You wake up with a hand around your boob, squeezing it like it's a stress toy. You mumble half asleep, hitting the hand and waiting for them to stop. But they only release it enough to slip their hand under your soft shirt. Cold fingers find your nipple, pinching it and pulling until you are whimpering, not knowing if you want to get more or less of it. They don't give you a choice. His fingers play with your nipple until you are begging, your panties so wet you can hear it when you rub your legs together. Another hand finds your soaked center, rubbing your clit in slow circles, dragging your pleasure until you are shivering with an orgasm.
And when you come down from the pleasure, you remember you live alone...
Friendly reminders to cis fanfic writers that afabā woman
Afab means assigned female at birth so this includes/can include cis women, trans men, transmasc people, nonbinary people, and intersex people.
If youāre making a fic where the reader is a woman, uses she/her, wears feminine clothing, etc. tag it as fem reader instead.
Iāve been smacked in the face as a trans man by reading fics tagged afab thinking it will be gender neutral, but the reader is actually a woman and Iām disappointed because I was ready for a fic I thought would apply to me.
Have fun writing and make sure youāre tagging your fics properly, ty <3
Okay, I have this really long and angsty request for Ghost x male reader. Let me know if you're up for writing it and take as much time as you need, cuz when I say angsty, i mean it.
Ghost and Reader are dating, Reader is the team's chopper pilot and accompanies them on missions, picks them up if things get out of hand, etc. Before being sent on a mission, Ghost and Reader got into an argument about some silly stuff, during which Ghost, being the emotionally constipated man he is, said a lot of hurtful things to his partner. They were ignoring each other during the mission, as Simon was too proud to apologize and admit to his mistakes and feelings.
But then, as Reader was closing in with his helicopter to pick them up for evac, he was shot down and crashed, the pilot later presumed KIA.
Ghost felt guilty, he regretted the things he said and was miserable, as he lost the love of his life. A few months passed, the team helped him get through it. He was still mourning, but his friends made it easier to handle.
After nearly a year since the incident, during a mission, where they had to clear out an underground warehouse and get some important documents, Ghost got separated from the rest. As he tried to find them, he stumbled upon a closed door, with a chain and lock wrapped on its handles. He broke through it and didn't find the documents on the other side, but Reader.
Covered in blood, scars and bruises, handcuffed and hiding in the corner of the room, with a cloth tied around his eyes, shaking and crying as Ghost approached, scared that it was one of the enemy soldiers, about to hurt him.
The rest is up to you, as this is already too long lol. Hope it doesn't violate the rules, love ya!
WHERE THE WILD THINGS GO
- M!reader x Ghost
- Proofread:
- Genre: Angst (non-specified ending, so either angst fully, or angst w/ comfort)
- Synopsis: Request basically covers it. However, I decided to leave the ending more angst-like, though there is no specified ending.
ā ļøWarnings: Heavy, detailed goreā ļø
Angst is happily inspired by the song breezeblocks, by Alt-J
@xweirdo101x your angst š½
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āYou donāt know what youāre sayinā.ā Simon firmly states, squeezing his eyes shut tightly in hopes it would calm his growing headache. This fight had been going on for near an hour now, with himself and his boyfriend, (y/n), fighting about the pilots possible promotion to field work. āItās not safe for someone like yourself.ā
āWhatās that supposed to mean, Simon? Am I not capable enough to you?ā He snarls in turn, frustrated and upset with the taller male.
āThatās not it! Itās just dangerous. Nothing youād understand considerinā your work.ā He was far too calm for this argument, only further irking (y/n).
āConsidering my work?ā He gapes, glaring down at the Brit. āIām not an idiot. I know the risks! You know what, I donāt see why this is up to you. This is something I want.ā
āFine! Go ahead! Get yourself killed, see if I care!ā Simon immediately snaps back, causing (y/n) to flinch back.
Itās silent now. Only the sound of (y/n) holding back his cries, and Simonās angered pants echoing throughout their quarters. Before the Brit can get the chance to speak, the shorter male is out the door.
āFuckinā hellā¦ā Simon groans, taking his seat as he cradles his head in his hands. He had royally fucked up, and that much was clear. But, was he surely in the wrong? (Y/n) had no clue the risk heād be making if he were to fully place his life on field..
Simon was just looking out for him. He clearly knew what was better for the manās life. Why wouldnāt he listen..?
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The argument had clearly done damage, having the two avoid each other these past few days. (Y/n) had been happily spending his time with Gaz, a close friend of his.
Of course, it didnāt go unnoticed by Simon, who scowled at the sight. Gaz meant well, he knew that, but in the time where he couldnāt get the attention of his own boyfriend, it was irking.
āKeep glarinā like that and yeāll burn holes into āis head, Lt.ā Soap comments teasingly, though he immediately backs down as heās treated with a similar glare. āWhatās got yer knickers in a twist?ā
ā(Y/n) and I had a fight.ā He states plainly, his eyes glueing back onto the manās figure.
āA fight? Jesus Ghost, the two of youāll be back together in not time.ā He chuckles, clearly not understanding the severity of said fight.
āI said things I didnāt mean toā¦ practically told āim I didnāt care if he died..ā He pauses, taking in a sharp inhale, his eyes still refusing to move from the other āI didnāt mean it.. I just worryā¦ I donāt- I canāt lose him.ā
āWhy donāt you tell him that after the mission, ay? Iām sure he doesnāt hate you, Lt. Youāre both just confused, love-sick kids.ā Soap chuckles, nudging into the male with a bright flashy grin.
Ghost doesnāt reply verbally, but instead nods. His eyes finally manage to break free, moving to look towards Soap. āAlright. After the mission.ā
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The given intel had been faulty, leaving Price to desperately call in for an evacuation as his men fought for their lives. āCaptain,ā (y/n)ās voice eagerly calls through the radio, his words choppy due to the propellers of his aircraft āheard you needed some air support.ā
ā(C/n)! Glad to hear your voice, you daft muppet.ā The captain teases in turn, glad to have his most trustworthy pilot ready.
āGonna need you lot to get to a higher point, letās say.. the water tower.ā He grins behind his headset, knowing it wasnāt the most practical point, but who was he if he didnāt enjoy a little danger?
āOn it.ā Price returns, making a move to examine the area for said tower. āYou heard āim boys, make it to the evac point, preferably without scratches.ā
(Y/n) cackles, eagerly aiding them with few assisting shots. āTry not and get yerself killed, lad!ā Soap, just as chaotic, shouts back through his own radio, watching the hefty aircraft glide through the skies.
Itās all fun and games to him, the typical action of attempting tricks with his plane, shooting down at those least expecting of him, and causing absolute misery for his team that prayed for their own safety.
Itās the point of which the team is at the water tower, and when he goes to pick up his boys, he finds himself panicked.
Heās been shot at. Multiple times, nonetheless, and it leaves him crawling down into a nearby forest. A plane on fire and only himself to try and safe him from death.
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ā(Y/n)!ā Ghost shouts out, watching as his lover is shot from the sky. His eyes wide as he sees the aircraft go down, followed by dark hues of smoke and a large fire starting up in the forest nearby. āWe have to go for him, Price! We canāt just leave āim there!ā He begs and pleas, looking to the captain hopefully, only to see the man shake his head.
āYou know we canāt. Thatās one life over multiple.ā He strictly states, already calling in for a backup evac.
