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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

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Tesla's Dieselgate

Elon Musk lies a lot. He lies about being a “utopian socialist.” He lies about being a “free speech absolutist.” He lies about which companies he founded:

https://www.businessinsider.com/tesla-cofounder-martin-eberhard-interview-history-elon-musk-ev-market-2023-2 He lies about being the “chief engineer” of those companies:

https://www.quora.com/Was-Elon-Musk-the-actual-engineer-behind-SpaceX-and-Tesla

He lies about really stupid stuff, like claiming that comsats that share the same spectrum will deliver steady broadband speeds as they add more users who each get a narrower slice of that spectrum:

https://www.eff.org/wp/case-fiber-home-today-why-fiber-superior-medium-21st-century-broadband

The fundamental laws of physics don’t care about this bullshit, but people do. The comsat lie convinced a bunch of people that pulling fiber to all our homes is literally impossible — as though the electrical and phone lines that come to our homes now were installed by an ancient, lost civilization. Pulling new cabling isn’t a mysterious art, like embalming pharaohs. We do it all the time. One of the poorest places in America installed universal fiber with a mule named “Ole Bub”:

https://www.newyorker.com/tech/annals-of-technology/the-one-traffic-light-town-with-some-of-the-fastest-internet-in-the-us

Previous tech barons had “reality distortion fields,” but Musk just blithely contradicts himself and pretends he isn’t doing so, like a budget Steve Jobs. There’s an entire site devoted to cataloging Musk’s public lies:

https://elonmusk.today/

But while Musk lacks the charm of earlier Silicon Valley grifters, he’s much better than they ever were at running a long con. For years, he’s been promising “full self driving…next year.”

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/09/herbies-revenge/#100-billion-here-100-billion-there-pretty-soon-youre-talking-real-money

He’s hasn’t delivered, but he keeps claiming he has, making Teslas some of the deadliest cars on the road:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/technology/2023/06/10/tesla-autopilot-crashes-elon-musk/

Tesla is a giant shell-game masquerading as a car company. The important thing about Tesla isn’t its cars, it’s Tesla’s business arrangement, the Tesla-Financial Complex:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/24/no-puedo-pagar-no-pagara/#Rat

Once you start unpacking Tesla’s balance sheets, you start to realize how much the company depends on government subsidies and tax-breaks, combined with selling carbon credits that make huge, planet-destroying SUVs possible, under the pretense that this is somehow good for the environment:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/14/for-sale-green-indulgences/#killer-analogy

But even with all those financial shenanigans, Tesla’s got an absurdly high valuation, soaring at times to 1600x its profitability:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/15/hoover-calling/#intangibles

That valuation represents a bet on Tesla’s ability to extract ever-higher rents from its customers. Take Tesla’s batteries: you pay for the battery when you buy your car, but you don’t own that battery. You have to rent the right to use its full capacity, with Tesla reserving the right to reduce how far you go on a charge based on your willingness to pay:

https://memex.craphound.com/2017/09/10/teslas-demon-haunted-cars-in-irmas-path-get-a-temporary-battery-life-boost/

That’s just one of the many rent-a-features that Tesla drivers have to shell out for. You don’t own your car at all: when you sell it as a used vehicle, Tesla strips out these features you paid for and makes the next driver pay again, reducing the value of your used car and transfering it to Tesla’s shareholders:

https://www.theverge.com/2020/2/6/21127243/tesla-model-s-autopilot-disabled-remotely-used-car-update

To maintain this rent-extraction racket, Tesla uses DRM that makes it a felony to alter your own car’s software without Tesla’s permission. This is the root of all autoenshittification:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

This is technofeudalism. Whereas capitalists seek profits (income from selling things), feudalists seek rents (income from owning the things other people use). If Telsa were a capitalist enterprise, then entrepreneurs could enter the market and sell mods that let you unlock the functionality in your own car:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/06/11/1-in-3/#boost-50

But because Tesla is a feudal enterprise, capitalists must first secure permission from the fief, Elon Musk, who decides which companies are allowed to compete with him, and how.

Once a company owns the right to decide which software you can run, there’s no limit to the ways it can extract rent from you. Blocking you from changing your device’s software lets a company run overt scams on you. For example, they can block you from getting your car independently repaired with third-party parts.

But they can also screw you in sneaky ways. Once a device has DRM on it, Section 1201 of the DMCA makes it a felony to bypass that DRM, even for legitimate purposes. That means that your DRM-locked device can spy on you, and because no one is allowed to explore how that surveillance works, the manufacturer can be incredibly sloppy with all the personal info they gather:

https://www.cnbc.com/2019/03/29/tesla-model-3-keeps-data-like-crash-videos-location-phone-contacts.html

All kinds of hidden anti-features can lurk in your DRM-locked car, protected from discovery, analysis and criticism by the illegality of bypassing the DRM. For example, Teslas have a hidden feature that lets them lock out their owners and summon a repo man to drive them away if you have a dispute about a late payment:

https://tiremeetsroad.com/2021/03/18/tesla-allegedly-remotely-unlocks-model-3-owners-car-uses-smart-summon-to-help-repo-agent/

DRM is a gun on the mantlepiece in Act I, and by Act III, it goes off, revealing some kind of ugly and often dangerous scam. Remember Dieselgate? Volkswagen created a line of demon-haunted cars: if they thought they were being scrutinized (by regulators measuring their emissions), they switched into a mode that traded performance for low emissions. But when they believed themselves to be unobserved, they reversed this, emitting deadly levels of NOX but delivering superior mileage.

The conversion of the VW diesel fleet into mobile gas-chambers wouldn’t have been possible without DRM. DRM adds a layer of serious criminal jeopardy to anyone attempting to reverse-engineer and study any device, from a phone to a car. DRM let Apple claim to be a champion of its users’ privacy even as it spied on them from asshole to appetite:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

Now, Tesla is having its own Dieselgate scandal. A stunning investigation by Steve Stecklow and Norihiko Shirouzu for Reuters reveals how Tesla was able to create its own demon-haunted car, which systematically deceived drivers about its driving range, and the increasingly desperate measures the company turned to as customers discovered the ruse:

https://www.reuters.com/investigates/special-report/tesla-batteries-range/

The root of the deception is very simple: Tesla mis-sells its cars by falsely claiming ranges that those cars can’t attain. Every person who ever bought a Tesla was defrauded.

But this fraud would be easy to detect. If you bought a Tesla rated for 353 miles on a charge, but the dashboard range predictor told you that your fully charged car could only go 150 miles, you’d immediately figure something was up. So your Telsa tells another lie: the range predictor tells you that you can go 353 miles.

But again, if the car continued to tell you it has 203 miles of range when it was about to run out of charge, you’d figure something was up pretty quick — like, the first time your car ran out of battery while the dashboard cheerily informed you that you had 203 miles of range left.

So Teslas tell a third lie: when the battery charge reached about 50%, the fake range is replaced with the real one. That way, drivers aren’t getting mass-stranded by the roadside, and the scam can continue.

But there’s a new problem: drivers whose cars are rated for 353 miles but can’t go anything like that far on a full charge naturally assume that something is wrong with their cars, so they start calling Tesla service and asking to have the car checked over.

This creates a problem for Tesla: those service calls can cost the company $1,000, and of course, there’s nothing wrong with the car. It’s performing exactly as designed. So Tesla created its boldest fraud yet: a boiler-room full of anti-salespeople charged with convincing people that their cars weren’t broken.

This new unit — the “diversion team” — was headquartered in a Nevada satellite office, which was equipped with a metal xylophone that would be rung in triumph every time a Tesla owner was successfully conned into thinking that their car wasn’t defrauding them.

When a Tesla owner called this boiler room, the diverter would run remote diagnostics on their car, then pronounce it fine, and chide the driver for having energy-hungry driving habits (shades of Steve Jobs’s “You’re holding it wrong”):

https://www.wired.com/2010/06/iphone-4-holding-it-wrong/

The drivers who called the Diversion Team weren’t just lied to, they were also punished. The Tesla app was silently altered so that anyone who filed a complaint about their car’s range was no longer able to book a service appointment for any reason. If their car malfunctioned, they’d have to request a callback, which could take several days.

Meanwhile, the diverters on the diversion team were instructed not to inform drivers if the remote diagnostics they performed detected any other defects in the cars.

The diversion team had a 750 complaint/week quota: to juke this stat, diverters would close the case for any driver who failed to answer the phone when they were eventually called back. The center received 2,000+ calls every week. Diverters were ordered to keep calls to five minutes or less.

Eventually, diverters were ordered to cease performing any remote diagnostics on drivers’ cars: a source told Reuters that “Thousands of customers were told there is nothing wrong with their car” without any diagnostics being performed.

Predicting EV range is an inexact science as many factors can affect battery life, notably whether a journey is uphill or downhill. Every EV automaker has to come up with a figure that represents some kind of best guess under a mix of conditions. But while other manufacturers err on the side of caution, Tesla has the most inaccurate mileage estimates in the industry, double the industry average.

Other countries’ regulators have taken note. In Korea, Tesla was fined millions and Elon Musk was personally required to state that he had deceived Tesla buyers. The Korean regulator found that the true range of Teslas under normal winter conditions was less than half of the claimed range.

Now, many companies have been run by malignant narcissists who lied compulsively — think of Thomas Edison, archnemesis of Nikola Tesla himself. The difference here isn’t merely that Musk is a deeply unfit monster of a human being — but rather, that DRM allows him to defraud his customers behind a state-enforced opaque veil. The digital computers at the heart of a Tesla aren’t just demons haunting the car, changing its performance based on whether it believes it is being observed — they also allow Musk to invoke the power of the US government to felonize anyone who tries to peer into the black box where he commits his frauds.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/edison-not-tesla/#demon-haunted-world

This Sunday (July 30) at 1530h, I’m appearing on a panel at Midsummer Scream in Long Beach, CA, to discuss the wonderful, award-winning “Ghost Post” Haunted Mansion project I worked on for Disney Imagineering.

Image ID [A scene out of an 11th century tome on demon-summoning called 'Compendium rarissimum totius Artis Magicae sistematisatae per celeberrimos Artis hujus Magistros. Anno 1057. Noli me tangere.' It depicts a demon tormenting two unlucky would-be demon-summoners who have dug up a grave in a graveyard. One summoner is held aloft by his hair, screaming; the other screams from inside the grave he is digging up. The scene has been altered to remove the demon's prominent, urinating penis, to add in a Tesla supercharger, and a red Tesla Model S nosing into the scene.]

Image: Steve Jurvetson (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Tesla_Model_S_Indoors.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

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catboybiologist · 2 months ago

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Yay I'm going to get all Political and angry again.

So pretty much every trans American is probably aware of the Sarah McBride situation at this point, but here's the bullet point summary if needed for anyone else:

Sarah McBride gets elected to the House as the first transgender member of Congress in US history.

Republicans predictably flip their shit. They pass internal rules of conduct that prohibit trans people from using bathrooms of their gender and stating that bathroom use is defined by AGAB. It obviously singles out McBride, but I believe there are trans staffers that are also affected.

McBride issues a statement that she will abide by these rules, and pretty much only use the bathroom directly associated with her physical office. She issues a statement saying she "wasn't elected for bathrooms" and will instead fight in issues that matter, with a milquetoast criticism of Republicans for wasting time on this.

Many trans Americans are predictably scared and disappointed by this, especially because this internal house rule is being used as a blueprint for more extensive laws, including a likely ban on trans people in gendered bathrooms in all federal land and buildings (including, notably for me, national parks. Which breaks my heart, but that's a different rant.)

There's been a lot of disappointment and criticism of McBride over this. The general leftist reaction has been criticism. There's lots of people that have expressed disappointment or rage, including Erin Reed, and also more "personality" type people like Vaush and Jessie Gender.

Now.

I'm disappointed too.

But. And please keep reading before chewing me out for being an apologist.

I think we can all understand that McBride is in an impossible situation. If she fights this too hard, then it vindicates the Republican rhetoric that Dems are crazy trans obsessed leftists. But there's a fear that this will only lead to more infringements of rights for trans people. McBride is completely stuck, and is a junior, freshly elected member of Congress who is trying to figure out how to make her voice the most effective.

I am so, so fucking tired of rights being ceded one by one. So I'm disappointed. But yeah, I understand McBride's statement.

But there's just one tiny. Eeny weeny. Minor. Itty Bitty question having over all of this. Just one little concern.

Where.

The fuck.

Are the rest of the Democrats?!?!?!?

There is a PAINFULLY fucking easy solution to all of this. McBride needs backing, solidarity, and other people to speak for her. If she's worried about her voice being effective, and being branded as the crazy trans representative, then step the fucking up, you spineless liberal slimebags.

AOC is the only one that I know of that has expressed any real opposition or anger. Her statements are getting aaallll the airtime.

But the real story is McBride's sentiment being echoed amongst the entire party. This is absolutely some kind of official platform. The fucking grumbling, milquetoast finger waving and "well I don't like this, but there's nothing to be done! Anyways"

Of fucking course minorites are abandoning the left. The message they're sending is "we'll abandon you with the most pathetic of excuses. We don't give a shit." Trimming groups out of their support one by one.

McBride is doing the impossible calculus of trying to be the most effective on the house floor. It's an insane task for a trans woman. And yeah, she got it wrong this time. But where the fuck is the anger for her cis colleagues? Why the fuck aren't people angry and terrified for everyone that let this shit happen?

As much as people love the narrative of the line wolf resistor, resistance takes coordination, effort, and solidarity. Without that, what would McBride raising opposition even be? One representative against the hundreds of others.

And yeah, of course I didn't expect any better from the Democratic party. But you should be disappointed and mad at your representative, not just McBride.

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lawofangie · 6 days ago

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not sure how many times i'll need to keep saying this. so, i am going to break down the law of assumption as much as possible (as much as i have the patience for lol). i need you guys to understand for once and for all. this is simple. manifestation is simple.

the law of assumption is a law that requires you to MAKE ASSUMPTIONS. not to hope, not to wish, not to want. to assume.

and what is an assumption? something you believe to be true without proof. in the context of manifestation, something you believe to be true prior to receiving the proof (your manifestation materializing) in order to receive the proof.

making an assumption is not restricted to just whatever you want to manifest. why? because "manifestation" isn't fundamentally real. it's a word used to describe utilizing assumptions in a conscious way in order to "make something happen" externally.

this means that assuming has no bounds. and it doesn't. if you can assume anything is true, then your belief has no bounds. therefore, you can manifest anything. not just your desires, but things being difficult, things taking time, needing something or else ____.

an assumption is just an assumption. all given meaning aside, it's just an assumption. something you believe to be true, the "without proof" is just used in the context of what we call "manifestation", and manifestation just means the appearance of something. we are making assumptions in order for them to appear. there are no conditions, restrictions, rules, etc. you can believe absolutely anything to be true.

this way of using this ability to assume in order to make something materialize was just given the name "manifestation". its not some magical thing. it's just done in a conscious way and someone chose to give it that name.

but anyway, you are always going to be the one doing the assuming. it is always going to be up to you because nobody outside of you is doing the believing/ assuming here. YOU have to be the one to assume. you can't ask someone else to do it for you. nobody else is physically capable of doing it for you.

trying to ask someone for their input is useless. they're going to be affected by whatever biases you had about them prior anyway (ex: "they're smart" "i have to listen to them" "this person is unreliable"). everything is affected by whatever bias, assumptions, beliefs you have about it/them prior to experiencing them in your reality.

no matter how much you want to, you can't give up the control you have over your reality. you can't look to someone or something for permission, control, etc. all you have is yourself. all you should want is yourself. could you imagine how scary it would be if someone or something else truly dictated the course of your life? you'd be like a sim. that person or thing could literally do whatever they wanted to you. they could choose what you do and don't deserve. they could choose what happens in your life. why would you even want this? why are you so adamant on deciding this is true?

you have to acknowledge the fact that you are willingly or blindly giving up control because you are a coward. you're too scared to take control of your life and accept the truth, so you basically delude yourself into thinking that all these things have some kind of control over you.

it's like you guys never realize that all these conditions have to first be conditions in order for them to be conditions. they don't fundamentally exist.

if something doesn't fundamentally exist, that means it isn't real. it was created by us with something we were given (ex: our ability to communicate using language and creating "rules", and instilling the rules into the minds of others.)

they have no reason to exist if there is nothing to condition. if these things were fundamentally true, you wouldn't need to be conditioned. you wouldn't be able to change your mind, you wouldn't be being told to change your mind and adopt a new way of thinking. you wouldn't have the freedom to choose what you want to believe. you wouldn't need to accept it as true. it would just be true. like how we all know we need oxygen to survive. there's no question about it. it's not drilled into your head. its a proven fact with actual consequences. logic tells you it causes immediate discomfort and can cause fainting, therefore, you need to breathe.

logic doesn't tell you that you aren't in control of your reality. it's just something someone got you to believe. and you'll realize that your beliefs feel so real, that you don't question them, even when you know logically that you're being a little irrational. it's because belief is fundamentally real. it's an ability we all have, that we all use daily.

belief doesn't have feelings or emotions. belief is indifferent. you, the believer, are the one believing and deciding things are true. you, the believer, are the one assigning meanings and feelings to each belief. you, the believer, are the one believing things are true without proof. you, the believer, are the one receiving the proof of whatever you believe (blindly or not).

what is there to believe without you? what is there to condition without you? what meaning is there without you? without you there is nothing. again, this is your life. your human experience. yours. not your mom's, not your teacher's, not your boss's. yours. without you, it doesn't exist. you must be aware of things first in order for them to exist in your reality.

you only have one awareness because you are one person. you are only conscious of being one person. you are only conscious of your own life. you only experience one reality because you have one consciousness. but it is not permanent. you have the freedom of choice to choose a new reality, to be conscious of something new. your imagination does not restrict you to feeling only what is in front of you. if it did, what would be the purpose of imagining anyway? why would you even be mentally capable of imagining?

since only you can be conscious, and since only you can be conscious, we are advising you to take advantage of that and "manifest" what you want. no one and nothing can stop you, again, unless you allow it to. but you'll realize, you always have the choice. we as humans aren't set in one way of thinking. we are human beings with depth, feelings, desires, emotions, goals, dreams, fears, doubts, and competence. we have the ability to take in new information, form new thoughts, and grow. we are perfectly capable of and competent enough to form our own beliefs and assumptions.

and you can't turn off this ability to imagine. you can't stop believing, you can't stop assuming, you can't stop being aware (except for when you're asleep). the "law of assumption" doesn't care about your feelings. the law of assumption isn't a living thing. it's just something that's there, that's a part of life. we just happen to be competent enough to have the choice to consciously use it and to be aware of it. nothing is being taken from you, maybe information is has been withheld from you, but that's about it.

so, what is manifestation? how do i manifest? assume you have it.

yes, i broke down that entire thing just to tell you to just assume, to just decide. why? because that's all there is to it. just assume it is true regardless of what you see. because your external reality is nothing but a mirror. it can't prove anything to you that you haven't already proved to yourself.

all anyone in this community can do (thankfully) is regurgitate the same information in different ways until you guys understand it. the law is simple. "the law" isn't fundamentally real, it's just a title created by someone.

also, please don't misunderstand me here. the law of assumption isn't fake. it works. the "law of assumption", referring to the title, is a "law", but is a concept that was built on, with terms that were created by others. this is just to say that you guys give external things so much power over you just because of some title, some created authority, when in actuality, it isn't fundamentally real. all these terms make it all feel unnatural. the law of assumption isn't an unnatural thing. it's simply making assumptions.

so, if you can follow, what i'm saying is: just because the law of assumption is called "the law of assumption" or mentions an instruction, doesn't mean it's some foreign, scary thing. there isn't any separation. this isn't anything new. don't treat it as something it's not. this is just to remind you, that while you abide by them, they aren't above you. they don't change anything about who you are as a person, there is nothing to fear, nothing to learn, nothing to put on a pedestal. it's just a guideline, if you want to call it that. a step. you should be indifferent to it. treat it as a necessary step and nothing more.

the law of assumption is simple. make an assumption. believe something is true and it will materialize. but don't wait for it, otherwise you aren't assuming it is true. you have to believe even if it doesn't physically look like it's possible. because anything is possible. the law of assumption promises you that it is. you have to have some faith in yourself. if you had to choose to do so, i would say this is something you should spend your time blindly believing.

and you should be grateful that the law is this simple, otherwise, your stress would be caused by something other than you.

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blueteller · 3 months ago

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Halour, I'm kinda curious... What crimes have Cale done, exactly? I see a number of "crime list" videos about him but the wiki don't really confirm anything💀

— 🌄

...The Time Has Come. 😌

I have long promised this list, so perfect timing! Thank you very much for this question! Allow me to introduce you to:

Cale Henituse's Crime List

(Just for the fun of it, I tried to give a different example for every single one of these. Some events repeat, but not the crimes!)

1) Accessibility of Records for Tax Department

Cale looted significant amounts of money from the Magic Tower and many other places, without leaving any legal trace.

2) Affray

Multiple occasions, like pretty much everything that happened in the Molden Kingdom.

3) Aggravated Assault

Cale rarely gets physically involved in a fight, but I think suddenly strangling Prince Adin qualifies.

4) Aggravated Burglary

Every single time "Real Arm" is in business.

