#mockery derision
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[Daily Don]
* * * *
âA nation that isn't broken, but simply unfinished.â :: May 25, 2023
ROBERT B. HUBBELL
MAY 25, 2023
     Eighteen days after the January 6th attack, twenty-two-year-old Amanda Gorman stood on the recently embattled steps of the Capitol. The eyes of the world upon her. In a moment of grace and healing, the young poet addressed the nationâs fresh wounds and uncertain future. She said:
We've braved the belly of the beast,
we've learned that quiet isn't always peace.
And the norms and notions of what just is
isn't always justice.
And yet the dawn is ours before we knew it,
somehow we do it. Somehow we've weathered
and witnessed a nation that isn't broken, but simply unfinished.
[¶]
Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true:
that even as we grieved, we grew;
that even as we hurt, we hoped;
that even as we tired, we tried;
that we'll forever be tied together victorious,
not because we will never again know defeat
but because we will never again sow division.
     The full text of Amanda Gormanâs poem is here: The Hill We Climb by Amanda Gorman (poetry.com). A video of Amanda reciting her poem at the Inauguration is here: 'The Hill We Climb' - YouTube. The poem is now available in book form at your local independent bookstore (which can be located at IndieBound.org).
     Two days before Ron DeSantis announced his bid for the presidency, a school parent in Miami-Dade, Florida, filed a one-page form alleging that âThe Hill We Climbâ is ânot educational" and contains "hate messages." It is doubtful that the complaining parent read the poem. The parent incorrectly claimed that The Hill We Climb was written by Oprah Winfrey. But under the fascist scheme established by Ron DeSantis, the ignorant and spiteful allegation of a single parent is sufficient to banish a book to the purgatory of endless âreviewsâ by the âFlorida Thought Police.â
     That is the Florida that Ron DeSantis has created. And that is the America he seeks to create. DeSantisâs campaign merchandise touts that he will âMake America Florida.â Most Americans do not want their states to resemble the hellish landscape that DeSantis envisions for Floridaâor America.
     It takes effort to recall the damage and division that DeSantis has sowed in Florida. Fortunately, the Washington Post reminded us of that carnage on the day of his announcement. See Washington Post, 10 things to know about Ron DeSantis as he joins 2024 presidential race. (This article is accessible to everyone.)
     Democracy Docket has published a review of DeSantisâs anti-democratic voter legislation. See Democracy Docket, Florida Gov. Ron DeSantisâ Record on Voting Rights.
     DeSantisâs abortion policies are so extreme that he tries to avoid discussing abortion when appearing before supporters. See NYTimes, DeSantis Avoids Talk of Abortion Ban on the Trail. (âOn the trail, his remarks about the ban are usually limited to a single line in his roughly 45-minute stump speech.â)
     DeSantisâs campaign launch on Twitter with Elon Musk was so bad that it became a joke and internet meme before the event ended. The âliveâ event on Twitter was âaudio onlyâ in an age when video dominates. Even then, the audio repeatedly dropped and froze, causing Musk to bail on the original event and open a ânewâ Twitter space to host the event. #DeSaster went viral before Musk mercifully ended the debacle. See Forbes, â#DeSasterâ: DeSantis Roasted Over Botched Twitter Campaign LaunchâBy Trump, Biden And Others.
     Worse, a DeSantis supporter published an op-ed in the NYTimes entitled, Not Dead Yet. As fans of Monty Python immediately recognized, the reference to âNot Dead Yetâ is an unfortunate allusion to someone who has a very short life expectancy (measured in minutes). If that is the best his supporters can say in defense of DeSantis, his campaign will be short-lived.
     While DeSantis invites mockery and derision in nearly everything he does, his candidacy is no laughing matter. He has denied tens of millions of Floridians fundamental human rights, including reproductive liberty, the right to vote in free and fair elections, freedom of expression and thought, safety from gun violence, and freedom from government-sponsored discrimination.
     Letâs hope that DeSantisâs disastrous campaign weakens both DeSantis and Trump. While Democrats cannot rely on Republicans to defeat themselves, we should recognize the leading GOP candidates are wounded, desperate, and unlikeable. Democrats have their own challenges, as is the case with every presidential candidate. Letâs not dwell on our challenges; instead, tell our fellow Americans the truth about our opponentsâincluding their inability (and lack of desire) to connect with their fellow citizens on a human level.
[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]
#Daily Don#Jesse Duquette The Daily Don#Jesse Duquette#Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter#Robert B. Hubbell#De Santis#mockery derision#human rights#women's rights#equal rights#civil rights#fascism#book banning
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my mutuals choosing a life coach
#waiting for the inevitable 'you fool they're the same person'#btw this is said with love and affection not with mockery or derision
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still can't help but empathize deeply with Hob's anger and affront over the duel during the 'Southern Lawn' episode, mostly because I also cannot understand the social steps taken to land him in that position during any part of those confrontations
#N posts stuff#i trust that they Do make sense but i do not understand the social cues here At All#like i'm still Confused how we got from Wuvvy going to Dictate the letter to Hob like Aabria implied she was#to her Confronting Hob over an injury that Rue dealt to Her#like does the letter Hob was writing to Wrackingspelt imply a depth of feeling for someone Other than Rue in a way that implies#that they had been like. Rejected or something? and so she acts in defense of them for That?#i don't know and i don't understand no matter how many times i watch these episodes lol#to say Nothing of the way Andhera interferes during the fight and then - when Hob bests them - manages to imply that HOB is the one#with some kind of emotionality or Flaw that caused the whole thing to begin with???#''Captain what have you lost that has put you in this position to begin with?'' <- WHAT do they mean by that??#NOT TO MENTION the fact that Hob is Literally Right to take their interference as an offense given the understanding of duels#and the fact that Every Other Individual on that field responds to his affront with Derision and outright Mockery is so.....#dude it Strikes a wounded nerve so deeply in me and i don't even think i had That Many issue with bullying growing up comparatively#that for Hob - who is Well Established as a mocked outsider in his own court - i cannot even imagine how intolerably wounded it must feel#i know i've already written a fic about this but i'm Not over it sorry. this episode makes me want to Bite#i need someone to walk me through what happens lmfao#d20lb
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ROLLIN INTO UR INBOX WITH MY MONUMENT MYTHOS PROPOGANDA. IT'S MY FAOURITE HORROR SERIES EVER ASIDE FROM LIKE MARBLE HORNETS PROBABLY. ok the first video is alled Cornerfolk and it seems unrelated to the rest of it but TRUST ME IT'LL TIE INTO THE PLOT I PROMISE. it's like. weird things with monuments around the world. the washington monument leads to another dimension. something is hiding in the statue of liberty. the evergiven got stuck in the suez canal and got hit with a nuke so now it's radioactive and walking around cairo. the pyramids are the tips of giant washington monuments (i think?? can't remember what the pyramids are tbh it's been a while since i watched it). there's so MUCH so if you want something to watch that'll keep ur brain confused but very intrigued i would highly recommend it!!! after Monument Mythos is its second season/sister series The Nixonverse, and then s3 is back to the name Monument Mythos so just. GO TO THE CHANNEL MISTER MANTICORE AND WATCH EVERY VIDEO IN ORDER!!! there are like 52 of them including a couple trailers u can skip over but IT'S SO GOOD!!!!!! WATCH ITTTTT
OHHH NY GOD THIS HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY INBOX FOR LIKE A MONTH AND A HALF NOW IM SO SORRY. I FINALLY STARTED WATCHING THIS TODAY i just finished season 1 and hooooly shit dude im SO intrigued. the visuals are sorta similar to ghe but in like a different context which makes them sooooooo fucking cool and interesting. i dont give a SHIT about american history but hoo boy i am so invested in president james dean and the weird floppy washington monument and fuckin. fungus trees and moving statues. i wanna know who tf keeps vandalizing national monuments because its all the same handwriting. oooaugh. im so intrigued. hell yeah make those statues fucked up!
#im also loving the naming conventions for each of the videos. the alliteration + no spacing is fun to me. tickles my brain#libertylurker.... rushmorerevenge... lincolnlooker... theyre just FUN i love it#I ALSO??? REALLY HOPE THE CORNERFOLK COME BACK THATS BEEN MY FAVORITE VIDEO SO FAR.#every video im like. are the cornerfolk here. i want to see more of the cornerfolk. where are they. theyre just weird little freaks#when i say its similar to ghe i dont mean that in like. a derisive way. i fucking love it.#the special tree and the weird infection things are visually similar to the natures mockery and plants from ghe#and i think thays soooo interesting. i love that aesthetic like. weird fleshy looking growths. its so visceral and scary and i LOVE IT .#also the grainy videos + zooming in and out like. idk!!! its similar and i love it for that.#hell yeah two cakes moment.#ANYWAY. THANK U FOR THE PROPAGANDA IM FINALLY FALLING FOR IT <333#friends!!!#asks#anachronistic-falsehood
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âź â altar girl.
hasnât it been written that wherever the fire of evil blazes, a god will be there to douse it? but who saves the damned if a god kindled the fire?
tags â true form!sukuna x concubine/f!reader. 3k wc. explicit smut. dubcon at first (trust me in this one pls). exhibitionism. thigh riding. doggy style. manhandling. rough sex. womb fucking. humongous cock!sukuna (hello???). multiple orgasms. mindbreak. drool. cunnilingus bordering on tongue-fucking. orgasm denial once. he carries you. creampie. lots of cum. fuckton of religious symbolism. physical violence against the reader but not from sukuna. sukuna calls you brat like one time. minors, ageless, and blank blogs dni.
from hunter â not to be dramatic or whatever but i do feel like this fic took a huge chunk off of my sanity ⊠the things i do for sukuna omg ⊠if this flops i will officially retire from tumblr /j + also it's 3 am for me so i didn't proofread the last bits and i prolly got lazy ... ha ha ... âź
gods exist.Â
the annals of history tell us so.
they exist in a way that no mortal can comprehend, for a god is more than a face. they leave their imprints not with their feet but with the rise and fall of dynasties, the ruination of empires, and the death of kings. they materialize as the birth of a deluge and they rise as the reason for war. it is not the body that proves their existence but the carnage they leave behind.Â
they have manifested before human eyes through myriad guises, and once again incarnated in the flesh of ryomen sukuna.Â
many have met their untimely demise at his hands; he walks the earth with their tormented souls at his feet. from village to village, their numbers increased until a procession of weeping thickened behind him. hundreds of graves mark the land since his advent, and yet the heavens remain deaf to the hysterical prayers for justice. only he can hear the prayers; only he laughs at them.Â
they say he is a devil. you say he is a god. because only a god can saturate the earth with blood and emerge unpunished from such transgression. hasnât it been written that wherever the fire of evil blazes, a god will be there to douse it? but who saves the damned if a god kindled the fire?Â
ryomen sukuna, in a form of some twisted mockery, decides to act the part. and so like every famished god, he demands a sacrifice to satisfy his voracious appetite. you would think that a house of gold would placate his hunger for blood, but riches mean nothing to him. his appetite needs flesh and it is flesh he got.Â
âhave i been too lenient that youâd dare fight amongst yourselves when iâm not around?â his voice reverberates inside the room. low, guttural, and pregnant with malice. it is enough to scorch everyoneâs lungs with tension.Â
you want to run away from this nightmare. go back to the peaceful bliss of mundanity when sukuna is only a piece of horrifying tale used to frighten children and not an absolute being seated cross-legged mere inches away. you try transporting your mind back to the days before his pillaging, before your village succumbed to his authority. yet his pervasive presence obstructs all your pathetic attempts at nostalgia.Â
âlook at what you did to the poor girl.â two of his four hands sweep you from your position to his lap, parading you to the rest of tearful eyes looking at him with entreaty.Â
and it stingsâ their eyes. youâre in the claw of a savage hound from hell, ready to be devoured, with only your hadajuban as protection. even in this pitiful state, they offer no sympathy. their tears are for themselves alone despite their cruelty being the reason for your shared plight.
selfish bitches.Â
âwas it jealousy that caused this infighting? have i not divided my attention to all of you equally?â sukuna continuously taunts, lacing his voice with poisonous prudence. he fools no one and thatâs what urges him forward. everyone knows that his seemingly laidback attitude is plain derision. nonetheless, he tastes the lingering hope in each of your faces before dragging his teeth along such pathetic daydreams.
ây⊠you have, my lord,â one of the women answers, her voice betraying a noticeable stutter. âif you would permit me to speak, i can offer his lordship an explanation for what transpired in the courtyard.â
sukuna emits a languid sigh as he rests his cheek upon his fist. he runs a rough hand down your arm, triggering vibration in the pit of your stomach. his hand is as huge as your face, his fingers long enough to snap your neck with ease. despite the surge of terror, you fight the urge to retch.
after a moment of battling your dread, itâs repulsion that filled you afterwards. repulsion rising from the womanâs explanation for your wretched state. the rest of the women nod their heads along with her account of how you tripped on a slippery stone multiple times, causing your current injuries, as if youâre a toddler who cannot orient her legs properly.Â
they will save themselves with falsehood.Â
sukuna yawns after the womanâs narration. his set of eyes seeking you after in the silence.Â
âthis matter is of your stupidity, then? youâve wasted my time, brat.â he dips his cadence in amusement and disgust.Â
anger flares within you, filling your nose and ears with the bitter scent of hatred, yet its heat descended down your throat, dampening your ability to defend yourself. what is one against many? there are twenty concubines in this room and nineteen of them just sold you to your demise for unintentionally raising this trifle to the lord of the land.
all of thisâ all of this merely because they have immersed themselves in playing a game in which youâve been excluded since your arrival. after all, youâre just another competition for sukunaâs attention.Â
âhave mercy, my lord,â you whisper, on the verge of losing your sentience. âi⊠i mean no disrespect. itâs⊠itâs stupid of meââ
sukuna drawls, âspeak no more of your nonsense. i have heard enough.âÂ
distressed apologies race past your mouth, along with entreaties that he spares your life. but you shouldâve known that a god wonât turn his back on the sacrifice of blood.Â
thus, when his enormous body finally moves to encase your fragility, you close your eyes and with jittering teeth have accepted your fate. you wait for the final release of death, a snap or his fist through your heart, but none came. instead, at your feet lay your torn garments, casting your nakedness before the other concubines in a humiliating display. the crisp air blows against your nipples, causing them to pucker tight. the same air turns your blood gelid, your bones immovable.Â
ânow, letâs see what all the fuss is about.â from behind, sukuna gropes your breasts, swirling the tips of your nipples with his fingers. âiâll kill anyone who looks away.â the warning is vehement, ripe with threat, that even mere insects wonât dare defy it.Â
is this the ultimate act of worship? to be stripped of all your layers? to be eaten?
his lips latch onto the bareness of your neck, sharp teeth dragging across the skin. the silence is thick, saved for the sound of your uneven breathing and the rustling of fabric as the concubines shift uncomfortably on their seats. sukunaâs wet and unusually long tongue starts licking the base of your shoulder to the back of your ear, before placing his thick and robust thigh between your quivering legs.Â
your exposed cunt sticks to his skin, pussy folds flapping open. with practiced ease, as if manipulating the strings of a marionette, he subtly guided your movements. he has your pulsing clit riding the ridges of his thigh as if gushing all over will save you from inevitable demise.Â
âm⊠mhm!â no longer entirely in control of your own form, you turn and sway in a helpless dance to his handsâ command. a gasp tinged with surprise and undeniable pleasure, escapes your lips and echoes softly in the confines of the room. you feel the searing heat of the concubinesâ gazes drilling into you, a tangible weight of disapproval and something more primal â a flicker of envious fascination.
âfor a condemned woman, arenât you loving this too much?â sukuna takes the reins to your body. with speed that has your heavy tits bouncing, he secures your waist and drags your slick pussy faster and more recklessly.Â
pleasure, sharp and electric at first, surges through your core, blossoming outwards like a firework. your cunt clenches and unclenches involuntarily, a delicious tremor wracking your body. the world narrows, sound and sight fading at the edges as every nerve ending sings with a single, glorious purpose. slowly, the intensity ebbs to leave a pleasant afterglow that paints your limbs with a newfound weight.
youâre but a tiny speck compared to sukunaâs imposing body; a feeble creature under the jurisdiction of a god.Â
possessive hands have found you in your fleeting refuge, scooping your lower body up like you weigh nothing. with the tip of his finger he traces the curve of your spine, pressing enough weight to flatten your stomach against the tatami mat.Â
âeven your back is filled with lacerations,â he points out brusquely.
sukunaâs hefty cock drops to the base of your spine, its puffed up cocktip lazily pulsing to leak his thick liquids of pre-ejaculate. it mustâve been a whole arm laying heavy against your spine, warm with a gluttonous desire to ram itself through the sloppy confines of your pussy.Â
and you lay there, waiting for his teeth and his claws and his animalistic hunger to devour. he presses his chest to your back, filling your ears with promises that heâs going to feed on you, eat you down to the marrow of your bonesâ and youâll love it.Â
âlook at them,â sukuna hisses as he tugs at your forehead, âi want you to look at them while i fuck you.â
with your flesh youâve received him like some kind of communion from root to tip. he hammers your cunt with his cock, until the heat of his savage lust reaches the pit of your belly. you feel his warmth soiling your cervix and uterus with every vigorous thrust.Â
âoh! m⊠mhm!â  completely overtaken by sukuna, your thighs can only twitch as he destroys your insides.Â
âyouâre soaking wet,â he groans in your ear, deliberately adjusting his pace so he can coat his thick girth all over with your creamy hole, âand so fucking tight.âÂ
sukuna grunts like a wounded animal each time his cocktip kisses the smooth spot of your womb. a sheen of sweat glazes his body, tattoos aglow in the lanterns, from manically fucking your cunt. he bares his fangs whenever you tighten around his shaft enfolded with prominent and proud veins.Â
the once vibrant forms of the concubines, their faces alight with prurient interest, dissolve into a sea of indistinct shapes as fog descends upon your sight. youâve been reduced to a babbling and drooling mess, unable to grasp the reality that youâre being mounted and fucked to madness before several witnesses.
sukuna extends his hand, searching for your abandoned clit during his primal need to turn your pussy to pulp.Â
âthere it is,â he breathes against your clammy cheek, satisfied at his discovery.Â
ân⊠no! not thereâŠ!â you pant as the last thread of reason frays and snaps.Â
a tempestuous force of pleasure sweeps through you, leaving behind a tremor that has shaken you to the core. around you, a kaleidoscope of colors and sensations spins until a guttural moan runs from your lips, delivered by the exquisite torment of rapture. your nails scrape desperately across the tatami mat, clinging at the remnants of spilled sanity.Â
sukuna cackles at your desperation to find a momentâs reprieve. the roughened end of his fingers dip into your yielding flesh as he forcefully slams your pussy back to his cock. Â
âyouâre not going anywhere,â he pronounces frenziedly, his eyes blowing wide. sukunaâs desperation for release intensifies to the point where heâs blatantly manhandling you, brutalizing your cunt and his cock during the process of reaching zenith. flesh meets flesh, fervid thrusts after fervid thrusts, until he feels that familiar coil in his own stomach.Â
sukuna plugs your abused cunt with inconceivable amounts of cum. his cock pulses wildly, shooting globules straight to your womb itâs almost physically possible to feel his viscous cum filling every crevice of your uterus. when heâs finally pulled out, ropy cum still links his raw cocktip to your pulsing pussy hole. despite such a mind-numbing culmination, sukunaâs cock refuses to yield. it springs up proudly, aching for another taste. Â
âwhat a sight,â sukuna issues with cavernous and demonic utterance, pertaining to your body lying inert upon the tatami mat. he sweeps the sodden hair from his brow with a lordly air, his pride evident in the contemptuous curve of his lips.Â
look at the state heâs reduced you to. his thick ejaculation pools around your lower body because your little pussy canât hold all of him. with an indifferent shrug, sukuna lowers his formidable body to your level. and only when the malevolent glint in his eyes becomes apparent does the gravity of the situation dawn upon you.
he starts fucking your cunt with his tongue.
you grit your teeth in response as sukuna places your knees upon his shoulders, burying the slimy width of his tongue in your heated pussy. itâs no mere lickingâ heâs practically shoved his tongue up your gummy walls, toying with the warmth of his cum pooled in your poor cunt while simultaneously licking your puffed up clit.Â
âo⊠oh! c⊠canâtâ please, please!â drool seeps between your gritted cuspids after your hysterical plea.
