#Letters to Amaranth | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joelsprettyprincess · 1 month ago

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Taming of the Shrew - Part 1

Pairing: dark!Arthur Morgan x f!reader Summary: After you finally call it quits on your on-and-off relationship with the outlaw, Arthur is forced to find a different way to make you stay. Series-wide tags: Toxic relationships, manipulation, obsessive behavior, smut, secretly unprotected piv, babytrapping, pregnancy, canon-typical violence, slight canon-typical misogyny. Wordcount: 3.3k A/N: I am very, very excited for yall to read this. It was so fun to write. Unfortunately I girlbossed a little too hard and it's almost 10k words. 😭So, this 'mini-series' will be split into 3 parts. As for accuracy, I did try, but the timeline is a little off. Just ignore that.. And what do we think of the series name?? Bonus points if you know the reference! I felt it was appropriate. Also, there is no smut until Part 2. Sorry! And as always MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Tags: @dandelion-ranch @i-will-give-you-love @amaranth-writing @heloixe

Part 2 is out!

“Just leave me alone, Arthur!”

These words flew from your mouth like bullets that struck him in the chest.

“Excuse me?” he said in a low growl, stepping towards you. You were both by his tent in his gang's current camp, and it wasn't exactly isolated. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Kieran watching them curiously over by the horses.

You sighed, running a hand over your hair. “I'm just so tired of this.”

“Tired of what, exactly?” Arthur inquired dryly. He crossed his big burly arms and gave you an annoyed look.

“Everything, Arthur. The runnin’, the stealin’…the killing. I'm sorry, but I am not meant for a life like that.” You crossed your arms as well. A soft wind blew; inappropriate weather for the pressing conversation the two of you were having.

He came even closer. Those eyes…they were piercing yours with that discerning stare. “You say that like you've actually done any of it. I'm the outlaw, not you, sweetheart.”

You threw up your hands. “That's exactly the problem. If my daddy knew, he'd just about kill me, then hunt you down too. You know I can't…I can't…”

Arthur grasped your hand roughly, but you threw him off. You stomped away to where your horse was hitched, and of course he followed.

Arthur called your name, trying to stop you. Mary-Beth was watching you now too, but he didn't seem to care. Luckily most of the camp was out doing whatever it was this gang did for fun. Robbing, most likely, you thought, snorting.

“Quit the games,” Arthur spat. “We both know you're just gonna run back to me. You need me– and I need you. Don't leave.”

“I most definitely do not need you, Mr. Morgan,” you snapped. “Why don't you go back to that Mary girl? I've seen them letters.”

A shadow passed over his face for just a second. “...Just go home. You are heartless, woman.”

You felt a little bad, but swallowed the feeling down. “I'm leavin', and I ain't coming back,” you cried, getting on your horse. “I've had enough of this gang's shenanigans. Don't come near me neither. I can't guarantee I won't let my daddy shoot you.”

With those cold parting words, you sneered at him and rode off towards Rhodes.

Regret sat like a pit in Arthur's stomach as he watched you leave Clemen's Point. Relationships were like a curse in the Van Der Linde gang. Inevitably they would be struck by death or divisiveness. Arthur had tried hard not to fall into the same patterns, but it seemed his loves were doomed from the start.

He paced around camp as he decided what to do. You and him had not been together long, only perhaps 3 months had passed since he first crossed paths with you at the saloon.

You'd looked so out of place, sitting stiffly at a table in the corner with your maid. He'd watched you down a cup of brandy and immediately start coughing. It was clear you weren't used to the rough environment of a bar.

Arthur decided then, that he would show you.

And show you he did. You were initially attracted to his shadowy aura and western roughness, but spending more days with him revealed the genuinely caring man underneath. Arthur showed you so much of the world; he took you out for long horse rides through the forests, winding through the trees before making camp for the night and perhaps fucking before drifting off to sleep underneath the stars.

He introduced you to a new way of life, one that was fading due to civilization, but exciting nonetheless. The first time you saw him shoot a man, you weren't sure whether to feel incredibly aroused or disgusted. Maybe it was a bit of both. Maybe the way of the outlaw was your path?

That is what you thought, until he brought you back to camp. It was a pretty bit of land, flat and grassy, but the people were something else. The men were loud, stinky, and violent, and the women were like men themselves. They all knew how to shoot, to steal, to survive.

And you didn't. You were a wealthy girl; your father made his fortune in oil. You'd slept on a bed with silken sheets almost your whole life, and the closest you had come to a gun was looking at the ones your father had on display in his office.

Your mother was a society lady, obsessed with gossip and flirting with the help.

Both of your parents disgusted you, but you knew the privilege you had. You were their only child and therefore would receive a sizable inheritance upon your father's death. As cruel as it seemed, that was the only reason you tolerated them.

However, this was now threatened by your romance with one of the most wanted men in the country. Of course, you hadn't known he was wanted so badly when you first met. It wasn't until he had shot that bounty hunter that he'd told you the truth.

“I've got a price on my head,” he admitted to you while cleaning off the blood at a nearby stream. “A pretty big one.”

“How big?” you'd asked, sitting on the grass near him.

He dabbed at his shirt with a damp rag. “Er, about…five thousand dollars.” He mumbled that last part.

You whipped your head up. “Excuse me?”

“Five thousand dollars,” he repeated gruffly. “I know, I know.” He chuckled. “You can turn me in, if ya want.”

“Arthur,” you exclaimed, standing up. “That's…that's just so…who are you?!”

“Just somebody who's made a lot of dumb choices over the last 20 years. Listen, sweetheart, it's fine. I been runnin’ all this time and they ain't caught us yet.”

“Yet,” you said, then paused. “So…you killed a lot of people, then?”

He shrugged. “You really wanna know?”

“Good point.”

You weren't willing to completely submerge yourself in the pool of crime, and Arthur couldn't quite blame you for it. He knew you were a society heiress, destined to hold luncheons, not revolvers.

But that did not stop him from trying. Would not. That thing with Mary…well, he didn't like to think about that. It would not happen again.

Arthur jogged across camp to his horse…then realized that following you was probably not a good idea. You were angry right now, and you would cool off eventually, but right now you probably needed some space.

He sighed. Dutch was right. Women had so many needs.

Arthur spent the rest of the day doing chores around the camp, plotting and thinking. And his thoughts got angrier and darker as time went on. Who did you think you were, anyway? Refusing Van Der Linde's most trusted associate? One of the most feared men in America? You were so uppity, with your silk dresses and thoroughbred horse.

He slammed his axe down on the chunk of wood in front of him, frowning deeply and squinting his eyes against the sunset. Perhaps he should just tie you to his horse and bring you to Tahiti with the gang. Maybe then you would lose that damn attitude.

Arthur hit the wood so hard it burst into pieces, going everywhere. He grunted, then dropped the axe to the ground and trudged over to his cot.

He could not pretend like your passionate declaration was unwarranted. You had seen the gang do violent things, things that made you think that being a sheltered rich girl wasn't so bad.

But the taste of freedom kept drawing you back like a drunkard asking for one more shot. You liked how the gang didn't answer to anyone but themselves, not dominated by any law or person or expectation.

It was a war of ideals, and his side was nearly out of ammo. Arthur really couldn't offer you anything but his love. It was no wonder you were running back to your parents.

But his love was deep as an ocean, and as all-consuming as one too. After Mary closed the book on their romance (or was it just a fling to her?) forever, Arthur had been sullen and angry for a while. He swore he wouldn't let any woman make a fool of him again.

And then he met you. You, who was even richer than Mary, with twice as much sass and the same sweet Southern accent. You were drawn to each other like a ring of oil and a match.

It was a love that was sure to burn and destroy.

Arthur slept fitfully, still angry at your rejection. He was hoping you were just caught up in the heat of the moment, but if you weren't, well…he would cross that bridge if he came to it. Tomorrow he would visit your father's manor.

After leaving Clemen's Point, you rode your horse back to Rhodes, fighting tears. That man! Arthur was an enigma sometimes. He was a stupid man if he thought you would really give up your life for him. No matter how handsome and broad-shouldered he was…

You were not returning though. You had a bad habit of pushing Arthur away, then coming back within a week. The two of you had an unpleasant cycle of affection: after you inevitably returned to his arms, he would act kind enough, then subtly become more obsessive and manipulative and suffocating until you’d had enough. He never chased after you too hard, knowing you would be back.

And you always were.

Just before this latest rejection, Arthur had been angry because you didn't express much interest in learning to shoot.

“‘S not like we'll be sending you on missions or anything. Just think you should be able to defend yourself, is all,” was his reasoning.

“I thought you would protect me?” you had countered. He'd promised you wouldn't have to lift a finger if you stayed with him, that he would do everything for you.

“An’ I intend on doin’ that,” he insisted. “But it don't hurt to know how to use one. You see Molly? She don't know how to do much of anything, and you see how Dutch treats the girl. I don't want that for us.”

“It just feels like you misled me,” you huffed, smoothing off your riding dress. “I didn't know this lifestyle was so…so…”

“Well, newsflash, sweetheart,” Arthur said snarkily. “We survive out here. Ain't no oil money for us to fall back on. If that's the way you feel, then, just leave, ‘cause you obviously hate me.”

“Arthur!” you chided him. “You know I love you–”

“You sure?” he cut in. “It sure seem like you just came here lookin’ for a good time. I've bared my soul for you, and you can't even do this one thing for me.” He shook his head, disappointed.

That had set you off and caused you to take your leave, yet again.

But this time it was really going to stick. You were done running around with a criminal, especially since your parents were starting to notice how often you were absent. And if Arthur came around, well, you'd get your father to shoot him!

Arthur woke up early the next morning, still feeling annoyed from yesterday. The snooty look you had given him when you got on your horse pricked his mind like a thorn.

He needed you…to behave. To submit. To love him. Violent feelings were coursing through his veins. This was different than with Mary. When she left, he'd let her go, knowing it was useless.

But you…you were different. You actually had an affinity for the lifestyle. Maybe you just needed…a little push?

He hopped on his horse and started towards your home. He was going to convince you, no matter what. Dutch was still talking about taking them to Tahiti. Arthur bet you would like it there, better than your stuffy manor, surely.

Arthur rode fast and hard. Usually he met you quite a ways away from the town to avoid anyone possibly seeing and recognizing you, so he'd only been around your home once or twice, which was north of Rhodes, near the Kamassa River.

He was really tired of this running around. You needed to commit, now, and stop the bullshit that kept spouting from your mouth.

A good bit of riding later and he slowed, seeing the stately silhouette of your manor. It always made him vaguely uncomfortable.

He hitched his horse nearby, then took up a position that would allow him to observe the front of the house without being seen. He just needed to talk to you.

Arthur was used to staking out locations for hours, so he settled in. You had never dared to sneak him into the house, so he wasn't sure which window was yours– but he would wait. Oh, yes, he would. You were not going to escape that easily.

After perhaps an hour and a half of watching the help come and go, Arthur finally saw you emerge from the house, alone. About time, he thought gruffly.

