#thank you dusk very insightful

[jokeringcutio]

Arthur Harrow x ftm Reader - Part 1 (At the Cult)

ONE: Summary: You’re part of Arthur Harrow’s community, but hold a special place. Arthur Harrow (Cult Leader) x FTM Reader. Rating: Explicit (Contains smut). Words: 6026 Thanks to the wonderful supporter who commissioned this fic ♡

For: @apriltearsbringmayfears Tags: Older man x younger (ftm) reader, consensual intimacy, praise kink, touching, kissing, explicit sexual content, bit of powerplay, overall sweet, you x the villainous cult leader, Arthur takes care of his favorite.

The compound buzzed with activity. Over the months, disciples from all corners of the world flocked to Arthur Harrow's side, drawn by his charisma and the promise of Ammit's judgment. The compound grew. Each day brought them closer to summoning their dark mistress, and the tension in the air was palpable.

You stood at the edge of the gathering, the evening air thick with incense and murmured prayers. Arthur Harrow's voice rose above the crowd, measured and calm, guiding his followers through the ritual. You watched him intently, captivated by the way he moved and the cadence of his words.

"Come closer," Arthur called out, his blue eyes locking onto yours. The group parted as you made your way to the front. The soft light of dusk cast shadows across his face, accentuating the lines of wisdom and age. He reached out, gently taking your hand, pulling you closer to his side. His touch sent a shiver down your spine.

"Your insight is invaluable to us," he said softly, loud enough for others to hear. "What do you think?" He turned to you, inviting your input on the matter being discussed – a new prayer to Ammit, a change in the daily routine, the specifics blurred in the haze of your focus on him.

The fact that he asked for your opinion had not escaped his follower’s notice. It was a rare and coveted position. Arthur rarely sought the opinions of others. You, however, were granted a glimpse behind the scenes, privy to the inner workings of the cult. Arthur Harrow sought your counsel on matters both earthly and otherworldly, and you found yourself inexplicably drawn to him. His very presence set your heart aflutter, and you felt honored to be in his orbit.

You remembered the first time he sought your advice - and more.

One sweltering afternoon, as the sun beat down on the compound relentlessly, Arthur had summoned you to his private chambers. You'd been a part of his community for several months. Months that were spent locking eyes and exchanging careful smiles. Months that had rewarded you with thoughtful frowns and pursed lips. Until that very faithful day when Arthur had decided it was time to take action.

"I have need of your counsel, my disciple," he said, his voice laced with a hint of urgency. "Come, walk with me."

You followed him willingly, your heart pounding in your chest. Arthur's chambers were cool and dim, a welcome respite from the punishing heat outside. He closed the door firmly behind you, the click of the latch ominous in the ensuing silence.

"We are close," he breathed, his eyes alight with religious fervor. "So very close to unleashing our goddess's judgment upon this wounded world. But... I find I do not wish to face the end of days alone."

He slid his strong, weathered hand up your arm, sending shivers down your spine. You shivered, both from the coolness of the room and the intensity of his gaze.

"I have need of you, my sweet disciple," he purred, his voice a low growl that set your blood on fire. "I value your counsel,” he hesitated, low voice a murmur that sent electric tingling down your core. You felt hot, thighs squeezing, throat suddenly dry – making it hard to swallow – as you waited for the words that came next.

“I cannot continue without your... companionship."

His fingers brushed your cheek, gently caressing your cheekbone before slipping lower, lower still. You gasped as his fingertips found the hem of your tunic, sliding it upward. The air cooled your damp skin, but not nearly as much as the cold metal of his cane as he traced it up your thigh.

"Arthur," you breathed, "I..."

"Hush, my boy," he soothed, his lips mere centimeters from your ear. "You are mine to do with as I please. Ammit has willed it so."

With that, he kissed you, his lips demanding and hot, bruising in their ardor. His other hand fisted in your hair, angling your head just so. He was insatiable, ravenous in his need for you, and you knew in that moment, you belonged to him.

His cane clattered to the ground, followed by the rustle of fabric as his clothes fell away. He lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the desk behind him, laying you down as if you were made of the most delicate porcelain.

"Forevermore, we are entwined," he growled, his eyes glowing with otherworldly fire. "Body, soul, and... eternity."

You snapped out of the memory, your eyes upon your leader once more. Arthur’s gaze was focused, sharp, but his pupils were dark. A look that you recognized. It was almost as if he had read your mind.

His hand lingered a little too long, hovering just above your own as if hesitant to touch you. Then he retreated a step, the distance allowing you to think once more. He was a magnet, distracting and always pulling you close. But you loved him for it and wouldn’t want it any other way.

You offered your thoughts, careful, measured words spilling from your lips. Arthur nodded approvingly, his gaze never wavering from yours. The others watched, some with envy, others with admiration. They saw how he favored you, how he sought your counsel, keeping you close.

Let them watch, you thought with glee. Let them be jealous. You had what none of them could have for their own.

As if to prove your point, Arthur stepped nearer again, uncaring about the looks his followers gave you.

"Thank you," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear as he leaned in. "You always know just what to say." His praise filled you with a warmth that spread from your chest to your fingertips, a sensation both intoxicating and grounding.

This time his hands did touch. His warm palms slid past your shoulders, lingering a little too long, searing through the fabric of your clothes. Your breath hitched in your throat. His eyes darkened. There was want visible in both of your gazes. Want, and need, and lust dripped in sin.

But you had to be patient and wait.  

"Take an example of this fine young man," Arthur then said loudly as he turned back to the others - you'd almost forgotten they were there. No longer were his eyes fixed on you. But you heard the gravel in his voice, the need and longing that he was pushing down. If others heard it, it could easily be interpreted as devotion for Ammit instead. "Now, let's not disappoint our goddes any further. We have matters to attend to," he wrapped it all up so beautifully. And you watched him as he stood with his arms stretched, the red fabric of his simple cotton blouse stretched over the broad muscles of his back.

No wonder these men and women were all entranced. If any man could honor a god, it was him. ~

As the evening wore on and the group dispersed, Arthur lingered near you, his presence a constant comfort. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, gently but determinedly.

"I have more to discuss with you," he said, his voice a low murmur meant only for you. His strong grip was comforting, guiding you in the direction of his office.

The hallway was quiet but not deserted, yet the sound of crushed glass beneath his feet inside the sandals and the tapping of his cane were the only noises breaking the silence. Each step resonated with purpose, echoing the devotion you felt for him. You glanced up at him and admired his features in the dimly lit light of the hall. How beautiful he looked, how strong and regal. It was the determination, you thought. And the confidence he oozed. The combination of these traits was like a potent cocktail, leaving you dizzy with admiration.

Arthur's fingers brushed against your arm as he guided you through the dimly lit corridor. The scent of incense lingered in the air, a mix of sandalwood and something sweet, almost intoxicating. You felt the eyes of the other followers on you, their gazes a blend of curiosity, jealousy, and reverence.

When you reached his office, he opened the door, ushering you inside with a gentle but insistent hand on your back. A gesture that was both inviting and commanding. You stepped inside, the room filled with the soft glow of candlelight. The walls were lined with ancient texts and symbols, each a testament to Arthur's devotion to Ammit.

"Sit down, love," he said, motioning to the chair opposite his desk. You obeyed, your legs trembling slightly as you lowered yourself into the seat. Arthur walked around the desk, leaning heavily on his cane, the sound of crushed glass inside his sandals a reminder of his constant penance.

"I have had to restrain myself all evening," he began, his blue eyes locking onto yours. But before you could respond, he moved closer, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. His touch was warm, almost burning.

"It’s high time you give me what I need."

His lips crashed against yours, rough yet tender, a kiss that stole your breath away. You melted into him, every fiber of your being consumed by the fire of his touch. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with desire.

"I need you," he murmured, the admission a low growl. "I need you now."

The world outside ceased to exist. You knew your pupils were blown, that the desire he felt for you was reflected just as strongly in you.

"Undress," Arthur commanded, his voice a rough whisper against your ear.

Your heart pounded as you nodded, fingers trembling slightly as they reached for the buttons of your shirt. Each button came undone with an audible click, the sound magnified in the quiet room. Arthur's eyes never left yours, his gaze intense and unyielding.

The shirt slid from your shoulders and dropped to the floor carelessly.

"Good boy," he murmured, a faint smile playing on his lips. His praise sent a shiver down your spine, your skin prickling with anticipation.

The cool air caressed your bare skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Arthur's body. His hand reached out, fingertips grazing your collarbone, tracing a path down to your chest. You inhaled sharply at his touch, desire pooling low in your abdomen.

His fingers paused, graced over the faded scars, traced them, and then slid lower. He paused again, eyes darting up to meet yours.

"Now, help me," he said, taking a step back. He leaned heavily on his cane, the crunch of glass underfoot echoing in the room.

You rose from your chair and moved closer, hands steadying as you undid the buttons of his blouse. The fabric was coarse beneath your fingers, worn and familiar. You pushed it open, reveling at the sight of his chest. He was smoother than most, but still strong and muscular for a man his age. It only showed how fit he was, how strong. How well he took care of himself despite the calm demeanor he normally exuded in front of his followers.

With careful hands, you pushed his blouse down, allowing it to slip from his arms. You tugged at the garment when it got caught on his bracelets, freeing it so the blouse could slip further down his arms.

And then the fabric fell away, revealing the tattoo of scales on his right arm, a symbol of his divine purpose. Your breath hitched as you traced the ink with your thumb, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath.

The intricate design captivated you. The scales, perfectly balanced, seemed almost alive even in their stillness. You remembered the first time you saw them move, the way they shifted and tipped whenever Arthur Harrow held someone to judge them. It had been a moment of both awe and fear, the power of judgment tangible in those fluid lines.

Now, as you studied the tattoo, admiration filled your thoughts. Each line, each curve of the scales, spoke of a purpose far beyond mere human understanding. Arthur's role as a judge, divinely ordained, was etched into his very flesh. The memory of the scales balancing and tipping, the fate of a soul hanging in the balance, made your pulse quicken.

Such power he held. And he knew it. Your eyes sought his.

Arthur was quiet, allowing you this moment to explore the tattoo – it wasn’t the first time. You’d yet to see anyone else be allowed to touch his skin in such an intimate way. To explore his forearm and the scales that were drawn there.

His eyes watched you with an intensity that spoke of the weight he carried. You wondered what it was like for him, to bear such a mark, to be the vessel through which judgment passed.

As your fingers continued to trace the intricate scales, you could feel his pulse quicken beneath your touch, matching the rhythm of your own racing heart. The intensity of the moment was almost overwhelming.

Then his fingers curled around your wrists and the scales began to shift. You were startled, even though this always seemed to happen at his touch. You knew he couldn’t help it. The scales did their work when his hands met flesh. It was Ammit’s will. It was why he wore long sleeves to cover up the moving mark.

You knew which way they would tip.

With your breath high in your chest, you watched as Arthur’s fingers curled gently around your wrist, tugging you closer to him. The scales shifted, their movement subtle at first, then more pronounced. They tipped to one side, then the other. The delicate balance, usually so steady, now mirrored the tumultuous emotions swirling within both of you. The scales' movement seemed to draw Arthur closer, his breath hitching as he leaned into your touch. The divine mark on his arm reflected the inner conflict and desire that neither of you could ignore.

The sight of the scales in motion, combined with the raw need in Arthur's eyes, created an intensity that left you breathless.

His lips were upon yours once more, just as hungry as before. But this time it was you who fisted his hair and pulled him close – hungry for more. Famished.

The moment the kiss ended, Arthur's gaze locked onto yours his eyes reflecting a mixture of longing and need that sent a shiver down your spine. His usual stoic demeanor faltered, revealing the depth of his desire. The air between you crackled with unspoken tension, each breath you took seeming to draw him closer.

"More," you breathed, lifting your gaze to meet his. "Arthur…”

His eyes darkened, a primal satisfaction flickering in their depths. "I don’t take commands from anyone," he murmured, a hint of amusement in his voice, “except Ammit herself.”

A guttural growl escaped his lips as he pulled you closer against his chest, arms circling around you. He rested his chin on your shoulder. “Do you think you’re in the position to command me?”

“N-No,” the answer came instantly, a rasped whisper. Why had your voice turned hoarse? It must be the arousal thrumming through your body, begging him to touch you more. Wanting, needing it. “I’d never dream of it,” you rasped.

Arthur merely tilted his head but it was enough, a silent indication that he anticipated more from you. You heard him draw a deep breath, his nose buried next to your ear, taking in the scent of you.

"I am yours, but also your disciple,” you breathed, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I like it when you take control. When you show me your power."

He stirred, a sign of approval of your words. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "Then you'll enjoy what's next."

You bit your lip, anticipation coiling tightly within you as he led your hands down to his waist, indicating what he wanted you to do. You obliged, fingers working deftly to undo the button of his pants. He watched you, his gaze heavy with approval.

"You're doing well, love," he praised, his voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. His cock sprung free from its confines.

With his pants undone, you eased them down his legs, careful not to disturb the glass shards embedded in his sandals. His briefs followed.

It took a lot not to let your gaze linger too long on his erect cock, already bobbing up against his waist. Pre-cum already moistening the tip.

Arthur stepped out of his clothes gracefully, despite his limp, and kicked them aside.

"Now, come here," he ordered, reaching for you.

You obeyed without hesitation, stepping into his embrace. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close against his solid frame. His lips found yours again, the kiss searing and demanding. You melted into him, surrendering completely to his dominance.

"Good boy," he murmured against your lips, his breath hot and intoxicating. "Such a devoted young man.”

Arthur's hands roamed over your back, his touch firm and possessive. His lips trailed down your neck, each kiss igniting a trail of fire beneath your skin. You shivered, your breath hitching as he nipped at your collarbone.

"Mine," he growled, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine.

"Yes," you whispered, your voice trembling with anticipation. “Yours.” You would never deny how he had captured you.

He pushed you gently but firmly onto the small couch in the corner of his office. The leather was cool against your heated skin, a stark contrast that made you gasp. Arthur stood over you, his eyes dark with desire.

"Good boy," he murmured, running a hand through your hair. "You're so obedient."

You looked up at him, your heart pounding in your chest. His praise washed over you, filling you with a sense of pride and belonging. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. His weight pressed you into the couch, his dominance unmistakable.

"Arthur," you breathed, your hands clutching at his shoulders.

"Shh," he hushed you, his lips brushing against your ear. "Let me take care of you."

His hands moved with practiced ease, guiding you into position as he sank to his knees between your spread legs. You felt his strength in every touch, every movement. He was in control, and you reveled in it. His fingers traced patterns on your skin, tracing the fading scars of what once was and what now felt much better, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"Beautiful," he whispered, his head between your thighs. His voice filled with reverence as his eyes feasted on your torso. "So perfect for me."

You felt his hands slide lower, felt his fingers hook behind the waistband of your cotton pants, tugging, and lifting your hips. The garment came off easily, revealing that small bulge in its full glory.

Arthur’s hitched breath gave away his pleasure, how his pale eyes darkened as they came to rest upon your crotch. The small cock nestled between your legs, not as large as his, but ever so sensitive. Already fully erect, - your body did not hide the full amount of your excitement - and your devoted leader leaned over you without hesitation, grasping your cock with a reverence that should have been deserved for holy ceremonies.

“Mine,” he said again, his words rasped and filled with raw desire. His fingers curled around it, tugging harsher than gentle – but in a good way.

You moaned softly, your body responding to his words and touches. His fingers danced past your cock, up and down, fingertips searingly hot against your hardness.

He dipped his head forward, murmuring sweet words against the skin of your thigh.

“Such a good boy,” you could vaguely distinguish, but his voice was so terribly low and muffled by your skin as he placed open-mouthed kisses all the way up to your pubic bone. Your core ached and tingled, begging him to place those open-mouthed kisses there. But he was teasing you.

“You will take me so well,” another open-mouthed kiss while his fingers danced down your shaft until only his thumb pressed down against it, creating circling motions that sent sparks of pleasure wrecking through your core.

“Look how hard you are for me already…” The kiss against your thigh turned into a lick, surprising you and erupting a low mewl from your lips. Another flick of his thumb against your cock - it was nearly too much already.

“Look how hard your cock is,” as if to prove his point, he moved his head closer to your core. His lips pressed wetly against your cock, flicking his tongue flat against your throbbing cock before taking in the tip and sucking hard. Your toes curled and your fingers reached for his shoulders, digging into his skin. While his mouth occupied your throbbing cock, his fingers dug lower, not giving you any rest. They explored, twitched, and scissored your wet core.

“Look how wet your delicious cunt,” another lick past your cock. Another digit curling deep inside you. Wetness was already gushing out, coating his fingers, your walls twitched tightly around the invading digits.

You let out a curse, head falling backward, while you tried to pull the man close. “More,” you moaned. Not a demand but a plea. You knew not to command him when he was like this.

You felt Arthur’s fingers move more earnestly inside your cunt, wet sopping sounds coming from your core. Using his elbows, you felt how he spread your legs further. His fingers kept pumping, twisting and curling deep inside, while his tongue still worked on your cock. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked, nipped, and licked until you were seeing stars.

Your body twitched, your cunt clamping down on nothing - the bastard had retracted his fingers before you had fully come. You growled at him, hands holding him in place, but he looked up at you. Not with a smirk – as you had expected – but with a questioning gaze.

He wiped his lips with the back of his hands, moving with just enough strength to push himself up. Your knees fell as closed as they could, clamping against his chest. Unfortunately, you had to let go of him and your hands dropped to your sides. You gazed up at him through the haze of your orgasm, wondering if this was all he needed from you tonight. You hoped not.

“I’m not done with you yet, pretty boy,” Arthur murmured, placing a hand on your knee and spreading your legs anew. You saw how his dark eyes drifted to your core, studying the mess he had created with his fingers by bringing you to climax.

Finally, his lips curved into a smirk.

“Well, would you look at that?” How could he sound so calm and collected when his own cock was throbbing against his own belly? He was hard, his cock pouring liquid from the tip – eager to be milked dry.

He seemed to study your wet cunt and traced the juices that had come out with his index finger before bringing the digit up to his lips and tracing it past them, leaving behind a glossy shine. His tongue darted out, deliberately slow.

“Hmm,” he hummed, as if he had just tasted an aphrodisiac that was too delicious to ignore.

Then his hands were back upon your thighs, spreading them wide.

Yes, your mind provided you. Yes, and again. You wanted him inside, needed him desperately to claim you over and over, to show you pleasure yet again.