pearlescent tears warm the corner of your eyes. your sensitivity from his rigorous fucking has not yet abated, but another swell of release approaches at a handâs reach. down to your heart, the bundles of nerves and veins constrict painfully because itâs too much. you have nowhere else to put the pleasureâ the imminent pinnacle will utterly ruin you.
iâm losing my mind
iâm losing my mind
iâm losing my mindâ
when ecstasy is but a heartbeat away, sukuna withdraws, denying you the finality your body craves. as if saved from drowning, you suck in and grace your lungs with air only to be propelled back to the brink of delirium when he lifts you up from the floor like a breeze.Â
with carnal ferocity, he seizes the meaty flesh of your haunches with two of his limbs, while the others secure your torso. there and there, sukuna slots his insatiable cock in your dribbling cunt; an act that heâs accomplished without effort because youâre so wet, heâs slid right in.Â
everyone has witnessed sukunaâs cock abusing your tingling pussy; all can see how he bounces your tingling cunt along his stiff length without strain.Â
âyes⊠squeeze my cock like the obedient girl you are,â he sibilates on your face, followed by a harsh chuckle. âyou canât hear me now, can you?â
the voice is a distant echo, barely perceptible to your waning senses. your body, devoid of strength, limps completely in sukunaâs embrace. he buries his face in the crooks of your damped neck, groaning and babbling as he ruts into your swollen pussy.Â
âhow come youâre still so fucking tight?â
hasnât he prepared you for his sheer girth? hasnât he stimulated your pussy enough to hug his cock smoothly and effortlessly? youâve already coated his balls shiny with all the slick your cunt has produced, but sukunaâs chest tightens because youâre milking him with a viselike grip.Â
yes, it is human that heâs even affected by this carnal desire. what more can he do? he feels faint with exultation merely by fucking you.Â
sukuna pumps your pussy to the hilt with slow yet profound thrusts. he bares his teeth down the blade of your shoulder as the maelstrom of release engulfs him completely. battered by waves of ecstasy, he grunts with your flesh between his teeth, the rough sound reverberating deep from his belly.
you mustâve reached the peak with himâ you absolutely cannot tell. the only thing that your puddled mind can grasp is the swirl of his potent cum in the pit of your womb and the endless pulse of your cunt as you struggle to accommodate his release.Â
petrified and silent, the remaining concubines are as fixed in place as if struck by an immobilizing spell. yet they watchâ they watch intently while sukunaâs cock throbs with white strings of cum dripping from your cunt hole down to his balls and thighs. a hefty amount pools beneath him, oozing from where the both of you are connected.Â
the envy that consumed them is a silent, suffocating thing, a palpable presence thick enough to choke. this envy deepens as they witness the delicacy with which sukuna has placed your dormant body on his own tatami mat. they grit their teeth secretly, throwing every known curse your way. may your womb not bear the fruits of sukunaâs seed, they vehemently pray.Â
for ryomen sukuna, itâs nothing but a momentâs weakness, a foreign string of unknown emotion that youâve managed to evoke from him. and even though heâs beyond human grace, heâs wasted your body to his own satisfaction, itâs only right to touch you with his claws retracted.
âperformance is over, my dearests,â sukuna announces while a smirk tugs at his lips. facing his concubines, he dons his fundoshi haphazardly that it barely covers what it means to hide.Â
âw⊠what will become of her, my lord?â one dares to ask.Â
a fleeting, imperious gaze from sukuna sweeps over you before ushering the women from the opulent chamber. âyou shouldnât worry yourselves about such trivial matters. she will meet her own reckoning by my hands.â
a wave of malicious satisfaction ripples through the group as they exchange covert nods. youâre already a dead woman. with poisonous glee, they bow before ryomen sukuna with their faces shaped in unbridled mirth.Â
âmake sure that my wives are accompanied home safely,â sukuna orders the nearest guards. he tastes their fear hanging heavy in the air just by being in his presence. oh, humans.Â
as the group began to retreat, they cast over their shoulders a flurry of flirtatious farewells to the imposing sukuna. however, before they could vanish entirely from sight, his deep voice cut through their progress.
âguards, before i forgotâŠâ sukuna displays a grotesque smile filled with malice. âkill them all. i want nineteen heads on my feet tomorrow.â
they say he is a devil.Â
you say he is a god.Â
and despite all the names, sukuna has found himself a place of worship, with you as his altar.Â
#mine âź#tw dubcon#sukuna smut#sukuna x reader#sukuna x you#sukuna x y/n#ryomen sukuna smut#ryomen sukuna x reader#ryomen sukuna x you#ryomen sukuna x y/n#jjk smut#jjk x reader#jjk x you#jjk x y/n#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen x you#jujutsu kaisen x y/n
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A Bond Everlasting (LaDS Rafayel - NSFW)
Rated: NSFW/18+ Pairing: Rafayel/Reader Words: ~17k
Tags: soulmate AU (the red string of fate, with a twist), college setting (and they were roommates), angst with a happy ending, mutual pining, minor violence and action, scent kink, blow job, oral and vaginal sex, facial, multiple orgasms, vaginal fingering, overstimulation, merman knotting, sexual rut/Lemurian sexual cycle
Summary: Rafayel tries â and miserably fails â to forget the one his red thread weaved against once upon a time, even a decade after its break. Finding her, once more, years later, and residing within the same place as her doesnât help his cause.Â
A/N: A happy very belated birthday gift to you, @chibamari. With all of my love and all of our favorite heartbreak, I hope you enjoy this, darling friend.
I. EBBÂ
The red string of fate. Rafayel found he truly loathed the concept. Â
What was it, truly, if not just the Fates contemptuous scorn upon them? Â
Forcing kinship and eternity in between a pair that did not mould against the other. That would, if time given, drift apart as mere bottled wishes left traversing, lonely, across the seas. Â
And yet, the manacles remain celebrated, since time immemorial. As legends of the rare, and lucky few, destined to be bonded in harmony. Â
Rafayel used to be â once upon a time â part of the same foolery brigade as the rest of them, the day his red thread spun and found itself interweaved against his first, and last, love. To her, he promised a Lemurianâs vow of faithful eternity.Â
Until the day that blood-red thread quivered and ruptured apart, weakened by her absence. Â
Leaving to Rafayel only the hollow remains of a heart rejected. The brand of its mockery left behind as indelible remains of the severed â useless â string wound against his finger. Â
II. FLOWÂ
Deft, practiced digits streak a brush across canvas; the truculent quality to his paint lines reflecting the agitated knot of Rafayelâs brow and the hand he scrubs through his hair in chagrin at constant-wheeling thoughts. Bold strokes; an amalgamation of bright colors â gentle turquoise and oceanic azure â setting into paper to shape unconscious form to his muse, for his current class. Â
It is only when he hears the ripple of applauding gasps behind â âYouâre amazing, Senior Rafayel!â â is he knocked back into his senses, angling a stupefied gaze up at what heâs made of his project: originally an interpretation of the depths of the sea, the topic heâd presented his class for the day. Â
He notes, in no small proportion of growing aversion, the strokes of his brush having shaped form of a delicate back â hers â against the backdrop of a vast sea, reminiscent of home. His thoughts â he muses in self-derision â having lent unconscious connection in between his place of most comfort to the person who stood as his entire comfort.Â
Rafayelâs head throbs with heat, as if knelling the oncoming of a particularly harsh fever. Perhaps his less than perfect health was to blame for his momentary lapse of concentration. Â
âIs the lady underwater inspired by anyone in particular, Senior? Your brushwork for her seems particularly passionate.âÂ
Rafayelâs mouth twitches into an insouciant, cool smile, he directs at his students. âHmm Iâm not sure. Perhaps, sheâs inspired by that one mermaid movie theyâre currently playing in theatres.â Â
âOh, âAquaticâ? Iâve seen it!âÂ
âMe too! It's really good.â Â
âThe part where she turns to sea foamââÂ
A seamless lie; he lets it steer the focus of conversation away from him and his lapse in concentration. Turning back towards the board to proceed with his lecture. Â
Opting to teach a fine arts course to a bunch of junior year students, for extra annual credit, was clearly shaping to be one of the worst decisions heâd ever made. Â
Especially so, when the subject in question, heâd offered to teach for, in the first place, remained starkly absent throughout the duration of the lecture. Â
III. EBBÂ
Shouldering open the door to their shared apartment, Rafayel steps inside, staggering under the weight of his stack of the newest arrival of deliveries. The apartment is silent, devoid of the sound of her characteristic pattering footsteps. Â
Depositing his packages down against the side of the sofa in the living room, he collapses back into the cushions, tuning a distasteful frown towards the empty kitchen counter. Recounting to mind, the events of this morning, having shepherded him into an entire day of distraction at the University. Â
âOuch.â She hissed, a sound of surprise, wrenching her arm back from the sizzling frying pain at the spits of oil it spewed. Â
Rafayel released an exaggerated sigh at the sight, ambling over towards the kitchen. âLet me help.â Â
âYou know, Iâm perfectly capable of fixing breakfast on my own.â She attempted heroic reassurance, even as she easily treaded backwards to let Rafayel replace her at the stove. Â
âYes, yes, I believe you. I'd still like to ensure you donât burn our apartment to the ground while Iâm away at work. My paintings are priceless treasures, you know.â He deftly takes the eggs off the stove and plates them before shoving her share at her. âThere you go, Miss All-Capable.âÂ
âStop making fun of me.â She smiles in relieved gratitude, moving to set cutlery across the table. âAnd thank you.âÂ
Rafayel swivels a puffed smile her way. âWhatever would you do without me?â Â
She shakes her head at him, attempting no effort to refute him. âIndeed.â Her fingers brush against his as she moves to pass him his share. Â
âRafayel.â She sweeps a sudden grab at his hand, digits entwining in between his. âYouâre a bit warmer than usual. Are you feeling sick?â She smooths a gentle hand across his forehead. Â
He feels his face burn darker at the sudden intimacy of their contact. âNo, I donât.â Instinctively jostling away from her touch. âIâm just tired, is all. I was up the entire night, after all.â Â
âYou really need to fix that terrible habit of yours. A healthy body leads to a healthy mind!â Rafayel canât tamp back the grin from his face at her chiding.Â
âTake better care of yourself. I canât be here to keep you in check round the clock, you know.â She sighs in resignation. Â
âYes, yes, my noisy Mistress.â Â
âSpeaking of which,â She begins, just as Rafayel seats himself at the table. "I'll be out late tonight.âÂ
Rafayel feels his smile frost over; a dreaded, sour feeling immediately spurning at the base of his belly. Â
âI have a study date with Caleb.â She does not meet his gaze, forking at her egg. Â
Rafayel hears himself speak before he can tuck back his impulsive thoughts. âYou sure you should be trusting the man this much? I donâtââÂ
ââLike him.â I know. I donât know why youâre so biased against him, heâs a good person.â Â
The praise dredges bitterness across his tongue; ashy and tepid. His fork nearly stabs at his own food, a disapproving moue he knows is dark upon his face. âSure,â he intones at last, grappling against his desire to ask her not to go, to spend her day with him instead. âHave fun.â An unfair burden he knows he throws onto her shoulders; he does not possess the right to dictate who she chooses to associate with. Â
And yetâÂ
Rafayelâs gaze deliberately treks the line of red thread adorning his ring finger â treacherously cut off a few centimetres in and dissipating into nothingness. Following the absent line of it; her own finger sits vacant against the wooden table-top. An immeasurable dejection he isnât able to shuck off, no matter how many times his eyes have witnessed its emptiness. Â
Perhaps she is right and he is sick, an inscrutable tremor setting into his fingers as they continue on with the rest of their meal in silence. Â
IV. FLOWÂ
The oncoming dawn encroaches a gradual shell-pink spill of color across the velvet skies as Rafayelâs feverish gaze drags, listless, to the view past the patio windows, the bone-deep ache from the day past yet to recede. Â
The angry scrapes of charcoal rushed across paper, forgotten as the unfinished sketch drifts purposeless down onto the floor to join the rest of its discarded predecessors.  Â
She has yet to return home â Rafayel had stayed up the entire night and remained planted, firm, within their lounge, to make sure he would be there to greet her on her return. She'd never been away from their apartment overnight. Â
Rafayel knows because he had â on more occasions than he could count and didnât wish to acknowledge â found himself crumpled within cool sheets, self-confined to the privacy of his room, listening in to the comforting sounds of her padded, soft movements around their apartment. Â
She'd often slip back through their door, close to midnight â she made it a point, always, to return home, no matter the hour â after slaving away hours at the library for her Hunter exam. She'd try for quietude; he knew, so she wouldnât disturb his absent sleep. Â
A gentle clink of mugs at the kitchen counter as sheâd make herself a cup of a coffee in preparation of burning the midnight oil. Â
Despite having the physical structure of their apartment â a shelter and comfort in name â his roomâs four-walled sanctity, it didnât truly feel warm as a home until the moment she stepped past the threshold and into their shared space. Â
And only when heâd hear the soft crinkle of pages turning steadily as sheâd settle herself onto the living room sofa to study, would he find himself beckoned into slumber. As if she too, knew on instinct, how her presence aimed to soothe, choosing to make space for her studies right where he could hear her, in the lounge, instead of the confines of her own room.Â
Yet now. Â
Midnight had come and gone, dawn scraping indigo for approaching light, and no signs of her return. Â
A long day behind him endured in feverish unrest and the toll of another sleepless night, doesnât help disentangle burgeoning thoughts of her within the embrace of another man at that very moment, one not him. He canât help but sorely curse himself for his ill-thought decision of staying the night up, waiting for her like some sorry love-struck fool. Â
Not that he wouldâve been able to sleep, either way; a part of him mocked in muted whispers. Â
His thread throbs; a nipping bite of rejection and along with it, his body. Languid gaze absently trekking the severed thread, flickering incandescent against his ring finger. The constricting heat of it, as if traversing up his veins along with the fever within his body. Colluding against his heart, as if it wishes to eventually wither him up instead. A slow, bittersweet poison. Â
Rafayel feels nauseous. Â
Heâs beginning to contemplate on retiring for the meagre, precious hours before his upcoming classes for the day â perhaps that bitterly strong liquor sheâd stowed into the fridge earlier would help do the trick â just as the door lock clicks open. Â
The sound violently startles Rafayel out of winding, unheeded thoughts enough, he springs off the sofa just as she steps foot over the threshold. Â
Opening his mouth to put words to turbulent emotions â a million queries â before his questions wither off the tip of his tongue when he fixates a good, long look at her.  Â
She appears downright exhausted and an instinctual, foreboding spurts forth in him. The look on her careworn face, light-snuffed gaze meeting his â Rafayel thinks, mirrors the state of his own affairs â before it dissipates into stifled surprise. âRafayel, whatâre you doing upââ Â
And before he can tamp himself back into composure, Rafayelâs striding the few paces it takes for him to reach her, dragging her into his embrace. Â
She stiffens at the contact on instinctual reflex, it chips away at another piece of his heart. Tightens the strangulating hold of his severed thread against his soul. Â
He hedges her tighter into his embrace, regardless. Head pitching down onto her shoulder; a hand he smooths down the line of her quivering back before she relaxes into him, at last. Â
âRafayelââ Arms twitching by her side and up as she circles him within her own comfort, returning his warmth in the cling of desperate digits against the back of his shirt. Â
âYouâre late. You're so late.â he gripes, half-hearted. Â
A beat. Two passes.Â
âYeah, Iâm sorry.â Â
A peculiar relationship; she calls them friends â close â inappropriately so and heâd agreed to be one, to her, if it were the sole thing that allowed him to be by her side. For her to not abandon him once more. A relationship edging something far gnarled than friendship. Â
He doesnât believe even she has a name for what they share, in moments as these, where Rafayel forgets himself and the boundaries he holds himself to. Turns blind to pretenses and masks he fixates, so delicately crafted, for her benefit and the safety of his own heart.Â
He is not, however, a man strong enough to ignore the strain of his belovedâs gaze, tiredness rimming her entire being, she feels so brittle in his arms, and it ruins him to not know the cause of it. Â
â...Got something on your mind?â He murmurs into her hair.Â
âPerhaps.â Her response is slow, halting. Â
âWant to tell me what it is?â He breaks away from her, enough to let his eyes scour her face in stern scrutiny. Â
A whispered laugh escapes her at his inspection. Â
â...Rafayel, how do you feel about an early morning stroll with me?â Â
V. EBBÂ
The shores of Whitesand Bay stretch empty within the wee hours of dawn, quiet, save for the twittering song of birds cutting across the sky and the gentle wash of waves at their bare feet as they amble along the sandy belt. She hasnât uttered a word since, absent gaze trekking the gradual rise of the sun above the horizon, light flittering its diamonds across the lap of waves. Â
The easy access to the sea â and by extension, the remarkable view â was one of the reasons theyâd jointly agreed upon renting an apartment this close to Whitesand Bay, two years prior. On any other usual occasion, Rafayelâs fingers wouldâve been upon pen and paper, soaking inspiration up and through rough strokes, sketching across paper. Â
Now, however, his focus is all but entirely removed from his environment, vision honed in on her by his side. Â
âItâs a beautiful view, isnât it?â She murmurs, gaze still fixated upon the horizon. âIâm not an early riser like you are so Iâve never seen the sunrise here up this close.â Â
She's skirting the issue, Rafayel has no mind to force her to spill her heart when she does not wish to.Â
For her, he is willing to remain patient. Â
Regardless of the consequences to his person. Â
He joins in on her flimsy facade. Â
âIf only I wasnât a little too aware of the fact.â Tapping a light fist against her temple, he angles a skewed smile down at her. âDespite my very arduous efforts to get you out of bed on multiple occasions, youâve persisted in your terrible ways, Miss Hunter.â Heaving an exaggerated sigh. âYouâre far too stubborn for your own good, I fear.âÂ
That gets her breaking a smile, the tensed knitted worry within her gaze easing just that tiny bit; Rafayel plucks it up for the small reward it is. âA classic case of the pot calling the kettle black. Like youâre any less bull-headed.â She defends. âDonât make me recount all the times you nearly gave poor Thomas a heart attack because your paintings werenât ready even mere hours before the exhibitions they were supposed to be featured in.â Â
His mouth pulls into a distasteful moue at that. âDonât tell me youâre on his side. He refuses to understand the world of difference it causes in between using cherry red or wine on a canvas. If it were up to that simpleton, heâd have me besmirch all my works, just for the sake of those trivial exhibitions.â Â
She chuckles. âNow, no need to get so worked-up. You know Thomas cares for you and wishes to have your talent recognized like it deserves to be.â She moves to seat herself by the shore, close to where the waves lick up at the sand. Rafayel follows suit. Â
âI know how much passion you pour into your paintings.â Crinkling a gentle smile up at him. âThatâs exactly why I love your art so much.âÂ
Rafayelâs heart catches at his throat at the easy slip of her compliment. Â
She's never been sparing with her appreciation of his artworks.Â
Ever since sheâd chanced upon them a few years back when theyâd only shortly been re-united at the time. Â
Sheâd always been generous and open with her admiration. Â
His heart, however, wasnât immune to its traitorous stuttering, every single time at her attentions and praise. Â
Perhaps she discerns the look on his face, tapping into his emotions, or realizes the curious intimacy of her statement, she wrenches her gaze away from his. Rafayel swiftly feels the keen loss of it. Â
Silence sweeps once more between them, her gaze having drifted back into the seas and with it, the steady droop of her shoulders as she curves in tighter against her huddled knees. âIt was a place, similar to this one, where we first met. A lost little human meeting a young Lemurian washed ashore.â Her voice barely hikes above an octave. âI didnât think Lemurians existed for real before that, and to know I shared a red fate with one...â Â
His throat closes against a sharp inhale at her whisper, the first time sheâs chosen to address their past severed bond, ever since their reunion. Â
Why now. He means to ask. A question that dissipates off the tip of his tongue, un-uttered. Â
âWe were so young back then and I inadvertently hurt you. Ever since I moved away, and time just passed, regardless...â She pauses. âYou mustâve really hated me for that, huh.â She angles a cautious smile at him.Â
I did not. Rafayel means to refute and yet his tongue refuses to cooperate. Â
She continues on, as if she had long perceived his answer and made peace with his supposed resentment of her, unperturbed by his lack of response. Her reaction vexes him.  Â
âIâve hurt someone dear to me again. CalebââÂ
The familiar name spurns bitter within his chest. âDid he do something to you?â His fingers jam against coarse sand, snagging his thread tight against his ring finger.Â
âNo! No. Calebâs a good man, heâs been nothing but kind to me.â Â
Deep within the recesses of his heart, Rafayel knows it, he knows it only too well; he only wishes he could truly bring himself to hate him. Â
âHe...â Her fingers tense harsher against her arms. âLast night, he asked me to be his girlfriend.âÂ
His ring finger throbs; the missing line of its thread seeming to constrict against Rafayelâs neck. Â
âI turned him down.âÂ
A quick, involuntary bite of wicked relief thrums at the back of his breastbone. And yetâÂ
Why do you look as if your heart is shattering into a million pieces?Â
Rafayelâs mouth seems to form words on its own as if he wishes for his own demise. âDo you regret it?âÂ
Her silence is a dagger that digs pointed, deep in between his ribs, the longer she lets it steep. Â
She meets his gaze, a turbulent question within hers, beseeching. âI donât know⊠I donât know if I should.â She looks as if she has more to speak, restive teeth biting into her lip to hold back unsaid thoughts.
