#sacred soil

[mcchi-ken]

A shell without a scar / At the end of time

(song is Thanatos by Soap&Skin)

[c-kiddo]

pretty much this article exactly say my thoughts of why i just dont care about the submersible. they catastrophically imploded, which is the nice way out for them, and also they collectively had more money than any of us could ever dream of seeing in our lives (all billionaires have blood on their hands. btw)

put my thought and general ick around the way it has all been spoken about into words perfectly ^

(turned reblogs off bc i dont want this treated as a news source with people sharing without even reading the article first, which is also an opinion piece not breaking news or something)

[inkykeiji]

.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

"The old people came literally to love the soil, and they sat or reclined on the ground with a feeling of being close to a mothering power. It was good for the skin to touch the earth, and the old people liked to remove their moccasins and walk with bare feet on the sacred earth. Their tipis were built upon the earth and their altars were made of earth. The soil was soothing, strengthening, cleansing, and healing. That is why the old Indian still sits upon the earth instead of propping himself up and away from its life-giving forces. For him, to sit or lie upon the ground is to be able to think more deeply and to feel more keenly; he can see more clearly into the mysteries of life and come closer in kinship to other lives about him." ~ Lakota Chief Luther Standing Bear

[h/t Ian Sanders]

[primordialruin]

The way Lilith completely rejects the ties she feels towards Adam is going to eat me alive. It's this impossible situation in which like calls to like as she accepts his descendants but not him because they feel like a home by proxy to her. The protectiveness she feels towards them even if a lot of them are objectively horrible people. It's like hugging someone's coat or pillow and basking into their scent because it regulates your nervous system. She's too stubborn to ever give in to her true feelings, labeling the first man as a sort of forbidden fruit she abstains from. Her avoidance is so grand that she wouldn't even recognize these thoughts and feelings as her own!

[abimee]

still wanna understand how others play scholar to make lustrates a ''last resort panic button'' but i also like living under the idea that everyone is just wrong because what the fuck

[looseleafteeaves]

Icons of the Me’eri Culture, Religion, Folklore, and Magic

1: “Little bird”- Already seen in the chant-song, Little Bird is used as a name/epithet for the people who are caged in darkness.

2. There is little music for the mining slaves(caged birds refuse to sing after all), so instead most use the rhythms of tools in use and the cadence of words to connect.

3. Wind, and any references to it- Wind is escape, it is rebellion. Many Me’eri spend a chunk of their lives never leaving the mines they are chained in. Wind is the freedom. It is safety. It is “taking freedom for themself”. Me’eri see the wind as a product of salvation. If a breeze blows, deep in the mines past a slave, a common greeting is "run quickly, Oritemi. Show us the way.” This is a good omen for the Me’eri who are running to freedom alone, while it is also good fortune for rebellion.

4. Sinking vs Rising- to sink is to be pulled down, made worse, wrapped in more chains. Rising means escape, finding strength, sparking rebellion.

5. Most people don’t know parents- childbirth is hard in normal situations, and even more so as a people trapped beneath the planet’s surface. Most have siblings, however, and thus family is more community than blood.

(The only mother is the fabled sunlight, for out of darkness, we will rise into the light, as we rose from our past, and found the light again)

6. In the Me’eri spirituality, the Storytellers and Chanters function as the spiritual heart. They guide new slaves, and for old ones, remind them to continue to Live not Survive.

7. The Three Parents- part of Me’eri culture is the honor of the three parents, who embody and inhabit the suns of the system. Mother Lotarima, Mapa Pelsi, and Father Korevian. Lotarima is tough love. She is all about burning out the sickness, infection, and dead thoughts. To care for someone, you must fight for them. Korevian is the silent parent. He watches over you from afar, but leaves clues on escaping. He also marks the path with bootprints(called kovmasɔ, a kind of flower). Finally, Pelsi is the Childrearer. They walk beside you, guide you, and help you to grow. They will not abandon you.

8. The wind- Oritemi. Named in the folk tale, Oritemi is the wind that first showed Pelsi where their people had been taken. As much as the 3 are revered, it is Oritemi who had a place in every home. They run through the tunnels, searching out cracks. They teach the birds to sing so that the Me'eri know they are safe. They carry seeds and light down into the darkness so that all the Me'eri can remember who they are. The most common seed they carry is one shaped like the sun. They grow best in the care of the firekeepers.

9. Biologically, the caves are surprising rich in life. Many types of plants or fungi grow. However, animals are quite rare- mainly due to the mining. Some plants: Bootprints/Kovmasɔ- these are bioluminescent marigolds/calendula type plants. Medicinal and bright, they are said to grow in the footprints of Korevian and the freedom runners. Bifek-a kind of jelly like mushroom. When harvested it has a sweet, nutty, and carmel-like flavor(think maple syrup). Pelmakɔ-a grain type plant, used for breakfast foods, it also is the base of a milk substitute that is used in tea(oats in real life). Lorimas- the only tree that truly grows underground, the Lorimas has a spicy-sweet flavor to the inner bark, its roots are more spicy and the leaves are more nutty(Cinnamon, ginger, and rooibos respectively). Rimak Pods- mushroom that grows specifically near warmth, this is a mushroom that finds its home in the tiniest cracks of the caves where Me'eri live. Rimak Pods are a spice(I personally picture a cross between cumin and spicy pepper) when properly dried. Almirɔ-sunflowers that produce a gentle UV light. They grow deep underground near water, or in water. The seed is considered akin to gold, as the seeds are food, and used to make cooking oil. Nifek- a meaty type mushroom that is plentiful, and used as the main source of protein. Think of giant puffball mushrooms. Other, currently unnamed plants- an elderflower-esque plant that glows when in the presence of germs or bacteria, a star anise/cardamon cross type seed-carried by the wind into the caves, silver birch type plant, white willow type plant, aloe type plant, and pepper type plant. Salt comes from a mushroom here, not the earth, and there is a large amount of other herbs, spices, and vegetables that grow.

[iggyfing]

been a week since i was able to properly play ffxiv bc littlebro was home for thanksgiving and i suspect it’s tiktok on his phone that eats all the bandwidth bc this always happens when he’s home

but he left this morning (and made it back to college safely) so i was able to get on this afternoon and run a couple dungeons as naoh’a (after having to psych myself up for a half hour with hildibrand quests bc i’m out of practice at healing and Afraid). man i missed it. the tanks pulled big but not wall to wall and i was able to manage it. (i did do some tomestone grinding to complete the ironworks gearset which also means naoh’a’s lvl60 now l o l) i’m still working on getting naoh’a through the bonus lvl50 dungeons, then it’ll be jofrid, and then i can start getting everyone (sans hare) through the arr patch story.

[thegoblinpit]

Nobody in my life seems to understand how upsetting this is. All of it. It took me 4 years of filling an apartment patio with every native plant I can get to grow for me to start seeing butterflies and moths. If I go in the woods, half of what I find are invasive (cultivated) plant species. Everyone defaults to poison to remove every inconvenient life form. I remember having breakdowns as early as 6 years old because of the deliberate and vengeful destruction of Nature by the people in my rural pasture of a hometown. I remember the way they celebrated when only lawn grasses would grow and not enough bugs were alive to meet death on a windshield. I watched the biodiversity of ants in my yard growing up go from at least 6 species to only invasive fire ants. I’ve held so many bugs and small animals in their death throes from contact with spectrum killers. I’ve asked forgiveness from so many things who were killed for the crime of living in front of humans. I am always enraged. I am always in despair. I am always ashamed. Humanity has robbed me and the generations to come of the miracle of diverse life and sustainable coexistence.

How people in the USA loved nature and knew the ways of the plants in the past vs. nowadays

I have been in the stacks at the library, reading a lot of magazine and journal articles, selecting those that are from over fifty years ago.

