#and perhaps a small present is given.

[lenievi]

January is just a month of my fave fictional characters’ birthday celebrations. And mine too lol 

[prokopetz]

Perhaps you've talked about this before, but what do you view as D&D's "comfort zone" as far as the rules expectations are concerned? If I'm playing a 5e game with my friends, what kinds of stories are generally going to be most enjoyable to run with the ruleset as it exists already?

Broadly speaking, D&D's narrative comfort zone revolves around stories about small groups of highly skilled weirdos whose core competences lie somewhere in the vicinity of "hurting people and breaking things", trying to achieve a goal that can be accomplished by travelling from point A to point B (and hurting or breaking whatever they find when they get there). This journey will take the form of a picaresque series of set-piece encounters, characterised by the ever-present threat, if not necessarily the eventuation, of violence, in which various only-semi-avoidable horrible things will happen to the group – potentially up to and including death – and they will do horrible things to others in turn. Though the framing of this series of set-pieces may involve some sort of mystery or intrigue, the rules don't care about that dimension of the story's premise and offer few tools for engaging with it; rather, the spotlight lies on the logistical dimension of the journey – i.e., how the group marshals the limited resources available to them in order to accomplish the getting-from-point-A-to-point-B part.

(Some folks reading this may be thinking "wait, you just described a completely standard RPG", and given the influence of D&D on the evolution of that standard, you're not wrong; however, if that was your reaction, it may be worthwhile to back up and count how many weirdly specific assumptions about the shape of the game's story I just outlined – there may be a few you didn't realise you were making!)

[wolfiesmoon]

The greatest gift

it's the most wonderful time of the year as they like to say so how about you recieve the best gift from santa on top of that 😈

this is suggestive perhaps??

Characters featured: mikey, hanma, baji, mitsuya

₊˚⊹♡ Mikey

You were joking when you asked for "Mikey" for christmas. You thought Hina and Emma knew you were joking.

So why the hell was Mikey currently tied up with a christmas ribbon and sitting under the christmas tree in your house, staring back at you with a slight smile?

"Merry christmas."

"I- HUH?!" you quickly covered your mouth, not wanting to be too loud at midnight. "Mikey, why are you in my house?" you whisper yelled.

"Emma and Hina jumped me." was his comically simple response. Well, it would be comically simple if Mikey didn't scare the living crap out of you just a few moments ago.

"That- That doesn't explain anything!" at this point, you've given up with trying to be quiet.

"I can't tell you anything more. I have no idea what's happening either."

"How are you so calm about this anyways?" you walked closer to him, inspecting the tag on the ribbon that said "Merry christmas from Emma and Hina".

"Now that I think of it, it is pretty weird to be kidnapped by your sister."

You're not even going to ask how they managed to get him in here without the keys.

"Well, uhhh... how about I unwrap you...?" you offered awkwardly after a small silence.

"Are you sure you want to do that? You'll unleash the true present by doing that." something... strange flashed behind his dark eyes.

"...What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing. ♡"

₊˚⊹♡ Hanma

"Merry christmas. ♡" you froze at the sound of his voice.

You were woken up by some weird noise downstairs, quietly walking down to investigate the source. You even took a knife from the kitchen just in case.

But instead of a robber or kidnapper, what you found was Hanma Shuji tied up in a big red ribbon. Smiling at you.

"Don't you merry christmas me." you didn't know what to say or do. You were scared out of your mind just now and that combined with the strange sight in front of you made you at a loss of... anything, really.

"Woah, that's a big knife... What were you going to do with that?˜" he sounded more amused than anything.

"You little... I don't... What is even happening?" you dropped the knife on the ground.

"Someone told me that you want 'Hanma Shuji' for christmas."

"Well, you know what I thought I was going to get for christmas? Kidnapped, that's what!" you yelled, not even caring about how loud you are right now.

"Hahahah, how amusing!" he laughed, seeming very satisfied.

"You won't be saying that after the things I will do to you. You know you can't escape when you're tied up, right?" a smirk crossed your face suddenly. A sense of boldness overtook you.

