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rootedinrevisions · 16 days ago

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Terrified to Lose You Two

Summary: Jake is gone. And you don't know when or if he's coming back. Left to navigate the aftermath of that night on your own, you try to convince yourself it was nothing. But when weeks turn into months, and an unexpected scare leaves you spiraling, it becomes impossible to ignore just how much his absence weighs on you.

Warnings: Mentions of Pregnancy, Pregnancy Scare. Also just a lot of angst and worrying. Maybe mutual idiots with feelings?

Word Count: 3,551

Author’s Note: This took WAY longer than I planned it to. But honestly I hadn't originally planned on this to have a Part 2 but since there was interest decided to see what I could come up with. I know the ending is kind of open ended. I'm not sure i I want to have a Part 3 or not. So I tried to leave it so that this could be the end or there could be more. I hope you all enjoy it and that it ends up being worth the wait. xx

You don’t know how long it’s been exactly. Days blur together when there’s no news. No updates. No messages.

Just an empty space where Jake should be.

You wake up in the middle of the night, stomach twisted in knots, reaching for your phone before you remember he’s not going to text you.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And that thought is a black hole, threatening to swallow you whole.

So you keep yourself busy. Work. Exercise. Anything to outrun the restless energy clawing at your ribs.

But your body feels…off. It’s subtle at first. A gnawing exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix. A vague nausea that lingers in the back of your throat, never quite enough to make you sick, just enough to make food unappealing.

You brush it off as stress. The lack of sleep. The sheer weight of waiting for Jake to come back. Or even just to hear news that he and the others are okay.

Then you check the date.

Your heart stops.

No. You count again.

No. Your stomach lurches as you double check your calendar, fingers tightening around your phone as if that might somehow change the numbers.

Late. You’re late.

And suddenly, the exhaustion, the nausea, the hollow ache in your chest…it all feels suffocating.

No. No, it’s stress. It has to be stress.

You can’t be. That doesn’t make sense. You’re on the pill. You never miss a dose. You’ve taken it every day at the same time like clockwork.

This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.

You take a slow breath, pressing your fingertips against your temples. Stress messes with your cycle. That’s all this is. The waiting, the worrying, the exhaustion, it's all too much, and your body is just reacting to it.

You try to shake it off. You try to be rational.

But then the symptoms start feeling more real.

A wave of nausea hits you out of nowhere while you’re brushing your teeth. You gag, barely managing to stop yourself from getting sick. Later, in the shower, the steam makes your head swim. The next thing you know, you're gripping the tile wall, knees nearly buckling, blinking against the sudden dizziness.

Your heart pounds. You breathe through it, shaking your head. It's fine. You just stood up too fast. You didn’t eat enough today. Except you did eat. You had half a sandwich, a protein bar, and a coffee. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Wasn’t it?

The doubt creeps back in. By the time dinner rolls around, even the thought of food makes your stomach turn. You stare at your favorite takeout sitting on the counter, appetite gone, throat tight.

Panic wraps around your ribs.

No. No, this isn’t happening.

You can’t tell Jake because he’s not here.

You can’t tell anyone else because they’re all gone too.

You're alone.

So what do you do?

You do the worst possible thing. You start Googling.

And suddenly, every symptom lines up perfectly. Fatigue. Nausea. Dizziness. Loss of appetite.

Sitting on the bathroom floor phone gripped tight in your hands, you stare at the search results until the words blur together.

The answer is simple. You need to take a pregnancy test.

But you don’t move. You don’t get up. You just sit there, legs curled up to your chest, heart hammering in your ears.

What if it’s positive? What if it’s not? What if—

You squeeze your eyes shut.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’re overreacting. You tell yourself to wait it out.

But no matter how many times you try to push it away, the what if won’t leave you alone.

And deep down, you already know you won’t be able to breathe until you know for sure.

So you make the appointment. And then you drive yourself there. Alone.

The waiting room is small, sterile, and too quiet. You sit stiffly in one of the plastic chairs, phone gripped tight in your hands. You refresh your notifications. Again. Again. Hoping for an update.

Nothing.

You swallow hard, tapping your foot against the floor. The walls feel too close, the air too heavy, and for a second, you consider just walking out.

Maybe it really is just stress.

But before you can make up your mind, a nurse calls your name.

You force yourself to stand, legs unsteady as you follow her back. The blood pressure cuff tightens around your arm, the pulse oximeter clips onto your finger, and you try not to wince when she frowns at the numbers.

“Heart rate’s a little high,” she notes.

You swallow. “Yeah. That’s probably just—” You hesitate, glancing away. “I’ve been anxious.”

She nods, scribbles something on the chart. “What brings you in today?”

You exhale slowly. “I haven’t been feeling great. Lightheaded. Nauseous. My appetite is weird. And, um… I’ve been having some stomach pain.”

The nurse hums, nodding along, but then her next question knocks the air from your lungs.

“Could you be pregnant?”

You freeze.

Your first instinct is to say no. You’re on birth control. You’re careful. This shouldn’t even be a question.

But you’re late. And you do feel off. And there’s that sliver of doubt you haven’t been able to shake.

So instead, you hesitate.

“Maybe.” Your voice is small, unsteady.

She nods again, like she hears that answer all the time, and scribbles another note before setting the clipboard aside.

“We’ll do a test,” she says gently. “Just to be sure.”

And then you’re left alone in the exam room, staring at the speckled tile floor, hands twisted in your lap, heart hammering against your ribs.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’ll handle it, whatever it turns out to be. But no matter how many times you try to convince yourself, your hands are still shaking as you wait for the results.

Alone.

The knock on the door is soft, but it makes you jump.

The nurse steps back inside, glancing at the chart in her hands. “Your test was negative.”

You exhale. Your shoulders dropping, lungs finally expanding. But it’s not a relief. Not really.

Because nothing has changed. Jake is still gone. You’re still waiting. You’re still alone in this.

Your fingers curl against the paper lining of the exam table, the crinkle loud in the silent room. You should feel better. This should ease something. But all it does is leave a hollow ache in your chest.

Because the fear is still there. The uncertainty. The realization that for one brief, terrifying moment, you’d considered what this could have meant.

You press your lips together, nodding vaguely as the nurse talks. She is going on about something. You think she might be recommending rest and hydration. And there’s something about stress management.

You barely hear her.

Because all you can think about is Jake.

How much you miss him. How much you need him to come home. And how utterly terrified you are that he won’t.

By the time you’re walking out of Urgent Care, stepping into the cool night air, the weight of it all crashes down on you.

You wrap your arms around yourself, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes.

You don’t want to be alone in this anymore.

But for now?

You have no choice.

* * * * *

It happens when you’re least expecting it.

You’re at The Hard Deck, nursing a drink that you don’t really want, when Nat slides onto the stool next to you. She greets you casually, like she always does, but something in her expression shifts when she gets a good look at you.

"You look like hell," she says.