“Seems like you ruined my couch,” his eyes darted up to meet yours, “again.”

“You’d have it no other way,” you said defiantly, uncaring about the wet spot created by your mixed juices - it wasn't the first time, after all. You allowed him to pry your legs a little wider so he could move in between them and studied the way his hair fell down his face, how stray strands fell in front of his eyes and clung to his still wet lips - shining with the gloss of your juices.

He positioned himself above you, his gaze locking onto yours. The intensity in his eyes took your breath away.

"Tell me," he commanded, his voice soft but insistent. His arms trembled from carrying his own weight, mindful not to crush you. His cold bracelets pressed against your skin, a reminder of who it was who was going to fuck you - hard. "Tell me you need me."

"I need you," you replied, your voice barely more than a whisper, hoarse and oh-so full of desire. "I need you now, Arthur."

It was all he had to hear. The tip of his cock sought its way between your folds, fingertips guiding him in. His hips dipped as he slowly pushed forth, parting your silken walls, stretching you wide.

"Good boy," he praised, his lips curling into a smile. “Here’s your reward.”

He entered you slowly but easily – you were still wet and slightly trembling from your previous orgasm. His movements were deliberate and controlled. You gasped at the sensation, your hands gripping the couch tightly. Pleasure started to build almost instantly, and you found yourself lost in the rhythm he set.

"Such a good boy," he repeated, his voice a soothing balm. "Taking me so well."

And you did. You gazed between your legs, watching as his hard veined cock – covered in your combined juices – slowly moved in and out of you, pumping a steady rhythm. The scales on his right forearm tipped wildly from side to side, never resting and never deciding.

You threw your head back again, feeling his pulsing cock stretch your walls, the veins on his shaft throbbing. He was adding pressure until he bottomed out inside you and you felt every ridge and vein and clawed at his back while you gasped for air.

"Arthur," you moaned, your body arching beneath him. He filled you up just the right way. As if he were made for this - as if you were made for him.

His hands curled around your legs, holding them, positioning them for him to be able to move smoothly, hitting that spot deep inside that made the sopping sounds worse and the sparks of pleasure inside your core alight with electricity. Your own cock was pressed against Arthur’s skin, stimulated by the hairs that nestled above his cock as he moved in and out of you.

You bit your lip, toes curling and fingers tugging at his shoulders, urging him close.

"Yes, love," he cooed, his thrusts steady and powerful. "Just like that."

The room filled with the sounds of your shared ecstasy, a symphony of devotion and desire. Wet, lewd, sinful. Each stroke, each caress, brought you closer to the edge. You felt his strokes deep inside, the ease with which his hard cock slid in and out of your fluttering hole. Your walls were clamping down, begging more. His strong hands were on your hips, his usually bright eyes now clouded with lust as he stared at the spot where both of you connected with sopping wet sounds.

So good, your mind provided as you curled your back in delight. So darn good.

You grasped his shoulders tighter, surprised when his own hands left your hips to pull your arms away and pin them to your sides. A guttural growl escaped his lips, primal and raw, as he put pressure on your wrists.

In this position he was in full command, controlling every movement with his hips and his grip. He kept you pinned down, forcing his hips tighter against yours, thrusting harsher, more powerful.

You watched the little beads of sweat drip down his forehead, sliding past his nose. The way his hair clung to his face, or how his lips were parted in raspy moans and gasps. His gaze intense as he watched your expression.

He was in charge, exerting his power over you in ways that your body effortlessly embraced, swallowing him up - both the squelching noises of his cock thrusting in and out of you, as well as the way you hungrily accepted the kiss from his lips when he leaned forward and begged for entrance. You obliged, parting your lips so his tongue could slip between them, and kissed him back just as eagerly, battling his tongue with your own until you sucked him in hard enough to hear him moan.

His dominance was a comforting weight, grounding you in the moment while he held your wrists pinned down. His thrusts grew harder, more punishing, as his lips broke away from yours.

He sat up, hips still forcefully meeting your own, and grunted. His hands wandered up your chest, but you kept your wrists where he had held them pinned. Allowing him to dominate you, to fully conquer what you were so willing to give him.

"You're mine," he growled, his pace quickening, hands pushing you down to the couch possessively.

"Yours," you echoed, your voice breathless. You were close. So, so terribly close to coming. Again.

"Good boy," he praised, his fingers finding your lips and pressing against them till you tasted the heady mixture of your juices on your tongue. "Always mine."

"Always," you agreed, a muffled word against his fingers that smelled of arousal and sex. Your body trembled with pleasure as his fingertips left your lips and slid down your body till he grasped your hips fully again.

"Mine," he murmured, his tone softening. "Let's finish this."

"Arthur," you cried out, the intensity of your emotions overwhelming as he hit that delicious spot deep inside. It sent you over the edge, little white sparks clouding your vision. Your back arched, chest pressed up against him as your orgasm surged through you, body trembling, walls clasping him tightly, milking him for all you were worth.

"Shh," he soothed, his movements never faltering. "I've got you."

But you had already tumbled over the edge, muscles tensing with bliss. Your orgasm washed over you while Arthur rocked his hips against yours, chasing his own release.

You clung to him, your body surrendering completely to his will.

"Perfect," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "You're perfect."

Another peak was building. How could it? So soon after you just came a second time? But you were babbling nonsense now, just pleading and begging for Arthur to give it to you. You lost yourself in the sensations, the world narrowing down to just the two of you. His dominance, his strength, his love – they were all-encompassing. You were his, and he was yours, bound together in a dance of power and devotion.

His hips stuttered and you felt his release. Hot cum flooded your insides, warm and wet and so, so good.

"Mine," he whispered, his voice a promise. "Always mine to pleasure and to hold."

His thumb found your cock, thumbing it, giving it just the right pressure and friction to have you crawl in pleasure underneath him until you were spasming around him once more. A third orgasm wrecked through you. A cry escaped your lips, joined by a low groan from his lips.

"Good boy," he praised one last time, his voice a gentle caress. "My good boy."

Your body twitched underneath him, spent and exhausted. Yet, you found the energy to smile up at him. A lust-filled, enamored smile that left him feeling weak and breathless.

"Perfect," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “So incredibly perfect for me.”

His hand caressed your cheek, coarse fingertips brushing past your skin reverently. You didn't even mind that his fingers were still covered with your combines juices. It felt claiming, in some way.

You felt the sporadic pulsing of his cock deep inside. It was twitching less and less, slowly growing limp inside of you as he came down from his high. His leg pressed down over yours, knees touching.

"I prefer you like this,” he murmured, his voice soft and tender. “Just as you are."

A blush might have crept up your cheeks – you weren’t sure. But his words had hit something deep inside of you. All the insecurities, all the struggles, you could forget everything when you were in his arms.

You felt his cock go soft, slipping out of your core with a wet sound that made both of you chuckle. Arthur raised a brow at you, and you half expected for him to pull away and get dressed again. But he didn’t. Instead, he maneuvered his body next to yours, scooping you in his arms like a big spoon. His legs pressed between yours as you lay entwined, your bodies slick with sweat and satisfaction. Arthur's breath was warm against your shoulder, his arms wrapped securely around you.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your skin, his lips lingering as if savoring the moment.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, his voice soft and tender. "You are just right. Right for me, and right for Ammit. But mostly, right for yourself."

He must have heard the deep breath you were drawing or have felt the way your hands tensed where you had gripped his wrists, for you felt him move against you. “You’re just the kind of right for me. And,” here he paused and you could hear how he lowered his voice, a playful tint to it. “That says a lot as I am a man with many needs.”

You blushed, the heat rising to your cheeks at his words. "I'm happy," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "Happy to be who I am now. And where I am."

"Good," he replied, his tone filled with genuine affection. "That's all I've ever wanted for you."

You basked in the afterglow, contentment washing over you like a warm embrace. In Arthur's arms, you felt whole, complete.

The two of you rested in silence, Arthur’s lips hovered over your shoulder, placing deliberate and soft kisses on your skin. Each kiss – though as light as a feather – carried something possessive, the urge to claim you. Like he was branding you as his.

"Celibate, huh?" you teased between kisses, your fingers threading through his graying hair. "Some of your followers would get a heart attack if they knew what happened behind these doors."

He chuckled against your lips, the sound vibrating through you. "They'll never know," he murmured, his voice a soft rumble. "To them, I am nothing but their chaste leader." His eyes sparkled with mischief as he pulled back slightly, giving you a moment to catch your breath.

"Chaste, my ass," you shot back playfully, a grin spreading across your face. You trailed your fingers down his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath beneath your touch.

"They'll never know how truly powerful you are." The words were a whisper from your lips.

Arthur's expression softened, and he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer. His breath was hot against your ear as he whispered, "It doesn't matter if the others never see the full me. The only ones who need to know the true me are Ammit,” here he paused, breath stuttering. “And you."

His lips brushed the shell of your ear, sending a thrill through you. "You are important to me."

A rush of emotion welled up inside you, overwhelming and all-consuming. In that moment, you felt more connected to Arthur than ever before. His words, his touch, his presence. Everything about him made you feel cherished and significant.

"Arthur," you breathed, your voice thick with emotion. You knew you'd go to the end of the world with him and back, if that was what he wanted. What he needed. You'd do it all for him. "I..."

"Shh," he hushed you gently, pressing a finger to your lips. "Stay close to me today," he said, his voice carrying an undercurrent of concern. "I need your presence."

"Always," you promised, your heart swelling with emotion.

For a moment longer, you remained in his embrace.

~ * ~

[a-world-with0ut-dr34ms]

Ghost x City Girl Reader

You expected Ghost to leave you before the morning; he usually does. However, you're surprised to see him rush to your aid after being woken up by violent night terrors. A sweet and unexpected moment between you, that only ends as quickly as it began.

Tags: Romance, Drama, slight Hurt/Comfort, slight Angst, Intimacy, Fluff that turns sour, Mask-Kissing, Arguing, Swearing, Enemies to Lovers, FWB, Jealousy, Toxic Relationships, "Couples", Arguing, Swearing, A Little Melodramatic, I'm aiming for something more real though, Reader is somewhat bratty and immature, Ghost is bad at communicating his feelings, Damaged people not knowing how to talk to each other and let their walls down, reader has night terrors, I wanted representation!

WC: 4.5k~

Author's Note: I'm back from Vegas! I was on a drunken bender on Fremont St. partying with my brother for his birthday this week (I talked to a lot of interesting people too 😏). This chapter might be a little different, I don't know? I'm not gonna lie, after this chapter, the tone is about to take a shift. Please enjoy~

Also, thank you so much @argella1300 for helping me out when I asked. Your insight was greatly appreciated and it really meant a lot! 💞

Masterlist

It came in the dim shade of dusk, tucked in by shadows of your hall -- the abnormally tall silhouette of a man. Stalking you. Haunting you.

He looms at the brink of your hallway, expressionless, unmoving, and yet somehow inching forward all at once. With each step he closes between you and himself, an encroaching darkness fills the room behind him within the blink of an eye.

Who was he? It's a question you've had since adolescence. The answers never felt as true as his unsettling existence.

The world around you is silent, fogged as though you were being held underwater, your mind racing at an incoherent speed. The only sounds you hear are that of your own screaming. You knew what was happening; your body and mind had just been unable to control it.

Night terrors.

You've never told anyone about them before; you've never felt any need to. It's not exactly a hot topic of discussion, nor something you could even put forth any real value into if asked; you can't explain something you don't understand.

They haven't been anything beyond a waking three-minute inconvenience. An on-and-off occurrence throughout your life. But once it happens, there'd be no avoiding it.

They send your body into a mindless, cold panic, the only emotion coursing through your veins being the unknown fear that first woke you. Your arms thrash frantically as you scream, your body feeling as though it were being grabbed by a million hands...

Don't touch me, your mind cries out. Don't touch me. Don't touch me...

...Until you've felt the one, very real hand touch your shoulder, taking with it the darkness you'd thought had all but swallowed you whole and replacing it with the waking world around you.

The morning returns, as do the rest of its unpleasant realities.

"Hey." That deep and raspy Manchester voice is the first sound you finally register, and for once in your life, it couldn't have sounded any sweeter. "Hey," Ghost says again, placing both hands gently over your shoulders to wake you. "Everything's OK. You're in your living room."

Your chest heaves shallow breaths when sitting up on your couch, taking in your surroundings. That's right, you're still in your living room. You'd almost forgotten you'd passed out on your couch last night, now catching the breaking dawn which pooled through your windows.

It always takes you a moment to regather yourself after it happens, having to make sense of what had been real versus some strange in-between with you and your REM state. In those moments, everything felt real, and fake all at once.

Even the shattering and reforming of reality around you could not take your mind from Ghost's hand, which remained wrapped protectively over your arm, fingers trembling with the hesitancy of his own actions.

"Are you alright?" His dark eyes look your face up and down, taking in every twinge your lips made and how your eyes seemed to look in every direction but his own, still glossed over and dazed from sleep. "You just started screamin' out of nowhere."

Once his words run through your head a few more times, you realize that you'd made a scene right in front of the one person you hadn't wanted to know this about you, a new detail he no doubt did not expect from you at all.

Ghost has known you to be many things -- seductive, witty, cold, distant, and near every other synonym in between. He's heard your voice moan in pleasure more times enough to recognize it within a crowd; he's heard you hurl enough insults his way to send even the hardest of soldiers home crying and insecure.

Never has he heard you scream like this before, with such fear and strife. In fact, he can't think of a single time you've ever been so frightened around him. To see a glimpse of that had been more unsettling than he wished to let on.

He'd only woken up a few minutes shy of you, having slipped away to fix himself up and reset his balaclava. His lips had still felt stained by your kiss from last night, the skin on his face tingling off the memory of your touch alone.

Nearly two months he's spent with you in this odd, little fling and he's never actually kissed you like he had last night before. Never for so long. Never so deeply. He wouldn't allowed himself to. Kissing just for the sake of it always felt like a step beyond casual, as much as he often craved your lips on his most exhausting days.

Ghost must have stared at himself in the mirror longer than he should have, just chasing that feeling again, making himself sick with it. He debated on leaving before you woke, though he'd keep that to himself, having heard your screaming once he'd rounded the corner. In which case, Ghost ran to your aid without question.

His first thought had been that you were in danger; perhaps someone had broken in, or worse, you'd been hurt. You might get on the man's nerves, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't care about your well-being at least somewhat. He never wished any harm to you, and he damn sure wouldn't let anything happen to you if he can help it.

The archway between your hall and you had felt as foreign and distant as space itself, however. When Ghost found you on your couch, your arms writhing, and wide eyes locked on him with confusion and terror, he had frozen in place.

For a split second, he thought that fear had been caused by the sheer sight of him. And then, the strangest thing had happened -- it tore him to pieces being given a glimpse of a reality he didn't know he feared most of all. One where the sight of him brought you complete anguish.

Your screaming didn't stop when he approached you, nor had it stopped when he knelt beside you, saying your name and asking what was wrong, only falling on deaf ears.

Nothing had stopped your screaming, nor these emotions that ripped at him, until his hand had touched your shoulder, and you both felt the sensation of one another.

Your features calmed, your gaze softening at the sight of him, now having been pulled from that sudden trance. In a matter of seconds, you'd just barely managed to get your breathing to a more manageable pace, your heart not drumming so loudly in your ears. You played his words in your head, again and again, until you've slowly regained composure. Everything's fine. Everything's fine.

Had you noticed he had this effect on you? Ghost imagines you'll only carry on as though it were just another thing; the kindest of gestures are often the hardest to notice in the moment, and you never did like to dwell. It only took years' worth of tragedies for Ghost to be able to recognize them himself. Though every now and then, it isn't something he can catch either. He only wishes this hadn't been one of those times.

Embarrassment and shame flood within you like a crashing wave, though you mask it in an annoyed groan, turning your body away from Ghost in hopes he'd take the hint and give you some space. You always hated when this happened around others, most of all around the men you slept with. Slowly, you prepared yourself for your usual dose of reactions.

"I'm fine," you say. "I just... I'm fine." You rub your hands over your face in defeat, before sinking your head into them with a low groan.

There had been reasons you didn't sleep over or have others do the same often, this being one of them. You didn't need to have another guy slowly ghost you because you scared him awake at 2am in a frantic panic; the best way to avoid it would be to not put yourself in the situation at all, right?

But what happened last night hadn't been like any of your normal nights with Ghost. Last night had been something... not quite the same. There had to be some reason you haven't sent him home yet otherwise. You wondered if it had been the same reason why he hadn't gone home yet either.

"Fuckin' hell," Ghost sighs. "You might've woken the neighbors with that one."

"It's nothin' they're not used to," you say casually, though the second you do, you wish you hadn't been so cavalier about it. You hadn't meant to invite him into your world like this.

However, no one had been more understanding of these sorts of troubles than he; Ghost knew what a pain it could be feeling as though you needed to explain emotions you had no control over. So he wouldn't ask you what that was about, or why you think it may have happened. He didn't need to know anything beyond the fact that you were OK.

"Well," Ghost sits down beside you on the couch with a dramatic "oomph", huffing to himself with a certain contentment to it. "I've been there."

"I'm sure you have," you groan. You couldn't help being sly with him, even now. It came out of you impulsively, knowing he'd always reward you with some form of attention you both could get something out of. Something you both let sit at the back of your minds all day.

You stretch your arms over your head feline-like, your body now finally feeling as though you'd slept in your living room instead of your bed. Your shoulder ached dully, your back already popping at each stretch you made with your body. The wonderful joys of aging.

"That's one way to get the blood pumpin' in the mornin', yeah?" Ghost jokes, he always did feel a little humor could lighten any mood. "You never scream like that with me."

"Perhaps you should do a better job then," you tease.

"Don’t tempt me, love."

Love. He doesn't call you that often. Only in your most intimate of moments. You hadn't felt your face smiling, but you knew you were.

You looked so innocently up at him after without even thinking. "Tempt you, Manchester?" You give the man a rather tired but still lurid look, bumping his shoulder playfully with your own. "Perish the thought," you say. "As if it's that hard to do."

"Oh, fuck off." Ghost sighs, and you can practically feel the man smiling beneath his mask. A smile that felt as warm as a heater come after a snowstorm.

Wind chimes clung lightly outside your window, the finches gathered at your bird feeder chirping blissfully. You both laugh lightly to yourselves, your arms faintly brushing at every small exhale from your noses. And you both sat there even after the laughter, simply looking off ahead of yourselves, with eyes still heavy from waking.