Rafayel dares not parse the emotions he sees flittering within her eyes, dares not hope for what he cannot have. Not again, for his heart to fracture once more by setting up false narratives. He has loved and will love still for eternity â he doesnât, however, have the tenacity to bear being abandoned again.Â
And so, he shutters himself, gaze wrenching away from hers, a frown knitting tight against his brow. âWhatever it is that you want, if it makes you happy, I want you to grab onto it for yourself.â Fingers brushing against hers from where they rest within the sand, index and middle lingering longer against the base of her ring finger. Before he moves, carding hesitant digits through the fall of her hair. Â
For it is the only way he knows how to love â regardless of broken vows â in her happiness, even if it would never be found by his side.Â
VI. FLOW
The dream stirs vivid beneath restless lids â Rafayel hasnât dreamt of that time of theirs together in so long, a welcome awareness of his mindâs conjuring, he embraces in that moment.  Â
Perhaps by-products of an exhausted, sick mind.Â
Or yearning for an unfulfilled wish. Â
A sweet sting of desire, just as the first time he remembers it. He lets himself drown deeper into the abyss of its calling.Â
Heâd cut a boring class during first semester at college â he could no longer remember the subject â in lieu of chasing the path of an ambitious sparrow within a secluded spot. Located far back along the grounds of the college and protected further underneath the dense foliage of the overgrown greenery as heâd sat perched upon a bench, motionless and silent. Â
Save for the smooth rush of his pencil across his journal. Detailing the quest of the bird as it leapt across the grass towards a lazing cat, blissfully dodging the felineâs half-hearted attempt at pawing it away. Â
Tranquility rippled only at a surprising intrusion; sheâd walked into his private space â she always seemed to find him â and heâd startled at her presence. Â
âOh! Sorry. Rafayel, I thought IââÂ
Their relationship on strained ice at the time â neither of them choosing to dig up unfulfilled childhood vows or the break of their fated thread.Â
 A hastened apology sheâd tripped over, for disturbing him before her eyes had flickered to the open journal in his lap and sheâd breathed an awed sound. Called it beautiful â a slip of the tongue, he could tell, from her demeanor. Â
They'd gotten back into conversation â albeit halting â after that. Â
The moment, a pivotal one, in Rafayel allowing himself to accept her back into his life, both emotionally and physically.Â
He recalls the citrus notes to her perfume as sheâd tentatively seated herself by his side. The way her hair curled delicate against the curve of her cheek, beckoning Rafayel to dare a hand out and slip it back against her ear.Â
The unconscious brush of soft digits against his as sheâd moved to accept the proffered journal from him, when sheâd asked for permission to view more of his artworks. Â
The relief that had sunk into his marrow, body strung far too tight for so long â he felt each ache settle and ease, when she returned to his side. As if their bond still remained. Â
As if it had never fractured in the first place.Â
She moves to tug the curtains close, clipping back the last shafts of light from Rafayelâs room; his damp brow now decidedly relaxed in restless slumber, after being exposed to the heat of the sun for so long. Â
Heâs made a habit of drawing his windows open at night, perhaps to relieve the fevered pitch of his body off the cool breeze wafting of the sea. Restive sleeplessness; keeping him tossing until near close to dawn, when she often catches him falling, thankfully, into exhaustive sleep at the end of his long, disturbed nights. Â
Rafayel had been out of sorts for nearly two weeks now; a distracted gaze and a listless stride his constant companions. Adamant and mulish in his response, at inquiring of his health, every time, that he was perfectly alright and merely plagued by the weariness of sleepless nights spent on his paintings. Â
Barely a day or two into that ridiculous spectacle of his before her patience with him had expired and sheâd hauled him off to his room and strong-armed him into bed. Â
A rueful smile tugs at her mouth at the recollection of their silly argument then. Â
âHey, ow. Easy, youâll break me! Aaah... too late. I think Iâve already dislocated my wrist. My life as a painter is done for. Ow.â Â
âRafayel. Shut up unless you want me to gag you as well.â  Forcing the covers over his body; she glowered at him for obedience while she hastened to take his temperature. Â
Rafayelâs mouth soured deeper in distaste the longer she fretted over him. Opening his mouth, surely to protest, before she cut him off. âYouâre running a low-grade fever.âÂ
Pressing a gentle hand over his forehead, âPlease, rest now.âÂ
A knot twisted in between Rafayelâs brow at her plea. Threading his fingers against hers. âAlright, alright I will,â he murmured, a gentle thumb he smoothed against her furrowed brow. âSo, stop making that face now.â Â
His agitation at his prolonged ill-health, however, had manifested in numerous half-finished drafts and rough sketches, heâd filled sheets upon sheets of paper with, littered upon his bed. Â
The subject matter of most, inexplicably similar in features; a fact that surprised her, for Rafayel had always been one for continual exploration of a wide variety of subjects in his artworks, rather than one stationary objective. Â
She reaches for one such sketch now, discarded by his bedside. Predictably, it is the same subject her eyes have grown accustomed to: the graceful arch of a personâs â a womanâs â back, the cascade of her hair shrouding her gaze from view. It is ethereal, haunting. Lonely. Â
And.Â
She exhales an unsteady breath. Although a mere unpolished sketch, she feels Rafayelâs longing in the hastened strokes of charcoal across her visage. An inscrutable sprout of emotion twinges at her chest each time she looks upon this faceless woman, a desire to tear her gaze away from the care put into the strokes and never look at them again and yet, itâs as if her hands are not her own, each time they sift through his sketches to reveal a new one made. She despises it, and the feeling of her selfish loathing itself. Not when she bears reason nor right to feel the way she does. Â
The ring finger of her right hand throbs, an echo of her turbulent emotions manifesting in the faint red restraint flickering against the base of her digit before it winks once more out of existence.Â
No. Â
Her gaze instinctually jumps to Rafayel, his prone form still deep in sleep. Â
She'd nearly forgotten the other reason for her undue distress these past couple of days; worry for Rafayel occupying each of her thoughts, leaving little space for much else.
She sinks, weak-kneed, onto the bed, right next to Rafayel. Carding her fingers through the soft brush of his hair, gently thumbing a line down his temple. Â
Sheâd thought her mind was conjuring illusive tricks the first few times sheâd caught that fleeting flicker of red across her finger.Â
Impossible, for it had been nearly twelve years since sheâd lost her bond after being forced away from Rafayel. And then, her eyes had insistently tried tracing the line of it, every time it shimmered against her finger, hoping that it would perhaps....Â
Just maybe, if a miracle were to occurâÂ
That it would re-connect. Back to the only person sheâd ever loved. Back to him, her beautiful Lemurian. That perhaps, heâd grant her another chance. That perhaps there was a sliver of hope that Rafayel would love her back once more. Â
Once more.Â
 Her yearning dashed in the brutality of a truth, far too incomprehensible to her mind.Â
On the day her grandmother caught sight of her glimmering thread before sheâd informed her with much joy; a red thread of fate, if once severed, made an appearance once more, within the lifetime of rare, chosen⊠fortunate individuals. If Fate ever ordained for the individuals to find new love once more. Another love so great, it changed Fateâs threads and course itself. Â
âYouâre blessed, my darling girl. Most people are happy enough if they get to enjoy even one fated love throughout their lives. But you've found two in your lifetime. It is a joyous thing, my love, do not be sad. Do not weep.âÂ
â...Perhaps, it is time you let him â let your past go.â Â
Like ice curdling within her veins. As if Fate itself were playing upon her a cruel jest. She could never. How could she ever?Â
And then, her denials had crumbled entirely, shortly after that dreaded truth. Â
Her oldest friend, her sole pillar when sheâd lost Rafayel. The person whoâd held her close and kept her heart safeâ Â
When sheâd lie in bed all day during her earliest days, screaming from the deluging fever of her bond withering.Â
âIt was the day her childhood friend, her Caleb confessed. Â
Even without the evidence of a corporeal bond connecting them, that had been her last straw. Â
She presses her lips against Rafayelâs cheek, overwhelming emotions threatening to surge, unable to resist or hold herself in control. âI could never.â she vows under her breath, fingers stroking down the line of his cheek. âEven if you have let go of me, Rafayel, IâmââÂ
She feels the roughened pads of his digits against where she touches his face, perturbed at the sudden movement. His eyes flitter, restless, beneath his lids, grasp tightening upon her wrist. âMy beloved bride.â
She tries and yanks herself away from his touch, startled at his unconscious murmuring. Rafayel does not let go, nudging his cheek against the crook of her captured palm. Â
âRafayel.â She urges, her heart stuttering over its beats. âRafayel, please wake up.â Â
At long last, he listens; that beautiful, florid gaze misted with the callings of sleep still, as it focuses on her. He makes an indiscrete sound. âIs it morning already? Agh, my head hurts.â He continues to nuzzle his face against her palm. Â
âR-Rafayel! Hey!â She winces, hand unbearably hot within his hold. âLet go of me now. If youâre up, have some breakfast instead. You need the energy, dummy.âÂ
âDonât want to let you go. Pamper me more.â And yet, he refuses to heed her lukewarm pleas, extremely wilful in his post-sleep, feverish daze. Â
She huffs out a breathless laugh, her apprehension ebbing, gentle, into silence the longer she feels his warmth against her. Â
Maybe she is allowed to indulge just a bit longer. Â
 VII. EBBÂ
An errant thread and an inexplicable long spell of heat, as if trudging up a steep path, burgeoning fast towards an inevitable destination he could not quite clutch at. Unsolicited suspicions, as to the true nature of his predicament, incessantly rapping at his thoughts. Â
Rafayel feels that dour twist to his brow; darkening his features at the wheeling course of his mind.Â
 Sheâs caught him in similar moods since his âillnessâ commenced, more times than he can count. The endless time afforded his way, involuntarily threading his thoughts to places he doesnât wish to visit. He doesnât wish, ever, to alarm or upset her, setting to ease her thoughts the moment worry mars her features, testing index and middle against the sharp knot at her forehead before his attentions â and hers â are compelled entirely her way. Â
That is also something that has shifted in between them, into something entirely different. Heâs been unusually attuned to her for the duration of his peculiar period of ill-health. Â
She has always been his primary muse, the focal point where all of Rafayelâs tangled thoughts find eventual and inevitable convergence. However, somehow, all of those sensibilities have turned sharper, impossibly aware of... her. Â
Unconsciously turning to placations the moment he comprehends her distress. Choosing to bury, in turn; soothe the heat of his body within the scent of hers. Her hands on him when she fusses to take his temperature, her clothes, he takes a surreptitious, lungful breath of, when she moves close to towel the fevered sweat off his body. Truly, he does not understand what is wrong with him. Â
Two weeks in now and his need for answers has driven him to near madness. Heâs loathe to admit he must consult one, perhaps, more knowledgeable on the subject than he. Â
He paces into the lounge, heavy in thought, fingers worrying at the phone in hand.Â
âOh, youâre up. Are you feeling any better?â Just as she calls over to him from the kitchen counter. Â
âOf course,â he fibs, tucking the phone back into the pocket of his trousers. He ambles over to her, dressed neat in her trainee uniform as she works a paring knife around an apple. âWhatâre you doing?â Â
âYou should have something healthy to eat while Iâm away.â Â
âAh.â He plucks a piece of fruit off the plate next to her, eyeing the peculiar shape. âSo, you decided to cut me some apple bunnies.â The corners of his mouth drag into a skewed grin. âI am not a child, cutie.â Â
She makes an inflated motion of surprise, pressing a hand against her chest. âReally?â Â
And when he rolls his eyes at her, âOf course you arenât,â she grins. âIâve never met any children as stubborn as you.â Â
âCheeky.â He flicks a gentle hand against her forehead. Â
His eyes skim towards the wall clock and back towards her neatly pressed outfit. âYou have an on-field Hunterâs exam this afternoon, donât you? Youâll be late if you dawdle any longer. Besides, I can feed myself just fine.â Â
She startles a bit as her eyes, too, take note of the hour. Hastily shoving the plate of her fresh cut fruit into his hands. âAlright, Iâll leave. You better eat, then rest up. Donât exert yourself, alright?â Â
She steps past the counter. âCome, Kiki.â A white dutiful ball of fur capers up to her as soon as she calls. Rafayel hedges further against the counter just as the white ball tumbles into her waiting arms. Â
âThere, what a good girl you are!â She croons over the cat, petting at that little fiend pet of her friendâs. She rises to her feet.Â
âIâll drop her off at Taraâs before heading to the centre.â Â
âGood riddance,â Rafayel mutters, blenching just as she moves closer with the cat still in her arms. Â
âRude, Iâm sad to see her go so soon.â She pulls a glum face at him. âDo you want to pet her goodbye before she leaves and you start missing her?â Â
âI wonât,â He dissents, even as he braves the tips of his fingers against Kikiâs head in a cautious scritch before snapping his hand right back. âBye, white menace.â Â
Rafayelâs moue of specious disapproval turns deeper with her knowing grin. âLetâs go now that youâve said your farewells to Uncle Rafayel.â She kisses the top of the catâs head as it purrs in elated satisfaction at her attentions.Â
He quirks a flippant brow at her. âAll affections for the furry feline, I see.âÂ
She laughs, the sound an aching balm against long-wrought nerves. âWhy, is my fish jealous of a little kitten? Come here, then.â Â
âI am notâ!â He sputters, just as her hand curves about the back of his neck and pulls downward, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. Â
The previously simmering, barely tamped warmth of his body bursts forth with a brilliant vengeance, his skin set ablaze at just the graze of her touch. Rafayel has to actively constrain himself from keeling over entirely on the floor from his sudden deluge of emotions. Has to curb the quiver of his arms from wanting to steal that heat back against his body. Â
She draws back, just as swift, on her feet. The pink of her cheeks is infectious, enticing. Rafayel stares at her, mute and slack-jawed, even as she backs out of the kitchen and through the front door. âIâll see you tonight, my little fish!â And then heâs left to his own spiraling thoughts. Â
Ah. Rafayel scrubs agitated palms down the length of his face in the ensuing silence of their home. His scarlet thread burns incandescent in his hind-vision, flittering in its sporadic expansion. If only she knew how entirely ruined he was at her feet, alone. Â
VIII. FLOWÂ Â
âYou rejected Calebâs confession?â Â
Sheâd be lying if she said she hadnât anticipated Taraâs baffled outburst. Â
It was part of the reason why she chose to reveal the ânewsâ to her this unceremoniously, as she gently eased Kiki over into Taraâs arms while they stood at her open front door. She adored Tara but was of no mind to be sat down at length while her best friend grilled the details out of her. Â
Not ready for the difficult conversations that would ensue; of her past grievances, the break of her fated thread and how she dreaded, within a dark crevice of her heart, that Caleb might turn out to be the one her Fate was once more, trying to bind her to. How could she even begin to delineate it wasnât what she wanted? Â
No, she wasnât ready for that conversation with Tara, at all. Â
âIâm going to be late for my exam, Tara.â She gives her a contrite smile. Â
âYes, I know, sorry, darling, but⊠why? I really thought things were well between you too. And I was sure there was something going onâ! Iâ canât you say?â Her friendâs gaze is weighty, imploring. âIs there... someone else?â Her eyes widen. âIs itââÂ
And the longer sheâs met with terse silence, the heat of her gaze wanes in gradual realization before, at last, she retreats her onslaught, a troubled groan leaving her lips. âAt least tell me youâre alright. Iâve been worried about you.â Â
âI know, Tara, Iâm sorry. Iâm perfectly fine.â She gives her free hand a squeeze before withdrawing back a few steps. âI should really go now.â Â
Tara loses another sigh. âYou really should. Promise weâll catch up later?â Â
âI promise.â She raises her hand in farewell, jogging down the few steps to her house. Â
Tara calls out to her just as she reaches the foot of her stairs. âGood luck, girl! Iâm cheering for you.â Â
She flashes her friend an appreciative smile. Â
With Tara, she really canât be sure if she meant her encouragement for her qualifying physical exam. Or something else entirely. Â
Knowing her friend, it was probably both. Â
She reaches the examination centre just under the wire, right as the towering gates to the grounds swing shut behind her and two other late-comers. Â
Toggling open her Hunterâs Watch, she hastens to join the formation up ahead of several other students, already lined in neat rows for their on-field Wanderers exam. Sidling in place, into her empty spot, just as the instructor in front drones on the list of rules for the exam, from upon his podium. âYou are to form pairs of two, as per your roll numbers and enter your designated Protofields, to commence your exam. Before you begin, make sure...âÂ
He goes over the structures of the regulations one by one, detailing what actions would mete them points and what would deduct them in case of improper conduct. Â
âThese Protofields have been simulated under intensively controlled environments and contain a plethora of C and B-grade Wanderers you are to deal with, within the desired time limit. Coordinate with your partner, watch each otherâs backs and follow all routine safety regulations. Violators will be disqualified on the spot.â He continues. âKeep within bounds of all marked fields, maintain your senses and you should do well. Lastly, trust your education and the skills you have acquired over the course of these years via means of your perseverance and hard work. May you reign victorious, young Hunters!â With his final words, the crowd disperses, heading towards their designated spots for their exams.Â
She taps her fingers against her Hunterâs Watch, pulling up the specifications of the Protofield she is to clear, before setting out.Â
Â
âGabriel? Hi.â She calls to her team-mate as she moves to join him, recognizing the man from the same class division as hers. Â
He returns her greeting, the two setting to sync their data via their watches within the final minute countdown before their exam commences. The flux nexus, in front, pulses to life upon confirmation of both their identities, filtering its pre-programmed wavelength to project upon the barren field. A kaleidoscopic flitter of energy wheeling across the space once is their only indication of a protofield activated, before the two step forwards, cautious, weapons at the ready. Â
âNo.â Rafayelâs jaw steels in chagrin, hearing the resigned, gentle finality of the words on the other end of the line. Â
âRafayel...â Talia coaxes. Â
âI said no. Youâre wrong.â He gnashes out, even as the heat simmers, muggy and suffocating, within his body. Even as he continues to deny the indubitable truth of her words. Â
For if he did, he would have to face the looming fate of another horrifying possibility. Â
The regret of asking for Taliaâs help sits heavy within his throat. Facts she utters in such certitude, it leaves Rafayel irrationally agitated. He knows it is not her fault. Â
 He hears her soft sigh on the other end of the line. âYou told me youâve been suffering these bouts of âfeverâ since the past two weeks, an âillnessâ that refuses to abate and that your...â She pauses, as if seeking words best to voice her next. âincomplete thread has been showing sporadic signs as of late.âÂ
âYes.â His voice is quiet, stiff.Â
âRafayel, youâre experiencing early symptoms of an oncoming rut and you know it. You feel it. You didnât need to call me, when youâre well-informed on the matter yourself, even if youâve never experienced it before.â She pauses. âThe only reason you reached out to me is that you wanted me to validate your suspicions, isnât that right?âÂ
He does not respond to her astute observation.