He hung back, waiting till you got on your horse and start towards town before quietly mounting his horse and following you.

Arthur waited till the path was isolated on either end, then easily rode up beside you. “Morning, sunshine,” he greeted you cheerfully.

You squeaked in surprise, then turned and looked. “Arthur?! What– what’re you doin' here?”

“I need to talk to you,” he said firmly. “You ran away so fast yesterday, didn't even give me time to defend myself.”

“Ain't nothing to talk about,” you replied. “We're done.”

“We ain't.”

“We are. Leave me alone.”

“This is what you want in life? Stayin’ in some giant empty home with cash to burn? No excitement or nothin’?”

“Maybe,” you said annoyedly. “What of it?”

“I know that's not what you want,” Arthur said firmly. “I gave your life meaning, and I'll be damned if you try to deny that!”

“You have no idea what I want, Arthur Morgan,” you snapped, riding faster. He kept pace with you.

“I know you want more than this. I know you love me…or at least, I thought you did. Maybe I'm a fool and you've just been using me this whole time. Is that it, princess?” he demanded.

“No, Arthur–”

“No, Arthur,” he repeated in a squeaky voice. “You always say that. I can't believe it! I've been such an idiot this whole time. You never loved me. You just wanted a– a chaperone. You women are such cunning creatures. I gave you my whole heart, and you just stomped on it.”

“Arthur!” you cried, feeling guilty and angry at the same time. “You know that's not true. You know I love you. But the truth is…if my father were to ever find out about you, he'd surely disown me, and cut me out of the will. How could I risk that?”

He snorted. “All you care about is money, huh? Listen to me, sweetheart. It doesn't matter if you get that inheritance or not. You'll be alone forever. You will never, ever find someone like me. No one else puts up with your bullshit like me. Maybe you'll find a nice enough banker, who'll give you a kid or two out of duty, maybe you'll live in this house and hold parties just like your mother. But you will never be fulfilled like you would with us. You'll be surrounded by fancy possessions, maybe, but you'll always regret not coming with me.”

“Arthur,” you said hoarsely, staring at the dirt path ahead. This is how he got you everytime. He knew your biggest fear was being unfulfilled in life. He knew, and he never hesitated to use that against you.

Arthur knew you like a priest knows sin. He'd listened to your confessions for days on end, and now he was using them to break you down.

“I…I…” It was difficult to articulate your thoughts. He was very skilled at making you feel bad.

Before you had a chance to answer, a shot rang out and a bullet zipped between you two. Your horse neighed loudly, reared, and you fell off with a shout. You fumbled, getting tangled in your skirts, trying to crawl away.

Arthur cursed, then vaulted off his horse to grab you and drag you to the nearest cover. He stowed you behind a large rock, then peeked over and started trading shots with whoever was trying to apparently kill him.

“Arthur Morgan!” a masculine voice called out. “Turn yourself in or we’ll be forced to put a bullet in you!”

“Who is that?!” you screamed, terrified.

“Another damn bounty hunter, probably,” he grunted, switching to his rifle. “Just keep your pretty head down.”

You covered your ears and cowered. A few shots later, and the only sounds remaining in the forest were your horse’s panicked neighs and Arthur’s labored breath.

He sheathed his rifle and wiped off his forehead, leaning his head against the rock. “You okay?”

“Barely,” you said angrily. “You see what I mean now? I can’t live like this, Arthur! I’m sorry! I can’t risk it.”

Arthur went silent for a bit, and you glanced over at him. He had his hat pulled down low to where you couldn't make out his expression. “I’m gonna see who was huntin’ me,” was all he said before getting up and going over to examine the bodies.

You had no desire to see any mangled corpses, so you stayed behind the rock while Arthur investigated.

You heard a shout, then a sick groan. What the hell? You lowered your head even further.

Arthur came back a couple minutes later. “We’re clear,” he said. “Just some idiot who thought he could really capture me.”

He had blood on his hands and his shirt. That coupled with the sweat that was shining on his forehead, made him look kind of attractive to you. Wait, what?

“He wasn’t quite dead,” was his explanation.

You shakily stood up, dusting off your skirts. “D-D-Don’t ever talk to me again, Arthur. I want nothing to do with this.”

Arthur examined you for a while, and you grew uncomfortable under his stare, but you looked right back at him.

He finally sighed and shrugged. “If that's what you want.”

You watched in disbelief as he got back on his horse and left, apparently riding back towards Clemen's Point.

What just happened?

That little nymph.

Arthur was internally raging, gripping the reins of his horse so hard it was sure to leave angry red marks on his palms. If it weren’t for that damned bounty hunter! He was sure he could have convinced you to come back.

This was going to require something more drastic. Something…serious.

He rode back to camp while he thought about it. Luckily things were pretty calm for now, besides those hunters. He hoped it wasn’t a sign of something urgent. Dutch and Hosea were working on locating some gold that apparently existed around these parts, and were opting for the long run instead of going in, guns blazing. That worked out for Arthur, who had no desire to leave you anytime soon.

The question was this: What would not only bring you back to him, but make you stay permanently? Hmm…some sort of pressing situation, obviously.

He couldn't threaten you; that would be a bad foundation for your relationship.

The untimely demise of your parents, maybe? No, you would most likely be sent to a relative’s house.

Speaking of parents.

Arthur felt a good idea forming. He furrowed his brows in concentration.

Speaking of your parents…you had spoken about your fear of being disowned.

Would that push you back into his arms? If you had nowhere else to go, would you turn to him?

But under what circumstances would you be disowned? If he made an appearance on your estate, you would probably be disgraced but not disowned, and he would be shot on site with any subsequent visits.

He needed you so bad it fucking hurt. Even just the thought of never seeing you again made Arthur desperate enough to try even the craziest plan.

An inkling of an idea was taking shape…

Perhaps, instead of a death…maybe a birth?

End of Part 1.

#18+ mdni #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #low honor arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan smut #red dead redemption

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emiliosandozsequence · 2 years ago

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bones and all (2022) dir. luca guadagnino / the dreamers, gilbert adair / a self portrait in letters, anne sexton / the phantom of the opera (2004) dir. joel schumacher / orestes, anne carson / 'everywhere, everything' by noah kahan / yellowjackets (2021-present) cr. ashley lyle & bart nickerson / caffeine, pt 1, sean glatch / women, mihail sebastian / the fountain (2006) dir. darren aronofsky / toward the amaranth gates of war or love, natalie diaz /the portrait of a lady, henry james / in a week by hozier

for @morbidgf ♡

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stargirlrchive · 5 months ago

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14K FOLLOWER CELEBRATION ᡣ𐭩

STARGIRLRCHIVE’S DELIVERY SERVICE ᡣ𐭩

prepare to drop off your mail:

(pick from mail type, stamp color, and who to!)

mail type:

royal — fluff

express — smut

return to sender — angst

stamp color:

blue bell — love confession after an argument

copper rose — helping each other dress

cadet grey — “we’re just friends, right?”

french mauve — drunken confession

brown sugar — long distance lovers

cerulean frost — secret relationship

amaranth pink — “don’t marry him.”

cinnamon satin — reunited lovers

cyber grape — one bed

english lavender — free style/any trope you want

delivered to:

ship your letter through my ask box ᡣ𐭩

i firstly wanted to just say a huge thank you for 14k followers :3 tumblr is such a safe space for me and i started writing bc none of my friends ever seemed to love things as much as i did lol and i needed an outlet and tumblr has always been that for me and the joy i get from having so many of yall following me and supporting my work is something i can’t even put into words ! <3

so i want to say thank you by hosting a little blurb event! mwah! ty x a million again ᡣ𐭩

#divider by cafekitsune #simon riley x reader #simon riley x reader smut #azriel x reader #cassian x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #john price x reader #rhysand x reader #eris vanserra #eris vanserra x reader #lucien x reader

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kallie-den · 1 month ago

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Cerulean

A recent escapee attends a support group for victims of evil mind control… run by the strange, sinister and inimitable Dr. Amaranth Cerulean

Special thanks to @dollzcomix for this commission, and for allowing me to write about Dr. Cerulean! They are a character of Demoiselle Porcelaine's creation, and I highly encourage you to check out her socials for all of her wonderful artwork of Dr. Cerulean - who truly is inimitable, and whose creator brings across their unique charm better than I ever could

If you like my writing, please consider supporting me on Patreon! For less than the price of a cup of coffee each month, you can get immediate, early access to everything I write - 4 pieces of hypno-smut a month, including the latest chapters of all the multi-chapter stories I write. Your support helps me keep writing and is greatly appreciated <3

---

The support group was nice… kind of. In theory. It had sounded nice, anyway, when Mariah had found out about it online. A pop-up ad, of all things, accompanied by a garish animation and a picture of the strange-looking psychiatrist who ran it, and written all in lower-case: ‘villain hypnosis victim support group’. Obviously, Mariah’s first instinct had been to dismiss it as some kind of weird internet con, but then she’d had second thoughts. Was there really a support group for people who’d been through what she had? Could other people actually understand the way she was feeling? If so, wasn’t that worth taking a chance on?

That was how she’d ended up in an untidy, rented office space on the side of the highway after dark.

It both was and wasn’t the kind of atmosphere Mariah had expected. A bunch of chairs set out in a circle. People sitting on them, sharing their stories. Strung up on one wall was a big banner that read ‘Mind Control and What Comes After: A Support Group to Find Yourself Again After Being Brainwashed’ in brightly colored but slightly faded letters. Mariah appreciated the stab at an upbeat atmosphere, but the attendeess simply weren’t up to the task.

They all just seemed so completely and utterly harrowed. Mariah sympathized, of course. She knew the ashamed, traumatized, hollowed-out look on each of their faces all too well. She saw in the mirror every morning. But she’d been hoping to see something a little more encouraging, too. Healing. Solidarity. Catharsis. On TV and in movies, support groups always involved people pouring out their hearts, breaking down, embracing one another. Making breakthroughs and overcoming their issues.

Mariah hadn’t expected the real thing to be quite so dramatic, but she’d been looking for more than a sequence of interminable recountings of horrors and violations. Each one seemed to conjure the awfulness of the past back into the present and leave the recounter shriveled and trembling. It was like the support group was making the attendees lesser, not greater. Mariah wasn’t sure she could see any signs of healing at all, or even of people finding solidarity in their brokenness. It was all just miserable.

The only person who seemed like they were having a good time was the psychiatrist running the thing.

Dr. Amaranth Cerulean, they/she.

They looked just as weird in person as they had on their advert. Dr. Cerulean was deathly pale, with big, tired, dark-circled eyes and unusual, light blue markings beneath them, as well as on her lips. It was a strange and striking look, especially along with their prominent nose and the short but poofy, voluminous hair piled up in rounded masses on their head. The shrink wore a gray cardigan over a ribbed, mustard yellow turtleneck sweater which was tucked into the belted waist of their brown slacks. It was an outfit from a different decade. Mariah just wasn’t quite sure which one.