I do this because I want to see how people thought and the tools they had to come up with their ideas, and see if I can get perspective on the thoughts and ideas of nowadays

I've been looking at the journals and magazines about nature, gardening, plants, and wildlife, focusing on those from 1950-1970 or thereabouts. These are some unstructured observations.

The discourse about spraying poisons on everything in your garden/lawn has been virtually unchanged for the past 70 years; the main thing that's changed is the specific chemicals used, which in the past were chemicals now known to be horribly dangerous and toxic. In many cases, just as today, the people who opposed the poisons were considered as whackos overreacting to something mostly safe with a few risks that could be easily minimized. In short, history is not on the pesticides' side.

Compared with 50-70 years ago, today the "wilderness" areas of the USA are doing much better nowadays, but it actually appears that the areas with lots of human habitation are doing much worse nowadays.

I am especially stricken by references to wildflowers. There has definitely been a MASSIVE disappearance of flowers in the Eastern United States. I can tell this because of what flowers the old magazines reference as common or familiar wildflowers. Many of them are flowers that seem rare to me, which I have only seen in designated preserves.

There are a lot more lepidopterans (butterflies and moths) presumed to be familiar to the reader. And birds.

Yes, land ownership in the USA originated with colonization, but it appears that the preoccupation with who owns every little piece of land on a very nitpicking level has emerged more recently? In the magazines there is a sense of natural places as an unacknowledged commons. It is assumed that a person has access to "The creek," "The woods," "The field," "The pond" for simple rambling or enjoyment without personally owning property or directly asking permission to go onto another person's property.

There is very little talk of hiking and backpacking. I don't think I saw anything in the magazines about hiking or going on hikes, which is strange because nowadays hiking is the main outdoor activity people think of. Nature lovers 50-70 years ago described many more activities that were not very physically active, simply watching the birds or tending to one's garden or going on a nice walk. I feel this HAS to do with the immediately above point.

Gardening seems like it was more common, like in general. The discussion is about gardening without poisons or unsustainable practices, instead of trying to convince people to garden at all.

Overall, the range of animals and plants culturally considered to be common or familiar "backyard" creatures has narrowed significantly, even as the overall conservation status of animals and plants has improved.

This, to me, suggests two things that each may be possible: first, that the soils and environments of our suburbs and houses have sustained such a high level of cumulative damage that the life forms they once supported are no longer able to live, or second, that our way of managing our yards and inhabited areas has become steadily more destructive. Perhaps it may be the case that the minimum "acceptable" standard of lawn management has become more fastidious.

In conclusion, I feel that our relationship with nature has become more distant, even as the number of people who abstractly support the preservation of "wilderness" has increased. In the past, these wilderness preservation initiatives were a harder sell, but somehow, more people were in more direct contact with the more mundane parts of nature like flowers and birds, and had a personal relationship with those things.

And somehow, even with all the DDT and arsenic, the everyday outdoor spaces surrounding people's homes were not as broadly hostile to life even though the people might have FELT more hostile towards life. In 1960, a person hates woodpeckers, snakes and moths and his yard is constantly plagued by them: in 2024, a person enjoys the concept of woodpeckers, snakes and moths but rarely sees them, and is more likely to think of parks and preserves as the place they live and need to be protected. Large animals are mostly doing better in 2024, but the littlest ones, the wildflowers and bugs and birds, have declined steeply. It's not because "wilderness" is less; it seems more because non-wilderness has declined in quality.

[inknopewetrust]

𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞, 𝐈 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝.

Summary: After days of uncertainty, you catch Aemond in the throne room and envision the future of what power can hold. [Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader] [WC: 2.8k]

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, smut, oral (f receiving), public sex, exhibitionism, overstimulation, enemies to lovers dynamic.

Quick Links: Masterlist | gif by @vizual-demon

“Knee deep in the [throne room] and you’re eating me out… is it casual now?”

“Do you always look so smug after killing your own blood?”

In your shadows, Aemond Targaryen stared at the Iron Throne in the storm.

Thunder eclipsed the skies over the castle. In the late evening, you could feel the shocks of lightning beneath your fingertips as they grazed the columns of marble that flanked the room. Each scream of anger echoed through the stones, you could hear it so clearly.

You could see him in the shadows of the throne.

Aemond Targaryen had returned from battle two days ago.

In those two days, the world had changed drastically compared to the one that it was before. A King incapacitated, a legend buried in the rubble of a fallen house, and two sides burning as bright as the cascading terror above.

The tide was shifting and the power in the halls was striking.

Aemond’s arms hung limp at his sides. For someone so thirsty for the power the room held, his apathetic nature would bury him. He could see the darkness of the swords; twisting and bleeding each person dry for their aspirations.

He wanted to be someone who was remembered.

Aemond Targaryen did not want to be immortalized in history as a weak member of the greatest family to ever exist in this world. In his dreams he saw a man of profound strength and terror—someone who reigned a fearsome government with unyielding standards.

In his cruelty, he wanted people to see a person who would not sacrifice his name for peace.

So yes, he was a bit smug at Rhaenys’ demise and ultimately Aegon’s injury. He would not be in this position now had he not done what was asked of him.

But he didn’t answer you—Aemond did not feel the need to acknowledge it because he knew you understood. Even if you were to be cutting and cynical, Aemond knew you rationalized his beliefs in a similar fashion.

And that enticed him.

You had always enticed him. So simple yet cunning, an outsider amongst the other ladies in your class. You were not a whore, you were not a mother, and yet he wanted to know what it felt like to be a feign of your touch.

How would your hands feel on his body? Your delicate fingers wrapped around him?

“Ah,” you ticked at him, pushing off the stone pillar and moving in his direction. “You see, My Prince, when you allow a dragon’s head to be paraded for the city to see, people are going to notice.”

“Power is power. We needn’t parade it unless it was necessary to remind them who they should bend the knee to.”

“At the ill will of a sacred creature?”

Meleys was once a beautiful dragon. It was such a shame that the second time you were able to witness her beauty it was in the butchered attempt of showing off. The grandstanding sickened the soil.

“It does not take a Targaryen to understand that.”

“What would you know of Targaryen customs?” He spoke back. His voice was thin and dry. “You will never know.”

“I apologize… for my lowly status is not on par with such a great house. I am sure my Lord Father would appreciate the sentiment.”

You have a coy, playful smile that he could feel in his bones. The kind that would chide him, never take him too seriously, and one that rarely doubted him.

It was an uneasy feeling. One he would never quite get used to.

“His ambitions are not unknown. How people without power seek it.”

“Is that not why there are whispers of what you have done?” You questioned and his hands turned to fists quickly. “Small folk talk, Aemond. Power is power but when you misuse it, the omen may come true.”

The omen hovered like the storm above. The God’s were battling in the realm in the sky; giants of proportions unfathomable in their richness of blood. They scorched and rattled in the sky as cracks of thunder rumbled throughout the Keep.

“Yet I speak nothing of it,” he eyed you solemnly. “You talk of rumors and fallacies as if they hold truth. Perhaps it is I who should ask where your loyalties preside? Does war scare you?”

Aemond approached you with long strides. His hands lingered at his sides but never held onto his hilt, threatening you with violence or harm for your disagreements.

He could see you did not fear war. Your father would have called on your return if the prospect of war scared a house with the name of your own. A prominent family in the Vale—to the Greens you were a key.

And he could play you a fiddle if you let him.

“No,” you replied, keeping your head tall. “I live in a gilded tower.”

“That has been infiltrated before. It has seen death before.”

“They do not seek me,” your eyes ran along his face as the sky illuminated his sharp features. “But you know that.”

Aemond hummed and in a moment of faulted want, his right hand reached to brush your own. The electricity of shock pulsing through your veins as though it was as important as blood itself.

You swallowed the nervousness that built in your throat at his actions. He was so sure of himself, so different from the man you had known before.