âAn unmated Lemurian cannot experience sexual cycles the same way as a bonded Lemurian. And as you are well-aware, my thread was long severed.â He refutes, contemptuous. âYou know what, forget I asked. You clearly donât understand whatâs wrong with me any better than I do. Sorry for crashing your honeymoon. Goodbye, Talia.â Â
âIs your thread truly severed, Rafayel?â Her voice rings, solemn, from the other end of the line, just as Rafayel moves to disconnect the call. He pauses, gaze involuntarily skewing towards his lengthening line of red thread. The frown in between his brow turns severe, as if being coerced to witness a sight against his will. Â
âYouâre experiencing a re-connection and youâre not allowing yourself the happiness that comes with new love. Itâs a rare and beautiful thing, for your red fate to find itself weaved against a new person you would cherish.â Â
Rafayel does not have the resolve to discredit her words despite his vehement disagreement; having known her experience the loss of her first love, the agony of her days after. And only years later, had she allowed herself to love once more, a happiness Rafayel was content to stand in observance to, glad at her well-deserved peace.  Â
He, however, was different from Talia. Heâd rather his Fate dissipate entirely than for it to wind itself against a stranger. He was different, for Rafayel knew he would never love again, never cherish another, no matter the decades in between. Â
For him, there would never be anyone else.Â
A transitory pressure curdles heavy about her shoulders as they pace past the barrier and into the protofield. The familiarity of their training grounds dwindles away, large looming falls of thick trees rising, ominous, to blot the skies. Blanketing twilight, instantaneous, overhead. A slow, sweeping curl of gray, mists about their feet, soaking into the dank ground beneath.Â
Beside her, she hears Gabrielâs apprehensive breaths. âI can never get used to this.â Â
Weapons at the ready, they trudge a slow, cautious path through the simulated wilderness. Gnarled branches seize and snick at their clothes, the craggy mire beneath, a strenuous trudge to keep upright through; as if the forest itself were alive with wicked intent. Â
Gabrielâs firearm is the first to go off in a thunderous shot, breaking a flock of obsidian birds to startle into the skies. She follows suit, breaking into a dash along with him; the dark, hunched figure of a fleet-footed Wanderer she aims her gun at and fires, the shot catching it right against its head. The creature lurches forwards onto its body in a seething screech of sound, following its crackling demise into a spoor of pungent smoke. Â
The two maintain their steady pace of weeding the area of Wanderers, most theyâre able to dispatch with ease. Reflexes and hard ingrained years of training coming into play, the more battles they win through, setting into an easy rhythm of partnership. Â
The Wanderer Gabriel skews his sword through in a final thrust, disintegrates into smoke with a rattling gurgle. She pauses to survey their surroundings, the deep, metallic skies yet to dissipate entirely: indication of a cleared exam. Up ahead, she spies a peculiar forking at the path, the protofield seeming to disperse into dense, murky mist past the intersection. Gabriel flicks the blood off his sword, moving to join her. âStrange.âÂ
âYeah. I donât think low grade Wanderers can distort protofields to this extent.â She agrees.Â
âLikely an A grade, at least. Shouldnât be harder than what weâve handled so far.â He pauses. âBesides the fact that this one seems like it can replicate itself into weaker copies, judging from the splice itâs created in the field.âÂ
She frowns at his conclusion, likely accurate. There shouldnât be an A grade on the loose within a junior hunterâs exam, to begin with; a Wanderer class reserved only for the final year senior field exam. Signals are, as expected sparse, this deep within the protofield, and with an A grade, at hand, tampering the protofield, the possibility of communications being established sits non-existent, at present. She drops a distress signal onto the Hunterâs site, regardless, moving to join him at the fork. Â
âWeâll have to clear out the Wanderer, either way, if we want to leave this protofield.â She swipes her empty magazine for a new one, securing it fast back into her gun. Â
âRight.â Gabrielâs own fist tightens against the hilt of his sword. âYou take the right, Iâll take the left? The distortion should be obliterated on its own once we eliminate all of its copies. Iâll see you soon, partner.â Â
âRight back at you. Good luck.â Â
Gabriel flashes a flimsy grin at her before treading onto the left path. A swift heavy oppression belts massive across the field, the compression settling a deafening din to her ears. âHah, Gabriel, waitââÂ
But itâs too late. Her partnerâs form, long digested by the roiling clouds of black before she can call him back. Â
Somethingâs not right. An A-grade Wanderer shouldnât be able to exert that kind of pressure.Â
An electromagnetic resonance tremors across the space, as if something rattles at the confines of the protofield from beyond. Wanting in. Â
Sweat gathers clammy and unpleasant across the back of her neck, her eyes skittering back towards where Gabriel vanished into the murk. Â
She firms a hand around her gun, steeling her spine for courage. Whatever anomaly has occurred within the premises of their exam can be dealt with later. Her first priority; to help Gabriel out in eliminating all of the A-grade's clones and dissipating the distortion in front before they planned their next move. And help would arrive soon, once transmission allowed her distress signal to go through, they just had to hold on until then; she reassures herself. Â
Moving forward to stride past the muted obsidian barrier at her right. Â
The dark cloak of the Wandererâs protofield washes across her skin like skidding, frigid fingers of emptiness, it spills an involuntary shiver down her spine. Â
The cold, metallic spires of the protofield taper off into the void overhead as she steps onto the main field. A skittering figure, one, two, three; lunge, whip-swift, towards her as soon as they spot her, gaping maws and needle teeth poised to tear into her before her fight or flight reflexes jam in. She empties a volley of bullets into their bodies, sieving clean through the approaching Wanderers. Lobs of inhumane flesh, dissipating as soon as they hit the ground. Â
Several far smaller figures melt out of the darkness to aim their attacks at her; one after the other she takes down in swift shots. Breaths trembling harsh and hot, her heart hammering over its frantic beats the longer the fight persists. Â
A fatigued mistake; being mere seconds slow to switch her empty gun for another, costs her a hard, long gash sliced through the sleeve of her shoulder by the remaining Wanderer. Fire licks up across her arm in a sudden shock of pain, muted instantaneously underneath the roiling pump of adrenaline. She wrenches a dagger off her leg strap. Twisting her torso about to bring her uninjured arm up in a sharp arc, furiously tearing a split through the last Wanderer with a fierce yell and the remnants of her fraying stamina. Â
The Wandererâs remains snivel into a fire just as it hits the ground, the cool, metallic gloom giving way to the unraveling edges of the original forest once more.Â
And just as her eyes adjust to the shadows of the protofield once more, she catches sight of a figure slumped upon the grass, unmoving. âGabriel!â She yells, forcing her limbs underneath her through the pained grit of bared teeth. Clutching hard at her arm to stopper the slow rivulets of blood flow seeping from the gash before she stumbles across the grass towards the man. Â
Her Hunterâs Watch blinks, in indication of a transmission successful â her distress signal. Collapsing to her knees at Gabrielâs side just as her watch flares to life in blaring red, an ominous warning running across the screen. Â
S-Grade: Deluge Wyrmlord. Â Protofield type: Memory Distortion Solo Hunters, do not engage. Â
Her mouth runs dry at the far calls of her nameâ Â
âSpecial Gradeâ!â Gabrielâs voice resounds just from across the field. ââRun!âÂ
The collapsed figure at her feet assimilating into thin air, a trick blanketed over her weary mind, by the workings of a high-class Wanderer. Â
She feels that intense bone-crushing pressure creep across her back once more, her breath coming through in fits of raspy air. Fixing the barrel of her gun back across her shoulder, she fires, just as a great, dark talon comes across her face, drowning her in darkness.
The call has barely disconnected when Rafayel tosses the phone aside, staggering onto his feet under the heated weight of his body. His eyes drift â an involuntary reflex â towards that squeamish glow of red, his thread flickering in and out of sight, the extended length of it, an alarming sight. Vexation ticks harsh at his jaw. Â
Before heâs able to reign control, the spits of a brilliant vermillion fire spurt forth from tapered digits, rushing across the incorporeal red string, in an effort to blaze the blasted thing off of him entirely. Â
The fire dissipates, harmless, as expected, with the absence of a pure solid medium to burn. His thread glimmers to life once more, as if deriding Rafayel with its presence. Â
Beyond agitated, fervent digits pluck upwards, summoning his Evol to life for a stronger burst of energy â  Â
A sudden inundating contraction pierces in vengeance across his heart, sending a bolt of excruciating pain lancing through his chest. Rafayel flounders; violently pitching to his knees from the intensity of its sensations. His breaths are hard to smother past lungs that burn for oxygen and yet refuse to inhale.Â
Red throbs, vivid and urgent, across his ring finger, as if the call of a terrible siren, knelling of ill-fate and destruction. Â
His own fire, begs to consume, hurtling across his skin, a throat that chokes from the fervid heat of his bond, threatening to annihilate him entirely. He feels his humane features molding against the translucent glimmer of cerulean scales, his human form scattering in response to the irrefragable call of his bond, his mate. Â
Sheâs in danger.Â
Alarming apprehension dawns upon his mind, the sole thought of her throttling his mind, his oath promised, urging to call upon the one person her thread connects to, a Fate irrefutable, a bond everlasting. Â
No.Â
A savage inferno tears across Rafayelâs body â scarlet and florid licks of fire â until it engulfs him entirely, leaving nothing in its wake. Â
Silence is all that remains behind.Â
IX. EBBÂ [TW for this chapter: passing mentions of domestic abuse]
White peels back from her field of vision; slowly revealing to her the dreary, stifling atmosphere of an incredibly familiar room. A young girl stands amidst a crowd of mourning adults, some in loud tears. Others who secrete their faces into handkerchiefs and shake their heads in dismay at the âpoor orphanâ. Nausea wrestles pungent within her belly at the sight. Â
Her gaze, involuntarily shepherded, past the throng of mourners and towards the picture of the deceased â she knows that face before she sees it â her absent father who had often left her to her own devices, save for the times he was not actively trying to assault her with stray bottles of alcohol, laying in plain sight or the utensils and plates she used to serve his meals, on days he wore down all of their expenses for another swig of tepid, cheap alcohol. Â
She knows the child in front of her now feels neither sadness nor remorse as people who call themselves her relatives step over, one after the other, offering words of specious pity and solace she has no use of. Â
It was also the day sheâd met her Grandma for the first time. Â
The scene in front falls out from beneath her feet, traded for the sounds of defeated shrieks and futile violence in the tiny fists that try and shove off the social workers, from bodily dragging her away from the familiarity of her old house. The young girl screams and screams for Rafayel, begs them not to take her away, that she doesnât want to live with her Grandma several cities across the seas; a gap so wide, how would she ever find the only person who had meant the entire world to her, once more? She hadnât even told him she was leaving. They wouldnât let her leave the house, for fear she might run away. Â
Her head throbs in vicious pain, ominous tendrils of rooted fire curling through the recesses of her brain as she watches the girlâs â her â futile resistance.Â
A gibbering shadow skates past the edges of her vision. She feels like sheâs forgetting something direly important, skirting just past the edge of memory.Â
The young girl never told the adults around her of the young Lemurian boy â bonded though they were. She knew of the dark whispers that coiled through the cesspool she lived within, how the Lemurians were a species, well-coveted for how steeply priced their bodies sold for, within the black market.Â
Her fierce possession and numbing worry for her vulnerable Lemurian had kept her from ever revealing her thread in anotherâs presence. For how had any of the adults stepped up to be her protectors, ever, in the young girlâs life? She trusted no one, save for herself and her sole mer-friend. She'd promised him theyâd stay together forever; sheâd vowed upon the sole pair of glimmering seashells, theyâd found sanded within their beach, that sheâd marry him when they grew up. She hadâÂ
Obsidian smoke curls about her limbs, seeps into her lungs; a slow, poisonous ingestion. The deep, dark dreary roar of a beast sounds from afar, within the recesses of her memories. Â
âYou abandoned me.â She whips on her heel, coming face to face with her young Lemurian, eyes listless, lightless. Â
âNo.â She totters away from the horror of her nightmares manifested. Â
An ice-cold hand wraps about her torn sleeve, digits digging deep into her wound. She cries out in instinctive pain, wrenching at her arm in an effort to free it. Her wild gaze meets Rafayelâs. Older, far frigid; the present Rafayel looks at her with an insouciant emptiness, it tears at the heart bruising within her chest. âYou abandoned me,â he repeats. Â
His hand jams about her throat, lifting her clean off her feet. She throttles violently within his grasp, breaths coming in rapid, tapering hisses. âAnd then, like the rest of those shameless humans, you thought it wise to appear before my eyes once more.â The pressure upon her wind-pipe increases, bit by bit, forcing tears into wide, panicked eyes. âYou wanted to capture me too, didnât you? You're just like the rest of them.â Rafayelâs just ire, cleaves like knives shoved right beneath her breastbone, bleeding out her heart.Â
Itâs an illusion, Rafayel would never. A stray whisper catches at her ears. Â
âWould I really never? Well, aren't your thoughts so convenient. Admit it, youâve always known.â Rafayelâs gaze is dark in barely tamped wrath and disgust. âI despise you, you and all your kind.âÂ
âR-Rafayel...â The dull, grey curl of smoke â previously shifting in wait at the edges of her vision â approaches nearer, her defences swiftly waning underneath his assault. Fingers, she scraps bloody against his grip upon her throat, and yet he refuses to relent. Â
âIt would be better for you to perish here, no? You'll leave me free to live my own life then. I would no longer be shackled to you like some pet.â Â
âY-You were neverââÂ
A furious scarlet fire splinters a path through Rafayel â his body distorts out of existence for a moment before he gathers form once more. A surprised brow he raises in question at the interference. Â
âSnap out of it!â Â
Rafayel? Â
Her swimming gaze hones in on her beloved, from across the indifferent Rafayelâs shoulder, surely another wraith of her mind; wide blown panic, turbulent within his gaze. Â
âWhat do you think youâre doing believing that sham?â Another burst of Evol sparks across his fingers, aimed at the other Rafayel. Â
âYou must trust me, believe in me alone.â Another volley of enraged fire skewers through the Rafayel holding her captive â cleaving past him harmless â the latter views him as if he were an offending impediment. âThat thing is not me. Itâs trying to devour you!âÂ
âShut up,â the colder Rafayel speaks, hand jamming tighter against her throat, causing precious breaths to come through stuttered wheezes. Â
The other Rafayel steps forward, a desperate hand he holds outstretched for her; an electromagnetic interference rippling about his body, stalling his further motions. âYou have to believe the truth in front of your eyes â believe me â to be free of its prison. I have never, not for a moment, held our past against you.â Â
âAn imposter,â the cruel one says. Â
Rafayel drives another step forwards, through the whipping waves of the scapeâs resistance, snicking wounds across his jaw, tearing at his clothes. âI donât regret meeting you.â The gentle azure of his gaze sparks vivid in a deluge of emotions; misery, panic and hopeful sincerity commingling. You were â you have always been my greatest joy, my only muse.âÂ
The Rafayel that holds her captive bites out an inhumane bark, eyes fading swiftly into obsidian. âI hate you, Iâve always hated you.â Â
âDo you remember,â Rafayel urges, heaving another step closer. âthe seashells you used to weave into necklaces and put on me when we first met? You told me they made me seem as brilliant as a Sea God, your Sea God, when you did.âA splintered laugh escapes his mouth at the recollection. âEven when I told you the oceanâs gods didnât wear necklaces made of shells.âÂ
His voice breaks, emotions raw and desperate within the throaty catch of it, dragging her down the spiral of fond memories. âAnd the songs you used to hum for us in that odd, off-note voice when you were happy, youâve retained that silly habit long even into your adult years now.â Â
Emotions spurt and tumble free-fall from the inky desolation of her heart, tearing open at the seams of doubts and guilt. Â
âAnd when you are mad, the reckless storm that gathers at your face is endearing. When you forgive me just as easily, the smile that lights your face...âÂ
A distant rumble sounds through the scape of your illusions, world crumbling apart at the seams. Â
âI remember it all, like irreplaceable ornaments, treasures. Without you, Iââ He bites back, harsh, at his words. The curious blue sheen across his face, glimmers.Â
Eyes that glisten in moisture that threatens to seep past damp lashes; Rafayelâs eyes fall shut in a scraped plea. Â
Emotions fueled by the catch of a distraught mind though he were, his words snag, painful, at her throat, springing tears to flow free-fall, at the comfort of his tender confessions. She, too, remembered all there was to know about him, her Rafayel, because of how she adored him. His words and steadfast affection seeping gentle into her mind now, in swift recollection.Â
The great, dark beast in front has long shed its false skins, rattling useless in the face of her realization; it wrenches away from her body as if burned. âPestilent humans.â As it flees entirely from the scape of illusions, great, dark fractures spilling up the space with its departure.Â
She drops towards the disintegrating floor, once released, heaving in great lungfuls of air. Rafayel â the wraith of her mind â lunges forward, snatching her body mid-air against his as they fall, with the demolition of the Wandererâs illusions shattered from her mind. Â
A deluging rush of remembrance; the exam, the Wanderer, of being dragged into darkness by the Deluge Wyrmlord tumbles back into a now clear mind.Â
And this Rafayel, having stood witness to all her memories. Â
He lands on nimble feet, upon the now revealed protofield of the Wanderer; the weight of his Evol, she feels, scatter into the air. Â
âYouâre injured.â He mourns softly, fingers glancing gentle against the abrasion of her throat from where the Wanderer choked her, down her bruised arm, the blood long staunched in dark red across the cut.Â
âIâll be fine.â She cradles his face within a careful palm, face softening in overwhelming gratitude. If only she, too, could tell him how much she truly loved him.Â
Rafayel makes a skeptical sound of disapproval. A hand, he sifts up into her hair and curls about the back of her head. âHold still.â And before she can finally think to question why a figment of her mind still persists outside the cast illusion, Rafayel is pressing his lips against hers, mouth moving to part hers until she feels warmth flow into her, the shock of his actions making her throat swallow around him on instinct.Â
The dull throb at her arm, the cuts and bruises across her aching legs â breaths that seep in easier, with the patched abrasions of her throat â give way to strength as she witnesses her wounds stitch up, in disbelieving surprise.Â
âA Lemurianâs essence holds healing properties,â He breathes, heated against her lips. âour tears, salivaââ He pauses. âYouâll feel better soon.â The fever of his skin beneath her grasping fingertips, his shallow breaths come in quick; the flush across his cheekbones feels much too corporeal to be mere figment of her imagination.Â
Her eyes widen in disbelief, mind refusing to comprehend his presence. Restless hands tracing the shape of his firm body underneath hers; his neck, the strength of his shoulders, down the unyielding expanse of a solid chest.Â
It just couldnât be.Â
âAre you... real?â She slips a palm about the curve of his cheek, index and finger pinching at the flesh. âYou canât be real, you canât be here.âÂ
Rafayel chokes on an incredulous laugh. âWhat an inane question, canât you tell, silly girl?â He sounds offended.Â
A plethora of questions tumble within her mind as Rafayel bumps his forehead up against hers, moisture glistening like pearls upon his cheeks. âI can sense you. And I felt it, when I nearly lost you.â He grits out the words, chagrined; breath hitching in pain as if reliving a nightmare.Â
Her heart shrivels at his admission, aching gaze tracing the outline of his Lemurian features. âBut, I... I donât understand. You look so different, Rafayel, whatââÂ
A great ominous roar sounds from the center of the protofield, the Wanderer now having recovered from its short rebuttal of having been torn away from its prey. Â
Rafayel lets her down onto her feet cautiously. Taking her hand in his, his skin sits unbearably warm against hers, âQuestions later. We have to get rid of that Wanderer right now. Come on.âÂ
She nods at him, the two turning to face the Wanderer before they fixate their stance. Hurtling forth in tandem towards the approaching monster; weapons materializing within firm fists.Â
They rush, as one, at the large winged creature, aiming right against the base of its great talons. A shield thrown upon the Wanderer, comes half-way down with their first assault. Â
Back against his, she feels him tackle down the monsterâs onslaught of weaker Wanderers, unearthly fire blazing away at its minions. A shimmering, amethyst line of fetters gathers form with his Evol, to grasp about the Wandererâs body as it rages. She feels his breaths coming in harsher, feels the way he tightens his body through each motion of offense against their enemy â in no condition to be fighting off a high-class Wanderer with the weight of his sickness slowing him down. Â
She captures Rafayelâs wrist in hers, jolting him backwards. Lunging in front of him to take the Wandererâs next full-bodied assault. âRely on me, Iâll fight for us both!â She calls to him over her shoulder.Â
She catches his mute moment of surprise, out the corner of her eye before he bursts into quiet laughter. âWhat a reliable bodyguard.â Curving a palm about her shoulder, his Evol, she feels resonating against hers in harmony. âBut if you insist.â Weaving their Evols together to strengthen; the dark fetters that plunge forwards this time, chain about the Wandererâs girth, firmer, breaking clean through another of its shields. Â
The Wyrmlord screeches in crazed agony, ramming a heavy appendage straight for them. The two lunge in opposing directions to avoid the assault; Rafayel, a split second too slow to dodge as its claws catch at the side of his abdomen, tearing at his shirt. Â
He hurtles heavily onto the ground, body rolling across the Protofield before he swiftly catches himself, teetering back on to unsteady legs. His pants come in harsher, the scales across his face glimmering in fevered sweat; his bodyâs condition holding him back.
