer’s flower—ancient, enduring, laced with quiet strength. It doesn’t pretend to erase pain, but it stands beside it, offering protection where words cannot. It’s given to those still piecing themselves together, those who carry guilt like a second skin, and to those who’ve forgotten how to receive kindness without flinching.

This bloom is not a cure—it’s a hand outstretched. A reminder that love can be both tender and strong. That hearts can heal in time, even if they remember where they broke. It asks nothing but honesty and offers only this: You are not alone anymore.

Part 11: Asphodel (Revisited)

Symbolism: Death, mourning, the underworld; “remembered beyond the tomb,” “my regrets follow you to the grave”

For: Blade, Mydei

Asphodel does not whisper—it lingers. In soil stained with ash and blood, it rises, pale and unwavering. A flower not for celebration, but remembrance. Given in silence after the storm has passed, it is a tribute to what was lost, and to what still haunts the living. The words never said. The hands not held. The guilt that clings like a second skin.

But even here, among broken ground and weary hearts, there is softness. In sharing grief, in tending wounds both old and new, something fragile takes root. Not absolution—but understanding. And in that quiet, when armor is shed and silence is no longer feared, there is a kind of healing.

A flower placed not just in mourning, but in love. The kind that endures, even when it can no longer be spoken aloud.

Part 12: Borage

Symbolism: Courage, joy, resilience, emotional fortitude, solidarity

For: Dan Heng, Ratio, Phainon

Borage is the bloom that rises when everything else has fallen—bright against the wreckage, stubborn in its will to stand. It’s given not in victory, but in survival. In the aftermath of storms, it speaks of the courage it took just to endure. Of strength found in trembling hands. Of the quiet bravery behind soft words and guarded eyes.

To offer Borage is to say: I see your struggle, and I stand with you. It doesn't ask for heroism. It honors vulnerability, the resilience of those who’ve carried too much and kept going anyway. In the hush after battle, when the armor is heavy and hearts are heavier, this flower is a reminder—you are not alone, and you never were.

Part 13: Burdock

Symbolism: Clarity, courage, protection, purification

For: Sunday, Mydei, Phainon

Burdock clings—not to trap, but to connect. In the soft brushing of shoulders and the burrs caught on fabric, there’s an old truth: sometimes affection sticks before we even know it’s there. It’s a flower of quiet courage—the kind it takes to show up, to speak gently, to stay close even when words falter.

Offered in passing, almost teasingly, it marks a shift: feelings once hidden now brushing the surface. A game in childhood lore becomes something more—Will it stay? Will it fall? And when it stays, they notice. They always do.

In shared laughter and long looks, in steady hands and half-spoken thoughts, Burdock blooms. Not loudly—but persistently. Like feelings that simply won’t let go.

Part 14: Cactus Flower

Symbolism: Endurance, protection, love, resilience (with colors deepening meaning)

— Yellow: Heat, security, endurance

— Red: Love

— White: Endurance

— Pink: Gentle love, spontaneity, thoughtfulness

For: Boothill, Jing Yuan, Phainon

Cactus flowers bloom in defiance—thriving where others wither, unfolding petals in the most unlikely places. They don’t bloom often, but when they do, it’s unforgettable. Each color tells a truth: heat and safety in yellow, tenderness in pink, unshaken love in red, and strength woven into silence in white.

These flowers are not soft because life was easy—but because they survived anyway. Offered to those who’ve lived through storms with laughter still in their throats and warmth still tucked behind guarded hearts, the cactus flower is both armor and affection. A slow burn, a steady root, a love that refuses to give in.

In every careful glance and lingering touch, the message is clear: You are safe with me. You are seen. And you are loved, even in your thorns.

Part 15: Camellia

Symbolism: Love, devotion, admiration; meanings shaped by culture and color

— China: Eternal love, union of two lovers

— Japan: Divinity, grace, beauty, perseverance

— White: Purity, innocence

— Pink: Long-distance love

For: Dan Heng, Ratio, Jing Yuan

Camellias bloom with grace—elegant, deliberate, and full of meaning. In their silence, they speak volumes. Each color whispers a different truth: white for the innocence still clung to after wariness, pink for love stretched thin across space and time, and red for the quiet vow—I choose you, still.

Camellia doesn’t beg for attention. It is simply placed. Gently. Unmistakably. A bloom that falls only when ready—and always with its other half.

Part 16: Cape Jasmine (Gardenia)

Symbolism: Love, purity, trust, spiritual connection; often associated with weddings and sacred bonds

For: Sunday, Dan Heng, Phainon

Gardenias do not shout their meaning—they are felt in the stillness. Given in moments when words tremble or fail, they represent a kind of love that is earned, not rushed. Trust, fragile and precious, weaves itself into the heart of this flower. A silent vow: I see you. I trust you. I respect you.

Cape Jasmine is not about grand declarations. It's about being there when it matters. About love as sanctuary. About trust being sacred.

Part 17: Cardamine (Cuckoo Flower)

Symbolism: Rebirth, hope, thoughtfulness

Folklore: Said to be sacred to fairies, the cuckoo flower was considered too wild, too otherworldly, to bring indoors—lest it bring misfortune. Yet even so, it blooms in spring, where frost once lingered.

For: Dan Heng, Sunday, Boothill

Cardamine isn’t loud in its promise. It doesn’t offer perfection or erase pain. Instead, it marks the return—of warmth after cold, of feeling after numbness. It’s given not to forget the past, but to say: you can begin again. In the moments where guilt still whispers and grief still clings, it becomes a symbol of choosing to live anyway.

This flower is found in quiet glances, in shared silence, in held hands that no longer flinch. It’s the first step after sorrow. The slow breath of something new. A love that grows not in spite of pain, but beside it.

Part 18: Cherry Blossom

Symbolism: Life and death, beauty and violence, transience and renewal

For: Blade, Jing Yuan, Mydei

Cherry blossoms fall even as they bloom—petals soft as breath, yet heavy with meaning. In their brief, brilliant lives, they remind us of everything fragile and everything worth holding onto. A contradiction in motion: love born in chaos, peace found in battle-hardened hearts, tenderness blooming beside pain.

To give a cherry blossom is to acknowledge that life is short, but meaningful. That beauty can exist where sorrow once lived. That something fleeting can still be profound. It’s for the moments of stillness between storms, when a glance carries a thousand unsaid things. When comfort is given not in words, but in presence.

They do not last. And that is why they matter so much.

Part 19: Clematis

Symbolism: Mental strength, creativity, artifice, and the beauty of ingenuity

For: Sunday, Aventurine, Jing Yuan, Blade

Clematis climbs—graceful but persistent, winding its way toward the light with careful intention. It’s a flower of the mind as much as the heart: thoughtful, strategic, always quietly adapting. It blooms in unexpected places, and never without purpose.

To give Clematis is to recognize the strength it takes to keep going—not just physically, but emotionally. The kind of strength that hides behind charm, stoicism, or silence. The creativity it takes to live with contradictions: love and duty, power and guilt, connection and detachment.

This flower speaks in subtle gestures—shared tea instead of apologies, a gaze held a moment longer than necessary, the restraint of hands that could destroy but choose instead to hold. Clematis is for those who think too much and feel too deeply, who love with precision and ache with elegance.

Its beauty lies not in ease—but in endurance, in brilliance, in choosing love even when it hurts.

Part 20: Columbine

Symbolism: Virtue, resilience, courage, praise of the divine

For: Sunday, Phainon, Mydei

Columbine blooms in thin soil and harsh conditions—delicate in form, but enduring by nature. It’s a flower for those who carry heavy burdens yet still find the strength to lift others. Given after battle, after silence, after loss, it’s not just a sign of comfort—it’s a quiet blessing. You are still here. And that matters.

This flower is offered not as a cure, but as a companion. A reminder that virtue isn’t always loud, and resilience doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it’s in the way one keeps going despite grief, in how one reaches out after retreating for so long. In the decision to hope again, even when it hurts.

Columbine is for those who walk the edge of purpose and pain. It’s a gift of courage—for those learning that healing is not weakness, and love is not a distraction from duty, but part of what makes it worth bearing.

Part 21: Sylleblossom

[crguang]

moonlit thoughts

You find that Kafka is most photogenic when she doesn’t try and is instead authentically going about her day without a care for the camera following her every movement.

established relationship, fluff, gn!reader, g!p kafka but there’s no actual smut, very suggestive at the end though, 4.3k words

A/N: a new kafka fic from saturn after all these years… somebody please check up on them this might be a clone… in all seriousness, i wrote this bc i’m going through a rough patch writing wise and i’ve had this idea in my head for months that somehow brings me comfort so i tried to put it into words but kinda flopped. there was supposed to be smut at the end but i ran out of juice, i’m sorry </3

She takes up the right half of the frame; dressed in nothing but a white unbuttoned shirt twice her size and mini shorts to match, her backside faces the lens and is illuminated by streaks of silver from a moon you cannot see. Her tousled hair paints some of the scene amaranth against the midnight sky beyond. It’s a shame the glimmer of stars can’t be seen at this distance, it’d make for a prettier picture. Her lit cigarette is also hidden, though its fumes dance in the air ahead of her and visibly swirl above her head for only a few seconds after each soft exhalation of her lips. You adjust the frame. The clear patio door on the left, Kafka leaning on the hotel room balcony on the right. She lifts her head, blows the smoke in her mouth, and the shutter clicks. In the quiet undisturbed by the circulation twenty stories below, the sound is distinct and impossible to overlook. You take more pictures.

Kafka straightens up and slightly turns to face the adjacent bedroom, her cigarette held loosely between two fingers and the other arm resting on the railing. She brings it to her lips, smiles when the shutter clicks once more, then exhales through her nose. Her features are partially obscured by the smoke and her hair sways with the light breeze. You take another picture.

“See something you like?”

She asks you this often, whenever you stare too long or fish your camera from your bag to point it towards her. Her tone is teasing, her smile amused, but she particularly enjoys the honesty you reply with.

“Always.”

You sit up in the bed and fiddle with your camera to adjust some of the settings. Kafka pushes herself off the balcony and saunters to the bedroom, leaning on the doorframe. She watches you press buttons and rotate the lens to the left, then to the right, before lifting the camera back to her without a word. In between three shutter clicks, she runs her fingers through her locks to tame the stray hairs flying about. She doesn’t care how she looks through your lenses, she’s said so once back when you first asked for permission to capture her that way, so this is just Kafka. She takes another drag from her cigarette. Her bare chest falls with her next exhalation, not a goosebump in sight despite the cool air outside. The shirt covers her nipples and offers a peek into the gentle swell of her breasts. You zoom out to include the waistline of her shorts. After the tenth picture, she speaks up again.

“Can’t get enough, huh?”

You smile and press the shutter button. “Well, you know what they say— I’m making sure the sight lasts longer. Can one get enough of their muse? I don’t think it’s happened before.”

“Your muse?” Kafka chuckles at the comment and crosses her arms over her chest. “You almost make me sound like some kind of artwork you’re trying to capture.”

“Not quite. Just trying to recreate my reality.”

She hums low in response and shifts, her back against the doorframe, tilting her head towards where you sit cross legged on the thick comforter. The butt of her cigarette glows orange. Your shutter clicks.

“And what exactly are you recreating right now?”

“You, smoking after sex a little past midnight in a hotel room we’ll leave behind in the morning. Speaking of, blow your smoke the other way.”

“For the picture?”

“For my nose.”

Kafka lifts her eyes to the sky but the corner of her lips curves in a subtle smile. She relents and walks further onto the balcony. “Oh, fine, I’ll take my smoke elsewhere.”

She resumes her position against the railing to finish her cigarette in peace, no longer facing you. The minutes pass in quietude, you catch every shift of movement and straying lock of hair through the lens of your digital camera. You lie on your side and the device follows your line of sight. Since it serves as a substitute for your eye whenever it’s turned on, her frame now fills the screen in portrait mode. You don’t know what she’s thinking as she silently basks in this moment of calm, free of the things she likes most— excitement, movement, gunfire. A multitude of thoughts could be running through her mind, you still haven’t learned to read every part of it. What she keeps from you is often pictured by your camera anyway. She has a dozen kinds of smiles, all tucked away in a hard drive you keep hidden even from her; part of you is unsure of how she would react to the implications of your scrutiny and wishes to keep the semblance of authenticity she demonstrates once you find yourselves out of the crowd. Each unedited clip or photo represents your eyesight and is inherently intimate, something Kafka likes to pretend she doesn’t struggle with through confident smiles and half-truths.

Not hearing the soft clicking of your camera anymore, Kafka turns to glance into the room. You haven’t moved on the bed, the device hiding your eyes from hers.

“You still taking pictures in there?” She calls out, her voice carrying through the open door.

“No, I’m filming.”

She raises an eyebrow in mild intrigue. “What’s the film for? Making a documentary?”

“Maybe,” you answer noncommittally, “it won’t be the first I’ve made of you.”

You can see her rack her brain for memories of the last time you've shared a film you’ve edited with her as the main character and suppress a smile. While she’s seen some of your pictures, nowhere near the extensive collection you hoard, and even posed for impromptu shots before, she can’t recall witnessing any movie from you. Kafka snuffs out her cigarette on the railing and lets it free fall on the streets below. She doesn’t wait for it to hit the ground, instead padding into the room and making her way to the chair her favorite velvet coat is carefully draped over. You follow her steps with the camera.

“You’ve made a film about me before?” She asks curiously as she slips a hand into the front pocket and pulls out a green pack of chewing gum.

“Mhm. Are you surprised?”

Kafka pops a mint flavoured gum into her mouth. “More like curious.”

“It’s nothing grand. I just edited the numerous shots I’ve taken of you over the time.”