5) Allowing Dog or Cat To Be a Nuisance

How else would you call encouraging your animal shape-shifting kids to be involved in criminal activity? Also Fluffy the Puppy was under Cale's command even if he technically belonged to Princess Jopis, I say it totally counts.

6) Ammunition – Possessing, Acquiring or Carrying

Cale intentionally pocketed magic bombs from the Plaza Terror Incident and used them later on.

7) Animal Cruelty

...Does Cale subjecting On to his "nice act" in front of Litana counts? Oh it definitely counts. That poor child.

8) Armed Robbery

That time Cale & co. robbed the Mercenary Guilds in Leeb-An City, for instance.

9) Arson

Setting the Wind Island on fire.

10) Assaulting or Resisting Police

That time Cale & co. went to Sez Kingdom. Pretty sure the knights trying to stop them from kidnapping the king counts as "resisting law enforcement".

11) Being Disguised With Unlawful Intent

Priest Cale in a nutshell.

12) Blackmail

That time Cale talked to Antonio Gyerre.

13) Breaking and Entering

Cale coming to the Sekka Estate.

14) Careless Driving

Debatable since a fantasy world doesn't own cars – but. I count Cale breaking through walls of a maze on a mother-effing Stone Imugi as "irresponsible driving". Just think of what kind of example you're setting for the kids, Cale!

15) Carrying a Loaded Firearm in Public

Cale has Raon following him everywhere, so.....?

16) Carrying Out Plumbing Work Without License or Registration

Cale has an underground villa in the Forest of Darkness. I'm pretty sure whatever construction work they did there would count as illegal.

17) Carrying Out Work Without a Building Permit

Cale had Dragons teleport an entire castle into the Forest of Darkness. Yet again, involves a building with no legal paperwork.

18) Causing Injury Intentionally

Obviously. Like making fiery lightning bolt strike in the middle of an Elf Village attack. Or hitting a radish with a rock.

19) Collecting or Making Documents Likely to Facilitate Terrorist Acts

Everything involving Knight Rex after he became a terrorist.

20) Conspiracy

Cale and Alberu talking about anything.

21) Control of Body Armor

After reading it up, I decided that mana disruption device ABSOLUTELY falls into this category.

22) Control and Use of Dangerous Articles

Cale adopting pretty much everyone on his team.

23) Corrupting Benefits Received By Commonwealth Public Official

Cale using Alberu's golden plaque to trap the White Star with Embrace. I mean, if being infected with that clown doesn't count as corruption, I don't know what does.

24) Cultivation of Narcotic Plants

Cale letting Hong eat plants in the Forest of Darkness. It IS, in his own words, his own backyard.

25) Dangerous Non-Guard Dog Attacks or Bites a Person or Animal with Person in Control

Cale letting Choi Han beat up Adin. ...Well, Choi Han COULD be counted as a Guard Dog, but. They never formalized the paperwork? I say it counts since Choi Han isn't legally registered!

26) Dealing With Property Suspected of Being Proceeds of Crime

Cale renting a house from Odeus Flynn.

27) Dealing With Property Which Subsequently Becomes an Instrument of Crime

Cale buying the Magic Tower before he proceeds to kidnap Mueller.

28) Delaying the Entry of Police

Cale not letting the law enforcement know about the Plaza Terror Incident beforehand. Also, activating the mana disruption device, knowing it would hinder their efforts to stop terrorism. ...Yes Cale & co. prevented said terrorism better on their own but it still counts.

29) Deliberately Omitting Information

Cale making an Vow of Death to Choi Han claiming that he can't tell him anything.

30) Destroying, Damaging and/or Interfering with Any Works of a Water Corporation

Setting the Lake of God's Tears on fire.

31) Destroying or Damaging Property

Cale destroying houses in the Gyerre territory.

32) Destruction of Evidence

Cale and Raon blowing up Hais Island 5 to cover up Ron's infiltration.

33) Directing the Activities of a Terrorist Organization

Cale's entire career in a nutshell, really.

34) Discharge Missile to Endanger Person or Property

Cale blowing up the whirlpools in the Ubarr territory.

35) Dishonestly Cause a Loss

Cale tricking the White Star into the abandoned underground city.

36) Disturbing Religious Worship

Cale messing with the Sun God's Church for being mean to Mary.

37) Driving an Unregistered Vehicle

Cale & co. using Mary's bone Dragon.

38) Drunkards Behaving in Riotous or Disorderly Manner

Cale pretending to be drunk in the Gyerre territory.

39) Endangering Safety of Aircraft

Cale letting his allies abroad an airship during the Jungle battle.

40) Entering a Place Without Authority or Lawful Excuse

Cale rescuing Raon.

41) Extortion With Threats to Destroy Property

Cale threatening the slave traffickers in the Gyerre territory.

42) Failure to Notify the Authorities of Criminal Activity

Cale doesn't notify Alberu of crap, unless it's to make him clean-up the aftermath.

43) Failure to Register a Pet

Pretty sure Cale registered exactly none of his allies. ...Except maybe the Tiger Tribe that one time they moved into Harris Village with Deruth's permission. Everyone else? Not a chance.

44) Falsifying or Concealing Identity

Cale acting as Naru von Ejellan in Endable Kingdom.

45) Forgery of Documents

Cale and Taylor faking an ancient document to fool the White Star.

46) Fraud

Cale promising Plavin Singten benefits for siding with the new Sun Church.

47) Getting Funds To, From, or For a Terrorist Organization

Cale sponsoring his allies, like giving Rosalyn magic stones.

48) Going Equipped for Stealing

Cale making Real Arm uniform.

49) Handling Stolen Goods

Cale using Divine Items.

50) Identity Theft

Cale introducing himself as Bob.

51) Indecent Assault

Cale telling Choi Han to strip that one time. (Yes, it actually happened. ...Not the way shippers wished for, obviously.)

52) Inducement to Be Appointed Liquidator

Cale helping Princess Jopis overthrow her sister on the condition of benefits for the Roan Kingdom.

53) Insider Trading

Cale selling Alberu dead mana from a Dragon.

54) Intentionally or Recklessly Causing a Bushfire

Cale setting that bush monster on fire in Xiaolen.

55) Introduction of a Drug of Dependence Into the Body of Another Person

Cale letting Rosalyn drink coffee on Earth 3.

56) Kidnapping

Cale & co. capturing Venion Stan.

57) Leaving Children Without Supervision

Cale letting the kids look for Mueller.

58) Lighting of Fires in the Open Air

Cale using Fire of Destruction against Sky Attribute.

59) Loitering Near Schools

Cale & the kittens in the Sez Kingdom.

60) Loitering With Intent to Commit an Indictable Offence

Cale letting Clopeh Sekka spot him that first time.

61) Manslaughter

Cale letting Choi Han, Rosalyn and Lock go and destroy the Archduke's Estate.

62) Membership of a Terrorist Organization

Cale making up Real Arm.

63) Murder

Cale killing the White Star.

64) Negligent Manslaughter

Cale letting Ron go on a vacation.

65) Non-dangerous Dog Attacks

Cale letting Choi Han spar with Hilsman.

66) Obtaining Property By Deception

Litana giving Cale free stuff.

67) Offences Connected With Explosive Substances

Cale commissioning Eruhaben to create Dragon's Rage.

68) Other Acts Done in Preparation for, or Planning, Terrorist Acts

Every morning Cale drinks lemon tea.

69) Possessing More Fish Than the Catch Limit

Cale dealing with Whales. ...Whales are fish, what are you talking about?

70) Possessing Controlled Weapon, Housebreaking Implements, and Things Connected With Terrorist Attacks

Everything Cale owns in the Super Rock Villa.

71) Possession of Precursor Chemicals

Cale making Billos buy alchemy ingredients.

72) Prohibited Weapons

Cale utilizing the Dragon Bones in battle.

73) Providing or Receiving Training Connected With Terrorist Acts

Cale letting his people train in his backyard.

74) Public Nuisance

Cale letting Choi Han act.

75) Reckless Conduct Endangering Life and/or Endangering Serious Injury

Cale every time he uses his Ancient Powers.

76) Recruiting for a Terrorist Organization

Cale adopting the Tiger Tribe.

77) Robbery

Stealing magic stones from the Alchemy Towers.

78) Sabotage

Cale going behind the Empire's back while he helps out the Whipper Kingdom.

79) Setting Traps to Kill

Cale Ghost Operation during the sea battle against the Indomitable Alliance.

80) Smuggling

Cale helping Cage and Taylor into capital.

81) Stalking

Cale entering Alberu's bedroom whenever he wants.

82) Stating False Name When Requested

Cale never letting anyone know about the transmigration and calling himself Cale Henituse.

83) Tax Evasion

Willful tax evasion for sudden wealth increase.

84) Terrorist Acts

Cale & co. detonating a bomb at Maple Castle.

85) Theft

Cale obtaining the blood drinking crown.

86) Threats to Inflict Serious Injury

Cale & co. threatening King Bakehe.

87) Threats to Kill

Cale cheerfully informing Adin he's going to personally kill him.

88) Torture and Interrogation

Cale ordering Beacrox to deal with the Magic Spearman.

89) Unauthorized Access to Restricted Data

Cale & co. coming to the Directory. ...Yes Bud was the Mercenary King so technically it was legal, except from the Mercenary Guild's perspective, it was break and entering.

80) Unlawful Assembly

Cale hanging out with Dragons.

81) Unlawful Oaths to Commit Treason

Cale promising to destroy the Alchemy Belltower to Rei Stecker.

82) Unlicensed Driving

Cale riding Dark Tiger Alberu.

83) Willful Damage

Cale employing Archie to destroy Duke Sekka's statues.

Any other crimes I forgot to list? Let me know!

***

BONUS CONTENT

With the help of others, we've expanded the original list of Cale's crimes!

84) Aiding and Hiding Fugitives

Cale helping out Hannah and Jack.

85) Aircraft Hijacking

Cale & co. taking over the Empire's airships.

86) Being an Accessory to Crimes

All Cale's deals with Billos in a nutshell.

87) Child Labor Law Violation

Cale making children work for their meals. Even if he's actually just adopting strays under the guise of formal work, said formal work is still illegal. Just admit you care, you weirdo.

88) Defamation

Cale spreading recordings of Adin being evil acros the Empire.

89) Deliberate Damage and/or Destruction of Currency

Cale happily throwing coins into lava.

90) Ecoterrorism

Wiping whole islands off the map counts as severe destruction of the environment.

91) Fly-tipping/Littering

Cale casually defenestrating Adin. Watch where you throw garbage, Cale. There are trash bins for a reason!

92) Harassment

Cale ordering Beacrox to beat up mountain bandits.

93) Illegal Detention/Imprisonment

Capturing prisoners of war, like the Dragon Half-Blood or the Flame Dwarves.

94) Illegal Goods Trade

Cale selling and buying items at the Caro Kingdom Auction.

95) Impersonation

Cale pretending to be different people in the Indignity Test.

96) Intentional Destruction of Cultural Heritage

Cale setting the Lake of God's Tears on Fire. Also, blowing up the Magic Tower.

97) Plunder of Public Property

Cale & co. destroying the walls of the capital of the Empire.

98) Trafficking Endangered Plants Accross Borders

Cale transporting the Fake World Tree in his badge.

99) Treason of the Crown

Cale treating his Hyung-nim with utter disrespect, such as comparing the Shining Sun of the Kingdom to a squirrel.

100) Trespassing

Cale in Endable Kingdom.

BONUS BONUS CONTENT

Not technically illegal, but:

101) Crime Against One's Well-Being

Cale abusing his health in such horrific ways even a regeneration power cannot keep up with him.

102) Crime Against Fashion

Cale preferring only black and plain clothes when he could look good in anything.

103) Crime of Self-Delusion

Cale thinking he still has a chance at slacker life.

104) Spreading Misinformation

Cale's track record of causing misunderstandings everywhere he goes is frankly terrifying.

105) THAT FACE

Cale's fabulous looks are a crime in of itself. It deserves a spot on the list.

#tcf #trash of the count's family #lcf #lout of count's family #tcf humor #cale henituse #cale #tcf cale #cale's criminal record #q&a #replies

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samodivaa · 9 months ago

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frenzy of lust and sin 1〗

Part 2 Pairing: Instructor!Bucky x Recruit!Reader

Summary: During your training to become an agent, you've earned the moniker "Sergeant's girl" around the base—that doesn't give him the right to be possessive or jealous, but what gives you the right to be a brat? Warnings: sexual tension, age gap, sparring Words: 3.4k

Bucky knows that the body is not a thing of wild magic, but a collection of chemicals, tissues, and nerve impulses. Thoughts are no more than electrical surges in the brain. Sexual arousal is no more than a flow of chemicals to certain nerve endings. Sadness no more than a bit of acid transfixed in the cerebellum. In short, the body is a machine, subject to the same laws of electricity and mechanics as an electron or clock. As such, the body must be addressed in the language of physics. And if the body speaks, it is the speaking only of so many levers and forces. The body is a thing to be ordered, not obeyed. But the feeling is not leaving, he can’t control it. Jealousy. He is witnessing himself become daily more notable for savage sullenness and ferocity. But in the end, it’s an instinctive feeling. Your presence has flattered him from the first time you met, you are full of ambition which leads Bucky to adopt a double character without exactly intending to deceive anyone.

He keeps the acquaintance and has no temptation to show his rough side in your company, and has the sense to be ashamed of being rude towards such a young lady. You are the only recruit who gets this side of him, but it is a secret in his heart, he is guilty of such a secret, because he has to forcefully hold it. He keeps his hold on his affections towards you unalterably, not showing what he is truly feeling. With all his superiority as your hand to hand combat instructor, he finds it difficult to keep it professional as more time passes. As he falls more for you. ============================== The moment you enter the room, he discerns your soft-featured face, pensive and amiable in expression, eyes which are large and serious, your figure almost too graceful. It forms a sweet picture―and your aura. It's…intoxicating. It's shining, it always shines.

“Good morning, Bucky” you have a sweet, low manner of speaking as you walk towards where he is sitting. “Good morning” his voice sounds ill-natured, politeness that would only be laughed at, restraining an unruly nature, wary of the secret he knows about you. He is trying to not be overcome by emotion. Emotion is the art of breaking hearts, minds, and tongues―but it is too much, even for Bucky.

You reflect for an instant, with knitted brows “Are you okay?” “Of course I am, why do you ask?” he whispers crossly.

A surprised laugh almost breaks free from your lips, because his naturally reserved disposition is exaggerated into an almost idiotic excess of moroseness today and you wonder why that is. Bucky slightly widening his eyes, parts of his lips, but there is absence of arrogance as his features become unreadable again. He rises up from the bench, but you have no time to express your worry further as you gaze at him with a troubled countenance, because it might be something deeper. ==============================

It is all because of three days ago.

As he carries his basket to the laundry room, he spots a look for a washing machine with a finished cycle. He opens the door and unloads the freshly washed clothes, placing them into the basket in front of the machine―but these clothes are familiar. Leggings, he knows them by heart. Curiosity is gluttony. It is a great temptation to look through all of them, piece by piece. And although his demeanor is calm, his eyes betray a maelstrom of emotions—his self-control is shattering. The impulse lurks. His gaze moves downwards. To his crotch. Jesus. He is hard. And sometimes, to regain sanity, he has to acknowledge and embrace the madness. Bucky wavers for a moment, and then, irresistibly impelled by the naughty spirit within him, sits on the floor and finds a red dress underneath the leggings―curiosity sparking in his eyes as his lids to twinkle, because he has never imagine you wearing such feminine clothing. Until now. He wants to see the curve of your back, the dress clinging to your chest and waist, flaring over your hips—and certainly wants to look at your tits in it.

“Fuck” His throat gurgles slightly, looking at the cloth through his lashes like the starved man he is. It is almost impossible to express himself out loud, satisfaction speaks louder than words. He is overwhelmed by emotions, leaving him both speechless and breathless, but even then it is important to identify the correct emotion—lust, a longing that goes on a loop. He neglects his throbbing cock, but his attention remains the dress as he falls victim to countless daydreams.

There is scarcely time to experience a thrill of his arousal before he sees something else—male boxers. He stands stunned. Paralyzed. Breathless. But there is no time for inaction. His mind floods as he tries to make sense of what he is seeing.

—Men are punished by their sins, not for them.

Seeing the boxers, he speaks of lust in the past tense. The scene that plays in front of him, is perfectly adapted to a temporal phenomenon: distinct, abrupt, framed—illusions are bound to be shattered, reality finally sets in. An indescribable look flits across his face, because that sparks his anger. It is so wrong to feel like this, yet he is firmly persuaded that a great deal of his consciousness, in fact, is a disease, the more deeply it sinks into that mire and the more ready he is to sink in it altogether—Jealousy. He hates those insoluble problems and contradictions of human nature, and that he is capable of conquering his fragile inner center—only silence remains. To take back his power in any given situation, he needs to focus on the things he can control. The thoughts he chooses to think is usually the best place to begin, but by a natural impulse his mind starts to wonder—about this man kissing you, touching you, fucking you.

==============================

That’s how his unusual behavior is fueled, expressed, plainer than words could do, the intense anguish at having made himself the instrument of opposing his own jealousy. You enter the room and he is already waiting for you and as you approach the bench where he is sitting, he is supposing you are going to say something, looking up. The expression of his face seems disturbed and anxious as three days ago, lips are half asunder, as if he wants to speak, and draws a breath, but it escapes with a sigh instead of a normal sentence.

“You know, relationships are not allowed here” “What are you talking about?” you pursue, kneeling down by him and lifting your winsome eyes to his face with that sort of look which turns off bad temper, even when it is right in his own world to indulge it. “It is part of the rules, you sighed it” he goes on, less sulkily. “Yeah and I am not in a relationship” you respond, peevishly rising to your feet. “You just slept with some random guy?” “It is not against the rules” you exclaim in an irritated tone, chafing your hands together and frowning.

“So how was the sex?” he asks too casually, his countenance growing graver. Bucky has an unusual gloom in his face, that makes you dread something from which you might shape a prophecy, and foresee a fearful catastrophe. Will he expel you from the training program?

“What do you mean?” you ask, with an accent of indignation. “How was it” he asks, emphasizing each syllable “When he fucked you?” —Jealous makes tongue unconscious

You avoid aggravating his fiery temper by staying silent, not knowing what attendees his anger and the curiosity of your personal life. His behavior today provokes you exceedingly, but you lay the blame on his latest mission which was a disaster. He doesn’t have power to conceal his emotions anymore, it sets his whole complexion in a blaze. Bucky rises from the bench, scoops up his water bottle, takes a long gulp from it and impatiently bades you to go to the training mats, terminating the conversation with a sequel of horrid imprecations in his mind. You know that It is as much a part of him as his limbs, this need to make sure that you are safe, to protect you. But this is the first time that he hasn't been so kind to you. And you remember a definition of chivalry you’d heard once: a man protecting a woman against every man but himself. Through the madness of his words, a part of his soul is revealed—a part of him that has to do with the past. Even if people around him try to forget it, the past remembers him. That void in his chest fills with anger sometimes and it is scary to witness it.

You don’t want to spar with him, but you won’t back down either—back and forth you go, shifting your feet and moving across the mat like some wild, ferocious tango. It is exhilarating to be moving like this with you, so close Bucky can see your eyebrows pinched together in concentration, little drops of sweat as they run down your face. Then it happens. You couldn’t get your arms up in time and Bucky’s next kick hit you squarely in the side. The attempt to conceal the pain doesn’t work as you feel all the strength go out of you as your back hits the ground hard. In a second he gets on top, which makes you wriggle and squirm, trying to throw him off. He grins down at you, enjoying his momentary superiority and the feeling of your smaller body underneath his. You don’t let the mental block or panic control you, ideas flow so rapidly that you have not time to decide what to do—you scowl adorably and arch up against him in a way that sends electricity through him—and that unbalances him enough for you to flip him over and straddle him. —He is a mournful wreck ruined by his biggest weakness, you. You are on top now, pinning him, grinning down with sparkling eyes. He is exasperated, because he doesn’t know what this look means. He put it somewhere between indifference and pride. Your eyes are so intense he wants to look away—or never look away, he can’t decide, but he keeps his gaze fixed on you as if you fear that you would vanish if he is to remove it. To his shock, the heavy breathing, the rush of adrenaline and endorphins, the intense stare, the rivulets of sweat, arouses him even more.

“It was nice” you declare, emphatically, speaking sincerely “The sex was nice” you add in a tone particularly calculated to provoke him.

You seem to allow yourself such wide latitude with both your actions and words today, it really leaves him speechless and you laugh at his reaction as if you are inclined to make it no laughing matter to Bucky. When your eyes meet his gaze as you are staring at each other, time stops. Those eyes are piercing yours, and you can swear at this moment you sense something more. It surprises you that he doesn’t say anything in return. You are not used to seeing Bucky like that—without the attitude, without the facade. He tries to conceal his reaction from you, but his face grows cloudy at your reply, his heart grows pale with pure annoyance: a feeling that reaches its climax when you silently rise and leave the room as Bucky ponderes your reply painfully. He would not have wanted to hear of staying a second longer anyways. ============================== It is a continual nightmare. He needs several days off from all training sessions to meditate on his thoughts in solitude. He persuades his conscience that in a way it is not his fault as possessiveness is a problem, rooted in his ill-bred past―he suffers greatly, because of the brainwashing, torture, his mind struggles between disorder and order, trying to find a balance between the two extremes.