It had felt suddenly a tremendous task to look over at Ghost. Once you've worked up the courage, you catch him gazing out your window aimlessly, peacefully, his body settled into your couch as though he'd been with you the day you bought the thing.

And then he looks down at you. Maybe he felt you staring, but you never noticed how brown his eyes are, or how deep they could look in a dimly lit room. Similarly, he's never noticed how animated your own eyes are, always moving and observing some small, unknown detail. It made his skin crawl delightfully. Ghost would have thought that feeling to be a bad thing, and yet it had been quite the opposite.

Why don't we ever do this? You asked him that last night, and though he'd answered you, it hadn't been the entire truth.

A sudden burst of energy springs from you, pulling you from your seat and inviting yourself onto Ghost's lap, who leans back and lets you do so without question. Your legs settle over his boulderous thighs, humming lightly as he rests his hands back against your hips, sighing pleasantly to himself and looking back up at you.

Ghost did his best not to squirm around too much with you on top of him. It hadn't been the worst thing you two have done together. However, it wasn't common for things to feel so... easy. He could stay like this all morning if you let him.

Something tells him you felt the same way; you don't usually take this long to start getting to the point of things physically.

"What is it?" he asks.

"I'm surprised you're still here."

You watch your comment bring him to a short pause and find yourself now at the edge of your seat, arms resting gently over his shoulders and not being used to this sudden anticipation towards his answer.

Ghost had thought about being completely honest with you, admitting that he'd been equally surprised. That's when he woke up and saw you still sleeping on the couch next to him, it had been the hardest thing to even excuse himself to the restroom.

Your arms had been entangled around him, cuddled against his large shoulder like a giant pillow. You slept soundly beside him, peacefully, having felt so at ease with letting your guard down, all things considered. An innocent sight too far and few between bitter exchanges.

He's never slept over after before, nor has he ever held you in his arms like this. Yet, it had felt like the most sensible thing to do now, something as natural as breathing or blinking.

He found himself just watching you sleep for a while, still. In the early morning light that crept through your living room window, he sees all these details to you he's never had the chance to; you are beautiful. Truly. And he hadn't meant it in ways that were superficial or lustful. Genuinely, he really did find you a stunning woman. He's always found you so, even behind the toxicity.

Seeing you next to him had made him happy, and all at once, it hurt him the same, knowing this time would always be finite. You'd bore of him soon enough, only to call him later as another passing thought. Maybe one of these days, he'll gather the strength to stop answering.

Even now, with you over him like this, it's odd. He doesn't want to get up, and yet he does. He wants to pull you in closer, and he wants to leave. He can feel himself breathing, yet the sight and touch of you made the air catch in his lungs each time he went to inhale.

Maybe he could just blame that on the smoking.

"Good thing I was 'ere, yeah?" he finally quips.

"Right," you lean forward, letting your nose brush the tip of his just faintly enough for him to long for its sensation beneath his mask. You watch the blond of his lashes flutter innocently, with eyes wrapped up in you even more than they had been last night. "My knight in shining armor. You won't hear me complaining."

"That's a first," he teases.

"Fuck you."

Your kiss is what truly wakes him that morning, your lips sculpting the shape of his mouth through his mask and gently planting slow, light pecks. His arms hug around you warmly, with strong fingers gently grazing their way up your back. He always did like these rare occasions where you'd treat him softly; he liked to think it had been a side of you that only he had seen. Even as he knew it wasn't true.

You continue to kiss him for a little while, the man's hands only remaining comfortably at your back to keep you over him. Ghost wasn't sure how much more he could take of you wiggling about on his lap before he gave you what you were clearly looking for. But it wasn't until you started reaching for his mask that he felt a sudden bolt of lightning strike him.

Both his hands shoot up to grab yours, large fingers hooping across your wrist like cuffs, keeping you just out of reach from the brim of his mask. His sudden hesitancy makes you smirk, and already does he know that you're about to push his buttons.

"Aw," you tease, purposefully rocking your hips into him. It makes you giggle when he huffs to himself. "Feeling shy?"

"Not shy," Ghost says. "Just..." Vulnerable. Anxious. Wary. Careful. "...You know how it is."

"Aww," you start to pout mockingly. "Is that honor only reserved for the special girls in your circle?" you ask. "Or just the ones you don't fuck?"

"For the ones actually interested in sticking around," he says. "Instead of just being some fling."

You can't help but scoff, and Ghost can't help but tense up afterward, already preparing himself for an outburst. You certainly were good for them, and Ghost hadn't wanted to kid himself here either; this would all end soon enough.

It wouldn't be long now... and he knows he should pull away before that day comes. He's lost enough people in his life to recognize not to get close to something that won't last long enough to really matter. So he won't hold back his words with you. You can't have your cake and eat it too, he thought.

But some small, sad part of himself wanted you to fight his words, however harsh that storm would be, just like you always do.

Your shoulders slouch and your eyes drift off somewhere into the room. You couldn't make it more obvious that what he said had stung, in ways you hadn't even known you'd been capable of feeling towards him.

A fling. A piece of meat. That's how you liked to present yourself -- it's how you've viewed others too -- most of the time. So you can't get mad if that's how he sees it.

Yet every time that truth is brought to attention, it can't help but make your gut twist up in knots. As if some delusional part of you felt you could continue to sleep with Ghost and see other men as well without him caring.

You've been in a losing battle with Ghost since you first slept together. You knew on that night that any real formalities between you two were forever gone; you'd already spoiled so many of the first joys of being with someone, and it often left this feeling of things being too late to change. What you have now will probably always be what it is. So why can't you enjoy it for that while you still can? Why must he complicate things?

"I just wanted to kiss you," you admit.

It's the honest truth. You dreamed about his lips; his kiss had felt that good. You never expected him to have left such an effect on you, yet you've woken up, and the want to taste him has not subsided.

Ghost takes his eyes from you, dark orbs lowering to your lips as though to telepathically share the same thoughts as you.

"I..."

BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!

Your eyes turn to the thunderous rumbling of your cell phone against your hardwood coffee table. A phone call.

Ghost looked back at you, expecting you to sit up and answer it. You merely turn back to him, letting it buzz until the call finally drops. You could always call them back.

As you've opened your mouth to speak, however, the phone begins to buzz again. Another phone call. It's this time that you've decided to sit up and see who it is; you freeze once you read the caller ID. Shit!

"Who is it?" Ghost regrets asking the second his voice lets the words rumble out.

"It's uh..." You stumble on your words, purposefully being coy, knowing he wouldn't like the answer.

"Your boyfriend?" Ghost answers for you, and your silence after speaks volumes.

Your boyfriend. Mr. Sweet and Super Understanding himself. This supposed "doomed" second relationship that has been nothing but highs since you've known him, if anything you told Ghost last night had been true. It figures he would call you so early this morning, you two had seemed close after all.

And like the strike of a match, his entire demeanor runs from cold to ticked off. Ghost can do nothing more than laugh to himself, shaking his head as though you'd just pulled the rug from underneath him and blown the ceiling off the roof of your prior delusions.

After all, you got exactly what you wanted here from him. He fixed your car, fucked you after, and now you get to send him on his merry way while you spend some real time with someone else.

Grumbling to himself, almost without him even knowing, he mutters, "I don't know what else I fucking expected-"

"He's not-" You struggle to find the right words to say, feeling as though every sentence spoken made a true difference between Ghost walking out of your life for good or not. The thought made you start to panic all of a sudden. "I'm not with him like that. You know this already."

You're right; he does know this. You haven't lied about a single thing since he drove over to jump your car. "Besides," you start to argue. "Why does it matter anyway? Why do you care? It's not like you want to be with me. You won't even let me look at you! You've said it yourself; I'm just some "slag" you sometimes like to fuck. Why the fuck do you care if I'm seeing someone who doesn't think that way about me?"

Because he hadn't felt that way about you. Not anymore. Not ever.

Never has he met a woman able to push his buttons so effectively, in ways all too familiar to his childhood. But at the same time, this woman, this human who unknowingly held so much power over him without even being aware, you equally found the littlest of ways to creep into his mind and bring him a bittersweet peace he had not felt since his youth.

But if he said that to you would you listen? Would you even understand? You've never been a woman to be tied down. He's known this. Who was he to think he'd be the difference when what you say is true. He has not been kind to you, not until it was too late, and now you've one foot out. How could he blame you for that?

And yet Ghost stands up, a bubble now having been burst. "As though you're so innocent," his voice raises, emotions finally starting to tip. He matches your hostile energy, his dark eyes glaring down at you, a mirror of wounded gazes. "How many times have I been here for you, only for you to cast me aside like an old toy you can just play with when you're bored? All I've ever been to you is an easy out; you've never cared what I've thought-"

BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!

Ghost's eyes shoot down to your phone ringing in your hand, and you swear you've never seen him more upset.

A passing fear of him stepping over and snatching your phone from your hand passes over you, and your entire body language subliminally shifts in response. You instinctively take a step back from him, lightly turning your body to keep your phone from his reach. You'll be damned if he thinks he can try that.

He notices this small action, and a part of himself felt akin to his father, recognizing that fear in your eyes from his mother, even as you hide it behind a biting glare. That feeling alone could have done him in for good.

Though Ghost wanted nothing more than to answer that call and tell that other man to fuck off already, he had more self-composure and respect than that, along with his own moral obligations.

Still, it didn't take long for the conversation to take a turn, and from that point, it had been as though everything this morning had been but a slow build-up to an inevitable argument between you two. It always did come naturally.

It started out antagonistic from the jump. You questioned and belittled his sudden emotional flare-up, criticizing every one of his reactions and ignoring the obvious signs that you really needed to back off and just let him go. Or it would be better to say you didn't care for it.

To be frank, you didn't understand his frustrations. If other men had been such a problem, why does he keep coming back? What is it that he keeps seeking here?

Ghost hadn't been interested in spending his whole morning arguing with you, and physically feeling a grave be dug for the remains of your tarnished relationship. He moves around you and begins gathering his things, needing the air now more than ever.

"Hold up-" you approach him, throwing any caution or personal space out the window, as you've stopped a few steps shy of him. "Where are you going?"

"Back home." Ghost starts to put his boots on, the frustration he controlled in his voice being taken out by the aggression he used to tie his laces. "It's time I've made myself scarce."

"You're just gonna run off now? Just like that? I didn't take you for such a pussy, Manchester-"

"Don't push me, Spice," Ghost warns you. "I mean it."

"Or what? You'll leave?" you taunt. "I'll do whatever the fuck I want to."

"And that's the problem," Ghost says, standing up on his two feet and towering over you. "All you ever do is what you want. You never care how your actions affect others or what someone might think of them."

"What do you want from me, Simon?" You finally ask him, voice starting to rise, your chest puffing up aggressively. You'd curse him for getting you so emotionally riled up this morning.

What do you want from me? What do you want? A simple question that had been impossible to answer, because answering it would mean being honest with himself about what's happened with him here. It would mean being vulnerable.

"Stop calling me," Ghost says. "Stop seeing me. Stop being with me. We should never have done this in the first fucking place... This has to stop."

No longer did he wish to feel this way, to feel as though the worst parts of himself came at a constant full display with you. No longer did he want to feel himself slowly start to care for you, knowing that at any moment you could be gone. He's not sure he could handle something like that again.

Your mouth opens, and then it closes, and then you frown. Ghost thought you wouldn't say anything to him. He thought you might even cry. But no, you never were one to just leave things at that. You always had to say the last thing in an argument, and you never minced words.

"Then fucking go already," you say. "Get out. You won't have to worry about me calling you ever again."

Ghost didn't say anything after that, though he had looked at you for a little while longer. If you hadn't known him as well as you think you did, you'd say his brown eyes looked rather sad.

He moves away from you, making his way to your front door and unlocking it. He makes sure not to look back as you see him out. The man wouldn't be able to stomach the sight.

He remained on the other side of the door after you'd slammed it, feeling the wind hit his back and the sharp silence that it brought with it. Ghost then cocks his head back and closes his eyes, sighing in defeat. He felt the warm, morning air hit the little parts of his skin left bare for the air to kiss, and as though his mood couldn't drop any lower, he remembered he still had to go to work with you this morning.

Part Seven Coming Soon. Stay Tuned~

Since I'm trying to explore toxic relationships, I wanted to delve into the complexities a little (while not being so on the nose about it). They have their ups and they have their downs; they blend and happen all at once and take each other's places at every positive or negative interaction. You can have genuine moments of care and empathy with people you simultaneously butt heads and take issue with I feel; nothing is ever just black and white. I'm rambling and probably not making a lot of sense.

But, now that Ghost and the Reader are in the pits, they've gotta look within themselves and fix their shit if it's meant to be. I want to write them in a way where it's clear if they could just sit and figure out what it was they wanted from each other, then this could be something real if they let it. However, life waits for no one, and they're about to be in for a doozy. The mission i have planned for them is gonna be 👺👺👺

Taglist: @cabreezer0117, @homicidal-slvt, @deadbranch, @argella1300, @poohkie90, @glitterypirateduck , @sarraa-26, @quincessimus, @0-444-4444, @crazymela, @13thprogenitor, @joce2fine, @sapszilla, @dmitriene, @justherebecauseafarisucks, @zevrajalexxandra, @corvusmorte

[meowsequence]

My Signalis experience [part 2]

No Spoilers this time.

I consider myself to be a lucky one because I live with my beloved @tinyflything (check it out btw, you may find few cute kolibris there) with whom we can talk for hours and on any topic. We are different. I always been more interested in global aspects like history of humankind, society and role of an individual in it (you know, the things that are actually very important and defying our lives more then anything else, but are too complicated and contradictory for a single character's arc and therefore nearly extinct from modern media). Ro, on the other hand loves horrors and arthouse and keep giving me valuable insights about deepest corners of a single persons feelings, mind and soul.

You can guess where I'm going with it… Signalis became the first thing we are equally obsessed about in our 10+ years.

After I shared my first experience of Signalis I just had to show it. You know, my beloved is kinda REALLY BAD in video games >_> The usual gameplay routine would be: bolting in random direction, screaming in panic, die, laughing hysterically, respawn, repeat… So we placed another chair by my screen and finally I was ready to return to Signalis.

It was one dusk till dawn 9-hours long session and this time I had a luxury of seeing the Game from additional perspective. First of all, I was listed with EVERY SINGLE reference to Silent Hill, David Lynch and many others, lol. But besides that - many new and interesting for me interpretations. And above all: stop analysing and focus on feelings. Think later as much as you want, but don't miss the only truth of Signalis: everything you felt playing it first time was right.

One thing I'm glad Ro pointed out and I want to point out here is how right Rose-Engine depicted authoritarian society. It's not just oppression, propaganda and nazi-like uniforms… There are enough hints to let us know that even oppressors themselves are not benefiting from such social formation. Wardens are under constant control by other wardens, Stars, sisters in arms, oppressing and physically harassing each other on daily basis and all of them scared of being decommissioned and eliminated the very moment they can't fulfil their functions to full capacity. Some of them however made inner peace with that, like Beo… but somehow that's even worse. We know nearly nothing about the Leaders of the Revolution but rest assured, even they have no freedom and live in constant fear of being brutally smashed and replaced by same machine they currently driving. Society is also a Gestalt - something bigger and very different then just a summary of it's individuals. So thanks again Rose-Engine, for doing this part right. I wish more games and movies focus on this aspect, instead of Star-Wars-like "good people just have to kill all bad people and then everything will be good again", which, I have a strong feeling, is exactly how Eusan Nation started.

[mylee-sketches]

your loveliest loveliest sibling noorie (@anulithots) has told me to pester you about the picture of dorian gray. SO I AM PESTERING YOU BECAUSE. OSCAR WILDE BRAINROT

how do you find it so far??? do you like the writing style?? personally i love itt i find it oscillates between poetic and witty in the most delightful way. see picture below (i don’t know if you know her but one of my very good friends @holdmyteaplease sent it to me. and i CANNOT stop thinking about it)

one of my tips for THE ultimate reading experience would be to track flower symbolism and the frequency of it. you’ll make so many revelations. the way he ties flowers and the corruption of dorian together is MASTERFUL <3

also tracking references to ancient greek mythos/figures. it’s adonis. then narcissus. at some time in the book literal ANTINOUS is mentioned (if you don’t know who he is just. search him up. and also how his name was used in 19th century europe)

———

if you enjoyed the book, i have soo many recs for you. just you wait:

if you liked the wit — the critic as artist (wilde) [this is one of my all time favourite books btw], the importance of being earnest (wilde) + his other plays

if you liked the ✨gay✨ — the sphinx (wilde) [this is a poem], de profundis (wilde) [this one is a marvellous insight on oscar wilde’s trial, sexuality etc], maurice (forster) [it’s just gay and written around that time period, BUT it is a cornerstone of queer classic lit and was revolutionary for its time. think of it as the dawn to dorian gray’s dusk]

if you liked the themes of sin, excess and immorality — the secret history (tartt) [vibe and theme wise and also because it’s one of my all time favourites lol], crime and punishment (dostoevsky) [not done with this one yet and honestly vibe and writing wise they’re vastly different. but the themes are there]

———

okayyy that turned into a very very very long rant. i am passionate about this as you can tell. i hope we can discuss more on this topic! you seem like a wonderful person and i’d love to talk to you more <3

Hihihi!

Currently I’m only on like page 42 (chapter 4) so I’m not really that far in, but! As far as I’ve gotten, I do like the way it is written! I read some Sherlock Holmes earlier this year and although it is a nice book, I kinda found myself not being able to picture things really well…

the way you described the writing style is exactly the way I thought it was, with the descriptions of flowers and environments—and a lot of description of Dorian’s beauty and youth—to the dialogues between characters. The way they speak is more similar to modern day talking, albeit with older language. (Idk when it was written though, I’m just assuming sometime late 1800s?)

I like the way the characters personalities bounce off each other. They have so much bromance going on. ✨

I’m just like expecting one of them to kiss the other with how they all talk about each other

Also I had done a Uquiz by @holdmyteaplease a while ago I think, and the result I had gotten had recommended that I read The picture of dorian gray!

The flower symbolism seems very interesting, I’ll make sure to pay attention to it! 👀

I like all the themes you listed—I’m going to have a long “to read” list 😭

I’ll keep you updated with my thoughts on the book(s)!

I am a wonderful person you are correct ✨✨ /silly

Thank you for the “pestering”! <3

[chairofchaos]

Announcements & Posting Schedule

General announcements about announcements: If you want to know what's going on with a fic or with me, check my pinned. I'm going to start linking update posts like this one there. Plus, you never know what else will be there: promises, teasers, threats, secrets. Did you think that was a one time deal?