âRafayel!â She calls for him on an urgent shout, rushing the Wanderer from its side, to cleave clean through its shield of defense. âDonât push yourself anymore and stay back! You arenât well!âÂ
He shakes his head at her, holding his body high once more. His shallow wound, she sees, stitch up soon after, the incandescent cerulean glow of his scales striking against his features. âItâs not what you think it is.â Rafayel streaks forward just as the Wanderer attempts to take flight for a sweeping offensive.Â
He springs for the monster, using the momentum of his run, punting hard off its body; vicious chains of static purple zipping through it, to bring it crashing down onto the ground. The Wandererâs remaining shield shattered in one critical hit, bringing it down in a violent collision of great, dark wings and a massive scaled body, vulnerable to damage. Â
âNow! Rafayel instructs. Coalescing the bulk of his powers into the clench of a fist, he lunges for the Wanderer; her own movements, complimenting against his. Raising their weapons up high, their Evols converge against the otherâs in a final, galvanic purple blast of energy.Â
The Wanderer screeches one final sound of agony before it skitters lifeless at the ground, its disintegration setting into tattered fragments of energy.
The protofield around them begins to wane, jagged shards of breakage appearing across the domed surface of it, as soon as the Wanderer falls.Â
âItâs over.â She exhales, relief plucking sharp across the back of her breastbone.
âLet me take⊠a moment to catch my breath.â And with the sheer adrenaline of the fight holding him up now, gone, so too does Rafayelâs strength ebb from him entirely, as he pitches onto his feet. âRafayel!â  Just as she dives forward to catch him within her arms before his body hits the ground. âHey!â Â
Rafayelâs breathing harder, the sweat that dampens his brow far more pronounced with the appearance of his Lemurian features, glimmering scales gradually fanning wider across his skin. âStay with me, itâs over.â
And then she sees it, the flittering of vivid red, burning against his ring finger. Pulsing harsher with each labored sound of breath he endures through and her breath frosts within her lungs.
She feels the distant pattering of approaching footsteps just as Rafayelâs hot palm curves about her wrist in a possessive hold. âWe have to get out of here. I need to get home.â Â
The frantic calls of her name echo across the field; she lifts her head to catch sight of a pale-faced Gabriel, waving his hands at her from just across the area. She shouts at him to stay where he is, cradling Rafayel closer to her torso for fear of his scales being seen.Â
In this moment, she cannot bring herself to care for anything except providing what Rafayel needs; the frenetic urgency to his words enough to have her obeying without questions asked. Â
Calling for her teammate, once more, to let the others know they were both alright and that sheâd be back at a later time before Rafayel urges her thoughts back to himself.
âThatâs... enough. Come now.â He moans within her embrace, just as Gabriel utters an unintelligible question of confusion. Her Lemurianâs fingers spasming against hers, âHold tight.â he grinds out, before theyâre both engulfed in a florid sea of fire. Â
X. FLOODÂ
The two of them come crashing onto a hard, polished surface; Rafayelâs arms tightening about her body in protection, just as his shoulder connects with the floor, with their fall. Deposited into the empty safety of his room â she notes in shock â by his Evol already shriveling out of existence. Â
He shudders in visible pain beneath her, just as she scrabbles to get off his body. âIâm sorryââ The ferocity of his strength, however, hauls her back, bodies crushed against each in a firm, searing line.Â
Rafayelâs pants rattle hot against the skin of her neck; the harsh rise and fall of his chest, she feels burn against her own, even through their clothes. He keeps them enclosed within that sweltering space of silence for several, long moments.Â
Reaching her fingers out to comb through his unruly hair, in comfort, the adrenaline of their fight having fast shifted into worry for his health. Â
Why had he decided to come after her in the fevered state he was in? How had he even known to come for her? The questions, unanswered, careened about in an endless cycle within her mind.Â
Her Rafayel shifts, face sinking deeper against her breasts. Nosing, delicate, at the space exposed by her open collar as he inhales, long. His previous labored breaths seemingly soothed in her proximity, as he continues to breathe her in.
Her next gasp soughs past her lips on a catch of barely tamped sound, Rafayelâs gaze rolls up to meet hers â hot and piercing. Â
âRafayel,â She cups a hand about his warm cheek. âLetâs get you off the floor now, youâll worsen your fever.â Â
He knocks his cheek further into the space of her palm, lashes quivering shut, in comfort. âI told you... itâs not a fever ruining my body.â He repeats the words heâd uttered to her back in the Protofield. Â
âItâs you.â Her mind jostles to a screeching halt. Â
âWhat?âÂ
Rafayelâs body tightens beneath hers, the lean strength of his arms coming about to lift, with an ease entirely unexpected of a sick man. He moves them both onto the expanse of his bed, seating himself down, with her firm on his lap. âIâve been going through these feverish bouts because youâve been calling for me.â He heaves. âIâd never experienced them before because weâd neverââ his words break. Rafayelâs fingers slip a slow, cautious path along the base of her spine, it makes her shiver above him. âI couldâve lost you,â he murmurs, âback there.â Hauling her close once more to sink his face into the crook of a tense shoulder as he breathes her in deep.
âIâm here now, Iâm fine.â She soothes a gentle palm down the line of his back, the mild quivers that take it, muted into rest with her strokes. âThank you for coming for me earlier.â
âOf course I did.â His grip upon her body tightens. âYou called for me.âÂ
She rakes her fingers through his hair. âI... did not call for you, Rafayel. Even if I did, itâs impossible for you to have heardââ Â
âSilly girl.â He captures her hand within his hair, entwining his fingers in between hers. âDo you not see?â Bringing their palms up close together for her to witnessâ
Red flitters about her ring finger, vivid â her heart jostles over its beats â the line of it longer and far corporeal, glimmering within the dark of his room, spiraling an undulating path up, up. Â
Finding its other half, caught against the base of Rafayelâs finger. Her breath seizes within her throat at the sight, wary gaze tracing the line of the previously absent thread against their fingers. Not daring to believe the implications of the sight and what Rafayel too was saying. âHow could thisâ I thought we wereââ
âA Lemurianâs very being is set to perceive their beloved, in their entire capacity. Without exception.â He brings their entwined fists up to his mouth, feathering a kiss onto her knuckles apiece. âAnd I have not changed since the first moment I met you.â Â
The heat of his words is within her head, the frenzied hammering of her heart within her throat. She dares not breathe too loud, dares not speak for fear of this precious moment shattering. The inference of his words could not be clearer and yet. A fleeting recollection of the Wandererâs cast illusion comes to mind, the cold Rafayelâs unforgiving gaze flashing against hers. Â
âHas your heart then... changed?â He asks, the wavering azure of his gaze fixated firm upon hers.
She caresses the back of her fingers against his cheek, down the line of his jaw. âIt has not, not for a single moment in all these years butââ She whispers. But could you ever forgive me for leaving you on your own?Â
âIâm not asking you for anything beyond that. I donât care for it.â He shifts a thumb against the line of her lips dampened with a nervous swipe of her tongue. âIâm asking to know if the woman I love is willing to accept me again.â Â
Her breath hitches within her throat. Turbulent emotions burst forth within her chest at his words, a sweet ache quivering at the back of her breastbone, the magnitude of his words she isnât able to comprehend. Unable to believe the words sheâs been wanting to hear him say, all this time, leaving that beautiful mouth.Â
She surges forward onto his lap, desperate to answer the man whoâs entrusted his heart so keenly into her hands. âI never stopped in the first place.â She speaks, adamant. Her fingers brush at his face, down the length of his neck to hold. The pads of them grazing the beauty of his scales, glimmering within the moonlight that shafts into the quiet dark of his room through the gauzy curtains. âIâve loved only you all these years and by god, Rafayel, I donât think I could ever love anyone but you.â Sheâs out of breath and dizzy in love, itâs a feeling she never wants to clamber out of, if it means heâd continue to look at her, just the way he is now.
She hears the audible throttle of his breath; a low, anguished sound, as if sheâd told him something heâd considered entirely impossible. Rafayel had seemed so sure of her feelings, and yet, he looks at her now, with a relieved sort of devotion and desire. âWhich god?â His whisper is sultry, his gaze along with the heat of his skin beneath have her feeling faint within his embrace, the flex of his arm tightening its hold about her waist. Â
She tips her head closer, her lips shaping her answer a mere breadth from his. âMy Rafayel, my own Sea God.â She braves a kiss against his mouth. âI love you.â She confesses, âI love you soââÂ
Rafayel heaves forwards, filching the rest of her words right against the desperate tongue he sweeps into her mouth. Lips moving against each other in a mesh of reckless teeth and tongue, refusing to release from each other. Her fingers catch at the fabric of his collar, in a bid to drag him closer. Rafayelâs palms, a stable hold about the flare of her hips as she bucks against him in instinctual desire at the feeling of his tongue sweeping into her mouth. Her core grazes against the distinct line of his stiff arousal, straining beneath the placket of his trousers. Â
Rafayel moans a low, throaty sound against her damp lips. âThis is your fault,â he whispers, feverish. âYouâre the one who has left me so vulnerable.âÂ
The turbulent seas within his gaze burn luminous, the gentle florid pinks of his irises swallowed within the blue that takes them. The scarcity of his scales now fleshing a path from his face. Down the graceful arc of his neck and across the expanse of his clavicle. Disappearing just under the line of collar of his shirt. She treks a reverential path about his beautiful Lemurian features; a shuddered exhale leaving Rafayel, in his inexplicable state of heightened sensitivity. âDo you know whatâs wrong with me?â He seizes her exploring wrist within his gentle hold, halting her movements. His chest heaves once more in vehement, anguished pants, his skin impossibly hot beneath hers.
âNo, tell me whatâs happening to you. Why are youââÂ
ââso sexually aroused?â He supplies, mouth skewing into a smile with the hot flush of her cheeks. Â
â...I was going to ask about your humane features unraveling but that too. You're... burning up.â Â
He sighs against her glancing touch, at the scales of his neck. âEach year, when the moon shifts phases and the tides ebb from the shores, bonded Lemurians go through an inevitable period of increased sexual activity. We are,â he pulses a delicate kiss to the inside of her captured wrist. âextremely vulnerable during this time, our base appetites, near insatiable, unless we bear it through with our bonded mates.âÂ
A streak of desire spurts within her chest, seeping down into her abdomen to pool in between her legs. âSo then, all this time, you were...âÂ
ââSickââ, he continues, âbecause I wasnât funneling my desires with my mate.â He tugs her close by her imprisoned hand, murmuring, hot, within her ear. âwithin my mate.âÂ
A low moan of desire breaks from her lips at his licentious provocation. Â
âIâve never experienced one before.â He confesses heavily. âI wasnât sure what it was, when it started; the time of the year seemed to coincide with my symptoms but we werenât bonded... not to my knowledge.â Rafayelâs gaze treks against the shimmering line of their thread, re-connected. âItâs a rarer miracle for it to find itself weaved against the ones it broke in between, more so than it is for the thread to re-emerge in between new lovers.â He laughs; a low self-deprecating sound. âFate really played me for its fool.â
She murmurs his name, gathering his hand closer to press a reverent kiss against his ring of red at his finger. âI love you, Rafayel.â she reiterates, dragging his wide, wavering gaze back towards herself, letting the irrefutable truth of her words sink in. That itâs not Fate that tugs at the cogs of their bond now, but her feelings, unchanged as theyâve remained. Â
âPromise me,â he implores. âPromise youâll continue to see me the same, no matter how many years pass us by. Promise youâll stay by my side this time?â Â
Her answer rushed, eager, yearning to soothe. âYes. Yes, I will. I want to stay by your side.â Stealing her arms about the broad strength of his shoulders, to pull closer. Â
âDonât let me go.â Rafayel breathes. Their mouths crush against each other in a consuming kiss; an urgent prayer he makes of her name.Â
Each time she squirms atop his lap with the force of his kisses, her increasingly damp core shifts in glancing strokes above his clothed length. Her fingers jolt about Rafayelâs shoulders, sinking harsh into the skin through cloth, with a particularly ruinous lap of his tongue into her mouth. Â
Her fingers fly for the clasps of his shirt, rushing down the length of buttons, generously revealing the unyielding expanse of his chest, the line of his toned abdomen. Briefly trekking the warmth of his skin with the pads of inquisitive digits before her mouth follows suit, drifting from Rafayelâs to kiss a path across the firm expanse of his chest. Slicking a gentle tongue right above his heart in devoted gratitude for the one who loves her so wholly.Â
She glides a slow palm down his abdomen, appreciating the tremulous clench of muscles, underneath her touch. Her coveting digits pause at the metal clasp of his belt, gaze canting up to meet Rafayelâs in silent request. Â
âYes,â he grinds out, through arduous pants of her name. âItâs yours, Iâm yours, do as you please.â She pushes off his lap, dropping onto her knees in between his legs at his affirmation. Rafayelâs breaths hitch higher within his throat, at the snag of her fingers reaching to swiftly undo the fastenings of his belt, pulling it clean from its confines to discard it onto the floor of his room. Her palm slips down the line of his zipper, stimulating him impossibly harder as she works to release him from the confines of his trousers. Â
Until Rafayel sits there; her devastatingly alluring Lemurian, near-naked, save for the shirt that sags against broad shoulders, and the remaining modesty of his underwear. She takes a moment to control her shaky breaths before her thumbs slip under the waistband of his final barrier, keeping him from her gaze. Sliding the garment in one careful stroke, down the strength of his legs until she tosses it off to the side. His cock springs to full length, freed from its confines, hard; it curves, slight, towards his abdomen, the gentle slick of minute bluish scales running along the underside of his shaft. A thing of beauty, just as its owner.
The twitch of his length within her grasp is palpable as she moves to work an admiring fist about it. A lone bead of pre-cum sits upon the flared head of his cock; her tongue darts out in instinctual rapacious desire to sweep it into her mouth. The sweet-salt tang of him she hums against, in a soft moan, âI love how you taste.âÂ
Long, tapered digits thread through the fall of her locks, curving a loose fist at the back of her head. Her eyes traveling up his torso to meet his, bright in aroused impatience. It makes her want to flip that expression over into something entirely different. She tips forwards, lips falling apart to take the head of him into her eager mouth, just as Rafayel rewards her with his first approving groan. Tongue slicking about the head of him to lick, down, at a vein just underneath the flare of his head. His hips judder up into her face with the action, slipping more of him into her welcoming throat. âWhatâre you doing to me?â He moans, in gravelly rapture. âYour mouth feels divine.â Â
She feels the clench of her own abdomen at his praise, wetness seeping further into the cloth of already damp panties. Her mouth slips further down the thick length of him, working him deeper into her throat as she tries and relaxes against the instinctive gagging intrusion of him. A shuddering string of words, he makes of her name, in overwhelming arousal, help her along on his cock. Until she is sliding about the length of him, back and forth, tongue drooling its spit down the expanse of his cock she cannot fit into herself. Â
His fingers have tightened into a near-spasm within her hair, not nearly enough it hurts, holding her fixated in place; the pads of his digits tracing soothing, encouraging circles about her scalp as she sucks at his cock. âYouâre doing so â agh â so well.â The fingers of his free hand, Rafayel brings to curve, delicate, about her jaw, tipping up; her eyes finding his, on silent instruction. Â
He looks entirely gone, the rugged flush of his cheeks enticing as it dashes across his ears. Springs down the crescent of his neck and across the firm expanse of his chest. Rafayelâs cock hits the back of her throat on her next intake; she swallows against the heady swell of him, deliberate, measured, refusing to relent her gaze as she does. It immediately has the effect she desired; Rafayelâs next breath rattling out of his chest on a wrenched groan of pleasure, the blue of those inhuman eyes glistening brilliant as he propels his hips into her, in a reflexive bid for more.
His fingers skid along the underside of her jaw, where mouth meets throat, grazing for the place he knows she has him settled inside. A long, tapered index, he flicks down the line of her neck â she swallows on instinct, dragging another choked moan out of him as reward â before it comes to rest at the buttoned collar of her shirt. âOff.â He murmurs, hazily. Deftly unfastening open the first few buttons before he curves his index beneath her collar to tug. âTake it off. I want to see all of you when I come.â Pooling a blush into her cheeks at his sweetly sensual appeal.Â
She pulls her shirt over her head, lured along by the nimble hands that drag her close, reaching around her, to undo the clasp of her bra before he coaxes that too, off her body. Mouth falling slack, cerulean flashing vivid, in flared arousal and want; to witness the heaving tremble of her breasts as she descends on him once more.Â
Rafayel eases stray locks of her hair back against her ear to better afford himself the view of pink, moist lips parting to swallow around him once more in renewed enthusiasm.Â
Her hands flitter about the length of him, slick slide aided by spit and pre-cum as she moves to work her tongue around the tip; the broad of it she teases at the slit, making Rafayel shudder above her. Slipping, slow and sure, down the generous length of him, insatiable desires flooding in the clench of empty walls, for the brimming taste of him within her throat.