"Oooh, aren't you bold. ♡" his smile only widened.

₊˚⊹♡ Baji

"No way." you had to do a double take when you saw what you thought you saw.

Turns out this christmas is more interesting than you thought it would be. A present from Toman ended up being Baji Keisuke in the flesh.

"Mmmf!" he's probably telling you to free him right now, which admittedly, is hard to do when your mouth is gagged.

"Wow, this is like, the best present I ever got. I gotta thank the boys later." you walked closer to him, kneeling down and inspecting him in all his tied up glory.

Baji looked half angry half embarrased, and honestly that just made you want to tease him more. You kissed his cheek, smiling cheekily.

"Hmmf..." you laughed a little at his face.

"Mmmf! Hmmm!"

"Okay, okay, I get it, I'll let you out. But that doesn't mean that I'm done with you just yet." you smiled, taking the bow of the ribbon into your hands to untie it.

"Mmm..?!"

₊˚⊹♡ Mitsuya

"Me and Mana have a surprise for you." Luna ran up to you all of a sudden.

"What is it?" you placed your hands on your knees to get closer to Luna's height.

"Wait till christmas." that was Luna's only response before running off to continue playing with Mana.

"Hmmm..." you hummed, a bit confused.

.

"Was this... Luna and Mana's gift?" you looked at the comically large christmas present under the tree. What in the world did those two give you?

You carefully removed the lid of the box, worried about the contents. Only to find Mitsuya inside.

"I- What the hell?" Luna and Mana sure are some evil children.

"I don't know either. Hakkai approached me just now and said "sorry" before wrapping me up and putting me in this box with no further explanation." his eyes never left yours.

"I think I know who's idea this was..." you stepped inside the box, sitting directly across from him. He raised an eyebrow.

"Your little sisters told me something about a surprise for christmas..."

"Oh my god. That explains... a lot." he looked as if he just made a big realisation. You couldn't help but laugh a little at the sight.

You pecked his lips all of a sudden, making him jump slightly. "Tell them thank you later."

"Shouldn't you be thanking them?" he smiled.

"No, I'm sure you'll be the one thanking them tommorow." His eyes widened at your mischevious smirk.

an early christmas present for my mikey, hanma, baji and mitsuya babes 💕

i want to make sure yall are well fed with that christmas dinner this year

[gothy-froggy]

Astarion Headcanons

Fluff dating headcanons

This man deserves it. Astarion x Gn! Reader

(Bg3 Astarion spoilers?) + not proofread

As we know that Astarion is not used to this kind of treatment or care. For 200 years he used his body to lure people for his master. And was treated poorly on top of that. This is something he isn’t used to.

Small physical touch

A simple squeeze of the arm, putting a hand over his, Astarion craves for it.

They’re so simple, yet, holds so much meaning.

Such pure and innocent intentions behind them. Intimate, not sexually. Just so much emotion and such a strong connection from a simple touch.

He likes it.

Even a simple, quick or a lingering kiss is just so nice. Astarion has kissed, slept, and held many, but not like this. It’s quite exciting.

The feeling of his beloved’s finger softly running through his hair got a sigh of content out of Astarion. His eyes fluttered closed. The way the their fingers goes through his curls, barely scratching his scalp. It was peaceful.

This was peaceful.

“Star.” They whispered. Astarion opened his eyes. He sat up from laying on their lap, facing his partner. A shaky breath aired out as his eyes shut as they placed their hands on his cheeks, brushing along his jawline. No words were exchanged. None had to.

Their feelings, thoughts, and love for each other were so loud despite not one opened one’s mouth.

No words could describe how much they cared for another.

Astarion grew to return such acts with the intention and his feelings being present. It was difficult at first. It was…odd for him. It was either awkward in his mind, or the spiral to disgust and the feeling of tainted leaking through the cracks of his heart and mind, perhaps his soul at well.

But the reassurance from his lover always pulled him back.

Nicknames

The nickname given to him? Star. It was definitely a shock to him hearing that as his nickname. He can’t help but be a little flustered.