You huff a laugh. "Feel like it too."

She leans in slightly, voice lower. "Jake’s back."

The words hit like a sucker punch to the ribs. You blink. Swallow.

“What?”

“Got back a few days ago.”

She says it so easily, like it’s nothing. Like it’s not the most important thing you’ve heard in weeks.

Your fingers tighten around your glass. A few days. Jake’s been here. Alive. Breathing. Walking around San Diego like everything is normal. And he didn’t tell you.

The realization stings. You force yourself to breathe through it, to keep your face neutral as you take a sip of your drink. “Good for him.”

Nat studies you, like she can hear all the things you don’t say.

If it meant anything to him. If that night, the things unsaid, the way you held onto him meant something, wouldn’t he have reached out?

Wouldn’t he have wanted to see you?

You tell yourself you don’t care. That it doesn’t matter.

But deep down, it does.

Because while he’s been fine walking around, acting like it was just another mission, just another day, you’ve been going through hell.

And now? You don’t know what to do with that.

So you don’t tell him right away. Not about Urgent Care. Not about the nights you spent staring at the ceiling, sick with worry.

But the moment you see him later that night? All of it comes rushing back.

The moment you spot him across the bar, your heart slams against your ribs.

Jake looks exactly the same. Same cocky smile. Same easy confidence. Same damn twinkle in his eye as he laughs at something Coyote says, a beer dangling from his fingers like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Like he didn’t just vanish for three months. Like you didn’t spend sleepless nights wondering if he’d ever make it home. Like that night…the way you curled into him, the way you needed him meant absolutely nothing.

You wait. Wait for him to look over. To acknowledge you. To do something. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even glance your way.

Your stomach twists, but you shove the feeling down. Maybe this is your answer. Maybe you were the only one who spent the last three months thinking about that night.

Maybe it was nothing to him.

If he’s going to act like this never meant anything, like you’re just another face in the crowd then fine.

You can act like that, too.

You tell yourself you won’t look again, but your gaze betrays you. Every few minutes, your eyes flick to where he stands. And every damn time, you catch him already looking.

A half second too long. Just enough to make your pulse stutter.

But neither of you move. Neither of you say a word.

Hours pass like this stolen glances, fleeting eye contact, both of you waiting for the other to be the first to break.

"You know he asked about you, right?" Natasha says, nudging your arm as she slides into the seat beside you.

You blink. “What?”

“While we were deployed,” Bradley adds from across the table. “Not all the time, but enough.” He shrugs. “It meant something to him. That night you went home with him.”

Your chest tightens, but you shake your head. “If it meant something, he would’ve reached out.”

Bradley gives you a look. “He just got back.”

“It’s been three days,” you counter.

“Maybe he thought you would reach out,” Natasha offers.

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. “Well, then I guess we’re at a stalemate.”

They exchange a glance, and then Bradley huffs, shaking his head. “Fine. Be stubborn. But you’ll never know unless you talk to him.”

Natasha smirks, tipping her glass toward Jake’s direction. “And for the record? He hasn’t stopped looking at you all night.”

Your breath catches, but you force yourself to keep your expression neutral. You won’t be the first to move. You won’t. The ball is in his court. It’s his move.

But somewhere between your resolve and your next drink, you realize that if you don’t talk to him tonight you’ll regret it.

So you stand and start making your way over to him before you can overthink it or talk yourself out of it.

Jake spots you coming the second you stan. By the time you come to a stop in front of him he’s already turned towards you, his beer poised halfway to his lips.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. Then, he exhales. “Wanna step outside?”

You hesitate, but only for a second. “Yeah.”

The night air is cooler than you expect, a welcome contrast to the warmth inside. The sounds of the bar fade slightly as you both step onto the patio, stopping near the railing.

Jake leans against it, looking over at you. “How’ve you been?”

You don’t answer. You just wrap your arms around yourself, and that—more than words—tells him everything he needs to know.

His jaw tightens. He looks away for a beat, then nods, exhaling softly. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”

Silence stretches between you.

Jake shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, quietly he says,“I would’ve called. Sooner, I mean. But I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me.”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “I spent the last three months thinking about that night. Wondering if you would come back home.”

“Were you really that worried about me?”

You let out a small humorless laugh. Then before you can second guess it and change your mind you just say it. “I was late.”

Jake turns fully toward you now, his brows drawing together. “Late? Like…”

Your throat feels tight, but you push through. “Yeah. And you…you weren’t here…none of you were.”

Your eyes are locked on the wooden planks of the patio below you. But you still hear the audible inhale of air that Jake takes.

He clears his throat before he says anything. His voice is quiet when he finally speaks. “So are you…”

You shake your head. “No.”

Jake exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Shit.”

Neither of you speak for a few minutes. Then he shifts closer to you. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that the warmth of him brushes against you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You glance away from him, your eyes look out past the sand at the water and the horizon as the last remnants of the sun dipped below the edge of the horizon.

You take a deep breath and then look over at Jake. Your eyes meet his, and for the first time tonight, you let him in. You let him see the fear, the uncertainty, the weight and pressure that you’ve been carrying around for the last three months.

“I guess I didn’t know what you’d say,” you admit, your voice barely a whisper.

Jake goes silent again. And you feel the way the air shifts between you, the way his eyes stay locked on yours but his mouth doesn’t move. Your stomach twists. Your hands start to shake. And suddenly it’s too much.

The weight of the last three months. The waiting. The worrying. The wondering if you’d ever see him again.

You feel your chest tighten. You need to get out of here. Before he can see the way your breathing picks up, before he can see you break, you take a step back. Then another.

Jake doesn’t move.

You turn to go but before you can take another step, his hand closes gently around your wrist.

“Wait.”

His voice is quiet but firm. Steady.

You freeze.

“Just…wait.”

His grip is light, barely holding onto you, like he’s afraid if he pulls too hard, you’ll slip right through his fingers.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to breathe through the lump in your throat. “Jake, I can’t—”

“Please.”

That single word makes you stop. There’s something there in his voice…something raw.

Slowly, hesitantly, you turn back around.

Jake watches you, jaw tight, something heavy in his gaze. His fingers loosen, but don’t let go.

“I didn’t know,” he says finally, voice rough. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”

You swallow hard. “I know.”

He nods, but his brows furrow, like that’s not enough. Like he needs you to really believe it.

His thumb brushes over your wrist absently, a slow, grounding motion. “I wouldn’t have left you alone with…that.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.Because part of you believes him. And part of you doesn’t know what to do with that.

Jake takes a breath. “Come sit with me?”

Your instinct is to say no. To run. To protect yourself before he can hurt you again. But when you meet his eyes, all you see is sincerity.And maybe you’re too tired to fight him anymore.

So you nod.

Jake leads you to one of the patio benches, waiting until you sit before he lowers himself beside you.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. The sounds of the bar filter through the open doors, but out here it feels quieter.