Ghost panics, frantically trying to push past to climb down the tower. Heās held back by Soap and Gaz, and despite them being just as upset, they knew the captain was right. One life lost was better than all of their lives.
āN-No! We canāt leave him! Donāt leave him! Price- we can still get him!ā He cries out, desperately trying to escape their grasps. āDonāt let him die! I donāt- canāt lose him! Please..ā Shouts turn to choked out sobs.
Itās out character. To see the Ghost sobbing and begging like a toddler pleading for a toy. He looks absolutely broken. Having lost everything yet again. A cruel joke from God.
He practically dies as he sees the explosion. It shakes the ground a little, and the small wooded area lights up with ash and fire. He gives up, dropping his weight into the two sergeants as he simply stares. He stares in horror and remorse.
He never got to apologize. Heāll never get to apologize.
āāāāāāāāāāāāāāāā
Months had passed. Ghost a broken man, a shell of what he had so generously built up to be.
He refused to speak.. refused to eat and sleep. Most hours of the day spent drinking or lying in bed without thought.
The team often trying to aid him. To provide the comfort he so desperately craved.. but nothing compared to the warm embrace of his lover that he oh so desperately needed.
Why hadnāt he just apologized and admitted fault..? Why hadnāt he just been a better lover?!? Fuck! Why hadnāt he just left the pilot alone in the first place? Nothing good came to those he loved..
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His pained breaths echo throughout the cell, wheezing and hissing in pain as heās beaten black and blue. Heās drenched in various substances, alcohol, water, and even his own blood. Multiple forms of torture having taken place throughout the weeks.
Heās not sure how much longer heāll live, nor does he know if his team would ever find him. He was on his own, alone and injured.
āAre you going to speak yet?ā His captor scowls, holding his head up with a tight grasp to his hair.
(Y/n) only stays silent, his eyes rolling back in a dazed state. It seems to displease the other, earning him another hit to the gut, his head being thrown back before heās spat on.
āFilthy rat.ā He hisses out, turning to a small table of many surgical tools. The man holds up a pair of heavy duty scissors, a sinister smile on his face as he tauntingly tilts his head. He holds the scissors up to (y/n)ās hand, catching over two fingers. āYou wonāt be needing these anymore, now will you?ā
Thereās no time to reply, the blades slicing down to meet, clean through his fingers as he shouts in pain. He bites down on his bottom lip, holding back any noises as he stares at the stumps of fingers in pure horror.
āAre you going to speak now? Or should I take more?ā He snarls, dipping the manās hand into a glass of alcohol. A process he had done with every new wound. It earns a meek and choked whimper from the other, but he continues to stay mute.
Heās almost grown fond of the way his blood circulates the golden hue of whiskey. A cruel reminder that he was still alive and bleeding for the time being.
How long until they grew tired and killed him..? How long until Simon found him?
āāāāāāāāāāāāāāāā
Within the eighth month, Simon grew back into old habits. Requesting that he leave on a solo mission. And Price agreed. He gifted the lieutenant with a simple task for starting. A quick in and out of gathering intel.
He took the task with hopes. Praying that an overload of work would help him forget. Help him bury the past away and prevent these hauntings.
And so, he prepared to leave within the next few days..
āāāāāāāāāāāāāāāā
(Y/n)ās head lolls of onto his shoulder, expression glum and bloodied as he looks to his captor with amusement. His silence taunting, and he simply stares. It clearly angers the man, earning him another bone cracking hit.
Itās not a long break, having his hair roughly pulled at, head being forced back into place. Dazed eyes meet fierce ones. His captor scowling, a ghastly expression.
āSuch a fuckinā tough guy, ey?ā He spits, grabbing some sort of pliers. A sadistic look crossing his eyes as he brings the tool towards his face. āSee how fucking tough you are when I break you piece by piece.ā
The pliers make contact with his eye, a discomforting touch at first, though slowly growing into a searing pain. He screams and thrashes in an instinctive panic. The tool works with ease, wiggling about within his socket, loosening his eye before pulling it right from its place within his skull.
(Y/n) is a sobbing, panting mess. His face far more blood soaked, and lack of eye nothing but a pulsating pain. Heās not sure how much more he could handle.
Yet desperately, despite his pains, he silently prays. Prays for his teams rescue. He knows theyāre coming. They have to be! But yet, he can only hope.
āāāāāāāāāāāāāāāā
The warehouse is of easy access. A likeable cause that word of his presence got around, leaving for the group of terrorist to leave in a hurry.
It made the task easy. All he had to do now was seek out the documents he was sent for. But.. he stops in place, tensing where he stands. An eerie, yet familiar sound, calling out to taunt him.
Faint, broken sobs echo throughout the silent building. The sounds playing from beneath the floor. Beneath Simonās feet.
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Heās far too gone. Sitting in a haze of pain and delusion. He prays over and over again. Begging for an escape, so be it death.
And when footsteps echo from above his abused body, he desperately sobs in hopes his saviour would hear him. His state of delusional thoughts leading him to believe it was an angel.. one here to take away his suffering.
Heād been alone in this room for near a day now, having been left behind as the group fled in panic. And no matter if this sudden appearance was good or bad, he planned to be found.
āāāāāāāāāāāāāāāā
Ghost is quick to act, searching out for the specific hatch. And heās thankful itās rather obvious. A small door hidden beneath a carpet, leading down to a door, seemingly a basement.
As he reveals the door, the cries grow louder. His body moving on its own as he rushes forward, hastily kicking down the door.
The the smell alone is awful, having him gag and grimace. But the sight.. his heart drops down, and his throat tightens into a panic.
Within the middle of the room, tied to a chair, his assumed K.I.A lover sits; beaten and broken, sobbing pathetically as his head hangs low.
ā(Y/n)..ā His words a hoarse cry, immediately rushing to free the man. Heās quick yet cautious, calling in for immediate pickup, alongside medical aid.
āShh, itās okay now luv.. gonna get you cleaned up.. fix you up, yeah?ā He mumbles and soothes, rocking the wounded man within his arms. Though his words act as more a promise to himself than to the boy. āDonāt leave me.. please donāt go..ā
Heās a mess himself, panicked and cautious as he holds the boy like he was broken glass. āOh dove.. what have they done to you?ā Simon whispers, noting his injuries as he rushes outside to try and get to the evac point. āJust stay with me.. stay awake luv.ā
āCome on, just a little bit more..ā he desperately pleas, practically stumbling along with how eager he is to rescue the boy.
And he does it, he gets to the aircraft, passing off his near dead lover to the many doctors. They work quick to hook him up to many machines, and the plane takes off..
Itās a blur of panic and desperation to keep him alive. Something Ghost himself isnāt sure of, considering his state of being. The heart monitors constantly changing.. too low, too high, normal, and repeat..
His body lies limp on a stretcher. And with a closer look at the damages done, Simon can only think..
He should have just apologized. Told (y/n) he loved him, that he was okay with the man joining the fieldā¦ fuck..
Friendly reminder that this blog is pro-choice and if you donāt think everyone should have full control of their own body, then kindly unfollow me right now and go to hell
Note: Some MLM goodness for Pride Month! This took me longer than I intended, but only because I wrote it way too long and had to break it up into parts! Expect more in this series.