“That’s usually how you make a movie.” She’s unfazed by the deadpan look you send her way and climbs at the foot of the bed, sitting back on her knees. “How many shots are we talking about here?”

You finally lower your device to think. The last time you bothered to check the amount of content you have sitting in various files on your hard drive was a couple of months ago, and it went as high as twelve thousand. You can’t say for sure and you’re suddenly uncharacteristically embarrassed by the number.

“I don’t know,” you reply, “they’re all in my drive.”

“Mmm… Can I see the film?”

You pause. You don’t actually have anything to hide since she’s consented to all of these, it’s just that each shot is deeply personal despite them being of her. You feel they tell a story about yourself more than they do of her. They’re special in their own mundane way because they belong to you in every sense of the word, they embody your perception and thought process and everything you can only express through visual language. Kafka allows you a minute to ponder her request, her gaze flickering from the camera in your hands to your creased brow.

“…Really?” You’re still unsure, your thumb nervously tracing the device’s power button.

“Yes, really. I’m curious to know how you’ve perceived me through your lens so far. Sounds interesting.”

“I don’t know…”

She observes you for a moment and you can tell your hesitation feeds her desire to know more. Her index finger absently drums an unknown melody on her thigh.

“What’s holding you back?”

“I know you’re the subject, but these shots especially are… personal, I suppose.”

“Personal? I guess that’s to be expected,” she says, tone light. “I’m still interested in seeing them. I can handle seeing a few intimate shots of me.”

You sit up against the pillows and look down at your hands. The world is dark and quiet, and it’s just the two of you in this hotel room seemingly suspended in time. There’s nothing but open curiosity in the pink depths of her eyes bare of her beloved contact lenses; she sits in a dress shirt she stole earlier that day from a local clothing shop that isn’t standing anymore, the skin of her chest still slightly flushed with her previous arousal, and silvery highlights compliment her hair with a soft glow that contrast the shadows across her facial features. She’s chewing gum because you’re not a fan of tobacco, keeps a packet in her right front pocket that she no longer thinks twice about. She waits patiently for you to cave in, she knows you will eventually. You meet her gaze and a triumphant smile stretches her lips.

“Alright, but just one.”

Kafka crawls over and plucks a tissue from the box on the nightstand before she spits out her gum and bundles it up on the small desk. She settles near you with an arm propped against the pillows, brushing some strands of hair out of her face to see the screen better. You briefly leave the bed and rummage through your discarded bag for your laptop and encrypted hard drive before joining her side once more. She watches you power it up and type in your password. She’s a warm presence beside you, the familiar feeling calms your nerves somewhat. You take a couple of slow breaths as you retrieve a specific file— K in moonlight. You’ll be adding the pictures and clips you took just now to the same file when you get the time.

“It’s meant to look a bit old. I like how movies looked back then.”

She hums pensively but doesn’t add anything, her attention fixed on the video’s cover image: it’s unassuming enough, a simple picture of her relaxed brows and closed eyes while she dozes off, taken from the point of view of the one sleeping next to her.

You press play. The silent movie is short and made of decomposed footage of Kafka filmed in the various planets the Stellaron Hunters have fleetingly stayed on during their ongoing journey. Though the hours are never the same, the shots are all filmed at night. The editing is reminiscent of a visual diary, almost, where continuity doesn’t exist and every frame is filled by her in the moonlight; the moment when she’s just fallen asleep on silky sheets; in an empty, raining street walking ahead with an umbrella and a crimson moon above her head; footage of her coming closer to the camera, framed to emphasize her usual lazy strut, before it cuts to a chaste kiss captured through the standing mirror of your bedroom. The low lighting makes it so specific parts of her are visible through the lens. Her full face is rarely shown, just whenever she sports the same relaxed expression in her sleep. The Kafka next to you is captivated by the images progressing on screen, the one in the film is mostly unaware of the camera pointed at her— or pretends to be, used to your scrutiny.

As the movie continues, the tone shifts. The first seven minutes put a visual to words you haven’t uttered to each other yet, spinning mundanity into tenderness, or perhaps simply bringing forth the underlying affection that accompanies your routine. The next few ones attempt to convey sensations best felt through touch onto the screen. As is the theme throughout the video, the setting is dark, filmed in a pristine bedroom at night not unlike the one you’re currently in. Edited shots show pieces of Kafka's bare body with no barrier between her sensuous curves and the almost voyeuristic eye of the camera. Clips are cut and replayed to create discontinuity. You remember that night, she impulsively posed for you and gave you full access to her body, naturally, you jumped on the opportunity to record. The moment wasn’t planned so the footage is a little rough, as is the editing considering you’re not a cinematographer, just someone with a camera. Due to the inauthenticity of the subject, her eyes are hidden to frame her perfect smile instead. You’ve used the shadows of the room to your advantage, from Kafka’s on the wall to the ones created by your hand on her moonlit skin as it brushes her ribs, thigh, collarbone. There is movement all through the film, from the subject but also from the camera, who travels up the slope of her neck then abruptly cuts to the length of her spine and the thorny rose stem tattooed along its curve. The movie’s erotic and sensual undertone is an undeniable constant despite nothing explicit happening on screen.

You glance to the side. Kafka’s stare follows the movement of shadows on her own skin and the brief, tantalizing glimpses of her naked body. There’s an element of anticipation that sustains the viewer’s attention, leaving them hoping to see a pink nipple or further down her toned pelvis. You don’t intend to share this with anyone but you still decide to leave the most intimate parts of Kafka’s body to the imagination, kind of like they are with you. She watches your clumsy filmmaking attempt with a private smile and doesn’t say a word until the screen turns black and announces the end of your short film. Her pupils are noticeably dilated and with a slight bite of her bottom lip, you can practically see her mind wander into a realm of quiet contemplation.

“…Well, what do you think?” You speak up first, softly so as to not break her train of thoughts, and nervously tap the “delete” key on your laptop with a forefinger.

Her head tilts to look at you, the same smile on her lips and a gleam in her eyes you’re not sure how to decipher. “It’s…” she begins, choosing her words carefully, “bold, sensuous, provocative… Very me. The first half is pretty sweet, lowers your guard for the rest.”

“It’s kinda sloppy.”

“It’s me. I didn’t even know you filmed something like this,” she admits, looking back at the laptop and reaching over to replay the beginning of the video.

She means the implicit intimacy of her life alongside yours, this side of her she never thought could be so obvious, yet it’s laid out for the both of you to see, plain as day and indisputable.

“You’re the one who posed for it, babe.”

She laughs quietly, not denying your words. She watches herself smoke on a rooftop she remembers trespassing on, blood spatter across her white sleeves. “True, I was the subject. But I didn’t know you took such artistic liberties with the footage. Didn’t think you could spin it into something so… seductive.”

You press a little closer to her on the bed, folding your knees and resting the laptop on your stomach. Her gaze is on the film while you turn your head to take in the soft lighting on her face.

“It was mostly you,” you say. “That’s just how you look.”

Her eyes crinkle in pleasure. “It’s all thanks to my natural beauty, then?”

“Not all, I did work on it. But yes. I think this is my favorite shot.”

You fast forward to a shot portraying dancing shadows on Kafka's bare chest like multiple hands seeking to grab a piece of her body.

Kafka hums in recognition. “I remember when you filmed this one, it took a couple of tries because you wouldn’t stop playing with my boobs.”

“Yeah, I have some clips of that actually.”

Kafka gives you an unimpressed look and rolls her eyes when you respond with a lopsided smile.

“In my defense,” you press pause to look at her, “you have very gorgeous boobs. They’re perky and sit prettily on your chest.”

Your straightforward assessment makes her chuckle but she absorbs the praise like a sponge in water. A teasing smirk forms on her lips, the creases around her eyes her very own way to preen.

“Oh, really?” She replies lightly, pleased. “Well, I’m glad you find them pleasing to the eye.”

“And to the touch.”

“Of course, you’re not only an admirer but an experienced connoisseur.”

Her voice lowers and takes a huskier tone as she maintains eye contact with you, her right hand deliberately drawing patterns on your abdomen. You shut your laptop and discard it on the nightstand then turn around to press a palm on the center of Kafka’s naked chest, pushing her onto her back and against the cool sheets.

“Yeah,” your knees are planted on each side of her hips and your hand brushes her open shirt further to the side before cupping her breast. It fills your palm with a satisfying weight. “They’re really pretty.”

Kafka lets out a low hum as you take command, she settles into the firm mattress and her chest rises steadily beneath your gentle touch. You caress the familiar path around her breast, the sensation sending a low thrum of pleasure through her.

"They are, aren't they?" She agrees, her words laced with anticipation while her gaze drinks in the desire etched on your features.

“Ugh, I can’t even reproach your cockiness this time because it’s true.”

Her smile turns smug at your playful chiding and earnest praise. Her body responds positively to your touch, arching into your absent kneading and snaking an arm around your waist to bring you closer. Her lips part silently when you flick her nipple with a fingernail. Her gaze darkens past the amusement in it though she keeps still for now, ignoring her growing arousal and instead focusing on your expressions as you run your hands across her sensitive skin. The fingers not groping her chest travel down her abdomen and leisurely trace her navel. You regard her body with unashamed admiration, it’s in every caress and every glance, and it’s a sort of high that she chases by baring herself to you.

“Don’t get excited now,” you warn her, eyes briefly flitting to hers, “I’m just enjoying touching you.”

She chuckles, a hint of a challenge in the air following her teasing reply, “Oh, I’m well aware of your enjoyment, baby. You’re not exactly subtle about it. But I won’t lie… I’m definitely getting excited.”

“We just had sex.”

“True, we did…” She slowly concedes and purposely trails off in a sultry murmur. Her splayed fingers trail up the expanse of your back over your shirt. She lays a hand on top of yours on her breast and encourages you to squeeze more firmly. She makes a show of gasping softly at the sensation. “You should know, though, the thrill doesn’t just stop at one time. It lingers, it builds… and it craves more.”

You harshly pinch her nipple in reprimand. “Don’t be corny.”

Kafka’s eyes shut for an instant, relishing the pleasure-pain zapping along her limbs like an electrical current. She inhales sharply through her nose.

“Corny, huh? Maybe I’m just feeling especially poetic tonight.”

“As I’m playing with your tits?”

A playful smile quirks up her lips. “Sometimes inspiration strikes in the most unexpected moments. And I happen to find your touch very inspiring.” She lifts her torso off the bed, pressing up against yours, and tilts her chin upwards. Her mouth brushes yours with every word she speaks and her hand guides your own down the lines of her chest and over her toned stomach to rest on the waistband of her shorts. “In fact,” she purrs, “your touch makes me want to write sonnets.”

“…Incorrigible.” Your hand doesn’t progress further and Kafka feigns a pout. “How are you still horny?”

“How could I not be with you touching me like that?”

You lightly tug at her shorts and your fingertips graze the coarse hairs that greet you, prompting a quiet sound of satisfaction from her.

“Like what?” You ask innocently, now fully feeling her soft hair and ignoring the hardening bulge that’s starting to take shape under her clothes.

“Mmm, like you’re going to be in trouble if you keep teasing me…”

Unashamed, Kafka grips your wrist and leads your hand lower, to the firm tent in her shorts silently demanding more of your focused attention. As your palm deliciously presses against her, her fingers curl around your nape and she captures your lips in a languid kiss. It’s slow and deep, meant to rouse your dormant passion, and she doesn’t let you go until your chest burns with the need to breathe freely. You lightly squeeze her growing erection in warning, she nips your bottom lip in retaliation. You can feel her smile into the kiss before her lips part in a gasp when you palm her just so, cheekily tracing the defined length of her shaft. She’s not wearing any underwear, courtesy of your earlier activities, and you can feel the warmth of her skin seeping through the thin garment. Kafka moans into your mouth as you stroke her, never one to hide how nice she’s feeling, especially since her throaty sounds of encouragement spur you on like nothing else. She gets what she wants without asking, and you forget why you were ever going to deny her in the first place.

“Aeons, you’re hot,” you breathe out against her lips after another raspy moan from her, “I could hear you make those noises for me forever.”

Kafka’s laugh is breathless, “Yeah? Are you going to pull out your camera, immortalize this moment too?”

“Don’t tempt me…” You let her steal another kiss from you and tilt your head upwards to allow her mouth to travel down your jaw. “I could make a compilation of every groan out of your mouth when you enter me.”

“A compilation, hmm…?” She licks a long stripe up to your ear, then sucks the lobe into her mouth. Her voice is hushed and sultry against your eardrums. “You have a collection of my moans, baby?”

“You’d be surprised. Though not that much, considering you knew I was holding the camera each time.”

You think your short film might have aroused her more than she let on; paired with her sensitivity from her previous orgasm just an hour earlier, she’s easily worked up in the palm of your hand. Your thumb applies pressure on her already weeping slit, staining the inside of her shorts with pre-cum you can’t wait to clean off of her throbbing cock. You feel her teeth graze your skin at the motion, and her grip on your neck tightens a tad. She doesn’t urge you to touch her properly yet, enjoying the pleasant sensation of anticipation swirling through her belly.

“I did know,” she agrees shamelessly, panting softly into your ear, “there’s something so exciting about you watching me twice… first through your own eyes, then through the camera lens, like you can’t get enough of me.”

You don’t contest her words. Your hand moves to her base and cups her balls firmly, and you swallow the intoxicating noise she makes with insistent kisses on her wet lips.

“I could show you,” you whisper, your breath short.

“Yeah?”