He loves it. Astarion would live for it. Astarion loved it even more once he figured out the reason why his lover calls him Star.

Of course, he calls his dear, love, treasure, other sweet pet names, but the one his love gave him doesn’t seem to be defeated.

The night was chilling as the stars twinkled, dancing in the moonlight. Astarion sat on a big rock with his lover. Their gaze focused on the balls of light in the dark sky. Astarion’s was locked onto them.

“Do tell, my dear. Why ‘Star’ as my nickname?” He would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious. Their eyes meets his, a small, gentle smile appearing on their face.

“Your name has star in it. A-s-t-a-r-i-o-n. Stars twinkle, they’re beautiful , like you.” Astarion let out a huff. Perhaps a small scoff.

“Well, I am beautiful.” A charming smile plastered over his face. His lover laughed, placing a hand over his as they leaned forward.

“You’re my star.” They whispered, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek. Astarion paused, processing their words and the simple touches.

“You really are full of surprises.” Astarion whispered.

‘Their Star.’ He thought. It brought swirls of warmth inside his chest

Astarion’s love for the pet name Star becomes addictive. He gets slightly annoyed and disappointed when his partner doesn’t call him Star.

Hell, his treasure could even make him beg to be called Star if they wanted to.

It honestly irritates him how much he enjoys the silly little pet name. They really don’t hold much value or worth anything…or is that him and enslavement to Casador for centuries?

Nether the less, his love is here to show him what real is. What true love really is.

Perhaps the pet name is a spark of light for him.

His comfort (lover’s scent and warmth)

Nothing is more precious than holding someone with such passion. True passion.

Astarion struggled most on this. Surprising as it is, but the comfort involves holding someone. Being so close to their body with trust, letting your guard down,

But getting comfortable with having comfort is the most troublesome.

The fear of it being taken away becomes dread.

His nightmares are over, but they still plague his mind, making it hard to break through and open up. After a while, he did. He regrets not being able to break through before.

Whether it was a nightmare, or the utter crave of affection and his comfort, he always gets it. Astarion creeps into the tent, sliding an arm under his love’s, wrapped around their waist and pulling them close.

He presses his face into their neck, taking a slow and small sniff. Just smelling their scent, not just their blood, brought so much warmth and comfort. The warmth, the feeling of their body made all his stress move away. Astarion smiled to himself, pressing a lingering kiss on his lover’s shoulder, before whispering:

“Wherever you go, wherever you are..” Astarion paused, hesitant to continue as the fear and feeling of disgust creeps back in. Trying to pull him back to what he knows. Yet he fights it. The arm around their waist caused a small squeeze as he took a shaky breath before continuing.

“Is forever my home.” He whispered, forcing them out and choking over his words out.

“You are my true home.”

Maybe, just maybe, the fight for something new is worth it.

[denimbex1986]

'...“It’s fun playing bad, but actually he’s not,” the actor says, smiling as he reflects on his character, Crowley. “He’s a villain with a heart. The amount of really evil things he does are vanishingly small.”

...As it always has, “Good Omens” dissects the view of good and evil as absolutes, showing viewers that they are not as separate as we were led to believe growing up. Aziraphale and Crowley’s long-standing union is proof of this. The show also urges people to look at what defines our own humanity. For Tennant — who opted to wear a T-shirt emblazoned with the words “Leave trans kids alone you absolute freaks” during a photocall for Season 2 — these themes are more important now than ever before.

“In this society that we’re currently living in, where polarization seems ever more present, fierce and difficult to navigate. Negotiation feels like a dirty word at times,” he says, earnestly. “This is a show about negotiation. Two extremes finding common ground and making their world a better place through it. Making life easier, kinder and better. If that’s the sort of super objective of the show, then I can’t think of anything more timely, relevant or apt for the rather fractious times we’re living in.”

“Good Omens” is back by popular demand for another season. How does it feel?