Rafayelâs pants have turned far harsher, sporadic in impending release. She continues to ease her tongue about his length, her palms soothing down the tense muscle of his thighs before she moves to cup her fingers about his balls. âIâmââ Rafayel snaps. Â
The skin beneath her fingers tightening, as she sucks about his shaft, to help him along the final stretch of his incoming release, swallowing up to the base of him in one forceful go. Her throat constricting in protest at the rough intrusion. Rafayel groans out loud â frenzied palms pressing at either sides of her head to force her off of his cock, just as he comes in thick, spurting strokes, across her cheeks, her nose; down the curve of her chest. Â
âI canât take it any longer,â he rasps. Hauling her onto her feet by her arm, he tumbles her back onto the cool, crumpled sheets of his bed.Â
She barely has but a single moment to catch her breath â more from the surprise of his vehemence â before the shorts of her uniform, are being wrested off her body in the fervent catch of desperate fingers. Rafayel gets the material half-way down her thighs before his long-frayed patience snicks off entirely; a cool rubescent fire licks up clean across the material, blazing the offending cloth away entirely. Â
Sheâs left dumbstruck, pleasure-addled mind wrung in between faint amazement at his precise Evol manipulation and mild offense at his ruination of her uniform. âWeâll get you a new one.â He heaves â as if heâs read her mind â in between kisses laid onto the instep of her bare leg, working up across her calf. âAs long as you let me have you right now, Iâll do whatever you want.âÂ
Her breath seizes within her throat at his sultry request. Rafayelâs palms trace about the shell of her hips, curving about the sides of her abdomen before he caresses them up her stomach, pressing, light, into the yielding flesh. Her body shudders beneath his testing caresses. One of his hands steals down the cusp of her clothed mound, index and middle stroking at her labia above panties, before he skates them in between her folds. The two moan in unison; to feel how drenched she is for him. Â
Her body squirms against his, begging for more of that sweet friction. Hips bucking up into his hand to force more of him against her aching slit. Rafayel towers above her, the delectable flush across that slack, sensual expression has her fluttering in on emptiness, her hole aching to be filled completely â as if she too has taken on the fever of his desires, writhing in phantom heat. Her drifting mind wonders for a fleeting moment, if a human bonded to a Lemurian could experience the mind-numbing lust of their cycles, along with their partners. That stray thought, she believes, with each passing second he riles her up in delirious rapture. Â
Holding himself above her upon the crook of a folded arm, Rafayel descends for her mouth, covetous tongue savoring a moan against hers. She feels the hot, wet strength of his cock â already firmed to stone once more â rolling against the inside of her thigh. Just as he slips a long, tapered digit past her underwear, to curve it directly against her soaked opening. Her hips jump violently at the contact, her squeal of arousal Rafayel pilfers against a throaty chuckle. âYouâre so wet.â Pressing up into her to make his point, the audible squelch of her slick, loud within the quiet night. âAre you enjoying this, my love?âÂ
âIsnât,â she gasps, heat gathering, strong, into her face. âisnât the answer obvious?âÂ
Rafayel hums, the skew of his smile tugging higher; a slow, relishing tongue he runs across his upper lip, end to end. And before she can think to parse the intention behind that wicked gaze, Rafayelâs palms are cupping about the soft of her ass â digits pulsing into pliant flesh â to shear her underwear off, lifting her hips up to shove his tongue in between her legs.Â
Her next sound leaves her on a shriek of pleasure, blaring stars wheeling across her field of vision. Fervid digits she convulses into the yank of his hair, in a manner that has to hurt and yet Rafayel makes no move to budge back, mouth sinking deeper against the wet flood of her heat. He curves his tongue up against her fluttering walls, sweeping at the slick. Nosing a stifled hum against her clit and that is all it takes for her over-sensitised body to break, spasming into a prompt, violent orgasm that siphons the breath from her lungs and the voice from her throat. Â
Dazed in her floating awareness of the scrupulous mouth that continues to suck at her folds, laving away all of her released desire for himself. And when she sinks a quivering hand into tousled locks in whimpered protests of being too sensitive, all Rafayel offers her is an impish chuckle pressed into the soft of her thigh, right beside her mound. âYou had your fun, didnât you? Itâs my turn now.âÂ
With that sensuous warning uttered, his mouth returns its attentions to her weeping slit once more, lips closing about the nub at her apex, sucking gentle at the bead. The jump of her hips Rafayel conquers, in the indolent arm he shackles about her waist, fingers reaching to hold hers across the quivering pliance of her stomach. Â
The broad of his tongue laps a path above her entrance, catching at any stray slick that leaks from her before he eases the tip of it back into her slit, relishing the clench of her walls in a throaty groan. He continues to prolong that titillating torture of his, edging his tongue at just the entrance of her pussy, till her body burns once more within the kindled flames of a cresting orgasm. Â
âRafayel, there â hah â right there. Rafayel.â Sliding that tormenting tongue into her walls once more, to her relief, to the mewls of his name flooding like rain from a parched tongue, the spasm of her fingers she smothers against their entwined digits at her abdomen. Â
âSing higher,â his stuttered groans smothered enthusiastic, into the drench of her slit. Tongue curling up against her frontal walls, in a drag that has her fracturing under his mouth once more. Tears sprung to lust-hazed eyes from the overwhelming arousal wrought upon her body under Rafayelâs dexterous tongue. Â
He exhales a pleased sigh against her mound, each heated breath causing shivers to jump across tender skin. A kiss, Rafayel lays right against her swollen clit.Â
âOnce more.â Her walls clench in wrecked protest, a whimper leaving her throat at his whispered words. âGive me just one more.â He entreats. âI need your taste in my mouth again.â A flitter of kisses he strokes against the line of her pelvis, her mound; dark gaze rolling up to meets hers from in between her legs. She flushes at the intensity of their contact held, without mercy. Her wordless squeeze about her hand given, is all the permission her hungering Lemurian requires to sink back towards her wet heat. Â
Tapered digits reach to shape a path about the sensitive bead of her pleasure, pinching in between steady, pleasurable strokes. Before they descend lower, coveting towards her fluttering entrance. Rafayel presses up, gentle, into her walls to coax wetness onto his digits with each drenched thrust of his fingers into her. Â
His hand releases from hers, palm drifting up across the plane of her body to cup about a pliant breast. Fingers caressing a circular path about her areola in soft, stimulating strokes and she quivers at the sensation, breaths coming in short, stifled bursts of air. Â
Rafayelâs mouth closes about her clit, just as the arch of his fingers hit at a particularly hot, sensitive spot within her pussy; walls spasming about his fingers, swallowing him in. His name soughs past her lips on whimpered gasps with each steady thrust of him up into her walls. Â
The pads of his digits tweak about the puckered bead of her breast, thumb denting gentle at the bud, sending a jolt of arousal straight in between her legs. Â
Rafayel continues to lap her up, dutiful; his lashes descending in pleased satisfaction just as her third, mind-numbing release crests through her body, leaving her skin a drenched, ruined mess Rafayel sucks at, in throaty moans of delight. Â
âRafayel,â she urges, unable to stand the searing desire heâs put inside her, body hungering for the heat of his cock in desolate emptiness. The overwhelming desire to feel his heat flooding into her, with how long heâs strung her dry for himself. She catches his face in between tremulous digits, pulling him from in between her legs to meet his gaze, dark in fervent desire. âI need you inside me now.â Â
Heated obscurity scatters momentarily from his eyes at her fevered request, hips rolling against hers so she feels the hot strength of his arousal brush against her inner thigh; her gasps breaking into the air, at that brief second of contact. Burying her next moan in the vicious bite of teeth at his clavicle, when his cock ghosts across her mound, so close to where she wants him. âIf youâre sure you want this...â He groans in ardent murmurs against her mouth. Â
Her clambering response is swift and eager. âI want this, I want you.â Â
âIâll let you have me,â he relents in between their wet kisses. âthis time, all of me. So drown with me, my beloved bride. Love me.âÂ
Just as he snaps his hips forwards, the head of his cock pressing her open for himself. The delectable stretch of him, so easy within the drenched warmth of her body as it ravenously sucks at him, all the way in. Rafayelâs searing groan of pleasure, he breaks against her jaw; mouthing, mindless, at the taut skin. Â
The union of their bodies, have left them both winded, without breath to draw into aching lungs; several moments they take in between heated gazes and consuming kisses, unmoving. Growing accustomed to this new, exquisite feeling of being so deeply intertwined into each other, she feels she could live like this against him for the rest of her life. Â
Until Rafayel begins to move and her world explodes into turbulent sparks of blinding pleasure, unlike anything sheâs quite experienced before. His hands are upon her body, covetous digits flittering in between them to touch at dewy skin. Testing his touch against the trembling give of her breasts. Mouth capturing a pert nipple into his mouth, to suck until she keens underneath him. Â
Her ankles hook about the base of his spine, dragging Rafayelâs propulsions deeper into her. A stuttered moan, she throttles out of him, at the stimulation before his hand steals about her ass to lift her lower body entirely off the bed. Angling his hips, Rafayelâs thrusts turn impossibly deeper, with the assistance offered in their new position; his pelvis grinding flush against hers on each fevered plunge. âYouâre perfect around me, so very â hah â warm,â he grinds out in heedless praise, hips snapping against her harder, in rising intensity, in chase of a hovering orgasm. Â
She moans in appreciation around the tongue he slips into her slack mouth in yearning want. âRafayel,â she chokes out. âIâm so close.â Â
âMe too,â he groans, shifting his weight forwards to lean against the crook of his arm at her side. His fingers trek up a path against her slack arm, digits entwining through hers, the line of their red thread flickering in between them both as they approach the crest of their combined pleasures. Â
âI love you,â she sobs in between quivering gasps; his gaze crinkling in warmed affection and desire so acute, it drags another whimper out of her. Â
âI love you.â Rafayel declares, into the catch of his kisses against her mouth, her cheeks, down the crescent of her jaw. Laving a kiss into the curve of her neck in a worrying bite of teeth, marking her for his own. He switches his pace once more, cock spearing up against her frontal walls in frenzied thrusts. âCome for me,â he beseeches.Â
Jaw falling slack in a daze of undulating desire when she obliges at the heated scrap of his words, tumbling over the edge in an orgasm so vehement, her spine arcs clean off the bed. âYouâre so good for me.â He worships.
Cresting waves of pleasure, she rides in the hard clench of her walls against Rafayelâs throbbing cock, pulsating hot within her until he too follows soon after. An incomprehensible swell of his cock inside, rising with its pulsations, has her gasping out a low, keening sound at the aching stretch of her pussy, it prolongs her high onto wondrous, searing moments of dizzy elation. Her toes curling into the sheets as the steady bulge of him catches at her walls and snags inside, hot spurts of cum surging into her, so much of it, she feels light-headed from how stuffed he has her. Just as Rafayelâs head falls low, on a loud, long groan of release.
Their damp breaths break against each otherâs mouth for several moments that follow after, as they try and muster their senses back to themselves. Her fingers tracing absent, soothing circles along the curve of Rafayelâs spine until his trembling body stills to a gentle lull above her, quieted in the wake of their vehement orgasms.
A strange, fascinating imprint, throbs scarlet right above his heart â in the fleeting likeness of a fish â just as Rafayelâs rattling breaths abate. Captivated fingers she ventures, to trace against the edges of the mark. â...What is this, Rafayel?â Â
âA sign of Lemurian loyalty.â A quiet smile tips across his face at the question.
The swell of breathless surprise, she knows is upon her face. âMy devotion, here on, itâs yours to do with, as you please.â A kiss he buries into her palm in overwhelming affection. âIâm allowing myself to be trapped by you.âÂ
A low sob of adoration breaks from her throat at the words, just as the proof of his vow fades fast into his skin. A hand, she brings about his neck, to haul him down against her, to treasure a kiss right above where his heart thrums its beats, elated desire burning warm within her chest. Â
Rafayel moves above her, maneuvering their positions until she rests at her side, within the circle of her arms, bodies still conjoined. His cock â she realizes with dazed shock â is still hard within her body. âAre you afraid?â He asks, gentle fingers carding through the mussed tresses of her hair. ïżœïżœIâll need you much more times before Iâm sated, you know.â Â
She shakes her head at him, palm moving to cradle against his cheek. âI want all of what you have to give me, Rafayel. Iâll take it all.âÂ
He drags her closer by the hips at her affirmations; his touch along the back of her ass tending a slow fire back up within her weary body, as he moves to hoist her leg up against the cut of his hip. Â
And she lets him show her just how profound a Lemurianâs devotion to his beloved truly runs, throughout the entirety of the night and into the greeting of dawn â a depth as unbounded as that of the Oceans.
End Notes: Tagging as requested: @samanthagnicole , @catboi-anon , @bitches4lifebro
If youâd like to be tagged in my future stories, you can fill this short form here.
You can also find me on Ao3 and twitter, if youâd like to scream with me about hot characters.
#love and deepspace#love and deepspace fanfiction#LaDS x reader#LaDS Rafayel smut#LaDS Rafayel x Reader#LnDS Rafayel x Reader#LnDS Rafayel#rafayel x reader#rafayel x mc#rafayel x you#rafayel l&ds#rafayel love and deepspace#LnDS smut#LaDS smut#love and deepspace smut#love and deepspace x reader smut#LaDS x you smut#LaDS x reader smut#LaDS Rafayel x Reader smut#qi yu x reader#qi yu love and deepspace#lads rafayel#rafayel#janussary#you are so queu(t)e
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Bro. This is not convincing me you don't just want an acceptable way to hate women. Like...at all.
Whenever someone specifies âwhiteâ as an unnecessary adjective to an otherwise unrelated rantâŠie âwhite Christian,â âwhite able-bodied people,â etc, opinion discarded
#politics#missed a spot check#have a nice life i guess#even when you are down to derision and mockery#there are ways to do that that don't involve racism and sexism#fail#racism#sexism
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My hot take is that Luka didn't actually impersonate Sua
And here's why.
Ok let's start by making this clear â Luka canonically knew about Sua and has analyzed Mizi and Sua's relationship to hell and back based on their My Clematis performance before Round 5.
"In the interview, Luka responded as if he had no interest in Mizi, but in reality he had thoroughly analyzed everything about her after watching her duet stage with Sua. In her confusion, Mizi becomes a mere plaything for Luka."
â Director's Commentary, ALNST Artbook
He precision-designed Round 5 to systematically push Mizi to her breaking point by using Sua and her death in Round 1 â everything from the performance, his expressions, his intonations, his timing, the choreography, down to the very song choice (he presumably didn't pull out ROMH for Round 4, and he didn't save it for the finals/Round 7 as he may have intended).
However, what wasn't on that list, was impersonating Sua.
Let's take a look at what happened on stage:
Luka opens up the sequence by catcalling her right off the bat, abruptly intruding her personal space in the first of many moments to come.
"You're the perfect subject, with the whole world in your sad eyes."
"My savior, beautiful soul..."
He proceeds to condescendingly give praise to how beautiful she is in her broken state, glorifying the trauma that made her perfect.
"I don't believe. You're a liar."
All the admiration of which, they both know is just a pretense.
Then comes the most important part.
Sua's hallucination appears.
You tell me, is that a Sua expression?
No! In fact! Sua resembles Luka here.
So what's actually happening in this scene?
Well if you look at the lyrics when she appears, you'll find this:
"When our darknesses overlap, let me take it all away."
Sua appears because Luka is directly addressing Mizi's "darkness" here, aka her trauma aka Sua, and offers to take it away. Therefore, Mizi is the one doing all the heavy lifting of hallucinating her.
Again, is this an expression that would remind you of Sua?
What he DOES do here, is continue to invade her space and touch her intimately like a lover would, which he had been doing since minute one.
Remember: the theme of Round 5 is contract marriage.
He touches her not as Sua would, but as a lover would, because that would be the easiest way to provoke Mizi, who had just lost the love of her life and is now "tied" to him.
If you check the timing of Sua's hallucination's appearances, you'd find them not when Luka "admires" Mizi for her beauty, or when they sing "ruler of my heart" as you'd expect if he was actually trying to echo Sua, but when the lyrics address the despair and trauma Mizi is facing.
Ironically, the only times in this performance that Luka plausibly resembles Sua, is when he adopts his blank doll face away from audience eyes.
Yet you can see that Sua never appears in any of these shots because that's not how Mizi would've remembered her. We can confirm that with which real memories appear in Round 5, specifically behind Luka in the theater scene and during Mizi's breakdown.
(Can you tell I've long reached my photo limit and had to make cuts)
Mizi remembers Sua at her happiest, because Sua was always her happiest when she was with Mizi.
And this is exactly the loss Luka effectively spits on.
Mizi: My world is collapsing
Luka: Lol yeah whatever
There is such a purposeful, derisive mockery embedded in how Luka treats the subject of her loss.
"Make me your god, I can give you everything."
Not, "I am your god," but "replace your god with me."
You'll notice that what he offers here isn't a new "replacement Sua," but the audience.
Catcalling, smirking, manhandling her like a ragdoll, condescendingly looking down at her, overt mockery, revelling in the cheers of an audience that's crazy for him. There is nothing he does in Round 5 that even remotely resembles Sua or is meant to resemble Sua.
Where would the resemblance be? His pretty face and white clothes? White was, and has always been his signature outfit color. Round 5 wasn't a special occasion for that.
So.
Tl;dr Luka did not actively impersonate Sua. But he did commit mindfuckery on several levels.
-
Bonus:
Luka -> Mizi [Intimacy 0%, -]
It's stupid and foolish to not be able to control even one of your emotions.
#something always bothered me about the luka will impersonate mizi or luka will impersonate ivan comments#and i think i figured out why#not saying echoes of mizi and ivan WONT appear in round 7#but reducing luka to a one trick pony ooo whos he impersonating this time seems like its ignoring what type of mindfuckery he works on#alnst#alien stage#alnst luka#alien stage luka#alnst sua#alien stage sua#alnst mizi#alien stage mizi#mizisua#alnst theories#i give up#tumblr posted this post FIVE times before i was done#do you see how long it is#i had to reconstruct it every time#i give#this is the version you guys are getting
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second sight | cregan stark x oc (part ix)
a/n: on today's episode of Stark angst-fluff, it's all bloodshed and swords. And death.
The gates of Winterfell groaned open, a shadow yawning into the night, and Cregan felt the cold settle through him in a way that wasnât simply the midnight air. Beneath his calm, the rage lay coiled, ancient and fierce, thrumming with the need to strike. He could feel it stirring, a force under his skin that heâd kept at bay for too long.
Tonight, the reckoning had come, and his enemy came as heâd least expected: alone, at the gates, a twisted mockery of honour that demanded restraint when every instinct demanded blood. His grip on Ice was steady, yet his mind roiled, fixed only on Sylasâthe man who had touched what was his, hurt what was his, and now dared to stand in the shadow of Winterfell, the home Cregan had vowed to protect, alone and smirking in the night.
âSo,â Sylas called out, his voice echoing mockingly across the courtyard. âThe wolf king. Winter itself.â
No allies, no horses, no men. Just one man and the scent of fresh blood dripping from the carcass heâd brought like some cruel gift. The insult seethed in Creganâs mind. It was more than a challenge; it was a mockery, a claim that Sylas the Grim feared no man, not even the King of the North.
Creganâs expression remained stony, but his eyes narrowed, catching every sneer and glint of derision. Sylas was baiting him, testing for cracks in his stoicism. But a wolf doesnât bare its teeth to bark; it saves them for the kill.
âYouâve brought breakfast?â Cregan asked, his voice sharp, restrained. His gaze flicked to the mangled reindeer, its blood staining Sylasâs shoulder and leaving a dark trail in the snow. âThought you came with more ambitious intentions than a mere dead hart.â
Sylasâs grin widened, yellow teeth bared in something almost akin to amusement. âA civil gift, my king. I donât need an army. Just a seat by the fire, and the wolf to see to it.â
Cregan crossed his arms. âMy hearth is for allies and friends,â he said with an edge to his words. âMy guestâs seat isnât set aside for those threatening the Lady of Winterfell.â
Sylas laughed, the sound coarse and feral, resonating with the ancient and untamed. He glanced over the quiet battlements, then back to Cregan, as if taking in the walls that had withstood centuries.
âAye, your pretty princess. Talked you up, she did. She seemed sure you were no ordinary man.â Sylas shook his head in mock disappointment. âI expected a king, maybe even a monster. And here you are, just a boy, wrapped in fur.â
A ferocity flickered in Creganâs eyes, but his voice was calm, tempered. âAnd you came here alone, claiming a guestâs right?â His lips curved slightly, coldly. âBold, for a man who sought to break the North.â
âBold?â Sylas echoed, a dark gleam in his eyes as he stepped closer. âMore like knowing what I want. I want the North, boy. And then more...â
He let his words hang, his eyes glinting with unspoken challenge.
The blood in Creganâs veins pulsed his hand itching for Iceâs hilt. But he held still. He came alone, Cregan reminded himself. Honour bound him to the rules of hospitality, however, twisted they felt tonight.
âWell,â Cregan replied coolly, though the anger simmered like a fire under his words. âYou've come bearing meat and hollow promises, but if itâs fire you seek, youâll find it. As for the rest...â His lips curled in a threat. âWhen the last bone on that deer has been picked clean, Iâll feed you to my direwolvesâmeat and all.â
The wildling smirked, shifting the dead weight on his shoulder with a shrug. He took a step forward, the weight of his insolence heavier than any army.
âGood. Iâll take that fire.â
X
Cregan watched Sylas with thinly veiled disgust, his jaw tense as the wildling devoured his meal like a starved animal. Sylas tore the meat with his bare hands, juices dripping down his fingers and settling in his beard, where bits of bread and meat clung, smeared carelessly as he bit into the next piece. Each tear, each wet, ripping sound only served to deepen Cregan's revulsion.
This was the man whoâd claimed he wanted to take his wife, the one who would lord over his people and his legacy? The wildling seemed a filthy joke of a threat, and yet, here he was.
As if summoned by some inner protest to this vulgar display, the oak door whined open, and Claere entered. She was freshly bathed, her silver hair gleaming in crowning braids, her dragon-riding leathers perfectly pressedâa deliberate contrast to the wildling seated like a beast across from Cregan.
He stiffened, irritation rising as he caught sight of her. It was mere hours past the hour of the wolf, she waltzed in like it was the first light of the morn. He had to make sure her violet eyes held consciousness, that this was not her on another one of her sleep-walking rituals.