You withdraw from her not without a lingering kiss, bringing your wandering hand along, and climb off of her to reach for the laptop on the nightstand. Kafka exhales long and deep to regain some of her bearings. She glances down at her aching length and bites her lip, already missing your eager touch, but brushes some hair out of her face before turning to you lying flat on your stomach. Your chest still heaves with excitement as you look through your folders. She gets a premium view of your backside like this and can’t help slowly running a hand down the pretty curve of your spine while she waits patiently. You quickly find what you’re searching for.

You click on a video. Her eyes flit to the screen. The camera work is shaky and the room is dark so not much can be properly discerned, but a few seconds later the distinct sound of your voice rings out through the laptop’s speakers, soft and whiny, almost immediately followed by Kafka’s deep, throaty groans. She intently listens to the sweet, heated cries of pleasure you make and the recognizable, wet sounds of sweaty flesh slapping against flesh. Your head turns to catch her eye over your shoulder, a knowing smile playing on your lips.

“What do you think? Don’t we sound great together?”

Kafka smiles in response, eyes dark yet burning with an intensity that can only promise sore limbs in your near future. She drapes herself over you, her thick cock pressed against your ass and her chest flushed to your back as she pulls the tip of your ear between her lips. The video continues though it’s not very long, a harmonized version of your voices filling the otherwise quiet of your shared hotel room.

“I think…” Kafka murmurs hotly directly into your ear, patting the nightstand’s surface for your digital camera until her fingers close around the desired object, “we should make a different kind of movie. Don’t you?”

Kafka also gives you full liberty this time around but unlike the first short film you made of her in the moonlight, every blissed out roll of her eyes and flush of her skin is entirely authentic.

[flawseer]

Jade Mountain Academy students

#6 - Skywing chapter

I like Skywings a lot actually. I think they were underutilized in the story. And then there is Flame. Poor, lovable Flame. One day I would like to write a more in-depth think piece on him, his character, and his role in the story. But not today, so here are some Skywings:

Carnelian

Tribe - Skywing

Winglet - Jade

Color - Tomato red

Relatives - none on site

Clawmate(s) - Moonwatcher (Nightwing), Kinkajou (Rainwing)

Favorite subject - Exercise

Least fav. subject - Science

Physical characteristics - tan horns, bendy; banded markings running down upper neck; light to medium scarring across face, neck, and limbs; medium to large stature, well-defined musculature

Other characteristics - selectively uncooperative, refuses to do assignments that annoy her (monitor for now); abrasive, three reported threats of violence against students (monitored, suggest expanding physical extracurricular options to burn off excess energy); appears to respond well to praise

Flame

Tribe - Skywing

Winglet - Gold

Color - Crimson red

Relatives - none on site

Clawmate(s) - Bigtail (Nightwing), Pike (Seawing)

Favorite subject - did not disclose

Least fav. subject - "All of them"

Physical characteristics - double-bent horns; black dorsal plates and accents; large, jagged scar running across left side of the face, intersecting the eye; blind in left eye; medium size with thin, wiry frame

Other characteristics - very uncooperative, refuses to do assignments and has poor attendance record (monitored, suggest counseling, consider withdrawing from student body if behavior does not improve); emotionally volatile, does not like eye contact, will react with hostility if stared at or if facial scar is mentioned (suggest counseling); shows signs of post traumatic stress and severe self image issues (suggest counseling); has turned down counseling offer (give space for now, ask again later)

Thrush

Tribe - Skywing

Winglet - Silver

Color - Apricot yellow

Relatives - Peregrine (cousin)

Clawmate(s) - Changbai (Icewing), Boto (Rainwing)

Favorite subject - History

Least fav. subject - Anatomy

Physical characteristics - straight horns; row of dark scales running down ventral side of neck; beak-like mouth; smallish stature, small-boned

Other characteristics - decent work ethic; very energetic, difficulty to sit still; eager to prove personal competence; frequently interrupts people while they're speaking (suggest guidance and monitoring)

Peregrine

Tribe - Skywing

Winglet - Copper

Color - Brick red

Relatives - Thrush (cousin)

Clawmate(s) - Pronghorn (Sandwing)

Favorite subject - Anatomy

Least fav. subject - Art

Physical characteristics - dark-colored stripe patterns running down the side of the neck; long limbs; medium to large stature with slender features; deaf in left ear

Other characteristics - practically-inclined; morbid sense of humor; tends to play with food before eating; owns a collection of small, sharpened animal bones (has been instructed not to bring them to class); expressed interest in a class/seminar about medicinal herbs

Garnet

Tribe - Skywing

Winglet - Quartz

Color - Amaranth red

Relatives - none on site

Clawmate(s) - Siamang (Rainwing), Arid (Sandwing)

Favorite subject - History

Least fav. subject - Cultural Exchange

Physical characteristics - sharply bent horns curving inward; ridge of thorn-like spines running from nose down to tip of tail; light scarring across ventral side; large frame with well-defined musclulature

Other characteristics - morose; does not like loud noises or crowds; prefers to eat alone; longest fire-breathing distance; notable age-gap to rest of winglet (no issues so far, but continue to monitor social integration)

Peril

Tribe - Skywing

Winglet - not assigned

Color - Tiger orange

Relatives - none on site

Clawmate(s) - none

Favorite subject - class attendance suspended

Least fav. subject - class attendance suspended

Physical characteristics - afflicted with firescales, body emits dangerous levels of heat at all times; scales show faint fiery glow like embers; bright yellow vein-like pattern spread through wing membranes; bright blue eyes; tall stature, very thin

Other characteristics - CAUTION! Do not come in physical contact with her, severe burn hazard; instruct student body to keep minimum distance; be mindful of surfaces she was in prolonged contact with, as they could carry residual heat; keep away from flammable areas; we don't know what to do with her yet, for now just give her a place to sleep and eat

[monstersandgenderqueers]

Amaranth (Ch. 2)

You figured that he won't kill you. Yet. So, you brought him inside like a stray pet. Loki is a bit of a puzzle that you're itching to solve. Unsurprisingly, he felt the same way about you.

Chapter 2 of ?

Word Count: 2094

Pairing: Loki x gn!reader

Chapter warnings: light descriptions of injuries

Prev: Prologue ; Chapter One

A/N: Pay no mind to the awful flirting. I'm terrible at it in real life, so it's only fair that any character I write would be the same. Divider credit @/saradika

If you were being honest with yourself, it felt nice. Maybe it had been too long since the last time someone dared touch you so intimately. Loki's grip tightened when you made no move to free yourself. Did your calm demeanor unnerve him? His hand squeezed your arm until you couldn't feel your fingertips. He released your mouth to grab your chin instead, holding your head still but allowing you to speak if you so desired.

By all accounts, it felt so real. The warm puffs of air that caressed your ear as he spoke, the heat that seeped into your skin from his hands, even the crunching of the gravel under his boots as he shifted his weight closer to your center of gravity. All senses pointed towards this Loki being real. Except, you knew it wasn't. You couldn't feel the energy coming from whatever it was that stood behind you.

You could, however, hear something subtle coming from behind the tree the crows had flown away from moments before. Not with your ears, of course. Loki was far too stealthy. But, the clear droning from the tree was interrupted by something that thrummed wildly.

You raised your voice more than necessary, to be sure he could hear you from his hiding place, "Is this doing anything for you? Watching from the shadows like some pervert?" You tsked, keeping your eyes on your crushed flowers.

The Loki behind you let go and then disappeared, leaving behind only a chill and the tingling in your arm as blood returned to your fingers.

Loki—the real one, you hoped—took a step out from behind the tree and leaned heavily against the trunk. "You're more perceptive than other mortals. Far more than I gave you credit for when we first met."

"I wouldn't call sneaking up behind me a first meeting."

He tutted, crossing his arms over his chest. "I meant long before, in that crude skyscraper your friend erected in his name." You cringed a bit. Could he not have phrased that any other way?

It took a moment to recall what he was hinting at. You were in New York when the Chitauri attacked, but you weren't an Avenger back then. At that time, you were little more than the equivalent of an intern, maybe an apprentice at one point. You certainly didn't believe Loki would have any reason to remember you, the same way you didn't remember having met him straight away.

Almost like he knows what you're thinking, he smirked, then his dulcet voice drifted over to you, "If I recall correctly, you were being escorted back inside the building by security when Stark stopped you." He paused, wondering if you truly remembered or not. "You stared at me quite intently. Directly into my eyes, I might add. Were you searching for something, darling?"

Ah. That. 

Beneath the inappropriate 'flirting', Loki was telling the truth. You did stare at him for a long time when you crossed by on your way back into the tower. His features were more sunken in back then, his face was a sickly, pasty color that only served to bring more attention to the darkness under his eyes. 

He looked defeated in every which way, except for in his eyes. You remember that part clearly. Relief. That was what you saw in his eyes that day, and that was most definitely why you held eye contact for so long. You were curious as to why you saw that emotion, even if it was likely only your poor interpretation of the situation.

That, and the muzzle. Your eyes had lingered on that part for a second or two. It cut into his skin ever so slightly, and you could tell he had a million things to say and not a single one of those words would have been true. 

You sighed, wiping that image from your mind before it got any ideas. "With the way you're talking to me, you should've been kept muzzled. Permanently."

His eyes flashed dangerously. "Careful, darling. You're giving away your personal tastes."

"Would you stop doing that? Calling me 'darling'?"

"Oh, but you look like someone who desperately needs to be called darling—"

What does that even mean? "Ew, no. If you want me to help you, or whatever, you have to at least try to be decent." His smirk only grows. His mouth opens, but you interrupt him again, "What are you even doing here? I thought you died?"

He looks around for a moment, thinking. "Would you mind if we took this inside? I am famished."

You rolled your eyes. Truthfully, you knew you shouldn't trust him at all, given how he's supposed to be dead. But, before you cut contact with everyone, Thor shared a few stories about Loki, including what he did before his supposed death.

Too tired and wound up to think of it any longer, you decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. It wasn't like it would matter much if he betrayed that frayed strand of trust, anyway. How bad could it be?

Loki sat at your dining table, watching you as you turned on the kettle and grabbed your leftovers from the fridge. He assessed your home, his eyes zeroed in on the details as if he were looking for something. He turned to you just as you put the plate in the microwave. "Darling, I've heard of the 'minimalist movement', but I never quite expected it to be so seedy. Does your designer live in a garbage bin, by any chance?"

You glared at him. "I thought we agreed you would stop calling me 'darling'."

"We didn't agree on anything. It was all in jest, dear. Nevertheless, I shall abide by your rules for the time being." He plastered on a smile as if to show his sincerity, but it was as uncanny as the rest of his appearance.

You sighed in lieu of a proper response. You knew he was goading you --his tone was more patronizing than flirtatious. Though, you still gave him a sideways glance… and then another. Something was definitely off, but not in the same way as the clone had been.

Once microwaved, you set the plate of mushy 'food' in front of him. You let him eat a few bites before bluntly asking, "Why do you smell like blood?"

He paused mid-bite, assessing you. "I am fine," he said, a bit sharper than he meant. He kept his eyes on you during the entire meal, just as you did, with your hips leant against the countertop. Loki stared as you idly brewed some tea, plopping tea bags into chipped mugs.

It was silent and tense as the two of you leered at each other, waiting for the other to speak first.

Loki sighed, then dabbed his mouth with a napkin. Curiously, he asked, "How did you know that it wasn't me?" When you looked at him, confused, he elaborated, "In your garden. You knew it wasn't me that had grabbed you, but an illusion. How?"

He waited for you to answer, his muscles more tense the longer it took you to reply. This one is more dangerous than I had assumed, he thought. A witch? A sorcerer? The teasing attitude he started with morphed into something with an edge.

Loki was confused when you shrugged, seeming to brush off something so incredible. You confounded him.

You sat down with your own tea, and answered, "I just sort of felt it. That clone, or whatever, didn't feel alive like everything else. And then I could feel your energy behind the tree, so…" you trailed off, looking at the wood grain of your dining table.

He raised his brow, taken aback. Very few had been able to tell the difference between reality and any of his illusions, unless they had seen him conjure them in the first place. Mostly everyone except his mother, that is, but he never got the chance to ask if it was because she taught him how to cast illusions, or if she just knew him well enough to know.

With a thousand questions that ran through his mind, he decided on the more urgent ones. "Tell me where I am," he said, more of a command than a question.

"My house."

He visibly held back a groan.

"Fine. We're in New York, north of NYC." 

His face and shoulders relaxed just a bit. "Do you know where Thor is?"

It was your turn to bite back a groan. It looked like you wouldn't be able to avoid a trip to New Asgard, after all. Even if you could just toss Loki off of your property, it didn't feel right to just give him directions. He may look princely and composed, but he gave off the energy of a cat that fell into water.

"Yes. I do."

Shortly after Loki finished his meal, and ravaged the scraps in your fridge, he followed you up the stairs to the upper floor, and then into the sparse 'guest' bedroom. You had half a mind to apologize for the squeaky metal frame that held the lumpy twin mattress and the discarded, hoarded items tucked into the closet. However, his curt nod silenced you before you even spoke, and he shut the door practically in your face.

He heard you breathe out a heavy sigh and walk away, likely towards your own room down the hall. Loki listened more intently, hearing muffled voices coming from the other side of the house. He assumed you were talking on the phone. He couldn't quite make out who you were talking to, but after hearing no mention of his name nor anything related to him, he let a deep breath out.

For now, it seemed that he wouldn't have to sneak away in the dead of night, though he kept that in mind as he pondered the question of how to do so if you could tell when he was tricking you. THe lack of an explanation of how your 'gift' worked ate away at him.

Loki opened the small door beside him, and nearly moaned in relief when he saw a clawfoot tub. He was glad to see that you weren't too neglectful of the unused rooms in your home—the tub was clean, and only a few specks of lint dotted the bottom. He turned on the faucet and smiled when the water came out clear, and it only took a short while to fill the tub with hot water.