“I should’ve called you when I got back,” he admits, voice low.

You blink at him. “You think?”

Jake exhales through his nose, shaking his head at himself. “I thought about you. More than I probably should’ve.” He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Nat and Rooster were ready to throttle me with how much I talked about you.”

Your heart stutters. “Then why didn’t you—”

“Because I was scared,” he cuts in, meeting your gaze. “Scared I’d come back and you’d tell me that night didn’t mean anything. That I didn’t mean anything.”

Your lips part, stunned into silence.

Jake laughs softly, shaking his head. “Turns out, I’m an idiot.”

You watch him, the raw honesty in his expression, the vulnerability he rarely lets show.

You take a steadying breath, forcing yourself to ask the question that’s been haunting you since the morning after you last saw him.

“That night…” Your voice comes out softer than you intend, barely audible over the distant hum of the bar. “Did it mean anything? To you?”

Jake’s eyes snap to yours, something unreadable flickering across his face. For a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s weighing his answer.

“Yeah.” Jake exhales, running a hand through his hair before settling his gaze back on you. “It meant too much.”

Your breath catches. “Jake—”

“I thought about it,” he continues, voice steady but raw. “More times than I should admit. But I convinced myself it was better to leave it alone. That if I reached out, you’d tell me it was a mistake.” He lets out a dry laugh. “Hell, I figured you probably regretted it the second it happened.”

You shake your head instantly, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “I didn’t.”

You swallow hard, hands gripping the edge of the bench. “I never regretted it,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Silence settles between you, thick and weighted.

Jake watches you like he’s searching for something—like he’s waiting for permission to believe you. Then, slowly, he leans in, elbows on his knees, voice quieter now.

"So where does that leave us?"

You don’t know.

All you know is that after months of silence, of doubt, of wondering—Jake is here. Right in front of you.

And maybe that’s enough.

#Jake Seresin #Jake Seresin Fanfiction #Jake Seresin Fanfic #Jake Seresin x reader #Jake Seresin x You #Jake Hangman Seresin #Jake Hangman Seresin x Reader #Jake Hangman Seresin x You

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antimonyandthyme · 5 months ago

Note

body swap, for carcar or even landoscarcar?

He wakes up, disoriented. It’s not even light out yet, why the fuck is he awake? His throat’s a little sore, his hips are a little sore. Jeez. Didn’t even bother to put some pants on last night, and did he chafe his ass on like, the sheets or something? Wow. He’s sore all over. A settled, pleasant kind though, a muscle ache too deep for him to reach. Maybe he can skip the gym today, hop on a stream, relax. Grab Carlos for a round of golf before he leaves, if he’s not too busy mapping Monaco on his bike.

He turns to his left. Claps a hand over his mouth, shrieks into it.

Like, he’s groggy. He doesn’t have the remnants of a disaster headache, so he’s not hungover. But it’s early, and he never wakes up early. Must be why he’s hallucinating.

When he can bring himself to look again, Carlos is still there. Close enough that Lando can hear the air whistling softly through his teeth.

Lando shifts uselessly, stares. That’s Carlos, alright. He’s always been a loud sleeper. Back in their McLaren days, when they’d shared hotel rooms, Lando had taken voice recordings to prove to an adamant Carlos that he snored. The memory makes his lips twitch. It’s nice Carlos looks well-rested. Better than he has in awhile. A pretty trophy will do that for you. If he wants, Lando can choose to waste precious time counting Carlos’s lashes while he figures out what to do. He’ll lose count at probably a hundred.

That’s Carlos, alright.

What were they doing last night? Surely Lando would remember. The party was loud, raucous, the Prince of Monaco victorious here at last. All podium finishers present, fourth place included. Drinking, laughing, cozying up to one another. Carlos and Oscar smiling tentatively at each other after sharing just one couch, animosity seemingly forgotten. The prickly itch crawling under Lando’s skin, until Charles finally manages to bag him a set. The music, beats pounding a tattoo into his brain. He remembers all of that.

Surely he would remember taking Carlos’s clothes off. He’s wanted to for—

Lando slaps both hands onto his cheeks, hard enough to sting. He needs to take a leak.

He squeaks out of the bed, as quietly as he can. Trips over a pair of jeans that look vaguely familiar, rams his toe into the wheel of a suitcase that definitely wasn’t there last night. Finds the bathroom, closes the door with a silent snick.

Fumbles around like a dunce for the light switch, right there where all light switches usually are.

Flicks it on. Shrieks for real this time, without his hands to cover the noise.

It’s a good thing Carlos has always slept like the dead. To be absolutely fucking certain, Lando peeks his head out.

Yep, still asleep. That’s Carlos, alright.

Deep, deep breaths. As deep as he can go without passing out. He returns to the mirror. Feels for his face like it’s a foreign object.

Which it is. Because that’s Oscar Piastri, looking right back at him.

He means to start off with something useful. Something like, Hey, do you remember what drugs we were on last night? E? Salvia? Because mate, these are the strangest withdrawal symptoms I’ve ever experienced. Or even something funny, like Haha, now I know what you look like naked. The fans are going to have a field day.

Instead, what comes out of his mouth is, “Why are you sleeping with Carlos?”

“Good morning to you too,” Oscar says, after the longest pause on planet fucking earth.

He didn’t mean for that to sound as sulky as he did. But he’s sore all over, and his lips, which are not his, but Oscar’s, feel extremely kissed, and he definitely does not expect that to make something in his chest twist tighter than a coiled spring.

“Aren’t you going to answer?”

“What did we drink last night?” Oscar says, unsurprisingly choosing to be the level-headed one in this conversation.

“Something bright green, something ocean blue. Dunno. Lost track during the set.”

“Lando,” Oscar says patiently, in Lando’s voice. Which is just all kinds of weird. “Something green, something blue, doesn’t sound all that normal.”

“I knew that DJ couldn’t be trusted.”

The world-weary sigh Lando receives makes his skin prickle with heat. Things have been happening. The car’s gotten faster. From his grandmother to the mechanics, everyone’s been talking about a chance he could pull like magic out of thin air. It’s not his fault he wasn’t paying attention. At the club, or to every encounter Carlos and Oscar had prior to this that has led them here.

“Look, I’m gonna—where are you?”

“In Carlos’s room,” Lando says, rudely, unhelpfully.

“Right. I’ll. I’ll be there in. We’re staying just, two blocks away, right? I’ll be there in ten. Could you. Could you please, just—”

Lando expects him to say something totally condescending. Please just don’t freak out. Please just don’t do anything until I get there, because I’m being responsible and you’re being a baby.

“Just, go back?”

“What?”

“Be next to him, when he wakes up?”

Lando swallows. The acid from yesterday must be making his stomach churn. Oscar—in Lando’s fucking voice, sounds smaller and more hopeful than Lando ever wants to hear himself sound.