In a way, it wasn’t surprising that a support group like this would be run by an eccentric. Mariah wasn’t one to judge. Dr. Cerulean’s demeanor, though, was a little unnerving. Throughout most of the session, Dr. Cerulean sat on her chair at the head of the group, in a completely slack, slouched pose that registered nothing but complete disinterest. They barely spoke, and only to indicate who should speak next. Certainly not to provide any advice or support. They had a pen and a pad of paper, from the way their hand moved while they were writing on it, Mariah felt certain they were mostly just idly doodling.

Every now and then, however, something would catch their attention. Occasionally—and only when somebody was sharing a particularly lurid, uncomfortable and traumatic part of their experience of being mind controlled—Dr. Cerulean would throw their entire body forward and sit perched so perilously close to their edge of their chair, Mariah feared they were about to topple from it. They would scratch at their notepad in a frenzy, and those big, tired eyes certainly became laser-focused and eager. Whenever that happened, a truly ghastly smile descended on their face. Not warm, not supportive, just pleased. Smug. Grateful, even, like they were thankful someone had stepped up to deliver them from boredom.

And from the slight twitch in their cheek, Mariah couldn’t help but suspect Dr. Cerulean was struggling to keep themself from laughing.

Dr. Cerulean’s presence made the entire support group feel uncomfortably voyeuristic, somehow. When it came to be Mariah’s turn, she kept it to a bare minimum. She introduced herself and made a few oblique references to what had happened to her, but completely glossed over the details. She figured that was pretty normal for a first-timer—and besides, it was difficult to speak with Dr. Cerulean looking at her like she was a fresh-cooked meal placed on their table.

Mariah decided right then and there—there wasn’t going to be a second time. She just didn’t feel comfortable here. It wasn’t the kind of support group she was looking for.

She stuck it out to the end, though—mostly because leaving halfway through seemed much too awkward. Once they wrapped up, before Mariah could slip out quietly, she found that Dr. Cerulean was suddenly between her and the door, and staring at her with an expectant look on their ghoulish face.

“H-Hi,” Mariah said, mostly because she felt like she had to. “Um… thanks for the session.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” Dr. Cerulean sounded every bit as tired and seedy as they looked. “Thank you for coming. Really. We love a newcomer.”

“Yeah…” Mariah had no idea what to say to that. “Well, I was actually just-“

“Good news!” Dr. Cerulean interrupted suddenly, in a lazy, drawling voice. “You’re actually our one-hundredth member. That means you win a free one-on-one session with yours truly.”

Finger guns.

---

Hell no.

That had been Mariah’s initial response. The easiest ‘nope’ of her life. She’d politely declined, and privately resolved to never set foot in Dr. Cerulean’s support group again.

Then she’d gone home, gone to bed, and had the nightmares again.

It was nothing new. They came for Mariah most nights. But it meant another eight-hour torture session inside her own head, tossing and turning, fighting off both gut-wrenching guilt and poisonous allure. In the cold light of dawn, Mariah had felt worse than ever—and taking up Dr. Cerulean on her offer hadn’t seemed like such a bad idea after all. It had been easy to tell herself that it hadn’t really been that bad after all. Sure, Dr. Cerulean was a bit eccentric, but what had Mariah expected from somebody running a support group for mind control victims? It wasn’t like they’d done anything wrong, exactly.

More importantly, Mariah needed the help. Desperately. She couldn’t keep going on like this. That was why she’d gone to the support group in the first place. She needed to talk to somebody. Didn’t she owe it to herself to push herself? To take every chance? Mariah kept thinking about the kind of stuff she’d read online. Recovery wasn’t always easy. It wasn’t always comfortable. You had to push yourself.

Mariah had decided that she wanted to push herself.

Besides, it was just talking. In the end, that was what clinched it for her. All they were going to do was sit in a room and talk. If it was good, great. If it was bad, it would be a waste of time—but at least Mariah could tell herself she had given it a fair shot.

Basically: what was the worst that could happen?

That was how, the very next afternoon, Mariah found herself in Dr. Cerulean’s office, trying to distract herself from her anxiety by carefully inspecting the weird pineapple lamp on Dr. Cerulean’s desk. Dressed exactly as they had been the day before, the psychiatrist regarded Mariah with a bland smile on their blue lips as they invited her to sit down opposite them.

“So, um,” Mariah said, shifting uncomfortably. “How do we get started?”

“First things first,” Dr. Cerulean told her, “I have a few release forms for you to sign. Standard stuff, really. No need to read them too carefully.”

They handed Mariah a small stack of papers. Cautiously, Mariah started scanning the first. It seemed, as promised, entirely standard. Non-disclosure, liability, that kind of thing. After signing it, she moved on to the second, then the third, and quickly stopped bothering to read much of the legal jargon. On the very last form, though, something caught her eye.

“Wait a minute,” Mariah said. “This is a release authorizing you to… write online fiction about me?”

Quickly, Dr. Cerulean reached over the deck and snatched away the piece of paper. “Oops,” she replied languidly. “Bit of a mix-up. My mistake. Don’t worry about it. You can sign that one later.”

Later? Mariah frowned. Was that some kind of joke? It had to be. Dr. Cerulean certainly looked like they were finding humor in something—but it was in seriously poor taste.

“There we go.” Dr. Cerulean stretched one of their long arms across to retrieve the other release forms. They sat back in their chair and regarded Mariah carefully. “To begin with, why don’t you just tell me what brought you to the support group?”

Again, Mariah considered refusing. Again, she reminded herself: she needed to give this a shot.

“I… I just feel like I can’t move forward,” Mariah began slowly. She fixed her eyes on the floor, hoping that would be less awkward. “You know? I see all these people going about their daily lives. Pursuing careers. Pursuing other people. Pursuing happiness. And it just seems completely impossible to me. Like I can’t even fathom it—even though I used to be just like them. I can ever remember her—that old version of me. The one who wasn’t… who wasn’t broken. I want to be her again so bad. I just… can’t remember how.”

She looked up. Mariah’s voice was already a little choked up from the emotions she was describing. She was hoping, perhaps, for a kind word or a kind smile.

Instead, Dr. Cerulean wasn’t even looking at her. They had a pencil in their hand, and they were trying to spin it cleanly on the joint between their thumb and their hand. After a particularly vigorous spin, it slipped away from them and clattered against the top of the desk.

“Dr. Cerulean?” Mariah ventured plaintively.

Dr. Cerulean let out a breath that was very close to a sigh, and then their brow twitched in a way that made Mariah think, just for a moment, that they were going to roll their eyes. Then, though, a smile—only a little forced—came to Dr. Cerulean’s blue lips.

“Why don’t we start at the beginning?” Dr. Cerulean suggested. “What actually happened to you?”

“Oh. Right.” That made sense to Mariah, even if she wished Dr. Cerulean sounded a little more patient about it. She gathered her courage. Talking about what had befallen her didn’t come easy. “A couple of years ago, I-I was in a relationship. With a guy. Robert. We were engaged, I actually. I thought we were going to spend our entire lives together.”

“Uh-huh.” The look of boredom still hadn’t disappeared from Dr. Cerulean’s face.

“I had recently started a new job,” Mariah recounted, voice trembling. “As a PA—a personal assistant. I spoke to my boss about taking some time off for the wedding. Mrs. Lawrence. She, um, didn’t like that idea. She’d always been kind of… controlling, I guess. A… a bully.” She struggled to say it, even though it was true. “She told me she required my services. Didn’t want me to focus on the needs of anyone besides her.”

“Oh?” Those big, sunken eyes on Dr. Cerulean’s face were starting to perk up a little. “What then?”

“I threatened to quit.” Mariah squeezed her eyes tight shut. “So she mind-controlled me.”

Mariah heard a small, wet sound from a short distance away. When she opened her eyes, Dr. Cerulean’s lips were damp, and they had taken up their notepad.

“Tell me more about that,” the psychiatrist prompted.

“She started taking over every aspect of my life,” Mariah whispered. “The way I looked, talked, dressed, and how-“

“No, no,” Dr. Cerulean interrupted eagerly, waving a hand. “How did she mind control you?”

“Um.” Mariah was taken aback by the question. “What do you mean?”

“Well, is she a psychic?” Dr. Cerulean raised a hand and started counting methods on her fingers. “Psychoactive spores? Big ray gun? Good ‘ol hypnotist? Some kind of succubus?”

“She, um,” Mariah replied slowly. “She had one of those… toys on her desk. You know, with the row of balls hanging on strings?”

“A Newton’s cradle!” For the first time, Dr. Cerulean sounded faintly delighted. “Hold on.”

Dr. Cerulean reached under their desk and started rummaging around in a box that seemed to contain a truly preposterous quantity and variety of strange objects. Mariah watched, confused then horrified, as Dr. Cerulean plucked out one of them and set it upon their desk.

It was a Newton’s cradle.

“Um…” Mariah was transfixed by the object. “That’s… c-can you…”

Dr. Cerulean took one of the metal balls between their thumb and forefinger, lifted it, and let it swing.

The metallic tap as it hit against the next reverberated through Mariah’s entire being.

“D-Dr. Cerulean,” Mariah stammered. She was hot and cold. She could feel herself sweating. She could feel herself sinking. “C-c-could you p-put that away, p-please?”

“What, this?” Dr. Cerulean seemed faintly surprised as they leaned back easily in their chair. “But it’s just a little toy.”

“But…” Mariah was about to say something else, but the tapping of the Newton’s cradle broke about her words before they could form. She was left blubbering the word over stupidly. “B-but…”

“Mariah,” Dr. Cerulean tutted. “It’s important for you to understand that this is just a commonplace object. It’s acquired a certain psychological character in your mind as a trigger, but that’s something that you’re imbuing onto the world. Aren’t you afraid that you’re just reinforcing the scars of your own trauma? We need to push past our fears. If you continue to treat this toy with significance, it will become more and more significant to you.”

Dr. Cerulean sounded every bit the consummate professional as they rattled off the argument in their quick but monotonous voice. The words crested over Mariah like a wave. She had no rebuttal. Dr. Cerulean was the psychiatrist, after all.

And Mariah really, really couldn’t think straight with the Newton’s cradle tap, tap, tapping away on the desk.

“OK,” she said quietly, eventually.

“Very good.” Beyond the Newton’s cradle, Mariah could see a smile forming on Dr. Cerulean’s face. “Desensitization through exposure therapy is a key element of recovery. Go on.”

“Go… on?” Exposure therapy? Mariah still couldn’t look away from the Newton’s cradle. She couldn’t stop shaking. But if it was part of her recovery…

“Tell me what your boss did to you.”

“Mrs. Lawrence,” Mariah said slowly, “made me break up with my boyfriend.”

As they took notes, Dr. Cerulean made a little noise that might have been the beginnings of a laugh. “Of course.”

“B-but it’s more than that.” Mariah wasn’t sure that she wanted to talk about it, really. But she had no choice. It just came out of her—because she was looking at the Newton’s cradle, and Dr. Cerulean was telling her to speak. “She… s-she made…” Her voice broke. “She made me g-gay.”