He let the illusion drop, the cuts and bruises on his skin becoming clear as he took stock of the damage in the mirror. His hair was matted with blood—a cut ran halfway down his scalp, and it burned and throbbed. 

Loki could deal with it later.

He peeled off his clothes and let them fall to the tile, far too exhausted to use more magic than necessary.

Though he survived the fall after the shuttle exploded shortly after entering the atmosphere, Loki knew he had at least a few fractures. The bruises that blossomed over his ribs and hips were certainly proof that even gods could be injured.

The water turned murky the moment he stepped in. He knew he should hurry, wash up and get some rest to restore what energy he could in case he needed more than illusions to save his skin.

But, his mind kept switching back and forth between trusting you. It was unsettling, the way you saw him. How calm you were despite someone like him crashing at your feet. He'd learned to read people early on, a necessary skill he developed when he first realized that the kind words and praises sent his way were often false.

He knew you were genuine. He'd seen it in the tower years ago, when you first looked at him with no hint of malice or fear. Only curiosity, perhaps even worry.

Even today, you met his wit with your own, and he could feel that you didn't edit your thoughts much before speaking. You weren't nearly as evasive as he had been.

He still couldn't keep his mind from thinking about it, though, that maybe you had called for backup, and he'd open the bathroom door to find someone waiting for him with more shackles. He sighed and sunk deeper into the tub, feeling the water swirl around his hair in a minute, gentle current.

Loki could worry later. For now, he could let himself rest.

[little-sacrificial-lamb-amaranth]

I didn't kill you, did I?! HAHA!

...Ahem– Nice seeing you again, niece! :}

...Uh.. You recovering okay?? You look a little... Depressed? I think? I don't know, I've never seen tears falling from your eyes before.

( - @level-up-kori )

I am better than ever. The tears must just come along with this form, as I cannot wipe them away at all. Eternal weeping must be my punishment brought on by our beautiful corruption, showing I am working towards repentance for being so foolish as to ever have wanted to be pure. A foolish and ignorant want.

[moosesarecute]

Part 7: The Shadows Sing

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 8

You were drowning. You felt your hands and foot freeze as you sunk further down into the lake.

You were too weak, so you let your shadows out.

Not even seconds later, they had shadow walked you out of the lake.

However, in front of you wasn’t the beautiful hazel eyes you’d learn to adore, it was Amaranth’s black eyes staring into your soul.

“We’ve got you now. You can’t get away.”

It was Amarantha that was speaking, but the voice was Adrian’s. The illyrian that took your wings.

“I see you’re a shadowsinger,” the voice continued. “We could use one of you on our team.”

You were dying.

“Please don’t run away,” Azriel said the second you opened your eyes. “You need to rest, you have a fever.”

You sat up in your bed and looked around. You were home and safe. The fire was going.

You noticed the presence of your shadows and immediately hid them away.

You felt warm. Not only from the fire, but from the presence of the illyran male that sat before you. You hated to admit it, but you couldn’t hold it back any longer. You didn’t want to run away from him.

Azriel slowly walked towards you with your mug in his hands. You had made it yourself out of tree.

He handed you the mug and you looked down at the content. You had no idea what it was, but it smelled delicious.

“It’s hot chocolate,” Azriel said before you could question him. “It’s chocolate melted and mixed with milk. Remember to blow on it, it’s hot.”

You nodded and did as he said. It was so good, you felt like you were in heaven.

“Where did you get milk?” You asked him.

Milk was something you’d never have money for. Oat milk you were sometimes able to buy, but never cow milk.

“My shadows got it from Velaris,” he answered.

“Velaris?” You asked him. “Is that a store?”

You had never heard about that, but the name told you it was beautiful.

“It’s a city in the Night Court,” Azriel answered. “I live there.”

You thought back to your time in the Night Court. You were always told the court didn’t have any cities other than Hewn City. You’ve never heard about Velaris.

“It had been a secret for over 5000 years,” Azriel explained. He must have seen your confusion. “It only got revealed during the war against Hybern.”

You tried to imagine what your life had been like if you’d live in a city. If you’d know about a city, you could have escaped the war camp easier and probably hidden well enough to not get caught.

“Many other illyrans still does know about it. That’s probably why you don’t know about it either,” Azriel continued hesitantly. “I talked to Rhys.”

You couldn’t stop yourself as you whipped your head towards Azriel.

“Rhys?” You asked him. “Rhys as in Rhysand as in the High Lord of the Night Court, Rhys?”

He only nodded.

“I’m his spymaster,” Azriel told you.

You immediately stood up from your bed. Your now empty mug fell to the floor.

“Why does he want to spy on me? I haven’t done anything wrong. I would’ve died if I didn’t do that I did. I’m not going back.” You rambled.

Azriel stood from your chair and took a step towards you. His arms were lifted, it was like he wanted to hold you, but he soon lowered them again.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “I’m not here to spy on you. Definitely not here because Rhys said so. I’m here because I’m curious about you. I’m also here because I realized I like talking to you. No other reasons.”

It didn’t calm you down. You felt so vulnerable.

You’d let a spy into your home. Not only a spy, but an illyrian spy.

You can’t believe you thought of him as safe.

“You’ve used your five minutes,” you replied with a shaky voice. “The bargain was that you’d leave me alone after the five minutes.”

His eyes widened a little as he shock his head.

“The bargain was that I’d leave you after five minutes of questioning if you told me to leave,” Azriel told you and moved towards you. He lifted his arms again, but this time he put them on your arms. You loved the feeling. One simple touch from him made your anxiety disappear. “Tell me to leave, and I’ll leave.”

You looked deep into his hazel eyes. You didn’t want him to leave. You wanted him to stay. For him to continue holding you.

“I…,” you started, but had to stop.

You heard him draw a sharp breath and felt his shadows in your hair. They then moved to caress your cheeks.

You felt worry spreading through your body. You didn’t understand why, it’s not like he would reject your request for him to stay. He literally just told you he wanted to stay.

That’s when you realized, you felt his emotions. You’d been feeling them ever since the bond snapped for you, but it felt so much stronger.

You realized his grip on your arms had tightened, not in a dangerous manner, but in a protective one.

“It snapped for you too?” You asked him before you even thought about it.

He just nodded as his eyes grew in size.

You almost laughed.

“I don’t want you to leave,” you told him. Knowing he felt as nervous as you did made you confident.

“Then I won’t leave,” he answered determinedly.

“Good,” you said. “I’m going to sleep.”

He let out a small laugh.

You’d slept through the night and woke up to a ready breakfast. You didn’t talk much while eating, you only focused on savoring the taste. You loved the feeling of being full.

“What happened yesterday?” Azriel asked you when you’d both finished eating.

You thought for a second. You felt so embarrassed. You didn’t want him to look at you as weak.

“There are a pair of twins in my hunting group,” you started to explain. “They’re the best of all of us.” You had to draw a breath before you continued. “They thought it funny to pull my prosthetic from my foot and throw it out onto the ice. I had to crawl out to get it and fell through the ice.”

You could see the anger spreading through Azriel’s entire body.

“How did you get out?”

“I waited for them to leave and shadow walked out of the lake,” you explained. “They didn’t want to help me further.”

Azriel tucked his wings back as he thought. He pushed his shoulders back.

“I want to train you,” he explained. “Both in combat and how to control your shadows.”

You didn’t hesitate as you agreed to take his training.

“Balance is the most important part of fighting, both with and without shadows,” Azriel explained to you.

It had been a week since the lake incident and your fever was long gone.

Azriel had met you twice during the week and finally agreed that you were healthy enough for training. What he didn’t know was that you’d been out hunting every day this week and had been categorizing yourself as healthy all along.

The two of you can found a clearing far away from anyone you knew and decided it would be your training spot.

Azriel had his shadows in every direction, so that you would know if anyone got close to where you were.

“We start with your right foot,” Azriel told you next. “You’ll need to balance and I’ll poke you with this stick trying to make you unbalanced. Got it?”

You nodded as you lifted your left foot off the ground.

“Do you always carry all your weight on your right foot when you stand?” Azriel asked you.

You were about to answer him when he poked you with the stick. You used all the strength you had, but managed to stay upright.

“Yes,” you answered him.

“We’ll have to change that,” he explained. “It’s a weakness that’s easy to notice.”

You knew he meant well, but you didn’t like that he talked about your weaknesses. You’d spent your entire life trying to hide your weaknesses and Azriel picked up on the weakest one within minutes of you two training.

You were soon pulled out of your thoughts when the male poked you again with his stick. This time, you didn’t do so well.

You lost balance completely and you were about to step down on your prosthetic leg, when you were covered in shadows.

Not yours, they would never help you like that, but Azriel’s. They felt a lot cooler than yours, but they were careful around you.

They helped you regain your balance and soon you stood still on your right foot once more.

“Our goals is for you to use your own shadows to stabilize you if you loose balance,” Azriel told you. “Just like my shadows just did. That way, we can practice both balance and shadow control at the same time.”

You nodded at him, but you felt like the task would be way too hard. Your shadows never listened to you other than shadow walking. They never liked to take directions from you.

Azriel looked like he was waiting for you and you realized he wanted you to let your shadows loose.

It felt extremely unnatural to let someone else see your shadows, but your shadows were ecstatic.

“Yayyyyy.”

“Friends!!!”

“Mate!”

“Safe!”

They immediately surrounded Azriel and both yours and his shadows started to dance together in the wind.

You liked to see them this happy. Usually they hid away and moved around slowly. You often thought of them as moody teenagers.

“You’re ready?” Azriel asked.

You were still standing on your right foot as Azriel did his best to get you unbalanced.

“Try to get them to help you,” he instructed you.

You drew a big breath and tried to lighten the tone of your voice.

“Can you help me stay balanced?” You asked your shadows. “Please?”

They reacted worse than you expected.

One second they were dancing around with their friends and the next one, they had pushed you so that you ended up on the ground.

You felt your cheeks getting red. You felt so embarrassed you couldn’t control the shadows that were a part of you.

You looked up to Azriel. He stood and held out a hand to help you up. You looked past his hand and glared at him. He wore a smug smile.

“Are you laughing at me?” You asked him. You were pretending to be annoyed, but you couldn’t lie, you’d never be annoyed at him for this.

He shrugged as he helped you stand.

“We’ll change to the other side, okay?”

You moved your weight over to your prosthetic and lifted your right leg off the ground.

“Ready?”

You nodded. You were struggling, so you spent all your energy staying balanced and had no energy left to answer him with words.

Azriel poked you with the stick and you immediately lost balance. You had to set down your right foot and you then spent a few moments before you managed to balance on your prosthetic once more.

You had a long way to go.

Azriel had left after your training session. He gave to you tasks before he left. First one was to practice balance on both your foot and prosthetic. The second one was to become friends with your shadows.

“They’re your companions,” he had said. “You’re supposed to help each other.”

So you decided that for them to be your friends, you had to make them happy. And your shadows loved two things more than everything else. They loved to be out in fresh air and they loved to bother you.

So your daily routine the last week had been you and your shadows, practicing balancing in the clearing you and Azriel had found. You would balance and they would try to overturn you. They were very rough against you, so you fell more times than you should in the beginning. However, your shadows have never been happier.

Throughout the next few weeks you would, after advice from Azriel, let your shadows roam free also when you weren’t with him. You would leave them at home if you left the house to meet with Master Raven and the rest of your hunting team, but you’d bring one that would cling to your tight the entire time.

If you went hunting, they would come with you. They would keep their distance, hiding behind trees or in bushes, but again one of them would always stay close to you.

After a while, they started to argue about who’d stay with you and who’d be on their own. The luckiest one was the one that was allowed to be with you on your adventures.

“My turn!”

“No, my turn!”

“You went last time!”

You learned to know the difference between the shadows and had different inside jokes with all of them.

They finally had become what Azriel had described them as: your companions, your friends.

As winter turned to spring and the nature begun to bloom, so did the relationship between you and your shadows.

However, also the relationship between you and Azriel had bloomed a little.

Not a lot, you were nowhere near accepting the mating bond, but you’d become friends at least. You’d start every training session by talking about what had happened since last.

You’d learn about his family, he’d learn about the people in your hunting group.

You’d told him nothing about why you were hunting or how you ended up in The Middle and he told you nothing about what he was working on. You had a mutual understanding that you both needed time before you could talk about that.

You one thing you knew for sure, you’d never been happier.

@i-have-a-thing-for-the-dark @saltedcoffeescotch @rcarbo1 @mrsjna @kitsunetori @thecraziestcrayon @blessthepizzaman

[junimosity]

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆Steam Your Nerves⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

pairing: HarveyxF!Reader

summary: after a painful harvest, you schedule a walk-in at Harvey's clinic to express concern of an old shoulder injury. his prescription? a trip to the hot springs to help you with some physical therapy.

w.c.: 3.8k

warnings: suggestive content (MDNI pls), fluff with a hint of something at the end, harvey makes a DAD JOKE *sirens blare*, mentions of minor injuries (i am not a medical professional), probably medical malpractice?

divider by @strangergraphics

Just a few more swings. 

The late August heat was seething through every pore on your body as you swung your scythe. Just a bit more wheat left in the field until you were ready to preserve it for the winter. You could see the end of the bed approaching, but Yoba, did it feel like a gridball field away. 

“Shit,” you groaned out as you maintained the right posture, swinging the tool back. That all too familiar peak season twinge sent a jolt from beneath your shoulder blade and down your arm. You couldn’t stop yet, but that old pain was seriously becoming less bearable. Swing and recoil, swing and recoil, you couldn’t help but bite down on your jaw with more force than your movements. 