He took his sins and bathed in them. Aemond let the water dry in confidence of himself as Prince Regent. If he was going to rule in his brother’s stead, he needed the reverie of power to seep inside of him.

“Men will seek anything if they are given the chance.”

You traced the direction of his eyes to your hand, how he ghostly itched to touch you again.

“And what is it that you seek?” You questioned quietly. “Is being a ruler not enough?”

In the lull, your ears filled themselves with the sound of your heartbeat. Pumping and beating to the thrills of anticipation you sought in the sordid walls of an ugly Keep. To please a King, well… It was a dangerous thing.

Aemond’s hand touched yours loosely again. His fingers gently grazed yours with a profound intent that was something he sought.

“No,” he admitted. “It is not.”

His hand bypassed yours and rested lowly on your hip. The touch stilled you. In the darkness of the hall, the world stopped moving and your vision tunneled. His hand moved higher to rest upon the crux of your hip and stomach, thumb caressing the fabric of your dress. He stepped closer.

Without thinking, you took a step back out of the chills that erupted on your skin, not out of want. He took the space you created and closed it again but followed you as you moved backwards and backwards until your back hit one of the marble columns you had hid behind not twenty minutes earlier.

One of your hands caught yourself on the column and the other wove itself around a post. The wings of the throne room were elevated for spectators that were nonexistent now.

Aemond’s other hand mirrored the other and he held you there.

“If someone came looking for you,” he huffed, tilting his head to the side which allowed his eye to narrow. “What would you let them do to you?”

You furrowed your brows yet the feel of his hands burning through your dress allowed your mouth to run dry.

Nothing. You would let them do nothing to you. You would fight to the death to defend yourself but if it were Aemond, you would let him devour you.

“What about me, hm?” There was a faint smile on his lips. “What would you let me, your Prince Regent, do to you while the Gods watched over us?”

His hands slithered up your torso, drawing a staggered breath from you as he cupped your breasts over your dress and groped hard to feel the flesh. Aemond saw your chest stutter under his touch.

“Tell me,” he whispered, pulling his head in close to yours. His lips became a mere centimeter from yours; breath lingering in the space between you heavy and taught.

“I-I-I,” your nerves got the better of you. Stumbling over your words like a dolt, his hands moved back down and began to gather your dress in his hands. 

“Poised to stick pins where the plans now lie but a stuttering fool now.” 

“I am not a fool,” you huffed as the cool night air began to make itself known against your ankles, then your shins. “I know what I want.” 

Aemond leaned in, knocking his nose gently with yours. 

“Tell me,” he repeated. 

“I want you to touch me,” you instructed him. “I want to feel the mouth of a King on my lips and under the Gods I do sin, but I wish to feel his lips elsewhere.” 

“Oh?” Aemond hummed as his hands continued their path. “I may not hold the title of King-” 

“You are a King, Aemond,” you said assertively and his hands stopped. 

“You rule in the place of Aegon’s incapacity and by all law and rules, you are the one to carry the heavy sword. You speak the actions and see them true.” 

His Adam’s apple bobbed at the reality. 

Aemond’s power lingered. It lingered in this great hall but it was a shell. The Aemond he felt in his bones was still as scared as the one who killed Lucerys. 

“I wish to feel your lips elsewhere,” you whispered, breath fanning his face. He tilted his head upwards and for a split second, his lips touched yours. 

Intoxicating; you would have fallen to your knees had you not already wished to see him on his. 

“I want to see a King on his knees.”

Aemond could only smirk. He planted a quick, brief kiss on your lips before bunching up the skirt of your dress as he knelt down to the floor. A beckoning, ethereal call from above led him to his knees to worship. With his hands collecting the material of your dress, Aemond’s hands met yours and opened them the best he could for you to grab onto it. He used the leverage of your assistance to bring down your stockings, clear the way of his alter as the thunder roared from above.

You let your head fall back against the pillar as his hands roamed your thighs, inching higher and higher but still skimming past the now unguarded temple.

You could not help but look at the exits in view as though someone would walk through them at this hour.

This late hour when all of the good, pious Lord and Ladies, Prince and Princesses, laid in their beds asleep—sans the King he would never fault himself for burning.

“Aemond,” you spoke with a voice that shook. “What if someone were to see us?”

He stopped his hands, gazing up at you from the ground on which he knelt.

“Let them see then,” he kissed the front of your thighs. “If they see, then I will marry you.”

Fuck. It made your heart leap in your chest. A frog in your throat, the honesty in his eye was enough for your anxieties to settle but your excitement to grow.

He would marry you. What a world you wished you lived in.

If all were true, it would have happened the first time he touched you. 

“Drop your dress,” he ordered.

Without hesitation, you dropped the skirt of your dress and he vanished before your eyes.

But you could feel him.

You could feel the breath of his body releasing itself just beyond where you ached for him the most. His grip on your thighs was bruising. Aemond used his position to prop one of your legs on his shoulder, sending you off balance and into the bannister behind you.

But then his hot breath met where you wanted him and the feeling melted you from the inside. Aemond peppered kisses on your mound, waiting until the perfect moment to lick a stripe through your folds and with it, you folded yourself. 

Daydreams of his hands on yours was not enough. The feel of your hand in the solitude of night where the sins of pleasure were trapped behind heavy doors could not compare. Aemond attached himself to your flesh and sucked, hard, before lapping again in a more gentle fashion. He repeated it again and again until the wetness began to gather more audibly. 

There was no stopping the breathless pants escaping your lips. 

You gripped hard on the marbled post. If you were the strongest woman in the Seven Kingdoms, you could have crushed it beneath your fingertips. Aemond’s tongue laded the wetness and gathered it in a lewd slurping noise to your clit only to run his tongue over it in brisk movements. 

“Aemond-” you swallowed your moan. Knees threatening to buckle, you wanted to grip onto him. Your hands sought his shoulders, his head or hair, and a soft bed. 

The Iron Throne was taunting you in the background. Power so divine, so close yet a million miles away. 

Aemond wouldn’t marry you, but in the moment, you would live sinfully until the Gods caught you in truth. 

He let out a low hum that made your senses tingle. He too was enjoying the pleasure he could bring, growing his own in his trousers that begged for its own mercy. Aemond could feel you palm at his head from the fabric that fell over his head—a delicacy; the rapture of someone he could love one day if he let himself. 

Your helpless want forced you to roll your hips against his face as though his tongue was not enough. Aemond gripped your hips tightly to guide you against his mouth. 

“Shit.” The words fell from your lips freely. 

“Aemond, I don’t think I will fare much longer,” you admitted to him and felt yourself burn from the inside. His accommodations to your wants, the fluidity of his tongue against you in need was sending you barreling toward the edge. 

Your mewls became whines that rivaled the thunder. 

In an instant, he removed his mouth from yours and appeared from under your skirts. Your clit throbbed as the blood began to rush downwards and a sickening wetness that was not your finish began to trickle down your leg. 

“Wha-” 

You could not speak before his lips met yours aggressively. You could taste yourself on his lips and for a second, you wanted to recoil at the thought but his hands cupped the back of your head softly and everything melted into you. 

You wished he would marry you. 

“I am not done,” he broke the kiss and admitted. “But I could not hold that in any longer.” 

His sentiment took you aback. Your eyes searched for a lie; begging for a fallacy to come true and reveal itself in the ugly colors of night but there was nothing. There was nothing but truth and in it, it broke your heart in the slightest. 

Aemond wanted to kiss you. He wanted to please you, pleasure you, hold you tightly as a husband would do but he wouldn’t marry you. 

He couldn’t marry you. 

But he would love you in the depths of darkness as his power soared for a brief moment in time and the hands of a fair lady, opposed by his mother, warmed his bed in the evening. May the throne be his witness, Aemond Targaryen was a sinner. 

He kissed you again before falling to his knees once more. 