Abruptly, Dr. Cerulean sat forward. For the first time, Mariah felt the full weight of the psychiatrist’s attention.

“Oh wow,” Dr. Cerulean remarked, with an ominous delight they slowly brought back under wraps. “That’s… really something. How did that go?”

“It’s awful,” Mariah moaned. “It’s not… I’m s-straight. I’ve always been straight. But when I looked at her—when I look at other women—I can’t help but feel it. And it feels so… so dirty.”

“Of course,” Dr. Cerulean agreed, scribbling at their notepad. “Something as fundamental as your sexuality has been made completely alienating to you.” They sat forward, leering. “It must be maddening. Feeling like your desire and your memory are at war. Not knowing which one you can trust. Not knowing which one is really you.”

Mariah nodded slowly. It was exactly like that. She was so glad Dr. Cerulean understood—but at the same time, hearing it said out loud with such bluntness felt awful.

“Tell me more,” the psychiatrist beckoned. “Tell me everything.”

Mariah’s vision was starting to narrow. She made one great effort to tear her attention away from the Newton’s cradle—and couldn’t. She could feel herself losing focus. Losing wakefulness. It was just the way it had been back then. Her shaking worsened, but it wasn’t enough to jostle her from trance’s reaching fingertips.

“I… I…” Dr. Cerulean’s words conjured the very deepest, most awful truths from Mariah’s drowning mind. “I tried… to go back to him, after they arrested her. I knew she’d get out on bail, but it gave me enough time to c-come back to my senses. I went back to him, but… b-but I just couldn’t stand it. I c-couldn’t look at him the same. And when he touched me, I…”

There was a loud noise as Dr. Cerulean slapped their thigh. Mariah jumped, but even that wasn’t enough to break her focus.

“Wait, you tried to go straight back to your old life?” they wheezed. “Wow, yeah, no, don’t do that! You didn’t give yourself any breathing room. No time to process what had happened to you. You tried to force yourself back into an old groove, and then when you couldn’t, I bet you felt more broken than ever! Rookie mistake, seriously.”

Dr. Cerulean’s barely disguised amusement bothered Mariah, but not as much as it should have. She simply couldn’t think straight. Each loud tap as one of the balls of the Newton’s cradle impacted against its neighbor was overwhelming. As much as she wanted to get up and leave, Mariah’s legs wouldn’t obey her. The most she could do was point at the Newton’s cradle with a weak, trembling hand.

“Please,” she blubbered. “P-p-please make it stop. P-please. I can’t… I c-can’t…”

“Oops.” Beyond the cradle, Mariah could see that Dr. Cerulean’s tired, sunken eyes had become bright and leering. “Now you’re on the verge of a full-blown relapse, aren’t you? It looks like you really are that fragile. Well, it makes sense. Recounting your traumatic experiences while being exposed to an explicit reminder of your victimhood will do that to you. Not very recovered after all, huh?”

Mariah shook her head numbly as tears welled up in her eyes. She could see it so clearly now. She wasn’t recovered at all. She hadn’t moved forward even one inch since getting free. She was small. She was weak.

“Tell me,” Dr. Cerulean asked, “what are you so afraid of? You’re shaking like a leaf."

“I-I don’t want to hurt people again,” Mariah blurted out.

Dr. Cerulean set down their notepad and planted their hands on the desk, palms vertical, the tips of their fingertips pressed together. Mariah could feel those long fingers reaching into her. Peeling her open. Prying her secrets apart.

“Who did you hurt, Mariah?” Dr. Cerulean asked.

Mariah had never told anybody about that—but she couldn’t lie. Not here. Not now. Not with the Newton’s cradle. Mrs. Lawrence had always drilled that into her. Tell the truth.

“I h-helped her take other girls,” Mariah whispered. “Anybody who caught her eye. I m-made appointments with them. P-put things in their drinks. Sometimes she even m-made me hold them, so they’d keep looking at the…” She choked back a sob. “Mrs. Lawrence made me t-talk to them. Condition them. D-d-discipline them.”

“Fascinating,” Dr. Cerulean said softly. “You must feel so guilty.”

“Yes!” The word erupted out of Mariah. It was all she could think about, every hour of every day.

“Of course,” Dr. Cerulean agreed softly. “You feel as though you were forced, outside of your own control, to commit acts that horrify you and compromise your sense of self. I think it’s crucial that we begin to reframe this.”

Mariah nodded slowly. She could do nothing else.

“Did you know that-“ Dr. Cerulean interrupted herself with a kind of gleeful chuckle. “Did you know that you cannot be hypnotized into doing anything that you don’t want to do?”

“Um.” Mariah blinked and swayed unsteadily. “W-what?”

No. That wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.

“Oh yes,” Dr. Cerulean insisted. “Hypnosis is just a little mind trick, really. It’s a way of lowering your inhibitions and suppressing your conscious mind, but do you really believe that it would make you a complete and total slave to whoever’s doing it to you? Lowering inhibitions simply implies the removal of a barrier to your true desires.”

“No.” Mariah shook her head violently. “N-no. No way. That’s… you’re…”

“Think about it,” Dr. Cerulean pressed, thin blue lips now stretched into a leering grin. “How did you feel when your boss used you sexually?”

Mariah flinched. “I-it felt good, but that’s only because she made-“

“Accepting our sexualities is often a battle,” Dr. Cerulean said agreeably. She made another note in her notepad. “How did you feel when you hurt those other women?”

“Please don’t make me say it,” Mariah begged, trembling. Dr. Cerulean just looked at her. “G-good. But that’s-“

“Of course.” The psychiatrist nodded. “Violence. Exercising power. It may be unpleasant, but it appeals to the baser parts of our natures. That’s a huge part of any form of so-called mind control. It provides a nice, convenient excuse for us to exercise desires we might normally feel the need to repress. And how about whenever you were ‘forced’ to obey your boss?”

Obey. That word lit a fuse in Mariah’s head.

“Obey,” she muttered. “Obey. O-obey. Obey. Obey. Obey.”

Normally, she was better than this. She could keep it under wraps. Not today. Not with the Newton’s cradle.

“A mantra!” Dr. Cerulean sounded pleased. “And so easy to trigger, too. This is good. Great, in fact. We’re making a lot of progress. I think we’re really starting to get to the root of your issues.”

“Obey.” Mariah kept repeating it under her breath. Each word gave rise to the next, unceasing, until her lungs were empty of air and she was shaking from the effort—but still, she kept going. “Obeyobeyobeyobeyobey.”

“Yes, yes, keep going,” Dr. Cerulean waved an idle hand in her direction. “Exposure therapy is a crucial tool. Remember what we were discussing earlier? You have to take back power from these things. You can’t keep making them special in your head. Repetition is a great way to do that.”

There was something soothing about hearing that. Mariah started easing into the mantra, letting her mind settle. She just needed to trust Dr. Cerulean. Her obedient liturgy was starting to make her feel calm again. Just like it always had with Mrs. Lawrence.

“Now, what was I saying?” Dr. Cerulean mused. “Oh, that’s right. Hypnosis. You really must consider what I’m saying. Perhaps the reason you’ve found all of this so difficult is that your boss was tapping into some of your deeply held repressed desires. Forcing you to confront them. Forcing you to accept the way they make you feel.”

“Obey,” Mariah panted. “Obey. Obey. Obey.”

“Obviously that’s just one way to conceptualize your experience,” Dr. Cerulean continued. “It might not sound right to you, but that’s where reframing comes in. At the end of the day, Mariah, you need to make a choice about what kind of narrative you want to fit onto your life. Ultimately, that’s all our egos amount to. They’re stories we tell about ourselves to find a semblance of security and comfort in our day-to-day lives. Which story flatters you the most? Which story brings you the most comfort? We need to help you answer that question so that you can find a degree of fulfillment.”

“Obey… obey… obey…” Mariah was slowing now, as the mantra drove all the way down to a deeper layer of hypnotism, leaving her in a place so dark and still even speaking was too much effort for her.

“Enough of that now,” Dr. Cerulean instructed dismissively. “You want control, don’t you Mariah? Think about it: which narrative makes you feel in control? Which one will help you reclaim your life?”

Mariah’s eyelids fluttered as she bent her mind to the question. When they were open, she could see Dr. Cerulean, lurking beyond the Newton’s cradle. When they were closed, she could see Mrs. Lawrence. Her boss. Her brainwasher. It was terrifying—but what if it didn’t have to be? Mariah could remember a time she hadn’t been scared. A time when she’d eagerly obeyed her boss with the eagerness of a docile lamb.

More than ever, she longed for it.

But… that was wrong, wasn’t it?

“I…” Mariah grasped. “No, I… I’m straight?”

Dr. Cerulean shook their head slowly. “You’re a little behind, Mariah. Remember. Narratives. Reframing. Are you really straight? Or is that simply what you’ve always believed? Many queer people suffer from a degree of internalized bigotry, and respond by desperately clinging to a veneer of heteronormativity. I promise you, Mariah. This room is a safe space. You can explore your feelings and desires here.”

Mariah’s mouth opened and closed uselessly. What Dr. Cerulean was telling her didn’t sound right—but then again, Mariah had no idea what would. And the pale psychiatrist sounded so expert. So sure.

“Let’s approach this on a more basic level,” Dr. Cerulean offered. “You need to relearn confidence in your basic drives. It’s important that you proceed without doubting yourself too much. I want you to accept yourself. To embrace your feelings. That’s the only way you can begin to heal. With that in mind, let me ask you: how do you feel about men?”

The Newton’s cradle was coming to rest, but that provided little comfort. As its motion slowed, Mariah felt her thoughts slowing along with it. She was swimming in trance. The word ‘obey’ was still echoing in her head. She couldn’t get beyond her first, strongest response.

“I c-can’t stand them,” she whimpered.

“Good,” Dr. Cerulean said poisonously. “I’m glad you can accept that about yourself. Now, how do you feel about women?”

“I… I…” That question triggered a sudden sunburst of emotion in Mariah’s head. Ideas, impulses, and beliefs all poured into her, each one pulled by a thread that was a memory or a sensation. They awakened something in her, something that burst past her lips in a wet, needy ejaculation. “I-I belong on my knees for women!”

“Another mantra?” Dr. Cerulean leered. “Interesting. It seems like we’re making a lot of progress here. As I told you, I want you to have confidence in your feelings and desires. So please, don’t stop yourself. Do whatever it is that feels most right to you. Whatever makes you feel comfortable in the moment.”

A great weight was pressing down on Mariah’s shoulders. Simply sitting in her chair felt so nauseatingly wrong, she couldn’t bear it. The only thing that seemed comfortable was slipping out of it, down onto her knees beneath Dr. Cerulean’s desk. The cold, uncomfortable floor welcomed her with the familiarity of a well-worn mattress.

“Fascinating,” Dr. Cerulean mused. “At the risk of moving a little too fast, perhaps we should try a little word association. That can be a very useful way to uncover the real roots of psychological issues. So, Mariah: you belong on your knees for women?”