The end of the bed came, and you were finally able to put the heavy tool down, grabbing your harvest bin to collect the final stretch of grain for the year. Well, almost final, if you included the amaranth that was due for a harvest in about a month. Lugging your harvest bin and scythe up to your storage shed, you couldn’t help but dread the feeling of doing that for a whole entire day again, not with the state of your shoulder. 

It had been a long while since you first noticed it; the pinch of a nerve hidden deep beneath your muscles on your right shoulder. It usually wasn’t too bad, but this time every year it always made an unwelcome appearance. You hung your harvest up to dry before checking the time, letting out a rough sigh of dissatisfaction. 

Nearly half past two. A record slow day for you, something that you knew would only worsen if you didn’t tackle the issue at hand. You wouldn’t be able to get all of your crops out of the field before they overgrew at this rate. Searching through your overall pockets, you slipped out your phone, scrolling through your contacts before selecting your doctor’s name. 

You bit at your lip, frustrated by the predicament you placed yourself in. It was a Friday, barely an hour left of the clinic’s working hours. If you had any chance of getting a walk-in, you’d have to drop him a call. But to see him in this state- 

Harvey wasn’t exactly just a doctor to you. You’d come to share a lot of different aspects of your life, spending free time at the park, a glass of wine at the saloon on the weekends, you’d even run into him at a few live music shows in Zuzu City. This blurred the lines a little, something you’d subconsciously wished for since the first day you moved to the valley and brought in your medical records. 

A line you hadn’t crossed, however, was showing up to an appointment without the courtesy of a shower and a clean pair of clothes. You hadn’t run into him in public at all without a little effort. But today, you’d spent the whole summer morning harvesting- clothes covered in chaff, soil, and dust, and body coated in a thick layer of grime. 

Staring at his contact with a grimace, you weighed your options; face another week of high season labor without attending to your nagging pain and with the financial repercussions of a potentially failed harvest, or let your hot doc see you a little gross. Knowing you didn’t have a choice, you pressed the number, bringing it up to your sweaty cheek to hear him pick up within a single ring. 

“Pelican Town Clinic, this is Dr. Harvey speaking. How can I help you?” Shit, he clearly had time for a walk-in if he was working the front desk. 

“Hey, Harvey,” you spoke casually, forgetting the formalities with your exhaustion. “It’s farmer (Y/N). I was wondering if you had time for another patient today?”

“Hey there! Yes, of course. It’s been slow today. What’s the matter?”

“Long story short, I think I've got some sort of shoulder injury. Pinched nerve, torn rotator cuff or whatever, I don’t know exactly what, but it’s starting to get in the way of my work.”

“All-righty…” he drew out, clearly grabbing your file as he spoke. “Okay, I’ll get your chart filled while you make your way over.”

“Thanks, I’ll be there in a few.” You sighed, hanging up before he could respond. Quickly ducking into your house to change your shoes and at least wash your hands and face, you grabbed your wallet and headed into town. 

It was only a few minutes before the end of the day when you stepped in, bell signaling Harvey to walk out the interior doors to greet you in the lobby. 

“Hey, made it just in time. C’mon back.”

“Thanks, I’m so sorry I came so late. It took me a lot longer to finish today than it should’ve.” Harvey held the door back open for you, leading you into the back. 

“I can understand why. Don’t sweat it, take a seat and I’ll get your vitals.” 

“Alright,” you sighed, placing yourself on the exam table, cringing a little at the thought of the dirt you’d probably leave behind. 

“So, tell me where the pain is.” Harvey directed as he busied himself with your blood pressure.

“Like, somewhere deep under my right shoulder blade. I can’t reach the spot with my hands to show you, but it's kind of above the center of it?” You tried to describe, lack of anatomical knowledge failing you. “It gets really bad this time of year.”

“This time of year? How many years?”

“Pff,” you blew through your lips as you tried to remember when it first started. “Jeez, since before I moved here for sure. Probably since college.” 

“College?!” Harvey yelped, dropping the stethoscope from his ears. “You can’t be serious.”

You shrugged your shoulders in response, wincing a little at the pain. 

“I haven’t had the time to get it checked out. My first few years here required a lot more of my time. Now though,” you trailed off, feeling a little ashamed for having held off on treatment. “I don’t know…”

“Better now than never. May I?” Harvey gestured to your back and you nodded, turning slightly so he could access your shoulder better. “Tell me when I’m close to it.”

“A little closer to the center, a bit- there,” you sighed, a little flow of relief at the notion of finding it as he pressed his fingers up against your shirt.

“Ah,” he noted, coming back around to face you. “This is a pretty common injury, pinched nerve for sure. It’s a bit inflamed right now, probably from all your hard work. I can print out some stretches and exercises you can do until the swelling goes down in a day or so, at which point I’d recommend you apply heat when you can. Have you finished most of your work for the week?” 

“Uh, yeah, I guess so. Definitely got in the last harvest needed until this upcoming Monday.”

“Good g-,” he responded with a choke. “Take it easy until the inflammation goes down, don’t try to lift too much, and definitely don’t overcompensate with your other side. If you really need assistance, don’t be afraid to reach out. I know you can’t just stop your work, but you’ve got a whole town worth of willing helpers.” 

“Thanks, Harvey,” you offered a half smile, admitting the defeat of needing rest during your busiest month. He helped you off the exam table and brought you back to the front, printing out a quick few pages from a file he’d already had open on his computer. Stapling them together, he grabbed a post-it and jotted something down.

“If any of the exercises don’t make sense, feel free to drop me a call on my cell phone. I’ll be around all weekend.”

“Oh, thank you,” you responded, a little raise in your pulse at having his personal number. “I’d hate to disturb your weekend.” 

“Knowing you, we’d probably end up running into each other anyway.”

“You’re not wrong about that,” you laughed tiredly. “How much for the visit?”

“You’re good to go. I’m not going to charge you for a print out…” Harvey laughed you off, guiding you to the front door before you could make any further complaint.

“Oh, are you sure?”

“Positive, (Y/N). I have to usually beg you to come and get checked out annually. I’m going to consider this one a blessing.”

You laughed gently, careful not to agitate your shoulder further before waving goodbye with your free hand, taking a moment to roll back the pained shoulder after he retreated back into the clinic. Wincing immediately, you looked down at the pamphlet, giving the exercises a go the whole way home. 

--

Sunday evening rolled in so very slowly. Your shoulder, although no longer screaming out in pain, remained a good deal sore as you sought out only your bare minimum tasks. You were counting down the hours until you could finally go to the baths, not wanting to further the inflammation with heat too early. As soon as five o'clock came around, you darted up, your pre-packed bag of your swimsuit and flip flops finding itself over your good shoulder as you headed out the door and up the mountain switchback. 

The steps were the most exercise you’d had in over a day, going to show just how quickly a lack of work would affect you. You were going over it in your head again and again; you could not afford this injury. You never could from the start, everything requiring such immediate action. You could’ve taken care of it over one of the many winters you’d spent in the valley, but Harvey always seemed so busy during flu season that you never wanted to pester him with such a little thing. Not when he was always so generous. If he’d let you off that easily, you could only imagine how much work he did for free in the busier months. 

The bathhouse was just up the next set of steps, your back aching mildly as you tried your hardest not to move your arms for momentum. You could hear the rushing water as you summited the steps, out of breath and eager to let yourself float amongst the steam. Inside, you changed gently, grimacing as you maneuvered your way through the straps of the top. Flip flops equipped and swimsuit haphazardly tied, you reached for your bag- fuck. You’d left the exercise guide in your living room, having used it during your lunch. In defeat, you closed the locker of your choice and slowly walked over the damp tiles into the bathhouse. 

Beautifully empty, as Sunday evenings tended to be. You kicked off your shoes at the poolside before stepping in slowly, one toe testing the temperature and flicking it off at the sudden heat. 

Suddenly, a door sounded from across the pool, sending your foot all the way in with alarm. You seethed for a second as you adjusted, looking over to see who entered from the other side.

Fogged glasses and green swim shorts adorned your doctor, the light from the pale blue pool reflecting off of him. 

“Harvey?” you laughed out. Unbelievable. He really spoke no lies, you two were guaranteed to run into one another the moment you both had free time. “Is that you?”

“Hah!” a sharp laugh sounded from across the bath. “I should’ve known!”

You stepped in further, shaking your head with a small laugh. Shocking coincidences began to feel like routine, one of you always ending up near the other. Your heart rate jumped up a good twenty beats per minute or so; he’d probably tell you off for it, too. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a bum shoulder as well?” you called, breathing sharply as the hot water poked your torso. 

“More like preventative measures for me. I haven’t seen you here before.” He waded in after removing his glasses by the poolside, a bit faster than you could manage. You could tell he came often by the way he practically jumped in. 

“Neither have I. I don’t make it up the mountain as often as I should.”

“Ah. I usually find myself here on Tuesdays after aer- uh, getting some exercise in.” 

“Harvey, we go to aerobics together.” You tried to get in deeper, but you couldn't quite make it past your waist before Harvey waded his way over to you. 

“Shh,” He raised a finger, earning a quip of laughter from you. 

“Who are you hiding it from at this point?” 

“The hill’s… they have eyes…”

“Oh my Yoba,” you giggled, having walked right into his dad-joke trap. 

“Once you get in it’s not as bad. C’mon,” he glided to you from beneath the water, a wet hand reaching up to grab one of the ones you were subconsciously holding up beneath your chin, covering your chest. You extended your right hand out, attempting to take his, but the moment your weight shifted you collapsed, shoulder zapping you. “Shit!”

“Whoa there,” You fell into Harvey, grasping at his shoulder with your left hand as he guided you into the water, no splashes made. “Shoulder still giving you this much pain?”

“Y-yeah,” you twinged, the mixture of the sudden heat and residing pain disorienting you. “I’ve been taking it easy, I promise.”

“Hey, hey,” Harvey soothed, letting go of your weight and letting you find your own footing. “I believe you,”

“I’ve been doing the exercises too, all of them! I’ve been trying to memorize them but I left the pamphlet at home, I’m so sorry.”

“(Y/N), why are you apologizing? I believe you. You don’t need to defend yourself.” He reassured. “Just relax. You coming to the hot springs tells me you’re taking this seriously, not that you’d need to prove anything to me.”

Your neck immediately released a season’s worth of tension. He was right, you didn’t have anything to prove. The manic mindset of your injury equating failure; that was a Joja mentality. It seemed all those years spent behind a desk couldn’t be undone by a few on the farm. 

“Thank you, Harvey,” you smiled at him. “For everything. I can’t even go to the bath without your help.” He lifted his chin, a chuff escaping his mouth in a mild version of his laugh from before. 

“That’s not true. It’s just another happenstance. By the way, you should probably skip aerobics this week.”

“That’s for sure,” you responded, subconsciously reaching your hand over your chest to the top of your shoulder, clenching your jaw as you couldn’t quite reach.

Harvey’s face contorted in an unfamiliar way- his lips pursing and moving to the side as his brows furrowed. You caught his glance, about to ask what was up when you realized it- you’d never seen him without his glasses. Your hand fell into the water slowly as you looked into his eyes, finding them glued to your collarbone- no, shoulder. Definitely your shoulder. 

“Do- do you need a hand?” he asked, eyes meeting yours after lingering a moment longer. Your eyes flashed, cheeks heating from the steam. “Sorry, I just, I know a few massages that might help. Nerve compressions…”

“Nerve compressions,” you repeated, nodding your head with permission. “Sounds, uh, sounds good.”

“May I?” Harvey’s hands breached the water, beckoning you to turn around. You nodded again, this time turning, making sure any lingering hair fell over your left shoulder. “Let me know when I’ve found it again.”

“Mhmm,” you nearly purred, hearing him wade just a little closer as his warm hands found your skin. He didn’t have to search, not really, as he placed his hands upon your shoulder and immediately slid them into place. “Right there,” you whispered. 

“Right,” he confirmed, gently pressing his thumb into the space beneath your shoulder blade. Your neck arched back slightly, chin feeling the steam from the pool beneath you as it greeted the ceiling. “Let me know if I’m being too firm.”

“No, you’re good. Firm is good.”

“Alright, whatever you say,” he confirmed once again. Pressing in deeper, moving his hands this time, you let out a sharp sigh, being oh so careful not let any true vocalization out. Any hint of it would be greatly exacerbated in that echo chamber of a hot spring. He continued, moving up with his fingers, the steam keeping your skin slick beneath his trained hands. 

Your head fell forward, no longer able to hold back the immense relief as each push of his hands felt less and less painful. It was like he was moving the pain out of your muscles, sending it on its way through your bloodstream, the cluster of muscle loosening.

“Yoba’s sake, I can feel how tense you are. When was the last time you were up here?” Harvey wondered aloud, albeit lowly. 

“Yikes, maybe my first year here? After the rockslide cleared?” 

“As your doctor, I’m going to encourage you to make a trip a little more often. And as your friend, I’m going to tell you to come up here as often as you can. You’re loosening up so easily after just being in the water for a bit.”

“You sure it's not the ‘nerve compressions’?” you bantered. 

“I’ll let you be the judge of that,” he softened. You could feel his breath on your neck- if it weren’t for the toasty waters, your hairs would be standing taller than the mountain you sat atop of. 

“Oh, fuck,” you groaned, bringing up a hand to slap over your mouth immediately afterwards. Harvey had just found the real core of the nerve, smoothing it out with one go. He eased up, but didn’t fully stop, as you turned your head ever so slightly to see him sucking in his lips and holding back a grin. “Please don’t laugh,”

Your plea broke him, making a breathy chuckle fall through his lips as you turned back around and placed your head in your hands.