As promised, he worked in quick licks to ignite the spark. It lit up the room brighter than the sky as the Gods boomed in discontent but they worked to drown out the sounds of your elation the closer you became. Aemond let you gather the dress back in your hands so you could see him as his tongue circled your clit and he pierced your cunt with two fingers sliding in the wetness easily. Your legs trembled. His other hand ran soft strokes along the muscle to sooth you but it was fruitless. 

His fingers curved inside of you, massaging your walls as they clenched around him and swore to the heavens for a release. 

“Fuck, Aemond.” 

He enjoyed hearing the words no Queen would dare mutter. It dared him to move faster, to move more heavy against your walls, against your lips as he continued to lap the juices that made the ghosts in the halls look away in a blush. 

It was building to a precipice inside of you. As though a volcano was erupting, you let out sounds he had never heard. You were not trying to be quiet. You were letting the castle hear your pleasure that would send you to a horrible fate. 

And you begged him to bring you to the end. His name lost its true meaning as it became lost in the night, falling from your lips breathlessly and your eyes shut tightly as the chills in your spin sent you spiraling. 

He was no God, but Aemond Targaryen gave what he had as a God should. 

“Darling,” he murmured from below. “Let them all see what a King can do.” 

And you did. 

A/N: thanks for reading! As always comments, reblog, and likes are always appreciated. I love hearing from all of you and thanks for letting me write this little self indulgent fic.

[seattlesellie]

Jealous. 🎀

pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader

cw: mean dom!ellie sub!reader, jealous kinda toxic ellie, eating it through the panties, orgasm denial, spit play (literally spits down ur panties like), exhibitionism, some dude named michael.

an: pls be gentle, i haven’t written in a long time! 💗 credit to angel gbc for the mod used in the picture above <3

something we can all agree on is the importance of aftercare — right?

Ellie is big on that obviously, as she should. Caressing her slim fingers down your body, planting wanton kisses on your shoulders, running her palms across your shaky thighs, whispering words of encouragement in your ear;

“Did so good for me, babe”

“I love you, so much”

“Need anything? hm?” She’d murmur against your skin whilst cradling your body from behind.

And she always insists on cleaning you up. She consistently renders you nothing but an achy mess, dried up juices staining your wobbly jelly thighs, combined sweat on your breasts and ribs, back of your neck. The ritual of bringing a wet towel to bed, swiping it’s fabric across your inner thighs, your face, your behind — is a sacred one for her. Not solely because she loves hearing your sweet, exhausted sighs of relief as she cleans the soil away, but also not solely because she gets to see your naked body in all of its glory again.

It’s the act of taking care of what’s hers. In a way, when she wipes your cum away, she’s taking care of herself — too.

Here, lays a solid proof that she can break things apart and put them back together again. She’s not a total fucking fuckup.

The ability of making you scream and cry, then moments later have you whisper in that saccharine voice of yours an airy “love you s’much, Els…”

It’s fucking exhilarating.

She loves it every time, she does it every time.

But today… today you pissed her off. You poked the bear, for real this time.

There’s this new Michael guy in Jackson. He’s handsome, tall, has coal black curls that somehow stay soft and shiny even in this apocalyptic hellscape. He told Ellie and you where he was from, what he did, why he came. Ellie didn’t listen to a thing he was saying. It was like he turned into a fly and started loudly buzzing in her ear. He kept looking at you weird. Smiling at you, smirking, laughing at your jokes, even the ones that weren’t all that funny. She knows you have this affect on people, that damn charm, hell — you have this affect on her.

And she’s usually just playfully jealous, manages to keep it relatively tame and simple by tightening her grip on your waist.

But you just wouldn’t stop bringing him up. “Michael” this, and “Michael” that, “Michael invited us for dinner”, “Michael said this funny thing earlier”,

For all Ellie knows Michael could die in a ditch and she wouldn’t give a fuck.

You're on your way back home from the Tipsy Bison on a chilly Thursday night. Jesse was there, Dina, Maria... and Michael. She thinks of his name and it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, tart, pungent.

"Meh, I'm more of a Tequila girl, Whiskey tastes like shit" you announced with a giggle. Michael rested his hand on your thigh, and agreed with a nod and a chuckle. For you, it meant nothing.

For Ellie, it meant everything.

Her blood pressure was usually low, steady, healthy as a bull. As of now, Ellie felt like she just ran a marathon. The blood rushed to her head and her brows furrowed without intention. She cracks her neck and moves it left and right, takes a long and burning sip out of her Whiskey and shuts her eyes. She repeats a mantra in her head; "I'm not angry, I'm not angry, It's fine."

But you're so damn intuitive.

"Els? y'tired?" you murmur towards your auburnette girlfriend. She suckles on her bottom lip and considers saying no, but she lies.

"Exhausted"

You leave the humble bar hand in hand, wrapped up in her big coat that smells of mint and wood and Ellie. She prays you won't mention his name, prays you could just go home and forget about this whole thing, but you do, innocently.

"Oh, Michael said one of the horses is sick, I'm thinking of helping out in the barn tomorrow an—"

She stops you mid sentence with a scoff and a tightening grip on your hand. "Oh, mhm, Michael said that?"

Her voice mocks your own a little.

You stop and shift your gaze towards Ellie who has her lips tucked in a tight line. Internally, she's cussing herself out. You don't deserve her anger, but she can't help herself. Your answer is an unsure hum. Her grip tightens even more, and it hurts your palm but you keep on walking side by side, quietly. Five minutes manage to pass with no words being muttered by no one. That's until she shakes her head and lets go of a husky chuckle.

"Did I do something?", you mutter doe eyed. Ellie stops in her tracks and inhales. She grabs you by your waist and walks towards you, making you have to clumsily pace backwards until your back meets a cold grey brick wall with a resounding thud. "Uhg!" You hiccup, breath catching down your throat. You even sweetly giggle, thinking in your head that this could possibly be just a sweet attack of PDA.

But her eyes are dark, gone from emerald to pine, pupils pitch black as big as a button. Her warm whiskey breath meets your nose and your top lip, you gulp. Why isn't she laughing? teasing?

"El?" your voice is still candied, always. Ellies mouth is agape, scarred eyebrows scrunched and furrowed as if she's confused, or pissed, or provoked. Her forehead meets yours so automatically, you attempt to connect your lips with a kiss but she backs away meanly. Albeit her taunting position, how intimidating and truly scary she looks whilst you're caged within her frame, your'e still smiling, you're still thinking she's just teasing.

You're not used to this, she knows, but god knows she yearns to teach you a lesson.

You don't fuck with what's hers.

She licks her bottom lip before she starts speaking.

"Take off your skirt"

Her voice nearly renders you drunk, It's huskiness, gruffness, it's depth, and really, you've only had one shot. Your cheeks heat up and your ears feel as if they're nearly burning. Her lips are so damn close to yours and she still won't let you kiss her.

"Wh... we're in public, we can't—" you stutter, eyes shifting downwards towards the knee she has shoved near your barely covered crotch. When she brings it upwards just to brush delicately on your inner thigh, you let go of a small gasp.

She responds to your gasp with a barely audible "Mhm?", her eyes sharpening with intent.

"Yes we can", she tsk's, and her voice taunts. Her eyes graze over your face, and you expect her next sentence to bite like the last one did, but her voice goes softer. "For me?", she cocks her head to the side.

And it simply pushes you over the edge.

You peel your skirt off of your body, asscheeks plastered over the brick wall as her body squeezes you further back, and you're left half naked with a piece of fabric scrunched below your knees, resting on your shoes. She eyes your body up and down, meeting your pleading and still confused eyes — and for a moment, thinks of just carrying you home and taking care of business once you get there. No jealousy, none of that.

But it's still bitter down her throat, and she can still picture his disgusting hand meeting your soft thigh, her soft thigh — as your body is hers, so that thought is ever so fleeting. It's either now or now.