The dreams started assailing you a little over a month ago. During the first week, you couldn't remember anything. You would awake in your bedchamber covered in sweat and panting as if you had just finished a sparring session. These nights, a name danced on the tip of your tongue, escaping just as you attempted to sound it out and make it real. Confused and alone you would promptly go back to sleep after flipping over your pillow. As time passed, the dreams grew both in intensity and clarity. Though still more mysterious than normal dreams, little details here and there coalesced in your waking memory: a soft touch followed by a rough one, the smell of lavender, your fingernails gliding over shallow ridges, the color of aquamarine gemstones. These dreams visited you every night without fail.
The determinations made by the court oneiromancers were limited in scope. After spending the night in the care of one such dream diviner, they found these dreams to be coming from somewhere else. The dreams were not your own, at least not fully. Beyond this, they had no more revelations. Anything more was conjecture; one stated that if magick was involved, it was either massively strong, thus able to conceal its origin, or so fleeting and ephemeral that even the oneiromancers couldn't trace it.
Your father's concern waxed but mostly waned. Perhaps if you were the eldest crown prince instead of the middle one, the answer would have been willed into existence by his command. He simply asked that the oneiromancers track your condition and report any findings to him, but no more than once each week. Though dismayed that little was being done to solve this mystery, you were used to being far from priority. Even years ago when an attempt on your life left one of your legs still and unresponsive, a leg brace allowing you to stand at public appearances was issued and the problem was declared solved. You vividly remembered the look on the assassin's face when he realized he had accidentally struck third in the line of succession rather than first. His reaction was not dissimilar from your father's when you mentioned your dreams: a mildly amused but primarily disappointed visage. The spot where the dagger had pierced your spine no longer ached but your discontent was as raw and fresh as the day the realization struck.
With the oneiromancers essentially told to only report something unquestionably threatening to your life or the family's honor, you shared very little with them. Several times you had dismissed them with little more than a hand wave. None of them ever protested. To their knowledge, no new developments within these dreams came to light. It was just another little curiosity that came with the court.
To their knowledge, anyway.Ā In truth, there had been a quite substantial development that you withheld from them.
The night air was cool and crisp. From your bedchamber's veranda, you let the gentle sound of the garden's fountains below soothe your nerves. This had become your regular nighttime ritual; your last chance to feel relaxed and cool before waking up overheated and frantic. You enjoyed the last of it before sliding under the sheets and waiting for the dream to visit you.
This was the clearest dream to date. The scattered sensations and feelings from prior episodes came into focus: the touches came from smooth, tender hands, the smell of lavender from purple cups of herbal tea. Your fingers played over short, filed horns. That bold aquamarine color like a burning emerald belonged to a pair of eyes, their pupils narrow and catlike. The overall plot of the dream remained unknown to you. What came next, however, was new. Very new.
A pair of hands caressed your body as whatever clothing you had dissolved into the air. Your mind reeled from the realization of what was happening, yet you were relaxed all the same. Though surprised, you didn't wish for it to stop. Even as the tender hands had you at their mercy, one playfully pinching a nipple as the other reached lower in between your legs, you welcomed their touch without knowing why. You just did. It felt right. The hand between your legs started confidently stroking your shaft; making you moan. Their touch was expertly coordinated as if they knew everything about you. Not long after, the building pressure within you was too much to bear, then...
"AMON!" You cried out, the name that had eluded you all those nights finally woven from syllables into a complete utterance. You were no longer dreaming, your own hands reflexively covering your mouth in a futile attempt to take back the exclamation. In the dead of night like this, you most certainly alerted someone.
"My Prince, are you alright?" Your chief courtier, Petra, had burst through your bedchamber door. Guards with polearms at the ready had her back.
"I'm alright," you caught your breath, "it's the dream again. No cause for alarm." As usual, you bore a sheen of sweat and your heart was thundering in your ears.
"You've never called out like that before," Petra noted, not yet dropping her guard.
"I called out?" You lied, wincing as you felt something viscid and slimy on your groin under your dressing gown. Deep embarrassment came to the forefront of your mind, your face helpless to hide it. "Bring me my washbasin, please," you quickly uttered.
"At once, my Prince." Petra left the room as the guards resumed their posts. You peeled back your dressing gown to inspect the damage by moonlight. It was worse than you thought. Undoubtedly this gown would have to be thrown out. You groaned, disappointed in your own body for betraying you like this.
"Your washbasin, Prince." Petra returned and you hurriedly covered yourself up again. The moonlight was too dim, or perhaps she pretended not to see, but she was soon at your bedside without pause, brandishing a sponge and towel.
"I can do this myself," you said, taking the implements from her. She looked at you with intent to interrogate.
"Prince, if there have been changes with your dreams, you must inform the oneiromancers."
"No need," you said, eager to fully clean yourself. "You are dismissed, Petra."
Petra held her tongue. Her eyes told you she only did so because she was eager to return to bed. When she departed your bedchamber and closed the door, you finally discarded the soiled gown and did your best to cleanse yourself of your nocturnal emission. You donned a new gown and welcomed an ordinary slumber.
When morning came, so did Petra and a bevy of assistant courtiers. From the accoutrements they wielded you identified them as the "fashion corps," your nickname for the hairdressers, wardrobers, clothiers, and makeup artists whose arrival portended a formal event you were required to attend. As the squad of aesthetes communicated amongst each other, Petra drew you a bath. While the tub filled, she came to your side and took your shoulder on hers to help you hobble into the bathing chamber.
"What's the occasion, Petra?" You unfolded a privacy screen, dividing your bathing chamber in half. As you stripped and entered the balmy water, you heard Petra pull up a chair on the other side of the screen.
"The biannual alliance gala, Prince."
"The alliance gala?" You asked. Your appearance had not been required at one for quite some time. "Why me?"
"Your father has requested that the entire court attend. From what I've heard, there is quite the number of fiefdoms and baronies joining the kingdom at this one."
"Grand." You sighed and resigned yourself into the water until it met your chin. You imagined the great hall of the palace, teeming with strangers from far-off lands all speaking in such meaningless platitudes that they needed alcohol in hand to tolerate it.
"If it makes you feel any better, Prince, most of the night depends on your elder brother and your father. You have the freedom to do whatever you like once your father's opening speech is concluded," Petra said with a mild tone.
It didn't make you feel better. Your father built a kingdom that, apparently, smaller domains were scrambling to join. Your elder brother was the crown prince with hordes of suitors seeking his heart. Even your elder sister, with no direct claim to the crown, was quite sought after. Then there was you, with permission to get as drunk as you like at the gala. You seriously considered exercising that privilege.
Your ruminations were interrupted by the clatter of hammered metal and leather straps from beyond the screen.
"I've got your brace ready, Prince. Let me know when you're dry," Petra said. You reluctantly finished scrubbing and soaping yourself before heaving your body onto the lip of the bath and toweling off. Sat there, damp with dripping hair and a towel round your waist, you permitted Petra to attach the brace to you. She respectfully averted her eyes as she affixed the contraption to your immobilized leg. With it attached, you traded comfort for the ability to limp and stand unassisted.
Next came the gauntlet of clothing, hair styling, and makeup that the fashion corps employed. Even for today, which was merely a rehearsal for the true event tomorrow, they gave no mercy. They encircled you and passed you around as they worked like a knight being suited by his squires. The process was grueling. Your hair was tugged and the breeches squeezed your brace into your leg. With the freedom to choose your own clothes removed from you, there was no choice but to deal with the feeling of metal biting at your skin.