Life Update: (schedule below cut too!)

There is a very good chance that in the next two months, I peace out for a bit. I had an opportunity present itself to help deal with some things I've had going on for a while, and there is a good chance I will need to step back to adjust to the change. I'm looking forward to this, though I am a bit nervous. To reiterate: this is a good thing. That being said, it will probably be at least a little sudden. Plans are very much in the early stages. I will let you know as things develop and if anything scheduled has to change because of it.

Vague Posting Schedule:

1. POSTED July 25: A Cassian Week fic I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist for some reason? Cassian makes me nervous. It’s because I’m in love with him. This one is for me and my fellow migraine sufferers. Would it be bad to tell you I still don't have a title?

2. POSTED August 1: An update for Letters of Love! It’s going to be short. This will also include a lengthy authors note detailing my practical plan for this fic because I want you to be in the loop.

3. POSTED Part 1 (Death) August 10: Death, and All That Follows. More on this later. And yes I’m going to be a meanie about it (aka tease you all with this one for as long as possible. Yes, this is about one of the changes I made in my pinned. No, I cannot elaborate.)

4. August: Azris fluff, (Coffee and Psychotherapy is the working title. If you want a snippet, visit and read this post, which you should also do if you want more insights into my brain. Thank Unanswered Stars lol)

5. September: I cannot tell you how many things I have planned for September. I am excited for all of them. There are likely too many, but I am incredibly bored at the moment. If things change so I am less bored, well, this too will change. Regardless, look forward to: Rowaelin Month, Nessian Week, Eris Week and an update for Letters of Love.

Taglist: I am only tagging you so you know what's going on. From now on, I'll just leave announcements linked in the pinned! @ninthcircleofprythian @dusk-muse @c-starstuff-man0 @lilah-asteria

[mintjamsblog]

I've been revisiting your stargazing posts on here and wanted to know if you'd give us some insight into something you posted in response to a previous ask about Tommy breaking the news to Alfie. You mentioned the "almighty showdown"--what did that look like? And likewise, the moment they both realize that Tommy's not actually going to do anything about it (despite saying otherwise)? <3

Thank you for this ask! Trigger warnings a plenty - it's Tommy/Alfie! (ABO, mpreg, unhealthy attitudes to pretty much everything, mentions of rough sex, violence and possible termination)

It was a Thursday afternoon in late May when Alfie decided to hell with this shit. He’d been uncomfortable all morning, like a knuckle was lodged against his ribs, and every time he sat back for a moment it dug a little bit deeper. (Had nothing to do with his breakfast neither, he won’t have a word said against the cafe on Greenland Street.) He summoned Ishamel with a loud yell, threw his pen across the slew of papers and demanded to be driven, immediately, back to my fuck ugly rural abode. His chair hit the floor with a crash as he stood to leave. He didn’t bother to pick it up, only glanced at the disarray on his desk and roared at Ollie to, “clean up that fucking mess.” 

Being at least 24 hours earlier than scheduled, he weren't surprised, upon his return, to find Tommy’s study empty. He was probably still in his Digbeth office. Or out at some overpriced dinner attempting to prize something valuable or useful from people who were, most likely, neither. Could be visiting Pol, that was another option. Though given the cryptic call she’d made to the bakery earlier, that didn’t seem terribly likely. 

It weren't that Polly’s questions had prompted Alfie’s early departure, they'd merely preceded it — a small but important distinction given he made it a point of principle not to pry into Shelby business. 

This meticulous lack of prying had given him the distinct impression there was trouble in paradise. Or Small Heath. Or wherever the fuck it was they all lived these days in their gaudy rural mansions. Alfie neither knew nor cared (except when they turned up on his doorstep to drink too much and yell at each other). Though both mercifully and suspiciously, they hadn't done so in weeks.

He looked out of the large windows at the final moments of dusk, the dark pink remnants of daylight hugging a horizon of green. He liked to catch the sun’s final blink, the bright flash before the day disappeared beneath the unbroken line of fields. Not that he ever admitted that to Tommy. To Tommy, his presence in Warwickshire was an inconvenient, and frequently lamented, personal sacrifice. 

He wandered back out to the hallway to drop his hat and coat on the stand, dismissing the maid who offered to assist him (as if he hadn't been perfectly capable of removing his own hat and coat, all by his very lonesome, since the age of three and a half). She must be new – most of 'em knew better. 

A warm glow from the parlour drew him across the hall. He was poised to call that new maid back and enquire as to why the fire was lit in an un-fucking-used room, when he stuck his head round the door and spotted a dark head resting on the back of the sofa. Took a moment to clock it was Tommy, and a moment longer to be sure he was sound asleep, tie tugged loose at his throat, shirt tails untucked from his trousers. 

As it happened the maid appeared again, hesitating when she spotted the boss. Bosses. S’pose Alfie counted as one of ‘em now. He waved her in and she crept about, closing the curtains and lighting more lamps before scurrying out like a scared mouse.

Tommy didn’t stir; his hands lay either side of him, palms towards the ceiling. Alfie might’ve been beguiled if this weren’t the third time he'd caught Tommy napping since Easter.  Or retreating to bed after dinner. And not with a glint in his eye neither, but with some weary half-baked excuse about tax inspections and early starts. Not that he didn’t look tired; the flame shadows dancing over his face, accentuated every hollow. Alfie stared at the clock on the mantle: nearly half past eight.

He'd had his suspicions for weeks — like midges hovering nearby, vaguely irritating but eminently ignorable if you swiped at 'em once or twice. Now he'd walked into a cloud of the bastards — too many to bat away. 

The smell in the room weren’t helping — that awful cologne Tommy'd taken to wearing. Claimed Ada had sent it from Boston, all the rage with the Yanks. Too sweet, Alfie’d told him. Same as their fucking gin. And yet Tommy’d continued to douse himself in it, day and fucking night.

There was some other stench besides, above the woodsmoke and the aftershave. Stale and sort of creamy... a lot like the pubs by the docks. He scanned the room, tensing when he spotted the barely touched pint of stout. 

He took his hands out of his pockets, rubbed them the length of his face, smeared a day’s worth of grime into his beard. The carriage clock on the mantle chimed the half-hour. 

It’s not like Alfie was usually one for avoiding difficult topics. Preferred to attack with his horns — head down, plough on, look up when it’s done. Which begged the question, didn’t it, why he’d let this go on so long. Incredulity, mostly. Cowardice, perhaps. All washed down with a healthy slug of good old-fashioned fear. Couldn’t even say it in his head, could he? The word sat on his tongue like a pill he couldn’t swallow. Filled his mouth with bitterness. 

"When the fuck were you gonna tell me?" His voice came out a good deal louder than it had any need to be. He was only standing three feet away, between the sofa and the door.

Tommy opened his eyes. Didn't bother to lift his head off the back of the sofa.

"Evening Alfie."

"Thought you weren't back till tomorrow."

"Only just." Alfie glared at the clock again.

"I asked you a fucking question."

Tommy's eyebrows dipped, formed an expression that were meant, presumably, to convey confusion. As if Alfie were some fucking underling too green or too intimidated to read defiance into the accompanying pout.

"Nothing to bloody tell." 

Alfie spoke with deliberate slowness. Balled his fists at his sides. "How long do you plan on taking me for a complete fucking imbecile?"

"Not taking you for anything, Alfie." Tommy pulled his shoulders forwards, the movement just shy of a shrug.

"No?" Alfie cocked his head. He picked up a marble ashtray from the table beside the sofa. "Still off your smokes I see." He tipped the single stubbed-out cigarette onto the carpet, paltry quantity of ash and all.

Tommy sighed and rubbed his eyes, dug two fingers into each socket and left them there for several seconds, as if he were some hard-pressed housewife who was gonna have to clean that up.

Alfie reached for the glass. "Why the fuck're you drinking stout?" Alfie reached for the glass and held it aloft before pouring it onto the carpet in a long, slow stream that made a rather satisfying noise as it splattered Tommy's shoes.

Tommy looked up at him, eyebrows raised, muscles twitching in his jaw.

Alfie dropped the empty glass and let it bounce on the carpet. "How many fucking weeks?"

"You want me to drink and smoke more?" Tommy plucked his cigarette case from the coffee table and placed one between his lips. "Fourteen," he said, reaching into his pocket for a lighter. "Fifteen, maybe. Thereabouts."

The floor swayed beneath Alfie's feet. How'd it taken him so fucking long to put two and two together—

"Fifteen?" The maths simply didn't add up.

"It doesn't matter," Tommy said, staring at the table.

"Course not. Only a baby innit? Why would it fucking matter?"

Alfie looked over at the fireplace, at the paintings of horses and dogs, the pair of Tiffany lamps, and had the strangest sensation he'd been tipped into some weird dream. Except that in dreams you know where's where and who's who because dream-world rules apply. No-one needs to look familiar for you to be sure who they are; a house you’ve never seen before can stand in for your childhood home. Alfie looked at this room he knew and didn't recognise it. Looked at Tommy, elbows on knees, and couldn't accept him as the man he was bonded to. His dream-rules had been inverted. Nothing made fucking sense.

"February. You was closing that Caterham deal. Stress, you said. I remember.”

Tommy flicked the wheel of his lighter and stared at the little flame. "Stress can mess with me heat—"

"March. You was in Scotland. Edinburgh or Aberdeen—"

"It was business. I had no choice." 

“That’s bollocks and you fucking know it.”

Tommy snapped the lighter shut. "Male omegas aren't likely to carry. I thought it'd" —he made a flailing gesture with the unlit cigarette— "deal with its fucking self."

"Right." Alfie nodded. "How very adult of you. You know the fucking risks."

Tommy got to his feet, flames dancing in his eyes. "Yes, I know the risks. And I will fucking deal with it!"

Alfie’s chest felt tight — his heart a claustrophobic thing, banging to get out. "You're fifteen fucking weeks, Tommy, no one’s gonna touch you.” He almost wished that were true, even as his mind conjured unhelpful images of meat hooks and blood-spattered aprons. Not that the alternative looked much better… his mind couldnt conjure that. “What do we fucking do?" 

"We aren't fucking pregnant!" Tommy hissed the words, a wary glance towards the door where, no doubt, the maids were gathered.

Alfie's hands began to shake with the sort of rage that usually ended with blood up the fucking walls. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath — in through his nose, out through his mouth. Count to twenty-five. "You've made that very fucking clear."

"I’m going to bed." Tommy nodded towards the door. 

“Nah, I ain't finished.” Alfie widened his stance. “What the fuck happened three weeks ago?”

Tommy sighed, attempted a glare. “You’re in my way.”

"February. Stress, you said." Alfie held his thumb in the air. "March,” —he uncurled his forefinger— “you was in Aberdeen. You said." He added his middle finger, watching as Tommy paled. “So that leaves us with Apri. What the fucking fuck was April?”

A crimson tide crept up Tommy’s throat.

"You fucking faked a heat." 

A small part of Alfie was hoping for denial. Any less painful explanation, but Tommy went deathly still, thumb and forefinger paused over his eyes. Was he seeing the same things Alfie was? Replaying them in his mind? They’d been brutal with each other. And Tommy had begged for more.  

"My desire was real,” he said, when he finally dropped his hand. 

“You let me fucking choke you…” Alfie’s stomach contracted violently. To the left of the door was a dining chair propped against the wall; he slumped into it and hung his head in his hands. 

The things they’d done. Used. The marks he’d left on Tommy... 

“You weren’t even in heat.” Alfie’s legs were trembling. His nose dripped onto the floor.  

“I asked for all of it.” 

“Why?” Alfie looked up at him. “You had a baby inside you.”

He’d gone all taut, Tommy. Hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff. “Doesn’t change what I want.” 

Alfie shook his head. “D’you honestly think I’d have done any of that if I’d—”

“No! I don't fucking know—”

“Please, Alfie, harder, Alfie…” He hated the sound of his imitation, hated the spite in his voice. Yet he couldn’t stop himself. The images crashed into his field of vision — desperate, pornographic: Tommy’s mouth slack and bleeding, eyes rolled back in his head… taking and fucking taking it. “All them whores you’ve fucked. Guess you must’ve been taking notes. Make it look good for the punters, eh? Keep’em good and riled.” 

Tommy was breathing hard, chest rising and falling as if he’d run a lap of the grounds. His mouth twitched like he was about to defend himself, but Alfie didn’t want to hear it. He exploded out of his chair, finger poised in accusation.

“What were you fucking hoping? That I’d fuck it out of you?” 

He looked down at Tommy’s waist, tried to imagine a life in there, beneath all them bloody clothes. 

“Would it matter if you had?”

The words forced a pained sound out of Alfie, like he'd taken a kick to the guts. “Guess not,” he managed to say, before he turned and left the room.

[iobsessoverfictionalmen]

Dusk of Heroes

AN: I hope you're enjoying the fic so far. Reblogs and comments are very much appreciated! The warnings for this chapter are mentions of manipulation, fighting, violence, and death.

If you would like to be tagged in this fic, please let me know by leaving a comment on the fic or by sending me an ask. The mood board was made by me on Canva with images that I found on Google; credits to the original owners of the images.

Catch up with chapter 1 here, chapter 2 here, and chapter 3 here!

Chapter 4

It would be an understatement to say that Obi-Wan Kenobi was not happy with recent events.  In fact, he was nearly seething with anger and frustration.  He and his former Master, Qui-Gon Jinn had been so close to neutralising Maul, the Sith Lord that three years ago had nearly killed the only father figure that Obi-Wan had ever known, when a gigantic wave had thoroughly doused him and Qui-Gon. 

Obi-Wan had no doubt that the wave would have been much more destructive if Qui-Gon hadn’t reacted as fast as he did and cocooned him and Obi-Wan in the Force.  Grudgingly Obi-Wan admitted that they were lucky that they were only doused with water and their lightsabers weren’t working.

Then they had noticed that Maul had escaped during the chaos.  The dark side reacted immediately to their emotions and amplified them.  Obi-Wan was certain that there had been another person on the bridge with him and Qui-Gon; he’d spent enough time on Earth to know that waves that large didn’t typically appear without any warning.  And since there hadn’t been any warning, Obi-Wan concluded that there had been another person on the bridge with them with the ability to manipulate the water.

This other person had to have felt Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon’s fury pressing down on them.  It wouldn’t have mattered whether the stranger was Force sensitive or not.  Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan had just finished a telepathic conversation when they had turned around and Obi-Wan had once again sensed another presence on the bridge with them.

“We were so close to finding out the stranger’s identity!  But due to Fett’s appearance and Iron Man allying himself with the bounty hunter that didn’t happen.  Instead the ground cracked beneath us and we fell into the river.  I suppose I should be grateful that the Force slowed our fall.” Obi-Wan gnashed his teeth in frustration and disappointment spread through him as he continued on his path to a meeting with some American government officials.

In no time at all, Obi-Wan arrived at the meeting room.  Disinterestedly, he flicked his hand and the Force obeyed his silent command.  The door swung open and Obi-Wan allowed a glimmer of amusement to show on his face when he noticed the uneasy expressions on some of the officials’ faces at his display of power.

“Am I interrupting?” Obi-Wan asked smoothly.

“Not at all, Master Jedi.” General Ross replied, “We would welcome your insights.”

A smile appeared on Obi-Wan’s face and he knew it didn’t reach his eyes.  To the people that didn’t know Obi-Wan, they would believe that the smile was one of politeness.  However, to the people that knew Obi-Wan well, like Qui-Gon, they would have seen the mocking edge to the smile.

Originally, it hadn’t been the plan for Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan to not reveal that they were no longer associated with the Jedi and were now following a different path but none of the government officials had actually asked them if they were Jedi Masters.  The officials had simply assumed that they were Jedi and continued to refer to them as such.

Obi-Wan nodded in thanks when another General gestured to an open seat next to her.  Just because Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon were now following the path of the Sith, that didn’t mean that he neglected his manners.

He noticed her fixed gaze on him and with a bit of probing with the Force, he felt her attraction to him.  Obi-Wan eyed her for a long moment contemplatively before gazing at the pictures of the Avengers scattered on the table.  He recognised Iron Man, Captain America, Hawkeye, Black Widow, Spider-Man, and Thor.  A picture of an unfamiliar person caught his eye.

Obi-Wan leant across the table and tapped the picture, “Who is this?” He demanded.

“That is (Name) (Surname),” General Ross replied.  “She is also known as the Weather Witch and--.”

Obi-Wan’s brows furrowed and he sat back down in his chair, pulling the photo with him.  Now he knew who he and Qui-Gon had sensed on the bridge, “That information would have been helpful to know prior to this meeting, General,” Obi-Wan bit out coolly.

General Ross glared back at him, “The agreement was that you would be working alongside officials who know the Avengers and assisting them in capturing the fugitive Avengers.  Did you encounter her?”

Obi-Wan disregarded the general’s question and stood up.  He held up a finger, “Here’s a piece of advice for free,” Obi-Wan’s tone was amicable but his words were not, “and it applies to everyone present. In. This. Room.”  He enunciated the last three words carefully.

“If you want someone’s help, you supply them with all the information not dribs and drabs.”

“And what about you?” Ross thundered, slamming his palms onto the table with a thud that echoed around the room.  “You have not revealed anything about your abilities or life as a Jedi!  Are we supposed to accept that you know better and blindly follow your leadership?”

“You called us,” Obi-Wan reminded the irate man as he absorbed some of Ross’ anger.  Obi-Wan ensured that his hand remained on the photo of you as he called upon the Force again and a distorted scene appeared in Obi-Wan’s mind.  The former Jedi used the absorbed anger to sharpen the scene in order to view it.  After viewing the scene that the Force showed him, Obi-Wan blinked and stared at the still furious general.  The other guests’ eyes were darting between Obi-Wan and General Ross.  Obi-Wan could sense amusement, anticipation, curiosity, longing, and strangely boredom emanating from the assembled officials.

“Thank you for your time,” Obi-Wan said and without looking behind him, Obi-Wan swept out of the room.

“Did you learn anything interesting from the meeting Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon’s voice sounded in his head.

Throughout his apprenticeship, Obi-Wan had become accustomed to hearing Qui-Gon’s voice in his head and it had served them well during their missions together.  Prior to leaving the Jedi and following his Trials, Yoda had explained to them that due to the emotions and messages as well as the age of the bond, the two men would still be able to communicate telepathically.