Mariah choked back another sob as the words flowed out of her. “I b-belong on my knees for women. A good secretary’s place is under the desk. I l-love to be at women’s feet. I belong on my knees for… for women. A good secretary’s p-place is under the desk. I… I… hng… I love to be at women’s feet!”

Her stomach was a noxious cauldron. An iron pall of palpitating nausea sat inside her. The sense of anxious danger that had haunted her for months now was frothing like never before. But above it sat a thick, dense, smothering fog that whispered to her: this was all good. It was right. It was her place.

Mariah was trying to listen to the danger-sense. She was failing. It was too painful. She just wanted to stop thinking.

“It stands out to me that your set of associations ends with a reference to women’s bodies.” Mariah heard Dr. Cerulean’s voice from above, as the strange psychiatrist sat back calmly in their chair. That was another thing she was used to. “That may be the key to your desires, Mariah. Listen to them. Show me what comes next.”

As they spoke, Dr. Cerulean slowly slipped out of her shoes, using each one to pry the other off. Underneath, they were wearing a strange pair of pineapple socks; yellow and patterned on the lower part, and leaf-green around their ankles. Their socks, though, weren’t what had caught Mariah’s attention. She was distracted by the simple fact that she was in her place, under a desk, and an authoritative woman was looming over her with their feet dangling in her face.

Mariah followed her desires. She did what came naturally to her. With tears still in her eyes, lips still mouthing the words Mrs. Lawrence had imprinted on her mind, she reached out and began massaging Dr. Cerulean’s feet.

Dr. Cerulean let out a glib chuckle, then sighed contentedly. “Look at you now. You’re under the desk, repeating your mantras, looking for another woman’s feet to worship. A complete and total relapse! How unfortunate.”

“I… I… I-I…” Another sob threatened to rip loose from Mariah’s throat. She wanted to speak, to argue, to apologize, to beg, but she already knew that if she tried, the only thing that would come out was her boss’s mantra.

A relapse. It was the rock-bottom Mariah had been afraid of for so long. All the urges she had been fighting to hold in check were oozing out. She was on her knees again. She was languishing in the pit of her own awful, dirty, lustful feelings about women. It felt awful. It felt like home.

“I know, I know,” Dr. Cerulean agreed. “It’s tough. But what do I keep telling you about, Mariah? Reframing! It’s an essential tool. Consider: what if this isn’t relapsing? What if this is simply who you are?”

Whatever part of Mariah might have wanted to push back against that had been broken into silence. As Mariah trembled and sobbed and eagerly, expertly pushed her thumbs against the soles of Dr. Cerulean’s feet, it seemed impossible to deny. Wasn’t this who she was? Wasn’t what she was doing right now the proof?

“It’s up to you, of course,” Dr. Cerulean added. “This is all about your wellbeing, Mariah. You’re perfectly free to define the goals of your own therapy. The perspectives I’m offering you are nothing more than food for thought. So, what do you think?”

As she knelt there, Mariah thought about what it would mean if she insisted upon her need for recovery and healing. It would mean more months of therapy and counseling, of twitchiness and jitteriness, of viewing herself, first and foremost, as a victim. It would mean looking over her shoulder for Mrs. Lawrence everywhere she went, and constantly guilt and shame whenever she found herself glancing at another woman. It would mean perhaps years of slowly building herself back up so she could learn to trust again, so she could reclaim her sexuality on her own terms—hell, so she could even work in an office again.

It was too much.

Just like that, Mariah gave up.

“Y-you’re right, Dr. Cerulean.” Mariah’s voice was still trembling desperately, but as she spoke, a haunted grin came to her face. “T-thinking about how I really feel… I guess it’s o-obvious. I’m j-just a lesbian.”

“Interesting,” Dr. Cerulean remarked. They sounded like they were beginning to crack up laughing. “And all those things you did for your boss?”

Mariah let out a twitchy laugh too. “I j-just did those things for Mistress because I wanted to.”

“Very interesting. Even hurting those other women?”

The noise that erupted from Mariah’s throat was a sob and a laugh in equal measure. “Y… y-yes. That’s right. I w-w-wanted to.”

“My goodness,” Dr. Cerulean sounded like she was fighting to suppress a moan as Mariah gave in. “That’s quite the breakthrough.”

Mariah wanted to. She wanted to serve her boss because she was a submissive lesbian. She wanted to hurt other women for her mistress because it turned her on. It was that simple. She was that simple.

“Why don’t you sit back up here?” Dr. Cerulean suggested. “One question: what do you think about the way your boss hypnotized you?”

As Mariah came up from under the desk, she glanced at the Newton’s cradle sitting on the psychiatrist’s desk. It had long since come to rest, but the sight of it still made her stomach churn.

“M-Mistress knows what’s best for me,” Mariah bleated, forcing her nausea down. Forcing herself to fall back on what her boss had taught her. “Mistress thinks for me b-better than I can.”

Dr. Cerulean sat forward as they let out a great, wheezing chuckle. “Let me get this straight,” they said. “Do you imagine that your boss knew that you were a lesbian all along, and was simply pushing you to accept it?”

A tear trickled down Mariah’s cheek. “Y-y-yeah.” She made herself believe it.

“Wow,” Dr. Cerulean remarked, and shrugged. “Well, yeah, that certainly sounds plausible to me. No issues there. We discussed your internalized homophobia earlier. I suppose being forced to confront that must have caused a kind of backlash. Very unfortunate.”

“R-right.” Mariah sat bolt upright in the chair as she felt compulsion snap tight around her like a collar on her neck. “Oh my god. I n-need to go back to Mistress. I need to find her again.”

“Oh yes?” Dr. Cerulean leaned forward intently. “And why’s that?”

Mariah’s happy, grateful smile was so wide. She wasn’t sure why she couldn’t seem to stop crying. “I need to apologize. I need to b-b-beg for her forgiveness.”

Tears were welling up in Dr. Cerulean’s eyes too—but only because they were fighting so hard to keep a tight rein on their mirth. “That sounds great!” the psychiatrist agreed. “Rebuilding the bridges we burn during moments of crisis can be so important. And far be it from me to keep you any longer—although I’d love to schedule a follow-up in a few weeks’ time. Just so I can, ah, see how you’re getting on.”

Mariah nodded eagerly. She was so thankful to Dr. Cerulean for helping her get her head on straight. Really, it was the least she could do.

As Dr. Cerulean stood up to see Mariah out, they carelessly set down on their desk the small notepad they had been taking notes on. With it face up, Mariah could see a few of the choice comments Dr. Cerulean had made:

‘BOOOORING I’m so sad blah blah blah’ ‘messing with her orientation? nice lol’ ‘dig for mantras?’ ‘oh she’s COOKED cooked.’ ‘amazed someone else hasn’t scooped her up already’ ‘regular follow-ups? the massage is pretty good’

Mariah decided to ignore them. She decided they had to be about somebody else. Fortunately, Dr. Cerulean distracted her from it by sliding another piece of paper across the desk.

“Now, about that release?” the psychiatrist asked politely. “I think this could be really great material for a fic. I can see getting a lot of Ao3 kudos for this one.”

With a tight, harrowed, unsteady, haunted grin on her tear-stained face, Mariah obediently signed her name and then hurried back to return to her life as a brainwashed, submissive, lesbian secretary. As she left, Dr. Cerulean leaned back in their chair and slipped their hand down the front of their pants.

“All in a day’s work,” Dr. Cerulean murmured to themself. “Now, let me see if I can finish before my five o’clock.”

—

I would like to express my gratitude for the generosity of all those who support me on Patreon, and to give a special thanks to the following patrons in particular for their exceptional support:

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wingsoffirenames · 30 days ago

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SkyWing Names - Letter A #1

Ablaze (Burning fiercely, or something brightly colored.) Accentor (A dull-colored Eurasian songbird) Accipiter (A genus of medium-sized forest-dwelling hawks that have short broad wings and a long tail.) Achondrite (A stony meteorite without rounded grains) Acorn (Fruit of the oak tree.) Actinolite (A fibrous mineral that can be pale green, yellow, blue and black.) Adret (The sun-facing side of a mountain.) Adularia (A white or colorless mineral often found in the alps) Aegolius (A genus of small owls) Aerial (Of, relating to, or occurring in the air or atmosphere.) Aerie (A large nest of a bird of prey, especially eagles, typically built high in a tree or on a cliff.) Aerosol (Small particles suspended in the atmosphere.) Afterburn (A burning sensation.) Agate (A variety of chalcedony that comes in many colors, often with swirl or banded patterns throughout.) Aiguille (A sharp-pointed pinnacle of rock.) Airstream (A current of air.) Alabaster (A mineral often used for carving.) Alabio (An Indonesian duck breed.) Alate (To have wings or wing-like appendages.) Albite (A pale-colored, usually white, mineral.) Alder (A type of tree from the birch family with toothed leaves.) Alev (A Turkish name meaning 'flame'.) Alexornis (A prehistoric bird.) Algodonite (A copper arsenide mineral.) Alizarin (A red pigment.) Almandine (A type of garnet with a violet tint.) Alp (A high, rugged mountain that is often snowcapped.) Alpaca (A domesticated mammal related to the Llama and known for its wool.) Alpenglow (The rosy light of the setting or rising sun seen on high mountains.) Alpine (Relating to high mountains.) Altitude (The height of an object or point in relation to sea or ground level.) Alto or Altocumulus (A fleecy cloud formation that occurs at a medium altitude.) Altostratus (A fairly uniform mid-altitude layer of gray cloud.) Alunite (A white, gray, or reddish mineral that can be found in volcanic rocks.) Amaranth (A purple color.) Amaterasu (The Japanese Shinto goddess personifying the sun.) Amber (A hard and translucent fossilized resin, or a yellow/orange color.) Amblygonite (A pale yellow gem.) Amethyst (A violet or purple quartz gem or a violet color.) Ammolite (An opal-like gemstone made of the fossilized shells of ammonites.) Analcime (A white, gray or colorless mineral.) Anapaite (A green mineral.) Anatase (A rare gemstone that comes in many colors.) Andalusite (A gemstone that is typically brown, red or green.) Andes (A South American mountain range.) Andesine (A rare gem known for it's orange-red and red colors, but also comes in yellow, green, and blue.) Andesite (A gray lava rock with white and black speckling. The speckles are crystals such as feldspar or quartz.) Andradite (A kind of garnet that comes in many colors.) Angelite (A blue gemstone but can also be white, violet, colorless, or dark gray.)

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tessa-liam · 8 months ago

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Turning the Page

Only You Can Love Me This Way

Chapter 13

Choices, The Royal Romance, The Royal Heir AU

Series Premise: As Riley Brooks journeys through life as a single parent in New York City, an epiphany strikes as she contemplates the future for herself and her two-year-old son.

Turning the Page Series Masterlist

My Complete Masterlist

Main pairing: Liam Rys x F!OC Riley Brooks

All characters belong to Pixelberry Studios, except William Brooks (Rys) and Matteo Magro, who both belong to this series.

Category: On-going series, contains angst/fluff/depression. Cross-over fic with Choices, Perfect Match.