But he can't keep on running, he needs to face one of his biggest problems―for all his time that he has spent with you, he couldn't avert that excess of emotion: mingled possessiveness and jealousy has overcome him completely lately. The nearer he gets to the facility the more agitated he becomes and on catching sight of it he trembles in every limb. You are young, beautiful and there is something contagious when you act like a brat, it takes root in him and his desire grows along with him―your presence is a moral poison that contaminates his whole mind. —There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable. You are forbidden. Young. His best trainee.

============================== You are already sitting on the bench and turn around when the door opens. Eye contact. How can he mitigate his adoration for you when he can't concentrate half the time he is around you?

“Good morning, Bucky”

You say with feigned playfulness and he notices a mischievous smile on your lips. As if you are on hostile terms with him, but still somehow friendly. And what amuses you is painful to him beyond expression―he doesn’t say anything in return, but sits next to you, and looks thoroughly indifferent as he takes the water bottle out of his backpack. It is normal thought, you are alarmed at his recent indiscretion, and the disclosure he had made of his behavior in a transient fit of anger. Bucky is sick with conflict, possessive emotions fester in him while this sludge, guilt, eats away at his insides and he is acutely conscious of the swift passage of time. ―He needs to say something. Finish the session and go home. It is that simple.

And he stares hard at you, watching you take a long drink from your bottle. Then he follows the flick of your tongue over your bottom lip. His heart stumbles a beat. What the actual fuck. Was that on purpose―he has come here to train you and once again, he is left speechless. Then. You lean in, your scent filling his nostrils. He is shocked to feel his throat tighten with a primal hunger, just to hear: “Don’t you like me?”

You laugh softly, utterly feminine sound that galvanizes all of his senses. You lean closer, allowing Bucky to savor the sweet, sinful energy which shimmers from you―some primitive male instinct warns him of your innocence―like a bloom on a vine, fragrant and dainty. He scowles―don’t pinch it off. His heart knows no peace, because everything is wrong with having feelings for you. *What is she playing at? Is she trying to provoke me? It's working*

“It's not that I don’t like you, it's only that in your presence I don’t like myself” he speaks without any anger in his voice, but with much sorrowful despondency.

Now, you are the one left speechless, but manage to preserve your external composure, in spite of his ghastly countenance and strange confession. You find childish diversion in the idea of pulling his mental strings―you struggle desperately to not smile as your mind obsessively plays and replays his words, your eyes narrow into thin slits as your gaze doesn’t leave his, because your suspicions are confirmed, he likes you. That describes his change of habitual conduct. A hideous notion strikes you, how wonderful it would be to use the satisfying exhibitions of power and control to deliberately create more desire in him―only to capriciously deny it. It is clear that he doesn’t know that you are a virgin if he accuses you of sleeping with other men. The question is―what exactly provoked him? But your abstraction is evidently so deep, and your whole aspect so misanthropical that Bucky thinks how uncomfortable you might be feeling. He reflects that all those words will be branded in his memory, and they eat him deeply, eternally, because he should have not said them. All because of his greedy jealousy. He looks astonished at the expression on your face, only assuming what you might be thinking of him―he gazes at you with mournful and questioning eagerness, clearly on the verge of madness. He endeavors to say something, but can’t manage it which makes him compress his mouth as he holds a silent combat with his inward shame, meanwhile, your mind offers a perfect plan.

“Do you want to kiss me?”

You whisper, anxiously, yet boldly―mesmerized by the tiny flecks of indigo in his blue eyes—you can drown in those eyes and it wouldn’t be the worst way to go. His beautiful features offer themselves to your gaze as you trail through them, annoyed at how attractive he is. You feel stuffy, there is not enough air to breathe as his eyes stare at your lips for a few moments.

“Watch that mouth”

A wicked curve appears on his lips, because your pure innocence is a kind of insanity to his mind that sees in scattered images of varying vulgarity. Kiss you? He wants to fuck you. You are so impetuous and bold―addictive. “Or what? You will kiss it?”

You say which makes you glance up to find his eyes blazing with raw need. Innocent and virtuous, you represent the exact type of female he needs to avoid…“Or I will fuck it”―ugh, he can’t say that, but he wants to. God, he feels so naked knowing you have clearly identified his desire for you. He can’t go any further down. Rock bottom. His mind is a mess, but he has no intention of cleaning today. You lean, but before he can say anything you lean back and smile, leaving him to grapple with an absurd sense of disappointment. Teasing Bucky is part of the fun that comes before kissing—oh, you will for sure ruin him long before you touch him. It will be more satisfying to exhibit power and control than deliberately creating desire—only to capriciously deny it. His smile is faint and lopsided, his answer takes a long time, which is uncharacteristic: “Don’t do that again” Bucky’s voice is measured, his longing raw. Self control is all he has left. His face feels scattered in pieces and he can’t not keep it straight. The feeling is a whole lot worse than being hungry for any dinner, yet it is like that. All he can think about―is you. “Why? What will you do?” Your laughter sounds like music, you just can’t miss a chance to remind him what a brat you are and that's when a sense of his folly compels him to mutter: “Why don’t you really keep your mouth shut?” You guess he utters those words, at least, though his voice is hardly intelligible. You know his voice well, bright and brittle, but now it has the thinnest layer of ice over―you know that he feels guilty about liking you. His question is an attempt to repress the intensity of your delight. He looks at you with a droll expression―half angry, half laughing at your boldness. “Why don’t you-” your exhalation carries a rasping tremor as if holding back a giggle “-give my mouth something else to do?” His mouth gaps, but no sound comes out. He stares at you, with a grin hovering about his lips, and a scowl gathering over his eyes:

“I have no words” he articulates softly. “Bucky…” you tease him “You always have something to say” And yet, he freezes stiff, as if he has been pushed onstage in a play where he doesn't know the lines―God, you’ve broken him. You’ve managed to render him speechless―Dominance. Control. These things are the roots of Bucky’s character. And you are the first person to defy his dominance and to challenge his self control. What a languid woman, a force of gravity by which you irresistibly make him speechless—and at the same time, fuel a new side to him. Eye contact. There is more in the eyes. Longing. The naughtiness emanates from your eyes—you look at him like you own him, openly teasing him as if it’s normal. And now you know that he needs you. This scarred, broken man needs you...and you want to be there for him. There is a silent promise not to let his secret out, but there is no promise for not teasing him purposely from now on—you jolt at the knowledge that you are instilling his inner peace to such an extent.

Part 2

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky x female reader #bucky imagine #female reader #bucky barnes #winter soldier

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olivianyx · 1 year ago

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OMGG I JUST GOT RESULTS WITHOUT BEATING MYSELF UP WITH ROUTINES 😭 + RANT ✨

HEYY LUVS! I JUST WANNA SHARE MY RESULTS I MANIFESTED WITHIN 2-3 DAYS! THIS YEAR'S GONNA BE MY BEST YEAR Y'ALL ✋AND GUESS WHAT I DID? NOTHING. LITERALLY NOTHING. NUH-UH. PERIODT.

⚠ LONG POST AHEAD, SWEARING ⚠

WHAT I MANIFESTED:

🪄 PASSING MY FRESHMAN YEAR WITH HIGH SCORES

🪄 MY FAMILY BOUGHT A NEW APARTMENT WHICH WERE PREPARING TO MOVE IN 3 WEEKS

🪄 ME GETTING INTO THE VOID STATE 😭 AND MANIFESTED CLEAR SKIN! (DAYUM GETTING INTO THE VOID IS DEFO VERY EASY OMGG)

🪄 GETTING LESS ANXIOUS LATELY!

🪄 MY GASTRITIS AND ULCERITIS GETTING CURED

🪄 GETTING MORE COMPLIMENTS IN MY UNI!

🪄 GETTING TALLER! I WENT FROM 5'3" TO 5'7" IN 2 DAYS 😭😭

🪄 GETTING DREAMS OF ME SHIFTING TO MY WR 🥺 (ACTUALLY RESPAWNING LOL, AS THIS THING IS REALLY CONTROVERSIAL IN HERE, PLEASE DON'T GET ME CANCELLED- I'M DOING DEATHLESS RESPAWNING ✋)

🪄 MY MIND IS SURPRISINGLY CALM 😌 THERE'S STILL INTRUSIVE THOUGHTS THO (THOSE ARE ANNOYING ASS BITCHES) BUT I JUST IGNORE EM LIKE I IGNORE PEOPLE AT SCHOOL 🗿

🪄 GOT MANY CONFESSIONS TOO 😭 AND I REJECTED EM ALL, CUS I JUST WANT TO BE SINGLE FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE ✋🗿 JK

🪄 GETTING COOL CLOTHES THAT MY MOM DENIED A LOTTA TIMES! (ACTUALLY I'VE ORDERED EM BUT STILL HAVEN'T SHIPPED TO MY ADDRESS YET LOL)

🪄 MY CRUSH BECOMING CLOSE TO ME HEHE 🤭 LIKE SHE DOESN'T CARE ABOUT ME MUCH, BUT LATELY SHE'S BEEN TOO CLOSE TO ME AND ALWAYS WANNA BE WITH ME LOL, 3 DAYS BACK SHE AND I WALKED HOME TOGETHER, WHILE WE GRABBED SOME SNACKS, SPOKE ABT EACH OTHER AND ALL (I FELT LIKE BEING IN A SHOUJO MANGA 😩)

🪄 A NEW PHONE! THAT SAMSUNG GALAXY S22 😩

I MANIFESTED EVERYTHING WITHIN 3 DAYS 😭 I REALLY CAN'T BELIEVE MY EYES, JUST. 3. FUCKING. DAYS. GODDAMMIT.

HOW I DID IT:

JUST FULFILLED IT IN MY IMAGINATION

YEP, YOU HEARD THAT RIGHT. I LIVED IN THE 4D REALITY, I NEVER GAVE A SHIT ABOUT THE 3D AT ALL. OK LEMME BREAK IT DOWN FOR Y'ALL SO JUST PAY ATTENTION FROM HERE ONWARDS.

🪄 SUPPOSE SOMETHING UNDESIRABLE OR UNFAVORABLE CIRCUMSTANCES ARE HAPPENING IN YOUR 3D. WHO'S THE CAUSE FOR THAT? YOU. 'BUT I DIDN'T IMAGINE OR THINK OF THESE 😭' BABY, YOU'RE THE SOLE CAUSE, EFFECT, AND THE SOLUTION. THERE'S NO OTHER EXPLANATION TO THIS.

🪄 AS WE ALL KNOW, 3D IS A MIRROR. RIGHT? WHATEVER YOU THINK ABOUT, YOUR ASSUMPTIONS, YOUR THOUGHTS, YOUR FEELINGS, YOUR PERSPECTIVE EVERYTHING WILL BE REFLECTED. SO WHY NOT THINK THE WAY YOU WANT SO YOU CAN EXPERIENCE THE SAME? GET IT.

🪄 IF YOU WANT TO CHANGE THE 3D, CHANGE YOUR 4D FIRST. CHANGE YOUR PERSPECTIVE TO HOW YOUR DESIRED SELF WOULD SEE THE WORLD. KEEP DWELLING IN IT. IF THE 3D SHOWS UNFAVORABLE CIRCUMSTANCES, DON'T FUCKING GET TRIGGERED. GO BACK TO YOUR IMAGINATION AND DENY YOUR SENSES.

🪄 EVERYTIME YOU SEE SOMETHING ELSE IN THE 3D, GO 'BRUHH THIS IS MY OLD STORY, I ALREADY HAVE WHAT I WANT, THIS IS JUST FAKE' AND MOVE ON. DISTRACT YOURSELF. CUS THE 3D WORLD WHICH YOU SEE IS AN ILLUSION, IT'S NOT REAL. IT'S YOUR CREATION, WHY WOULD YOU TRY TO CONTROL WHAT YOU CREATED? IT'S ALREADY IN CONTROL. YOU ONLY GOTTA REALISE YOUR GODSELF. YOU ARE THE CREATOR, NOT THE CREATION. STOP FUCKING VICTIMIZING YOURSELF.

🪄 I GET IT THAT MOST OF THE PEOPLE ARE CONFUSED BETWEEN LAW OF ASSUMPTION AND NON DUALISM. EVEN I WAS, BUT SLOWLY I REALISED THAT WE'RE ALL NOTHING. WE'RE JUST LIVING IN OUR OWN CREATIONS. VICTIMIZING OURSELVES IN OUR OWN CREATIONS. IRONIC RIGHT?

🪄 THOSE THOUGHTS, ANXIETY, FEELINGS, EMOTIONS ARE ALL IN YOUR PHYSICAL REALM. YOUR MIND, YOUR BODY, YOUR EGO EVERYTHING IS NO REAL, WE ASSUME IT TO BE. WE'RE ARE SHAPELESS, FORMLESS, WE'RE NOTHING! AND EVERYTHING AT THE SAME TIME. CUS EVERYTHING COMES DOWN TO ONE THING, I AM.

🪄 K Y'ALL MIGHT BE SUPER CONFUSED, WHAT I'M TRYNA INFUSE IN YOUR BRAINS. SO WHAT YOU DO IS, LIVE IN YOUR 4D.HOW? IMAGINATION. NO MATTER WHAT YOU SEE IN YOUR 3D, GO BACK TO YOUR IMAGINATION, AFFIRM OR VISUALISE. ANYTHING IS FINE BTW. JUST STAY IN THE STATE OF WISH FULFILLED.

🪄 STOP RELYING ON METHODS, FUCK THEM. JUST BE. DON'T TRY TO CHANGE SOMETHING WHEN YOU ALREADY HAVE THEM. JUST STOP, SURRENDER, STOP FIGHTING, STOP TRYING SO HARD WHEN YOUR ALREADY IT. SO GO LIVE IN YOUR IMAGINATION, FULLY SURRENDER. DO THINGS WHICH YOU LIKE. GO LIVE YOUR LIFE. TAKE YOUR POWER BACK.

LIKE AREN'T YOU TIRED? TRAPPED IN YOUR OWN CREATIONS? YOU CREATED THEM, YOU HAVE THE POWER TO CHANGE WHATEVER. TELL ME HOW LONG ARE YOU GONNA LIVE THIS BULLSHIT LIFE? YOU'RE REALLY GETTING COMFORTABLE BEING UNCOMFORTABLE. SO LISTEN UP, DO WHAT YOU LOVE, AFFIRM, VISUALISE, OR DAYDREAM, ZONE OUT, WHATEVER. ALL I DID WAS DO THIS MEDITATION IN THE MORNING, WENT ABOUT MY DAY WATCHING JUJUTSU KAISEN LMAO. THEN RANDOMLY AFFIRM, LIVED IN MY 4D, NEVER PAYED ANY FUCKING ATTENTION TO MY 3D, CUS I'M GOD. I REALLY LOVE VISUALISING, SO I PUT ON A SONG AND START DAYDREAMING IN MY ROOM SMILING LIKE AN IDIOT. ALSO, I DID SATS BEFORE GOING TO BED. THAT'S IT. THAT'S ALL I DID FOR 3 FUCKING DAYS, AND GOT WHAT EVER I WANT. ALSO I MADE A CUSTOM TAPE TOO (IT'S A GENERAL SELF CONCEPT ONE) I LISTENED TO IT FOR 30 MINS AND JUST WENT ABOUT MY DAY THINKING I HAD WHATEVER I FUCKING DESIRE, CUS IT'S ALL MY CREATIONS AND I HAVE IT ALREADY. THERE'S NOTHING TO GET, IT'S ALREADY IN ME.

LUV YOU, BYE 💋

#non dualism #law of assumption #neville goddard #reality shifting #affirmdaily #dream life #frequency #loa success #manifestations #manifestyourreality #scripting #3roe #self concept #higher self #consciousness #Spotify

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spacelazarwolf · 1 year ago

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Hey there! I’ve really appreciated your posts and perspective over this past month, I’m having a hard time (as so many Jews are) and your voice helps.

I’m hoping you can help me with reliable resources. A friend of mine condemned the Hamas attacks etc (as they should, to my relief) but is under the impression that Israeli govt is doing genocide to the Palestinians. I’ve no idea how to approach that to verify (or not), I don’t even know where to start looking. Do you have any suggestions?

Thank you.

thanks! this is a really tough question, but i'm going to do my best to break it down. also if anyone's thinking of clowning on this post without reading it, inb4 "omg ur denying genocide!!!!!!" bc this post is literally outlining, in detail, all the ways the israeli government is, by definition, committing genocide.

this is really long, just a heads up.

a big frustration i have with a lot of progressive or leftist spaces is the tendency to throw around words like genocide without being able to define the term or properly apply it to the situation in question. this isn't just a semantics issue. if all you're doing is repeating the buzzwords you've heard on social media, your "activism" is going to be less than useless. it is crucial that if you are going to talk about the current genocide in gaza, you must be able to define exactly what a genocide is and how it applies to what's happening in gaza.

i'm paraphrasing from this article by the united nations. the word "genocide" was coined in 1944 by raphael lemkin in his book "axis rule in occupied europe." it was developed partly in response to the shoah, but also to previous instances of what we would now define as genocide. it was recognized as a crime under international law in 1946, and codified as an independent crime in the 1948 convention on the prevention and punishment of the crime of genocide.

the definition of genocide

(from article II of the convention on the prevention and punishment of the crime of genocide):

in the present convention, genocide means any of the following acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group, as such:

a. killing members of the group; b. causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group; c. deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part; d. imposing measures intended to prevent births within the group; e. forcibly transferring children of the group to another group.

the 10 stages of genocide

a model created by gregory stanton, the founding president of genocide watch

classification - people are divided into "them and us"

symbolization - when combined with hatred, symbols may be forced upon unwilling members of pariah groups.

discrimination - law or cultural power excludes groups from full civil rights: segregation or apartheid laws, denial of voting rights.

dehumanization - one group denies the humanity of the other group. memmbers of it are equated with animals, vermin, insects, or diseases.

organization - genocide is always organized... special army units or militias are often trained and armed...

polarization - extremists drive the groups apart... leaders are arrested and murdered... laws erode fundamental civil rights and liberties.

preparation - mass killing is planned. victims are identified and sepaarated because of their ethnic or religious identity.

persecution - expropriation, forced displacement, ghettos.

extermination - it is 'extermination' to the killers because they do not believe their victims to be fully human.

denial - the perpatrators... deny that they committed any crimes.

application to the crisis in gaza

to start with the first definition from the united nations:

a. killing members of the group - YES

the death toll in gaza has risen above 8,000 according to the associated press. as far as i know, as of writing this post, there has been no ceasefire so the death toll will continue to rise.

b. causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group - YES

over 20,000 people in gaza have been injured, and gazans - particularly children - suffer incredibly high rates of ptsd.

c. deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part - YES

the israeli blockade of gaza has had devastating consequences for gazans. they are running out of food, water, fuel, and medicine, and this is costing additional lives.

d. imposing measures intended to prevent births within the group - unclear but leaning toward YES

whether or not it is the explicit goal, the current bombardment of gaza has put the lives of 50,000+ pregnant women in gaza at risk, along with their babies. babies who need incubators are also in danger as generators begin to run out of fuel.

e. forcibly transferring children of the group to another group - as far as i am aware, NO

according to the us embassy in israel, the palestinian authority ministry of social development is the only authorized entity regarding adoption of palestinian children. this doesn't mean it isn't happening, it just means i was not able to find any credible sources.

the 10 stages of genocide

classification - YES there is a long history in israel of othering palestinians, both socially/culturally and legally. former israeli minister of interior and minister of justice ayelet shaked shared a racist quote from netanyahu's former chief of staff explicitly framing palestinians as "the enemy."

symbolization - not yet there are no overt symbols palestinians, even within israel, are required to wear to outwardly identify themselves, but there are identifying features on their ids. in fact, the opposite has been happening, with far right members of the israeli government attempting to pass legislation making it illegal to publicly display palestinian flags.

discrimination - YES there is, again, a long history of discrimination against palestinians within and by the state of israel. it is difficult for palestinians from the west bank or gaza to gain status in israel, israeli work permits are used as a form of control, and often forcibly separate palestinian families.

dehumanization - YES former israeli deputy minister of defense eli ben dahan said of palestinians, "to me they are like animals, they aren't human."

organization - YES israel is currently carrying out an organized and brutal attack on gaza.

polarization - YES from extremist groups like hamas, to the corruption in the likud party in israel, there are very clear signs of extreme polarization. israel's siege against gaza has caused polarization across the entire globe.

preparation - YES gazans in particular are unable to leave gaza without a permit, and now with the blockade from both israel and egypt they are essentially trapped.

persecution - YES gaza in particular could absolutely be likened to a ghetto. as stated above, (in "usual" circumstances) they are unable to leave without a permit, and since hamas took control it is nearly impossible to get an israeli work permit.

extermination - GETTING THERE if the siege continues and gazans are unable to get out of gaza, there will be catastrophic casualties.

denial - YES i often hear that "israel has a right to defend itself" but i cannot possibly find a way to frame the current siege as "self defense."

so in conclusion, israel is - by multiple definitions - committing genocide against gazans. and it's very important to be able to identify specifics, especially if you are planning on having discussions about it. and i've said it in the past, but if you are not directly affected by what's happening - palestinians in particular, but israeli citizens and jews and muslims in the diaspora are also getting hit hard - it is IMPERATIVE that you are able to talk about this with a level head. escalating tensions and pushing away potential allies is only going to make things worse. find common ground, form connections, and then have a productive discussion.