“Don’t worry about it, please. It was just sudden,” Harvey continued, feeling you tense up beneath his hands again. “Hey,” he consoled, moving even closer to try and comfort you. 

“It’s totally fine, I just surprised myself as well,” you squeaked out. 

“I’m not going to judge you, (Y/N). I just want you to feel better,” he pushed your hair back over your shoulder, it having fallen back when you looked at him. “I want you to feel good.”

Looking out at the pool from your hands, you took in a steady breath. 

What a thing to say…

Your body responded before you could think of a response, hands dropping back into the water and shoulders straightening for him. How obedient you were to his wants. 

“Good,” Harvey squeezed the top of your shoulders before continuing back to the one at hand. “You’re doing great.”

“Mm,” was all you could offer in response. “Ah,” you let out a little more as he found that spot again, working it so well that you found yourself moving along to the same rhythm of his hands. 

“Right there?”

“Yes, shit, Harvey,” you called gently, the release of your pain so good that you couldn’t care anymore. “Right there.”

“Good, good,” he croaked out, his voice… was his voice shakier than yours? You could hear him swallow dryly behind you. 

“Wait,” you spoke, stepping forward in the water a little before turning back around, finding him riper than a cherry. “Harvey…”

“I’m so sorry,” he backtracked. “If it was too much, we don’t have to-”

“Harvey,” you tried to stop him, stepping forward as he stepped back.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,”

“Harv.” You commanded gently as his back found the edge of the pool. “You…” you tried to find your words as he scanned your face, blushed from ear to ear. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

He stared at you for a moment, the small hint of fear and shame on his face shifting into curiosity before he shook his head no, ever so slowly. 

Fuck it.

You took another step towards him, dangerously close to his face. 

“Hmm?” you hummed in the same tone of your previous question. . 

“Not at all,” he answered back with a hush, features finally relaxing as your shoulder had before. 

“Good,” you breathed, taking yourself just an inch from his lips before looking up at his eyes again, then back down. “You were doing so good.”

You placed a kiss on his lips, and he melted. He sank a little into the water as you wrapped your arms around his neck, his own finding their way to the small of your back to pick you up ever so slightly. You couldn’t help but moan into his mouth the way you had aloud before, silently begging for this outcome the moment you saw him enter the other side of the pool. 

He greeted the sounds with his arms tightening around you, hands gripping to you like you could wash away in the spring if he let you go. Your lips broke apart, letting you gasp for air as you looked into his wanting, needing eyes. 

“Are you in pain at all?” he asked, placing your feet back to the bottom of the pool before bringing a hand to your cheek. He wasn’t begging with those beautiful hazel eyes. He was checking on you, making sure you were being taken care of. Your heart seized momentarily as you let out a little sigh of exasperation. 

“No, not at all. Not right now.”

“It might take some time for it to fully go away,” he continued, eyes focused just on yours, not your shoulder. He was nurturing you, not just your injury. “Let me help you around the farm this week. I know what you're going to say, but you don't have to worry about the clinic It’s the slow season for me, I don’t have anything scheduled. I want to help.” 

“How could I even think of saying no to that,” you almost cried out, the internal weight of the situation lifting off of your pained shoulder. “Of course you can, Harvey.”

“It would be an honor. Plus, I’d finally get to see you work in those overalls you wore on Friday.”

Your jaw dropped at the bravado, a laugh finding its way out before Harvey pulled you in for another kiss. You happily obliged, feeling his smiling lips greet yours. His hands found their way beneath your thighs, lifting you up with ease beneath the water and beginning to move.

“Where are you taking us?” You laughed out, watching as he carried you through the spring. 

Harvey smiled to himself, stopping for a moment to look back at the doors before pressing forward with a kiss to your collarbone.

“The next room,” he whispered, “a private bath.”

[joelsprettyprincess]

Taming of the Shrew - Part 2

Pairing: dark!Arthur Morgan x f!reader Summary: Although you've ended your relationship with Arthur, he gets you to agree to one final rendezvous. Series-wide tags: Toxic relationships, manipulation, obsessive behavior, smut, secretly unprotected piv, babytrapping, pregnancy, canon-typical violence, slight canon-typical misogyny. Wordcount: 3.7k A/N: I was not expecting that much love on part 1! I'm so glad yall enjoyed! Here's part 2 and where things get juicy 🤭. And before you ask, yes they had condoms in 1899!! They just weren't very good.. Also, I do not profess to be an expert on pregnancy, I just looked things up and hoped for the best. 😭 Sorry if anything's inaccurate. This chapter contains smut. And as always MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Tags: @dandelion-ranch @i-will-give-you-love @amaranth-writing @heloixe @buneio @warmsideofthepillow03 @thoughts-of-bear @luzzbuzz

Part 1 Part 3

Several days had passed since you told Arthur to never speak to you again.

You didn’t mean it. You couldn’t have. Your love, though short, had burned like a phoenix: though it was currently snuffed, Arthur knew it would soon rise again.

He knew better than to approach you again, though. So he wrote a letter.

My love.

My darling, my princess. I am in pain while writing this. Not because of any physical injury, but because I miss you badly indeed. My heart burns for you, for your touch, your skin on mine, even just one last time.

I am certain you feel the same way. If you do, please meet me at our spot near Ringneck Creek at noon next Monday.

I swear this will be the last time I will contact you. If you don’t show, I’ll know your decision is final. However I know you will. I know our love was something real. Please don’t make a fool of me.

Forever yours,

Arthur

Arthur posted the letter on a Monday, giving you nearly a full week to make a decision. He was on edge after that, wondering if you would actually show. Would you bring your father, or even a bounty hunter, to capture him? Or would you just not show at all?

Thankfully most everyone in camp left him alone; the news of your loud departure had spread fast. There was the occasional ribbing from Micah, but he was like a mosquito buzzing in everyone’s face. Arthur paid him no mind.

Dutch told him it was a waste of time. 

“Women are a complete mystery, son,” he told him Sunday night, puffing on his cigar. “Trust me, you’re better off being single forever.” He didn’t seem to care that Molly was behind him in the tent, hopefully sleeping.

But he didn’t know the inner workings of Arthur’s mind. Didn’t know what he planned to do.

Monday morning, he bathed and trimmed his beard. As much as he hated to admit it, Arthur was nervous.

He scoffed. Headshotting O’Driscolls barely raised his heart rate, but the thought of seeing you again had him jumpy like that Kieran boy.

Arthur rode over to the spot early. It was a good isolated spot a little ways away from the creek, where you two had slept together a couple times.

He spread down a blanket and cleaned his guns while he waited for you.

About half an hour later, he heard the crunching of leaves and turned around. Your familiar form entered his field of vision; suddenly, Arthur was breathless.

You were here. You’d actually come. And you appeared to be alone.

You hitched your horse next to his, then came down to the blanket. “Hey,” you said, smiling softly.

“Yes, well.” You smoothed your skirts. “Just can’t help m’self, I suppose. But listen, Arthur…this is the last time I’m seeing you. Seriously. I don’t even know why I came here–”

Arthur pulled you down beside him. “You came.” He cleared his throat. “I knew you would.”

“Alright, shh,” Arthur interrupted, taking your hand in his and softly pressing his lips to yours.

“Mm,” you sighed, immediately melting into his touch. He might be rough around the edges, but Arthur surely knew how to treat a woman. You’d already forgotten what you were gabbing on about.

Arthur wasted no time in deepening the kiss and pushing his tongue past your lips. “That’s my good girl,” he murmured, one hand cupping your cheek and the other on your hip.

You spent a few minutes exploring each other’s mouths and letting your hands wander. Eventually your positions shifted so Arthur was nearly laying on top of you. He spoke again.

“Come back,” he whispered. “I can’t live without you.”

That voice. It was sweet as honey. It made you want to follow him to the ends of the earth.

You avoided his gaze, pursing your slightly swollen, glazed lips. “Arthur, I can’t–”

“You love the bloodshed,” he spoke in your ear. His hand went under your skirt and ghosted over your bloomers. “You crave it. Stop actin’ like you don’t.”

“No–”

Arthur silenced you with another kiss, capturing your lips and claiming them as his, as he had done so many times before. Yet it never got old; the lusty looks and burning touches lit you on fire.

You whimpered as he slipped his hand inside your bloomers.

“We both know this doesn’t lie,” he murmured, barely grazing your folds. He kept his bright eyes steadily focused on you while he used just one finger to tease you.

A quiet moan escaped your lips.

Arthur seemed eager to get on with it. He lifted your skirt and removed your underthings, carefully setting them beside you on the blanket.

“Did my pretty girl miss me?” he breathed, massaging your thighs. You whined just a little, already anticipating his touch.

Arthur traced your bare cunt, enjoying watching you squirm.

“Arthur,” you whispered in a choked voice. 

He shucked off his pants, then laid down between your legs. 

Arthur was gentleman enough to service you first. He put your legs on either side of his face, and breathed in the natural scent of your pussy, again barely grazing the already soaked lips with his finger.

“S-Stop teasing me, dammit,” you moaned. He smiled. It was almost fun to see how quickly he could get you to come undone, begging for his touch.

Arthur started with small licks on the inner parts of your thighs. Your legs immediately tried to come together, but he held them apart and kept licking. Your chest heaved up and down as you tried to stay still. 

He traveled up your thighs and paused just before he got to your cunt. Taking two fingers, Arthur spread your lips apart, marveling at the amount of slick already coating your entrance.

“Ah- ah, d-don’t- mmgh,” you cried. His touch was so depraved and satisfying. 

Arthur dove in, pushing his tongue into your warm, sticky entrance. He gripped your thighs with his hands and held them up as he fully ate you out. He got messy with it very quickly, suckling on everything he could get a hold of.

You cried out and gripped his hair hard, bucking your hips. This kind of pleasure was completely unheard of and forbidden for girls like you, and that made it all the more filthy. You loved it. You loved every second of it. No man had ever touched you like this before, and you doubted any man ever would.

He removed his mouth for a second and rubbed circles around your sweet spot. “You’re lovin’ it, aren’t you, sweet girl?”

You breathed in and out loudly. “Yes,” you whined shamelessly. 

Arthur pushed his tongue back in, appreciating how your walls tightened around him. He swore he could feel your heartbeat, pulsing in time with his.

You grinded against his face, spreading your juices everywhere, going crazy at the lewd noises being produced.

“Arthur– oh, Arthur, yes, please–”

You were getting close. It never took long for you to cum, but apparently you were touch starved right now.

Abruptly, Arthur pulled back from your pussy, breathing heavily and licking his lips.

You panted too. “Why’d you stop?”

He paused, then quickly pulled off his boxers. Oh.

Arthur pushed you down again and rubbed his girthy, veiny cock up and down your soaked pussy. 

The thick mushroom head was poking at your entrance, and you wanted to let him in, but…

“Do you have…protection?” you whispered.

He nodded. “Course.” He pulled a condom packet out of his pants pocket. A primitive thing, to be sure, but it was part of the plan.

Arthur pulled it on, then nosed his tip so it was just breaching your entrance. You sighed loudly, spreading your legs a bit more.

He pushed in. A creamy noise was produced, but even louder was your pained moan. It was a stretch to fit him in, even when he had prepped you first.

This was only the second time he’d gone all the way like this. There was no reliable way of avoiding pregnancy, so you simply didn’t allow him to do it. But this was a special occasion. After this, you were done with each other, forever.

Arthur sighed and pushed into you even further, watching your pussy lips greedily suck in his cock.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured. “Letting me in so nicely.”

He started to thrust in and out slowly. You threw your head back and panted, whining loudly and mumbling his name.

His cock repeatedly filled you to the brim and you squeezed your tight walls around him. Your juices quickly coated the condom, allowing him to more easily push the rest of his cock in.

Soon he was pushing in and out, all the way to the burst of hair at his base. Arthur groaned lowly, biting your shoulder and holding onto your hips with his big hands, kneading your ass.

After a few minutes of bliss, he shifted positions; Arthur pressed your legs almost to your chest and held them there, hitting deeper and deeper into your sticky cunt. 

You moaned loudly, finding his hair again and holding it tightly. His full balls slapped against your ass.

“Like that?” he muttered. “You like that, you uppity little–” He groaned loudly, going faster and rougher.

“Arthur, Arthur,” you sobbed, curling your toes. “Please, I’m g-gonna–”

With a muffled cry, you came undone on his cock, toes curling, legs shaking, cunt spasming and letting out more of your juices all over his cock and the blanket.

“That’s right, let it out, sweetheart,” he gasped. “I’m close too, baby, shit–”

Arthur pressed himself into you and stilled, panting, eyes tightly shut. You could feel his cock twitching as he rode out his orgasm in your soaked through cunt.

His lips collided with yours in a sloppy, desperate kiss, and he slowly thrusted a couple more times before pulling out.

The condom was smeared in your juices.

Arthur sighed. “Hopefully it didn’t break. I tried to get a good one.”

You chuckled nervously. “Hopefully not.”

He helped you clean up, wiping you down and putting your clothes back on. You hoped his smell (it wasn’t a bad one, just distinct) wouldn’t cling to your clothes.

“I’m sorry it had to be like this,” you told him as you prepared to remount your horse. “But if you ever decide to stop being an outlaw…you know where to find me.”

“I love you,” Arthur said simply.

You flushed, and looked away. 

“Goodbye, Arthur.”

You rode off.

Arthur waited till you were out of sight to smile.

You were really gullible. A condom, seriously? Even pulling out was more reliable. These things broke more easily than a cheap lock. Even if it hadn’t, he’d cut a small hole into the tip that ensured he’d painted your walls white. If it dripped out, you would probably just assume it to be your own juices.