Bound in the tight, ceremonial clothing, Petra took your arm for the long walk to the great hall. It was full of palace staff and buzzing like a beehive. The ceiling, high as a cathedral's, let in beams of sunlight through its many massive windows. Tables were being arranged with the intent to give each attending guest a view of the stage: the stage where your father and elder brother would be giving their opening speeches tomorrow. The two of them were behind a podium, your brother reading a piece of parchment over your father's shoulder. Behind them towards the back of the stage was a row of ornate seats; not quite thrones but just as uncomfortable. Your elder sister met your gaze as she sat on one. She beckoned you over.
"That will be your seat for the rehearsal, Prince," Petra said.
"Rehearsal for sitting?" You quipped, walking towards your seat anyway. Resistance was futile no matter how silly this all was.
"I'll undo your hair and get you into more comfortable clothes as soon as I can, Prince," Petra said apologetically. "Bear with it. I must attend to the other staff now."
With that, Petra disappeared into the crowd of scrambling staff arranging the great hall into order. You limped to your seat, your brace clicking all the while.
"You look excellent, little brother," your sister said. She was attempting to alleviate your sour mood, but she still hadn't figured out how. Neither had you.
"I look like an idiot. And my leg is killing me," you snapped.
Your sister merely sighed and leaned back in her chair. Her hair, in a high bun, bumped the bejeweled headrest and made her curse.
"You used to love these events when you were smaller. You had perfected waving to the crowd before you learned to talk," she said.
"That was a long time ago. Things were different; I was naive, none of us had official duties, the assassination attempt hadn't happened, I wasn't bedeviled by these dreams... mother was alive." You cast your gaze downward, examining your buckled leather shoes. You heard her sigh.
"Not all change has to be bad. And to be fair, you still don't have any official duties to worry about." She placed a hand on your shoulder.
"That's a polite way of saying I'm useless." You looked up at your father and elder brother. They were discussing something about their speeches, annotating and marking the parchment before them. A small audience of pages stood in front of the stage, listening to them run through portions of their speeches. They hadn't yet paid you any heed.
"It's a blunt way of saying you're free," your sister said firmly. "Every week I'm fielding suitors from all over the world, and not one of them has proven to be anything but repulsive. I'm terrified that one day strategy and diplomacy will land me with someone like them."
Your eyes widened at her open disdain for the matters of the court.
"I'm sorry," you said, reconstructing your vision of who your sister truly was. "I had no idea you felt that way... I thoughtā"
"You thought I was traipsing about with handsome men from far-off lands every day?" She smirked.
"...yes." You blushed.
"Hah! I wish!" Your sister flinched at her own exclamation, then relaxed when she realized the monarch and the crown prince hadn't noticed. "But you don't have to wish for that. You're free to traipse with whomever you please."
You blushed harder. Turning away from your sister, you saw your brother and father finishing up their speech revisions. On cue, Petra emerged from the throng of staff to conclude this "rehearsal."
"Looks like Petra's coming to get you," your sister noted. "I know you'll be free to retire to your bedchambers as soon as the speeches are over, but I want you to try and enjoy yourself tomorrow night. It's what I would do if I could." She gave you one final smile before getting up from her seat.
"I will," you said, finally cracking a tiny smile in return. Petra had your arm soon after.
"Your presence is no longer required, Prince." Petra helped you up. "Shall I take you back to your chambers?"
"Yes, please," you said, giving your sister a thankful glance. She returned a similar expression as Petra whisked you away.
When you had finally returned to your chambers and changed into less constrictive clothing, you asked Petra to stay awhile to converse. Your sister's advice had forced you to re-evaluate your approach to the gala. Your priorities had shifted just as much as your notions of her personality had.
"You mentioned there were many newcomers to the kingdom? Quite a few tables were being set up in the great hall," you quizzed Petra.
"Yes, from what I've gathered, it's expected to be the largest event we've hosted all year. We're expecting guests from as far as Ankara and Nubia," she answered matter-of-factly. Perhaps she was a little proud, too.
"Are there any specific guests I should know about?" You asked with the grace of a war elephant. Courtship had crossed your mind for the first time mere minutes ago. "Anyone of high repute?"
Petra picked up on your clumsy intent immediately. She knew you too well.
"Prince, it would be quicker to list the attendees not worth approaching than those with stellar accolades. If it were me..." she drew in air through her teeth as if expecting to be reprimanded, "I would consider tomorrow's gala an excellent time to court someone."
"I'll try to take that advice to heart, Petra," you said.
"I'm pleased, Prince. Your matters are your own, but if I may speak unequivocally..."
"Speak your mind." You gave her permission. She hesitated, then sighed.
"You strike me as lonely, Prince. Ever since the Queen passed, your social life has suffered." Petra paused again, considering her words carefully. "You deserve love of that measure once more, whether from a partner or a good friend."
"Thank you," you sighed as if she had given you permission to use your heart. "I appreciate the advice, Petra."
"Of course, Prince." She glanced out the window towards the setting sun. "I recommend you retire early tonight to be invigorated tomorrow, lest the dreams strike again."
You nodded.
"They will." You avoided her eyes as you remembered what happened last time. "Have a washbasin ready. For the, erm, sweat."
"Of course, Prince," Petra said, her face remaining unmoved. You didn't bother trying to discern whether she was oblivious to last night's gown-soiling or if she merely extended you the courtesy of pretending. "I'll leave you be. Get some rest."
You watched her exit your chambers without another word, finally exhaling the breath you held. The idea of having to clean yourself up again was hardly appealing. Standing on the veranda and enjoying the cool night air was only prolonging the inevitable.
The aforementioned inevitable reared its troublesome head as soon as you surrendered to sleep. Your consciousness materialized somewhere, a location unidentifiable but still more detailed than you had ever encountered before. You glimpsed kaleidoscopic carpets, hammered brass, and vines growing freely about the place.
"Welcome back." A man's voice like sweet honey floated through the warm air.
"I missed you." The words left your mouth without you knowing them. You were merely an observer to your own actions. "Amon."
"My sweet prince." Lips on your knuckles. The smell of lavender tea. "Tea?"
"No thanks. We must keep this quick," you uttered again, breathless and surrendering to a desire that was both yours and unknown to you.
"Tut, tut. What's gotten into you, my prince? I've never seen you so impatient," the voice teased. Your head spun.
"I need my energy," you gasped, something warm and wet lapping at your member. "For tomorrow." The ministrations paused.
"Of course. Tomorrow will be very special indeed." The tongue on your shaft resumed, making you squirm. You reached out into the nothingness, your fingers grasping at frayed carpet tassels. Your other hand reached in between your legs and found a head of hair. You grasped a smooth horn that curved neatly behind an ear. It bobbed up and down at a tantalizing pace.
"Amon, I... I shouldn't..."
"Shouldn't what?" Another pause in the pleasure. You caught your breath. Those eyes again, burning into yours with the hue of warm ocean waters. "Say no to me, my prince. I implore you to try."
Caught in the stare you were helpless. You quivered with need, your manhood twitching and drooling. Only a high whine left your lips.
"Thought so."