#ask avishai #i/p

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samara444 · 6 months ago

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everything i learnt during my break (ie all you need to know about manifesting)

hi guys, i took a months long break from tumblr. i used to be depressed, suicidal, constantly looking for results, having only failures, whining, being affected by the 3d every turn, crying almost everyday, to now not being affected by the 3d at ALLL, knowing my true power, and having it all easily conform in the 3d, i dont have anxiety/depression anymore and i feel so blessed, now i literally cry happy tears.

i used to be someone who used to spend my whole day on here, morning to night, looking for answers and the final "key" to manifesting/shifting, taking a break was much needed. here are the things i finally learned after so long.

dont be double minded // i would like to start by saying, see its a choice. we have 2 very distinct sides in this world, one full of lack, negativity, failures, sadness, losing, wishing, wanting....and the other of fulfillment, belief, positivity, determination, persisting, having, being, awareness etc. and whatever we choose, stick by it. i see so many people complaining and trying to say manif/shifting isnt real, and yes thats true FOR YOU in your reality. whatever you have choosen, a life of suffering or one of happiness through the law, please stick to it. if you want to say the law doesnt work, great, but if you have even a slight hope that its true and real, then give it a shot, and dont doubt, and with faith watch how it changes your life.

no circumstance can stop you // be it time, or the past, or trauma, every condition and circumstance only exist because we identify with it. the difference between a broke guy working a 9 to 5 that they hate, no purpose in life, debt and all relationships failing and a multimillionare, who doesnt have to work a single day in their life, life full of luxury and happiness, people who love them etc who probably doesnt even deserve their money but still gets to enjoy it, is simply their beliefs. believe better for yourself.

thinking from your desire and not of it // wishing and wanting and creating up fake scenarios is very different from knowing you HAVE your desire rn. the former is daydreaming, the latter is creation. you can waste years of your life thinking you're manifesting but its just us THINKING OFFF our desire. the results only show up when we HAVE right now. not to get, not to change the 3d but haveeee right now.

imagination is the only reality // we live in a multiverse, idc if people believe in that or not because its true for me, and every possible circumstance is possible and already created. already done. all our job is to HAVE it, and to CHOOSE to live in the state of having. and being fulfilled in our imagination instead of looking for in the 3d. if we look now we'll forever be looking, but when we close our eyes and know its done because our minds is the true consciousness, thats when it actually shows up.

stop manifesting with the intent of changing the 3d // physically trying to change the 3d is so hard, its so tiresome, its futile and useless, but being fulfilled and in the present moment, not worrying about the past or the future. just focusing on staying in the state of the wish fulfilled with our eyes closed is the key, dont worry about what you see with your eyes open. the 4d is the creator, the 3d will AUTOMATICALLY follow.

stop overconsuming/more techniques and enjoy life // you know already what you have to do. most of us know that living in the end means being the person who already has it. so does your dream ideal self do a million techniques trying to get? does you ideal self spend their whole day scrolling on tumblr looking for another technique? another magic affirmation? subliminal? post? that will fix it all? no. they enjoy their lives knowing its done. their wish is in the greatest hands and its all done. so really, stoppp STOP with the overconsumption, trust that you know everything that you are supposed to. everything is within you. stop searching for it outside.

i yap a lot. i love to write so dont blame me, but i wont make this post too long, my dms are always open for help/ or to make friends. ily guys, i feel so happy now being on tumblr, i used to read others success stories and now i have my own hehe so yes slay. bye

-love, sam <3

#reality shifting #law of assumption #manifestation #shifting antis dni #law of attraction #master manifestor #manifesting #law of manifestation #neville goddard #live in the end #state akin to sleep #the void state #void state #shiftblr #16/7/24

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tadpolesonalgae · 2 months ago

Text

Blood-borne

Azriel x reader

synopsis: When reports of attacks from strange beasts increase up in the desolate Illyrian Steppes, both Azriel and Cassian are tasked with clearing out the malicious creatures. But when Azriel is bitten by one and sweats break out, the High Lord realises perhaps he should have put more time into investigating the ancient species. More specifically, why the attacks started after a millennia’s worth of peaceful cohabitation, and what the consequences will be of their venom once again mixing with Illyrian blood.

warnings: blood, illness, eventual vampire! Az, generic healing descriptions

a/n: so this started off with I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead, then switched to Lust For A Vampyr, and finally ended with Sour Switchblade. Who knows where the next one will start 😔

word count: 7,975

It’s the dead of night. Peaceful.

The moon is high in the sky—a gleaming, crooked, slash of a smile—and the city is dark, revelling in the beloved starlight far above, twinkling like millions of glazed, porcelain teeth, cast into a murky black sea and stitched into the heavens. Your windows are ajar, a cool night breeze circulating your chambers, keeping the air fresh and crisp even while you sleep.

Azriel and Cassian will return in the early morning, eager to be rid of Illyria as soon as possible. Between the two of them Azriel will likely be the one more insistent on a swift departure, though you can’t imagine him ever voicing his distain. Luckily Cassian will be there to pick up on his non-verbal signals.

You’ll have to check in with Feyre too, make sure she’s recovering well after her birth. Physically, the damage was extensive—if it wasn’t for the healing blood in her veins and Nesta’s intervention… Your fingers pinch the bridge of your nose, rubbing to soothe the growing headache before your arm slides across your face, elbow hanging crooked over your brow. She’s been on the mend but it’ll be a long while yet before she can even think about shifting again; longer yet before she can fly. As for her son…he’s healthy. Practically brimming with life. Everyone’s seen the twinkle in his round eyes. You’re certain he’ll grown into a menace soon enough.

As for Elain…

Guilt is a ball of iron in your chest. With everything that’s been happening as of late there’s been little time for either you or Madja to keep a proper eye on her. You just hope the two of you haven’t been too preoccupied with the more obvious matters to disregard the internal ones. It’s hard to gauge where she’s at, and you often have to rely on Nuala’s reports to hazard a guess at what might be going through the young female’s mind. Externally, she’s doing exceptionally well—keeping herself busy: baking, reading, walking, gardening, knitting, sewing, stitching, studying. She keeps herself fresh and put together, skin healthy and strong, hair lustrous and long, a vivid glow about her. No eye-bags nor sallow complexion, she communicates with the twins fine and only has rare days of reclusion where she retreats to her bedroom. By all means she’s doing well.

It’s worrying.

There’s so much to keep an eye on within this family, so many minor tensions to understand—more so than any other setting you’ve been placed in. Each day has its own set events to overcome, a new detail to examine, whether that’s a shift in expression as another family member enters the room or as blatant as the simmering hatred that so nastily permeates any room the High Lord and his eldest sister-in-law, Nesta, are placed in.

Inhaling a dragging breath, your focus slips to the raindrops glittering over the window pane, the piercing light of the moon shimmering like tiny stars, the inky darkness of the city itself reflected upward from below like tight, vicious pupils, hundreds of tiny eyes pressed up to the glass.

A thunderous crash comes from the floor below, the thump pulsing once through your chest, jerking you awake.

At once your feet find the cool wooden floorboards, a nightgown strung over bare shoulders, not a second of movement wasted before the glowing faelight is cupped in your palm and the cold iron of the door handle is twisted, opening up into the yawning darkness of the corridor. A gust of rain-soaked wind funnels down the hallway, whipping hair from your face and the faelight flickers, shuddering once before pushing back against the looming shadows crowding the space.

You hug your thin nightgown tighter, hurrying barefooted down the hall to the staircase, skin tightening to gooseflesh as a second gust of icy wind flushes through the house, howling from the front door that is cast wide. The rug is soaking beneath your feet as you press it closed, following the low light at the far end of the corridor to the kitchen, tiles colder than ice and soaked in puddles of water.

Blood roars through your ears, pausing only for a second of analysis as you take in the rain-soaked scene. Shards of ceramics scatter the floor, a body splayed across the dining room table, two figures stood either side. It’s all you have time for before rushing forward, only now catching the sickening tang of iron in the air, the wind having previously blown the scent away and you tap the fae light twice in your palm before releasing it high above the slumped figure on the table. It’ll have to do for now.

Sour, pale-yellow light fills the dining room and blood gurgles from Azriel’s mouth, wet gasps bubbling up from his chest. Rhysand is stood at one head of the table, hand clutched tight around Azriel’s, the High Lord’s towering figure curved crookedly over his brother’s, close enough their brows are touching and it’s clear enough Rhysand is doing what he can mentally, relieving pain, sorting through panic and adrenaline to find his shadowsinger some order to cling to.

“What happened?” You ask Cassian, darting forward to closer examine Azriel’s state. As far as you can see there are two main wounds, one on the thigh of his left leg and a second having broken into his ribcage on the opposite side. By now the blood flow has already begun to wane, a countdown to his life force bleeding dry. If the wound had been gushing you would have felt more reassured. There’s far too little blood coming from wounds as deep as his.

“There were more than we anticipated,” Cassian grits out. “Their nest was supposed to be on the far side of the mountain. Most of them got cleared out but two we’d already cut down must have been playing dead and bit on our retreat.”

“The chimeras?” You ask, noting the splay of teeth marks that are puncturing the right side of Azriel’s torso, the fleshy grey of broken bone visible through one of the upper gouges.

Cassian nods grimly and you seal your mouth shut to prevent from cursing. It’s bad luck to hear a healer curse—your job is to know what’s going on and get things better, not worse. Adrenalised panic only helps in temporarily keeping pain away. For now you have to do what you can, sealing the wounds, and hope that there’s no fractured enamel trapped inside.

“Has he begun healing yet?” You ask, pressing the second and third fingers on both your hands either side what you guess must be the puncture mark of the beasts’ canine, two significantly larger than the others.

“No. I think he’s lost too much blood to manage anything like that. He wouldn’t stop bleeding the entire flight down,” Cassian replied, voice raw. You wonder how long he was shouting to Azriel over the screaming storm outside in order to keep him conscious. Cassian’s dark eyes shift to his brother’s face, thick brows growing heavy as they stitch together, chest still heaving as adrenaline doubtlessly begins to seep away, leaving stagnant fear to lean on. “I thought he was going to die,” Cassian murmurs, so low you doubt either other male can hear.

“He’s not going to die,” you assure, pushing growth into the surrounding tissue, guiding his open flesh back together like shaping clay. “Hold the wound on his leg until I can let these ones breathe.”

A pulse of rejection seizes Azriel’s chest, blood flecking his sour-toned skin, Rhysand’s own knuckles turning bone white as he grips tighter to his brother. You’re lucky he’s here, or else things would be much worse. You don’t linger on the thought, your own breath beginning to labour as you move to the second puncture gouge in his chest, bone protruding from deeper in the flesh.

A twinge of fear pieces your mind.

Azriel groans on the table, wings deathly still where they’re splayed off the sides, the joints at their ends beginning to curl inward like a spider’s legs on the verge of death. Breath whistles in his lungs, blood no longer gurgling from his chest—barely moving at all.

“Rhys!” You shout, pulling him from that mental bridge he’d been tending Azriel upon, gripping his shoulder roughly. “Pull away! Pull away!”

The High Lord’s chest heaves as he forces himself back, releasing the soothing hold he’d had on Azriel’s mind, hands still clutched together.

The Shadowsinger jolts on the table, body writhing as fresh pain blazes through flesh, senses no longer muted. It’s probably going to be the last thing he can hold onto.

He’s fading.

You look at Cassian, bloody fingers still pressing down on the wound, the miniature, magical stitches sewing tissue back together slowly making their way back to the surface, flesh returning to its healed state. “Fetch Madja,” you instruct, “We’ll have a better chance with both of us. Quick. And Rhys, I want you to find-”

A gasp comes from the doorway and the High Lord’s expression drains. It’s far from ideal to have her within such a high stress environment but it’s really a last resort.

“Feyre, your blood,” you request urgently, feeling the weight as violet eyes cut into your side, but it’s necessary. It’s the boost that will save Azriel’s life, or at least sustain him until Madja arrives. “Only a small amount,” you say calmly, “he just needs enough to keep him alive until I have Madja to help.”

Feyre swallows only once before she’s hurrying forward, blue-grey eyes rushing over the male on the table, tension in her jaw. “How much?” She asks, taking the blade Cassian hands her before he heads out into the night. “A slice across your palm. If you feel faint stop immediately.”

She doesn’t hesitate, an excess of blood swelling in her hand before spilling into Azriel’s open mouth, pale lips soaked red. His throat works and you rush round to his other side, now pressing one palm to each gash.

There’s no time to pace yourself in this encounter.

It’s a one-time brawl, not a long-spanned battle.

————

Come morning your hands are aching, lungs tired and stretched, throat parched. You haven’t had such a long night since the end of the war.

At least now you have free access to water, which you’d taken full advantage of when returning to your room.

By the time Madja had arrived you’d had all the immediate injuries patched but there had still been little colour to Azriel’s complexion. Pallid save for the blood staining his open mouth. If Cassian hadn’t flown so swiftly; if Feyre hadn’t been there; if Azriel hadn’t the strength to hang on… It’s a small miracle he’s still alive and breathing.

As soon as the sun touches the horizon you get yourself up, preparing to take over Madja’s shift after she’d seen him through the night. There’s still a drained pit where your magic should be, the small amount of sleep you’d managed to grab doing little to aid its replenishment, but it should be enough for today.

It’s only upon seeing the bloodstained bandages wrapping Azriel’s body and leg that you realise all the rainwater from the night before must have been blood, soaking the rugs, the tiled floors, the bare skin of your feet. It’s a good thing those clothes had been stripped down and tossed into a pile before falling into sleep the night just past.

“How is he?” You ask, stepping into Azriel’s room. The thick curtains are drawn, but even so it’s too light.

“Asleep, for now,” Madja replies, raising from her chosen seat at the bedside. “Once I administered the pain reliever he settled down and hasn’t stirred since.” Worried eyes flicker over the male’s body, dark hands tucking her pencil away. You step forward, hand cupping her elbow carefully, “You deserve some rest, too.” Brown eyes don’t leave Azriel for a few moments, but eventually she nods, meeting your gaze, returning the touch on your arm. “You’re a competent healer, you know. You did well last night.” Madja smiles, nodding. “Good work.”

The words remain in your mind all morning while you’re overseeing Azriel, routinely checking his temperature, keeping an eye on his breathing patterns, and pulse, but it’s not until well past midday that he stirs.

You sit silently at his side. It’s his breathing that changes first, a deeper breath than the ones before bringing air deep into his lungs, lips peeling themselves apart. Then it’s a twitch in his brows, lifting once then furrowing over his eyes which screw themselves shut. A low groan rumbles in his throat and you allow yourself a subtle sigh of relief. His eyes are next, blinking open by less than a hair’s breadth, pupils gradually contracting to filter the light away until he can look around freely. It takes him longer than usual to get his bearings, but that’s to be expected.

You wait until he’s ready to speak.

“How bad is it?” Azriel rasps, his vocal cords chewed up. A smile curves your eyes, “You aren’t dead.” Air rattles in his lungs, a wheezing cough stuttering once from his chest and you offer the glass of water from his bedside. Azriel tilts his head to the side, and you retract the glass.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” you tell him, turning to the notebook Madja had left for you. “First of all, what’s your name?” Azriel is silent and you look over to him, concern welling in your chest, but instead his mouth is pursed, expression flat. You sigh, fondness pushing up into your voice, “Come on. It’s routine.”

“Azriel,” Azriel answers, giving you a deadpan look. You nod. “Do you remember where you were going yesterday?”

A pause, then, “Illyria. Cassian and I were returning.”

“Good, but you’re jumping ahead,” you warn, making hazel eyes brighten within the shadowy room. “Can you tell me the names of your two brothers?”

“Cassian and Rhysand.”

“Do you know where you are?”

This time Azriel pauses, eyes darting around the room, his brow furrowing. “The River House?”

You nod, “You’re in a guest bedroom since it was closer. I’m afraid it’ll probably be some time before we can move you to your own room.” But Azriel tips his head to the side again, “It’s fine.”

“Alright,” you reply quietly, keeping your smile to yourself. “Next question. Just a few more,” you add when Azriel exhales heavily. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

“Cassian and I were supposed to be investigating the recent attacks up in Illyria. There was supposed to be no contact.”

You nod, smile faded. “Do you remember how you got your injuries?”

“We thought we’d cleared out the ones that had found us, but we hit their nest by chance and there were too many. On the way out one that had been dead bit me.” You wait for him to continue but he stops, looking back to you.

“Is that all?”

Azriel nods.

You note down his story, along with the point his memory cuts out. “You don’t remember the second bite?” You inquire. Azriel tilts his head, no. “Do you remember getting here?” Azriel tilts his head again, no.

You nod, sitting straighter. Pushing a reassuring expression to your features. “Well, the good news is you aren’t dead, as you’re aware.” Azriel rolls his eyes, then hisses, groaning as something hurts. “Your wings are also unscathed, which I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear.” The Shadowsinger grumbles something you don’t hear. Of course you’re glad he’s okay.

“Right,” you announce, pushing the glass of water to him again which he drinks from reluctantly, “Are you feeling right enough to answer a few more questions for me, or would you like to rest?”

“What time is it?” He asks.

You glance at the clock on the wall, “It’s coming up for four in the afternoon.”

“I can answer a few more questions,” he decides, allowing you to take the glass from his hand once he’s done.

“Firstly, how are you feeling? Any pain or numbness? Changes in temperature? Aches?” You prompt, pencil at the ready. “My head is pounding,” he answers, eyes remaining only half open though you doubt it’s entirely from fatigue. “My lower body is numb, but my left foot feels cold. A dead cold.” You nod, pencil scratching. “My throat is sore, but my eyes and teeth are the most piercing.”

Your brow furrows, “Eyes and teeth, huh… Are your eyes hurting as a part of your headache, or do you feel it’s different?”

“It’s like I haven’t slept in two weeks, and something’s trying to suck them from my skull,” Azriel rasps. Scritch scratch. “And…you mentioned your teeth are hurting… Toothache? I’ll ask Cassian whether your jaw might have had a collision.” You glance over to Azriel who’s still pale. But alive. “What does it feel like? Bruising? Broken?” You’d know if it was broken, though.

Azriel tilts his head. “More piercing. Here.” Azriel guides his tongue to his left canine. “And here.” He touches the right one. Your brows furrow then you remember to keep your face neutral. Azriel wheezes a sound that might have been a chuckle. “Anything else?” You ask, moving quickly past your error. Azriel tilts his head again, no.

“Alright then. It would be best for you to try and rest for a few more hours—think you can fall back asleep?” You ask, closing the leather-bound notebook and setting it upon the side table. The Spymaster sighs, tilting his head. You aren’t surprised. “You should try. Your body needs the rest.” You pause, considering. Then, “Do you feel well enough to try eating something? It would be good for you.”

Azriel’s eyes slide shut, lips curling miserably and you have to muffle your laugh. “I don’t want to be eating plain chicken for the next few days,” he mumbles.

“We need to be careful of your stomach, and your body needs nutrition. Protein.” You reason, “Be happy you aren’t having to drink your meals after mentioning that toothache.” Hazel eyes crack open just enough to send you a piercing glare, but it only results in an upward twitch of your lips. “Would you like me to fetch you anything in the mean time?” You add, knowing it’s not nice to be resting when there’s work that one could be doing.

“My notebook should be on my desk—can you bring me the stack of reports that will be in the uppermost drawer on the right hand side? There’ll be the first thing you see when you look inside.” You raise a brow, mouth pursing. “Already trying to get back to work?”

His lips twitch. “I have a lot of work to do.”

“Well it’s going to have to wait,” you sigh, standing from your chair. “I can fetch your notebook and a book of your choosing—so long as you promise it won’t be work related.”

“All my books are work related.”

Your eyes narrow on the bedridden male, waiting for his mask to slip but it remains firmly in place. “Seriously? Not one?”

Azriel shrugs. Or tries to. It’s more a light twitch of his wings.

You sigh, nodding to yourself. “Alright. I’ll find something.”

You turn to leave but a small shadow stirs in your periphery, dragging your attention back to him. Hazel eyes twinkle as the darkness lifts the silky dark hair from his brow, damp enough to appear like ink even in the shadowed room. You roll your eyes, pacing back over to his side, gently laying the back of your fingers across his brow. A beat passes, then Azriel’s eyes slide shut the rest of the way. Your touch lingers on his forehead, taking longer than necessary to gauge his temperature.

“Your fingers are cool,” Azriel murmurs. Eyes only opening once you pull away again, silky hair flopping back into place.

“You’re still a little feverish,” you tell him quietly, wary for his aching senses. “Hopefully it’ll pass swiftly enough, but if not your recovery will only take a few extra days.” A pause passes through the room, and you should really be writing that temperature down as your hourly mark.

As if on cue, a warmed plate appears on the bedside table, and a look of sorrow dims Azriel’s already dismal features when he spots the plain, boiled chicken.

You offer a pitying smile which earns you a grunt of displeasure before you’re turning for the door, pausing on the threshold. “I’ll make sure it’s a good book,” you offer.

Azriel’s expression turns dour, brow pinched, mouth thinning, and you can practically see his shadows beginning to brood.

‘It had better be,’ he mouths, voice too worn out to reach you across the room.