Obi-Wan focused on his memories of what he had learnt during the meeting.  If his former Master noticed his reaction to the female general in the meeting, Qui-Gon didn’t mention it.  Instead, as Obi-Wan expected, Qui-Gon focused on the reveal of information about the Weather Witch.  Qui-Gon made no comment as he continued to watch the memories of the meeting.

“If we are to remain in the good graces of our hosts, I suggest that we find this Weather Witch as soon as possible.  Preferably before Darth Maul is able to locate her and begin the repayment of his debt.”  Qui-Gon stated.

“I agree,” Obi-Wan replied as he ran a hand over his beard.

[bestjamaica]

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[ihateoc]

Ghost

(word count: 2,857) (a mission brings back a ghost from xavia's past)

Dusk and Xavia find themselves before their boss, Aurelius, in his lavish study as he outlines their next assignment, "This upcoming mission promises excitement," He begins with a gleam in his eye, "There's a sword I'm after. It's currently being displayed at the state fair which gives us a great opportunity to take it." 

"What's so special about it?" Dusk asks curiously, albeit bluntly. 

The old man grins, exclaiming enthusiastically, "Ah, I was hoping you'd ask! It was once wielded by the legendary Baron Glover!" 

Xavia freezes at the sound of his father's name. He hides his shock with a hollow laugh and clenched fists, "Are you serious? That famous swordsman?" 

Memories of training sessions that always ended in belittlement and disappointment flood back. Just his damn luck. 

"Indeed! And I know just how your abilities could be used to retrieve it without causing too much fuss," Aurelius replies, blissfully unaware of Xavia's discomfort. 

"Uh," Dusk starts before blinking in confusion, naively pondering, "What's so special about him? There are a million swordsmen out there, right?" 

"Well, for one thing," Xavia interjects, trying to ignore the bitter taste of resentment that swelled in his mouth at her words, "The guy's a well-known bastard." 

"Xavia!" Aurelius reprimands good-naturedly with a chuckle, turning back to Dusk, "But he does have a point. Baron Glover is more infamous than famous these days. However, it doesn't change the fact that his sword work was unparalleled and there's quite some value attached to anything related to him." 

Dusk thinks hard for a moment, "Glover…? The last name sounds kinda familiar I think." 

"They're quite well-known blacklist hunters. They run Glover Hunting LLC in the Kukan'yu Kingdom. Their lineage is considered quite impressive," Their employer explains with a thoughtful grin, "They are very respectable."  

"Is that so?" Xavia says with a dismissive snort, "Impressive lineage. Yeah, right." 

Aurelius looks at him confused and Dusk glances at him curiously but he waves them off, leaning against the wall nonchalantly while suppressing any further reactions. 

"Erm, sorry, sir. You know how cranky Xav can get," Dusk covers for him with a nervous chuckle before reassuringly declaring, "We'll get your sword, sir!" 

"Good to hear. Now off you go both of you," Aurelius says with a dismissive wave of his hand, before burying himself in some old book. 

Xavia pushes himself off of the wall and exits the room without another word, his mood as gloomy as stormy clouds overhead. He could sense Dusk's concerned gaze on him but chose not to acknowledge it at that moment. 

"Xav," She reaches out to him, grasping his arm once they're out of earshot, "What's going on? You seem upset." 

"I'm… I'm alright, Dusk," Xavia says, looking down at her with a forced smile, "Just… this job got under my skin I guess," He then attempts to lighten the mood by nudging her shoulder playfully with his own and quipping in a teasing voice, "You've never seen me cranky before?" 

Damn it! Why does she have to be so insightful? But No one needs to know about him and Baron. She doesn’t need that burden and nor does he. 

"You're always cranky," She begins before thoughtfully pointing out, "But not this cranky." 

"I'll try to be less cranky then," He shoots back, albeit without his usual spark of fun. An awkward silence falls between them but it isn't long before he grumbles out in earnest, "Thanks... For worrying." 

"Um, you can tell me anything you know," She reassures him, quickly adding, "I mean! If you ever want to talk or vent, I'm here." 

Xavia gives her a long, silent stare before finally saying in a soft voice, "I know, Dusk…  And I appreciate it. Really. Maybe someday." 

With that, he walks on ahead leaving his past and his words hanging in the air. 

She is good for him. But how can he explain what even he doesn't understand? The pain, anger and disappointment of his father's betrayal. How it twisted his life into this never-ending cycle of misery... Not yet. 

---------- 

As evening falls, Xavia roams the fairgrounds, nearing closing time, with Dusk positioned strategically for cover at a vantage point, a tall tree a distance away. He steals a glance at the sword exhibited in a glass case, surrounded by a crowd of people. 

Then, realization hits like a sledgehammer. The individual giving information about the sword... Fuck, this is bad. It's Baron himself. 

Xavia's heart pounds in his chest as he sees Baron, the man who abandoned him twice over. Instinct takes over as he activates Zetsu to mask his presence from detection by aura, carefully maneuvering around the crowd towards Dusk's position. 

He reaches up to his ear, pressing down on his comm as he discreetly says, "Trouble. Stay hidden until I say otherwise." 

Using her enhanced eyesight, Dusk watches her partner from her perch, "Xav, what's going on? Why do you look like you've seen a ghost?" 

He sighs heavily, trying to keep his voice steady as he responds quietly into the comm, "Not a ghost. Just my past. I'll explain later, Dusk. For now, we need to stay clear of Baron," He glances over his shoulder at the swordsman's back again before adding almost bitterly, "Trust me on this one." 

"Baron?" She questions him, her voice coming through his comm, "Baron's down there? Isn't that guy super strong or something?" 

"You could say that," Xavia mumbles into the comm, constantly keeping his gaze and senses trained on Baron's movements, "He's also my..." 

Nope, he wasn't going to finish that sentence right now. 

"Never mind… We need a plan B quickly." 

"I shoot him in the head and he dies," Dusk responds simply, earning a quiet chuckle from her partner. Maybe he was rubbing off on her. 

"Trust me, as much I'd love that idea," He responds grimly, "If it was possible, he’d have been six feet under a long time ago," He clicks his tongue in frustration but then an idea hits him, "Wait, Dusk, could you take out the lights? The entire place would be plunged into darkness." 

Shit, it’s risky but if they want that sword without a fight... She has her archery skills and him his bubbles, they'll improvise from there... Or prepare for the worst. 

She scans the area, her sharp eyes locking onto an object of interest, "I can. I have eyes on the main generator. But you'd have to be quick. You'd really only have a second before his eyes adjust… Unless… Right afterward, I focus my arrows on him, he blocks and you have an extra second or two to take it and run." 

"That… Might just work," He groans, already plotting out the fastest route to the sword in his mind, "The moment you take down those lights, I'll rush for the sword." 

"Enhance," She says under her breath to herself as her eyesight grows sharper. 

With a deep breath, he signals her with a curt nod before turning off his comm and getting into position. 

"Move. Now." 

She shoots an arrow at the generator, knocking out the power and then relentlessly barrages Baron who unsheathes his sword to skillfully block the oncoming projectiles. 

In the darkness, Xavia's skills shine. He uses his bubbles to hover in mid-air and shoots toward the sword display like a missile. The glow of Dusk's arrows racing by illuminates Baron well enough for Xavia to keep track of where not to be. 

As he reaches the glass case holding the sword, he wraps a bubble around it, making both items invisible with his Nen before rushing back towards their exit point. 

Dusk continues her assault of arrows as Xavia makes a swift escape. Baron narrows his eyes as he catches sight of his illegitimate son leaving but says nothing, sheathing his sword and folding his arms over his chest. 

Police begin scouting the area, but Dusk and Xav are long gone, back in their hotel room to rest for the night.  

"Shit Dusk… That was close," Xavia pants heavily, collapsing onto the closest chair. He watches as she puts her bow away and can't help but sigh in relief, "You were amazing out there."  

His words are simple and earnest, matching his gaze as he finally looks at her properly for the first time since their ordeal began. She saved their asses back there. And handled it so fucking well. Where would he be without her? Maybe it's about time he started letting his guard down around her a bit more. 

"I'm glad I could help," She responds as she stashes away her quiver in her bag, "Used up all of my arrows." 

Xavia snorts, trying to lighten the mood with a sarcastic grin, "Used up all your arrows? Seriously Dusk, need me to buy you another dozen?" He teases her while pulling out their mission item. The glow of the sword in its bubble washing over his face as he opens and closes his hand around it with a satisfied smirk. 

Silence wraps around the room for a moment, tension slowly rising, until Dusk abruptly speaks up, "Baron definitely had the opportunity to go after you but he didn't. Why?" 

Xavia looks at her, startled by the suddenness of her question. He'd been hoping to avoid this topic for as long as possible but it seems like the universe had other plans. 

"Let's just say…" He begins cautiously, "We share a... Complicated past." 

Dammit… He was hoping she wouldn’t notice but of course she did. Does he really want to spill everything now? She’s going think different about him once she learns who his old man is. Is that something he's ready for? 

"You said he was a ghost from your past earlier too, didn't you?" She sits down across from him at the foot of the bed, her hands resting on the edge of it, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to but... I'm curious." 

Xavia pauses, looking at her with a deliberating gaze. 

"Baron..." He breathes out after a long pause, "He's... My father." 

There it is. The truth is out and there's no turning back now. But why does he feel oddly relieved sharing this? Maybe because it’s Dusk. She always seems to know how to make one feel heard and understood without even trying. 

"W-what?? Really?" She stammers out in disbelief before leaning in closer to him to examine his face, "I don't see the resemblance." 

"Good, because I'm not really aiming to look like a self-righteous prick," Xavia replies sarcastically.  

There's bitterness in his voice but he manages to keep it steady and detached enough for Dusk. He then scoffs lightly, running a hand through his white hair as if trying to clear some heavy thought burdening him. 

"You've never mentioned him before." 

"No… I haven't," He looks away, clenching and unclenching his fists. His gaze falls onto the sword again for a moment before he sighs heavily, "Not really a topic that comes up often…" He finally admits in a lower tone. 

She’s good at this, prying without making it seem invasive or hurtful. He guesses his past was bound to come out sooner or later, better with her than anyone else. 

"Well..." Dusk drawls out slowly, "I don't know much about him but if you say he's a dick... I believe you!" She flashes him a grin and a thumbs-up. 

He blinks at her for a moment, clearly not expecting that response before he begins laughing. It's genuine and hearty, the sound echoing around their room. 

"Thanks Dusk. I appreciate your endless faith in my judgement," He manages to say between laughs. 

She tilts her head curiously as she wonders, "What about Glover Hunting LLC? Do you know anything about his side of the family?" 

He sighs, leaning back into his chair as the subject of Baron's legitimate family comes up. 

"I know enough. His daughter Jaya has a good reputation but… Let's say I don't really care about them," Xavia answers dismissively while absentmindedly tracing the edge of his bubble with one finger. 

They’re all dicks, he's certain… And Jaya? Well, she doesn’t deserve his time or thoughts anyway. 

Dusk flinches when he finally pops the bubble, "I understand. And I'm sorry." 

Xavia looks at her, surprised by her apology. 

"Don't be," He tells her reassuringly, "It's not your fault." 

"I know but... I still feel bad," A sigh escapes her lips as she lays back on the bed, "My family wasn't normal either." 

He observes her curiously for a moment, tempted to ask about her own family. But he knows better than anyone how delicate such topics can be. 

"Normal is overrated anyway," Xavia comments with a nonchalant shrug and attempts at diversion, "And you’ve turned out pretty damn fine despite all that, right?" 

"But you're curious, aren't you?" She presses him as she pushes herself to sit upright, "I've seen you go through my things in my room before." 

Xavia looks taken aback for a moment, his cheeks slowly reddening as he realizes he's been caught. He grumbles something inaudible before finally admitting it, "Fine… I was curious," The white-haired man confesses with an annoyed huff, looking away from her, "Didn't think you'd notice." 

"Have you heard of a cult called the Endless?" 

His brows furrow at the mention of the Endless. He's heard whispers and rumors about them but never really crossed paths with any members as far as he knows. 

"Can't say I've ever met anyone from there, but yeah… I've heard stories," Xavia comments cautiously, not quite sure where she's going with this. 

She looks away, fidgeting with her fingers in her lap nervously, "My mother was the founder." 

Xavia blinked at her, trying to digest the new piece of information. Of all the things he could've guessed about Dusk's background, this wasn't on the list. 

"That… Explains a couple of things," He murmurs half to himself before looking back at her with sympathy in his eyes. 

Sighing, she looks down at her hands as she explains, "I grew up in the cult. Never went to school. I was taught by religious teachers in the cult and was never allowed to leave the grounds." 

Her partner listens silently, his gaze fixed on her, "Sounds quite… restrictive," Xavia finally mutters, his tone gentle and understanding, the usual teasing completely absent. 

Restrictive is an understatement… He had never pegged Dusk to have dealt with such difficult circumstances, but maybe that explains a lot more about how she carries herself and why he finds it so damn hard to wrap his head around her at times. 

"But my mother wasn't a bad person. She loved me," Dusk notes defensively before pausing for a beat in preparation of her next words, "She passed away from an illness when I was 16 and my older sister took over." 

He stays silent for a moment, digesting her words before speaking again, sincerity lacing his voice, "I'm sorry." 

"But my older sister, well… She was a lot different from my mom," Dusk begins, refusing to meet Xavia's gaze, "She took advantage of the followers and abused me." 

His eyes widen, dumbstruck by her admission. 

"One night she had me cornered, submerging my head in holy water over and over again while I couldn't catch my breath. I… grabbed the nearest sharp object within my grasp and just stabbed the shit out of her. She bled out," She explicates in a trembling voice, "I changed my name, dyed my hair and ran. I'm wanted at the moment… Or I guess Violetta is." 

Xavia’s only response was a small, stunned silence. He stares at her in disbelief as she painfully reiterates the traumatic event that changed her life forever. So those ‘night terrors’ weren’t just nightmares after all… He thought he had it bad with Baron but Dusk has been dealing with so much more than anyone should have to.  

"Guess we're both fugitives in our own ways then," He comments finally but there's no usual jest or sarcasm looming behind his words. Instead, just understanding and acceptance. 

"Partners in crime, right?" Dusk wonders as she finally makes eye contact with him, her multicolored eyes meeting his. 

With a small, sympathetic smile, he reaches out to gently clasp her hand in his larger one, "Partners in crime," He confirms quietly with a gentle squeeze, prompting her cheeks to tinge pink. 

She’s brave. Stronger than he ever gave her credit for. Maybe they're more alike than either of them initially thought. 

"You're remarkable, Dusk. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise," He remarks sincerely, not breaking the gaze he holds with her. 

A wide grin forms on her face as she softly utters, "Thank you, Xav. I think you're remarkable too!" 

"Thank you, Dusk," He murmurs softly, his gaze softening even further, a light blush dusting his cheeks at the compliment, but he doesn't break eye contact. 

The way she looks at him... It’s like seeing a clear sky after a storm. Maybe they aren’t so alone in their struggles after all. 

[francy-sketches]

if it was possible to organize an asoiaf map and actually have enough animators to make one, what song or other audio would you want used? i’ve always thought an agot map to house of the rising sun would be very slayful

ooo good question! I've actually been thinking about this kind of a lot so *rubs my little hands together*

ok so first of all we gotta be a bit realistic about the fandom's capabilites lol (yes this is all hypothetical but I like to delude myself imagine something actuall doable) so right away full animation is off the table bc ideally I'd want it to be accessible to as many people as possible and there's so many great artists in this fandom who aren't animators.

I think my ideal is pmv style since then it's just a matter knowing how to separate layers to tween them and that's a lot easier to do than frame by frame animation (also some minor tweening goes a long way to not make the thing look like a wmm slideshow lmao)

Also it should probably be something...all encompassing? like not focusing on a specific character is what I mean. Maybe focusing on just one book at most damn i gotta give up my 7 minute preston greenfield map 😔

SO with all that, gotta pick something that fits both :]

Willow tree march gives me agot-asos vibes, I actually had a pretty solid animatic idea for this one but. I have too many projects already there's no way I could do it on my own rip

Dust bowl dance is another one I think could fit acok-asos, I dont have as much of a clear vision for this one but it's definitely got the vibe imo

You doesn't really have much of an asoiaf vibe but I think it could work in a "pick a bit to draw your favorite angsty moment with" lol. also it's very slow paced so perfect for subtle tweening haha

King and lionheart also has those asoiaf vibes but idk how well it could work as a map, especially with limited animation bc it gets pretty intense. a lot of of monsters and men's songs in general have asoiaf vibes i thing so idk maybe one of those

uhhh kind of drawing a blank rn these are the only ones I can think of if anyone has any suggestions i'd love to hear them 👀 if nothing else just to find new music lol

anyway thanks for coming to my ted talk stream 2009 warrior cat amvs for clear skin 💅

[cerastes]

Something else that I’m a Big fan of is how Kroos naturally, through passing commentary alone, highlights the contrasts between Nian and Dusk.

“My friend Nian, and Nian’s pain in the rear sister Dusk” <- in line with what we know, Nian being rowdy, friendly and fun, while Dusk is notoriously temperamental, unpleasant and thorny.

“Nian’s likely a no-show, but we can expect Dusk to be there” <- Nian is notoriously irresponsible with time and deadlines, whereas Dusk is noted to, despite her attitude, make her utmost effort not to bother others or interrupt their work, and when actually tasked with something, she always gets it done to the letter.

“If Dusk is being labyrinthine about it, then the situation is probably serious” <- Nian is extremely friendly and warm, but actually says very little in many words, and regularly withholds important information (note that this is with good intentions) whereas Dusk is pointedly hostile and moody, but is very direct with information and open about both herself and how she views others, including virtues and flaws, saying much in few words. To elaborate further, Nian helps Lava grow by very subtly nudging her here and there, whereas Dusk will quite literally make you face your fears, such as how she did with Mr. Nothing (who thanked her for it) and had an insightful but not ambiguous conversation with Saga about her view on life and what she gleaned from her time in the painted worlds, which Saga appreciated, even expressing that she finally understood the beauty that the Head Monk spoke about, which makes Dusk happy.