Heâd told so many to keep her away if she woke, to make excuses or detours, anything to spare her from this savage again. Yet here she was, gliding in as if she were the queen he knew her to be, composed and unnervingly calm. She stepped forward, her gaze briefly assessing Sylas before she met Creganâs eyes.
She bent down and kissed himâa light press of her lips on his, murmuring, "Good morrow, husband."
That kiss arrested him, a public display she rarely indulged in. Usually, it was he who initiated, who sought the reassurance of her touch. Now, she was sending a messageâto him, to Sylas.
Cregan's gaze darkened as Claere settled beside him, her calm demeanor a direct contrast to the storm brewing within him.
âClaere, love,â he murmured lowly, leaning toward her, his voice tight with a warning. âThis is no placeââ
She cut him off with a light smile, reaching over. âThe bread, please? Iâm famished from last night.â
The casualness of it jarred him, yet he passed her a slice with reluctant, guarded hands. She spread it with honey, added a thin layer of cheese, and bit into it. Her movements were practiced, gracefulâthe kind of elegance that felt all the more pointed in the presence of the feral man across from them.
A stillness fell over the room as Claereâs gaze lifted, settling unflinchingly on Sylas. His smirk froze, and for a moment, he seemed to falter, something almost indiscernible slipping behind his eyes as he took her in. The hungry glint in his stare intensified, though his smirk started to die under her silent, unwavering regard. She merely took another bite of bread, the faintest smile tugging at her lips as she chewed, deliberate as it was unbothered.
âLord Sylas,â she spoke at last, her voice smooth, lilting with a quiet steel. She wiped the edge of her mouth with a thumb. âCome to draw first blood?â
Sylasâs grin returned, wider this time but edged with something darker. âIâd draw the dress off you if I could, little queen.â
Cregan's hand slammed against the table, plates clattering, as his eyes hardened. His voice came in a low, fierce growl. âFilthy cuntââ
Claereâs soft laugh, muffled behind her hand, slipped into the silence. She let it settle before dropping her hand, her expression calm.
âForgive him, dearest,â she said lightly, glancing at Cregan with a wry sparkle in her eye. âWe mustnât expect manners from a rabid dog who strays beyond his territory.â
Sylasâs gaze sharpened. âMisplaced loyalty.â His eyes flicked to Cregan, then back to her, almost mockingly. âI would be a kinder lord. I never thought Iâd see such a shiny thing descend so low... to a Stark.â
Claereâs stare never wavered, her lips curving faintly again, but the edge in her voice was unmistakable. âDescend?â She tilted her head, the movement controlled, slow. âFrom where I stand, the only descent I see is yours, Sylas. After all, itâs my husbandâs home in which you sit. Like a vermin, starved for scraps.â
Sylas's smirk dimmed, his eyes flashing with irritation before he forced a grin that showed far too many teeth. He leaned back, folding his arms.
âFunny words from behind his shield,â he said.
At that, Cregan's hand jolted toward Ice, but Claere placed her own hand over his, a patient, restrictive touch. She met Sylasâs stare, her voice so soft it was nearly a whisper, yet it was unmistakable in its authority.
âThen try your hand, Lord Sylas,â she replied. âBut remember this: before you reach for the Iron throne, youâll need to survive me.â
Sylas laughed, though the gleam in his eye was feral and frustrated. He tore into another bite of his food, his gaze burning into them both. Still, Cregan could feel the shift in the room, the silent power Claere held even as she sat there, composed, calm as she drew her husbandâs hand up to her lips in an unexpected, calculated kiss on his knuckles.
And at that, Sylas fell into a strained silence.
The old wildling spat a chunk of bone to the ground, licking the grease from his fingers with a careless smirk. He leaned forward, eyes flickering between Claere and Cregan, a sly gleam in them.
âDidnât come here just to fill my belly, boy,â he rasped, voice low and rough. âI came with a deal.â
Creganâs grip tightened on the edge of the table, his knuckles pale against the wood.
Creganâs hand gripped the arm of his chair, his knuckles whitening. âDon't waste your breath. Your deal holds no interest for me,â he replied harshly.
âYou might be.â Sylas grinned, something feral in his smile as he leaned back, chewing on the edge of a grin. âSee, I'll give you what you want mostâyour North, all of it, untouched and free. No raiders. No bloodshed. It's yours, I'll ride on South. The price?â
His gaze slid to Claere, his expression raw with crude intent. âHer.â
The weight of his words settled heavily. Creganâs face hardened, his fingers flexing on the hilt of his longsword as he met Sylasâs gaze with unyielding fury. âYou think Iâd trade my wife for your empty oath?â His voice was cold, a quiet danger laced within each syllable. âYou think thatâs all I want for her? A future of enslavement and shackles?â
Sylasâs smile only widened, his gaze flicking back to Claere. âPeace, on a plate. A truce,â he went on, voice almost mocking. âFor the little queen.â
Beside him, Claere sat perfectly still, her calm presence masking the tension rippling through her. Her eyes narrowed as she regarded Sylas, collected, even as his intentions became glaringly clear.
âThere will be no trade,â Cregan said with finality, his tone leaving no room for argument. âShe is mine, and neither your threats nor your offers will change that.â
Sylas tilted his head, his face a mask of disappointment. âPathetic,â he murmured, rising to his feet, and towering over them both. âIf she doesnât come with me, Iâll take your home, every inch of it. And when I do,â he said, leaning close enough for Cregan to catch the bitter edge of his breath, âIâll take your head too.â
âThen I suggest you start taking your aim,â Cregan rose to his feet, stepping close enough that Sylas could feel the threat radiating off him like heat. âBecause youâll have to kill me to take her. And I don't die easy.â
A dangerous smile played at the corner of Sylasâs mouth. He glanced down at Claere one last time, eyes brimming with twisted satisfaction.
âSo be it,â he sighed. âI'll kill you first.â
Sylas's grin twisted as he reached down to the table, plucking a sharp bone shard from the remains of the deer meat. With a snap of movement, he lunged, aiming for Creganâs shoulder.
Creganâs reflexes were as quick as they were honed, sensing the threat before it even surfaced. He sidestepped the wildlingâs strike, his hand latching onto Sylasâs wrist in an iron grip. With a twist, he forced Sylasâs arm down, the bone shard falling to the floor as Sylas struggled against his hold, sneering in frustration.
âNot before the lady,â Creganâs voice was a low, lethal rumble, his hand shifting to Sylasâs neck. He tightened his grip, enough to make the wildlingâs breathing hitch, and leaned close.
Claere simply scooted her chair away from them, taking a short sip of her water.
Creganâs grip only tightened, his face a mask of simmering rage. âYouâve already overstayed your welcome,â he growled, voice low, deadly. âYou want a fight? I wonât sully my ancestorsâ hall for the likes of you. Weâll finish this outside.â
Sylasâs eyes gleamed, his smirk twisting into something feral. âGood.â
Without another word, Cregan released him, shoving Sylas back a step. The wildling stumbled, then righted himself, his grin still plastered across his face as he spat a dark glob onto the floor between them. Cregan watched him, gaze cold and unmoved.
âHope youâre ready to bleed, wolf,â Sylas sneered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the room heavy with anticipation.
X
Dawn barely crept over the horizon, casting a grey, ghostly pallor across the courtyard. Cregan stood, his breath misting in icy clouds, muscles taut as he faced Sylas before the towering gates of Winterfell. The wildling was a solid wall of muscle, twisting a brutal-looking axe in his hands, its edge darkened by countless kills. A ring of soldiers circled the two men, their eyes shifting between them with tense anticipation, breaths sharp in the biting cold.
Sylas grinned, a dark gleam in his eye as he rolled his shoulders back, his size and coiled power making him look like a beast unfurling for a strike.
âYou're smaller than she made you sound. And here I thought you'd have some big fangs.â
Creganâs gaze remained steady, unfazed. âIâve faced wilder beasts than you in these woods.â
Sylas barked a laugh, lifting his axe as he advanced. âAll but me.â
The first swing came roaring and fast, almost catching Cregan off guard. He parried with Ice, though the impact sent a jarring vibration through his arms. Sylas was quick and ruthless, and as they traded blows, he drove Cregan back with brute force, step by step, the ground slick beneath them.
Clang. Thud.
Each blow echoed across the silent courtyard.
Their eyes met briefly as Cregan steadied himself, bracing against Sylasâs next assault. Sylas sneered, breathing hard, the wild gleam never leaving his gaze. âLady Stark spoke of you like you were a god,â he taunted, swinging his axe again. âBut it seems sheâs only good at telling pretty tales.â
Cregan twisted his blade up to parry, gritting his teeth as the clash of steel echoed. "You talk too much,â he growled, landing a swift kick to Sylasâs chest.
Sylas staggered back a step, laughing. âSoon she'll be telling those tales to our sons by your fire, wolf."
Creganâs grip tightened around the hilt of Ice, his knuckles white as he steadied himself, but Sylas was relentless. With a brutal shove, Sylas sent him sprawling again, and the ground came up to meet Cregan in a hard, unforgiving blow. He gasped, feeling the sting of steel biting into his arm as Ice slipped free, the blood seeping quickly into the frost-bitten earth beneath him. The soldiers around him shifted, some whispering, others simply watching as their lord was brought to his knees.
Sylas circled him like a wolf sizing up wounded prey, the twisted grin on his face stretching as he tilted his head to the gathering crowd.
âSo this is the wolf of Winterfell? Your king?â he sneered, his voice a mocking growl. âBrought low by a wildling. Tell me, Starkâwhereâs my little queen?â
Cregan staggered to his feet, pain radiating up his arm, vision blurring as he forced himself to keep his footing. Sylasâs eyes glinted with malice, revelling in every faltering step, every gasp of breath Cregan couldnât quite catch.
âYouâd think the witch would have the decency to show,â Sylas taunted, his voice growing louder, pitched to the soldiers listening in. âOr has she slunk away, letting you bleed for her wrongs?â
Cregan braced himself as Sylas closed in, teeth gritted against the pain, his stance unyielding. But Sylasâs taunts sank on him, gnawing at his focus, his strength ebbing as Sylas struck him hard across the chest. The air was forced from his lungs as he dropped to a knee, every nerve searing with the agony of his wounds.
Sylas grinned down at him, his voice a sneering whisper. âLook at you. A beaten mutt. Unfit to rule.â He leaned closer, voice dripping with venom, âWhere is she, huh?â
His words went ignored. With one last surge of strength, Cregan forced himself upright, eyes locking onto Sylas, rage and defiance blazing. He was battered, barely able to stand, but heâd face him to the last breath if it came to that. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives, his father had said to him once.
Let the lone wolf die. Let him die.
âShe burns like the cold,â Cregan said in a painful breath.
X
The bedchamber flickered with dim firelight, casting shadows over the map sprawled between them. Claere and Cregan stood side by side, alone and cloaked in silence, their eyes fixed on Winterfellâs drawn walls and the ragged paths marking where Sylasâs forces would come. They needed no counsel tonight; only themselves.
Claere's face was unreadable, her gaze shadowed, and Cregan felt the weight of something beyond hesitation. He wanted to pull her close, to let his warmth dispel that cold distance, but he held back, tracing his fingers over the edges of the map instead.
âSylas will move fast,â he murmured, his tone low and matter-of-fact, though his eyes drifted toward her face. âIf he pushes hard enough, heâll think he can break us here.â His finger tapped the curve just south of Winterfell. âHeâll press his men until theyâre inside the keepâclose enough to choke us in our own walls.â
Claereâs eyes didnât waver, her expression carved in something colder than heâd ever seen. Yet, beneath it, he sensed a dread she kept buried. For a moment, he thought she might ask for a different way, to use a slower plan, anything to avoid the fire and fury he saw in his own mind.
But instead, her voice came, soft and impassive. âIf heâs brought them all here⊠then Luna can burn them out. It will turn the tide.â Her fingers brushed along the edge of the map, pausing over the paths the wildlings would take, but her gaze held his. âI donât see any other way.â
Her solemn words struck him harder than the battles theyâd fought. Sheâd chosen this herself. Reaching across the map, he laid his hand over hers, feeling the coolness of her skin and the fire behind her eyes. He tightened his grip, his voice coming in a quiet murmur.
âLunaâs flames will stop them before they ever reach the walls.â His grip on her hand grew, as if by force alone he could keep the determination he saw in her from wavering. âIâll take Sylas myself when he comes through. When he sees the fires, heâll know whatâs waiting for him.â
Claere looked back down at the map, though her hand remained within his. Even a blind man could've seen that strength in her, unwavering, yet something in her silence twisted his own resolve.
âYou donât have to do this, love.â His voice softened, the words almost breaking the silence like a plea. âYou owe them nothingânot after what theyâve demanded of you.â
She stilled, her fingers brushing a line on the map that led from Winterfell to the wilds beyond. Her violet gaze lifted, meeting his, and her voice came faint but sharp as a dagger.
âI brought him here, Cregan. If Winterfell burns, itâll be by my hand, not his.â
He took in her words, feeling both pride and a chill he couldnât shake. There was no stopping her once sheâd spoken like that; he had learned this much. He released a slow breath, his hand still on hers, though his grip softened.
âTheyâll protest,â he murmured, almost to himself, knowing the lords would sneer at her volatile dragonblood the minute they caught wind of the fire in her plans.
She smirked, a faint, bitter twist of her mouth. âThen let them protest. Their words have always come cheap in our halls.â
There was nothing left to say; they had both chosen.
His voice was a rough whisper. âAnd when Sylas comes to the gates, heâll meet me there. Your fire will bring his men to ruin, and his death will be by my hand.â
Her expression softened then, something flickering in her eyes. She gave a slight nod, the unspoken words holding between them as surely as any vow.
âThen let it be us,â she said, her voice quiet but relentless, âand only us.â
X
Claereâs silhouette merged with the pale light of the oncoming sun, crouched upon Lunaâs back. Her silver braid whipped in the frigid wind, streaking across her face as she peered down at the advancing figures belowâSylasâs wildling host, oblivious, like ants on a thread, skittering through the shadows toward Winterfell. Her heart clenched, not only with tension but with a sense of sickened resolve.
Claere took a steadying breath, reaching down to soothe Lunaâs scales as the dragon rumbled beneath her, ready, eager, alive with a hunger for the command. This was what she wasâshe was a weapon of fire and wings.
âDracarys, Luna,â she whispered, her voice firm, though her mind wavered. Fire, Luna.
Luna inhaled sharply, and the first jet of flame burst forth, tearing through the forest edge. The fire lit up the gloaming, a roar of blistering fury erupting from the dragonâs throat, tearing through trees and flesh alike and consuming everything in its path. The inferno roared so ferociously that Claere flinched, though she held firm, her gaze steeling even as her stomach twisted. Her thoughts churned as she took in the fireâs path below, eyes lingering on the wild devastation.
This wasnât herâit was Luna, this was her dragonâs fury flowing from her through the fire. She could almost feel her resolve shake as the flames danced in her vision, searing images of charred trees and wildlings scrambling, scattering, disappearing. She repeated the words in her mind like a chant, Lunaâs rage, not mine, though she knew even as she said it that it wasnât entirely true.
Her breath shook as she leaned closer to Luna, coaxing her to move over the battalion attempting to retreat. The dragonâs energy surged as they neared. She stroked Lunaâs side, voice soft but firm.
âLykiri, Luna,â she soothed, her words almost trembling. âDracarys.â Easy, Luna⊠fire.
Luna twisted mid-air, exhaling another wave of flame across the retreating soldiers below, sealing off their escape and turning the ground into a seething sea of embers. The dragonâs power coursed through her like a shiver, fierce and foreign, rattling her bones with its wildness.
The fire roared in her ears, and she looked down, on the scattered remains of Sylasâs army, their encroachment on her home, and her family. She watched as the smoke and flames lifted, wrapping Winterfell and Winter Town in a curtain of fiery defence. She took in the devastation below and fought the bile rising in her throat, her mindâs whisper growing weaker.
They came for Winterfell, for her people in Winter Town⊠they brought this upon themselves.
As the last embers died down, Claere closed her eyes, her voice barely above a murmur as she stared into the inferno, her gaze distant. âSepÄr hae Daemon vestÄs. Lyks mÄzigon mÄrÄ« isse perzys, gevie riña,â she whispered. Just as Daemon said. Peace comes only in flame, beautiful girl.
Lunaâs fierce eyes glowed with residual heat, the dragonâs heart steadying beneath her. But Claereâs was anything but; her hands trembled as they left Lunaâs scales, her mind, her heart now divided as they looked back over the ruins and toward Winterfell, her home now shrouded in the grim peace she had called forth.
X
Sylas barely registered the smoke rising from the treetops before Cregan advanced with a limp, his eyes dark with a calm that promised violence. The distant shadows of smoke from the burning woods curled into the sky, and for the first time, the feral wildling's bravado faltered.
"Looks like your men werenât prepared for dragonfire, Sylas," Cregan remarked, his voice a low rumble that echoed across the men around him.
Sylas bared his teeth in a sneer, a wild, desperate glint in his eye. âI donât need an army to take what I came for, Stark,â he spat. Yet his voice held a shake that betrayed him.
Creganâs smirk was cruel, almost feral. Every step forward held the essence of Winterfellâs legacy, its unbreakable fortitude, a promise to the blood spilt for his land and kin. He swung his sword with controlled precision, matching his enemy's wildness, each clash of their blades filling the cold air with a raw, metallic shriek. Sparks shot out, tracing wild patterns against the snow as Sylas staggered, his strength now fraying against the brutal tempo of Creganâs attack.
Sylasâs grip tightened, his movements turning frantic. Blood streaked down his hands, his breaths ragged as he swung, his attacks growing wild and uncoordinated. But he kept a cruel, bloodstained smile on his lips as he glanced toward the trees.
âYou think this is over, Stark?â he snarled, forcing the words through grit teeth. âIâve men coming to gut you like a fish. Soon enough, youâll be choking on your own blood.â
Creganâs expression hardened, a cold amusement flashing in his gaze. He nodded toward the columns of smoke, his voice barely a whisper.
âWhat men?â
Sylasâs sneer faded, his face going slack as realization washed over him. The inferno in the woods, swallowing his last line of defence. His final hope, his reinforcementsâgone, turned to ash and embers under dragonâs breath.
Sylasâs eyes widened, and he stumbled back, a denial trembling on his lips. âDragon cunt.â
But there was no more room for mercy here.
Cregan allowed Sylas one desperate reach for his blade, granting him the illusion of a fighting chance. The wildling lunged, his hands flying to the hilt at his hip, but Cregan shifted in one swift motion, letting his own sword slip to his left hand, then right again, like an executioner judging his swing.
The motion left Sylas exposed, caught off balance, and Cregan moved like the crack of thunder, his strikes hitting with unrelenting force. Sylas staggered, his pride and strength reduced to shallow, desperate parries.
Breathless, Sylas raised his sword once more, a final snarl erupting from his throat as he swungâbut it was too slow, too obvious. Cregan ducked under the wildlingâs strike, pivoting as he brought his blade up in one final, swift arc, the blade sinking deep into the base of Sylasâs neck. Sylasâs eyes widened as he gasped, choking on the blood pooling in his mouth, his strength bleeding out into the frozen ground.
Cregan held the sword steady, watching the fading light in the wildlingâs gaze. When Sylasâs body slumped to the ground, he released his grip.
His gaze lifted to the familiar, haunting shadow of Luna as she swept above Winterfellâs wallsâa silent harbinger of peace, however fleeting it might be.
Behind him, voices rose in triumphant cheers, the soldiers shouting to the grey, wintry sky.
"The King in the North!"
"The Winter's Queen!"
The chants rang across the battlefield, a victory anthem echoing off the stone walls and into the depths of Winterfell, where blood had been shed to ensure its unyielding hold on the North. And though the men cheered, Creganâs gaze remained faraway, fixed on the horizon, where the smoke still curledâa reminder of the price paid for peace.
"The King in the North!"
"The Winter's Queen!"
X
As the last echoes of victory faded over the frozen fields, Claere soared above the remnants of battle, Lunaâs wings slicing through the northern winds, her shadow vast and ominous against the frosted earth below. She descended with the grace of a winter storm, Lunaâs silver scales gleaming under the grey sky, and as they landed near the ragged camp of wildlings, the ground shuddered beneath the dragonâs weight.