It’s lovely. Whenever you send something out into the world, you never quite know how it will land. Especially with this, because it was this beloved book that existed, and that creates an extra tension that you might break some dreams. But it really exploded. I guess we were helped by the fact that we had Neil Gaiman with us, so you couldn’t really quibble too much with the decisions that were being made. The reception was, and continues to be, overwhelming.

Now that you’re no longer bound by the original material that people did, perhaps, feel a sense of ownership over, does the new content for Season 2 come with a sense of freedom for you? This is uncharted territory, of sorts.

That’s an interesting point. I didn’t know the book when I got the script. It was only after that I discovered the worlds of passion that this book had incited. Because I came to it that way, perhaps it was easier. I found liberation from that, to an extent. For me, it was always a character that existed in a script. At first, I didn’t have that extra baggage of expectation, but I acquired it in the run-up to Season 1 being released… the sense that suddenly we were carrying a ming vase across a minefield.

In Season 2, we still have Neil and we also have some of the ideas that he and Terry had discussed. During the filming of the first one, Neil would drop little hints about the notions they had for a prospective sequel, the title of which would have been “668: The Neighbour of the Beast,” which is a pretty solid gag to base a book around. Indeed there were elements like Gabriel and the Angels, who don’t feature in the book, that were going to feature in a sequel. They were brought forward into Season 1. So, even in the new episodes, we’re not entirely leaving behind the Terry Pratchett-ness of it all.

It’s great to see yourself and Michael Sheen reunited on screen as these characters. Fans will have also watched you pair up for Season 3 of “Staged.” You’re quite the dynamic duo. What do you think is the magic ingredient that makes the two of you such a good match?

It’s a slightly alchemical thing. We knew each other in passing before, but not well. We were in a film together [“Bright Young Things,” 1993] but we’d never shared a scene. It was a bit of a roll of the dice when we turned up at the read-through for “Good Omens.” I think a lot comes from the writing, as we were both given some pretty juicy material to work with. Those characters are beloved for a reason because there’s something magical about them and the way they complete each other. Also, I think we’re quite similar actors in the way we like to work and how we bounce off each other.

Does the shorthand and trust the two of you have built up now enable you to take more risks on-screen?

Yes, probably. I suppose the more you know someone, the more you trust someone. You don’t have to worry about how an idea might be received and you can help each other out with a more honest opinion than might be the case if you were, you know, dancing around each other’s nervous egos. Enjoying being in someone’s orbit and company is a positive experience. It makes going to work feel pleasant, productive, and creative. The more creative you can be, the better the work is. I don’t think it’s necessarily a given that an off-screen relationship will feed into an on-screen one in a positive or negative way. You can play some very intimate moments with someone you barely know. Acting is a peculiar little contract, in that respect. But it’s disproportionately pleasurable going to work when it’s with a mate.

Fans have long discussed the nature of Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship. In Season 2, we see several of the characters debate whether the two are an item, prompting them to look at their union and decipher what it is. How would you describe their relationship?

They are utterly co-dependent. There’s no one else having the experience that they are having and they’ve only got each other to empathize with. It’s a very specific set of circumstances they’ve been dealt. In this season, we see them way back at the creation of everything. They’ve known each other a long time and they’ve had to rely on each other more and more. They can’t really exist one without the other and are bound together through eternity. Crowley and Aziraphale definitely come at the relationship with different perspectives, in terms of what they’re willing to admit to the relationship being. I don’t think we can entirely interpret it in human terms, I think that’s fair to say.

Yet fans are trying to do just that. Do you view it as beyond romantic or any other labels, in the sense that it’s an eternal force?

It’s lovely [that fans discuss it] but you think, be careful what you wish for. If you’re willing for a relationship to go in a certain way or for characters to end up in some sort of utopian future, then the story is over. Remember what happened to “Moonlighting,” that’s all I’m saying! [Laughs]

Your father-in-law, Peter Davison, and your son, Ty Tennant, play biblical father-and-son duo Job and Ennon in Episode 2. In a Tumblr Q&A, Neil Gaiman said that he didn’t know who Ty’s family was when he cast him. When did you become aware that Ty had auditioned?