Nian and Dusk are, fundamentally, very different people, but the fact that Who Is Real? is ultimately about Nian getting Dusk to help her is very telling of both of them: Nian went to Dusk first, out of all of her siblings, because she knew for sure that Dusk would agree, the difficult part of the negotiation actually being to get Dusk to listen. Nian knew this because she knows her sister well, and she knew that Dusk was terrified of her eventual fate (a fear we see again in Invitation To Wine) and she knew that Dusk loves the world and its people, both as an artist who immortalizes landscapes and villages, as well as a denizen of said world who enjoys its people, albeit from a distance after the pain of seeing her loved ones pass away from old age while she remained ever immortal and youthful. Ling, for instance, took some degree of convincing and Nian wasn’t 100% sure she’d get her help, despite Ling’s friendly disposition. Unlike with Dusk, the negotiation was the difficult part, with Dusk, Nian saw it as a non-issue, only needing to actually get her to listen.

Nian is very calculating and intelligent, more than she ever lets on, which is why she knew: When she asked Ling to help, Ling asked if Nian had a plan, and she said she didn’t yet, seemingly almost losing Ling. When she asked Dusk to help, Dusk didn’t ask if Nian had a plan, she asked “do you think it’s possible?” and to that, Nian gave an honest “Yes”. That was all Dusk needed: A non-zero chance of success and, loath as she is to admit, someone as competent as Nian on the lead, because end of the day, if there’s any chance that she won’t eventually cause harm to the world and its people, that’s enough to get Dusk on board.

If there’s one thing that Nian knows, is that Dusk loves the world and its people, and if there’s one thing Dusk knows, is that Nian comes through when she decides on doing something. Despite being opposites in so many ways and clearly not getting along, this is why they trust the other 100% to come through when push comes to shove.

[cherrybombfangirlwrites]

OC Associations Tag Game :D

tagged by: @friendlyneighborhood-writer, thank you!

tagging: @italiangothicwriteblr | @lyralit | @andromeda-rising-897 | @did-i-do-this-write | @circa-specturgia | @kapenkoiwrites | and as usual, no pressure, have fun, and this is also an Open Tag!

rules: (as far as I can tell) associate your OCs with the words below, which are divided into categories, and explain why- could be their personality, character arc, just that they like it, etc.

I tried to use the main characters from both Fractured Stars Falling and The City is Ours without leaving anyone out., and everyone got included! This was fun and helped me develop quite a few characters.

⏳ TIME:

Dawn: Princess Hestia from Fractured Stars Falling. Mainly because of her arc with accepting her powers, and forgiving herself, much like how dawn is a beautiful, clean slate for a new day that acknowledges yesterday but is hopeful for and looking forward to today.

Noon: Elliot from Fractured Stars Falling. Very much a summer afternoon with a picnic blanket and a book kind of guy, so it makes sense.

Dusk: Asher from The City is Ours. He’s one of the biggest symbols of hope in the story. The quiet, supportive, “it’s bad right now but we do have each other and that makes it a little bit easier” and “I will do whatever I can to help you however you want me to help, whatever you need I’m here” and "Tomorrow is a new day and maybe it will be better" kind of hope- much like how dusk as seen as a symbol of hope for a brighter day and fresh start tomorrow.

Night: Chase from The City is Ours. He’s a night owl and a lot of his arc is dealing with his depressive and intrusive thoughts and reaching out for help when he’s lost in the dark.

🤝 RELATIONSHIP

Friend: Lan from Fractured Stars Falling. They’re that best friend who will always have your back and will help you no matter what, even if you don’t want it but need it.

Ex: Cissy from Fractured Stars Falling. One of Raven’s exes who we will get to meet for a short bit during the second to last book where she’s become an ogre (and maybe a little insight into why her and Raven ended so badly if you read between the lines). She’s the ex that gets super possessive of their ex, will get jealous of their ex’s new partner, and tries to sabotage their ex's new realtionship.

Enemy: Jason from The City is Ours. Literally only exists to be bashed by the other characters and abuse his power. While he is technically on the side of the heroes, he doesn’t act like it, and the others end up having to hold him back from taking things too far more often than not.

✨ SEASON

Spring: Prince Monty from Fractured Stars Falling. He turns into a frog, and when I think of frogs, I also think of a lily pond in the spring filled with frogs and frog eggs, so....

Summer: Princess Sapphire from Fractured Stars Falling. Summer is her favorite season, and she has a very optimistic and adventure seeking personality, much like summer.

Autumn: Kylee from The City is Ours. They definitely has those sweaters, hot chocolate, and the leaves changing color vibes. And her favorite season is autumn.

Winter: Tris Lakewater. She’s from a very cold region, and similar to ice, she’s stubborn- particularly in her beliefs and worldview, but can be slowly changed when exposed to things that challenge it (like how ice melts in the heat).

🌀 DESTRUCTION

Tornado: Vira “V” from the City is Ours. They are cocky, and tend to be unpredictable- especially in battle. V means well and has the best of intentions, but their plans are usually wild and dangerous ones that sometimes end up working by some miracle.

Wildfire: Nickelle from The City is Ours. While yes her powers are ones of ice, she tends to use them more like a wildfire, especially towards the last half of her arc. Also because she may not be easy to anger, but when she does get pissed her anger is similar to a wildfire in that it ends up affecting everyone.

Earthquake: Princess Snow from Fractured Stars Falling. Her arc is all about realizing that she can’t let people walk all over her, make excuses for them, and forgive them so quickly over and over again- especially with her stepmother. Like an earthquake, when she fully comes to the realization that her stepmother has been using her the whole time and will never stop hurting her- Snow is hit with a wave of sudden emotions that are overwhelming and shake her whole world- and she finally snaps.

Tsunami: Max from Fractured Stars Falling. He might be an anxious and skittish person that will avoid conflict at all costs, but if something he loves is threatened he will stand up and fight to protect it. When he realizes this about himself and that he can’t avoid all conflict all of the time (especially if he wants to protect Monty and his family), Max becomes a tsunami- plowing his way through the enemy to protect the people and things he cares about when conflict is no longer inevitable.

🌄 LANDSCAPE

Mountain: Bryson from The City is Ours. He’s the foundation of the team, and support for a lot of his teammates, both physically and emotionally.

Forest: Raven from Fractured Stars Falling. Like trees, he has deep roots, attachment, and foundation in the people he cares about. And like a forest, he can seem deep and dark upon first impression, but when you get to know him he’s full of sunlight, wonder, and love for all the things he cares for. And like a forest, he can protect those important to him, usually by being a shield and a place of refuge from the storm.

Ocean: Cassandra and Erica from Fractured Stars Falling. Two sides of the same coin. Cassandra is like a sea storm, angry and bitter, and pushing everyone away while turmoil rages and tears her apart on the inside. Erica is the ocean on a sunny, calm day where the waves are rolling onto the shore gently, the warm ocean water is inviting and safe to swim in, and you feel hopeful and like the world can be a beautiful and wonderful place where maybe it’s not all so bad.

Desert: The Witch Queen from Fractured Stars Falling. She was imprisoned with her dark sorcerers in the treacherous sands of doom, locked in by tall, steep mountains on all sides. She’s also like a desert on the inside, cold and barren, with no humanity left- only rage at being caged like an animal and a thirst for blood, more magical power, and revenge on everyone and everything outside her sandy prison.

[kakashi-tsukuyomi]

The Perfect Gift

A/N: Part two of my Christmas gift for the writing community I’m part of -- @konoblog-simps ! I wanted to do another group favorite other than Kakashi, and Madara is one. To be honest, writing for Madara had been very challenging. But with the help of my friends, it came out nice! Thank you to my lovely beta-readers @tachibrii @madaras-housewife and @titanialev . And for the insights on Madara, as well! Love you guys.

Pairing: Madara x Female Reader; Modern AU Warnings: Mentions of stroke, hospitalization. The rest is pure fluff.

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A bell-like sound goes off, and you hurriedly run to the oven. Wearing your mittens, you carefully open the door and gingerly take out the tray of freshly-baked cranberry and chocolate chip cookies. Placing them on the counter, you transfer the cookies onto a cooling rack, the delicious smell of the pastries filling the kitchen.

Opening the cupboard, you take out the empty boxes and start assembling them. You are in quite a rush to finish packing the cookies this afternoon. You have received quite a number of orders of your special cookies -- which is quite famous in your circle of friends -- and have to deliver all of them at the end of the day. After assembling the last of the boxes, you dash towards the drawer and take out the roll of ribbon.

But there is also another reason why you are hurrying to have them all delivered today. Apart from the income you have recently received from your job, you have been accepting orders of pastries for extra money to save up for your husband's Christmas present. The man demands nothing less, and as the loving wife that you are, believe that too. You have currently saved up enough for it, and with the income that you'll be receiving from this last batch, you'll finally be a step closer in getting that special gift you believe he deserves to have. And it's exactly 2 days before Christmas, and time is running fast. You need to buy that gift right away.

The laughter of your two little girls echo in the living room as they run around, wielding the toys your husband bought for them just a week ago. You smile and chuckle at the memory. Coming home from a business trip, Madara would always make it a point to bring home gifts for his two daughters. You always thought he is a little bit indulgent to them, but that's always been the way Madara is: albeit strict, he is a doting father, and a devoted husband to you, as well.

And as if on cue, the front door suddenly opens, and a tall, long-haired man in suit and tie appears in the living room. "Daddy!" Your two children drop the toys to the ground and dash towards their father. "Welcome home!"

He picks both of them up with his strong arms, and the two children cling to their father as he peppers their faces with kisses. "How are my two little princesses?" he asks, and he sets them both on their feet. The two girls giggle and recount to him their day, telling him of the imaginary adventures they had as they played with the toys he has recently bought them. "We love them so much, Daddy," they gush, and the youngest picks up the stuffed animal and hugs it tightly. Touched, Madara laughs and places his hand on your youngest's cheek. "Of course, anything for my two sweet princesses. But I bet you'll love my Christmas presents even more."

From where you are, you can see the faces of the two girls light up as you hear their squeals of delight. You smile at the sight, and turn away to place the cookies inside the boxes. You are too preoccupied with the task that you do not notice someone entering the kitchen, and when you finally do, you find two strong arms wrapping themselves around your waist.

"Welcome home, darling," you greet him as he places a kiss on your cheek.  "How was your day at work?" He eyes the cookies as you continue placing them in the boxes you've prepared. "It was okay," he replies, "Are those the ones The Miyazakis ordered from you?"

"Yes," you nod as you close the lid of the last box of cookies. "I'm nearly done and I need to  take them to their house today. I'll be quick and will be back before dusk." You reach for the ribbon and wrap it around each box. As soon as you are finished, you gather the boxes in a large basket, and after cleaning up the mess in the kitchen, soon head out towards the Miyazaki residence.

-------

The Miyazakis loved the baked goods. They thank you for delivering them, and in their joy and gratitude, insist that you bring home an expensive bottle of champagne for you and Madara to enjoy. As you sit in the back of a taxi on the way home, you smile to yourself, feeling very happy. Not only did you satisfy your customers, but you’re also very near in reaching your quota for Madara’s Christmas present. And tomorrow, as you receive the final payment for your baked goods, you will finally be able to buy your gift for him. At the thought of this, you remember you have somewhere else to be so before heading home, you ask the taxi driver to drop you off at the shops near the town square.

The taxi cab pulls over beside a sidewalk fronted by a line of shops. After paying the fare, you get off the car and walk towards the shop in front of you. Stopping in front of the large storefront window, your face instantly glows as you stare at the item before you. Sitting on top of a velvet cushion just behind the glass was an elegant, luxury watch. The case is platinum with a sapphire-crystal case at the back, and the strap is made of alligator skin colored in shiny navy blue. The crystal is blue-sapphire with a beautiful astronomical design, illustrating the exact configuration of the nocturnal sky in the northern hemisphere and showing the apparent movement of the stars and the phases and orbit of the moon. For weeks, you have been eyeing that watch every time you pass by the store during your errands. You believe it’s the perfect gift for your husband, and you can already imagine how it would look perfect strapped on his wrist. A superior watch for a superior man; nothing less for a man of his stature. You are so busy admiring the watch before you when you don’t notice someone approaching you. “Y/N, is that you?” 

The voice breaks you from your reverie, and you look up to see the warm face of an old woman you are familiar with. “Mrs. Fujiwara!” You exclaim, smiling at her warmly. “How nice to see you here.” Mrs. Fujiwara smiles back, “It’s nice to see you also. How are you and Madara? How are the kids?” Your heart warms even more as you fill in your older friend about your family. Mrs. Fujiwara is your neighbor and a dear friend of the family, and you have considered her more than so. In the early years of parenthood when you needed someone to watch over your children as you went to work, Mrs. Fujiwara willingly filled in the role, looking after the two girls as if they were her very own grandchildren. You inquire about her husband, and she responds that he’s doing well, so much that he lately disregards the doctor’s advice and overindulges himself in his favorite food.

Mrs. Fujiwara chuckles and turns to look at the luxury watch behind the glass. “I saw you admiring it. Is it for Madara?” 

You nod at her, feeling excited. “Yes, I’ve saved up so much for it. I want to give him the best gift this Christmas. I’m planning to have it reserved tonight so I can buy it tomorrow when I receive the rest of the payment from my sales.”

“That’s really lovely, dear. I think it would look really good on him,” Mrs. Fujiwara smiles, and continues, “Well, I shouldn’t stall you anymore. It was nice catching up with you, Y/N. Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!” You smile and wave back, and as soon as Mrs. Fujiwara walks away, you proceed to enter the store. As soon as you are finished reserving the watch, you leave the store and hail a cab to take you home.

Later that evening as you were preparing for bed, you feel Madara’s arms once again wrapped around your waist. “Mr. Miyazaki called me just now,” he murmurs in your ear as he buries his face in your hair, “just to tell me that they loved the pastries you made. I’m very proud of you, darling.” You smile at the compliment, and he buries his face deeper in your hair.

He lowers his head slowly and brings it to your shoulders. “I’ve also already bought the perfect gift for you,” he murmurs against your skin as he places a light kiss on your bare shoulder. “I hope you’ll love it.”

You smile even more warmly, and you move in his embrace to face him, “I’m very certain I’ll love it, darling. Anything from you, I’ll treasure it dearly.” You cup his face with both hands, and you stare lovingly in his eyes. “Actually,” you lean in and murmur in his cheek, “I’ve also already picked out my gift for you.” You proceed to kiss his cheek, slowly making your way to his lips. “I hope you’ll love it, as well.”

“Mmhmm,” he hums as your lips finally reach his, and he reciprocates, his hold getting tighter around you. As his lips move against yours, you smile at the thought of the gift, feeling confident that he surely will.

-------

The next day, after completing all the chores you needed to finish, you set out to buy the gift. The remaining payment has already been deposited to your account, and you let out a sigh of relief and excitement. Finally, you’ll be able to buy that gift, and just in time for Christmas, as well. You ask the taxi driver to pull over in front of the shops, and you step out and walk towards the watch store.

As you approach near the store, you see a familiar figure walking towards you. You recognize them as Mrs. Fujiwara, and you instantly wave and smile at them. However, your smile slightly falters as you notice the distraught expression on her face. Immediately, you hurry towards her. 

“Mrs. Fujiwara,” you speak softly yet urgently, worry creasing your forehead, “is something wrong?” Mrs. Fujiwara’s glassy eyes drift from an invisible goal before her towards your worried ones, and her expression becomes even more desperate.

“My husband,” she chokes, trying to stifle a sob, “he had a stroke…”

You cover your mouth with your hand, pity and worry taking over you. “How is he right now? Where is he?” Mrs. Fujiwara shakes her head, and you desperately hope he is alright. “He is currently at the hospital now,” your older friend whispers, tears already forming in her eyes. “The doctors said he would need to undergo surgery, but how can we even afford that? Our only son already has enough on his plate, we don’t want to burden him even more…” She trails off, wiping a tear now rolling down her cheek. She continues, “I left him for a while in the hospital with my son, and now I’m going around asking for help from friends. I-I’ve been able to collect only so much, but I-I know it’s n-not enough…”

Your heart tugs painfully as you watch Mrs. Fujiwara finally unable to hold back her tears. You want to help her -- this kind lady who has unselfishly helped your family countless times, whom you and Madara already consider as family -- and to ease her suffering in any kind of way that you can. But you know that words alone won’t comfort her now, and no matter how much you can try to reassure her, it is not something that her family needs right now. A thought suddenly crosses your mind, and you feel yourself shift your feet uncomfortably upon thinking of it. To give in to that thought would mean to forego all your plans, and your heart aches at the thought of seeing a disappointed look on your husband’s face.

But here before you is someone dear to you who is in need, whose husband’s life is hanging on a thread. Somebody who had willingly and unselfishly volunteered to make sure your young children were looked after and protected as you and your husband had to fulfill your obligations at work. And at your very core, you have always believed in helping make the world a better place, and this includes helping people especially when they need it the most. A trait that you can never change about yourself, a proof of your kindness which also made Madara fell for you.

Slowly and instinctively, you feel your hand pull your checkbook out of your bag. “Here, please accept this,” you offer to her after you have scribbled on a blank cheque and ripped it off the checkbook. You hold the piece of paper with both of your hands, your head slightly bowed, waiting for her to take it. “I know it’s not much, but I hope it can help…” Mrs. Fujiwara stares at the piece of paper on your hands, and lifts her head to look at you. “My dear, but, isn’t that…?”

“Y-yes,” you confirm, your head still bowed down, “I-I was able to save this much. Please accept it, Mrs. Fujiwara.”

“But, how about your gift to Madara…” she trails off, her hand on her chest. “I simply can’t, Y/N. You worked so hard to save up to buy Madara’s present. I can’t just take that from you.”

You raise your head a little, meeting her gaze. You smile at her warmly and reassuringly, resolve already taking hold of your heart. “That’s fine, Mrs. Fujiwara. I can just get another present for my husband. I’m sure I can find one here. But right now, you and your husband need this. Please, I insist,” and you hold out your hands even further as you bow your head again, your simple action imploring her to take it.

This time, Mrs. Fujiwara breaks into sobs, unable to control her emotions anymore. With trembling hands, she takes both of your hands in her own, her gratitude and relief showing clearly with the way she grips them. “I c-can’t thank you well enough,” she sobs, her eyes looking into yours with such overwhelming joy. “Really, Y/N. Thank you very, very, very much…” As soon as she releases both of your hands and takes the check from you, she pulls you into a grateful hug. You hug her back, also happy to have helped her. But somewhere in the back of your mind and in the corners of your heart, you worry how you can possibly get a gift for your husband now that Christmas is only a day away.

-------

The rest of the day has been very busy for you as you make preparations for Christmas dinner later in the evening. Running errands here and there, you barely have time to think about what alternative gift you can buy for your husband. And as soon as you arrive home, you have been so preoccupied with preparing the meals that the thought is just pushed in the back of your head. 