Her cold as ice finger traces faint circles on your lower tummy, making the fine hairs of your body rise like soldiers. You whimper quietly as her finger snaps the elastic band of your panties and lets it smack down your pelvis. You rub your thighs together, but you're ever so pliant as she makes your legs spread wide with a boot covered foot opening up your calves like a gate.

She whispers in your ear. "Are you wet?", it makes you shiver.

"M'cold" you whine.

She scoffs.

She kneads your bra cup with her palm, squeezing an erect nipple with her thumb and middle finger. "Didn't ask that"

Her eyes meet your gaze and again she reconsiders this whole thing — because you truly look so needy, and your lips are so pouty and sweet and red with cold, you look as if you'd die if she didn't kiss you right now so how can she even be worried, let alone be jealous?

She knows how much you love her, how much you yearn for nobody but her, how her touch leaves you speechless time and time again.

But it's like something takes over, a dark figure, a figure that's thirsty and starving and wants to prove a thing it already knows.

It's an internal struggle, she doesn't want to be possessive,

She can't help it.

Your panties are striped with pink and white, and she looks at them as if they're the most expensive lace in the whole entire world. Her breathing gets heavier as she curls her fingers inside the cotton fabric, pupils darkening when she notices a sweet clear string of your arousal clinging from the entrance of your cunt to the bottom of your underwear.

She chuckles, followed by a sigh of relief that you notice. You are wet, right in the middle of the street where an innocent soul could catch you at any given moment. "Didn't answer cause you're shy?" She knows you so well. You bite your lip and nod, butterflies fighting in the pits of your stomach. A chaste kiss on the lips is all you get from her, and you deeply whine into the air. "At least kiss me!" you beg, — god, you're so cute when you're pissed.

Before landing on her knees, Ellie looks from side to side in order to check that there's truly nobody around, and no — not because she's scared to get caught, but because she'd die before she let someone see her girlfriend half naked with her skirt down her thighs.

Ellie is face to face with your quivering, pantie covered cunt. A wet patch greets her — a fuckin' pleasure, one she can't help but swipe her tongue across. Your choked up, terrified sound of a moan is a symphony to her hears, fuck Mozart. Her eager muscle of a tongue is so warm against your pussy you nearly forget it started snowing yesterday.

You buck your hips inwards, she groans. "No moving", she warns — simply to assert a dominance that has already been asserted. She kisses your little clit, coo's at the way it slightly pokes out of the fabric, erect and pumping on her tongue. "Ellie... Ellie... Ellie", you babble like a prayer, which she nods to. "S'my name, that's fuckin' right", she groans as her husky voice is muffled by your soaked panties.

"Ellie..." you repeat, thighs beginning to ache as you try and spread them further apart, almost sitting on her face.

Ellie, not Michael.

She smiles, greedy, triumphant.

She flicks her tongue on your clit, once, twice, three times before biting on your meaty pussy lips. You bite your knuckles in order to keep your voice down, but she glares up at you. "Do that again n'I swear to god I'm stopping" she growls.

You're not used to this side of her at all, but her voice makes your hole leak a small stream from deep inside. She feels it's wetness on her tongue, eyes closing in ecstasy as she audibly suckles your sweet, tangy, heavenly juices from the now sheer fabric. Her own spit runs down her chin, she doesn't even bother to wipe it off. All you can hear are your breathy, whiney moans, tiny begs of "take 'em off, please", regarding your panties, and Ellie's throaty groans. You're so wet from your own juices and her saliva it nearly gets uncomfortable, but then again you're so goddamn close to cumming.

You try taking matters to your own hands, attempting to peel off your panties from your waist with a shaky hand but she snarls and slaps your wrist away.

"Nuh uh, pussy's fuckin' mine, don't touch it"

With relentless sucking on your drenched clit, and soiled panties, she opens her eyes to merely glare at you again with a warning look. "When you're close, you let me know" she bites.

You don't respond.

A stinging slap meets your pussy, which makes your thighs shake, whole body jolt, and throat ache with a high pitched yelp.

"You're not listening" Ellie warns.

"You listen when I talk" she warns again. Her tongue meets your clit and it pushes it further and further up. You shake, eyesight gone blurry, you're close, you know it by the way the coil down your stomach threatens to snap, and by the way it tickles down there so damn bad.

"M'close" you brokenly wail.

She grunts deeply and stops completely. your heart nearly breaks, no no no no no. "Ellie, Ellie, Els, no!" You try and buck your hips forward but she holds you in place with an iron like grip. You buck them again and she peels off the fabric of your underwear, slightly rising up as she stares inside at the mess she made of you. There's a devilish smirk that creeps up from her lips, apple of one cheek rising. You let out a sigh of relief, thinking that perhaps she'll actually fucking eat you out properly instead of letting you suffer inside a warm, wet material of a mess that truly doesn't look like something wearable anymore. Instead, she audibly spits inside with a "Ptu'", letting the band snap shut. Her saliva mixes with your warm sleek. You're so confused she nearly feels bad, but she's such a cunt that she really doesn't.

"Were going back inside," she murmurs so casually as if she didn't just fuck you up in the middle of the street, as if her chin isn't shiny with your precum. "N'if Michael puts his hand on you again, I'm eating it in front of him"

[dionysianivy]

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐍𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 🌬🌿

E A R T H 🜃

When we connect with the Earth's energy, we tap into a powerful source of vitality and strength that flows through nature. By grounding and centering ourselves, we draw on the Earth's stability to find balance and calm within. Simple practices like standing barefoot on the ground or imagining roots extending from our feet into the soil help us feel deeply connected to the Earth's energy. In tuning into this natural rhythm, we can find comfort and support, especially during times of uncertainty.

Earth Symbols: acorns, trees, stones, leafs.

───𑁍────𑁍────𑁍────𑁍──

A I R 🜁

When we connect with the Air element, we tap into the limitless potential of our mind and spirit. Practices like meditation, visualization, and breathwork help us tune into the subtle flow of Air, expanding our awareness and opening up new possibilities. Meditation, in particular, quiets the mind's chatter, allowing us to focus on our breath and find inner peace and clarity. By paying attention to the gentle rise and fall of our breath, we ground ourselves in the present moment and nurture a deep sense of mindfulness.

Air Symbols: feathers, birds, wings, sword

───𑁍────𑁍────𑁍────𑁍──

W A T E R 🜄

When we connect with the Water element, we dive deep into the flow of our emotions and intuition, letting ourselves be gently guided by the currents of our subconscious mind. To deepen this connection, spending time near water can be incredibly powerful. Whether you're sitting by a river, taking a bath, or simply drinking a glass of water with intention, you can feel the influence of Water. When we immerse ourselves in water or let its flow wash over us, we allow our emotions to flow freely and surrender to the natural rhythm of life. This opens us to the transformative energy of Water, helping us embrace our inner mysteries and move gracefully through life's changes.

Water Symbols: sea shells, water waves, dolphin, pearl

───𑁍────𑁍────𑁍────𑁍──

F I R E 🜂

When we connect with the Fire element, we tap into the fiery depths of our soul, awakening our deepest desires and aspirations. Practices like ritualized burning, candle magic, and sun gazing help us align with Fire's transformative energy, igniting the flame of our true purpose. Ritualized burning is a powerful way to work with Fire's energy. It allows us to release what no longer serves us, creating space for new growth and transformation. By writing down our fears, doubts, and limiting beliefs on paper and then burning it in a sacred fire, we symbolically free ourselves from their grip, clearing the path for fresh starts and new beginnings.

Fire symbols: fire, torchs, dragons, garnet

───𑁍────𑁍────𑁍────𑁍──

tip jar♡

[sylvia-on-the-run]

"We vow to the days that you shall not be defeated… for victory grows where blood waters the soil."

The Abu Ali Mustafa Brigades announces the martyrdom of the great national leader and combatant, martyr Yahya Ibrahim Hassan Al-Sinwar.