You shot up in bed, crying out and spasming. Once more you had spilled yourself into your gown, your entire body slick with sweat. As a small victory, your cries remained nondescript rather than referential to this "Amon." In the dream, you had felt a sweet warmth in your breast each time you spoke to him and even warmer when he responded. In your waking memory, this name was empty. There was no connection and no feeling of belonging. If you hadn't heard your own voice leave your mouth in the dream, you would have had no way of knowing those experiences were your own. Your dreaming memory and conscious recollection were severed, at odds with one another. What did he mean when he said tomorrow would be special? Did he know about the gala? You didn't know how much you knew.
"The washbasin, Prince," Petra uttered as she carried it into your chambers. She stowed it at your bedside. "Shall I leave you like before?"
"Yes, please... but would it trouble you to return afterward?"
"Not at all, Prince. I'll return at your word." She slipped out of the room. You took the opportunity to cleanse yourself of the evidence before permitting Petra to return.
āPetra, would it be possible to acquire a guest list for the gala?ā You asked.
āPossible, yes. However, it will be quite long without any qualifiers. As I mentioned previously, this is one of the largest events of the year.ā
You considered simply asking her if the name Amon was among the attendees, but Petra would likely alert the oneiromancers and in turn, your father. You doubted anything would happen at all if she did, but this was a matter you wanted to confront on your own. Like all other decisions made for you at your fatherās behest, your own interests would unquestionably be cast aside if he decided to involve himself.
āIād like to know the first names of all the male guests scheduled to attend,ā you said. Petra raised an eyebrow.
āThat doesnāt narrow it down much, Prince,ā Petra answered. The sweet, honeyed voice from your dream remained in your mind. It was the voice of a young man, one likely of your age.
āOnly the male guests around my age, then,ā you specified. Petra raised her other eyebrow, making her expression one of surprise rather than skepticism.
āAh. That kind of list. I see...ā Your cheeks burned; though you didnāt know where this inquiry would take you, you also felt the conclusion Petra came to was not wholly inaccurate. āShall I make, Ā erm, other arrangements as well?ā
āArrangements?ā you asked. It was Petraās turn to blush.
āThe standard things... extra pillows, oils, skinsāā
āYes, of course, Petra,ā you cut her off, not wishing for her to extend the list of amenities any further. Searching for a suitor was a favorable charade. If nothing else, if this search for the mysterious Amon proved fruitless, then you would at least have the means, motive, and opportunity to bed somebody... if you had the audacity. The look on Petra's face said she didn't think so.
"Iāll have the list and the... goods brought in before sun-up,ā Petra said. āIs there anything else you need?ā
āNo, Petra, that will suffice.ā
āGood. Iāll see you in the morning.ā
Morning arrived and so did Petra's promises; the chief courtier herself was nowhere to be found, but a neatly transcribed list of names and a box tied with a bow sat atop a chaise lounge when you awoke. You already knew what waited inside the box, so you went for the list. Though only containing the names of guests that fit your qualifiers, the parchment was both long and double-sided. Your eyes began to tire just as they fell across what you were looking for:
Amon II - Eparch of Nobatian Lower Makuria and Alodia
You were puzzled. Makuria and Elodia were names you hadn't heard since you were tutored. Even your father's kingdom with its diplomats venturing far and wide rarely mentioned them. You only knew they were small kingdoms far away from this one. There was not one but two oceans between here and there, they spoke a language no tutor in the palace taught, and both titles of "Nobatian" and "Eparch" were unknown to you.
Then the fashion corps arrived. You dropped the parchment and pondered the new information as they manhandled you into the appearance they had crafted for you yesterday. Perhaps due to more practiced hands or being lost in your thoughts, the process seemed to go much faster than previously. You almost didn't believe it when they told you they were finished, but the shifted sun and your appearance in the mirror confirmed that the gala would soon begin. Your hair was fashioned into an unnatural shape, your face was dusted with powder, and your clothes were so form-fitting that you appeared sewn into them. The bulge of the leg brace through your breeches peeked out at the ankle; the leggings were so tight that your overcoat preserved more of your modesty than they did.
With Petra absent and likely scrambling to put last-minute touches on the gala, you walked to the great hall with the assistance of the fashion corps, who likewise made hasty repairs to your appearance as your gait jostled things out of place. When you arrived, the great hall was even busier than at the rehearsal. It seemed there was a member of palace staff for each seat at every table, all of them fastidiously arranging cutlery, plates, decorative vases, placemats, and myriad other things you didn't know the names for.
āLittle brother!ā You turned your head and spotted your elder sister within a parade of her own fashion corps regiment. She waved at you from one of the great hallās entrances.
āSister,ā you responded with a nod, your own cavalcade parting to allow her approach.
āHave you given tonight any consideration?ā She asked.
āYes, actually...ā
āYouāre not going to retreat to your chambers?ā
ā...not immediately,ā you said, noncommittal.
āIām glad.ā She smiled gently. āIāll likely be busy most of the night, though if youād like me to send anyone your way, let me know. Whoās on your list?ā
āMy list?ā you sputtered. āPetra told you?ā
āPetra? Goodness, no,ā she chuckled. āI just figured youād have one. Itās standard practice for these sorts of things; Iāve a list as well. So... whoās on yours?ā
You lowered your head and examined your shoes.
āWell... itās quite long.ā
āHow scandalous!ā she gasped exaggeratedly.
āIām just casting a wide net is all! I donāt intend to bed every single male my age!ā Your cheeks burned again. You considered dropping the charade if it meant this level of humiliation.
āI expected my mild little brother to have a rebellious phase eventually, but this...ā she said, ignoring your cries.
"Sister, please," you pleaded. The tone of your voice convinced her to return to normal. She extended a hand to ruffle your hair but stopped herself when your fashion corps hairstylist glared at her.
"Apologies, little brother. I had to jest a little," she smiled at you, this time without intent to tease. "They're going to start letting in the guests soon. We should take our seats."
You nodded and followed her to the stage. The fashion corps fell away from you and went to help elsewhere. You sat in your uncomfortable pseudo-throne and waited, eventually joined by your other siblings save for your eldest brother. They greeted you as they took position at your side, but there was very little to talk about. This was the first time you had seen them in a while.
Then came the guests: the table-setters had cleared out some minutes before the floodgates burst and more staff escorted groups of people to their tables. The cathedral-like great hall was full in mere moments. Sorted by table, there was a sea of people in colorful finery all conversing amongst themselves and giving you and your siblings the occasional glance. You tried to pick out Amon from the crowd but quickly realized half-remembered fragments from your dreams wouldn't be enough to pick him from a sea of hundreds. Even finding his name on the list took a considerable amount of time.
Then the hall fell silent, or something close to it. A lively conversation between hundreds of people dropped to hushed whispers. Your father and brother had entered the hall and begun their walk to the podium, silencing the crowd with nothing but their appearance. When your father reached the podium, he extended both arms palms up and the previously subdued crowd erupted into cheers. If not for the applause, he would have heard you groan. Your sister said nothing, only giving your hand a gentle squeeze.
When the speeches started you practically willed your ears shut. Perhaps you would have built a tolerance to them if you had appeared at more of these events, but you couldn't bear to listen to your father and elder brother boast of their achievements to a sea of complacent, nodding heads. It was like a reminder that within the kingdom your father built, you served your purpose by distracting that assassin some years ago and now outlived your usefulness. At this gala, you were decoration only a few ranks higher than a potted plant.