Now it was just a waiting game.

Two months later.

Your maid, Elisabeth, stared at you frightfully as you bent over a bucket for the 3rd time this week, vomiting horribly. You breathed heavily, then vomited again. There was nothing even in your stomach, which made it so much worse.

“Are you alright, ma’am?’ she squeaked, standing by with a towel.

You were too nauseous to answer. You clutched your stomach, head spinning and mind racing.

Your stomach had been in shambles this week and the last, and it was getting concerning.

After a few labored breaths, you grabbed the towel and wiped off your mouth. “Let's visit the doctor.”

Elisabeth gave you some cool water to sip, which helped a bit but not much. You could hardly stand to get on the carriage, and then it was like you were on a merry-go-round with the way it was hitting every bump in the road.

You leaned over the side and emptied your stomach yet again.

It was possible this sickness had a terrifying explanation, one that you couldn't even begin to imagine. Lord, protect me, you prayed despairingly. 

One agonizingly slow and nauseating ride later, you pulled up next to the doctor's office. Elisabeth had to coax you down, and she was clearly scared you would projectile vomit on her. The world was swimming around you and had a hazy feel.

You stumbled into the office and leaned against the cool wall.

“You alright, ma'am?” a voice asked. It was Dr. Williams, an older gentleman who'd been in Rhodes for years.

“I-I think I have a fever,” you whispered, fanning yourself. “Been throwing up everywhere.”

He quickly escorted you to a room in the back, and you collapsed into the chair. 

Dr. Williams examined you, looking inside your mouth and pressing various points on your body.

“Any symptoms besides vomiting?” he inquired.

You shook your head. “Don't believe so.”

“When did they start?”

“I'd say…maybe two weeks ago.”

He hummed and thought for a bit while examining you. “Is there a chance you could be with child?”

You started, then stopped, then froze.

No…

“Err,” you stuttered.

He waited for your answer.

“I-I-...well, I suppose it ain't impossible,” you admitted fearfully.

Dr. Williams nodded. “Unless you have some strange fever, it is my opinion that you're suffering from morning sickness.”

Your heart dropped to your feet and started beating like a jackrabbit's. No. No. Lord, please.

“That can't be true,” you said desperately. “It-It- was so long ago…I don't…”

“It takes a bit for symptoms to present,” the doctor explained.

“B-But I can't, I can't be,” you cried, panicking. “You don't understand, my life is over if I'm with child. Over!” You stood up and started pacing around.

“Admittedly it’s still too early to tell for certain,” Dr. Williams allowed. “However, I have seen this many times before. There are options–”

“No! There are no options!” you snapped. “I am the daughter of an oil baron and a society lady! J-just imagining the shame, the disgrace–...my mother will kill me. And if she doesn't, I'll be sent away to the corners of the earth.” 

You burst into tears at this declaration, falling to your knees and covering your face in shame. Dr. Williams hung back, perhaps sensing that you needed a minute.

After you collected yourself and stood up, you said in a quiet, cold voice: “There is no way I am pregnant. I thank you for your expertise, Dr. Williams, but in this case you are incorrect. I simply have a fever. Good day.”

You swept out of the building with your head held high, collecting your maid and getting back on the carriage. 

The two of you had barely left the town borders before you broke down and started crying again. Pregnant? A child? You? It could not be true. It could not. 

And…and definitely not by Arthur, of all people. He was like a firecracker, burning hot and dangerous, the exact opposite of a…father.

Even that word burned acrid on your tongue.

“Do you need somethin’, miss?” Elisabeth asked tentatively.

You sighed, wiped your face, and shook your head sadly. “No…no thank you. I'm alright.”

The ride back home was silent save for your sniffles and forlorn sighs. You refused to accept this possibility.

You felt you would rather be tarred and feathered than even think about telling your mother about your condition. Your outburst at Dr. Williams had barely covered it; your parents were continually telling you to act perfectly, to never step out of line. Even though they were far from perfect.

Your mother was the biggest hypocrite you knew. She thought you didn't see her inviting the help in for "tea". Well, you did, not that you cared much. It was just sickening that she set expectations for you that she herself had never reached.

She'd threatened you with the nunnery before, after catching you with one of the stable boys. Said that “wicked girls were destined for the deepest pits of hell.” Hmph. She was definitely an expert on the subject.

As for your father, well, he wasn't much better. Though he didn't verbally abuse you like your mother, he viewed you more like a liability among his property. You were certain he would marry you off if it would benefit his emerging empire. He would see this…predicament as something that could damage his reputation. If your mother chose to send you away, you doubted he would make much of a fuss.

Thankfully, the churning in your stomach faded on the way home, and only your mind remained in shambles. 

You tried to avoid your mother when you arrived at the manor, but of course she was in the front room, waiting for you.

“What did the doctor say?” she inquired as you put down your things.

“Just a mild fever,” you replied shortly, then power walked to your room. But she followed.

“Are you sure? Do you have a temperature? Did he give you any medicine?” she pressed, following your impatient footsteps right up to your bedroom door.

“Mother, I'll be fine. It's not serious,” you said angrily, then closed the door behind you firmly.

You waited until her heels clicked away down the wooden stairs, then collapsed on your bed and sobbed some more.

My life might be over.

A month and a half later.

Your life was over.

Completely and utterly.

The nausea had not stopped, and in fact it got worse the week after you went to the doctor. That had been the peak of pain, but it still remained for another two weeks afterwards, lurking like some shadowy beast.

Your dresses, tailored exactly to your measurements, had become just a little bit tighter. At first you had brushed it off as an indulgent diet, or just stress weight, but even your mother had commented on how your dress was pulled tight over your torso.

After that, you took care to hide your body under the heaviest dresses you could manage. But it was summer by now, and staying out of sight was a tall order.

Your mother repeatedly asked you to go to the doctor again, and perhaps seek out a second opinion, and you refused, insisting that it was just a fever. But you could tell she wasn’t believing you. She gave you strange looks when you said you felt nauseous yet again.

It was a stormy day in June when you finally had the courage to take off your clothes and examine your body in the floor-length, gilded mirror in your boudoir.

A mistake.

Your blood turned to ice as you saw the unmistakable bump that was forming.

Your breathing accelerated along with your mind, thoughts racing and jumbling and colliding, coming to one stunning, awful conclusion:

I’m pregnant.

You were pregnant. With child. An expectant mother.

What a joke.

You? A mother? What a ridiculously absurd notion. You would sooner be a clown in a traveling circus.

And…that man was the father. The man that haunted your thoughts and your dreams, the man whose scent still clung ever so faintly to one of your riding dresses. The man whose mere name sent shivers down your spine.

Arthur Morgan.

-

You put your clothes back on, then left the room, intending to get a snack, but before even making it to the stairs your mother pounced on you.

“Alright, I simply must insist that you tell me what is really going on,” she declared. “No fever lasts this long, and you have no temperature at all.”

You tried to dodge her, but she blocked your path, clearly dead set on getting an answer from you.

“It’s nothing, Mother, I told you before,” you said, irritated. It absolutely was not nothing, but you needed time to plan your strategy. 

“If it’s nothing, why have you been nauseous for the past…” She paused, then narrowed her eyebrows. 

Before you could step back, she poked your stomach with one finger. You of course involuntarily jumped back.

“What- What are you doing?” you gasped, nervous.

“Let me see your stomach.”

“What?”

She pushed you towards your room. “I said, let me see your stomach, girl. Lift up your skirts.”

You scoffed, heart pounding like a drum. “Why would I do that?”

You were forced back into your bedroom, and your mother closed and locked the door behind her. “I just want to look at it.”

This was quite a pickle.

“I- I really don’t think that’s necessary, Mother-”

She grabbed at your skirts, impatient. You jumped back. “Stop it! Fine, I will.”

She was going to find out eventually.

Your mother crossed her arms and waited with anticipation as you slowly lifted your skirt. The blood was rushing in your ears and you prayed to God that you would survive the next five minutes.

Eventually your skirt revealed the still developing but definitely noticeable bump you had.

The room was dead silent. Your mother stared at your belly in shock, lips slightly parted. 

Then her mouth closed and formed a hard scowl. “Would you care to explain the meaning of this?”

You blinked several times, trying to find your voice, but it was lost and long gone.

“Are you-” She swallowed hard. “Are you…with child?”

She stared at you. Her glare kept you still and pinned you down like a bug on display.

You eventually nodded, wordless and terrified.

“And who is the father, pray tell?”

You just stared at the ground.

“Answer me, girl,” she said sharply.

There was no way you were going to tell her that. It would genuinely be better for her to assume you were so loose you couldn’t even pinpoint the father.

Your mother pinched her nose, and sighed, shaking her head. “We’re going to have a little talk with your father when he comes home. Remain in your room; I have no desire to see you anymore.” With those pleasant parting words, she stomped out, slamming the door behind you.

Once her footsteps faded away, you sat on your bed, numbly thinking of what to do. 

Your father was sure to agree with any punishment your mother dreamed up. He was more like a manager than a father, and he had no qualms about letting a bad employee go.

Or…or maybe he wouldn’t? Perhaps his indifference would work in your favor, and he would tell your mother not to bother? Maybe he’d even pay someone to take care of it.

These were all hypotheticals. There was no telling what would really happen until it actually occurred.

Your father was due home soon. It was just your luck that he was taking a half-day in the office.

Ugh.

End of Part 2.

[captainmullin]

realizing that this means I have to read '...and you' again (I'm going to start crying)

once I graduate, my summer plan is to possibly reread all of the gbf events so I'm locked in for the MSQ update

[tsunami-of-tears]

Haunted – Part One

Elain x Medium!Reader (sapphic) Rhys x Medium!Reader (platonic)

AO3

Summary: When Amarantha heard of the strange fae girl who could communicate with spirits, she had her hunted down and brought to her court Under The Mountain. Now trapped with the High Lords, Y/N seeks comfort and protection from Rhysand, and the pair develop a secret friendship. Once freed by Feyre’s actions, Rhys brings Y/N back to Velaris with him.

A/N: I’ve decided to split this into multiple parts as it’s lengthy. Part One is the backstory for Y/N and Rhys Under The Mountain and when they first arrive back in Velaris. I just adore the friendship Y/N develops with Rhys ❤️ He really does like to collect strays 😂 Thank you @shadowdaddies for asking about this WIP, I don't think I'd have worked on it otherwise!

Wordcount: 3.4K

Warnings: Reader can speak to the dead, so this is very grief/loss heavy and there are lots of ‘ghosts’; general trauma themes (+ healing); Amarantha, the Attor + UTM; mentions of physical torture and suicidal ideation.

Cold, spindly fingers grip my arm tightly as I’m dragged closer to the dais by the Attor. He shoves me down, pinching sharply into my shoulder and forcing me to kneel before the High Queen. My knees throb upon impact with the red marble. The smacking sound of skin on stone echoes through the hushed hall.

I feel eyes on me from all sides, from the surrounding fae that make up Amarantha’s court. Their chatter dulls as they take in the commotion. 

The Attor stands straight behind me and announces his findings, “As you commanded, your Majesty. The spirit girl.”

Amarantha drums her fingers along the arm of her throne, her dagger-sharp red nails clacking against the stone. “Ah yes, I've heard many stories about this one,” she says, smiling cruelly. “Girl, what’s your name?” 

“Y/N,” I respond flatly, quickly remembering to add ‘Your Majesty’ at the end.

Amarantha toys with the gold chain around her neck, and the charm– no, the bone– hanging from it. “Jurian, what do you think? Do you think the claims are true?”

The man standing beside the Queen steps forward with his arms folded across his chest, his form flickers as he moves. He is human, or was, judging by his rounded ears. “Do you truly care for my thoughts, or do you just like to hear yourself speak?” Jurian asks, rolling his eyes. Those eyes - so alike the one on Amarantha’s finger...

I push myself off the ground and stand up tall, shrugging off the bony clutches of the Attor. “Jurian would like to know if you truly want his opinion, or if you just like the sound of your own voice.” 

A gasp ripples through the court and Amarantha gives me a serpentine smile. “So, the little pet does have teeth–” she looks down, inspecting her nails, before returning my defiant gaze– “but can she use them?” 

“Rhysand,” Amarantha calls across the court. 

A handsome man steps forward, amusement flickering in his violet eyes as he takes me in before bowing deeply to Amarantha. He straightens, inclining his head, “Yes, my Queen?”

“Look into her mind, can she truly speak to those that have departed this mortal realm?”

The male, Rhysand, bows his head again and I feel a night-kissed breeze caressing my senses. ‘Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you,’ a deep, soothing voice says directly into my mind.

How are you doing that? 

‘I’ll explain later. For now, be careful what you say. Her sister, Clythia, is a very sore spot.’ 

I’m not afraid of her.

Surprise and amusement that is not my own ripples within me. ‘I know,’ the voice says before fading away without a trace. 

Rhysand rises, addressing the Queen. “Her power is real, Majesty. She can see Jurian standing beside you. He looks quite well, considering...” 

Amaranth claps her hands together at his confirmation. “Wonderful, this is wonderful news. Oh, you and I are going to have such fun together.” She waves a hand towards me, my dismissal. “Attor, take her to her room. I don't feel like speaking to the dead at present.”

————

I finally have some privacy in my chambers. The room is small and plainly furnished. There’s very little warmth amongst all the dark stone, I wrap my arms around myself in an attempt to fight the growing chills. 

I’m alone for the first time in many years. Not even the dead walk these halls, so I only have my thoughts to keep me company. 

I feel relieved that being tortured was not in the Queen’s plans for me, at least not yet. And I’m fortunate to get a room instead of a cell. Yes, I think I can make this work. 