The wildlings huddled together, the children clutching their mothersâ legs, the old men narrowing their eyes in defiance mixed with dread. Fear rippled through them, but Claere remained impassive, her gaze steady, unyieldingâa reflection of Winterfellâs ancient walls.
Some among the Freefolk, their voices hardened with anger and grief, spat curses and slurs at her, calling her âwitchâ and âmurderous southern cunt,â hatred simmering behind the fire-stoked fear in their eyes.
Claere absorbed the words, her face an unmoving mask.
A single thrumming, ear-splitting roar from Luna stilled the camp, silencing even the most defiant. The great dragonâs eyes glinted like molten gold, her breath thick and hot, and the Freefolk felt the implicit warning in every bone.
Lifting her chin, Claere addressed them, her voice cutting through the cold air, calm and regal.
âAll who wish to remain in my land,â Claere proclaimed, her voice resonating like a royal decree, âshall find protection here, beyond the Wall. I shall see that a settlement is forged near the Wallâs garrisons, where you may rebuild your lives, under the laws and traditions of the North. Take this as my utmost mercy.â
Her gaze swept over them, cutting through the crowd like steel, lingering on the wearied lines of their faces and the guarded suspicion in their eyes. âBut you are Freefolk still,â she continued, her voice unwavering, regal. âThose who choose to return beyond the Wall may go freely, unscathed, provided you keep the peace in return. Understand that this fate was never one I wished upon your people.â
An uneasy murmur ran through the crowd. Many looked to one another, mistrust mingling with a hesitant hope, and one bold voice called out from the throng, roughened and raw.
âWhy?â he demanded. âWhy would you even care to cross the Wall? Why bring all this ruin?â
Claereâs expression flickered with a shadow of something unreadable, the barest trace of sorrow or perhaps defiance, but her answer was a mystery as if whispered from deep within.
âThere are things beyond the Wall that need no reason,â she said. âI came for what lies beyond choice, beyond blood and oaths. Some things demand to be answered. And it's best they remain that way for some time.â
As Claereâs words hung in the frosted air, a quiet ripple moved through the crowd, each face etched with its own choice. Slowly, some of the Freefolk began to turn, gathering what little they owned, their faces set toward the Wall. They were the ones who would return to the wild, to the life they had always known.
But many othersâmothers with children clinging close, the elders with their exhausted eyes fixed upon herâstayed where they were, watching the figure of the dragon queen with something like reverence and fear.
Claere took them in, her gaze softening for a fleeting moment, an acknowledgement of what lay ahead for them, and for her. She gave a single, solemn nod, a gesture that was both promise and farewell, and it was enough.
She gave them no further explanation, only that faint, haunting smile that seemed to come from another world entirely. As she climbed back upon Lunaâs back, the great dragon unfurled her wings, her shadow stretching over the encampment. A dragon and a queen united in strength, mystery, and resolve. With a powerful beat, Luna launched them into the sky, and Claere looked down upon the land, her silver hair streaming like her own banner.
Below, the Freefolk watched as the Winterâs Queen disappeared into the northern sky, a figure both terrifying and triumphant, half Targaryen fire and half Stark frost.
The last vision of her was etched in their memoriesâa queen of two bloods, the very image of winterâs heart and fireâs wrath. A ruler, a legend, her name destined to echo in both hearthside tales and whispered fears for generations to come.
X
I don't know, I feel like I let people down with this. sorry everyone. I really expected more from myself with this.
one more to go, we still have much more to see!
[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!
#cregan stark#hotd cregan#dragon dreamer#fire and blood#house targaryen#hotd#house of the dragon#cregan stark x you#cregan stark x oc#cregan stark x reader#cregan stark imagine#cregan smut#cregan angst#cregan fluff#game of thrones x reader#cregan x you#cregan x oc#cregan x reader#cregan x y/n#cregan stark x fem!oc#cregan stark fanfic#cregan fanfiction#house of the dragon fanfiction#hotd fanfic#cregan stark x targaryen!oc#cregan x targaryen!oc#winterfell#the north remembers#direwolves#cregan stark x dragondreamer!oc
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Happy 28th! Here is my September 2024 fic rec, organized by word count, from longest to shortest. You can view my other fic recs here. Enjoy!
Godless, Graceless, and Young by kiddle / @bluejeanlouis (110k)
Seattle, Washington, 1991
It takes a special breed to have a slacker persona and still be a millionaire rockstar. Harry is about halfway there. He's the guitarist in a Seattle grunge band that could finally be headed somewhere, but he's also been sleeping on his bassist's sofa for the last three months and has been fired from every day-job he's had. Money doesn't equal success, but it does pay the bills.
When a job offer and a new lead singer stumble into Harry's life, he might be getting a lot more than he bargained for. Like a couple of extra gigs and a boy who can teach him more than just how to mix a few drinks, and it's gonna take a few band brawls and a whole lot of heart-searching to get there.
He's gotta have one somewhere...
Coax the Cold by mediawhore / @mediawhorefics (86k)
England, 1897. Â
English Professor Louis Tomlinsonâs passion for the occult has been a source of mockery and derision for most of his life. When he hears whispers of a travelling freak show newly established in London claiming the existence of a monstrous sea hybrid, half-man, half-fish, Louis sees it as his ticket to credibility amongst his peers. The summer he spends undercover working on the show, however, gives him much more than that.
Late Nights and Good Intentions by princelouisau / @princelouisau (71k)
âAbout last night,â Harry says suddenly, as if heâd been debating on whether to say anything. Louis whips back around to look at him.
âDo not finish that thought,â Louis says just as abruptly.
Harry looks at him oddly, as if assessing him. With a small frown, it seems the assessment is over. âI only wish to say that you do not have to dwell on it. The rest of the men will surely forget by tonight.â
âAnd you?â Louis asks, raising an eyebrow. âWill you forget?â
âI will remember every second of it fondly,â the Lord says, no trace of a tease in his words. or, a Victorian era au where Louis pines for his overprotective older brotherâs very charming best friend.
For You, I Would Ruin Myself by wildestdreams / @thelavendrhaze (54k) WIP
It was the perfect last day of summer. They built sandcastles, wrote their names in the sand, and caught crabs, which they eventually let go when one of them pinched Louis and he was near tears. Afterward, they swam in the ocean, splashing each other playfully before moving toward one another in sync, lips pressing together in sweet kisses. When their skin turned prune-like, they returned to shore, laying out on their towels beneath the bright sun, snacking on fruit and chocolate while talking about everything and nothing.
At some point, Harry had shared, âI think this has been my favorite summer yet.â
âWhyâs that?â Louis asked, a smile peeking out as though he already knew. He looked so pretty and cool with his sun-kissed skin and black Ray-Bans covering his eyes.
Harry rolled over on his towel until he was half-pressed against Louis and placed his palms on top of Louisâ chest, tucking his chin over them. âBecause I had you.â
or
Harryâs unrequited crush on Louis turns into a whirlwind summer romance, only to leave him heartbroken in the end. Years later, a return to his hometown forces Harry to confront his past and the one person he was running from.
Tarnished but so Grand by tilthesundies / @tllthesundies (32k)
Louis hides in places. Harry always finds him.
I'll Be Your Love Tonight by dinosaursmate (20k)
âI donât know how Iâm ever going to walk away from you.â âSo donât.â Harry ran a fingertip over Louisâ thigh. âStay with me.â - It's the summer of 1999 and Louis Tomlinson has been abandoned at a house party. A dispute over Smirnoff Ice and several night buses later, Louis is unsure how he'll ever walk away from this lovely, curly-haired boy.
Green in the Morning and Blue Afternoon by wildestdreams / @thelavendrhaze (14k)
âHarry,â Louis whispered beside him.
Harry hummed, his hand coming up to stroke Louisâ back. Louis was still on top of him, his body sagging against Harryâs, heavy and warm, and Harry loved it.
âI donât think it was a one off.â
âMe either, Lou.â
or a Friends AU.
A Few of My Favourite Things by sweariwouldnt / @sweariwouldnt (8k)
Harry and Louis do cat sitting.
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Honestly, too, the biggest thing you can do between now and the ballot booth to stop Trump is to, in your day to day life, treat support for him like a big joke at the expense of the supporters. Make it cringe. Yes, he is evil and a legitimate threat, and yes, it will be dangerous if he's elected, but his supporters like evil, like being threats, and want the dangers of his being elected to happen
What they hate and fear is being the object of ridicule, which is, in fact, the appropriate response to meeting someone dumb enough to support that man. Create an atmosphere in real life where people who support him know that people are laughing at them behind their back. They love to "trigger the libs" and they think scaring people counts as impressing them, but they hate to be targets of mockery, and if you want to depress Trump's turnout at the polls, put this one idea in the heads of his supporters: "if I support Trump, they're all gonna laugh at me."
Seeing a MAGA hat or a Trump sticker in public should yield the same level of derision and mockery as seeing somebody driving a cybertruck.
Like, obviously pick your battles (remember some of them have guns and none of them are very smart or secure in themselves or else they wouldn't support him) but I promise you, the core demographic targeted by his base is "insecure people who want to feel like a big man" and making people understand that Trump supporters are viewed as scared little babies who need encouragement from a failed game show host to feel like a big man without pissing their pants will undercut the primary incentive for supporting him
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Question:
Has anybody ever forgiven aziraphale?
Like. I know it's pretty rare for aziraphale to own up to when he's done something wrong and rationalizes away his cognitive dissonance. But that behavior, while encouraged by Crowley, is out of self preservation.
With heaven there is no room to question, but there's also no room to make mistakes. Small ones are met with mockery and derision, not forgiven. Big ones? Whether it means losing his post on earth, or Crowley, or his own life, there is no second chance for aziraphale.
There's no point in apologies. Sure, he'll grovel or lie or fawn, but simply apologizing and telling the truth is just. Not an option.
He's willing to forgive heaven and Gabriel and tenants and Crowley, but cannot imagine that same kindness being extended to him. He was created in a system that reinforced the idea that he should be infinitely patient and understanding, but that he doesn't deserve the same.
And so he's constantly dealing with shame and guilt and grief and regret that stacks and stacks and hasn't had an outlet for 6000 years. Repression of those feelings is mandatory to survive the system, and remain functioning.
This of course is then perpetuated into his relationship with Crowley. He could ask for forgiveness, but he doubts it will be given, not without conditions or atonement. Why not skip to the groveling and do the silly dance? It keeps things vague, less vulnerable. There is safety in ambiguity.
He knows he can't be forgiven, but having that unambiguously confirmed, hearing Crowley tell him so directly?
He would break.
#good omens#good omens meta#good omens season 2 spoilers#good omens spoilers#good omens 2#good omens season 2#aziraphale#crowley#religious trauma#internalized shame#text
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Parker Molloy at The Present Age:
During his acceptance speech as the Democratic vice-presidential nominee on Wednesday night, Minnesota Governor Tim Walz shared a deeply personal story about his familyâs struggle with infertility. As he concluded by saying, âHope, Gus, and Gwen, you are my entire world, and I love you,â the camera caught his 17-year-old son Gus standing up, tears in his eyes, pointing to his father and exclaiming, âThatâs my dad!â
It was a sweet display of familial love and pride â a rare moment of raw emotion in the ordinarily carefully choreographed world of political conventions. For many viewers, it was surely a timely reminder of the human beings behind the political personas we see on stage. However, what should have been universally recognized as a beautiful father-son moment quickly became fodder for cruel mockery from pro-Trump social media accounts. The contrast between Gus Walzâs sincere emotion and the derision it provoked from the right offers a troubling glimpse into the state of political discourse and the depths to which partisan attacks have sunk. This not only highlights the lack of basic human decency in certain right-wing corners of our politics but also raises important questions about how conservatives view emotional expression, particularly from young men, in the public sphere. Not only is Gus a minor, but heâs also neurodivergent. People recently ran a story about the Walz family and what Tim and Gwen Walz have come to refer to as Gusâs âsecret power" â a non-verbal learning disorder, ADHD, and anxiety disorder.
Tim Walz told People:
["When our youngest Gus was growing up, it became increasingly clear that he was different from his classmates," the couple tell PEOPLE. "Gus preferred video games and spending more time by himself." The statement continues: "When he was becoming a teenager, we learned that Gus has a non-verbal learning disorder in addition to an anxiety disorder and ADHD, conditions that millions of Americans also have."]
Itâs a sweet article that makes the attacks that would follow Gusâs display of emotion that much more unacceptable. Anti-LGBTQ activist Terry Schilling of the American Principles Project mocked Gus Walz, writing, âTim Walzâ son Gus wears eyeliner.â Prominent pro-Trump Twitter accounts Dom Lucre, Colin Rugg, and Autism Capital all mocked the 17-year-old. âGet that kid a tampon already,â wrote a right-wing podcaster Alec Lace. Trump ally Mike Crispi called Gus Walz a âbeta bitch.â Right-wing radio host Jay Weber called Gus Walz a âblubbering bitch boy.â Ann Coulter called Gus Walz âweird.â You get the idea.
Right-wing beta losers doing what they do best: insult people.
This time, itâs Gus Walz, the son of Tim Walz.
#DNC2024
#Gus Walz#Tim Walz#Gwen Walz#Neurodiversity#2024 DNC#Hope Walz#Walz Family#Collin Rugg#Dom Lucre#Terry Schilling#Ann Coulter#Mike Crispi#Jay Weber#Autism Capital
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Re: toxic masculinity being 'dressed up in twisted-pro-feminism reasoning'
This is so damn relevant to me right now. I just unfollowed an account for making fun of a man for being significantly shorter than his wife. I'm so goddamn tired of the way self-proclaimed progressives still insist on bodyshaming men because they're viewed as acceptable targets.
Bodyshaming in general is already anti-feminist, but the idea that being short makes a man worthy of mockery is peak toxic masculinity. The idea that there is only one way to be a man, and that any man who doesn't fit that narrow view is lesser and deserving of derision is literally what we're supposed to be fighting against.
I'm just so damn tired.
Itâs deeply, deeply exhausting. People will claim to be feminist but be totally fine engaging in sexism as long as itâs against men.
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Have a snippet from that one holy warrior au. thanks to @ent-is-indecisive for helping me come up with a title for this fic. i'll be tagging it as stasis in darkness for easy tracking. this is part of a rough draft so it probably will be modified by the time i finish the damn thing and make it ao3 ready. but my brain's kind of stuck and needs a kickstart to get it going again, so i thought i'd share it and hopefully get motivated again
It happened again.
â
The fourth night:
âIsn't it true the King of Darknessââ
âLord of Night.â
âYeah, him. He controls all the monsters in the dark and sets them on innocent people for fun. Donât see why youâd want to throw your lot in with a god like that.â
âBecause he doesnât. He takes care of nighttime animals. Bats, coyotes, owlsâŠâ
âThe scary ones, you mean.â
âNo! Besides, he takes care of cats, too. Cats arenât scary. Theyâre, you know, cute.â
âHmm. If you say so.â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean? You got something against cats?â
âOf course not!" The man said, sounding mildly offended. Steve opened his mouth to go on about the Lord of Night's chosen creatures but the man interrupted with, "Well, look at the time! Later, gator.â
The man ran off with a grin not sparing him a second glance. Steve stared after him, baffled.
âWhat the fuckâs a gator?â
â
The fifth night:
âDon't you know your King, excuse me, Lord of Darknessââ
âNight. Lord of Night.â
âSame thing. He helps criminals evade justice. Pretty sure that oneâs true.â The man lounged lazily on a nearby boulder as he asked. Kind of like a cat, Steve noticed with a trace of amusement that was easily smothered by annoyance at the man'sâŠeverything else.
âHe helps people who travel by night. Most of the time theyâre just night workers or people with nowhere to go. The ones that are shunned for being different or the ones too poor to afford safe shelter.â
âHuh. Alright, explain the horse thief thing, then, if heâs so good and noble.â
â...fine, heâs got a soft spot for horse thieves but thievery isnât that bad of a crime in the grand scheme of things.â
âHa! Sure,â the man conceded. âBut! You canât deny that this Lord of Night cursed people with terrible nightmares that left them sleepless and suffering for days. To the brink of lunacy, some say.â
The man said it with triumph, as if with this heâd finally break Steveâs faith. Steve shrugged.Â
âAll gods get angry.â
âAnd thatâs okay? Youâre fine with him inflicting mind torture on some poor mortal just because he threw a tantrum?â
âFirst off, he wouldnât just throw a tantrum," Steve said with exasperation. He might end up throwing a tantrum if this guy persisted. "I donât think heâs the kind to get angry easily. And second, the people he cursed before always deserved it. Besides, he helps with good dreams, too. Itâs not all bad.â
âUh-huh, I totally believe you," the man said, heavy with mockery.
âLook man, if youâre so against the Lord of Night, why are you still here? Why do you keep coming back and bothering me?â
â...curiosity?â
âWell, be curious quietly. I need to pray.â
â...he probably doesnât even have prayers.â
âI said shut up, man. I need to concentrate.â
The man leaves without any more fuss.Â
â
The sixth night:
âYou have a lot of faith in a god who lost his own name. Does he even have any holy texts left?â
âDustin could only find one, but that was enough.â
âReally? Other gods have entire libraries of stories and whole tomes of holy words. They have temples and monasteries all across the land of mortals.â The man motioned derisively at the crumbling statue. "This thing here is barely a shrine!"
âHey, I'm working on that, alright? It's going to look great when I'm done with it," Steve protested. "And so what if he doesn't have more? Robin says quantityâs got nothing to do with quality.â
âYeah, but the other gods are remembered for a reason. That counts for something,â the man's voice lost some of that smug edge. He fiddled with the hem of his fraying shirt as he spoke.Â
Steve refused to rise to the bait. He responded calmly, but firmly.
âI donât need libraries to know I want to carry his symbol. From what Robin and Dustin found, he represents all the things my friends taught me were important.â Steve pauses. "Iâm not a good reader anyway so less books are better for me.âÂ
"Oh, so that's why you picked him! Very convenient," The man sounded very amused. Steve ignored him until he heard the man wander away for the night. He sighed in relief.
With a surge of restless energy leftover from being very good and calm about that nuisance of a man, Steve approached the statue elevated on its crumbling plinth. He reached up towards its open hand held at its side, barely within reach, and brushed his fingers along the worn knuckles.Â
"That guy's wrong about you, I know he is,â Steve whispered, fervently. âYou deserve a temple. A hundred of them, all for your own."
Steve thought, for a moment, he heard a sharp intake of breath, but when he looked there was no one but him around.Â
âIâll make sure you get a great temple."
He waited, strained his ears for even a single word from his god. He tried not to be disappointed when he heard nothing. Again.
â
ps: i do not do those reader tag list things. if youâd like to keep up with my stuff, follow my writing tag: trensu tells stories
#trensu tells stories#stasis in darkness#stranger things#steddie#thanks again to ent for helping find a title for this#and for listening to my directionless ramblings about it
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31st October - Traitor - @wolfstarmicrofic - word count - 231
Traitor.
Disappointment.
Degenerate.
Shame of the flesh.
Stain to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.
Sirius had heard them all. Every insult, every barb. Each time greeted with a laugh of derision.
He knew the Blacks had nothing in their hearts except pride. And nothing stung them more than the mockery of others.
He'd learnt, a long time ago, to conceal all he really felt when others tried to wound him. A tilt of the head, a twinkle in the eye, a smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth that gave the impression that it was all terribly amusing.
Sirius would lean back in his chair and look bored by it all, the petty derision of others, knowing that not revealing the truth of when things really hurt him would be the best protection against it all.
He'd thought that he'd perfected it. He'd had years of practice. Masking how he truly felt beneath a quick smile, a bark of laughter and a sharp retort came so naturally now that Sirius sometimes wondered if he'd lost the ability to feel anything deeply at all.
One word was all it took. A wound so fast and so deep that Sirius realised at once it would never heal. The bitter suspicion of many months had festered. It was Remus who finally gave it voice.
But Sirius felt it too.
Traitor.
#wolfstar#remus lupin#mauraders#the marauders#remus x sirius#marauders era#sirius black#dead gay wizards#wolfstar microfic#microfiction#wolfstargazer microfic#wolfstargazer microfiction#clare mansfield microfiction#clare mansfield microfic#traitor#angst#ugh i dont know why i do this to myself#but i guess i just cant help myself
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