You thanked any and all higher powers when the speeches were over. Father and his crown prince had left the stage to begin their targeted commingling with VIPs, prompting you and your siblings to stand from your seats. They all dispersed before you could look to them to follow their lead. When you stumbled off the stage and distanced yourself from it by leaning against the wall as you walked, hardly any attention came your way. Thankfully, the attention you did receive was from Petra.
"Prince, are you alright? You look troubled," she said, sidling up to you.
"What do I do, Petra?" you asked, intimidated by the sheer size of the room and the attendees within it. Each table was like its own little kingdom with strangers you didn't know and faux-pas to stumble over.
"See how each table has an empty chair or two?" She pointed to the tables nearest you, one full of scaly SÄmm-abraį¹£ emissaries and another with human diplomats bearing the flag of Bavaria. You nodded. "All the guests are expected to stay seated while dinner is served. They won't get up to dance and drink until the meal is concluded. Right now, only people from the host kingdomā like you, me, your siblings, and other members of the courtā will be walking around."
"So I just sit at whichever table and introduce myself?"
"If you even need to. The fact you're walking will show them you're hosting. They'll pay you proper respect without you saying anything at all."
"Hm," you mused. That sounded like a lot of work, especially since you weren't aiming to meander. Finding Amon would be immeasurably more difficult once the crowd was disorganized and inebriated, though, so now was your best chance.
"I've a copy of your list, Prince. Shall I help you navigate it?" Petra asked, holding up parchment.
"Yes, let's," you said. The lengthy document threatened to touch the floor. "Let's begin alphabetically."
"Alphabetically, Prince?"
"By first name."
"Of course, Prince. That means we should visit Aariyeh, Sardar of Anatolia, followed by Abdul II, Knez of Smederevoā"
"Any Eparchs on that list?" You winced at your own forwardness. The charade was wearing dangerously thin.
"...Eparchs?"
"I'm in an Eparch mood at the moment," you explained weakly. Petra looked at you as if checking for signs of illness.
"I see. There's one: Amon II of Nobatian Lower Makuria and Alodia."
His verdigris eyes locked onto yours. They peered at you from behind short, white curls of shiny hair. His skin reminded you of the bluebells in the gardens, and his pert, curled horns were a shade darker. He flashed something between a grin and a smirk at you, revealing pearlescent teeth with canines that could be mistaken for fangs.
Amon was breathtaking and he knew it.
If your arm wasn't in Petra's grasp already, you never would have made it to the chair. She struggled a bit as she plopped you into it, your leg brace protesting with clicks and creaks. The other tieflings at the table, all varying shades of azure, stopped what they were doing to acknowledge your arrival. You gave them a weak nod while you regained your composure.
"Greetings, delegation from Lower Makuria and Elodia. I'd like to introduce you to our Middle Prince," Petra said from over your shoulder, upon which she planted a firm hand. She squeezed hard.
"I'm pleased to meet you all," you managed to get out. Your audience of tieflings nodded and muttered.
"As am I, Middle Prince." Amon set his cutlery down and rested his chin on interlaced fingers. His voice was high and carried a boyish, scheming air; you envisioned him stealing lumps of sugar from a pantry. "I didn't think my kingdom warranted such a visit. What brings you to my little exclave of Nobatia?"
"A whim."
"How quaint," he said, still smirking. His gaze shifted as he eyed his all-tiefling entourage. The intent was to communicate something, though you didn't know what.
"I am the middle prince, after all. I've few obligations. None, actually," you said.
"Hm," Amon said, looking decidedly amused. "We may have more in common than we thought." His retinue nodded along with his observation.
"Surely you are a busy man? You are Eparch of not one, but two territories."
"Do you know what the title 'Eparch' entails, Middle Prince?" Amon said, more as a targeted quip than an actual question.
"I... am not familiar, I admit," you ceded.
"An Eparch is a figurehead. Makuria and Alodia have long been ruled by invaders and rebels, respectively. I'm kept in a symbolic position to preserve what's left of Nobatian culture," Amon sighed. "In fact, I was sent here in place of the true rulers since they thought it so unlikely that you would have anything important to say to us. Anything other than absorbing us into your hegemony, of course."
You averted your gaze. He clearly was not happy with his status, and while his discontent wasn't targeted at you, it hovered about him like a cloud. He picked at the remainder of his meal while the cloud dissipated and you plucked a topic from the clearing air.
"How was your journey here? You've come a long way," you said.
"It was pleasant enough. Your trains and... horseless carriages are quite impressive," Amon said, pausing. "What's your name for them again?"
"Automobiles," you answered.
"Yes, automobiles." He rolled the word in his mouth as if tasting wine. "Though you have such a fine river and only use it for cargo. A felucca would have made my journey quite enjoyable."
"A felucca?"
"Ah, it's my turn to inform you." Amon smiled. "A felucca is a sailboat we use on the Nile. It's built for comfort, with carpets instead of hardwood decks. Some even come with a kitchen, and it's unheard of to sail without finishing a pot of tea."
"It sounds lovely," you said. "Lavender tea, I hope."
Amon raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, my favorite," he looked amused. "How did you know?"
"A whim," you answered. "The same one that brought me over to your table."
"I see." His eyes locked with yours for a lengthy pause. His retinue shifted in their seats at the uncomfortable silence. He was thinking hard about something, but the subject of his thoughts remained unknown to you. If he truly shared the dreams with you, surely you must have gotten the point across by now?
"It was lovely chatting with you, Middle Prince." He broke the silence and straightened his posture. "But I would hate to keep you when you have other guests to see."
"I really don'tā"
"Nonsense, my prince," he interrupted, "go on and mingle. Perhaps, if we're lucky, our paths will cross when the festivities begin in earnest."
You couldn't believe your eyes. Did he wink at you?
"Of course..." you said, slowly realizing he was scheming. "Enjoy the gala." He locked eyes with you again.
"Oh, we will."
You had resumed hovering with Petra on the edges of the great hall. More staff had filed in to take away dirty dishes and the remains of the guests' meals. The dance floor had been opened, the musicians were in position, and staff bearing silver trays readied drinks for the merry and hors d'oeuvres for the peckish.
"How was your visit with the Eparch?" Petra asked.
"Enlightening," you answered cryptically. The need for secrecy hadn't passed, but now you were unsure of what charade to uphold. You only knew Amon was in on it as well.
"I trust that means it went well?"
"Yes, I think so." You scanned the crowd of attendees, which had now gotten up from their seats and begun to mix and intermingle. Amon disappeared like an ace into a shuffled deck. Petra flashed you an impatient expression.
"Prince, do you want me to help you get with him or not?" She said with folded arms.
"Petra!" You gasped. "You're rather forward."
"It's quite literally my job to make sure you end up with him if you wish it, Prince," she assumed a stern tone as if you refused your vegetables. "Give me a yes or no."
You stewed under her gaze. It seemed the pressure and time-sensitive nature of the gala had started to affect her as well, though for different reasons to you.
"Yes." You muttered. She didn't ask for confirmation, instead slipping away into the crowd with nothing more than a nod. Was this part of the charade, still? You had no idea what Amon even wanted, or frankly, what you wanted from tonight.
The musicians started and the small groups that had formed on the edge of the dance floor produced couplets of dancers. They were eager to begin the waltz, a somewhat contentious dance that had only recently come into popularity.Ā You hadn't been practiced in it, instead learning of court dances like the cotillion. As you watched it take place, the dancers seemed awfully close. They were practically pressed against one another!