————

The next morning is the same routine, waking up as soon as the sun bleeds over the horizon, trickling pale gold into your bedroom on the first floor. It’s a swift execution of movements, washing, combing, and dressing before you’re out into the house and heading down the hall to Azriel’s temporary room.

The handle twists before you have a chance to lay your hand on it, Cassian stepping out from the interior. Hazel eyes shift to you, worn and fatigued—usually it’s Azriel who accessorises with the hints of mauve beneath his eyes. “Did you get to speak with him?” You ask, voice kept low in case Azriel’s resting inside. The General nods, leathers stretching as he pushes the dark hair back from his brow, not yet tied back for the day and curling around his shoulders. “Thank you for keeping him alive,” Cassian says, equally quiet.

“It’s my job,” you smile. “Besides, it wasn’t just me. If you three hadn’t been there it could just as easily have turned bad.” You nod to the door, the room where Azriel’s staying, “You helped more than you think, Cassian.”

Cassian offers a stiff nod, then he’s straightening, about to leave.

“I wanted to ask you something about that night,” you say, catching his attention. “Azriel mentioned his teeth hurting, specifically his canines—do you know if he might have collided with the floor after the first bite?”

“Not that I remember,” Cassian contemplates. “He stayed upright and ambulatory until we reached the tunnel exit.”

You nod, thinking. “Alright… Well, we’ll be keeping an eye on him anyway. Hopefully it’s just a side effect of sinus pressure or headaches.”

Cassian nods his head once, then you’re going your separate ways.

The curtains are still drawn, and Azriel still appears pale despite the shadows dimming colours. He’s asleep however, which is good, at least.

After a brief exchange with Madja over how the night went you’re all ready and seated at his side. The plate from yesterday had been removed but the book is still on the side table, no sign that he started it that you can see.

Like the previous day, Azriel doesn’t wake until long past midday, only rising to consciousness around sundown.

His eyes are thick and heavy as they blink open, a darkened tinge to the whites that you can’t quite make out the colour of in shadow. The skin of his lips is cracked, peeling at the bow of his mouth, pulling back from his teeth. Despite the long bouts of sleep the dark smudges beneath his eyes don’t seem to be going anywhere, only further deepening, contrasted against the waning colour of his skin—the once rich brown now turning grey and ashen. The fever will be surfacing, regardless of suppression and attempted appeasement.

His temperature had begun rising overnight, just tipping into the twenties as the moon slipped away. A sure sign the burning flesh is on its way.

Azriel’s chest lifts and lowers shallowly, breath rasping from desiccated lips. A sheen runs across his pale features, brows appearing closer to oil than ink. Heavy lids slide shut as you guide the slick hair over his forehead to the side, the backs of your fingers laying tenderly down—it’s nowhere yet even near the breaking point.

“Azriel?” You whisper, “Can you hear me?”

The restless flutter of his lashes alerts you to his awareness, eyes stirring beneath near translucent lids, mauve capillaries webbing through the thin flesh. He creeks himself apart—he’s gotten abruptly worse. Bloodshot hazel tries to shift about the room but he groans, eyes choosing to remain stagnant in his skull instead.

“How are you feeling?” You murmur, fingers retracting, splaying the notebook across your lap, pencil in hand. “My head…” Azriel rasps, voice more ragged than when you last heard it, like something’s come along and ripped it to shreds, “…it’s splitting.” Your brow furrows—Cassian reported he hadn’t received a blow to the head. He seemed appropriately injured yesterday, but for some reason he’s so much worse. Could the meat have been off? Surely not.

“Madja told me she administered a balm to your skin before dawn, is the rest of your body aching?” You inquire, considering applying a fresh layer to ease the pain that’s begun to bubble back up.

“My stomach’s starving…” Beneath the cream cotton covers his arm passes over his abdomen, resting. “It’s like someone’s grinding me up between stones.”

“Okay hold still, the balm might feel cold but I’ll apply some more.” Already you’re pulling back his covers, preparing to begin warming the cream between your palms to encourage its goodness to act swiftly but something catches your attention. While there’s no need for bandages over his torso, his thigh has been wrapped and sanitised, now mottled with something dark and not-quite blood coloured. More concerning is the black tissue stitching together the sections where his stomach had been gauged open, thin threads of necrotic flesh lacing his surface.

Your jaw bites itself together, cold overtaking your spine. Whatever’s happening to him is different from general infection.

Lips part as a soft curse slips out—venom? Impossible. The beasts have never been reported to posses glands like that. But it’s the only explanation.

Considering explanations though…was the reason for their seemingly random switch in nature ever understood? Before now the chimeras never bothered the Illyrians, cohabiting up in the steppes peacefully, as far as you’re aware. What catalysed this sudden shift in nature?

Another noise of deep-rooted pain groans through his chest, oil-black brows condensing to a point in the middle of his forehead, skin shining with the movement as feverish sweat breaks across his features. Your own brows furrow, heart beating frenetically, “Azriel…?”

His teeth grit, jaw grinding as if in pain, and his breathing becomes ragged; irregular and torn at the seams. Again you lay your fingers across his brow, and he’s noticeably hotter than before, almost burning in comparison.

Water. He needs water.

“Azriel,” you try but his eyes are shut tight, the fabric of his sheets darkening in a close perimeter around his body, sweat staining the cloth. “Azriel I need you to drink some water,” you urge softly, taking the glass and sliding your palm beneath his head, inclining him from the pillow and bringing the chilled glass to parched lips. He drinks deeply, polishing off the water swiftly and you stand to go in search of a rag to lay across his brow. It brings only a temporary reprieve before he’s panting once again. Teeth worry your lower lip.

Whatever’s happening, it isn’t normal.

“Azriel, I’m going to speak with Rhysand briefly. I’ll be back in three minutes,” you tell him gently, pressing the glass back into his palm. “Drop this on the floor if you need me sooner; I’ll hear it.”

Then you’re off into the hallway. Either male will do, but something was wrong with those creatures, and your instincts are telling you it needs to be gotten to the bottom of, and swiftly.

A life might depend on it.

————

It must be the goodwill of the Mother than allows both Cassian and Rhysand to be at that moment in the latter’s office, heads turning when the door is thrown wide.

Apology passes briefly through your eyes but as soon as you step foot in the room it vanishes, door clicking shut as you hurry into the room. “Cassian, I need to you get me one of those chimeras. Dead or alive, but preferably dead. Something’s wrong with Azriel and I think it’s to do with the change in behaviour we’ve been seeing from those animals.”

Violet eyes flicker, “What’s wrong with Azriel?”

“I don’t know,” you inform, expression hard. “His flesh is turning necrotic in places around the wounds and his fever isn’t breaking. Madja reported his temperature increasing around two o’clock this morning and the way he is now makes it seem as if he’s on the third day and untreated.” You turn to Cassian. “I need one of those Chimeras to examine, as quick as possible. They aren’t supposed to carry venom but it seems a mutation is the only reasonable explanation, in which case we need to figure out what that means and fast, or else we won’t have enough time to figure out what that means for your brother and to cure it.”

The General glances once to the High Lord, sharing a nod before Cassian’s making a swift departure, urgency underlying his movements in a way you hope won’t get him wounded. It makes you call after him. “Whatever you do, don’t be reckless. If you get hurt up there or bitten then both of you will be at risk. This isn’t a time to be cutting corners.”

A muscle in his jaw feathers. “I know.”

Then he’s gone.

Sweat glides down your spine, if he’s as swift as he was the night they returned then the journey there and back should take under an hour. Add on the time to locate and kill a chimera…a few hours, tops. With the rate Azriel’s fever is developing, it’s all you can spare.

Violet eyes are strained when you next meet them, but you’ve little time for further apology as you ask, “How is Feyre doing?”

“Resting,” Rhysand replies, the stern grit of his voice telling you he already knows why you’re asking. Your jaw tightens, shoulders tensing at that tone, something inherent wanting to turn away from that fiercely protective look in his face, warning you not to suggest what you know you have to.

“If worst comes to worst,” you say, quietly.

Rhysand’s expression doesn’t give for a long while, and you fight to keep firm. Until tension flickers through his violet eyes. “It’s her choice,” he relents, tension taut, the whites of his knuckles disagreeing with his words. “But if she tries to give too much, if you don’t stop her then I will.”

You nod grimly, understanding the order well enough.

If Feyre tries to give Azriel more blood than she can afford, you’re to pull her back.

Even if it costs his brother’s life.

————

The sun is down, and Cassian still isn’t back.

The rain lashing at the windows and snarling round the house feels like an omen, shadows dancing like snakes across the floor every time a bolt of lightening fractures the sky. Deadened leaves whip through the howling winds, a deluge crashing down on Velaris.

On the bed, shivering and drenched, is Azriel, pallid skin glistening with a deathly pallor. His surrounding sheets have been doused in sweat, a sour, sick smell filling the room, the stagnant odour of the ill. The black threads of flesh have begun spreading further, thickening into sluggish stumps, streams of necrosis reaching across his stomach; snaring his far leg.

If Cassian isn’t back soon, you’re going to have to try and cut it out from the roots.

Madja lays her hand over the slope of your shoulder and you exchange glances; she’s come to the same conclusion you have, her normally warm features for once showing a grim set. You turn your body from Azriel, dipping your head so he won’t be able to hear, though you doubt he’s in any state to eavesdrop.

“How much longer?” You whisper lowly, eyes glued to the dark floorboards, unable to lift them any further. Madja glances once over her shoulder, a heavy silence filling the air. “Minutes,” she answers. “He has minutes to get back here.” You swallow—those are near impossible chances. The odds were steep enough without the crashing storm outside hindering visibility.

“You’ll take his stomach?” You whisper, pushing past the lump in your throat. Madja nods, “Fetch two bowls of water. I’m going to speak with Feyre; see how she’s holding up.” She’s probably quickly becoming the last gleam of hope to give Azriel a fighting chance of surviving until Cassian arrives.

Or until he bleeds out from the incisions you’ll be forced to make to cut away the rot.

Azriel stirs in the bed once you return from the washroom, setting the second bowl down and approaching his side. Once more, you lay the backs of your fingers across his dampened forehead, sticky sweat smearing your skin but it’s nothing compared to the fierce heat radiating from his skull. His temperature has been teetering into the forties for a while now.

Something like a groan strains through his chest, the tendons in his throat flexing as he swallows, and you lift his head from the pillow, bringing the chilled glass to his peeling lips. He’s too weak to push the drink away, hardly strong enough to swallow, and a cool trickle slips from the side of his mouth, streaming over his jaw and into the cushion. Azriel tilts his head when he’s done, and you pull away, setting the glass down upon the cramped side table.

Hazel eyes crack themselves open, except now they’re a mix of yellow and black—pupils blown so wide they’re practically swallowing his irises, the whites of his eyes souring to a sickening yellow, like the congealed scum of rotten milk, red rimmed and watery.

‘Hot,’ he mouthes. Barely. It’s the near silent touch of his tongue to the roof of his mouth that gives the word away.

You don’t know what to do anymore. There’s nothing else you can do, besides offering water.

“Azriel, can you hear me still?” You ask, crouching down to be by his side, mixing your hand with his. He groans, fingers weakly flexing around your own. It’s a small piece of hope, that he isn’t yet completely gone. You lean closer. “Just a little longer, Az,” you whisper, thumb swiping back and forth gently over his burning skin, “You need to keep going. You can’t leave them behind.”

His hand is silent in your own.

Where is Cassian?

A shadow careens past the window and a flashing red thud slams into the front garden, the doors being blown open a few moments later as fresh rain and howling wind whips inside, sparing not a second in removing mud-caked boots or blood-slicked leathers before he’s marching into the house. From the floor below you hear his name called out, but there’s no cause for relief.

Voices murmur and footsteps hurry, boots clumping about on the lower floors and you hurry to the bedroom door, looking just in time to see Rhysand near the top of the staircase. “Does he have it?” You call, the pound of your heart making your voice breathless. Rhys nods but his eyes are dark and unusually shadowed, “He has it.”

It’s only when he descends the case that you spot the thick book he had clutched beneath one arm on his far side, as if anxious to keep it as hidden as possible. You want to follow, to see the chimera for yourself, lend Madja a hand in trying to understand what’s mutated within the beast to cause such a drastic shift but that’s not your job at the moment. Your job is to look after Azriel. Even if all you can do is sit by his side and watch as he dies.

Tension stitches your jaws together, but you force yourself to turn away, shutting the door once more to return only for a scream to claw and rip from your throat.

Blunt teeth are digging into the flesh of his forearm, biting and gnawing as blood paints his lower jaw, spilling down onto his chest, trickling along his arm. You run forward, trembling fingers searching for that point that will spasm the muscle enough for his jaw to unlock.

“Azriel!” You scream, “Azriel stop! You need to stop it!”

Thick blood oils your fingers, his teeth releasing the bitten flesh only to clamp down a fraction of a second later, locking themselves in place as muscle flexes in his jaw, straining beneath the pressure he’s clamping down with. You fumble, hands shaking as he tries to rip himself apart. You search again, fingers digging into his jaw but he writhes on the bed, wings flaring wide enough to send everything on the side table smashing to the floor, throwing you to the ground in a mess of fractured glass and gushing, freshly bloodied water.

The leather-bound notebook is soaked, ink bleeding across the pages but that’s not what you currently care about. Instead you grip the book from the floor, flying to your feet as you surge forward, nails screaming out in pain as you try to forcibly pry his teeth apart, pushing the spine of the book forward.

“Azriel…!” You hiss, straining against his sudden display of strength. “Bite! Bite down on this…!”

For a few dreadful seconds it looks like he’s going to bleed himself to death, but then his teeth release just long enough for you to shove the hard leather of the thick notebook into his mouth, vicious canines stabbing through the outer layer in one swift bite. Clamping down firmly.

There’s no time for relief, no time for fixing the jagged mess on the floor, nor for celebration, as you take in the fresh blood staining his lower face. Azriel’s wounded arm tries to lift from the bed but more blood gushes out and you have to pin it down until the message reaches his pain-twisted mind and he uses the other to change the positioning of the book in his mouth, angling and biting, slowly chewing the leather to pieces, digging his canines into the notebook repeatedly as if he’s teething.

Footsteps pound along the corridor just as you finish forcing Azriel’s flesh back together, door flying wide as Madja bustles through, a glass vial of pure black liquid grasped in her weathered hand, Rhysand just a step behind. Neither ask what’s happened, why there’s so much blood staining sheets and flooring and sallow skin.

Dark brown eyes flash once over the Shadowsinger before Madja’s figuring her order—one both you and Rhys know before it even leaves her mouth—“Hold him down.” Rhysand takes the side the Azriel’s leg wound is on while you stick where you’ve remained, but even with you leveraging all your weight over his bloody, shredded arm it’s near impossible to keep him down.

The book comes away in tatters when Madja manages to pry it from his mouth, jaws snapping, black ruby teeth glittering wildly as he searches for something to bite, all the while the storm roars on outside, thunder rumbling through miserable grey skies, so deep it’s in the floorboards.

“Rhys,” you hiss out, “can you do anything?” If he can slip inside and provide even a temporary moment so Madja can get the remedy down the Shadowsinger’s throat. The High Lord’s jaw tightens with the effort it’s taking to keep his brother down, teeth gritting as he shakes his head, “there’s nothing to go into. It’s just wind and shadow in his mind.”

“We have to do something,” you force out, looking between them. “He’s not going to drink it like this-”

“And we can’t waste this vial,” Madja finishes grimly.

Rhys’ head lowers, hair falling over his brow like dozens of spider legs, tension gripping his shoulders, then he’s bellowing Cassian’s name, the roar so loud you’re surprised the room doesn’t collapse in on itself, heart pounding in your chest like a war drum. A few moments later heavy boots are lopsidedly clumping up the stairs, the General swaying as he hauls himself through the door. “Take her place. Keep him down,” Rhysand orders through gritted teeth. It seems Cassian’s barely keeping himself conscious, but still he manages, no time to pause.

As soon as Cassian’s hands have taken over you retreat, darting around Azriel’s thrashing wing to be at Madja’s side. His blackened eyes are wild, back arching from the bed as pain lances through his body, teeth still flashing with furious hunger.

“Azriel,” you yell, crusted palms laying either side his mouth, cupping his jaw as you attempt to still the wild thrashing of his body without losing any fingers. “Azriel, look at me. Look at me.” Blown out pupils stare up at you, yellowed eyes sore and so, so wrong. “That’s it,” you manage, forcing your voice to calm, “You know us. You remember us.”

His upper lips curls in a snarl and blood seeps from the broken skin, so dried out and desiccated that it splits at the slightest stretch.

“You remember us,” you repeat, thumbs stroking back and forth, swiping the edges of his mouth tenderly, “Don’t you? Remember Cass and Rhys? They’re your brothers.” Oil-black brows narrow, but the two other males are having better luck holding him down than before, so you push forward.

Your hold tightens and you lean closer, almost sharing breath. “Do you remember your name?” You ask softly, soothingly stroking his cheeks, ignoring the blood soaking your hands. “It’s Azriel,” you whisper, “You’re Azriel.”

His eyes shutter, struggling again but you hold firm. “You just need to hold on a little longer, Azriel. We have a remedy, but you need to drink it first.” Sharp, black eyes scan your features, cutting back and forth across your expression, his face still twisted in partial fury, shadow and wind roaring outside but his struggling has lessened enough for the antidote to be administered.

Yet as soon as you pull away his wings flare outward, the bed creaking as the powerful limbs thrash, a vicious snarl ripping from his throat and both Cassian and Rhysand are nearly knocked back from the force of his retaliation.

“Azriel…” You plead, nails digging into his cheeks, dragging his attention back. “Azriel, please,” you beg, “hold still.” Icy breath repeatedly hits your chin, his panting becoming shallower and shallower by the second, yet he shows no signs of giving in. Pure panic drips down your spine, hands shaking as you hold onto him for dear life.

“We have to try,” Madja whispers, not directed at you. In your periphery, Rhysand nods in agreement, but it won’t work. He’ll send the vial flying, just like the glass and the bowl, shattering on the floor, destroying the precious cure with it.

A hot tear splashes down onto Azriel’s bloody cheek, a second droplet falling soon after, soundless compared to the raging storm outside. Thunder and lightening zeroing to silence as you look at him.

Thumbs swipe back and forth across his skin. He can’t die.

You swallow, sparing a moment to look at Madja. “Give it to me,” you whisper.

Madja hesitates.

“Let me give it to him,” you plead, able to feel Azriel’s sluggish pulse beneath your hands.

Silence hangs in the air, then Rhysand nods. “Try.”

Beneath all of you, Azriel begins to stir again, the soothed state you’d gotten him into already so quickly slipping away. Slipping through your fingers.

Madja offers you the vial, and in one movement you’ve poured the contents into your own mouth.

The liquid is thick and congealed across your tongue, vile and putrid but then you’re pressing your mouth to Azriel’s, his bloody lips freezing beneath your own, peeling and ripped in places but they part for you, your thumbs still stroking as you tilt yourself over him.

Your mouth opens for his, and the remedy flows into him, spilling down his throat.

This time both Illyrians are ready and braced as Azriel writhes and thrashes on the bed, lip curling in revulsion as the foul tasting liquid is swallowed down his throat, wings flaring and flapping, knocking back and forth so violently the bed groans like it might finally give way. Fury twists through Azriel’s features and you recoil as his fangs sting at your lips, hot, fresh blood bubbling into his mouth before you can even realise he’s bitten you.

You pull away, forcing your hands over his chest, Madja now beside Rhys as you all try to keep him down. Heaven knows what he’s mad enough to do with the pain carving his mind apart.

By the time he settles, you’re all breathless. But it’s done. He took the remedy.

Slowly, you stand, each of you bracing as if he might start back up at any second and you need to be ready to jump back into place. But he remains still. Dead still, but you can pick out the small pulse in his throat. You cling onto that pulse, desperately.

At last you all pull away, and Rhysand drags a hand down his face, you and Madja glancing to one another with a mix of emotion. To your left, Cassian sways, then his legs give out, body thudding as his knees his the floor, the rest of him giving out now the task is complete. You’ve each done everything you can; pushed to the limit, and possibly beyond.

“Mother’s grace,” Madja whispers in thanks, and you do the same, sending a prayer to the sky, hoping it will be enough. She nods to herself once, twice, three times. Easing in a few steadying breaths before straightening, swallowing. “Cassian,” she names, addressing the body on the floor and you don’t fault her for her breathlessness, “we need to find him a bed.”

You nod, panting. “Rhys and I can manage,” you breathe, exhausted. “Can you take cleanup in here?” You ask, moving with Rhysand to grip Cassian beneath his arms, only now spotting the blood on his leathers, though it’s too much of a mess in here to judge who it belongs to.

Madja nods solemnly, and between you and the High Lord, you manage to lift the fearsome General from the ground, hefting him out into the hallway, taking the room immediately next door and laying Cassian on the bed there.

You slump against the wall, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand when you realise the foul taste is still there, having been obscured by the metallic flavour of your own blood.

Rhysand remains stood over Cassian, looking down at his brother with an expression you can’t read. It’s none of your business, either way.

Your nose wrinkles, pulling your sleeve over your hand and spitting into the fabric, wanting to rid yourself of the vile taste. “Fuck. What was in that?” You gag, looking forward to a glass of water to clean your mouth out and a wash.