With great pride and honor, the Martyr Abu Ali Mustafa Brigades, the military wing of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, announces the martyrdom of the great national leader and combatant, the head of the political bureau of the Islamic Resistance Movement, Hamas, and the architect of Al-Aqsa Flood battle, and one of the most prominent symbols of Palestinian struggle, the heroic martyr Yahya Ibrahim Hassan Al-Sinwar.

He was martyred while bearing his weapon and ammunition, advancing the front lines among his comrades and our fighters, engaging in combat with the treacherous zionist gangs on the sacred ground of Rafah, the city of heroism and sacrifice. With his blood, he wrote the most noble meanings of sacrifice, standing as a fierce defender of our Palestinian people, the Arab nation, and the downtrodden, and fighting against the continuous zionist aggression targeting our existence and our right to liberate Palestine from the river to the sea and all occupied Arab lands.

The great leader "Abu Ibrahim" was a model of a national, unifying, and resisting leader—one who would never compromise and who stood at the forefront of the confrontation. Despite the deep sorrow over the loss of this great leader, who never ceased his resistance, we affirm that this loss will only increase our determination and steadfastness to continue along the path of the martyrs in struggle and combat until the last drop of blood is shed for the complete liberation and expulsion of the occupation from all our national Palestinian soil. We will reclaim all the rights stolen from our people and recover the occupied Arab lands in Lebanon and Syria, avenging the blood of our martyrs and leaders.

To the masses of our people, our nation, and the free people of the world: Our war is a war of existence. No matter how deep the wounds, we fight with absolute and unwavering faith in our inevitable victory, not just with morale. This is our eternal message to our steadfast people and to all who believe in resistance as the path to liberation and victory.

In conclusion, we, the Martyr Abu Ali Mustafa Brigades, extend our greetings to the Arab nation and all the free people of the world, and especially to our comrades and brothers in blood and struggle, and in the unity of fate—the Islamic Resistance Movement - Hamas, and its military wing the Martyr Izz El-Din Al-Qassam Brigades, leadership, cadres, and fighters. We salute the spirit of the great leader Yahya Al-Sinwar and the souls of those who have lit the path to freedom and independence with their blood, on the noble path to Al-Quds. We also salute the hands still pressing on the trigger until freedom is achieved and the occupation is expelled.

Our vow is an eternal revenge that shall not fade. Glory to the martyrs, freedom to the prisoners, and healing to the wounded.

Tomorrow, the fog will lift from the hills… and we shall surely be victorious.

Martyr Abu Ali Mustafa Brigades The Military Wing of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine 18 October, 2024

[moonmeg]

The basket she carried in the crook of her arm dropped to the grass. She stood there. Paralyzed by the sight.

All the soil surrounding a hole in the earth where an empty coffin, marked by its years under the earth, faced her. The glass vase with a candle inside she had put up was nothing but shambles and crumbs. The flowers that had grown over the time destroyed.

The tombstone was tilted. Everything was ruined. And she couldn't do or say anything. Time had frozen.

Her body began to shiver. Every breath became heavier the longer she stared at what once was her husband's grave. Not even Robyn's worried "Mama?" could bring her to move her eyes from the chaos.

It did snap her back to the moment and she knew she couldn't keep Robyn here.

"Go back with Opal, sprout. I'll be right behind you.", she said, her voice just above a whisper.

"Mama-"

"GO. BACK.", Catherine snapped.

Robyn flinched upon the tone his mother used. He was only a child but he was not blind. His father's dug up grave and empty coffin horrified him just as much as he could see it horrified his mother. He stared at her, hoping she'd turn her face to look at him but Catherine was like a lifeless statue. The only sign of movement was her shoulders and hands tensing and the the tears pricking at her eyes.

Opal began pulling at Robyn's loose strand of hair to get him to move away from this view of horror.

He obliged but only hesitantly. He didn't want to leave his mother's side. Not in a moment like this. He hated seeing Mama sad and in pain. Not that Catherine let Robyn see her vulnerable side often. She puts on smiles for him and hopes he will not notice how broken she actually is. But Robyn knew. He knew Mama was just playing a game of pretend but he didn't want her to continue it. He didn't want her to bury her emotions in front of him, yet he couldn't let her know that.

"Opal, wait!", he called out for the dove, "we can't go too far ahead."

Robyn turns to look at his mother, who still stood at the same place in front of the grave.

"We should wait for Mama."

Catherine's legs couldn't hold her any longer at this point. She broke down to the soil and let her emotions flow. She yelped in the agony of having lost Caleb a second time. Tears streamed down her face as her thoughts raced. She had finally learned to live with her beloved gone and she had finally moved on. The stinging pain she used to feel when thinking of Caleb and the imagery of his final moments had been something she healed from. Now that healing progress was crumbled into nothing. The terrible pain and heartache, the pictures.... everything was back.

Catherine clenched the grass beneath her in anger as she realized just who is responsible for her misery.

There was no other person who possibly would have a motive. No other person would ruin and take away a place so sacred to her AND to Robyn...

Robyn...

This place was the only place he felt close to his father. It was the only place where he felt a connection to Caleb.

The fact that it was taken from him, for most probably selfish reasons, only made her angrier.

She wasn't one to curse people...

She gazed up at the tilted tombstone with her husband's name on it...

She wasn't one to curse people but this was the last straw.

Philip would pay for this. Whether he could or not. He will.

[phaeton-flier]

One of the things I'm not particularly sympathetic about is complaints about tourists in a "we, the locals, have a right to this place, and no one else".

All land, everywhere, and the resources on it, is the collective inheritance of all humanity. This is the basis of my views on open borders and LVT. Anyone who wants to move to a place out to be able to live there; If this drives up the cost of housing that's a problem of building housing, not a problem of people of the wrong race moving there. Anything else is inevitably blood-and-soil rhetoric screened through anti-colonialism. (The problem with colonialism wasn't "people moving to a place", it was the violence and the genocide)

I do give exception for sacred locations and for environemental protections; but if we need to limit the number of people living or using a location for the latter, that still gets rationed out among "everyone on earth", not just "locals".

[utterlyotterlyx]

The Fox and The Fawn

High Lord Eris x Rhys!Sister!Reader x Azriel

Part Nine

Summary - Eris and your found family make their move whilst in Velaris, you embark on the most dangerous game of all.

Warnings - depression, torture, angst, more realisations, flashbacks, slight fluff

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight

All that echoed about the chamber were her soft groans and pleading cries. It had gone on for hours. For hours the Princess of Velaris had been chained to a stone altar, writhing in unspoken agony as inch by inch her wings were carved from her body.

Beautiful wings of midnight purple, thick onyx membrane laced through the feather-like surface, they glimmered in the moonlight, the stars dying as they lay slumped on the blood-soaked floor.

It was a grave punishment.

No, it was a plan so evil that even the King of Hybern had shuddered in a mixture of fear and delight when his finest general told him of her movements.

To place a demon in the body of Prythian's most powerful creature.

Amarantha had crossed the room to the girl with the paled skin, the one with eyes of flame amongst an ocean of violet waves, and she had laid her talons to rest on her face, a momentary flash of care as she wiped her tears away.

Pain. It wouldn't even begin to describe the horrors inflicted upon her, for pain was too light to explain it.

"I know that this hurts, but it'll be worth it. I promise you," the girl couldn't move, she thrashed against her chains with all of the meek weakness in her bones, but she couldn't break free, she couldn't tear the thing apart that was taking her most sacred possession, carving it from her body like a butcher.

"One day, the demons will take over thanks to you and your position in this world. You will breed them, and you will rule them."

Soft sobs drifted from the girls mouth, she had been panting for too long, on the verge of death for even longer. The pets had taken their time on the Princess, that much was clear from the deeply embedded wounds inflicted into her flesh, in locations that were nowhere close to where they should have been. Amarantha would deal with them later.