“I don’t want him to think.” Oscar stops. Lando can practically see him scrubbing at the back of his neck. “I don’t want him to think I left, or anything like that. Could you—”

Lando hangs up.

The earnestness. The, the audacity.

The phone rings again, and Lando hangs up again, out of pure spite. He paces wildly, in front of the mirror. Each time he turns on his heel he imagines his body morphing back into what’s right. Each turn smacks him with the image that Oscar’s pale, freckled skin turns splotchy red when he’s angry.

What. A useful thing. To know.

It’s been half an hour since he’s woken up. Which means, oh fuck. Fuck. Carlos’s body clock has always been impeccable. Eight, on the dot, he springs out of bed like it’s a wonderful thing being alive at that hour, and then goes and makes coffee without fail. Which means in three, two minutes, Carlos will open his eyes. And, and he’ll be alone in bed.

He’ll be alone. That’ll make Lando feel better, right? Carlos will be alone, and then Oscar will no longer be a problem, and then the itch under his skin will disappear, for good.

Carlos will be alone.

He flicks off the light, slips out of the bathroom. Bangs his toe again on that damned suitcase. Slides under the covers, adjusts himself into a position he hopes might be believable. Head on one hand, face tilted toward Carlos. Body leaning, reaching. Always reaching. Eyes half-closed.

But open enough so that he can see the exact moment Carlos wakes. See that small, relieved smile. See the way Carlos clicks his jaw askew, the way he always does before making a decision. Then feel Carlos run the backs of his knuckles against a face he wishes were familiar.

#athy texts #fanfic #rpf #carcar #carlandoscar #anon why not both #why not both!!!#bodyswap prompt fic

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fdelopera · 2 months ago

Note

I'm trying to find the quote about how Jews are painted with the worst sins a generation can imagine. That it used to be communism, now it's settler colonialism - but I cant find it anywhere! Do you know the one I'm talking about? I feel like you might know

Hi @counterpunches , thanks for your question. I believe you are thinking of the keynote speech by the great Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks z''l that he delivered before the European Parliament in 2016.

Since Rabbi Sacks delivered his speech, of course, Europe, the UK, and Ireland have continued to descend into the chaos of their own self-destruction, of which Jew-hate is the first major symptom.

These goyishe freaks think they are just having "fun" celebrating Islamofascist terrorism, glorifying in the slaughter of Jews, and attacking the Jews in their own communities, but really these goyim are DIGGING THEIR OWN GRAVES.

Here is the video of Rabbi Sacks' speech. I've also provided the transcript below under a Read More, and I've bolded the sections that relate to your question.

I recommend that everyone listen to Rabbi Sacks' speech. Nearly 10 years after he delivered this speech, his words could not be more true:

If Europe lets itself be dragged down that road again, this will be the story told in times to come. First they came for the Jews. Then for the Christians. Then for the gays. Then for the atheists. Until there was nothing left of Europe’s soul but a distant, fading memory.

Today I have tried to give voice to those who have no voice. I have spoken on behalf of the murdered Roma, Sinti, gays, dissidents, the mentally and physically handicapped, and a million and a half Jewish children murdered because of their grandparents’ religion. In their name, I say to you: You know where the road ends. Don’t go down there again.

You are the leaders of Europe. Its future is in your hands. If you do nothing, Jews will leave, European liberty will die, and there will be a moral stain on Europe’s name that all eternity will not erase.

Stop it now, while there is still time.

youtube

Transcript of Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks' z''l speech:

The hate that begins with Jews never ends with Jews. That is what I want us to understand today. It wasn’t Jews alone who suffered under Hitler. It wasn’t Jews alone who suffered under Stalin. It isn’t Jews alone who suffer under ISIS or Al Qaeda or Islamic Jihad. We make a great mistake if we think antisemitism is a threat only to Jews. It is a threat, first and foremost, to Europe and to the freedoms it took centuries to achieve.

Antisemitism is not about Jews. It is about antisemites. It is about people who cannot accept responsibility for their own failures and have instead to blame someone else. Historically, if you were a Christian at the time of the Crusades, or a German after the First World War, and saw that the world hadn’t turned out the way you believed it would, you blamed the Jews. That is what is happening today. And I cannot begin to say how dangerous it is. Not just to Jews but to everyone who values freedom, compassion and humanity.

The appearance of antisemitism in a culture is the first symptom of a disease, the early warning sign of collective breakdown. If Europe allows antisemitism to flourish, that will be the beginning of the end of Europe. And what I want to do in these brief remarks is simply to analyse a phenomenon full of vagueness and ambiguity, because we need precision and understanding to know what antisemitism is, why it happens, why antisemites are convinced that they are not antisemitic.

First let me define antisemitism. Not liking Jews is not antisemitism. We all have people we don’t like. That’s OK; that’s human; it isn’t dangerous. Second, criticising Israel is not antisemitism. I was recently talking to some schoolchildren and they asked me: is criticising Israel antisemitism? I said "No" and I explained the difference. I asked them, "Do you believe you have a right to criticise the British government?" They all put up their hands. Then I asked, "Which of you believes that Britain has no right to exist?" No one put up their hands. "Now you know the difference," I said, and they all did.

Antisemitism means denying the right of Jews to exist collectively as Jews with the same rights as everyone else. It takes different forms in different ages.

In the Middle Ages, Jews were hated because of their religion. In the nineteenth and early twentieth century they were hated because of their race. Today they are hated because of their nation state, the state of Israel. It takes different forms but it remains the same thing: the view that Jews have no right to exist as free and equal human beings.

If there is one thing I and my contemporaries did not expect, it was that antisemitism would reappear in Europe within living memory of the Holocaust. The reason we did not expect it was that Europe had undertaken the greatest collective effort in all of history to ensure that the virus of antisemitism would never again infect the body politic. It was a magnificent effort of antiracist legislation, Holocaust education and interfaith dialogue. Yet antisemitism has returned despite everything.

On 27 January 2000, representatives of 46 governments from around the world gathered in Stockholm to issue a collective declaration of Holocaust remembrance and the continuing fight against antisemitism, racism and prejudice. Then came 9/11, and within days conspiracy theories were flooding the internet claiming it was the work of Israel and its secret service, the Mossad. In April 2002, on Passover, I was in Florence with a Jewish couple from Paris when they received a phone call from their son, saying, “Mum, Dad, it’s time to leave France. It’s not safe for us here anymore.”

In May 2007, in a private meeting here in Brussels, I told the three leaders of Europe at the time, Angela Merkel, President of the European Council, Jose Manuel Barroso, President of the European Commission, and Hans-Gert Pöttering, President of the European Parliament, that the Jews of Europe were beginning to ask whether there was a future for Jews in Europe.

That was more than nine years ago. Since then, things have become worse. Already in 2013, before some of the worst incidents, the European Union Agency for Fundamental Rights found that almost a third of Europe’s Jews were considering emigrating because of antisemitism. In France the figure was 46 percent; in Hungary 48 percent.