The hairs at the nape of your neck prickle, and you lift your head to find dark violet watching you from across the room. You’d apologise for cursing, but that doesn’t seem to be the reason for his look.

Tentatively, you straighten. “Do you know?”

Silence hangs in the air. Then he relents.

“Blood.” Rhysand murmurs. “Chimera blood.”

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna @acoazlove

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya @starlitlakes @kksbookstuff @feerique @ratgirl2020 @just-m-2

#azriel x reader #blood-borne #vampire!azriel x reader #azriel x reader fic #multi part fic #blood borne

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sleepymarimo · 1 year ago

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𝕨𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕤

summary: he didn't mean to push you away so harshly, to build his walls so high, but he didn't expect you to go running to someone else... pairing: zoro x reader, slight law x reader cw: unrequited feelings (or are they?), angst, no comfort an: set in wano, with some minor tweaks! thought of this last night and had to share my pain...oops also, i plan to have some fluffy straw hat stuff out this weekend ♡( ◡‿◡ ) wc: 3.4k

you'd been harboring feelings for your vice captain, for a while. you never acted on it, his aloof nature making you too nervous to make that jump- to try. even then, you were sure that he had more pressing matters to attend to.

so, you kept it under wraps. you trained and laughed and did everything you were supposed to, did everything right, without letting your feelings get too much in the way. it was manageable, and it made you feel good that you could support your crew, even if it meant holding onto your feelings.

it was the little things that gave you away to him. how your eyes darted away a bit too quickly when he met your gaze, how you sometimes intentionally stood farther away from him in a bid to look inconspicuous, even though it made it so much more obvious. he was as dumb as a rock sometimes, yeah, but not when it came to his crew, not when it came to you. he knew. of course he knew, but he had no reason to call you out on it. clearly you didn't want to discuss it and, as long as it wasn't getting in the way of anything major, he could bear it. it was when your emotions served as a distraction, that things became complicated.

the land of wano brought with it many challenges. most where physical, be it sneaking around the shady capital or handling some rowdy criminals. having crew members split up also made you worried, only heightening your senses and making your brain run rampant with what ifs. it all comes to a sudden standstill when you and brook, on your way to the safe house, walk in on zoro. one of the most beautiful women you've ever seen is snuggled right into his side and you feel a twinge of envy.

your heart does a somersault in your chest, something twisting in your gut at the unusual sight. a part of you, the rational side, knows very well that zoro didn't let people into his personal space with such ease. yet, even with her explanation, your mood can't help but sour. it only worsens when you all sit down and discuss more pressing matters.

the stresses of wano, this whole hiyori situation and her ever present enthusiasm towards the swordsman has you itching to escape. your responses become curt and your hands twitch in your lap. it's not how you should be acting, not given the circumstances, but you can't help it. finally, when there's a break in the conversation, you politely dismiss yourself.

once outside, you take a deep breath and collect your thoughts. leaning against the wall of the safe house, you let out a sigh and stare off at some random point in the distance in a bid to quell your passive aggressive behavior. the sound of the door opening catches you off guard, your arms crossing over your chest as the swordsman approaches you with a hardened expression.

"the hell is up with that look on your face?" he'd grumble, his cold demeanor matching the chill in the air. his arms are crossed, his posture tense. while zoro was one to take things as they came, focusing on the present, he couldn't deny that wano and its secrets were gnawing at him as well. he was irritated, wondering why you'd even bother to think about something as miniscule as feelings while there were enemies and actual threats lurking about. when you don't answer, when he figures you wouldn't even have the guts to bring it up, he huffs. "you think I asked to be cuddled up to like a damn toy?" his eye narrows and he takes a step closer, challenging you. "I don't have feelings for her, or anyone, got it?" the lump in your throat is too large to swallow and you nod, incapable of much else. a torrent of sensations swirl in your chest: embarrassment that he'd been aware of your feelings this whole time, guilt for letting them get in the way, and a bitter resounding sting that came with rejection. with a click of his tongue, he turns back and heads into the safe house, mumbling something about pulling yourself together and focusing on what's important.

you're almost glad when zoro ends up splitting off with hiyori later on, your mind flooded with thoughts. in a bid to defend yourself from further pain, you get your act together and squash down those feelings. you do well to put on a brave and happy face, deciding that, yes, there are some more important matters to attend to.

despite that, it's still hard not to see the samurai a bit differently. you knew he was blunt, even harsh at moments, but his approach to such a sensitive topic was a little much for you to handle. even if his words held some truth, that there were more pressing matters to attend to, the delivery of it just made you feel uneasy and hurt. the rest of your encounters are just as quick, your words just as clipped. if you acted any differently towards him, it wasn't out of malice. subconsciously, you defend yourself from further embarrassment and give him the distance you think he needs. while the chaos ensues, your defense mechanism only serves as a temporary solution. once the dust settled, it would be a different story.

finally, when the horrors of wano are dealt with, you can breathe a minor sigh of relief. in the flower capital, alongside your crew mates, you patiently wait for luffy and zoro to awaken from their slumbers. when they finally do, the air feels lighter

in the wake of it all, your emotions catch up to you, which makes you feel worse since this was supposed to be a joyful moment. it's hard to fight that initial instinct, to head over to zoro and ask if he's alright or if he needs anything. yet, you force yourself to take a step back, even if it does look like his bandages need tending to. it's a lot easier to do so once hiyori reveals that she was the one to help bathe him while he was unconscious, your stomach churning as you look away and walk to a different corner of the room. clearly he had someone looking out for him already. with a polite and slightly forced smile on your face, you find yourself heading over to law, who sits in the corner and chooses to observe the moment rather than partake in any conversation. you'd gotten along well with the surgeon, your relationship only growing stronger as he spent more time with the straw hats. he respected your skills and your perceptiveness, your ability to adapt to the needs of those around you and make them feel at ease. when he hears you approaching, he's naturally wary, but relents and gives you a nod, saying your name as a way of greeting you. satisfied, you take a seat next to him and raise a hand to gesture at his arm. "I know you're a surgeon and all, but d'ya think I can help you with your bandages?" you ask him, sincere and with a soft smile. "y'know, before this whole alliance thing is over and all..." he wants to say no, but the genuine kindness in your eyes has him huffing and looking away. a reddish hue tinges his cheeks and he holds out his arm. "go ahead." his tone fights to maintain its usual indifference, though there's a hint of appreciation laced in. on the opposite side of the room, where hiyori 'fixed' his bandages much too tight, zoro glances over at you. he notes the way you visibly relax around the surgeon, an action that has him growing irritated. he was your crew mate, your nakama, someone who would keep you safe, not that second rate captain. when the bandages cut off his circulation, he growls in frustration and tears some of them off. why weren't you over here doing this for him, when you knew exactly how he liked his bandages? why were you tending to law so gently and giving him that smile, the one you hadn't given him in ages? the swordsman isn't blind. he's been aware of the distance you've put between the two of you, how your 'smile' drops as soon as you turn away from him. as the battles had come to an end, he's now forced to recall the events which occurred at the safe house. he curses as his own shortcomings, his inability to think twice about his actions and how they'll affect the future. turning his attention towards something else, he mentally chides himself. what did he care, after all? he didn't do the whole relationship thing, the whole soft and squishy feelings. he was a swordsman, he had a goal and a crew to protect, including you. his thoughts do little to fight off the twinge of possessiveness he feels when he instinctively looks in your direction and catches sight of you holding law's hand as you secured his bandage. something gnaws at his pride, but he pushes it aside for the sake of maintaining his stoic front.

once everyone is healed, a festival, a grand one, is thrown to celebrate the liberation of wano. lanterns illuminate almost every corner, the scent of food wafting through the air as citizens and samurai and pirates all gather around.

dressed in a lovely kimono of your choice, you're more than eager to join in the revelry. the two bottles of sake that you carry in your hands only highlights your enthusiasm. you'd been hanging around with the crew for a while, smiling and laughing, but your mind was elsewhere. zoro thinks, for a split second, that you'll hand him a bottle. despite his aloof nature, he'd always find himself sharing a drink with you at times like this. yet, when you walk in the opposite direction, your smile beaming, your words have him gritting his teeth. "m'gonna go have a drink with law!" you chirp, your excitement palpable.

zoro's jaw clenches as he watches you walk off, his eyes lingering on your figure before he looks away. something simmers beneath the surface, but he keeps it at bay. it's nami's offhand comment that his frustration threatening to boil over.

"don't have too much fun!" she teases, throwing a cheeky smile your way. the others have the nerve to laugh, to egg you on, all while the swordsman relishes in how the alcohol burns his throat.

his knuckles turn white as he grips the neck of his sake bottle, the glass straining against his hold. a plethora of unfamiliar emotions rattle in his chest, but his bullheadedness and pride have him unwilling to budge, even if he wants to grab your arm and pull you back. it wasn't his place.

even when you're out of sight, his eyes subconsciously work to peer through the crowd in an attempt to catch a glimpse of your kimono, your hair, anything. once again, he scolds himself. he had no place to be so... so what? envious? possessive? he was the one to turn you away, after all. regardless, he can't get your smile out of his head. memories of you flood his mind: the banter and the sparring matches at sunset. all of it. just as quickly, he catches himself, bringing his lips to the bottle in a bid to drown out the bitterness on his tongue.

it's nearly a full hour later when you return to the crew, more than buzzed and clinging to the arm of the raven-haired surgeon. he doesn't seem to mind, his furrowed brows and his apathetic expression doing little to hide the blush dusting his cheeks.

glad to be in the company of your crew mates once more, you turn to law and wrap your arms around his waist, your smile so genuine and radiant it makes zoro's chest ache. "thank you traffy!"

the laughter of the rest of the crew echoes in zoro's ears alongside his own thundering heartbeat and boiling blood. what the hell were you doing? a knot forms in his chest, the unfamiliar sensation bringing him a great sense of unease.

he has to force himself to look away, before he realizes that it's not enough. without excusing himself, he stands and walks off towards a more secluded part of the festival. he needs to get away from whatever all that is. he needs to clear his head and heart and steel himself because he shouldn't be focusing on such things.

if you were any more sober, you would've kept your distance. however, it's in your nature to care, to worry and ensure that your crew mates are okay. that's why, as soon as you register the fact that the swordsman is gone, you release your hold on the surgeon and follow after zoro.

it's almost silent, save for the sounds of the festival off in the distance. the streets in this part of the capital aren't as illuminated, but cast enough of a glow for you to see zoro up ahead.

"zoro?" you mumble, attentive despite the alcohol in your system. "what're you doin' all the way out here?" your words are so genuine and full of concern, which makes it all the harder for zoro to respond.

"huh? what does it look like?" he roughly replies, not even bothering to fully face you as he turns his head to the side. "needed a break from all the noise and drunken idiots."

something bubbles in his throat, a lump of guilt that he swallows for the sake of self-preservation. he knows he has no right to be so callous, but can't help the passive-aggressive comment that slips past his lips. "why don't you just go off with that surgeon of yours? seems like better company."

your stomach drops and you take a step back. something wedges itself into your chest, a sense of anxiety and confusion as your mind briefly flickers back to that moment at the safe house. you'd done everything right, hadn't you? you'd given him space and pushed your feelings aside for the sake of the mission, so why this?

your heart starts to race, unable to look him in the eye as you focus your gaze to the side.

"why're you bein' so mean to me...?" you murmur, your hands nervously fidgeting as you await his answer. you just wanted to make things right.

he has to turn away once he catches the hurt on your face. if you were any more sober, you would've caught how he was the one that was truly nervous. the way you threatened to break down the walls he had built for himself has him needing to take control, even if that meant pushing you away.

"m'just being honest." he says, sharper than he means to. "leave me alone. go and enjoy the rest of the damn festival."

regret and longing make his chest throb, but he keeps on his mask of indifference as he takes a step forward and away from you. he wouldn't budge, couldn't.

meanwhile, you stand there, your inhales slowly turning short and ragged. your lips tremble and you fight to hold back sobs, but shortly after, you start to sniffle.

you hated crying, really crying. the crew had seen you shed silly little tears before, maybe over something cute or emotional, but not this. it's something you usually hide away and display in private, but the nature of the situation and the influence of the alcohol have you shedding an uncontrollable amount of tears.

though you shouldn't be, the utter vulnerability of the moment has you feeling embarrassed. you find solace in your sleeves, the kimono becoming damp with tears that don't seem to end. your cheeks sting, rubbed raw as you hide away from him.

zoro's heart drops.

the sound of your sobs is devastating. guilt claws at his chest, threatening to crack him open. when he turns around, all he can feel is regret. the weight of his words, how he treated you, is almost unbearable and makes him feel disgusted with himself.

his mind is racing, wondering what he should do or say to fix this, but he can't come up with an answer. before he can do anything, his mind goes blank at your next words.

"I wish I never got feelings for you." you choke out, unsure if your words are genuine or if you simply wanted to hurt the swordsman. with your shoulders trembling, you continued to cry into your sleeves. "I should've figured that there was nothing in that heart of yours."

deciding that you couldn't stand being in the same vicinity as him anymore, you run off.

he watches you go, his heart screaming at him to go after you, but he can't. the walls crumble and he can't hide anymore, forcing himself to realize that he cares for you so much that it terrifies him. the air is thick with tension, your sobs echoing through the air until they fade away, replaced by the distant sounds of the festival.

regret, self-loathing and longing all swirl in his chest, a torrent of emotion that threatens to swallow him whole.

you don't make it back to the ship that night.

you're too embarrassed and ashamed, not feeling safe enough to be vulnerable. you mentally apologize to the crew, hoping that they aren't too worried.

it isn't until the next morning that you return, or rather, you're returned.

the sun barely peeks over the horizon when law walks aboard the thousand sunny go with you cradled in his arms. you're in a deep sleep, completely exhausted and hungover. you're dressed in some of his clothes, your expression peaceful despite what occurred the night before.

other members of the crew gather around, worried about your well-being, but law is quick to say that you were just hungover and must have gotten lost. however, zoro can tell by the sharp look that law gives him that there was more to the story.

the vice captain grits his teeth, shoulders tensing as he watches law gently carry you over to your quarters.

a part of zoro wants to force law to give him answers, to tear you out of his arms so he could cradle you in his. he should've been the one to care for you, to protect you when you were vulnerable, but he hurt you instead. something else nags at him, the fact that you sought solace in someone else's arms.

law comes out of your room, quietly closing the door before walking down the deck. as he walks by zoro, he doesn't stop, but he shoots him another hardened glare. "you're an idiot, roronoa-ya."

oh, zoro knows.

when you finally awaken, you put on a brave face and tell the rest of the crew that you were sorry about your little slip up. you do well to cover it up with a laugh and smile. you build walls of your own, adamant on not getting hurt again.

it's once the crew is happy and satisfied that you make your way back to your room, your head hanging low as you walk by zoro.

your legs come to a stop and you can only hold his gaze for a second before you look away, just wanting to put this chapter behind you. the ache in your chest grows as you wonder what could've been. your voice is small. "look..." you start, hands bunching up into the borrowed shirt you're wearing. "let's just forget this ever happened and stay friends... alright?"

'forget?' he thinks. 'how can I forget that look on your face? the sounds of your sobs? do you think i'd let you go so easily?'

yet, despite the war raging on inside of him, the words stay stuck in his throat.

"yeah." what am i saying? "just friends."

as he watches you walk back to your room, he feels defeated. pathetic. he wants to say more, to show you that he can be the man you deserve, but for now, he sinks back into his usual habits and wonders what could have been.

he knows that he let something precious slip away.

steeling himself, he holds his heavy heart high. a sliver of determination cuts through his clouded mind and he hopes that, one day, he can make things right.

#roronoa zoro x reader #zoro x reader #one piece x reader

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dippedinmelancholy · 3 months ago

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I’m back on my bullshit thinking about ACOSF again.

Comparing Nesta and Feyre’s journeys is just so . . .wrong. Regardless of who you like more, when you take the time to reflect on how both of their love stories “end”, objectively, one is at best an abuse victim, at worst a horror story.

Feyre gets everything she ever wanted, absurdly quickly. Five homes, endless power, a baby boy within a couple years of her marriage when many fae try for hundreds of years. Her mate/husband is a piece of shit, but she forgives and loves him regardless. All of the most powerful people in the Night Court, and not a single one who will ever be anything less than an echo chamber for Feyre.

Nesta is berated like a dog for all of ACOSF. She is trapped, only let out to complete tasks, her own body’s abilities hidden away from her, and used as a sexual object to control a man. She is emotionally berated by her jailer while he continues to fuck her. All of her sharp edges are filed down until she is acceptable. When she steps out of line, she is then physically abused via the hike, forced to carry more than her body is meant to endure. The abuse continues mentally, despite the man she is with knowing she is suicidal.

Yet, Nesta endures. She does as she is expected. She breaks. Against all odds, she survives the Blood Rite, despite no one in the Inner Circle caring to try and help her.

She saves the entire Night Court royal family. High Lord, High Lady, son.

By the end, mere months after Nyx’s birth, Nesta still has no place in the Night Court. She is emotionally abused, still. She exists to serve. Her te refuses to defend her, even when her life is threatened. The only home she has is very nearly trapped inside of, being forced to other perform extreme physical activity, or ask another person to let her leave her own house.

Nesta is an abuse victim. I honestly do not care what mean things she’s said to Feyre when they were literal children. I do not care that the “cruel” voice in Feyre’s head is Nesta’s. That does not justify or excuse that Nesta is trapped and emotionally and mentally abused on her best of days. She has nothing in this new life that is hers. Everything is held within the palm of Rhysand’s hand.

Feyre has gotten everything she ever wanted. She has faced no consequences for the hundreds of lives she’s utterly ruined. For the theft or laws she broke. She is loved, cherished, protected, adored.

Nesta is eternally paying the price for childhood sins. She is trapped, violated, and has become the thing her mother wanted her to be. A woman taking the abuse men offer, all for the sake of her family.

Nesta will never see the world. She will never know what the world has to offer for a woman with a good name and coin to spare. Nesta is a horror story.

#acotar #nesta archeron #acosf #sjm what the fuck #anti inner circle #pro nesta #acotar critical #she literally breaks my heart

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luveline · 2 years ago

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losers | remus lupin

“Please.”

“Please?” he says back, mirroring your soft tone. “You think you need to say please?” His pinky bumps under the waistband of your trousers. There isn’t much give. He traces the lining to your zipper, fiddling with the small piece of metal as your eyes darken. “I should be the one saying it.” His voice keeps dropping, an utterance in the shell of your ear, his words for you and you alone. “I’m at your mercy, dove. Don’t say please with me. Okay?”

you find remus’ number on an abandoned motorbike. things snowball from there. [10k words]

fem!reader, fluff, first date, smut mdni, implied inexperienced!reader, almost rockstar!remus, mentioned that remus takes painkillers, muggle!au, early 2000’s au

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ There’s a motorbike outside of the cafe.

It’s huge. Too heavy for you to move. Technically, you hadn’t found it at all, it was left there in the dead of night a few days ago and hasn’t budged since. It’s illegally parked, a fact that your manager won't stop muttering about while she’s elbow deep in latte foam and coffee cakes.

“I’m getting the bastard thing towed,” she grumbles that morning. “Let the police deal with it.”

That seems rather harsh to you. It isn’t necessarily in the way, and it looks well loved. Perhaps whoever left it can’t remember where they left it, having stumbled home on inebriated footing after one too many at the pub across the street. You think about how much it must cost to get your stuff back after it’s been towed, and though you aren’t sure of the specifics, you know it can’t be cheap. So, when your manager falls into conversation with a regular and your break begins, you creep outside to do some investigating.

It’s a hulking thing made of more black than silver. There are stickers across the left side of the body, weathered and peeling, though one is newer than the others and immediately draws your eye.

A phone number.

If lost, please call.

You take your phone out of your pocket, a flip phone with one dangling charm in the shape of a star. You click each faded button slowly. You're scared to talk to someone you don’t know, but relieved to maybe save the day.

It goes for ages.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” you say, dropping your voice into its sweetest tones, though nerves make you too soft, and you worry you’re hard to hear. “Hey, um, sorry to bother you. I work at The Mill, it’s a– a cafe in the city centre… Are you missing a bike, by any chance? A motorbike?”

“Oh, thank you. Yeah, it’s my friend’s. He can be… forgetful.” The voice that speaks is both smooth and gritty, impossibly, like whoever it is that’s talking smoked half a pack of cigarettes before he answered the phone. He clears his throat. “I hope it hasn’t been an imposition for you.”

“Actually, uh, my manager wants to have it towed. Like, now. I can try to fend her off but honestly she’s like, that physics law, um, unstoppable force? Uh,” —you’re stuttering, making it worse, because his voice is surprisingly handsome and you’re an idiot through and through— “yeah, so could you come and get it?”

“Yes! Yeah, absolutely, we’re on our way. Thank you.”

“Sure. Of course.”

You hear something not meant for you, the tail end of, “Sirius, get up. You better call Marl and—”

Phone back in your pocket, you take a quick glance around the street before reaching out to run your finger over the cracked leather of the motorbike seat. You’ve never ridden one before. You’ve never wanted to. The level of fearlessness one needs for it isn’t one you possess.

You’re the opposite of fearless.