While you tried to discern the intricacies of this new style of dance before you, that familiar azure face peeked at you from the crowd. Amon smiled and raised his drink in your direction. It was a small gesture but you were helpless to do anything other than join him. Before you knew it, you were at his side in the sea of people and some sort of libation had been thrust into your hand.
"You know, I'm starting to grow partial to this stuff," Amon said, sipping on a duplicate of the drink you held.
"I was under the impression your faith disallowed the consumption of alcohol," you said, watching him finish the glass.
"An easy mistake to make." He handed off the glass to a roving staff member. "Modern Makurians and Alodians don't drink. Nobatians like me do. It's one of the holdovers of my dead culture."
You looked at the glass in hand; it was a clear, cold drink with a slice of lime. As you expected, the taste was bitter and unwelcoming.
"You like gin?" You asked, one taste enough to identify it.
"As I said, it's starting to grow on me," Amon chuckled. "It's not good enough to stop me from missing home, but it'll get me through the night."
"Speaking of home..." you started, looking around. You were unable to spot any other blue-skinned tieflings in the crowd. "where has your retinue gone?"
"I told them to enjoy themselves. As my courtiers, that means they're likely hovering by the exit, waiting to escort me out of here when I leave."
"They seem like a serious bunch."
"They're overprotective," Amon hissed. "As I said, my culture is long dead. They see it as dying. They think they can save it by putting me in a glass case for future generations to study."
"You've given up on Nobatia?"
"Pah! Of course I have!" He deftly procured another drink from a passing waiter. "Nothing will bring the old country back. Nobatia is a minuscule region; I can say with certainty I'm the youngest one left. When I'm old and infirm, Makuria and Alodia will reject the idea of a royal family entirely and I'll finally be allowed to be forgotten."
"That's quite a bleak outlook, Eparch," you gently chided. "Perhaps in war, things would be on a fixed course, but matters of diplomacy are more malleable."
"Perhaps," Amon said, sipping his gin. "But that's enough about me. I'd like to know more about you."
His eyes looked into yours as if he would magick the information he wanted straight out of you. No incantations were uttered, though, and you took a pragmatic sip of gin to fill the pause.
"What would you like to know?" You said.
"I'd like to know about this 'whimsy' you have," Amon probed. "To be frank, my prince, I expected to be out the door by now. Instead, I'm here, conversing with you. It doesn't make sense."
You finished your gin. This was as good a time as any to explain yourself.
"What do you know of oneiromancy?" The question left your lips and slapped Amon across the face. He chuckled.
"The school of magick so vague and unmeasurable it's not even officially recognized?"
"It seems you know the same as most," you said. "Oneiromancy is real. At least, real enough to give me the same dream night after night."
"I see..." Amon was mulling something over.
"In each one of these dreams, though my waking memory is hazy, I remember one thing they all had in common." You took a deep breath. "You."
"We should discuss this in private," Amon interjected, gently brushing your hand against his. You had been so caught up with telling Amon that you forgot you were in the middle of a crowded gala. Concern crept into the corners of his face. "Do you have a place we can go?"
You nodded and grasped his hand in earnest. The spot you took him to was one of the many balconies that overlooked the palace gardens. The sun had set fully at this point, and waltz music lazily floated out of the great hall. A few revelers who had over-indulged caught the fresh air in the hedges below. You and Amon rested on the cool marble balustrade, momentarily admiring the mingling of crickets, music, distant conversation, and the night air.
"I've been having the dreams as well. All of them involving you in some... capacity. I wasn't sure it was you at first. The dreams were so vague..." Amon kept his gaze fixed on the gardens below.
"Were the dreams... um, did you wake up... well..." you stammered. He looked at you knowingly.
"Yes, a few times," Amon answered. He didn't seem nearly as embarrassed as you. "You suspect oneiromancy is at play?"
"The court oneiromancers determined the dreams are being intentionally created. They're not a coincidence."
"Court oneiromancers?" Amon nearly spat out his drink. "My, you do have everything in this kingdom."
"Yes, we have court oneiromancers, but your surprise is beside the point." You had finally found the mysterious Amon, and you didn't want to waste any time on tangents. "Surely you're just as curious as I? Do you know anything about these dreams?" Amon drained the remainder of his gin in response.
"When I was a child..." He paused and shook his head. "When I was a child, my mother told me folk tales. The standard stuff: damsels in distress, slaying horrific beasts, that sort of thing. But she also told me tales of lovers who met in dreams. She said that was how she and father met."
"Something tells me you don't believe in that."
"When I grew too old for fairy tales, I saw it as her way of helping me keep hope that the oneĀ would be out there. With Nobatia falling and no suitors left..." he trailed off, setting his empty glass on the balustrade.
"So what if she's right?"
"That's a rather large 'if,' my prince. She was the only one that believed in that stuff... Aside from an uncle who would tell more dreamers-to-lovers tales, but only after drinking too much boukha, and always with a sarcastic tongue.Ā They're just that: tales."
You felt Amon's cloud of discontent precipitate once more. His words were scathing, but not towards you; they spoke to a painful past and familiarity with disappointment. He saw something hopeful, happy, and promising, then cast it down in order to never feel the pain of losing it. You rarely had such clear insights about people, but with Amon it was different. It was as if you had known him for a long time and learned the language spoken by his brow, posture, and eyes. You knew what you had to do.
"Amon," you sighed, placing a hand on his, "even fairy tales originate from some truth, even if only a little. Don't be afraid to entertain the notion that your mother might be right."
You tried to look him in the eyes, but he cast his gaze down to the gardens below. His quick tongue failed him and silence ensued. His hand had reluctantly surrendered itself to your grasp, resting warm and limp.
"Look at me," You commanded with a firmer tone than expected. Reluctantly, he swiveled towards you and his aquamarine eyes found their way to yours. "Think about what you truly want. Don't be afraid to take it."
He swallowed. After a pause of a few heartbeats, his free hand grasped the back of your head, entwined his fingers in your hair, and pressed your lips to his. Your hand that held his grasped even tighter. The two of you were entwined in your own scandalous waltz. You could feel his hunger just as clearly as you felt his discontent when he parted your lips with his tongue. You reciprocated, catching fleeting impressions of his sharp teeth. He tasted like gin and figs. Short, passionate gasps and moans escaped the two of you and joined the chorus of crickets. You pulled away only to catch your breath.
"I..." Amon sighed, "I shouldn't. I've had too much gin. I've been foolish." He released you from his arms and took several steps backward. Your jaw hung agape as he jogged inside and disappeared from view. Too shocked to try to catch him, you remained outside and alone on the balcony with only the sound of crickets and distant strings to keep you company. Just as silently and perceptively as a cat, Petra crept from the doorway a short while later.
"I saw Amon run away and came to check on you." She looked at your expression and reciprocated with a downtrodden look of her own. "Are you okay?"
"I don't know. Probably not." You sighed and buried your face in your elbows until all you could see was the balustrade. You sensed Petra take a few steps towards you.
"What happened?" She asked delicately.
"We kissed, passionately. Then he said he was foolish and ran away," you mumbled into your self-embracing arms. Petra rested a hand on your shoulder.
"Some people just can't handle the fast pace and the pressure at galas like this. I'm sure it wasn't personal."