A soft knock sounds against the wooden door, jolting me from my thoughts.

Has she changed her mind about sparing me? 

I move swiftly to open the door; hoping to find a friend, not foe, on the other side of it. 

The handsome male from earlier, Rhysand, is lazily leaning against the wall across from my door, picking at the embroidered collar of his black jacket. 

“Good evening, Y/N,” he purrs, pushing off from the wall. “May I come in?” 

I step back and allow Rhysand entrance. His power swirls around him as he moves, like a cloak of liquid night. 

“I apologise that there wasn’t time for proper introductions earlier. I’m Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court,” he offers, bowing his head to me. 

High Lord. Of course.

At Rhysand’s admission, memories of Prythian’s history flood my mind. I recognised his name, and the black clothes should have been a giveaway… But his actions thus far did not match any of the stories I’ve heard about the formidable High Lord.

Rhysand gives me a sad smile. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but unfortunately we’re both stuck here. Do your best to keep out of trouble, and don’t do anything to piss her off. You’re now a member of this dreadful court, so you’ll need to attend all the festivities.” Rhysand emphasises ‘festivities’ with a nonchalant wave of his hand. 

“Me? But I’m no one special.”

Violet eyes bore into mine as if they could see into my soul. 

“You are special. Amarantha covets power - that’s why we’re both here in this position. My kind is called daemati. I can enter minds - make someone my puppet, read every single thought they’ve ever had, or I can destroy them from the inside out.” Rhysand looks to the floor, unable to hold my gaze as he continues. 

“I don’t like to violate people that way unless absolutely necessary. I only got a glimpse of your thoughts, but it was enough to know I can trust you. I have to wear that mask around the others, but I’ll try to help you however I can.”

“Thank you. I don’t understand why you’re helping me, but I appreciate it. And I won’t tell anyone about… this.” Whatever this is.  

Rhysand looks back at me, nodding once in acknowledgement. “Dinner is in two hours. You’ll need to dress up, I’ll have some of my handmaids come to assist you. Do not show any weakness here. She detests it and will destroy you.”

As Rhysand is about to leave, a woman with large batlike wings manifests beside him. Her form shimmers, her skin a dull pallor. She reaches out as if to touch his inky black hair but her hand doesn’t make contact. The woman’s hazel eyes portray endless love and sadness. “Y/N, please tell Rhys that Juno is proud of the male he’s become.” 

He freezes as I relay the message from the beautiful woman. A single tear falls, leaving a trail of silver down his cheek.

“I didn’t think she was watching,” Rhysand whispers. “I don’t deserve her pride.”

I softly wipe away his tears, reaching for his hand and squeezing it. “We don’t show weakness out there, but you can with me.”

Rhysand nods, squeezing my hand back. “Deal. And the same applies to you,” he says.

I feel a flash of heat down my forearm. My brow scrunches in shock as I drop Rhysand’s hand and pull my sleeve up. On my arm, there’s a mark that wasn’t there before. A mass of black whorls around a crescent moon. 

Rhysand smirks at my contorted expression. “It’s a Night Court tradition to mark our bargains with a tattoo.” 

I sigh, shaking my head. “I’m aware of the practice, but you could’ve gone with something more inconspicuous.” 

“I think it suits you, Y/N,” Rhysand says, his grin wide. “And as we’re now linked for life, you can call me Rhys.” 

Rhys winks at me as he heads towards the door, “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Prick.

‘I heard that.’

I smile smugly, shutting the door in Rhys’s cocky face. Prick is a much more suitable nickname. 

————

The following morning I am summoned to attend the High Queen’s court. Rhys stayed true to his word about helping me, sending his handmaids to dress me. 

I never needed such finery in the villages I frequented. Before Amarantha, I travelled between a few temples, offering my services to the Priestesses. Gods, I miss my old life - the days spent on the open roads, the peace I could bring people. There was no peace to be found near Amarantha. 

The twins, Nuala and Cerridwen, help me into a gauzy white dress. There are enough layers that it’s not seethrough, and the panels float around me as I move. They dust my face with a light powder and line my eyes with black kohl. They also do my hair, braiding the top section and leaving the rest to flow freely down my back. 

I get a glimpse in the mirror before I leave the room, doing a double take at the female staring back at me. 

She looks like a ghost. 

Amarantha’s eyes track me as I walk the length of the room towards her throne. She smirks as I bow deeply before her. 

“You wished to see me, Majesty,” I say, keeping my head low and eyes on the floor. 

“My my, don’t you scrub up well when you’re among civilised company,” Amarantha sneers. “Rise, girl. I wish to speak with my sister. I’m sure you’ve heard of her.” 

Beside Amarantha, Jurian scoffs. 

“It doesn’t work like that, Majesty,” I retort.

Amarantha narrows her eyes at me. “And why not?” she demands. 

“I can communicate with the dead, but it’s on their terms. If they do not wish for me to see them, I cannot make them. And I can’t make them talk.”

‘Careful…’ Rhys says into my mind. 

I’m speaking the truth. That is not a weakness. 

Jurian pushes off the ledge he’d been leaning on. As he speaks, I will my eyes to glaze over - a little trick I picked up, making my powers appear more tangible to those who cannot see what I can. 

“Clythia won't come near her while I’m here,” Jurian explains. “My soul is tethered to the pieces she’s kept of me, her cruel trophies… As the bitch is quite fond of my eye, I can’t leave. I don't believe you’ll get the pleasure of meeting her sister.”

“What’s happening?” Amarantha demands. “Rhysand, what is she doing?” 

Rhys steps forward, “My Queen, that look, the hazy eyes, it means a spirit is calling to her.”

I let the fog fade from my eyes, turning to address Amarantha again. “Majesty, Jurian is tied to those objects you hold. Clythia will not come near him.” 

Amarantha sighs loudly, inspecting her nails. “Of course not, why would she want to be near that filthy human? I have no further need of you today, but I will come up with some other uses for your talents,” she sneers. 

I bow again and turn, moving to the back of the room to watch the rest of the proceedings.

————

I very quickly fell into a routine Under the Mountain. 

The twins would dress me for court in the morning, making me look like the living dead. 

After breakfast, I’d attend the throne room with the other High Fae. Court politics were… complicated. Fortunately, I had little involvement in this.

Then there were the balls and dinners of an evening. They were always a big event, with gruesome entertainment most nights. 

I barely stomached the cruelty. After the first dinner - I spent the rest of the night throwing it up. The torment was only made worse when I was forced to communicate with the poor souls Amarantha tortured for sport. I spent many nights lying in bed, replaying the horrors in my mind. 

As each day passed, it grew harder to live with myself and the things I was forced to witness. 

My bargain with Rhys was the only thing keeping me going. 

I began to look forward to his sarcastic comments in my mind while the other members of the court bickered. 

When sleep couldn’t find us, we’d spend the night talking down our bargain bond. We exchanged stories of our lives before and made many grand plans for after. We knew they were unlikely to be realised, but our dreams were all we had left.

One day, Rhys tells me of dreams he’s been having—dreams of a human girl. For the first time, he could see her clearly, she must have come over the wall somehow. She was in Prythian. 

‘I don’t know what it means, but maybe she’s the one we’ve been waiting for,’ Rhys ponders.

If only I was a seer, that would be a much more useful power.

————

That human girl was indeed who we were waiting for. 

That stupid girl, entering into the bargain with Amarantha. 

Like he did for me all those years earlier, Rhys helped Feyre as much as he could.

At first, I was doubtful that Feyre would complete all the tasks. When she showed up that wyrm and then threw the bone at Amarantha, I knew she was special. I finally allowed myself to have hope. 

Then she died. 

I watched as Amarantha snapped her neck. Watched as her life force left her body, though a spark glimmered near Rhys’s chest. Somehow, he held on to her, keeping her soul from moving on.

Once she’s made, I can feel her powers blooming, an echo of each High Lord, mixed with something else. Being brought back left a trace on her soul. 

————

Amarantha had been defeated and we were free. Most of her court had left Under the Mountain already, the nastier fae made themselves scarce promptly after Tamlin killed her. 

I’m not sure where I’m going to go. My family were long gone, along with the village I once called home. Now, Rhys was my only friend, and he had his own family to get back to. 

A rippling black cloud blooms in front of me, and Rhys materialises. His black hair is dishevelled, his eyes wide with shock. Even his movements seem rattled. 

“Are you okay?” I ask him, stepping closer.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, but he can’t meet my gaze. 

“Don’t lie to me, you don’t have to tell me here or now, but don’t lie.” I reach for his hand, squeezing it firmly. 

“It’s Feyre,” he says.

“Is she okay? She’s gone to be with Tam–”

“She’s my mate,” Rhys says so quietly I almost didn’t hear it. His confession stuns me. 

“Oh Rhys, I’m so sorry. We’ll work it out, you have that bargain.”

“Yeah, I- I don’t know,” he shrugs, defeated. “If she’s going to be happy with Tamlin then that’s all I want.” Rhys pauses, still unable to look me in the eye. “Anyway, let’s go home,” he says, schooling his features into his signature smirk and extending his hand to me.

“Home?” I question.

“Do you think after everything that I’d leave you here? You’re coming with me.” He smiles softly before taking my hand in his and winnowing us away. 

————

We materialise in a living room decorated with tasteful but eclectic furnishings. It’s warm and inviting, especially after those years under the mountain. 

A blonde female enters the lounge room as we appear. Her mouth widens in shock and she drops the mug she was holding which shatters on the floor, spilling brown liquid all over the worn rug. 

She lets out a sob and runs to Rhys, wrapping her arms around him. He holds her in silence, stroking her long golden hair as his eyes well with tears.

Two winged males enter the room with a short High Fae female.“Oh my gods,” one of the males whispers. 

Rhys turns at their entrance and embraces both males. Everyone in the room has teary eyes, even me, while I stand awkwardly to the side. 

I’m not usually a crier, but we got out. The weight of that fact is heavy on my soul. 

Rhys releases his family and extends his hand to me, pulling me closer. “Everyone, this is Y/N,” he says before introducing each of his friends - all names that I’ve heard before. People that I never expected to meet in person. “Y/N helped keep me sane Under the Mountain. She’ll be staying in Velaris for the foreseeable future.”

Amren steps forward, observing me. I take a step back as her power overwhelms me. She is not from this world. 

“What are you?” I ask softly.

“I was going to ask you the same question, girl.” Amren tilts her head to the side as if studying me. “You’re not of this realm, not entirely.”

Rhys cuts in, “Amarantha was using Y/N for her abilities. She can communicate with the dead.”

Cassian pales beside me, his face contorted in shock. “Cauldron boil me, you can - talk to ghosts?” He shudders.

“The living scare me more than the dead ever did,” I reply.

“Isn’t that the truth,” Mor quips before pulling out a bottle of wine and enough glasses for everyone, seemingly plucked from the air. “Settle in, you’ve got 50 years of gossip to catch up on,” she grins.

‘Is there somewhere I can go while you catch up with your family?’ I ask Rhys down our bond. 

His concern ripples back in response. ‘You’re family now too, but I understand if you need some space.’

Rhys smiles at his cousin, “We’ve waited 50 years, I think we can wait a few more minutes while we get settled. Y/N, I’ll show you your room.”

I smile and nod as Rhys takes my hand and leads me up the stairs. He squeezes firmly, the way we always do. 

“There’s a few empty bedrooms up here, you can take whichever you like - that one–” he points to the door at the end of the hall– “overlooks the garden.”

“Thank you, for everything.” I pull him into a tight hug and he kisses me on the top of my head. 

“Go on, tell me if you need anything,” he taps on his temple. 

I nod, “You go on, your family are waiting.”

————

Rhys was right. The view of the garden was a nice change after being stuck under the mountain for the last 10 years.

I’ve bathed, but even after scrubbing myself raw, I can’t quite shake the dirty feeling. My skin is red and angry, but I find a lotion in the bathroom that helps soothe it. The lavender scent fills my nostrils. 

We got out. 

I dress and decide to go downstairs. I feel restless inside and don’t want to be alone with my thoughts any longer.

Rhys looks up as I descend the stairs and he smiles widely at me. “There she is. Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah…” I look at the door, and the coloured light streaming through the stained glass panel. “Can I?”

“Of course,” Rhys nods. ‘We’re free,’ he says down the bond. ‘You can go wherever you wish.’

I walk towards the door, hesitating at the threshold before finally stepping into the sunlight. 

I pause, feeling the warmth on my skin, a sensation I never thought I’d feel again. In the distance, children are playing and I can hear people talking and laughing as they go about their days. 

I shut my eyes, letting the sounds of the city fill my head, enjoying the peace that the chatter brings. 

We made it.

“I can’t quite believe it myself,” Rhys says from beside me. 

I open my eyes, turning to look up at him.

“We got out,” he says. “It felt so hopeless at the end there.”

“I thought I was going to die Under the Mountain,” I confess quietly. “That she’d tire of my party tricks and amuse herself by torturing me. I would’ve welcomed it. An end.”

Rhys turns to look back at the house, at his family through the glass panes, “No one else understands.”

I take his hand in mine, squeezing it tightly. “Our bargain still stands.” 

Rhys squeezes my hand back. “Always. Now I’d really like for you to show off your party trick for Cassian. If you’re up to it.” Rhys smirks and I raise a brow. “He’s creeped out by anything that’s not tangible. If you can pretend some spirit is angry with him, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

“Oh I see, you brought me here to be your jester.” I give Rhys a playful shove with my shoulder. “Come on, let’s do it. You can feed me intel so it’s extra convincing.”

“Oh, you’re evil,” he chuckles darkly. Rhys holds the door open for me, and we step inside his home together.