The sun hides behind a wave of clouds. Your skin chills near immediately, your prim slacks and apron a worthless defence against the cold. It’s an average day here, grey and quiet. Occasionally a couple will pass you, hand in hand as they traverse the worn pavement. You smile at an elderly man and his dog as they shuffle across the street and into the cafe. Your smile fades as you tune into the fierce tones of your manager, demanding to know where you’ve gone. If your absence is what distracts her from calling the police, so be it.

You’re considering getting your phone back out to play Snake when a passing car slows beside you. You straighten up and out, feeling your spine click in more places than it should as the passenger door opens and an insanely attractive man throws himself out of it.

“My angel!” he cries, heading straight for you.

You take a panicked step backward. The man dives for his motorbike. You flinch, mystified by his enthusiasm and his opposite appearance. Short sleeves reveal arms full of dark tattoos, with one side marred by a brutally long scar from his elbow to the back of a ring-laden hand. You tear your eyes from him as a second door closes across the street, and feel all the air rush from your chest as a second man approaches.

He’s very pretty. It might be redundant to say it to yourself, presented as you are with an undeniable truth, but you think it anyway. Sandy brown hair, pale skin, and in enough layers to make up for his friends lack thereof, the second man ignores any dramatics and meets you head on.

“Hi,” he says, holding out his hand, “you’re the one who called?”

Closer now, you can see the scars on his face. They stretch over the ridge of his nose and into his eyebrow. A smaller one tugs as he talks against his top lip.

You take his hand and shake it limply. “Yeah, that was me.”

If he’s concerned with your nervousness he doesn’t show it. His smile doesn’t move. “He wants to say thank you. He will, once he gets over himself.”

“Thank you!” the dark-haired man calls. “She’s my everything. I’ve been sick with worry.”

“Have you?” the man in front of you asks, his voice steady, almost intimidating in its impassiveness.

“Yes, Moons, I have been… not that you’d know.”

“Some of us have real problems,” Moons snips, though he quickly looks at you like he’s embarrassed. “Sorry. He brings out the worst in me.”

“You must be good friends.”

You don’t know why you say it. He only smiles.

“We must be.”

The first man stands up from checking over his motorbike and beams at you. You suspect it’s an expression that works in his favour more often than not. “What can I give you, doll?”

“No, nothing. Please. I’ll just be glad to hear the end of it.”

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, really."

Your manager calls your name, clear as day despite the thick pane of glass and brick walls separating you.

"That's you?" Moons asks.

"That's me. Sorry."

"No, don't be. Thanks so much for calling."

You nod hurriedly, throwing them both a 'nice to meet you, I'm sorry for leaving so fast' kind of smile and head back inside.

You take a sneaky look back when you're behind the counter again. They’ve turned their backs to you, Moons' friend ruffling his hair roughly. After a minute or two, Moons gets back in his car, and the motorbike pulls away like it was never there to begin with.

What sort of name is Moons? you ask yourself. It's a question that stays with you for a few days. You find yourself hoping you'll see him again, or that his friend's motorbike will turn up outside of the cafe for a few long days and give you an excuse to call him. His number stays unsaved in your recent calls menu for a while. Eventually, you forget about him altogether; the motorbike, the call, the gentle wave of his hair.

You're hard-pressed to forget his voice, though. There'd been something familiar about it.

"Nice highscore."

You jump hard and wince as the metallic taste of blood hits your taste buds. To make it worse, you slam your phone up into the counter it was hiding under in shock. It makes a fatal crunching sound.

You shove it into your pocket and look up. Standing there, in all his handsome weariness, is Moons, sans friend. He's wearing nice clothes, clean and clearly ironed. You're immediately aware of your ratty uniform and your unkempt hair.

"Shit," you say, which is so fucking embarrassing, honestly, you could fall through the floor and stay there, "Sorry. What can I get you?"

His eyebrows inch up his forehead. "What's the easiest thing to make?"

That's not a question you get often. "Uh, regular black coffee, or tea, or, the uh– the hot chocolate's not that hard. But you should order whatever you like, of course."

Moons smiles at you. You're starting to understand the nickname (assuming it is a nickname). He has this odd but enticing presence about him, like that awestruck feeling of looking up at night and seeing all the teeny tiny stars and the moonlight that comes down with them, bright and somewhat daunting.

"Sure you don't mind?"

"I'm paid not to mind."

"Can I get the biggest cup of tea you can make? Milk and two sugars, please."

"Absolutely." You sidestep to the register and click a bunch of the wrong buttons. You're unprofessionally flustered. "Uh, three sixty five?"

He passes you a five pound note. Your tip cup is for the more generous type, and he has no trouble dropping his palmful of change into it. He barely looks. You're expecting him to take a seat but he stays standing, one arm pressed to the counter, the other held up. He scratches behind his ear absentmindedly, as though he has nowhere else to be.

"Are you in a hurry?" you ask, confused.

He stays quiet for enough time to shit you up. You're tipping milk over your hand and hoping he hasn't seen it when he says, "No rush. I'm here to see you."

You look over your shoulder at him. You can't help it. "To see me."

"Yeah."

You spin back to his tea. The counter is covered in spills and sugar, cup tops and wooden stirrers. You take them all in with wide eyes. Nobody ever comes to see you. Not your friends, not family (unless they want something). Especially not boys you met once for two minutes.

"Is there something wrong?" you ask.

You clip the lid onto his big tea and wrap it in napkins so it doesn't burn his hands.

"Nothing's wrong," he says kindly. "I wanted to apologise. Your boss was upset with you. It was Sirius' fault. We owe you for it."

"You really don't have to say sorry. She wasn’t that mad. No harm, no foul."

You put his cup of tea down in front of him and try to smile like girls do in the movies. Soft doe eyes, not too bright, not too awkward. You give up after a second and feel it twist into something regrettable.

His long silence makes you squirm.

"A thank you, then.”

He offers you an envelope. You take it.

The paper is crisp and thick. Your fingers are clumsy, and it takes you too many seconds to fold the envelope's lip and pull out the card stock inside.

You look up in shock. "I can't–"

He's not there. You look to the door, catching what might've been his hand as he walks out of view.

He's left you two concert tickets. You don't go to concerts. You might have, when you were younger, and had friends to follow. As it stands he's given you two seated tickets for a show in the Pointer Arena not far from where you work, for a band you've never heard of. The price on each is a solid £20, which is way too much repayment for ringing a number from a sticker. Worse, you're not sure you have somebody who can use the second one.

You hope he'll come back for clarification alone, and a little to see him, but he doesn't, and soon the date on the ticket matches the date on your calendar and you're standing outside of the venue with no clue how to hold yourself.

You stand in line for a while. It's a very long line made up of mostly younger women. You listen for the calling of a reseller and spot a group of young girls trying to haggle with them, reluctantly leaving your place in line.

"Hi," you say quietly to the one furthest from the epicentre. "I'm sorry if this is weird. I have an extra ticket tonight, and I was wondering if you'd like it? I know it's seated, but maybe you could use it to get in and then, uh, not sit? Or just sit." You could writhe around on the ground in shame. You hold out the spare ticket. "If you want it."

"Are you kidding?"

"No, seriously."

She takes the ticket and you walk away before she can try and give it back to you. Whether she uses it or not, it's no longer your problem to deal with. The lady who'd been standing behind you lets you back in line, for which you're extremely grateful, and you shiver your way to the front with nerves churning your stomach.

You've imagined being turned away twenty times by the time they usher you through the doors. The air is buzzing with excitement, enough of it to ramp up your nerves, and you smile weakly at the people who pass you on the way up to the seating area you've been designated. The Pointer Arena is a smaller venue with much more standing than seating capacity available. The seats are at the sides and back of the second floor, looking down at the pit with a safety barrier in front.

You slide into your seat and peer down at the crowd as it fills up one ant of a person at a time. You can't distinguish one person from another after a while. It’s a moving sea of dark clothes.

It takes a long time for the opening act to come on. You're not having much fun. You'd tried to use the computer in the cafe to research the bands playing tonight but the dial up hadn't been working and your manager hates when you take long breaks, so you aren't sure you'll even enjoy yourself. You're not sure why you came here — is it sad, to come here alone? It looks sad, you think, pathetic, but it doesn't feel sad. You're not very good at talking, anyways. It's so difficult. Or maybe you just make it that way.

This is why you regret coming. Any time spent by yourself is time to think. You hate thinking, but it's all you seem to be able to do. Think and think and think. Your mind runs in the same circles. Things you've done, things you wish you did, things you want to do so badly it makes you feel sick. You can't stand it.

The crowd begins to rise in volume. Cheers echo against the atrium ceiling, and you push yourself to the edge of your seat to see what's making them all so excited.

The opening band. They're too far away to see clearly. First on stage is a man with brown skin and a head of black curls, a guitar swinging from his neck, the body barely held as he waves to the masses. Next comes a paler man with hair tied up in a bun who sits down behind the drum kit and doesn't move much after that. A girl practically sprints to centre stage, scooping up a waiting guitar (or bass?) and strumming down the body appreciatively. She has purple hair, bright and choppy, particularly abrasive against the alabaster white of her skin.

And last on stage… last on stage is Moons.

You move forward suddenly, smacking your face against the plexiglass barrier and biting your cheek for the second time in a week. Used to your mistreatment, the poorly healed skin wastes no time splitting, and the metallic taste of blood makes you cringe.

That's Moons. There are two huge screens either side of the stage that magnify him. First his hand on the microphone, a scar coiling up from his wrist to his thumb purple against his skin. Then his face. You wouldn't forget what he looks like so soon, not when you've half obsessed over him for days with could-be's because he'd wanted to see you and you have a bad habit of inventing future's with people you don't know, but even if you did it wouldn't matter. You've never met anyone else with three scars as he has across his face, taking centre stage.

You hadn't realised the tickets were to see his band. It makes sense, now, why your seat is in such a quiet area, and why the people sitting close by aren't firecracker happy at the sight of them. They must've received their tickets in the same way, gifts or thank yous for small favours.

Your mouth dries as they begin to play. It's not what you're expecting. Of course, you haven't really had time to expect anything, and yet you're shocked when they start to play a slow song. He doesn't really look like a rockstar, but a heartthrob? You can see it easily. The long lengths of his lashes, and the dark honey of his eyes. His smile, so small but somehow piercing.

His voice is careful. He doesn't sing anything impressive —there's no belting or high notes— but you still find yourself wringing your hands together, entranced by his confidence. He dances around the melodies and fills up every space he can find between the beat of the drums and the searing guitar riffs that follow.

They only play five songs. By the time they've finished you're feeling sick to your stomach, and you can't get your heart to calm down. You hadn't known a word of the lyrics, but you'd felt them.

They're good.

Like, too good to be openers for long.

The crowd echoes your sentiment. They clap and scream and wolf whistle. The noise vibrates in the depth of your stomach. The cheering doubles when the headlining band’s techies emerge. The lights go down. Equipment begins to roll out.

You scrounge through your purse for a lip balm and think about heading downstairs to the concession stands for an overpriced bottle of water to wash away the unfortunate tang of blood. It aches to pay, but if you don't soon you might get nauseous, and that would be a real disaster, throwing up here of all places.

You hear his voice before you see him. He's laughing, talking to somebody about the set.

"It was great!" compliments a feminine voice. "I don't know what you were so worried about, Remus, you're really great. And if you weren't, Marl would've saved the day anyways with her gorgeous showmanship."

"Thanks, baby," says a second voice. Marl.

"Thanks, Mary," Moons says.

What had Mary called him? Remus? Odd, not quite as strange as Moons.

You try not to tense as footsteps approach.

"Can I sit?" he asks.

You look up too fast. He's a little damp, the hair closest to his face curled with it, but he smells good as he sits down. He must've washed up.

"I– I've been calling you Moons in my head," you admit, not sure what to say.

He's intimidating. You don't imagine he knows it. He sits in the chair without any fanfare, setting his forearm on the rest between your two seats and turning his face to you completely, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, almost like he doesn't want to smile but can't help himself. His eyes are the slightest bit lidded, emphasising the brilliance (and unfairness) of his lashes, so thick and dark you wonder if he's wearing makeup.

"You can call me whatever you want to, but my name's Remus. I should've told you that before. I was… distracted."

He isn't being coy, you realise. He easily could be if he wanted to, but he was genuinely lost for words for a second.

"I didn't really tell you mine," you say, hoping to ease his gentle confusion.

He says your name like it's easy. Like he enjoys the sound of it. "Y/N. Do you like music?"

Is that a trick question? His eyes trace up to your eyebrows as they pinch together, but he doesn't amend his question. Not a trick, then.

"I like music,” you say.

"I realise it's brave to ask someone to come and see you on stage. And that I look like a tosser sometimes with the stage lights and makeup."

"No," you say quickly, "you don't. You looked just fine. You looked good. I bet it's hard getting on stage like that, and in front of this many people. And singing. You have a really nice voice."

His eyes soften. "Thank you. Do you wanna go get a drink with me? There's a bar. It's quiet."

Your elbow brushes against his long sleeve. "Yeah." You're not breathless enough to embarrass yourself, but it's a close call.

Remus leads you up and out of the seats. The venue is large in that it has just as many hallways and back rooms as it has places to watch the show. Remus’ warm hand catches your elbow, a friendly touch that guides you around the barrier and through a dimly lit hallway that takes you to the bar.

The bar overlooks the stage, but the sound of the band and the crowd is dampened severely, making for a sorely needed respite. VIP's mill around the room on plush leather sofas and cushy bar stools sipping from sweating glass bottles. Remus' hand moves up to your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze as a familiar face waves you over.

"Hey, it's you!"

You smile at Remus' motorbike friend. You're a hundred percent sure his name is Sirius, but you won't say it aloud in case you're wrong. Beside him sits the other man you'd seen on stage with them, the guitarist with brown skin and a head full of thick hair. You look between the three of them in secret shock, wondering if handsome attracts handsome or if it's just dumb luck that they ended up together.

"James, this is the babe that found Stacia," Sirius says.

James wrinkles his nose. "Hi," he says, in a voice that sounds deeply apologetic, years of it like the rings of a tree. "How are you?"

"I'm good. Um, and you?"

"I'm good! Thanks, I'm good, it's nice of you to come see us. Did you like the show?"

"Yeah, I did. I had no idea you guys were musicians."

He splits his attention between you and his jacket. He pulls a glasses case out of his pocket, clicks it open, and straightens out a pair of wire frames.

"Couldn't tell from our baby boy's general demeanour?" he asks. "Hey, that's better, I can see you now."

"Sirius is the youngest," Remus says.

"And the handsomest."

"No, Marl's clearly the handsome one," James says lightly.

Sirius takes the rebuttal in good jest and brandishes his drink toward you like a toast. "Want a beer?"

"I'm getting her one," Remus says, "come on, give me a minute here."

Everybody laughs. You laugh too, turning your face into your shoulder to smother the sound.

"Well, come and sit with us, make yourself comfortable," James says, moving his jacket off of the chair in front of you.

Remus makes a small, apprehensive sound. "Drinks first." He looks to you for confirmation. "Yeah. We'll be back."

You follow him to the bar. Your shoes, a pair of dirty converse you wish you'd swapped for heels or something sophisticated, squeal against the hardwood floor. How were you supposed to know you'd see him again tonight? In what world does stuff like this happen to scruffy waitresses? You're starting to think he might be somebody.

Not that it matters if he is or isn't.

But if he is… This is embarrassing, right? Not knowing who he is.

There must be a couple thousand people here tonight. Then again, his band were the opening act, so it doesn't necessarily mean they're all famous or anything.

"Hey," Remus says softly, stopping your thoughts cold. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Sorry. I've never been in here before, anywhere that's like it,” you say.

"Venues are all different but the bars don't change," he says. "What do you like?"

"I'm not a big drinker."

"That's okay. I just wanted an excuse to be alone with you." He doesn't even give you time to recover. "Truth is, I wanted to ask you out. But between shows I couldn't find time, and next week I'm in San Marino."

What you mean to say is, you wanted to ask me out? But instead, you choke, "You're going to Italy?"

Remus pushes a seat out for you, helping you up with a solid hand, and, while your fingers are still warm from his touch, he says, "San Marino isn't Italy. I didn't know that 'til a few months ago. But pretty much."

"What's in San Marino?"

"A wedding." He climbs into the seat next to you, smiling.

The tan colour of his long-sleeves contrasts his pale hands. Your eyes flash to his ring finger. Not his wedding.

Remus isn’t easy to talk to. It's not wholly his fault. He doesn't force conversation, leaving you awkwardly searching for something to say. You're not the best conversationalist either. He clearly doesn't mind it.

You're in the midst of a clumsy retelling of a shitty customer service moment when he tips his head to the left just a touch.

"Maybe we can go on an actual date when I'm home,” he says.

He says it like he's talking about the weather. You'd be worried he was messing with you, but then he smiles again, flicking his index finger against your wrist mildly. "You don't have to answer me now. Finish telling your story."

"It was pretty much finished. And– and I'd like to. Go on a real date. I've never been out of the country, so you'll have to forgive me if I want to know everything about San Marino."

He looks at your lips. Says, "Good," and doesn't give any indication that he's noticed how nervous you are. That is, until he covers your trembling hand with his and presses it flat to the bar.

"You're really pretty," he murmurs. He takes a moment, and he smiles. "Come with me? If I don't give Sirius some attention soon he'll start showing off."

—

James is starting to wonder if he should invite you to San Marino. He's not that stupid; it would be a huge pain if you were standing in the middle of all his wedding photos and you and Remus don't work out. But, while he's certainly and majorly jumping the gun, he has a suspicion he’ll be seeing you again.

James has never seen Remus like this before.

His friend is usually quiet, quipping every now and then perhaps at Sirius' insufferable antagonism but otherwise brooding. He hasn't seen him smile this much, ever.

James is under no illusions — he knows Remus loves him very much. He knows Remus is happy, and not always healthy but managing. He knows Remus is pleased with their lives and ecstatic to have their music take off. But he also knows Remus won't let himself have a good thing, not really. Maybe that's why he's asked you out now, when in a week they'll be in San Marino, and a week after that they'll be in Cardiff to officially start the new tour.

He knows Remus, sweetheart, kind hearted, miraculous Remus, tends to let people down. He's a stickler for asking people out and cancelling the day before. It's how it always goes. James will ask how the date went and Remus will shake his head and say, "it didn’t work out."

He knows Remus doesn't mean to hurt anybody. He just… can't get close.

But he's trying, with you. A glass of cordial in one hand, the other behind your chair, Remus tells you one of his more embarrassing stories about how he'd taken a bad fall and ended up in A&E with half of an eyebrow. He doesn't mention the painkillers that made him woozy.

You've relaxed considerably since sitting down. James would be happy to report that you're having a good time. You have your own drink in hand, and your eyes are bright, with a receding space between your face and Remus' as the story goes on. It's like watching two magnets fight to hold themselves apart.

Matter of time, James thinks to himself smugly.

—

Honesty is important. You admit to yourself that you and Remus aren't exactly a perfect match. Both quiet, both not quite social butterflies, your conversations had occasionally been stilted and slow, but you've only met twice. Things don't have to be perfect, and more than that — there's a spark there. A twinge of a possibility. He'd liked what little he knew about you enough to ask to see you again, and you'd like what little you knew about him in turn to say yes.

It doesn't have to be perfect, you insist to yourself, a bundle of nerves. Nothing does.

He looks pretty perfect. Base of his palm pressed to the brick wall of the cafe, hand angled down as his fingers grasp the neck of a bouquet whose flowers have been shedding petals onto the damp pavement below. He holds his other hand against his chest, clicking buttons on his phone.

You approach from the left and watch him play a game of Snake.

"You play Snake?" you ask.

"Doesn't everybody?" he asks back, his smile softening what might otherwise feel like a chastisement. He doesn't look up from his phone.

"Woah, how long have you been out here?" you ask, eyeing his weirdly long snake.

Remus guides the snake into a wall on purpose. It dies, his high score flashes across the screen, and he aims an apologetic look your way. "Sorry, that was rude." He doesn't try to hide that he's looking over your face. "Thanks for coming."

He leans in and kisses your cheek. Delighted warmth curls in your stomach, worse when he passes you the bouquet of flowers. They've mostly survived his poor treatment, and there's a lot of them. He's left the price tag on and you're not sure if he's noticed. You pretend not to see it.

"Thank you…” You look away from the flowers, all whites and reds and baby’s breath, to ogle him as subtly as you can manage. “Wow, you've caught the sun. Was it lovely in San Marino?"

"I'll tell you all about it over dinner,” he says. “I thought we'd walk, it's not far." He holds out his hand. You wipe your palm against your side before you take it, worried you'll have clammy hands. He must guess, because he says, "Don't be nervous."

"I am," you say hopelessly. "I've never been on a date before."

"This is your first date?"

You feel a hot flush coming on. "I– yeah. That's embarrassing, I shouldn't have told you that."

"No, it's a good thing. Now I know it has to be extra special."

"It doesn't," you say.

"I was hoping it would be." He pulls you down the pavement and further into the city centre toward the main high street. "San Marino. It was beautiful, and I took a couple of photos but I didn't have room on my phone. Well, I could've deleted Snake–"

"Why would you?" you joke, grinning.

He laughs, and squeezes your hand slightly. "Exactly. I have priorities. It's a long flight, and looking over the photos can only take up so much time. No, but it really was… it was beautiful. I'd never given much thought to a destination wedding. They make sense, right? It's the best day of your life, why would you have it here?"