Christmas Eve dinner has been splendid, and your family love the meals that you have prepared, earning praises from both your husband and daughters. As soon as dinner is finished and you are clearing the table, your two daughters ask your husband excitedly if they can stay up late and open their presents at midnight.

“Not tonight,” Madara tells them, but you swear you notice a hint of nervousness in his tone. “You can open them in the morning. Now off to bed, my sweet princesses.” And he ushers them to their room as you continue to clean up the dishes.

As soon as you are finished in the kitchen and have cleaned yourself up, ready to retire for bed, Madara approaches you, holding an elegantly wrapped box in his hand. You feel yourself freeze momentarily on the spot -- remembering the gift that you have failed to get for him -- as he stops in front of you, holding out the present towards you.

“I couldn’t wait ‘til Christmas morning. Merry Christmas, darling.” Gingerly, you take the box from his hands, cradling them gently in your own. You stare at the present on your hands, and slowly tore off the wrapper, revealing a rich velvet box. You let your fingers linger for a while on top of it, and carefully, you open it.

Inside the box is a beautiful chevron diamond necklace, with brilliant round diamonds arranged in a prong setting. You let out a soft gasp, lifting your eyes from the jewelry and on Madara’s face. He stares at you expectantly, his gaze intent, and there is a hint of hopefulness in his eyes as if waiting for a favorable response from you.

“Well, do you like it?” 

Your feel your throat constricts as your eyes start to water, and you can only nod at him in affirmation. You swear you heard a sigh of relief come from him -- although barely audible -- and he takes a step closer to you. Taking the jewelry from the box, he moves to your back, and after sweeping your hair behind the shoulder, carefully puts the necklace around your neck.

You glance down at the jewelry resting just above your chest, your fingers caressing the small round diamonds. You feel too overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of it, by the thoughtful gift. You imagine Madara visiting every store, going through a vast collection of jewelries, meticulously looking for that perfect necklace as he takes into thought your preference. His fingers linger on your skin for a while, and you finally manage to speak, voicing your sentiments as you whisper, “I love it…”

He brings his face to your hair, and he leans down to speak to your ear. “Actually, darling. I have another gift for you.” Two presents? You marvel internally. Once again, you feel his strong arms wrap around you, and he tells you that he has booked the whole family that vacation you’ve always been dreaming about.

This time, you can’t control it anymore. Tears roll down your cheeks and turn into sobs, and you feel your whole body shaking in his hold. He turns you around, his worried eyes searching your face. “Is there something wrong, darling?” For a moment, you catch again a hint of nervousness in his tone, and you worry that he might have thought you did not like the gifts.

“No dear, I love them,” you start before he can say anything about it. “I think they’re perfect.”

“Then why are you crying?” His hold around you becomes tighter, and you can feel the worry in his voice becoming more evident.

“Oh, dear…” You break into another sob, and you stifle the next one as you struggle to explain. “I am so sorry… Your present, I…” You break down again, and he waits patiently until you have regained yourself a little.

“You see, I...” you explain to him, “I was supposed to buy your present earlier today. I-I found this really beautiful watch and f-for weeks, I’ve been saving up to get it for you for Christmas. But t-then, as I was about to get it this morning, I s-suddenly ran into Mrs. Fujiwara and found out h-her husband had a stroke. S-she said he has to undergo surgery, and they didn’t have any money to pay for it, so I…” You lower your head and look down, avoiding his eyes. “I-I gave them the money I earned from my sales, the m-money that I was supposed to use to buy your present.” Your voice trails off in a whisper, and you find your throat constricting again. “I am so sorry, Madara. I wanted to g-get you another present, but with all of the preparations, I w-wasn’t able to. I-I ruined your Christmas. I’m a horrible wife.”

Tears uncontrollably make their way down your cheeks once more, and you feel too embarrassed to even look at him. As you move to break away from his embrace, suddenly you feel his arms tighten around you, not letting you go. “Y/N,” Madara whispers, “look at me.” You brace yourself for the words that will soon come after, and hesitantly, you lift your eyes to meet his. 

Bewilderment takes over you as you are taken aback by the intense yet soft, loving gaze your husband has on you. Slowly, he brings you closer to him, burying you in his chest. “That is fine. I am not bothered by it.”

“But I wanted to give you a perfect gift,” you sob into his chest, your hands gripping his shirt tightly. 

Slowly, he pulls away from the tight embrace and with his one hand, places it on your cheek and lifts up your face to look at his. “But I have already received the perfect gift,” he whispers, lightly wiping the tear on your face. “I have you and the two girls. You are my world. What more can I possibly ask for?”

An immense warmth takes over your heart as you look at the man with love and gratitude. You wonder to yourself what good you must have done to deserve this man. He pulls you into another embrace, placing a sweet kiss on your forehead. “I have everything I need right here,” he murmurs against your skin. As you bury yourself deeper in his embrace, you smile to yourself, contentment and happiness filling your heart.

[asteroiideae]

okay, so I don’t make these kinds of posts often because tbh I’m a little lazy and very tired like 24/7 lmao but I’ve been seeing a lot of Pride reading lists hit my dash (and they’re excellent, and I save them all!) buuuut reading books is still a roadblock I’m struggling to mentally overcome -- and audiobooks are great, but they take 84 years (sometimes literally???) to get through. so! I thought I’d share a (very tiny) list of the queer manga I’ve read this year that you might enjoy for Pride, with some descriptions/trigger warnings/thoughts to go with them. so here we go in no particular order other than where they sit on my bookshelf:

What Did You Eat Yesterday? by Fumi Yoshinaga

okay so I know I go on about this manga at literally every presented opportunity, but I honestly just can’t help myself??? as a thirty-something queer adult, I really love the quiet maturity of this relationship between Shiro and Kenji; especially when it’s highlighted by references to shenanigans of their youth, and the ways in which they are still growing as both individuals and a couple. I’ve only read the first six volumes but I’m OBSESSED.

Status: Ongoing (17 volumes; 15 translated) Summary: Shiro and Kenji are an established adult couple with separate careers and interests, whose relationship is depicted over the meals cooked for them by Shiro. This doesn’t have an overarching plot, which might be off-putting for some readers; each chapter can be compared to a fanfic one-shot, usually containing it’s own tiny storyline or theme. It’s literally just domestic moments and meals shared between these men. Warnings: While I didn’t personally have a problem with this, younger readers might find some of the dated terms offensive. If you’ve spent any time with older queer folks (older as in 45-50+) this won’t be anything you aren’t used to, but if your experience of queer folx skews younger or online, you might get taken by surprise. There’s also some internalized homophobia; and by some I mean quite a bit. Shiro’s personal arc (at least in the first six volumes) heavily revolves around how much he closets himself and tries desperately to pass as “normal” in Japanese business culture.

Boys Run The Riot by Keito Gaku

holy shit holy shit holy SHIT. this story is so good??? so VERY good??? I was a little cautious, and a little bit uninterested in a story about teens (only because I’m in my thirties and crave more adult representation,) but I was VERY WRONG to be. Boys Run The Riot is beautifully drawn, beautifully written, and probably my favorite work on this list. the mangaka is also trans so the inherent understanding and nuance of our protagonist’s experience is really lovely. Also featuring a fantastic brotp between a trans boy and his new himbo bestie; no seriously if you want a story about a trans boy getting to have good broships with other boys his own age I CANNOT stress this enough. Volume two is releasing next month; I have it preordered. I’m laying on my floor wishing for time to hurry the fuck up. I need more of this smol angry trans boy and his big soft himbo bff. PLS. Status: Ongoing (4 volumes published; 2 translated) Summary: Ryo Watari is a second year high school student who is trans and struggling to feel comfortable with his very rigidly structured life at school, at home, and among his friends (to whom he is not out.) By chance he meets Jin Sato, a cis boy who also feels outcast (often judged for his appearance without any deeper thought.) When Ryo comes out to Jin in a state of frustration, Jin accepts who Ryo is and makes an offer -- why not start a fashion line that subverts all the expectations that have been put on them both; why not express themselves even when they’ve been told they shouldn’t. Warnings: Ryo is struggling with gender dysphoria, and it is written by someone who has probably experienced it, so it might be a little real for any trans folks who deal with that. Also, while neither the narrative nor Jin misgender Ryo (at least, not once he expresses to Jin that he is a man), Ryo is not out to anyone else and so he frequently is misgendered at school and we see how badly that impacts him and the way he views himself and processes his emotions. Ryo spends a lot of time being angry and trying to swallow it down, and that can be very raw to witness at times. There is also a depiction of unsafe binding (though the mangaka has an immediate note about binding safety, and goes further in-depth at the back of the manga.)

Our Dining Table by Mita Ori

okay, so I was a bit on the fence about whether or not I wanted to include this as a rec, but I decided that it might actually been what someone wants or needs, so here it is! while I really enjoyed this concept, and I’m always a sucker for found family stories (let me tell you I’m queer without telling you I’m queer, much?) it feels like this story is a bit rushed at times, and the romantic relationship between our protagonists is very blink and you’ll miss it. I don’t even want to call it subtle so much as it is just not remotely the focus of the story so it’s a little startling when it happens. but! if you’re looking for a story about adults processing grief and trauma together, and learning how to care for another person (and as a result, learning how to care for themselves,) this is a nice read that isn’t too heavy!  Status: Complete (one volume) Summary: Yutaka is a salaryman whose past experiences prevent him from reaching out to others, even through something so simple as sharing a meal. Despite this is REALLY loves to cook, and wishes he had a reason to do it more often. Then he meets Minoru, and his muuuuuch younger brother Tane (it’s like a 17 year age gap between the brothers?) and finds himself teaching them how to cook, and overcoming his fear of eating in front of others. Warnings: Good news, there’s no overt homophobia in this story! Bad news, the other trauma makes up for it! We have a lot of trauma surrounding parental death, childhood bullying, and adoption; in addition to an actual fear of eating in front of others.

Our Dreams at Dusk / Shimanami Tasogare by Yuhki Kamatani

this is the first manga series I collected, and I’m still very pleased about that. the art is ABSOLUTELY stunning? the use of visual imagery and surreal analogies to explain queerness is fucking on POINT. I cried so hard during a couple of these volumes I developed a migraine. I only have one piece of critique on the whole thing (addressed in the warnings,) and I intend to do another re-read when I’m ready for the catharsis of sobbing into my pillow again. Like Boys Run The Riot, Our Dreams at Dusk is drawn and written by a member of the queer community (a non-binary mangaka, this time,) and as a result it hits pretty fucking close to home in a lot of ways. while I really love this series it’s super not for the faint of heart, you WILL come out of this reading experience with some things to unpack. Status: Completed (4 volumes; 4 translated) Summary: We mostly follow Tasuku Kaname, as he is outted at school by a classmate as being homosexual, and his initial despair and subsequent journey of acceptance. In this process, Tasuku finds himself at a drop-in center, which seems to primarily function as a safe space for queer people; we meet several lesbians, an elderly gay man, a trans character, and a young character who isn’t ready for any kind of label because they are still ??? about themselves and their identity. Each of these “secondary” characters is given room to breathe and to work through difficulties of their own while Tasuku watches and learns that even though life is hard sometimes, there’s beauty to be found in one’s own strength. Warnings: hoooo boy; well there’s all kinds of homophobia and transphobia; a character is outted against their will (multiple times), there’s some really insidious transphobia covered by “concern”, there’s internalized homophobia everywhere, and a very complicated asexual character whose presentation left me (as an ace) with super mixed feelings and a lot of frustration (though I wouldn’t call it bad necessarily; just wanted to put that out there for my fellow asexual folks.) If you have read (or go on to read!) any of these, please let me know! I’d love to chat about the stories, and hear your thoughts on them -- because we’re a broad/diverse community and our own experiences shape us differently and give us different insights. <3 ANYWAY, for those of you who read this monstrous self-indulgent post, thank you! Feel free to add any queer manga you’ve been reading below - I’m always on the hunt for more recs!

[vampiresuns]

The Stories Of Dead Kings | Prologue, Part 3

✴︎ THE STORIES OF DEAD KINGS ✴︎

4.5k words. In which the Palace continues to bring out things long ago buried within Anatole, the investigation commences and he makes an unlikely friend. CWs: Memory loss, death penalty.

You can read the rest of Anatole’s apprentice timeline series here.

Antu did not like the white dogs. A shame, because Anatole loved that breed — he had only seen pictures of it, drawings in books and a couple of paintings, but he thought it was a fantastic one all the same. They looked so funky and given his preference for raccoons, it was no surprise he favoured fuzzy, slightly funny looking but beautiful animals. He’d pet them later. 

Antu liked the voice that called to Anatole even less. While he didn’t like it either, Antu reacted with a viciousness Anatole had never seen before.

Stay back! You’re not wanted! He threatened, his voice echoing in Anatole’s mind as he bared his teeth at the open air.

No! We don’t like it in there! You can’t make us go!

With the dogs pulling him through his clothes upstairs, he had to hold onto Antu for dear life, fearing his familiar would launch himself at the dogs. It made him a blur of hands, fur and hair. 

“Ouch, Antupillán, don’t scratch me!”

As soon as they’re in the dark hallway, the dogs vanished, but Antu did not seem any more calm. Still in Anatole’s arms but ready to jump if needed, he was still growling at nothing and every time Anatole tried to make an advance, trying to walk down the hall to explore the room by the end of it, Antu tried to bite his hands. 

“Fine, fine, fine, Antupillán, you win.”

When the ghostly voice purred behind them, Antu climbed over his shoulder before Antole could stop him. Of course his raccoon threw himself at an apparition, because demanding fair trials out of the Countess of Vesuvia wasn’t excitement enough for the furball he had for a familiar.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Anatole tried very hard not to growl at Portia when she brought him breakfast, but the Palace kept hours that were too early, even for him, who had become a relatively early riser out of habit — waking up at dawn was too much, what had happened to seven AM? At least she had come with coffee, coffee he chugged while he listened carefully at her.

He had no clue about how to feel about the clothes, though the shirt was a dream come true. Cross-tied and with a V neck opening, big bishop sleeves, and matching, deep emerald green pants and a sleeveless long coat. The coat had a gold embroidered trim, and it reached his ankles, It would flutter deliciously as he walked down the hallways, the clack of the black boots with a golden plate shoe tip against the marbled floors.

Everything was miraculously his size; he didn’t still comprehend nor trust the Countess’ motives for giving him clothes, especially when he had brought his own. Anatole might not have a personal tailor, but he was very dedicated and careful about his clothing. He always strived to be well dressed, so what was the reason for it? Ease him after his opinions last-night? That felt too much like trying to buy him into the Countess' good side. However, while it was true he didn’t know how to feel about her, he felt it was unfair to automatically assume the worst. This required further analysis. 

Portia left his room and he looked at the clothes with a sigh. He examined for a minute longer as he ate another pastry. He looked at Antu, who was still pretending to be an angel after jumping from his arms to fight a ghost out of all things. 

He was eating some grapes. 

It’s pretty.

“We don’t accept gifts from people we don’t trust.”

Who’s we?

“Oh, is that how it is?”

You have never been very good at lying to yourself.

“And you’re awfully insightful this morning, huh?” 

Antupillán continued eating his grapes, this time in silence. He had a point, Anatole supposed. It was a gorgeous outfit but he hadn’t been lying to himself when he said he didn’t accept gifts from people he didn’t trust, and after last night, he wasn’t sure he was on the best terms with the Countess, even if she did seem civil enough afterwards. He couldn’t wear this, even if he really, really wanted to. It would be wrong, it would betray his principles, it would—

It would have to do because when he turned to check where he had left his clothes, he realised the Palace’s staff had taken all of them to laundry them. When Portia had mentioned that, he had assumed they’d only take the clothes he was wearing last night.

“Fuckers.”

He hated people rummaging through his stuff. He was very, very close to deciding to throw all caution and professionalism to the winds and be contrarian as could be. It was a bad idea, but there was a part inside himself which had been kept dormant for the most part. That part made him want to remind people he wasn’t trapped somewhere with them, they were trapped somewhere with him.

Perhaps another time.

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

The Palace’s library was one of the most gorgeous places he had ever set a foot in. From its doors to its high shelves, with the high windows with stained glass and the plants, Anatole wished he had the entire day to get lost in it, explore every section, even the ones he wasn’t interested in. He wanted to ask why was the library locked up under so many keys, but he didn’t know if he’d get an answer, or if Portia knew, or if the Countess would be up to more of his really incisive questions about things she would deem out of Anatole’s range of incumbency. 

If you asked him, Libraries should be public.

Despite how they left things last night, the Countess seemed to be in a great mood, complimenting his looks and treating him amiably. Anatole detected no deception nor flattery in her words; it threw him off for reasons he didn’t have the time to decode right now. Perhaps he had become too used to people shading half a light on things for reasons bigger than Anatole himself, perhaps the reason was another. It’d have to wait to be pried into. 

“You told me you read.”

“Constantly, as long as my brain lets me.”

Silence fell between them. Well, this was starting to get awkward. 

“Thank you,” the Countess said.

“What for?”

“You are very genuine,” she said. Anatole didn’t know what to do with that. Taking his silence as encouragement, the Countess continued. “Reading is a wonderful gift, shared by all citizens where I come from, but it’s woefully uncommon here.”

He hummed, squinting back at the Countess. He took a sharp breath as he made himself count to ten. He had felt the same need to speak without knowing what he would say as before, but this time he could anticipate it would be something angry. He didn’t need to know where these things were coming from to know he was about to ask the Countess whose fault was that, and then he’d be really, really done for. 

He kept his mouth shut this time — Antu biting him softly (but strongly enough to make him hiss) helped. Time and place. He was better than this, he was taught better than this. 

Wait, what? Taught what? By whom?

“Concentrate, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered between his teeth.

“Did you say something?”

“That this is truly a wonderful collection.”

“Anatole… you are my guest, if you wish to return here, you need only ask. But for the moment I would have your undivided attention here.”

There was something deeply intimate about prying into someone organisational systems. How they cluttered, why they cluttered, the organisation methods employed, the thought process behind it and what you could infer of it by looking. The way documents were studied and how and where notes were taken. In that sense, Dr. Devorak’s desk teemed with information.

It might have felt like prying a little too deep into him, but Anatole thought it was a fair exchange after he broke into his house. An eye for an eye wasn’t the best justice system, but hey, a little pettiness couldn’t hurt, besides, investigating the murder was his job now. 