For now, she had more pressing matters to deal with.

"What are you going to do to me?" That sickly paled mouth asked, her lips were tinted blue, her eyes had glossed over, and Amarantha knew that she was close to letting herself go, but she was meant for far more than an offending death.

The queen hushed the girl lay atop the altar, tutting at the soiled skirt of the thin nightgown she adorned, "I'm helping you," her eyes were wide and delirious, "You are already the most powerful thing in this world, with my help, you could be the most powerful thing in the universe," Amarantha dragged a talon down the centre of the girls chest, smiling to herself, "Your position means that you will one day marry a High Lord, your power and theirs will create the perfect host, an unstoppable being which will allow the darkness to spread across the universe, a body that our queen will like very much."

"You're insane," Amarantha was sick of listening to her loose and shaky breaths and muttered a simple perhaps in reply. "You have no idea what you're doing."

"No?" the woman craned over her, hovering mere inches from her face as she produced a small onyx stone that shimmered in the dim light, "Then how do I know that placing this tiny stone in your marred flesh will be the answer to all of our problems?"

The scene played out in the flames weaving between one another in the fireplace, Cassian had come to light it for you, knowing that there was no desire in your body to move from the comforter, but also knowing that in order for you to have the strength to get through whatever Rhys had planned that you needed to not freeze to death.

Looking from the window, you had no pull to go outside, and you were sure no one would allow it anyway. All it would take for Rhys' act to crumble would be one word to someone across the boarder, and then it would spread like wildfire. The entire image of the Night Court would be destroyed. Signs of his manipulation had showed when the first bouquet of flowers had arrived the morning after your return, they were from the priestesses at the library who must have heard of your return from someone at the House of Wind. More bouquets followed, from the art gallery you used to frequent with Amren, from the bakery that made the best beignets you'd ever tasted, flowers had even arrived from Hewn City, wishing the Princess a speedy recovery.

Nothing about your recovery was going to be speedy.

Some days had passed but you weren't sure how many exactly, not when you were grappling with the demon in your body who would occasionally allow you to step into the light rather than just have a hand on the wheel of your mind. A haunting hum sounded in the night, a soft stalking song rumbled at your chest, it was sad, every note was laced with your longing for freedom, for Eris, and you knew that it was the symphony to their guilt. The same song drifted over the city, a solemn cloud hanging overhead, reminding your people that all was not as it seemed, and it was up to them to decipher the message.

The door had been left slightly ajar after Cassian's last visit, he had left a tray of meat and roasted vegetables at the foot of your bed, a tray that had gone cold long ago. Cassian had come to you frequently to check on you, you didn't say much to him but you knew that his mind was reeling at the sight of you, at what was happening to your body and soul. A plan was forming within the Illyrian, a desperate one, such became clear when his finger drifted along your cheekbone and felt it freezing under his touch, that alongside the hallowing cheeks and pallid hue to your skin made him flinch with a pain that wasn't even his.

But it wasn't Cassian that had come to see you.

No.

Golden blonde hair poked around the edge of the door, her sultry brown eyes teeming with despair as she looked to you on the bed, wrapped up in your own embrace, humming softly and carrying your melody as far as it could go, "Hey y/n."

Mor's voice floated through the air to you. Stepping into the room, Mor closed the door with a soft click and lingered by the fire, waiting for you to acknowledge her but when you kept humming that awful song, Mor had no choice but to approach you, to pull you back to your horrid reality.

The song caught at your lips and you looked down to her hands resting on the forearms that were curled around your knees. Fluttering eyelashes welcomed her, you were confused but you dragged your eyes to meet hers, "Mor." There was no warmth in the depiction of her name, your voice was empty and monotone, almost as though you were in a trance.

"How are you?"

Shivering, Mor perched beside you, Cassian was right, a certain chill had taken ahold of you, the air shifted as soon as anyone would enter your space; it made them feel unwelcomed, watched even, as if they were under surveillance. The only one observant enough would have been you but there was no way that you were keeping an eye on them, not when you looked so ghostly and pale, not when all you did was hum that sickly sad melody until your throat went raw.

"I'd be better if Rhys stopped drugging the water," you motioned to a half-empty cup sat atop your bedside table, a table that still had yours and Mor's names scribed into the wood, where a strong aroma of herbs emitted, "It's not like I can go anywhere." Raising your wrists, a line of chains rattled at your movements, they connected your wrists and feet together so that if you somehow escaped you wouldn't be able to get very far at all.

Rhys had ordered a that your own supply of water be established, water that he had drugged with various herbs and tonics to subdue you, to make you more docile. It was barbaric. None of them wanted to believe what was happening, all they wanted to do was block it out and deny it, but they couldn't, not when you were suffering so badly.

There was little that could be done to bring you joy, there was no hope that life would return to the way it used to be. But, if all Mor could do was remind you of a time when you were happy, to hopefully coax you into holding on, then she would spend the rest of her life doing it, "Tell me about Autumn. What was it like?"

A ghost of a smile tugged at your chapped and broken lips, and it was the first time Mor had seen your eyes light up since your return, "It was magical. Everything about it was perfect." Gentle darting pupils told Mor that you were lost in a flurry of memories, ones that you would no doubt carry for the rest of your life.

"And Eris?"

"Eris," your eyes glazed over, his name was a whisper of air, "For the first time in my life I had someone who understood me. I couldn't stop myself from wanting him, not when all he had to do was smile and say my name to have me melting."

Mor shuffled closer, watching intently, "His scent still lingers on you. It's like its moulded with your own."

Because he's my Carranam.

If only you knew what she had sacrificed in order to protect that part of you.

"I know that you hate him for what happened," you looked to her, eyes glistening in a mixture of fire and alabaster moonlight, "But he means everything to me." A single tear rolled down your cheek, a faint line weaving between the streaks dotted down your skin, "I'll never see him again. I'll die here," your gaze intensified on your oh so gorgeous cousin that was almost crying at your broken words, "Tell him that I love him. I never got to tell him that," your sight shifted back to the golden valley beyond the window and you leaned against the headboard, falling from Mor's grip, "Thank him for me, for his patience, for teaching me more about myself in a few weeks than I ever learnt here. Thank him for giving me a home and for not being afraid of me. Can you do that for me?"

Mor was practically shaking, with sadness, with anger, with every emotion possible, "I'm not telling him shit," Mor rose from the bed, her eyes ablaze in the moonlight, a deathly clash of molten gold and silver, "You can tell him yourself when you get out of here."

Determination was rife in her features, "I'm not getting out of here."

A violent shudder coursed through you, the same one that occurred at least five times a day, that filled you with dread and darkness, like the bindings drinking your power were piercing you with their talons and draining every ounce of your energy.

The bindings were monstrous, so dark and hateful that Mor wasn't sure where exactly Rhys had precured them, who he had commissioned to create something so vile. Such people deserved to rot in hell. Mor had scoured the library the night you had returned wearing them, looking for any bit of information possible on their origin, unable to scratch the image of your marred black flesh beneath them from her mind. Amren had joined her, a knowing look between them confirming everything, that Rhys had lost his mind, that they had to stop him before he reached too far and destroyed everything.

"Even if I have to cut down Rhys myself, I will get you out of here and get you to Autumn. Your family is waiting for you."

A soft moment. Guilt poured from Mor in waves, tidal waves of guilt and love that crashed against you, "You'll always be my cousin, Mor," an olive branch, a chance to repair what had been broken.

Pausing at the foot of the bed, Mor gripped the railings and used them to steady herself, "Never accept the definition of who you are, from a person who's trying to hide the truth of who they are. Don't let him win, y/n."

As quickly as she appeared, Mor vanished from sight, gliding from the room and signalling her exit with a gently closing door. A moment passed before you sat up, cocking your head to the side and wiping the tears from your cheeks. The demon lurking within you caressed your mind in approval, slithering around your consciousness and muttering her praise.