He tilts his chin toward the grey sky. You look up with him, feeling the cold wind kiss the sides of your face and pull through your hair.

"Come on, Remus, it's not that bad. If it's sun you're after, you could just wait for British summer time. You know, the whole three days of it."

He laughs — you've made him laugh twice already. This is going okay. Laughing while looking at one another, a bouquet in one hand and his hand in the other, you feel that curl of delight begin to bloom. It fills your insides up, has you smiling until your eyelashes brush in the corners.

"It was James' wedding. Do you remember which one that was?"

He asks so kindly. You don't doubt for a second that he wouldn't care if you forgot. It's refreshing, even if it's something you'd expect.

"I remember. I didn't realise he was getting married."

"Don't ever say that in front of him, he'll put himself on the cross." He swings your hand as you turn a corner. The Italian restaurant you'd agreed on winks from a distance.

"He's devoted," you guess.

"He's insane. He was worse when we were younger. His girlfriend– his wife," he amends, "Lily, she's really something else. Warm and funny, but she's been keeping him on his toes for years. She has family in San Marino, hence the wedding."

You listen to him talk eagerly. His voice is as handsome as his face, and the more he says the less stilted he becomes. There had been a strained quality to it before (strained, or restrained? something he wasn't saying) that's all but disappeared.

"It was like a movie. White linen, sand, crying."

"Did you cry?" you ask, expecting a puffed up chest.

"So much. Too much, maybe. I was half of the best man."

"Half?"

"We had to share, me and Sirius. They've always been…" Remus slows his steps. "Am I being boring? I'm talking too much about me."

"We have time. I want to hear it. I'd like to hear it," you say.

James and Sirius are brothers. Remus sees your surprised look and doesn't condemn you for it. Sirius is unofficially adopted. The Potter's fostered him from ages thirteen until he aged out, and though they tried to adopt him, Sirius was reluctant. Remus doesn't get into the reasons beyond that, and you don't ask. You suspect he's only telling you about it to drive home how much the Potter's love Sirius. How much James does.

Remus had been Sirius' friend from their very first year of comprehensive school. Sirius moved in with the Potter's, and, adoring as they were, they let him have friends over whenever he liked. James, Sirius, and Remus spent the next decade together like that, hiding in Sirius' room. Best friends, entirely inseparable, and all fiercely protective of each other.

"They've always been like brothers."

"But not…"

He understands what you're worried to say. "I think it would've been weird… I had a candle burning for James. For a long time."

Your jaw drops a little. "And you just had to watch him have the most romantic wedding ever," you whisper sympathetically. You're joking: it's clear the candle isn't burning now.

"Told you I cried," he says. "No, but you've seen him. He's a supermodel. It's awful."

"Remus, I think you might be underestimating how handsome you are," you say. You bite your lip and look at his chin rather than his eyes.

He's generous. He gives your wrist a tug and chuckles warmly. "I'm glad you think so. Tonight might have been awkward, otherwise."

You duck together inside of the restaurant, hands falling apart as Remus gives his last name for the reservation. Lupin. Your face has a mind of its own.

"Charming, isn't it?"

"It is," you say emphatically, denying his sarcasm. "I've never heard anything like that. Lupine, like a fox?"

"Wolf."

A server shows you to your table and hands you two leather covered menus. Leather, not plastic, a sign that tonight is going to be classy. You've dressed for the occasion in a smart blouse and slacks, too terrified of wearing a dress. Remus seems to have done the same as you, reaching for smart but dodging the mark in a button down and a casual jacket. When he takes off his coat, he looks perfect. He fits right in.

"Could we get a glass?" he asks the server. "For the flowers? If it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all."

You run your hand across the silken tablecloth and the space between you both feels somehow smaller than when you'd been holding hands. Outside, you could let your gaze drift to the pavement, the fenced in trees, the couples that passed you by. Here, you're forced to watch one another.

It's not so bad. It's agonising.

"This is weird," you say. You flinch when you hear yourself. "Sorry, not that you're weird! I'm weird. I've never ever done this."

"No, I know," he says, almost murmuring, "it's okay."

"I just blurted out what I was thinking–"

"I know." He sits back in his chair. His head tilts down, his eyelashes kissing the skin above his brows as he fixes you with a look. It has the intended effect, tension easing from your rigid spine and tight shoulders. "This is weird. But it's still early. It could get weirder."

You like that he says it as if it's a good thing.

You order the same thing he does, and you don't turn down his offer to get a bottle of wine, though it feels too grown up. You keep forgetting you're an adult, and that your life isn't on hold. Things can happen to you at any time.

"I want to address the elephant in the room," he says.

Not promising. "Okay."

"Are we having dessert?" Remus leans forward on both forearms. Hair falls in his eyes. He's dressed nicely and he's handsome but there's something homespun about him, something golden. You can't help looking at him and thinking impossibly forward thoughts, cheesy waffle from the films. He's familiar. "Nobody ever wants to get dessert with me. It's actually a real issue for me."

"I'll get dessert with you." A smoother you with more confidence, who wore the dress and asked him to go to the Thai restaurant instead, would've said something more suave. We're having whatever you want, handsome.

Remus flips the menu to the very last page and reads the desserts aloud. For himself, it seems, half-muttered and apprehensive. "Chocolate cake from places like this will either be the nicest thing we've ever eaten or burnt in the microwave. And it's childish that I want chocolate cake. I should be spoon feeding you creme brulee. Or whipped cream and strawberries."

He tips his head back and rubs his eyes. It's a charade of feigned self loathing that makes you laugh.

"I'm a child," he laments, thumb and index finger pressed into his eyes. He checks to see if you're watching before doubling down.

"I like cake," you say, and you'd lie if you thought it was what he wanted to hear. Handsome, kind, and funny. Not to mention talented. He needs smart for the sweep.

Remus falls out of his dramatics. You mourn the loss, beggy a good look on him, but forget all about it when he slides his chair around the table to share the menu with you, your heads inclined as you read it together again. He smells woody. You hope he likes the jasmine of your perfume.

"It all sounds really nice," you confide, afraid to disturb the comfortable hush. "I haven't had gelato since I was a kid. Oh, did they have real gelato in San Marino?"

“They had a lot of stuff in San Marino… I want to hear about you.”

“What do you want to hear?”

The questions start and don’t stop. Where did you grow up? That’s the easy part. What did you study in school? Were you in sports? The art club? And what do you do now, when you aren’t working in the cafe? The more he asks, the easier it is to answer. He doesn’t slow when the waiter brings a glass for your bouquet, simply stands and places them inside with exceedingly gentle hands, smiling at you from between the stems. You eat slowly when the food arrives — you're busy talking.

It feels fucking amazing. To have someone want to know anything about you. And unless he’s an actor of the highest regard, he’s obviously enjoying your conversations, though they wilt and wane and wind around one another. You lose track of time and thread as the night goes on, distracted by the near unnoticeable asymmetry of his smile, and the way he laughs when you laugh, like an echo.

You get cake like he wanted. Triple fudge cake with buttercream thick but melting from the heat. It looks straight from the pages of a magazine, glossy and dusted with sugar powder, but he doesn’t seem to like it. He takes a couple of bites and leaves it alone. You don’t want to look greedy, so you do the same.

The date is suddenly over.

“Could I walk you home?” he asks, when you’ve both put your coats back on, and the damp roots of your flowers are leaving an imprint on your chest.

You nod rather than answer.

Things are good, not perfect. That’s what you keep thinking. There’s something he isn’t saying. Or, horrifyingly, something he doesn’t like about you. Still, the sky is velvet black and the air is crisp. Stars like needlepoints dot the air. Street lights work to hide them, casting a warm yellow glow over the pavements and your meandering shoes.

A brisk wind whips past you. You shiver and press your lips together hard, hands quick to rigidity. Remus looks at you sideways, and breaks the quiet. “Are you cold?”

“A little.” No point in lying when he can see you trembling.

“Do you want my coat?”

“No, no, it’s alright–“ You cut off as he steps in front of you, his hand vying for yours.

He tucks the flowers under his arm and sandwiches your fingers between his. He has short fingernails, and another scar down one pinky finger. How’d you get that one? you want to ask. How’d you get any of them?

His breath clouds the air. “I should’ve thought about the cold.”

“This is better,” you say. Than a warm taxi home. His thumbs brushing down the backs of your hands.

You walk to your flat building and hesitate at the foyer door. The potential for a kiss goodnight has flayed your thoughts. The image of his hands climbing your arms, holding you still, plays like a flickering film. You have no idea if he’s going to do it.

“How will you get home?” you ask quietly.

“I parked by the cafe, it isn’t far.”

“Oh…” The lights from your building paint him the faintest shade of pink. Your breath fogs out in front of you, as does his, and the warmth of walking will soon fade. “I–“

“Here,” he says, handing you the flowers again.

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

“Fits the recipient.”

It takes a second for you to get it. Oh, you think. You can hardly feel the cold now. Your heart hurts, and you’re begging him to want to take a step toward you. The silence goes for too long.

“I– I’d love to see you again,” you say. Love comes out funny. Maybe because you can feel his rejection coming.

“I won’t be here next week. Not for a long time. We’re touring properly, now.” He scratches the side of his face.

“Right. Right, of course you are. Um, good luck with that. And thank you for tonight, for dinner.” You wave your flowers weakly.

He looks at you. He takes a half step toward you. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“You really are pretty,” he says finally. “Goodnight.”

He smiles quick and turns quicker. You watch him walk a few steps but ultimately can’t face it, pushing into the foyer of your building with a hardset frown. Your hands shake, minute abstractions of the sharp rejection panging in your chest. Your ears roar and then go quiet. What did I do wrong? you think, shocked and upset and trying to rationalise. He doesn’t have to kiss you. He asked you out on a maybe, and now whatever question he had is answered.

The door creaks open. You spin on your heel, too wrapped up to think about hiding your expression. Remus stands in the doorway of the porch, his arm pressed to the glass panel, the other held out to you.

"Come here," he says quietly. It isn't a question, but he's asking.

You step into his reach, letting him pull you by the waist against his chest. He leans down until his nose glances against ýours, and he starts to say something. You push your chin up in your eagerness and he doesn't try again. He kisses you, once, contrite, and he pulls back and his hand clasps your arm tight as he ducks in for another. His lips are fast to lose the cold of the weather, but his tongue is a hot shock at the seam of your own.

You go weak in his arms. The flowers between you crunch and smother themselves. You can’t think about it. Your hands are numb. He takes over every one of your senses until you’re more kiss than thought, reciprocating his slow, deep searching. You run out of breath.

He eases you backward, cupping the side of your head in his big palm.

“I want to see you again,” he says hoarsely. “But I– I don’t know when I’ll be back.” His hand adjusts against your cheek, like he’s worried you’re slipping out of his hold. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I can wait,” you say.

“I couldn’t ask you to.”

You rub your buzzing lips together, each heaven of your chest marked by the crinkling sound of cellophane.

“Do you want to come upstairs?” you ask.

He strokes the edge of your mouth with his thumb. “Are you sure?”

You kiss him. You don’t know if this will work, any of it, the broad stroke or this one night, but you want him.

—

Remus doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows how to fuck somebody, that isn’t the problem. He doesn’t know what he’s doing with you. The same thing that made him walk away had pulled him right back in, had him skipping steps on the staircase up to your flat, drinking in the back of your head and roll of your shoulders as you’d made apologies for the mess inside.

He doesn’t feel like himself when he’s with you. He thinks of it like this — what he is, his pain, his wants, that’s all set in stone. Any change is an erosion, and little by little over the years he’s managed to whittle himself down into the smallest, cleanest version of himself. Then suddenly the band’s making money, people are listening to his voice on the radio in countries all over the world, and he can’t hide anymore. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to, after all. What else inspires a performer into the spotlight? The music, he thinks desperately, knowing it’s half a lie.

Isn’t it why he’d asked you to the show? Come and watch me sing. See me at my most impressive. My most curated.

And now he’s following you into your bedroom after one date, about to strip it all away.

“You didn’t have too much wine, did you?” he asks. You hadn’t really finished your first glass, but it won’t hurt to make sure.

You peel your jacket off and drop it over the back of a wide armchair. “I don’t think so. Did you?”

“No.” His head has never been this clear.

He thinks about what you said. This is your first date, and he’s not clueless enough to assume that never going on a date means never having sex, but he wants to be careful with you anyway. He wants this to last beyond a dinner date.

Which means he has to get out of his head.

Beyond all of his own mess, he really does think you're pretty. More than pretty. You’re beautiful, and your voice…

He wants to see what other sounds you make.

Remus gets his hands on you. Soft touches, his hands coasting from your elbows to your warming hands. He squeezes your fingers, leaning in for a quick kiss. He rests his nose against the skin beneath your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much?” he asks, a murmur of hot air.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go slowly.”

“Okay.” Your voice is barely audible.

He pulls away to make sure you’re alright, and is surprised to see a glassy sheen in your eyes. He holds your face in both hands and works your lips open against his, guiding you backwards into the plush of your poorly made bed. He’s all sweet touches and eager kisses, cautious not to hurt you, or let too much of his weight press against your soft torso. His kisses follow to the corner of your mouth, the tip of his nose tender against your cheek. “You’re so quiet,” he says. He isn’t complaining, but he wants to hear your voice.

“I’m a bit preoccupied.”

He laughs into your skin, kissing down to your jaw. “You’re right,” he says, revelling in the goosebumps that rise under his hands.

Your shaking inhales cleave a pit in his stomach. He mouths at the side of your neck, half-kisses, tiny warning nips before he thumbs open the first button of your shirt. He meanders, dropping a path crescent moon kisses into your front until the fabric of your bra gets in the way. The soft hill of your breast staggers to a halt beneath him. He can tell that you’re holding deliberately still.

Kisses. You need more kisses, an absolution from any lingering nervousness. Your hands thread into his hair gently, your fingers raking wavy strands behind his ears as you give in. You melt into your sheets, your legs parting from the pressure of his hips.

Your hands fall from his hair to needle between your two bodies and undo the rest of your buttons. The fabric falls aside, your chest and tummy his to catalogue. He drops his hand against your stomach, smoothing a line down to your slacks. His lips ache against yours as he asks, “Can I?”

“Please.”

He smiles at your daunted expression. “Can I take these off?” he asks you, his fingertip running under the edge of your underwear. “Please?” he teases.

Your skin is a furnace, hot hot hot everywhere he touches as you nod your permission and Remus undresses you, one piece of clothing at a time. Your trousers, your shirt. Your bra, your underwear. His fingers slip in his ardency as he tears out of his own button down.

Your thumb traces a scar.

He looks up from your chest, startled, but you aren’t giving him anything he doesn’t want. There’s no pity in your gaze, no curiosity, no sadness. Just lust, your trembling hands pulling his slacks down the lengths of his thighs.

He pulls the condom from his wallet in his pocket and lets it fall to the floor.

Remus hooks his hands under your arms and urges you back against the headboard, a pillow behind your head, your thighs tipping open as his hand runs down between them. He grabs at them greedily, handfuls of fat that have his mouth dry as a bone.

“Has anyone ever done this to you before?” he asks. He needs to know.

You squeeze your eyes closed and shake your head.

Fuck. “Hey, look at me,” he says, waiting for your eyes to meet before continuing. “I just want to make you feel good. If I don’t, you let me know.”

He waits for you to answer aloud. “I will,” you say, your hand behind his back and urging him forward. “Please.”

“What did I say?” he jokes gently, letting his weight bear down on you again.

He closes his eyes, his lips in what feels like a new home at the juncture of your neck. His hands skirt dangerously close to your heat.

He’s gentle. He rubs a sweeping line against your cunt with the front of his fingers, heart hammering fast as a mouse’s when he finds the little button of your clit. You shiver and shudder and squirm as he toys with you, your fingers steadfast against the plane of his back while he opens you up. His lips part in tandem, not nearly as kind as his hands. His teeth scratch against your throat.

Your soft moans move through him as he hickeys over your pulse, chasing each capering thud of blood. He winds you up. You’re snug around his fingers, fluttering, and he knows he’s probed something sweet when your breath catches and you whine.

“Was that alright?” he asks.

You nod, heavy headed, and lick your lips as he tears open the condom and eases it onto his cock, one measured roll at a time.

“Can you– I want you to–” You turn your face from him, the line of your jaw kissed by the lamplight outside, and the rest hidden.

He drags you down to lay flat on your back and holds himself over you, nudging his nose against yours until you lift your head. Face to face, he gives himself time to adore the shape and colour of your eyes, the side of his hand brushing along your cheek. “Do you think you’re ready?” he asks sincerely. The slickness between your legs is obvious, but he doesn’t want to blindside you. “It will feel…”

You nod, saving him the explanation. It will feel weird. Good, but foreign. “Will you kiss me again?” you ask feebly.

He can’t stop himself. He kisses your lips sore, his hand behind the crook of your knee pushing your leg up toward your stomach as he slides into the space he’s made there. He breaks the kiss to listen to your breathing as he pushes forward.

Remus hadn’t been lying — he wants it to feel good. He takes it slow, his thrusting almost languid as you get to grips with the feeling. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard, struggling to smother the moan that escapes him as he feels you clench around him. You gasp, your arms tightening around his waist, destroying any semblance of space between your sweat-damp bodies as you hold him tight. He murmurs praises in your ear, his forearms tucked beneath your shoulder blades, hands gripping your shoulders a touch too hard. He can’t remember the last time he was this close to somebody, can’t remember ever feeling so maddeningly lost, like he’s one good push from hurtling over the edge.

He kisses your cheek, calling you all the things he’d been too scared to say before. “Lovely girl,” he pants, “how’s that feel?” And, when you answer, “Yeah, you’re taking it so well, dove. Think you can take a little more?”

All that nervousness and desperation shrinks down to dust, and the smiling girl he’d been with at dinner comes to the forefront. There’s no mistaking it. You giggle something awful and turn your face into his, kissing him between sounds, dizzying him with the tender scratch of your nails down his back as he starts to move.

“There she is,” he says lightly, almost smirking. “Feel good?”

“Feels– oh,” —you shiver violently, filled all the way up— “feels good.”

Remus let’s his forehead fall to your chin, his eyes closed in pleasure, his cock to the hilt. Every move he makes evokes a near sinful sound from you, mewling, silvery whimpers and pleased little laughs when he angles his hips right. He’s a mess, desperate to cum from the second you touched him and running on stolen time as he presses you deep into your mattress. One of your hands flies backward into the pillows and scrunches up into a ball, the look on your face too tempting to ignore.

The first time you fuck someone — it’s never timed right. Remus knows he hasn’t quite figured you out, but he knows enough to get you where he wants you. He slides his hand between your bodies and your soft cunt to draw circles into your clit, entranced by your twitching lashes as the pleasure builds. You chase him with your hips, and he grabs your hand at the last second to stop you from covering your mouth, holding it above your head as you come apart.

He cooes at you. The sound you make — the breathless little cry that leaves you, your hips jutting up to meet him. He’s at your mercy, just like he said.

Remus fucks into the extra tightness, drawing your climax out for as long as he can. You’re smiling as you shove his arm away, a playful chastisement that wanes when you see the look on his face. “Are you close?” you ask, brushing a curled strand of hair from his eyes.

Close? Remus is fucked.

“You can go faster,” you say, “rougher, whatever you want.”

“Shit,” he hisses, leaning back.

His rutting hips slap the backs of your thighs. He squeezes your waist, his eyes fixed on your cunt as it pulls him in. One last wavering, “Oh, fuck,” from you is all it takes for Remus to lose it. White hot pleasure tightens his whole body, his abdomen aflame. You scramble to gather him back into your arms. You kiss him, swallowing his resulting string of moans.

He has to catch his breath afterward. You comb the hair back from his face, your eyes droopy with pleasure.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice stringy.

“Of course not.” You’re quickly losing your confidence. Remus hates it, but he understands. This vulnerability can only stretch so far.

“Let me clean you up,” he says.

“You look like you’re gonna fall over if you stand.”

He strokes your face with the back of his ring finger, his nail ghosting along the highest point of your cheek. “Funny,” he says dryly.

He gets confused in your bathroom, and you won’t let him towel you off, but when he lies down beside you with his boxers back in place you don’t push him away. You drop your face into his chest and curl up.

He drags the quilt over your naked back.

Was that okay? he wants to ask. “Sore?” he worries instead.

“Don’t think so.”

He chews his cheek. “You’re alright?”

You stir, looking up at him through your lashes. He thinks you’re the kind of pretty people might not always see. You’re clearly beautiful, but there’s something else to it. The way you move, maybe. The way your eyes smile before your lips can catch up.

“I’m fine. I’m good… Can I…”

He hums. “What?”

“Could I kiss you again?”

You speak so quietly, he hears the vibration in your throat more than the sound of your voice. It’s endearingly timid. He feels his attraction for you flare violently.

He wants to ask you to come with him to Cardiff. He knows he can’t. It’s yards too soon, but for a second he entertains the thought.

“Wait for me to come home,” he says. He’s still asking for more than he should. “I want to see you again. You can kiss me as much as you want, if you say you’ll wait.”

You nod immediately. Not a flicker of reluctance to be seen.

You lift your chin and kiss him. He tries to make it the kind of kiss worth waiting for.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging cos it helps more than you might think <3

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