"I know..." you sighed. To Petra, your attempts at flirting simply failed to land. She didn't see the dreams. She didn't see the look in his eyes. She didn't hear the fear of hope in his voice. There were not enough hours in the night to explain to her the true extent of your sorrows.
"There's always tomorrow, Prince."
"Tomorrow?"
"Tonight is only for the Gala," Petra explained, her tender tone turning slightly optimistic, "anyone attending will be staying at least until tomorrow night for the treaty signing."
"So Amon is still here, then?" you asked, finally pulling your forehead from its resting place on your folded arms.
"He was likely running to the guest wing of the palace, where all the other dignitaries will be. If you truly wish to meet with him again, breakfast tomorrow morning would be an excellent opportunity."
You considered things for a moment. If Amon were to stay one more night, then that was one more dream to share. Tonight, you and Amon would spring awake in bed at the same time after another shared dream, but he would be only a few corridors away.
"Petra, get me an oneiromancer." You commanded.
"An oneiromancer? At this time of night? They're probably attending the gala with the rest of the court."
"Petra, this is important," you said. "I haven't exactly been forthcoming about everything in these recent days, and I'm sorry for that... but I need an oneiromancer before I sleep tonight. If you can do this for me, I promise to explain everything soon."
Petra looked at you silently, deciding whether or not to press you for details now rather than later contingent on your promise. She chose the former, nodding and silently fast-walking inside.
Alone once more on the balcony, you leaned on the balustrade and studied the stars. The moon's halo of illuminated night sky was the same color as Amon's lips. With any luck, you'd be seeing them again soon in tonight's dream.
Summery: The Egg asks for all, it takes and takes until there is nothing left. It chews you up and spits out something new, and by the gods Y/n has turned himself into something monstrousā¦
Warnings: Eggpire fuckery, manipulation, brain washing, abuse, death, murder, depression, memory loss, small reference to child death due to war, wound treatment
Note: Welp. So things might be shit, but I at least have writing, and really man? Thatās all I need. So, have fun watching a spiral happen right in front of your eyes. This isnāt meant to be a happy one-shot folks so tread carefully while reading.
(some of yāall seemed to like chapter 5! so hereās chapter 6 like promised! and remember, you get chapter 7 if this one is shown some love, so remember to comment and reblog! thanks yāall! <3)
āāāā-
True to their word Tommy and Tubbo came back to see you the very next day, having gotten up early (well early for them) to get ready and head out. Wilbur had wanted to go with them but heād gotten caught up in presidential matters and couldnāt, much to his dismay. Too bad for him though that neither boy cared to wait on him since according to Tommy,
āItāll take you hours to handle that stuff, Iām not waitinā that long!ā
(people seem to like this for now but remember, no reblogs/comments then iām gonna assume people lost interest. so show u enjoy this please!! <3 also someone drew fanart of Reader, check it out at the bottom! :3c)
āāāā-
āCome ON Wilbur! Come with me to check out the huge village I found the other week!ā shouted Tommy while making sure to get in his older brotherās way as much as possible. He figured if Wilbur was focused on him and not whatever āsuper importantā shit he was busy with then heād join him.
Wilbur meanwhile was doing everything he could to sidestep and ignore said younger brother. Now usually heād humor the much younger boy but Wilbur was sorta busy at the moment. Thereās been murmurs of unrest within the Lāmanburg territory lately since new faces have joined their country.Ā
Apparently they werenāt happy about the fact that Wilbur was a self appointed president, and likened him to a dictator because of it since no one got a say in his leadership role. Which Wilbur thought was highly unfair. Heād fought tooth and nail for his country, so they could have and enjoy all the freedoms to do as they pleased without Dream and his cronies breathing down their necks.
wHY DOES THIS HAVE JUST 308 NOTES???? THE ENTIRE WORLD SHOULD BE SHARING THIS. CHINA IS LITERALLY COMMITTING THE HOLOCAUST, ONLY THIS TIME ON MUSLIMS AND YāALL ARE SILENT?
i have 495 people following me right now, including several mutuals. i better see yāall reblogging.
People might not be reblogging this because the first tweet makes unnecessary (and untrue) Holocaust comparisons. Taken from @nat_slay on Twitter (I donāt know the original source):
The āways to helpā info seems good afaik but feel free to correct me if Iām wrong there too.
As a Jewish person, I appreciate those saying that this is not okay and that it is misinformation. No, 6 million Uyghur Muslims have not been murdered.
And, as a Jewish person, I know that 6 million very well could be murdered. This is not another Shoah, but it very well could become another. As a Jewish person, I feel we must say ānever again.ā
Never again.
āNever againā does not mean āthis event was so uniquely horrible, it could never happen again.ā It means āthis event was horrible, but not unique. We have to make sure it never happens again.ā
Never again.
The Uyghur death count isnāt 6 million, that is misinformation. But ānever againā means we have to make sure it doesnāt become 6 million.
If you are not Jewish or Romani, do not draw comparisons to the Holocaust. All that provides is shock value and misinformation. What you can do is support Uyghur Muslims.
The link to the original post doesnāt workāhere are other sources:
Source from The Silhouette
Source from Business Insider
Source from Middle East Forum
Source from India Blooms
Source #1 from Jewish News
Source #2 from Jewish News
Groups to donate to:
Charity Rightās Food for Uyghurs
Uyghur Human Rights Project
Petitions to sign:
Petition 1
Petition 2
If you have more relevant resources, please share them. Petitions are likely meaningless in contrast to the Chinese government.
For those who are able to, take action. For those who are unable to take action, please share.
2 tbsp flour - 50cal (the one I use is all purpose and 25cal per tbsp)
3 tbsp egg whites - 25cal (I use egg beaters but you can choose to use whatever you want)
A couple packets of a 0cal sweetener - 0cal
1 tbsp Mrs. Butterworths sugar free syrup - 5cal
^^(THIS SYRUP IS A BLESSING, itās 20cal for Ā¼ cup but I only used a tbsp so the calories are SUPER LOWš)
Directions:
Heat up a pan of your choosing, doesnāt really matter the size.
Measure out your ingredients and put them into a bowl.
Mix your ingredients, I prefer to use a rubber spatula over a whisk because I can scrape off the ingredients that like to stick to the bowl.
Use water, 0cal cooking spray, or whatever you like to make sure your pancakes donāt get stuck to the pan.
Put some batter in the pan and YOUāRE COOKING, BABY
With this recipe, I made 3 pancakes of a satisfying size so donāt fear š
Once youāve finished cooking all your pancakes, add your syrup and BOOM!!! BREAKFAST~~
Finished product:
THIS ENTIRE PLATE IS 80 CALORIES. IM SERIOUS. WHOLE BREAKFAST. 80 CALORIES. YOU CAN EVEN ADD SOME FRUIT TO MAKE IT MORE INTERESTING.
I love this recipe so much because even on bad days I can cook up an easy satisfying breakfast without making myself want to cry because of the calories. Hopefully you guys like it too, stay safe and happy cooking!! āØš
Fuck Iām at a fencing tournament and literally a minute after I reblogged this my dad told me that he talked to the point people and Iām probably going to win a medal.
I need to follow up to say I reblogged this last night, and this morning I got some of the best news of my life, like, a life dream come true news thing.
THIS IS FUCKING REAL. I just received an email from my teacher that our test has been postponed for another week so we have more time to study. THIS IS REAL.
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