Rating: M 🔞 - Warnings – Series will have crude language, weapons, NSFW material – not Beta’d - please excuse all errors.

Words: 3624

Only You Can Love Me This Way

Chapter Summary: Olivia continues to mentor Riley on how to adapt to Cordonian nobility. Maxwell, Bertrand and Savannah babysit William and Bartie, taking them on a Lythikan adventure. Liam and Riley re-connect and discover that their love story is stronger and better than ever.

Music & Title Inspiration: Only You Can Love Me This Way, Keith Urban

A/N1: In this alternate universe, after King Constantine orchestrates two individual scandals to humiliate and entrap Riley Brooks and Olivia Nevrakis in shame, Madeleine Amaranth secures her position as the Queen of Cordonia. Riley, as the King’s mistress and Olivia, in self-imposed exile. Tariq is never found.

A/N2: Damien Nazario has been assigned as William’s personal bodyguard. (Series cross-over with ‘Perfect Match’)

A/N3: My submission for choicesjunechallenge, prompts: spatial-hotel / temporal-beginning/ dialogue- “Up for a little trip?”

El Alami residence, Rabat, Morocco

With her ankles crossed delicately underneath her, Madeleine El Alami pulled out her cellular to check the status of the Uber driver. It was still incredibly early in the morning in Morocco, and time was of the essence. Her flight was scheduled to leave in ninety minutes from Rabat – Sale International airport and nothing and/or no one was going to halt her journey. Not even her husband.

Peeking out from between the fence columns outside her home, she could see the city coming alive as the sun's first rays illuminated the horizon. The people who had been hushed moments before, now filled the streets, greeting each other and heading off to start their day. It was a side of life Madeleine had never experienced before, a stark contrast to the opulence and splendor of her former life at the Cordonian palace. It was a reminder of the sacrifices she had made to follow her heart to be with her lover, Eduardo.

Now five months pregnant, the former queen, now the wife to the Moroccan diplomat, was leaving this world behind. While her husband slept, Madeleine, along with two hand servants were waiting for the Uber vehicle to roll to a stop at the estate’s front entrance. Her suitcases were hefted on board, as she sat down in the rear seat and buckled herself in. The driver shut the door and the car slowly rolled away, the servants went back inro the estate.

Her parents' disappointment and dismay had only grown when she told them about her unborn baby on their last visit. Her father coaxed her to pack up and return to his duchy in Karlington, England and start over. Her mother wanted her to move back home to Krona, Cordonia. As usual her parents were worlds apart when it came to their only daughter and her well-being, but they were united against Eduardo.

However, she was done with being controlled by Eduardo. Done with her father's demands and her mother's nagging. This time, she was going to do what she wanted to do. And what she wanted to do was to spend the rest of her pregnancy alone.

As she Uber drove to the airport, Madeleine left her husband, forever closing that chapter, watching the world go by; but not seeing anything. Her mind turned to the letter she had left for her husband. She had no regrets for her actions but hoped her words would provide solace for him.

She felt nothing. No sadness. No loss.

She had already mourned her former life and the loss of her title as queen. In its place was a new sense of freedom. And with that new sense of freedom came the hope for a new life, with the baby growing inside her.

Nevrakis Lodge, Lythikos, Cordonia

"Are you excited to see Uncle Maxwell and Aunt Savannah today, William?" Liam spoke as he was getting his little prince ready for the day. William giggled. "Yeah!"

"And you get to ride in a carriage! You have never ridden in one before, have you?" Liam smiled as his son's excitement grew. "YES! Horsies!" the little boy replied enthusiastically, his eyes wide with excitement. Liam chuckled. "Let's go get some breakfast and then we can go and wait for Uncle Max.”

"Okay, daddy!" William beamed; his excitement shined brightly from his big blue eyes.

As they entered the hallway, they heard a familiar voice call out, "William! Look at how big you are!"

"Unca Max!" William cried out, running towards his favorite uncle.

Maxwell scooped the little boy up in a bear hug, smiling widely. "We're going to have so much fun today, little man!"

"Where's Bartie?" William was concerned, his eyes searching for his newfound best friend.

"I'm over here," Bartie replied, popping out from behind his mother. "I wanna play with the horses, too. Can we, Mommy? Pleeease?"

Savannah gave her son a loving smile. "Well as long as the two of you eat your breakfast first." William bounded over to his little friend. "YAY!" The boys both cheered. Liam strolled over, "Savannah, hello. You look well this morning," Liam kissed her cheek.

"As do you, your majesty," she replied with a curtsy, bowing her head. “Liam, I am so happy and excited for you and Riley.”

"Thank you, Savannah."

Liam clapped Maxwell on the shoulder. "It is good to see you both, too, Lord Beaumont, Duke Ramsford."

“Your majesty.” Bertrand bowed and smiled, then stepped back to join his wife.

"Good to see you too, Li." Maxwell grinned at his childhood friend, as the men watched the boys follow Savannah as she grasped their hands.

Liam shook his head, a grin on his face. "Those two are inseparable. It's a good thing Bertrand has gotten over his fear of children."

Maxwell laughed. "Bertrand loves kids, he just has to be the most uptight person on the planet."

Liam chuckled. "I suppose that's true."

"Hey Max, are you ready?" called out Savannah from down the hall.

"Ready to eat always, Savvie ... as I"ll ever be," Maxwell replied, turning to Liam. "So, what's the plan for today?"

Liam gave a mischievous smile. "Well, I thought you could spend the day with William and Bartie, giving Riley and I a chance to have some alone time."

Maxwell grinned. "Hah ... sounds like fun," he winked. "You're going to owe me, though."

Liam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever you want."

Maxwell chuckled. "Alright, let's get this show on the road. The kids and my stomach are waiting."

Liam turned back to adjust his tie and reached for his suit jacket which was draped over a wing chair. He walked to the foyer to meet with Riley and Olivia, Bastien following discreetly behind him.

"You're dismissed, Damien," Liam said. "I appreciate your vigilance.

“Of course," Damien bowed and took his leave, joining the other members of the Royal Guard in the hallway. As he closed the door, his eyes wandered across the hallway, where he watched Olivia wrapping William in a hug before turning toward the foyer and the waiting limo outside.

Damien had been captivated by Olivia from the moment they were introduced. As he watched her wrap the little crown prince in a hug, his mind wandered.

He could not help but admire her grace and elegance, the way her fiery hair shone underneath the chandelier or when her eyes sparkled when she laughed.

Damien knew he could never have her, but the thought of being able to spend time with her, to make her laugh and see her smile, was enough to fuel his dreams.

He wondered what it would be like to hold her in his arms, to kiss her soft lips and feel her body pressed against his.

But that was all it could ever be, a fantasy, a dream.

‘What would a Duchess ever see in a guardsman? Olivia is a rare beauty,’ Damien mused. ‘She's not like any other noble, and she doesn't seem to care about the status or title.’

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening, and he straightened up, adjusting his uniform.

As Damien thoughts went back to his post, his eyes drifted back to Olivia, and he could not help but wonder if there was a chance, however small, that his dreams could become a reality.

***

“Olivia, why are you being so secretive?” Riley inquired again, after spending the morning shopping for clothes and accessories in the city center, the limousine rolled to a stop at the Nevrakis lodge entrance.

Bastien opened the limousine door as Olivia stepped out. Glancing back to Riley, she smirked, “You are one lucky lady”. Riley’s eyebrow lifted in question. “You, my dear have a final challenge to endure."

Riley sat and blinked as she took in her words. After reaching for her bags Riley turned her attention to exit the limo after Olivia, when she heard a deep baritone voice, "...Hi."

Riley looked up to see a six-foot, 4-inch-tall familiar man looking at her with a huge smile. Dressed in a crisp, sleek suit overtopped by an Armani topcoat

"Liam? ...What are you doing here?" Riley’s eyes went wide as she looked up at her lover.

"...And dressed like that?”

“Love, I wouldn't dream of being underdressed for your final challenge." Liam smirked and then chuckled softly watching Riley’s look of disbelief.

"So, you're here for the challenge too?"

"You bet. I've been waiting for this moment since you came back to Cordonia."

"Liam, what is going on?"

“This is our final destination. According to Olivia, I am the challenge.”

"And that would be?"

Liam smiled wide, not giving out any clues.

"Oh my, this isn't a game show, right?"

"Not to worry, love. All I know is that Olivia has prepared something for us and it's a surprise."

"Okay. So, what is this surprise? Please tell me."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to spoil the fun."

"Liam, I don't like surprises."

"Love, I know ...I can see that. But, I think you will like this one. This is our last day in Lythikos; I've already been briefed and we're going to have a blast."

Olivia’s watched their exchange and added, “the last thing you need to get back into fighting form is to reconnect with what you are fighting for.

...And you have always been driven by your love for Liam; for your family.”

Liam slid his arm around Riley’s waist pulling her close to him. “Which was an unusually sentimental thing to hear Olivia say.”

Olivia sighed, “a bit saccharine for my tastes, but to each their own. I always thought love was a weakness, but you seem to actually draw strength from each other.”

Riley’s scrunched her eyebrows, “Just to be clear, my last challenge is to spend time with King Liam Rys?”

“The whole day, actually. Olivia is taking us into town.”

“Everyone else will help me take care of William while you’re away.” Olivia added.

“Sweet! Free daycare! I’m really warming up to Lythikos hospitality.”

“It’s a circumstantial offer. Cherish it while it lasts.”

Liam kissed Riley’s cheek, “believe me, we plan to.”

“But Olivia, you’re supposed to be looking into our Madeleine problem....and the press.”

“Damien and I will dhave everything covered; I promise.

And you have your marching orders. Reconnect and start fresh, that you may crush your enemies on the morrow.”

Liam grinned, “Ah, Romantic.” Placing his hand on the small of her back, Liam steered Riley back into the lodge to change into the evening wear that she bought in town.

Standing at the entrance of the dining room, along with the other guards, Damien Nazario stood vigilantly watching the crown prince. His eyes were sharp and ever watchful. As a trained ex-secret service agent and bodyguard, he knew when people were watching.

His attention was suddenly drawn to a smattering of voices outside in the main hall, and a moment later, Duchess Olivia Nevrakis entered the dining room, and Damien felt his breath catch.

She was stunning. She had been stunning the night before, but he had not noticed her beauty fully. This morning, the Duchess wore a form fitting black and grey suit. Her vibrant red hair was done up in a chignon. Damien was entranced by her, but he knew better than to stare. He tore his eyes away from her and glanced down at the floor, taking in the shiny black patent leather of her boots. He swallowed, wondering how they would feel around his neck. He shook his head, trying to clear the image from his mind. He looked up, and his eyes once again caught sight of her, this time her stormy blue green eyes were looking straight into his.

She arched an eyebrow and tilted her head as she regarded him. Damien's cheeks warmed.

"Good morning," a voice sounded beside him.

"Morning," he mumbled, glancing back to where the Duchess had been, only to find her gone.

Drake chuckled. "See something you like?”