Let me ask you this. Whether you are Jewish or Christian, Muslim: would you stay in a country where you need armed police to guard you while you prayed? Where your children need armed guards to protect them at school? Where, if you wear a sign of your faith in public, you risk being abused or attacked? Where, when your children go to university, they are insulted and intimidated because of what is happening in some other part of the world? Where, when they present their own view of the situation they are howled down and silenced?

This is happening to Jews throughout Europe. In every single country of Europe, without exception, Jews are fearful for their or their children’s future. If this continues, Jews will continue to leave Europe, until, barring the frail and the elderly, Europe will finally have become Judenrein.

How did this happen? It happened the way viruses always defeat the human immune system, namely, by mutating. The new antisemitism is different from the old antisemitism, in three ways. I’ve already mentioned one. Once Jews were hated because of their religion. Then they were hated because of their race. Now they are hated because of their nation state. The second difference is that the epicentre of the old antisemitism was Europe. Today it’s the Middle East and it is communicated globally by the new electronic media.

The third is particularly disturbing. Let me explain.

It is easy to hate, but difficult publicly to justify hate. Throughout history, when people have sought to justify antisemitism, they have done so by recourse to the highest source of authority available within the culture. In the Middle Ages, it was religion. So we had religious anti-Judaism. In post-Enlightenment Europe it was science. So we had the twin foundations of Nazi ideology, Social Darwinism and the so-called Scientific Study of Race. Today the highest source of authority worldwide is human rights. That is why Israel—the only fully functioning democracy in the Middle East with a free press and independent judiciary—is regularly accused of the five cardinal sins against human rights: racism, apartheid, crimes against humanity, ethnic cleansing and attempted genocide.

The new antisemitism has mutated so that any practitioner of it can deny that he or she is an antisemite. After all, they’ll say, I’m not a racist. I have no problem with Jews or Judaism. I only have a problem with the State of Israel. But in a world of 56 Muslim nations and 103 Christian ones, there is only one Jewish state, Israel, which constitutes one-quarter of one per cent of the land mass of the Middle East. Israel is the only one of the 193 member nations of the United Nations that has its right to exist regularly challenged, with one state, Iran, and many, many other groups, committed to its destruction.

Antisemitism means denying the right of Jews to exist as Jews with the same rights as everyone else. The form this takes today is anti-Zionism. Of course, there is a difference between Zionism and Judaism, and between Jews and Israelis, but this difference does not exist for the new antisemites themselves. It was Jews not Israelis who were murdered in terrorist attacks in Toulouse, Paris, Brussels and Copenhagen.

Anti-Zionism is the antisemitism of our time.

In the Middle Ages Jews were accused of poisoning wells, spreading the plague, and killing Christian children to use their blood. In Nazi Germany they were accused of controlling both capitalist America and communist Russia. Today they are accused of running ISIS as well as America. All the old myths have been recycled, from the Blood Libel to the Protocols of the Elders of Zion. The cartoons that flood the Middle East are clones of those published in Der Sturmer one of the primary vehicles of Nazi propaganda between 1923 and 1945.

The ultimate weapon of the new antisemitism is dazzling in its simplicity. It goes like this:

The Holocaust must never happen again. But Israelis are the new Nazis; the Palestinians are the new Jews; all Jews are Zionists. Therefore the real antisemites of our time are none other than the Jews themselves.

And these are not marginal views. They are widespread throughout the Muslim world, including communities in Europe, and they are slowly infecting the far left, the far right, academic circles, unions, and even some churches.

Having "cured" itself of the virus of antisemitism, Europe is being reinfected by parts of the world that never went through the self-reckoning that Europe undertook once the facts of the Holocaust became known.

How do such absurdities come to be believed? This is a vast and complex subject, and I have written a book about it, but the simplest explanation is this. When bad things happen to a group, its members can ask one of two questions: “What did we do wrong?” or “Who did this to us?” The entire fate of the group will depend on which it chooses.

If it asks, “What did we do wrong?” it has begun the self-criticism essential to a free society. If it asks, “Who did this to us?” it has defined itself as a victim. It will then seek a scapegoat to blame for all its problems. Classically this has been the Jews.

Antisemitism is a form of cognitive failure, and it happens when groups feel that their world is spinning out of control.

It began in the Middle Ages, when Christians saw that Islam had defeated them in places they regarded as their own, especially Jerusalem. That was when, in 1096, on their way to the Holy Land, the Crusaders stopped first to massacre Jewish communities in Northern Europe. It was born in the Middle East in the 1920s with the collapse of the Ottoman Empire. Antisemitism re-emerged in Europe in the 1870s during a period of economic recession and resurgent nationalism. And it is re-appearing in Europe now for the same reasons: recession, nationalism, and a backlash against immigrants and other minorities. Antisemitism happens when the politics of hope gives way to the politics of fear, which quickly becomes the politics of hate.

This then reduces complex problems to simplicities. It divides the world into black and white, seeing all the fault on one side and all the victimhood on the other. It singles out one group among a hundred offenders for the blame. The argument is always the same. We are innocent; they are guilty. It follows that if we are to be free, they, the Jews or the state of Israel, must be destroyed. That is how the great crimes begin.

Jews were hated because they were different. They were the most conspicuous non-Christian minority in a Christian Europe. Today they are the most conspicuous non-Muslim presence in an Islamic Middle East.

Antisemitism has always been about the inability of a group to make space for difference. No group that adopts it will ever, can ever, create a free society.

So I end where I began:

The hate that begins with Jews never ends with Jews. Antisemitism is only secondarily about Jews. Primarily it is about the failure of groups to accept responsibility for their own failures, and to build their own future by their own endeavours. No society that has fostered antisemitism has ever sustained liberty or human rights or religious freedom. Every society driven by hate begins by seeking to destroy its enemies, but ends by destroying itself.

Europe today is not fundamentally antisemitic. But it has allowed antisemitism to enter via the new electronic media. It has failed to recognise that the new antisemitism is different from the old. We are not today back in the 1930s. But we are coming close to 1879, when Wilhelm Marr founded the League of Anti-Semites in Germany; to 1886 when Édouard Drumont published La France Juive; and 1897 when Karl Lueger became Mayor of Vienna. These were key moments in the spread of antisemitism, and all we have to do today is to remember that what was said then about Jews is being said today about the Jewish state.

The history of Jews in Europe has not always been a happy one. Europe’s treatment of the Jews added certain words to the human vocabulary: disputation, forced conversion, inquisition, expulsion, auto da fe, ghetto, pogrom and Holocaust, words written in Jewish tears and Jewish blood. Yet for all that, Jews loved Europe and contributed to it some of its greatest scientists, writers, academics, musicians, shapers of the modern mind.

Stop it now, while there is still time.