His musings were tampered by the mention of Asra working for the palace during the Red Plague. He didn’t remember living through it, though he had always assumed he must’ve been present for it, given their earliest memory was of a post-plague Vesuvia. It had ravaged everything. Plagues were like wars, they seldom discriminated. Not that Anatole knew of war beyond books. If that wasn’t the case this was, once again, nor the time or place to second-guess himself.

Do you know what an explosion sounds like, Asra?

After promising the Countess he would meet her for dinner, he set himself to work. Anatole loved few things more than a good puzzle without a solution, and once he grew determined he did nothing half-ways. 

Lacing his fingers together, he stretched them, a waft of satisfaction dawning over him as his joints cracked. 

“Let’s figure you out, Julian ‘Magic Cards’, hm?”

He didn’t expect his search to lead him back into the city, but with Antu in tow he’s determined to follow the trace his magic had cast into its streets. Vesuvia was a wild thing, a glimmering thing in the lowlights of dusk making Anatole wonder why hadn’t he insisted in seeing more of it, wondering how much memories of it could he be missing. What used to be his favourite spots? His favourite streets? His favourite garden? 

He wasn’t one to dwell in the past, living in the past was no way of living, but that didn’t mean the past didn’t matter. He just wanted to be able to reclaim it, to say ‘this is mine, this took me where I am today, this made me myself, just like who I am today will make me the myself of tomorrow’. He looked at the past not with wistfulness but searching for an explanation.

The area he found himself in was crowded, urbanistically speaking, shabby, probably in need of repair, and while he didn’t stop chasing that trace something in his heart (and his temple) pulsed. Something unknown and caged, something which begged to be let out, something he couldn’t make out what it was. He hated not knowing, he was getting tired of getting all these feelings, these knowledge, these looks and these visions without any sort of explanation. This time he didn’t file it away for later, and yet whatever he felt, eluded him.

The word he was looking for and failed to find was Love. A word which would continue to escape him for a little longer, as Julian Devorak himself manifested out of an open door. Finally, he thought, throwing hypothesis and chasing them was starting to give him results. 

Falling into a barrel and stepping on Antu’s tail were unforeseen outcomes. So was falling face first into Julian’s chest after he helped him out of the barrel, both of them looking at each other like deers startled by light.

After Julian let him go, he held Antu, petting him as a way to apologise for stepping on him by accident. 

“I have a name, you know? Shopkeep isn’t it,” he said as he looked at the Rowdy Raven’s sign.

“Dare I ask what brings you to this neck of the woods, Not-Named-Shopkeep?”

Anatole caught himself smiling, but as he tried and failed to find a way to explain what had happened the smile faded from his face. Words eluded him and he had to admit he was very grateful for Julian taking it in stride. Because how could he explain any of this without giving away his new-found position? Or at all? He couldn’t find it in him to articulate such a thing — not to mention the glint in Julian’s eye as he turned to him was much more exciting.

It tied neatly to the trace of Anatole’s magic, like a master key he had been desperately looking for. 

“Rumour has it you’re working for the Palace,” Julian sneered. “What happened to not being a snitch? I’m sure— well, by now— you’ve heard some interesting stories about me.”

“As interesting as you’re prone to not explaining yourself, though both of those might be gross understatements. And I take great offence in you thinking I’m a snitch. Don’t you think that had I told anyone you’d already be found?”

“I’m very slippery and you don’t know where to find me.”

“I found you now.”

“By accident I’m sure, not to say you aren’t talented and magnificent and all those things the rumours say… but you haven’t heard my side of the story.”

“Julian?”

“Yes?”

“Stop assuming the first thing about me and how I do things, will you, sweetheart?” 

Julian’s cheeks went as red as his hair. Anatole let out a pained whine. Wherever that had come from, Anatole didn’t want to know and he expected it to not come forward again. He apologised; Julian, having composed himself, thought teasing him was a good idea but Anatole levelled a look at him that convinced him otherwise. 

He sighed. Julian was right: he’d only heard things from the Palace and muddled rumours. A wanted poster was a statement of capture, not an absolute truth and it was obvious to him there was some sort of power imbalance playing against the doctor. So when Julian said he could get him a drink, to get the story and to pay him what he owes him from the reading, Anatole found it difficult to say no.

“I don’t usually accept trading payments unless previously discussed, or the party is in need, but you know what? I think I’m willing to do an exception for you.”

“Oh, please, you work for the Palace now, I think you’re set on the money.”

“You know, I haven’t discussed fees and wages with the Countess, do you think we’d be cell mates if I did?”

Julian laughed. One drink couldn’t hurt, right?

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The flurry that erupted after the caw of the Raven would be etched into Anatole’s mind forever, becoming part of his daydreams unsanctioned. It was the kind of chaos which brought the familiar thump of an inconclusive memory. The Doctor might not have told him his part of the story, Anatole was well aware, but he did give him some insight into his circles and his person. Not anyone who was wanted by the Palace would shield the Palace’s investigator in the shadows so they didn’t get in trouble for hanging out with said wanted person. 

As he vanished after an awkward and unfinished thank-you-for-not-being-a-snitch, Anatole turned to make his way back to the Palace, only to be met with Ludovico, who introduced himself and tried not to stare at him while he hailed a carriage for Anatole. 

Anatole paid no mind to the staring. Whether it’s leftover staring from the day before, or staring driven by having found him in such an odd quarter of the City, he chose to ignore it. His apology for summoning a carriage for him despite him being the one who said it was a bad idea to leave the Countess waiting, was another thing altogether. 

It was true Anatole didn’t particularly enjoy carriage rides, but why would a Palace guard would know such a thing? Did it have to do with how he felt yesterday when crossing the gates? As he stepped into the carriage he tried not to think about it, afraid he’d overthink his way into a migraine. 

Relieved as he realised he was in time for dinner, Anatole took in the exquisite smells of what is definitely too much food. He was too hungry to think about the quantity for now, perhaps he could inquire about it after he ate something. 

His appetite seemed to hold itself back at the mention of the Courtiers, almost evaporating altogether. He still forced himself to eat, he needed it after such a day in the City, while he listened with rapt attention to the Countess' words. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin before taking a drink from his cup, doing the same afterwards. That he didn’t have any issue distinguishing the cutlery from one another somehow didn’t call to his attention like his next words did.

“I know, and I promise you I’ll be careful.”

“You already know my Courtiers?”

“Oh no, no such thing it’s just—”

“One can never second-guess one’s intuition, is it not right Anatole?”

For the first time in two days, when he smiled at the Countess it was genuine. “Exactly.”

Just like he knew the painting, the gardens, that other version of himself walking through them and his opinions on subjects which required more education than the one he thought he had, he somehow knew the Court — being equal times prepared to brace himself for meeting it, and unprepared for whatever he may find.

He knew deep inside he could trust the Countess to have his back on that, however. It’s the way the word ‘Courtiers’ felt from her mouth: she didn’t trust them. 

The mention of Julian’s hanging brought him back from wherever place of commodity his mind had gone into. The faraway look in the Countess’ eyes almost eluded him. Almost.

“Countess…”

“I am thinking about what you said last night, Anatole, but I expect you to understand I must seek to tend to my people’s needs.”

“And you think they need executions?”

“I think they need to see justice done.”

While restricted and mild, Anatole couldn’t help to look at her with some semblance of disappointment, his unspoken question dancing between them.: And is this justice? Is justice confession and punishment? 

She truly must’ve given it a thought to not react with the same impetu as last night. Instead she changed the topic with a weary sigh, claiming such were tomorrow’s matters and stating having questions for him — not of his day, like Anatole had feared, but of himself. Being surprised at the change of disposition the Countess had shown today didn’t cover it. Bewilderment might. 

At the mention of friendship, bewilderment fell short too. Sensing his apprehension, she smiled at him invitingly, jovially, exposing her hands to him in a gesture of trust. 

“I am afraid I do not have many friends, nor know enough people who fear not my position in order for them to tell me what their true opinions are.”

Anatole sighed. “Countess, I do not wish to antagonise you when I say those things, I find it hard to help it, that is all. I’d like to think if I was in such a position the responsibility was so heavy I needed council, I would wish it was sincere. It’s not up to us how history remembers us but that doesn’t mean we have no choice in the matter. I believe our choices make us who we are, whichever those choices might be.”

“You are awfully impertinent,” the Countess said with a playful tone, “which must surely give you an advantage at life.”

Anatole laughed with his mouth open, his head thrown back. “No, but it does give me a strong personality. Tell me Countess, what do you wish to know about me?”

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Out of all the things he found about the Countess, perhaps finding out she too understood the feeling of homesickness for a place you could no longer return to — because one couldn’t or one didn’t wish to — was the least expected out of them all. Anatole knew he had been born in Bgraz, Balkovia, but that’s all he remembered of his hometown. He didn’t even remember how he had ended up in Vesuvia, though the more he thought about it, the more he suspected he had some kind of relation to the City beyond his deceased Aunt having a shop there. 

He didn’t tell the Countess as much, not even sure of how to word it aloud but it was refreshing to find someone with whom he could talk about these things.

The night was welcoming and cool. The stars were visible in the inky night sky, making Anatole wonder how they would look in Balkovia, that unknown homeland he couldn’t remember. The Countess’ words about Anatole not being quite like she had imagined him, or the intrigue she felt towards him pulled him away from his thoughts.

Anatole wondered if she, like Julian, was also a victim of the rumour mill. Word in town was she was a tyrant, yet she didn’t seem malicious — malice was something Anatole’s language filter picked up with incredible ease and it left a feeling in him hard to ignore. It didn’t just make him immediately stand on edge, it also felt like tarr on one’s skin. Hot, icky and venomous. The Countess felt lost, not malicious.  Someone with good intentions and not enough turn out, as he had previously felt.

“Tell me, Anatole… Why did you come to the Palace? Why did you agree to help me?”

“I believe I said it was a matter of justice, last night.”

“You did, but when I asked you to come, you didn’t know what for.”

She got him there. The offer of trust from the Countess would not last if he wasn’t honest with her — perhaps if he was, he would be able to convince her to reconsider the way in which the Devorak affair was being conducted.

The answer was obvious, wasn’t it? 

“Because it felt right. I knew that whichever answers I’ve been seeking, I would find them here.” Anatole existed in the liminal space between his heart and his head. They were extensions of one another. Living a full life required both. 

When the Countess asked him if he had any questions for her, reassuring him he could speak freely, Anatole already knew what to ask and in his defence, the Countess shouldn’t have taken it as a vague question, because it wasn’t. The claim was just an excuse to elude the topic; the stage they were in, of whatever it was she, him and whatever else bigger than them had sent in motion was looking at them in the eye and avoidance would help exactly no one. 

“You know I mean the murder investigation. The Count has been dead for years, so why now?”

“Ah, that is a right question to ask. Vesuvia is in dire need of help. Order needs to be restored… and I am in the unique position to restore it. However, I intend to lead by example, not fear. I must show the city I am capable. I have so many plans for Vesuvia. I was to see this city flourish… Perhaps you’ll be able to help me with those plans, Anatole. I could use more competent people on my side...”

Her loneliness was heavy, almost too heavy, the feeling pouring into her speech and threatening to cover Anatole under a heavy blanket, merge with his own unattended loneliness and trap him in place forever. Seen and unseen, craving connection and something more he couldn’t name nor grab, no matter how hard he tried to.

“It’s funny,” Anatole said, a knot in his throat. “I did not expect you to be as lonely as I am. I never allow myself to admit it out loud, let alone in front of someone else. Yet here I am.”

“You already know I won’t do things whatever way. I want to find justice, and I do not believe justice lies in a hanging. You are right, your position is unique, but it’s also risky,” Anatole paused to take the Countess hands in his. His next words came from the same unknown place as they did all those times he felt compelled to speak, though they were much kinder this time: “When we know something is not right, we do not settle. People like us, whatever that means, were not thrusted into the world to settle. Power wielded without reason, without justice, without kindness, without knowing the subject you must serve will always lack. I will not tell you what to do, you are capable enough, Countess, to figure that out on your own, but I will tell you this, as a friend: truth is the only thing worthy to be built on, and when we find that truth we plant ourselves in front of whomever dares us to move and we say they move. The truth can’t lead you astray, as unpalatable or hard to accept as it might sometimes be.”

Out of all the things he expects the Countess to tell him that he’s sweet is not one of them. He’ll take it.

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Just between you and me… I think Count Lucio had a lot of enemies, too. Alone in his bedroom, having returned from exploring and chatting around with her, Portia’s words swirled around him, letters formed by a light orange haze, forming and evaporating in front of his eyes. Portia’s words came from rumours but they were enough to cast reasonable doubt about what might have transpired that night. It was kind of her to look after Anatole, so the least he could do was to take her words to heart. 

Originated in rumours or not, Portia was right. 

Going out with her was as strange as it was enlightening. He was sure the Chef, Hestion, had said something to Portia along the lines of how he expected Anatole to remember his way around the kitchen, only he had called him ‘Secretary Radošević’. Perhaps it had something to do with the investigation, but it made Anatole feel odd. 

The servants in the Veranda had been very welcoming, but almost too welcoming and he was sure he had caught a couple of them speaking about him —not as if this was his first time in the Palace, but as if this was him returning to it. Speaking of returning, someone had congratulated him for becoming the main investigator for the case and how it was nice to have him back. Ignoring the way his vision splotched as best as he could, Anatole had only thanked them and turned back to Portia feeling lost and ill. 

Normally, Anatole paid no mind to out of place comments. If someone demanded something of him he couldn’t remember, he tried to remove himself from the situation as fast as possible, but these felt different, the words staying with him even though his and Portia’s nightly adventures had finished. 

What weighed him down the most, though, was the Countess wanting him to join them for the announcement tomorrow. It made sense, but he had a terrible feeling about it.

Antupillán was nowhere to be found. Anatole hoped that he had a good reason to be missing at a time like this. 

[ailuronymy]

Hello! I'm curious about your thoughts on the silent vigil that newly appointed warriors take. Specifically why they might do that/why it's part of the ceremony. I've never really understood what it's for or meant to represent and thought you'd be able to shed some light on why it's done. I realise you're not the author so it'll be your interpretation rather than canon but I'd really love to know as you always give answers that are really insightful and make me think about things in a new light.

Hello there! Thank you very much for your patience and my apologies for how long this ask has been unanswered. 

As you said, I’m not Erin Hunter and I have no idea of why they chose to include this part of the ceremony. My theory would be because these cats are called warriors and it was custom for knights to have a full night of prayer before they were knighted. Since the warrior code in many ways took inspiration from the chivalric code (or so I believe), it makes sense for the ceremony to take inspiration likewise. Also, it feels ceremonious, to sit a silent vigil, and possibly Erin Hunter was aware the custom as it appears in canon is otherwise a little... lacklustre (for lack of a better word) and barely differentiates from the apprentice ceremony, so they wanted to shake it up. Who knows! 

That said, I am a huge proponent of giving text meaning as a reader by bringing interpretation and speculation to the table and I love this question! I have a couple of thoughts about the silent vigil and what significance it could be given, but I think something I want to talk about first is what time the vigil takes place.

In canon, it’s at night, because canon’s cats are largely diurnal, as compared to the more crepuscular/nocturnal habits of cats in the real world. If you follow the “cats are diurnal” route, then the silent vigil that takes place at night to me becomes a ritual of listening to Starclan and guarding the camp--i.e., a solitary experience of watchful meditation, an act of heightened attentiveness to the world and the dark sky above. 

For me, this ritual is one of responsibility, because this young, brand-new warrior is being trusted for the first time to guard their clanmates alone, with the full weight of mature adulthood on their shoulders. I think it is also a ritual of selflessness, in giving up one’s own sleep for others to have theirs safely, and it also acts the warrior’s first private audience with Starclan as a warrior. Just as the clan celebrates them upon receiving their name and the other clans acknowledge them at the gathering, I can easily see this silent vigil as their time to sit under the eyes of their ancestors--who surely would sit vigil alongside them.  

But if the cats are as active--or even more active--during the night when the vigil takes place, then the only part of the vigil that is silent is that the warrior in question isn’t allowed to talk, because the rest of the clan will be bustling around them, coming and going for patrols and hunts and living their usual life. If the vigil takes place inside or just outside the camp, I feel then that the vigil is far less about meditation or time with Starclan or even guarding the clan, and more a test of the warrior’s ability to devote themselves to the act of staying silent itself--i.e., to follow the law, even when it is hard or being actively tested by others. 

In this context, it’s very possible--even likely--that there might be a component of this custom where elders or friends or other clanmates approach the new warrior and follow a script to coax them to break the rules, either by talking or leaving their post, and the warrior must resolutely refuse to respond to these beckonings as part of the vigil. 

I think the significance of such a ritual would be a warrior’s ability to commit to something greater than personal affection or conflicting demands from those they love--the law and their role in the clan above all else. Because while the clan is the cats that compose it, it is also the more or less immortal set of rules and traditions and duties that outlive all cats, and the latter is kind of the long-view of the clan system. A warrior isn’t just supposed to care about the cats they know now: they’re supposed to care about the cats yet to come, the cats they will never meet but will instead watch from high above, and do right by the future clan as well as the present one. I think there’s room for thinking about that kind of thing with this version of the ceremony. 

And finally, if the cats are most active at night, what about vigils that do take place while everyone sleeps--during the day? I think that’s a different thing again, because it’s a solitary act of guardianship--like the first example--but without the benefit of Starclan’s watchful gaze or companionship. It’s truly alone and exposed, as well as a denial of personal comfort, since the cat can’t go and sleep in the sun with the others. 

This ritual would definitely be partly about responsibility and self-denial for the good of others, but I think it can also be read into as a rite of symbolic new life and resurrection. If the cat receives their warrior name under the stars, they then must sit vigil through dawn, through sun-high, to dusk, all the way until the return of the stars, and I think this is a great metaphor for a warrior’s life. Ideally, they train as apprentices (dawn), dedicate their life as warriors (day), become elders (dusk), and eventually rejoin Starclan. There’s an understanding both of mortality and transience and the passing of time, but also a sense of faith in the always-returning of night and the endless afterlife the warriors believe in. 

So those are three interpretations of the vigil custom, depending on when you have it. I also think it’s fun to point out that your clans don’t necessarily have to use the same custom! Maybe two clans sit theirs during the day, and another two sit theirs at night. All kinds of possibilities. 

As a final note, I think it’s worth mentioning that while canon always has the warrior vigil take place after the naming ceremony--I think it could also make a lot of sense for some clans to have the vigil immediately before a cat is granted their name, as a final test. Things to think about! I hope this answer was worth the wait.