Somewhere beyond the window, you wondered where Eris was, you thought of what he was doing at that moment.

Had he slept? Had Nesta made sure he’d ate? Was Lucien making him laugh? Was he crying?

Silent tears spilled from your eyes, a pain that no word or sound would ever be able to convey rattled you. The gravity of the situation was grinding down, forcing you tighter into the box that Rhys had crafted with his bare hands; he hadn't come to see you yet, he hadn't even drifted by your door, probably too sickened by your scent to bare being around you.

That link with Eris had been locked away, the key to it residing in the furthest part of your reach thanks to the other one living within you. It wasn't like you hadn't begged her to open it, for just a moment, just to tell him that you were alive and thinking of him, but she had willed you into submission, she had told you that the link between your minds would only hinder your collective progress.

Once we are done, you will be with him again. Hold on.

Squinting, you willed your eyes further, you begged the Mother for one glimpse, and you could have sobbed when the sky didn’t split apart and allow you one singular comfort. It was silly to command to the universe that he not be sad, you knew he would be, if their would-be faces had flashed through your mind that day at the boarder you wouldn’t have been able to cross it.

If Eris had-

No.

You couldn’t think about it, think about the reality where he came to you at the last second and convinced you that there was another way. It wasn’t the reality you were drowning in.

But it was the one you’d dream of.

A reel of endless possibilities paused on the centre stage of his mind, snippets of potential realities weaving between one another and your face was at the epicentre of each image. In some you were sad, in others you were consumed by the feminine rage you did so well to keep in check, in others you were laughing, and then there were a couple, the odd one or two where your body was shrouded in darkness, images where no life existed within you where shadows caressed you like an old friend.

Eris wasn't sure which image he found the most terrifying.

Willow sighed in his lap, her head rested on his thigh as he idly ran his fingers through the tufts of hair on her head, and from her furrowed brows over the closed eyes, he knew that she was thinking of you. There had been countless occasions where Eris would enter the sitting room or your chambers only to find you with Willow snuggled into your chest, most of the time you'd be sleeping, nuzzling your head into her fur and sighing gently. Eris smiled to himself at the thought.

The High Lord had found himself sleeping in your room, your scent lingered on the sheets and it brought him more comfort than anything else ever could. Crackling flames filled the space, giving some life to the emptiness that had taken hold of the manor. A chill had befallen the home, even the foundations cried in the night at the realisation of your loss; even the hour of golden sun that you adored so much felt less dim, like the sun herself had nothing to impress, like she had nothing to shine for.

A shuffle of weight beside him pulled Eris from his thoughts, albeit unwillingly, and he turned his head to the side to see Nesta, "Anything?" Eris enquired, Nesta had been holed up in the library for the last couple of days, scouring the towers of books for something, anything that may act as the key to your freedom.

Shaking her head softly, Nesta answered, "Not really," she fiddled with her fingers atop her skirt and Eris' eyes narrowed at the action, Nesta wasn't a nervous female, but something was bothering her, "That day, Under The Mountain, when I found out what happened to her," Nesta's voice drifted off, she was fighting her own mind, fighting whether or not to divulge another detail, "I didn't just find something, I took something."

Eris straightened, being careful not to move the hound dozing on his lap as he turned to Nesta, "Took what?"

Knowing that she couldn't keep it to herself any longer, not when you were suffering in the worst of ways, Nesta had no choice but to admit what else she knew, what she had kept from everyone, "Something that belonged to Amarantha, a book," A book that she didn't think to pluck from the library upon her exit from the Night Court, a book that was quite literally in enemy territory, "It details everything that was done to her, even things from before Under The Mountain."

The air shifted, a seething tension took hold of Eris that was directed toward Nesta's nervousness, at how her words stumbled over one another, "I need you to tell me," From the way her gaze darted about the room, Eris knew that it was no small nugget of information, actually, he knew that it was information that would tear him apart entirely.

Nesta didn't know where to look, at the floor or walls, at the bouts of dancing flame, or at Eris whose gaze was scouring her skin. Nesta chose the latter, "You've said before that there are gaps in your memories of y/n?" Eris nodded slowly, trying to anticipate what exactly was about to leave the lips of the eldest Archeron sister, "It was Rhys. He invaded your minds and stripped you both of one another."

"What?"

"Y/N was already far too powerful, she was already a threat to his title and position, and then they found out that your power elevated hers, and they had to stop it."

"Who is they?"

"Your parents. They instructed Rhys to remove you both from each other's minds. According to the book, it had been a rigorous and painful process. From what Amarantha suggested, it seemed like you two had been very much in love at the time."

That's why Rhys had been so desperate to get you back, it wasn't just because you had left and denounced the Night Court, it wasn't just because of his fear of your power, it was because you had left the Night Court and settled in Autumn, that you had settled in Autumn with Eris, the male that Rhys had plucked from your mind and washed away. Then you had been caged and the next time Eris remembered seeing you was on the night your wings had been taken, the same night that Amarantha did what she did.

The world was rumbling, the earth was shaking all around him, and it took all of his will to reign that anger back in, "Does Rhys know of this book?"

"No."

"And it's in the Night Court? In the library?"

Nesta hummed in approval, "In the House of Wind. Rhys wouldn't have taken her there, not when the priestesses could so easily see her."

Maybe, just maybe there was a key in that book, a way to open the gateway to those memories.

The room warmed upon Lucien's entrance, he sat down on the armchair opposite them sporting a wide, feline grin, and he slid his arm over Elain's shoulders who matched the grin of her lover, "What is this?" Eris motioned to the love-sick pair, his own desire writhing in agony at the sight.

Leaning forward in his seat, Lucien continued to grin, "We realised something. Something that will most certainly help us and in turn help y/n."

Elain squeezed Lucien's thigh, her gaze lingered on him a second longer than it should have, her eyes were bright and hopeful, "There are two people who value y/n as much as we do. Two people who have been vying for her hand for quite some time. Two people of very high standing in this world who would pledge themselves to her without question."

Nesta looked between them, confused, her eyebrows dipped low and lips parted in question. Then it hit him, of who exactly Elain was speaking of, and his query was met with russet confirmation from his brother.

"Who are you talking about?"

Of course, how could Eris miss it? How could he forget about the two males who constantly gravitated toward you and spoke nothing but the highest of praises of your character despite the vile word that had been born of you?

Grinning, Eris settled back into the comfort of the seat, "They're talking about Helion," he snapped his head to the side to meet the eyes of the woman whose own had widened in realisation, "And Tamlin."

"Helion could call a High Lord's meeting," a whisper from Nesta, her entire body shivered with the hope that singular notion brought her.

Rhys wouldn't be able to deny a High Lord's meeting, and once Helion knew of what was happening to you, of what had been done to both of you, Eris was sure that he would have no ill-feeling toward calling such a thing.

There wasn't a moment to waste, but as Eris looked to Lucien, it was clear that he had already taken the step, "You've summoned them?"

Lucien shrugged, sipping from his goblet of wine before setting it down on the table beside him, "They'll both arrive in the morning."

"What did you tell them?"

Elain chuckled softly, "That the High Lord of the Night Court is committing a crime so vile that if they allow it to continue then they may as well have a hand in the suffering of the Princess of Velaris. That they have a chance to better this world for all if all they can do is answer our call."

Pride flowed about the room, it coiled around Lucien and Elain, for listening to the world close enough to be able to forge a path forward. It curled around Nesta, for having the strength to tell the truth no matter how dark it may be. And then it settled onto Eris, it caressed his soul, it soothed what he already knew, that you were made for him and he for you, and in that moment, as the weight of the oncoming struggle nestled itself into their embrace, did Eris feel the softest and slightest tug.

Author's Note

The way in envisioned the song she hums being the one with the girl harmonising with her microwave 🥺

Iykyk

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