#jumblr #islamist antisemitism #christian antisemitism #jewish history #rabbi lord jonathan sacks #may his memory be for a blessing

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another-lost-mc · 2 years ago

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Feel the Heat (Royals Edition) DIAVOLO & BARBATOS 2k words | NSFW | afab!Reader | Shameless Smut Content warnings: Poly!Reader, demon heats (vaguely mentioned), demon forms mentioned (Diavolo, Barbatos), threesome, oral sex (afab! and m! receiving), cockwarming, rough sex, voyeurism. A/N: Read the other Feel the Heat fics: The Demon Brothers | Newspaper Club Edition.

When Diavolo and Barbatos go into their heats - synced together almost perfectly - they invite you to the Demon Lord’s Castle for a tea party. No matter how many times you insist that isn’t necessary, they insist that it is. It’s charming that they try to maintain a semblance of decorum, even though you can see their heat symptoms slowly overwhelm them.

Diavolo visibly sweats through his RAD uniform, and his eyes are black pools of desire that stare at you hungrily across the small table on his private balcony. He has difficulty speaking and he’s breathing heavily. Eventually he stops trying to form words at all and replies only with sharp nods of his head or low grunts.

Barbatos doesn’t pour him tea, and Diavolo wouldn’t drink it if he did. He’s unspeakably hungry for you, but he reminds himself that he needs to prove he’s not a mindless beast that only wants you for your body. He crosses his legs and grips his chair when the urge to lunge across the table and claim you grows unbearable.

During his heat, Barbatos can't maintain his composure for long and you can tell he's not faring much better than Diavolo is. Like his master, his skin is covered with a thin sheen of sweat. There’s a tremor in his hands when he pours your tea. He murmurs apologies when some spills over the rim of the cup, an unusual occurrence when he’s normally so controlled and meticulous.

On a typical day, he stands by Diavolo’s side, or behind him. During his heat, he hovers behind you instead; you can hear his sharp intake of breath whenever he dares to lean forward and scent you. He is usually more discreet, but today his nose is nearly against your skin; his warm puffs of breath tickle your neck.

You tell yourself you’ll eat something - a small, delicate pastry prepared by Barbatos himself - and then drag them both to bed before they completely lose control of their senses. You don’t want to risk having to fuck them on the balcony (again). There might be enough privacy so you won’t be seen, but there’s nothing to silence their feral noises or your own pleasured cries.

There was one previous visit when the onset of their heats blindsided all of you with its intensity. They took you right there on the balcony instead of the cozy bed inside. Barbatos swiped the table clear of his expensive, beautiful china and ripped down your pants and bent you over. He fisted your hair while he fucked you with fast, punishing thrusts; Diavolo jerked himself off as he watched, muttering filthy praise for you under his breath.

After Barbatos was temporarily satiated, Diavolo pulled you down onto his lap and urged you to ride him too. He laid on the uncomfortable ground himself and shielded your delicate body from the rough stone, the way any proper mate would. After he came, Diavolo held you while Barbatos licked the sloppy mess from between your thighs, then his master carried you inside before the next wave of their heats took hold.

(They were both entirely smug about that little tryst afterwards. The scratches on their backs and knees lingered for days which constantly reminded them of you.)

Your demon hosts are already restless when they wait for you to choose a dessert, so you pick the closest pastry to avoid testing their patience. You bite into the flaky turnover and panic when sweet whipped filling spills across your mouth. Your lips are covered with powdered sugar and cream, and you wonder if Barbatos hoped this would happen all along. There's a quiet rumbling emanating from his chest behind you, and across the table, Diavolo clenches the arm of his chair so tightly that you can hear the wood splinter and crack.

This is ridiculous.

You wipe your mouth quickly with the back of your hand and stand up knowing that they’ll follow. Diavolo slowly rises from his seat across from you, and his body shakes with anticipation and poorly-disguised lust.

Barbatos holds out his gloved hand to you and you place your palm in his. You think he means to lead you inside, but he brings your hand to his mouth and licks away the traces of sticky sweetness left behind. His tongue flicks across your skin far longer than needed - he’s chasing your taste now too.

Two pairs of dark eyes snap to yours when you whimper. You can only withstand so much attention and overwhelming desire from them before you feel yourself unraveling too. Diavolo takes your other hand and drags you off the balcony with Barbatos close behind.

They lead you into the bedroom where they can finally have you all to themselves. Your hands are shaking with anticipation, but thankfully Barbatos helps strip off your clothes so you don't have to fumble with the buttons of your shirt. He’s gentle with you, but he can’t resist the urge to brush his lips against your skin - and nip at the unmarked flesh with his teeth - as his nimble fingers undress you.

Diavolo stands behind you and tilts your chin back so he can kiss you, and he groans at the lingering sweetness he tastes on your lips. His impatient hands explore the bare skin Barbatos reveals to him: your bare shoulders, your breasts, the dips and curves of your belly and hips.

During most of their previous heats, Barbatos fucked you first. I need to prepare you for the future demon king’s cock, he whispered in your ear when you wondered why he was allowed to stretch you with is fingers - and his cock - while Diavolo watched you both with dark, hungry eyes.

But today, it seems they have something different in mind. “I want to prepare you myself,” Diavolo’s rough voice growls into your ear. He clasps his arms around your body and grinds his cock against your ass. He’s in his demonic form behind you; you can hear the restless stirring of his wings. His horned silhouette on the wall is monstrous, but you know there’s nowhere safer than the greedy embrace of the demon prince that loves you.

Barbatos is in his demonic form too, but he’s positioned himself flat on the bed and only the topmost buttons of his shirt are undone. He palms the staining bulge in his pants. He meets your half-lidded gaze with his own and licks his lips expectantly.

Diavolo rests his hands on the small of your back and nudges you towards the bed. You kneel on the edge of the mattress, and Barbatos crooks his finger at you. You crawl on your knees and he shivers when you slide your hands up his thighs and spread them apart to give you more space. Diavolo settles on the bed behind you, and he peppers kisses along your back while his hands squeeze at the soft, jiggly skin of your ass.

Barbatos unzips his pants for you, and he tilts his head back against the pillow when you pull out his cock. He’s been leaking inside his pants and the tip is already wet and glistening with traces of his arousal. You swallow his cock down with one smooth glide of your lips wrapped around him, while Diavolo buries his face between your thighs and licks greedily at your slit. You moan around Barbatos’s cock, and he echoes you with a soft groan of his own.

After a few minutes of clenching the bedsheets while you drag your lips along his shaft, Barbatos snarls and rips off his gloves with his teeth. It surprises you to see him do something so uncouth. You drool pathetically from the corner of your slack-jawed mouth onto his cock, but that seems to rile him up even more. He smooths his bare hands over the sides of your face and he cradles your jaw. He helps guide your movements, up and down, over and over again in a sensual glide of your spit-slicked lips around his cock. He doesn’t push your head down faster or deeper than he knows you like. Your mouth is warm and wet around him, and you flick his cock tip with little kitten licks before you swallow him back down.