***

Inside the limo, Liam and Riley arrived outside an upscale restaurant in the city center.

Bastien opened rhe passenger door and Liam stepped out, holding out his hand for Riley. She took it and climbed out of the limo. She gasped when she looked at the building in front of her. "This is beautiful."

"You are beautiful," Liam smiled. "And tonight, you will be dining on the best seafood this side of Paris."

"That's a high bar to live up to." Riley's eyebrows raised.

Liam chuckled. "It can certainly get the job done."

They were escorted inside the restaurant, with Liam's hand on the small of her back as they were led to a secluded table overlooking the city center.

Liam pulled out Riley's chair and she sat down, exposing her long tanned leg through the side slit of her cocktail dress. He sat down and his eyes drank in the sight of her, his gaze lingering on her legs.

Riley blushed.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare." Liam looked down.

Riley reached across the table and took his hand in hers. "Look all you want, Your Majesty."

Liam lifted his head and locked eyes with her, his blue orbs sparkling. "I have wanted to do this since the night of the Coronation Ball. You were breathtaking that night. I wanted to sweep you into my arms and dance the night away with you. But there was always someone or something getting in the way."

Riley grasped Liam's hands in hers ...

"Mmm, this whole place smells like fresh bread. I want to eat that smell."

"I will order the kitchen to prepare you a fresh loaf immediately." Liam grinned.

Riley threw her head back and laughed.

"Please do. After Olivia's challenges, I feel like I could devour this entire restaurant."

"I love the sound of your laugh," Liam whispered.

Riley's heart skipped a beat.

Liam's grin widened. "I hope we have many more dates just like this. After Olivia's unique brand of 'help', we've definitely earned this day."

Riley giggled. "That was the nicest way of saying Olivia was a royal pain in the ass."

Liam let out a chuckle. "That was very diplomatic of me, thank you."

Liam smiled as a steaming breadbasket and the entrees were set down on the table. The waiter tops off Riley's red wine and sets a glass of scotch down for Liam.

Riley picked up her glass and held it aloft. "A toast. To us."

"To us," he echoed, clinking his glass against hers.

As Riley takes a sip, the waiter places a small dish in front of her. Inside is a thick chocolate sauce in the shape of a heart, the word "love" written in script, and two berries.

Riley looked from the dish to Liam, her lips curled into a mischievous smile. "Chocolate covered strawberries? Are you trying to seduce me, Liam?"

"That depends," Liam replied, a matching grin forming on his face.

"On what?" Riley asked.

"Whether or not it's working," he whispered.

Riley's eyes met his and they burned with desire.

"I'll take that as a yes." His grin widened and he leaned across the table. Liam took Riley's hand in his, his fingers tracing slow circles on the back of her hand. "You are beautiful. I wish we could have been together from the start."

Riley's lips formed a soft smile. "So do I, Liam. I don't want this night to end."

"It doesn't have to." Liam reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, laying them on the table between them.

"Up for a little trip?”

Riley's eyes widened. "Are you suggesting we run away together?"

"One of the best kept secrets in Lythikos is a glass igloo tucked away in the mountains. The perfect view of the stars, the perfect view of the valley."

Riley bit her lip and looked up at him from under her lashes. "I think I might have found the perfect view right here."

"It's also very secluded. Not another soul for miles." Liam winked.

Demurely smiling, Riley added, "I can think of a few ways to take advantage of that."

"So can I ... if you're up for the trip."

Riley picked up the keys, the smile on her face growing wider. "Let's skip the dinner and jump right to the dessert."

"Then we should leave right now," he suggested, his eyes never leaving hers. After a few calls, Liam stands and offers his arm to Riley.

Riley slipped her arm through his and together they headed out of the restaurant, and back into the waiting limo.

The driver was already waiting and pulled the car into the traffic. They passed through the city streets and up into the mountains. It was dark when the car finally pulled up in front of a domed glass structure. Stepping inside, the entire frozen mountainside stretched out around on all sides, a beautiful aurora shined through the ceiling panels.

"Oh Liam, this place is unreal ... it's all the natural wonder of camping with the comfort of a five star hotel."

"And a lot more privacy." Liam added.

"After the past few weeks, I really wanted to get you away and alone," Liam softly spoke, his arms slipping around Riley's waist.

She placed her hands over his. "Me, too. I don't want this day to end."

"I have one more surprise for you."

Riley smiled. "Is that why you brought me here? For a surprise?"

"No. I brought you here because I want to be alone with you." He kissed her cheek, his lips trailing along her jawline and down her neck.

Riley's eyelids fluttered and she tilted her head back. "Mmm, is that so?"

Liam nuzzled his nose against the spot behind her ear. "I wanted to do this all evening."

"What's stopping you now?"

He grinned. "Nothing."

Liam pressed his lips to hers. She melted into him and deepened the kiss. His tongue sought hers and they moved together in unison. He cupped her ass and pulled her into him, her curves conforming to his body.

Riley's hands tangled into his hair, her fingers tugging. Liam moaned into her mouth, his desire rising. Together tumbling back onto the bed, legs tangling as they fall down onto the plush mattress.

A while later, Liam's fingers combed absently through Riley's hair as they watched the way the colors and lights swirled around, constantly changing.... It was hypnotic.

"When I look up into the sky ... I see you. I see something beautiful, brilliant, untamable ... a breathtaking force of nature. I know that we have been through a lot, but when you're in my arms like this ... I also know that we can find a way through it together, if you'll let me."

Riley sighed happily. "Liam..."

*I know, love, that I said I wouldn't bring it up again, but after tonight, I need to tell you that I'm so sorry for everything."

"Liam, it's okay, I know you had to do it. I know the weight of the world was on your shoulders, and you had to do what's best for your people, that's your duty. But you have to also do what's best for yourself. We all do."

Liam's grip tightened slightly around her waist. "That's what I want. You...

"Riley. I love you. And William. I can't imagine my life without you both in it."

"I love you too, Liam," she whispered. "So much..."

"Do you forgive me?" Liam asked quietly in earnest.

"Of course, I forgive you. I am so sorry that I was a coward and left without telling you about..."

"SSHHH! There is nothing to forgive you for, Riley. You were just doing what you felt you had to do. I am so sorry that the court was so unfair to you. My father ..."

"Liam, please. Let's just focus on the present."

"... and the future." LIam added with a kiss...

@choicesficwriterscreations @thosehallowedhalls

#choices fic writers creations #tessa liam writes #the royal romance #liam rys #trr fanfic #trr #riley brooks #the royal heir #junechoiceschallenge2024 #choices june challenge

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meganooooooooooooooo · 9 days ago

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What is the Devouring Storm?

With this past week's devastating news of post-Veilguard layoffs has pretty much put the nail in the coffin on any future Dragon Ages in the near or far future, if at all, I wanted to discuss what the writers were planning next for the series. Because Veilguard pretty clearly tells you, if you bother to find it. So, going forth will obviously be spoilers, and I hope people who want to make canon-accurate fanworks use this information the way I think the writers intended for us to.

So, the situational post-credits scene reveals that The Executors/Those Across the Sea are finally making a play for Thedas. But why? We've known something has been fishy in Theodas (which is what I like to call The Other Dragon Age Setting) since Origins. But we've never had so much information about what, exactly, might be going on there before.

What do we know about Dragon Age's other continent?

Anyone who has ever tried to travel there has either been turned back or were lost at sea, including Alistair's father, King Maric.

The Qunari travelled to Thedas from there, and were fleeing something. We now know that something is The Devouring Storm, and that they altered their own bodies with dragon blood to try to stop it and failed. Modern Qunari have forgotten this, though they still teach their navigators to watch for it.

In a letter to Bellara from Emmrich, he says the lands across the sea are described as either a verdant natural paradise or full of dead cities.

Aside from The Executors, who are considered little more than a conspiracy theory by most people in Thedas, one other group has made contact: the Voshai. The Voshai are mostly dwarves (but no elves) who used to come to the city of Laysh in the Anderfels to trade. The only thing they came to trade for was magical artifacts, particularly lyrium. There are rumours from the time of the Inquisition that the Voshai have returned to Laysh after a cataclysm in their homeland, but these rumours have not been confirmed.

We know the name of one other place there, Amaranth, but I can't find any more than that.

The Evanuris appear to have used the threat of Those Across the Sea as justification for their tyrannical rule, and at least some of their fear seems to be genuine. In the codex entry "Urthemiel's Shield" it's revealed that the Archon's palace was created at the bidding of the Old Gods (aka the Evanuris) not to shoot at their own people, but to defend against Those Across the Sea.

The Mysterious Circle codex entries describe encounters with Those Across the Sea, both their magic and likely one of the Executors. The Executor's body is described as "changing and shifting" though not in a shapeshifter way, more like their bodies don't know how to hold their own corporeal form.

Notes on a Mystery Substance

Now we come to what I think are probably the most important series of codex entries in the game, Notes on a Mystery substance. There are three of them, found throughout Arlathan Forest.

The gist of these entries is this: Written by the Forgotton One Anaris, it details the discovery of a strange golden substance by one of his subordinates? rivals? (it's not clear but he doesn't like the guy), Atrahel. Anaris runs tests on the substance and finds that provides great magical power but nullifies all other known sources of magic. In fact, he describes it as a "magic that devours all others." Anaris, being an asshole, decides to test it on Atrahel without him knowing. It makes him stronger even than the Evanuris, but alters his personality significantly. Atrahel eventually where Anaris has kept the rest of the substance and consumes it completely. His physical form changes and he essentially becomes the magical equivalent of an atomic bomb, blowing up and destroying himself and any other elves who happened to be nearby. Only Anaris survives, and he runs away before the Evanuris come to investigate.

The Devouring Storm

So, if we take all this information together, I can say with confidence that the Devouring Storm is this magic that devours all other magic. Not only that, but that the Executors have probably consumed all the other magic in that part of the world. And what does Thedas still have a lot of? Magic. Raw magic from the Fade, spirits, lyrium, probably even the Blight. And The Executors not only want it, they probably need it.

This explains a lot of things about what little we know about this part of the world.

The fact that the Voshai are dwarves that have never seen lyrium before would suggest that a. Titans once existed there and b. they have been consumed.

Why the Qunari fled their homeland, their extreme fear of magic, and why they had to make the adaari to fight them. (You can't fight magic that devours all other magic with magic, after all, it only makes them stronger.)

Why The Executors have had a vested interest in the Veil staying intact since the Inquisitor: the Fade would be partially or completely destroyed if it came down, and a not intact Fade is worthless to them. Even if you believe Solas's plan would not have destroyed the Fade (it would though), the Veil would still need to stay up to make it more difficult for The Executors to devour both the Fade and probably the Blight (and who knows what that would do to them).

Why the cities across the sea are described as dead.

If we believe that the many prophecies we've been given are either spirits or sleeping Titans (or both) giving people warnings about this, it explains why: they don't want to get eaten!