Barbatos knows he’s going to come first. His tail’s been thumping restlessly against the mattress, and the forked ends wrap around your wrist in an effort to ground himself. A grunt and a few shallow thrusts of his hips are your only warnings before he pumps his cum into your mouth. It flows hot and sticky across your tongue and down your throat when you swallow.

He needs longer to recuperate than his master does and he’s already softening in your mouth. You hold him like that gently, enjoying the sensation of him, hot and heavy, on your tongue. You squirm when he murmurs that you’re being such a good cockwarmer for him. He lets you enjoy it a little longer and he only pulls away when he becomes too sensitive.

Diavolo growls possessively deep within his chest when the air continues to thicken with his butler’s scent. He’s nearing the edge of his own self-control and needs to fuck you, but he needs you to come for him first. He’s three thick fingers deep inside you, massaging your walls and teasing the spongy spot hidden within. He laps at your slick with his tongue and sucks on your clit. Your body trembles and you undulate your hips to meet the greedy movements of his tongue and fingers.

When you approach your own release, you’re whimpering and moaning both their names, an endless siren’s song that threatens to overwhelm them both. You rest your head on Barbatos’s belly and close your eyes while the sensations between your legs start to overwhelm you. Barbatos whispers sweet praise as he strokes your neck and shoulders - he tells you how good you are, how beautiful you look, how delicious you smell and taste.

The combination of Barbatos’s honeyed filth pouring from his mouth, and Diavolo’s lips and fingers plundering your body for pleasure, finally drives you over the edge. You try to muffle your cries, but Diavolo slaps your ass; he wants all of your noises for himself, and he’s going to have them. Your head shoots up in surprise, even though his hand startles you more than it hurts you. He’s finally satisfied that he can hear your gorgeous whimpers and moans unobstructed. His fingers are drenched with your slick, and he sucks them into his mouth while he waits for you to catch your breath.

Barbatos helps you maneuver more comfortably onto your side, then he tucks his cock into his pants before he rolls off the bed. His young master is already crawling up the bed to lay beside you, and Barbatos smiles when Diavolo curls his wings and arms around you protectively. This is a rare moment of peace and clarity that the young prince has to spoil you with sweet words and loving affirmations. Soon enough, his heat will rob him of his words, and he’ll become a touch-starved, primitive beast once more.

Barbatos watches from the shadows when the prince's gentle kisses and touches become rougher and more purposeful. When Diavolo finally mounts you and starts fucking you in earnest, Barbatos sneaks from the room.

He hurries to retrieve some basic necessities that the three of you will need by the end of the night: water, snacks, and some healing and rejuvenation potions for you. You helped him break through the haze of his own heat - temporarily, at least - and it’s enough for him to be quick and efficient gathering supplies from the castle kitchen. He has to be quiet when he returns, although he doubts either of you will notice. As he approaches Diavolo's room, he can hear the muffled bang of the headboard hitting the wall punctuated by his young master’s grunts and your breathy moans.

When Barbatos slips back inside the bedroom, the cloyingly thick scent of your sweat and cum starts to cloud his mind and his heat starts to build again. He grows hard in his pants when your cries to be filled and bred become more desperate. Barbatos watches his young master fuck you senseless, and he licks his lips as he eagerly awaits his turn.

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heart2sea · 2 months ago

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࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ to swim at open sea (read on ao3)

word count: 2.1k tags: angst, hurt/comfort, ref of his card omnipotent perception, AFAB reader, periods mention, lemurian, love confessions

a/n: thinking about rafayel and his myths and everything about him makes my heart hurt so i wrote this as an outlet of some sorts LOL. also this is my first time posting my writing on tumblr yay <:o)

Sometimes, you couldn't help but wonder.

The entrancing smell of painting oils filled your nostrils–you didn't dislike it, nor it bothered you, but it was a very distinct scent that stayed trapped inside your nose for hours after being in its presence. The brush that worked them, and the hand that held it, were under your watchful, pondering gaze. The way they moved was entrancing, like the song of a siren luring a sleep deprived sailor to the restless sea; like his hands were made for creation, to mold, to bring life to his canvas and undo it when it fits his whims.

The hands of a god.

The soothing lullaby of sea waves enveloped your mind, akin to the gentle caress of a lover. Your gaze, half-lidded, on the verge of falling asleep, found itself lost on his features: delicate, graceful, noble, heavenlike. Under normal circumstances, a smile would have graced your lips—oh, so hopelessly in love, heart fluttering at the sight of your Rafayel entranced by his painting, the soft sound of the brushstrokes and both your breathing the background melody of the romantic scene. But now, you just stare, almost befuddled, trying to carve an answer out of his microexpressions and the powdery smell of his cologne.

You couldn’t help but wonder—

Why does he keep hiding from you?

Your mind went back to a brief conversation you overheard on one of your shared trips, something you weren’t supposed to hear. Not because Rafayel wouldn’t want you to, but because you knew it would eat your brain out bite by ravaging bite, until nothing but the faint humming of anxiety remained in your now empty head.

She thinks she understands me, but she doesn’t.

You never told him you overheard that.

It had been months since that trip; since then, you tried opening up with him, baring your heart out in hopes of him baring his the way you thought he already had. Before that, it angered you—it wasn’t your fault, right? You’d understand him if he explained himself better, if he stopped being so vague, averting the conversation into something else entirely when questioning him. Because he loved painting you tales of Lemuria, of its people, of the sea and its fiery currents.

But it was all very calculated, like he would rehearse the tales beforehand over and over in the vast expanse of his lonely bedroom, so nothing too sensible would spill out when telling them to you.

You have my entire heart, he’d whispered into your soul one passionate night, his eyes full of heartfelt devotion.

But did you?

One particular afternoon, he noticed how you were drifting away, irritable, unreachable. His usual playful demeanor morphed into concern with a hint of alarm; he brought it up with something simple, almost silly at first—why were your texts lacking emojis? Stickers? Instead of the usual 10 minute average between responding to his messages, now it was up to 30 minutes. Then, when you tried to laugh it off, he pointed out how you weren’t teasing him enough, or you weren’t clinging to him the way you used to, and how his jokes weren’t exactly making you laugh anymore.

You took the easy way out: your period. What a terrible excuse to use, and incredibly evil: it was one of the areas Rafayel truly lacked expertise in. He had read up on it, and it tracked. Irritability. Detachment. Pain. (Are your cramps making you feel irritable today?). All sorts of nasty symptoms you seemingly had no control of. So he believed you, and tried to give you some space and, oh—your sweet, loving angel tried so hard to understand, even when it physically pained him to keep some distance (and sometimes failed, in true Rafayel fashion) so you’d feel better.

So it broke you. You couldn’t keep the act anymore. You rushed to his house one afternoon, eyes tearing up with guilt, and smooched him with kisses. When he asked you why you were sobbing, you apologized for treating him like absolute shit in your period.

It wasn’t a lie. At most, it was a half-truth.

She thinks she understands me, but she doesn’t.

It crept through the back of your mind and stayed there, gnawing at your head, giving you migraines. It hurt. Because when the anger dissipated away, it was replaced with an empty melancholy. He tried so hard to understand you, to adapt to your land mannerisms; a sea creature that wasn’t made to walk in land, to withstand the warm temperatures of the bustling city, to spend so long away from the ocean, all that sacrifice—

And you were incapable of understanding him.

You wanted to.

You loved him.

You didn’t notice the hand waving in front of you as your gaze got lost onto nothing, seemingly looking outside the window and to the sky. It was only when its movements got more insistent and hurried that you snapped out of it.

“Helloooo? Is someone there?”

You blinked in rapid succession and shook your head as his voice brought you back to reality. Rafayel had an eyebrow raised, his palette discarded beside him as he tried to pull you back to earth. The soft glow from the setting sun gave him an ethereal look, the orange hues peeking from his massive windows functioning as some sort of real-life canvas in which he was painted on.

A smile formed in your lips as you let out a sigh. “Yes, captain. Everything A-OK over here.”

“Clearly not.” He shifted, his body facing you entirely. “I have been calling out for you for a while. Thought you were a goner.”

“So if I were actually dead, is this how you would check?” You decided to bring a playful facade to mask your turbulent feelings. Something you observed from him. “Not checking my pulse? Romantically and tragically cradling me in your arms, calling my name in hopes of me waking up?”

But there was no humor in his eyes as he carefully studied your expression. It was like he was seeing right through you, trying to piece a puzzle in the shape of you. As his eyebrows furrowed, you started to simmer excuses in your head for when he eventually asked you about it—the period excuse wouldn’t work, because you were clearly not on your period, and blaming it on PMS would feel too convenient. Maybe you could point to work-related stress? Grieving over your family again? It hurt. It hurt thinking how the first thing that came into your mind was outright lying to him instead of baring yourself to him.

And it made you wonder how it was so easy for him. To omit important information, to not open his heart out entirely for you, who was so eager to let him into your heart.

“What’s on your mind?” He asked, one of his fingers delicately tucking a strand of your hair back. His eyes glimmered with a hint of vulnerability, as if he were afraid of the answer.

You took a deep breath, unable to break eye contact. A poignant pause filled the room as you took in the sight of his blue-magenta eyes. What were you supposed to tell him? Should he know that you heard him that time? Should he know that doubt now filled your heart where pure devotion once was?

And is.

The idea of him knowing that made your chest hurt. You should’ve been angry at him. But you couldn’t.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out of it. Your brow furrowed and a knot tied tightly on your throat. It should be easy, lying to him, right? Like he did to you? You were entitled. It was your given right. You should’ve been furious, seething, demanding—

He backed away suddenly, painfully, clutching his chest, looking troubled as he anxiously looked for your eyes.

You’d completely forgotten about it.

The bond.

He might not know exactly why, but he could feel it, tugging at him, filling his heart with your frustration, guilt, anxiety, sadness. Alarm started bubbling in your chest.

“Cutie, I—”

“I’m sorry.” You whispered.

You averted your gaze, looking into a distant corner. The warm orange hues of the sunset had dissipated, leaving nothing but a cool blue enveloping the room. Why were you apologizing? Why were you the one apologizing? It should have been him doing it.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to it.

He had to know by that point, right? As he lowered his head, laid on the floor, and nuzzled his face into your lap—like begging for forgiveness, silently, reverently—you wondered if he knew. If he understood.

A terrible, horrifying, disgusting thought crossed your mind for one second. It wasn’t an original thought, it wasn’t the first time you wondered about it, savoured it, felt it. What if? It would be so easy, so attainable, and it would take no effort.

To use the bond to force him to open his heart to you.

You froze. No, you didn’t want that to happen. How ironic it would be, forcing him to be honest in such a dishonest way. What would that make you? What would that make him?

Tears finally started falling from your face as you gently stroked his hair.

“Cutie?”

“I’m alright.” You sobbed. “It’s alright.”

He looked up with his painfully angelic doe eyes, concerned, almost terrified. Propping himself up with his elbows, he sat right up, wiping your tears with his thumbs, tenderly cradling your face. How? How could he be so tender, so loving, and yet not let you into his heart the way you wanted? The way it would benefit you two?

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, sobbing into his palm. “I’m really trying.”

He didn’t reply, his contact stilling for a moment, pondering, contemplating. His jaw tensed momentarily before resuming his loving strokes on your cheeks.

She thinks she understands me, but she doesn’t.

Because he wasn’t exactly lying. You truly didn’t understand him. If you did, perhaps you wouldn’t be sobbing big, hot tears the way you were. You wouldn’t have been in that position—him comforting you, instead of you comforting him for not being able to crack open his heart the way he wanted you to. It’s the reason why, whenever you promised him something, he’d do it the Lemurian way, insisting your human promises held no weight. Why he made you swear to the sea, its stormy gaze watching over your vow.

Still cradling your face, he rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes, letting out a shaky breath.

Does he know?

He placed a tender kiss on your lips.

That wasn’t exactly an answer.

He then whispered something in Lemurian, foreign to your ears. It crumpled your heart, making it bleed out on the cold, hard marble floor of his studio. You didn’t have to understand it. You knew. You felt. He insisted that you didn’t need to understand the language—that you would know. You would feel it. That it was the way lemurians expressed their affection, their mother tongue being simply one of the many tools for it.

Your hands trembled as they made their way to his hands, cradling them back. You let out a shaky, vulnerable chuckle, cocooned on his apologetic warmth. How infuriating. How euphoric. Because he wasn’t lying, this once. The way it reverberated in your thumping heart, seeped into your bones, entangled within your soul that was painted with his colors—you had many doubts, questions, unspoken words; yet, for some reason, this one thing was as clear as day, even though it should be the first thing you should’ve questioned. It glowed in your shared bond and spilled in both your hearts. You exhaled.

“I love you, too. More than you believe. I swear.”

This time, he didn’t make you swear in the name of the sea; instead, he let it linger within the now darkened room, his eyes carefully taking in your features, memorizing the way your tears travelled from your cheekbones to your jaw, as if attempting to understand how important this declaration was to you.

He took a deep breath and finally, after what seemed centuries, let out a breath, a relieved, elated smile escaping from his lips. You could’ve sworn you felt his fingers tremble, just a little.

He repeated his lemurian declaration again, this time placing a tender kiss on your forehead.

You embraced him tightly, dampening his shoulder with your tears; not that either of you cared, anyway. You tangled your fingers in the violet waves of his hair, gently stroking it in soothing motions. He shuddered, almost violently, then sighed, content, and you silently smiled against his clothes as you understood.

His heart cracked open, just a little. And that was enough for now.

Your sweet Rafayel.

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