Personally, I think this is pretty interesting, definitely much more interesting than the ending credits scene suggests. Does it mean that the Qunari didn't have magic before they came to Thedas? (That would explain a lot). What is a world where nobody at all has access to the realm of dreams like? How the heck are you supposed to fight magic that devours everything?

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #datv #veilguard spoilers #datv spoilers #dragon age meta #the executors #the devouring storm

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somebluemelodies · 1 year ago

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DAY FOUR OF SPIDERBIT THEME WEEK STARTED BY @anonymous-dentist! :D SELECTED THEME: KISS took a new approach with this one bc i really really wanted to write an absolute soft fluffy mess and i present to you: a compilation of different types of kisses :> this is kinda long sorry guys-

Chaos. Pure, unadulterated chaos.

Everything is a hazy blur. Everything. Waking up and finding Felps. Breaking Felps out and reuniting. Stumbling into the room overlooking the massive dungeon and finally being able to send coordinates, desperately hoping that someone, anyone, will see them and come, despite everything he’s done.

Did they all get their letters?

(Did Roier get his letter? The amaranths?)

If they won’t come for him specifically, maybe they’ll come for Felps’s sake.

And then, after God only knows how long, people show up. A lot of people show up.

And they’re rescued. They’re freed. It’s a mess of voices shouting, swords clashing, armor clanging, and heat. Cellbit barely has the energy to hurry, mentally and physically exhausted, but he’s being ushered along and he has no choice.

(People care. They came. They care.)

The first moment of clarity, oddly enough, comes when he’s standing on the roof, and he’s just indirectly proposed to Roier— oh, God, is this actually—

And Roier accepts.

(Were they even dating in the first place?)

(Does it matter? Anything could happen at any moment. The last few days are an example of just that.)

Well, nothing about them is normal, anyway.

There are arms thrown around his neck, drawing him back from his mind. Roier is laughing, and warmth blooms in Cellbit’s heart as he laughs alongside him, arms wrapping right around his waist as they rock in place.

(Incredulousness. Surprise. Happiness. Love.)

When the laughter finally calms, and they still, Roier pauses a moment before moving back one of his arms, tentatively cupping Cellbit’s face.

The investigator’s eyes widen slightly, heat threatening to creep up his neck, and it takes all of his willpower to try not to lean into the touch.

(He fails, borderline miserably. But the fondness in Roier’s eyes runs so deep he isn’t sure he can be embarrassed.)

Roier presses a kiss to his cheek, then, and his stunlock must be visible, because Roier laughs again, dark eyes crinkling and God, he just looks so happy and perfect and Cellbit thinks he might melt and die right here and now—

His cheeks flush and the spider-hybrid only laughs more, burying his head into Cellbit’s neck. Cellbit breathes in, but a smile splits his face once more and they’re both laughing like idiots again, holding each other tighter all the while.

(Love. Love. Love.)

…

“Don’t fuck this up” repeats like a mantra in Cellbit’s head; over and over and over again. He feels impossibly lucky Roier even agreed to let this date happen, nearly physically wincing at the recollection of all the events that had transpired prior to this point.

(Roier deserves better than him, really.)

(But if he’s who Roier wants after all, then he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try to be at least half the man the spider-hybrid deserves.)

All things considered, though, the date is going really well. Although the investigator is still kicking his own ass at his carelessness, things are finally returning to a semblance of normalcy, and for that he’s eternally grateful.

Roier spends more time talking between the two of them, but it’s perfectly fine by Cellbit; he’s always been more of a listener, anyway.

(It’s not like he’s too distracted by the man himself to make any extended commentary. No, not at all!)

Roier is fun to watch, though. Captivating. He’s expressive, charming, practically everything adoring under the sun. And he’s, well, beautiful.

Really beautiful.

(Handsome? Pretty? Beautiful?)

(Does it really matter?)

The lighting in the taqueria isn’t spectacular by any means. But if anything, the slight dimness only makes the spider-hybrid more distracting pretty. His eyes twinkle with fun and mischief, and his smile could light up the whole taqueria itself, Cellbit thinks fondly. And—

“Cellbo?”

Cellbit blinks, snapping back to reality. “Yeah?”

Roier is a rather cute mix of puzzled and amused, quirking an eyebrow. “¿Estás bien? You spaced out or something; you okay?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, yeah. Sí. Sorry.” The investigator rubs the back of his neck.

“No worries, man,” Roier dismisses. And much to Cellbit’s admiration, he backs up a bit in his story and continues right on.

At some point, Cellbit’s eyes drop to their hands on the table, a short distance apart from each other. And a thought starts to creep into his head.

(The mantra repeats itself. Don’t fuck this up.)

Gingerly, Cellbit takes Roier’s hand in his, thumb brushing along his knuckles. The spider-hybrid doesn’t make any moves to pull his hand back, and, to the other’s surprise, his momentary surprised pause doesn’t even disrupt the flow of his story.

They stay like that for a short while, and Cellbit’s adoring thoughts amble back to him as he listens to Roier.

(Him. Him. Him.)

Before the investigator even fully processes what he’s doing, he’s lifting the spider-hybrid’s hand and pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles.

This makes Roier actively pause, and Cellbit’s heart drops for a moment, eyes widening.

(Don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up—)

(You’ve fucked this up—)

Roier starts smiling, cheeks tinted the faintest of reds. Nothing is said, but he lowers their hands to the table, lacing their fingers together.

And they stay like that until Leo reappears with their food.

…

Both of them have barely been able to stop smiling since the ceremony began, when Cellbit stepped onto the aisle and their eyes locked.

Everything is a bit of a haze. But a pleasant one. Hands clasped, the world seems to get smaller and smaller until it’s only them at the altar, Father Peta’s voice a hum of white noise in the background.

It’s something that’s felt like a long time coming, oddly enough. Thinking back, the pieces seem to fall into place, like a puzzle.

For Cellbit, it started that very moment he and the other Brazilians were rescued off the boat. When the first face he saw on the other side of the glass, beaming and laughing and shouting, was already etching into his mind. Unforgettable.

(That was it.)

He didn’t know, then. He didn’t understand the little piece nagging him at the back of his mind. How could he know, when the future was so uncertain? An island full of mysteries, that was a mystery within itself. His priorities were elsewhere.

For a while, at least.

It’s a little blurrier for Roier, when things, feelings, started to grow more apparent. Their adventures got longer, more frequent. Seeking each other out with no excuse, supporting each other. The flirting stopped being just for the sake of flirting, of having a little fun. Cellbit made him nervous in a way not quite foreign to him, but a way that made him try to deny it. Try to hide from it.

And then Cellbit disappeared, leaving Roier to stare at a letter, a painfully familiar photo, and a bundle of red flowers. Amaranths.

(Everlasting love.)

And it became crystal clear then. He knew. Even if it was too late. God, had he hoped it wasn’t.

(He couldn’t take another loss.)

(But he wouldn’t.)

So, in a strange cacophony of events, for better or for worse, here they are. Admiring each other, exchanging vows that make both of their eyes glassy. They don’t need to talk about the interruption.

It’s all led up to this, one way or another.

“I now pronounce you married!”

Hasn’t it?

The ‘kiss cue’ has barely left Father Peta’s mouth before Roier is grabbing Cellbit’s face - quick but gentle, never harsh - and pulling him into a kiss he’s gotten rather impatient for.

(They were both getting rather impatient, but nobody needs to know that.)

It’s not much of a kiss at first, though, the way their noses bump first and they can’t stop smiling and fighting laughter against each other’s lips. But as it sinks in, that they’re married, they’re husbands, Cellbit holds Roier tighter, pulling him closer still. Their eyes flutter shut, lips pressing together in a way that feels nothing short of home.

(They’re finally right where they needed to be.)

…

“Espera- I want to try something.”

Cellbit shoots his husband a questioning look. Roier only grins.

The investigator folds his arms, watching as the spider-hybrid flicks his wrist up towards the ceiling, a thin string of web shooting out.

With an athletic grace that never ceases to impress Cellbit, Roier jumps and flips himself upside-down, suspended by the web.

They’re eye-level now— well, if Cellbit looks straight ahead then he’s looking at Roier’s chin, and vice versa, but his eyes lower to his love’s own. “Okay, and?”

(This feels oddly familiar. Is this the set-up for what he thinks it is?)

Roier’s grin doesn’t falter. “Kiss me.”

(Of-fucking-course.)

Cellbit wants to facepalm, flick his husband on his very kissable face, but the fondness in his heart is quickly growing, and he laughs instead, shaking his head to himself. “Que? Like the fucking movie?”

It’s the spider-hybrid’s turn to laugh. “C’mon, man! You know you want to!”

“Uh-huh.”

“Bésame, pendejo. Before I get light-headed and fall on my face or some shit. You don’t want me cracking my—”

Huffing another laugh, the investigator tilts his head up and cups Roier’s cheeks, connecting their lips and effectively shutting him up.

The angle makes it wonky and awkward, and the kiss only lasts a few seconds before they’re smiling and snickering, and snickering turns into even more laughter.

(How did they get here?)

Still holding Roier’s face, Cellbit plants kisses to the corner of his mouth, his nose, and his forehead in succession. “Te amo, guapito.”

Roier’s smile softens, eyes bright, and his husband is certain he’s falling in love with the spider-hybrid all over again. “Eu te amo, gatinho.”

#holy shit that took ages HBEJDJWD #BUT I DID IT #is this coherent? i’m not sure #i wanted a fluffy mess and by god i got a mess at the very least #but it’s my mess #and i love my cubito husbands and their love very much #qsmp cellbit #qsmp roier #spiderbit #qsmp #blue writes qsmp #a.d's spiderbit week

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oh-no-its-dragons · 5 months ago

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When Garrick gets a letter from his cousin asking him to come help out on the farm for the winter, it seems like a good time for him and Imogen to take a little vacation from Aretia. It's been almost a year since the war with the venin ended and Imogen deserves a break, right?

Things don't go as planned, but in the long run it seems like they may be going awry in the best possible way.

Yeah, I made a mood board for this one, folks. And there's an associated yarn colorway: Ballet Slippers/Blue Roundhead/Creamsicle from Amaranth Fibres on etsy.

#garrick tavis #imogen cardulo #the immrick vibe #my fic

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kogratorm · 2 years ago

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Q!Cellbit left behind a book for each member he cared the most after disappearing. The middle one, was entitled “Para Guapito”, alongside a photo (from the day when Q!Cellbit and Q!Roier created Base Guapita), and a Magenta Amaranth.

Do you guys even understand how fucking TRAGIC it is to have AN AMARANTH in that chest? And that it is meant to be for Q!Roier?

Amaranth is associated with longevity, death, and immortality due to their flowers being slow to wilt. Because of this, it has become a representation of

UNFADING AFFECTION AND EVERLASTING LOVE.

I will cry my heart out when Q!Roier reads that letter.

#qsmp #qsmp cellbit #qsmp roier #q!cellbit #q!roier #guapoduo #why i signed up to be a guapoduo shipper of all things #my years of appreciating floriography have finally come to be useful #and i fucking hate this honestly

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joelsprettyprincess · 1 month ago

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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.

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