I don’t know how that happened. I do a bunch of self-tapes with Ty, but I don’t think I did this one with him because I was out of town filming “Good Omens.” He certainly wasn’t cast before we started shooting. There were two moments during filming where Neil bowled up to me and said, “Guess, who we’ve cast?” Ty definitely auditioned and, as I understand it, they would tell me, he was the best. I certainly imagine he could only possibly have been the best person for the job. He is really good in it, so I don’t doubt that’s true. And then my father-in-law showed up, as well, which was another delicious treat. In the same episode and the same family! It was pretty weird. I have worked with both of them on other projects, but never altogether.

There’s a “Doctor Who” cameo, of sorts, in Episode 5, when Aziraphale uses a rare annual about the series as a bartering tool. In reality, you’ll be reprising your Time Lord role on screen later this year in three special episodes to mark the 60th anniversary. Did you always feel you’d return to “Doctor Who” at some point?

There’s a precedent for people who have been in the series to return for a multi-doctor show, which is lovely. I did it myself for the 50th anniversary in 2013, and I had a wonderful time with Matt [Smith]. Then, to have John Hurt with us, as well, was a little treat. But I certainly would never have imagined that I’d be back in “Doctor Who” full-time, as it were, and sort of back doing the same job I did all those years ago. It was like being given this delightful, surprise present. Russell T Davies was back as showrunner, Catherine Tate [former on-screen companion] was back, and it was sort of like the last decade and a half hadn’t happened.

Going forward, Ncuti Gatwa will be taking over as the new Doctor. Have you given him any advice while passing the baton?

Oh God, what a force of nature. I’ve caught a little bit of him at work and it’s pretty exciting. I mean, what advice would you give someone? You can see Ncuti has so much talent and energy. He’s so inspired and charismatic. The thing about something like this is: it’s the peripherals, it’s not the job. It’s the other stuff that comes with it, that I didn’t see coming. It’s a show that has so much focus and enthusiasm on it. It’s not like Ncuti hasn’t been in a massive Netflix series [“Sex Education,”] but “Doctor Who” is on a slightly different level. It’s cross-generational, international, and has so much history, that it feels like it belongs to everyone.

To be at the center of the show is wonderful and humbling, but also a bit overwhelming and terrifying. It doesn’t come without some difficulties, such as the immediate loss of anonymity. It takes a bit of getting used to if that’s not been your life up to that point. I was very lucky that when I joined, Billie Piper [who portrayed on-screen companion, Rose] was still there. She’d lived in a glare of publicity since she was 14, so she was a great guide for how to live life under that kind of scrutiny. I owe a degree of sanity to Billie.

Your characters are revered by a few different fandoms. Sci-fi fandoms are especially passionate and loyal. What is it like being on the end of that? I imagine it’s a lot to hold.

Yes, certainly. Having been a fan of “Doctor Who” since I was a tiny kid, you’re aware of how much it means because you’re aware of how much it meant to you. My now father-in-law [who portrayed Doctor Who in the 80s] is someone I used to draw in comic strips when I was a kid. That’s quite peculiar! It’s a difficult balance because on one end, you have to protect your own space, and there aren’t really any lessons in that. That does take a bit of trial and error, to an extent, and it’s something that you’re sometimes having to do quite publicly. But, it is an honor and a privilege, without a doubt. As you’ve said, it means so much to people and you want to be worthy of that. You have to acknowledge that and be careful with it. Some days that’s tough, if you’re not in the mood.

I know you’re returning to the stage later this year to portray Macbeth. You’ve previously voiced the role for BBC Sounds, but how are you feeling about taking on the character in the theater?

I’m really excited about it. It’s been a while since I’ve done Shakespeare. It’s very thrilling but equally — and this analogy probably doesn’t stretch — it’s like when someone prepares for an Olympic event. It does feel like a bit of a mountain and, yeah, you’re daring to set yourself up against some fairly worthy competition from down the years. That’s both the challenge and the horror of doing these types of things. We’ve got a great director, Max Webster, who recently did “Life of Pi.” He’s full of big ideas. It’s going to be exciting, thrilling, and a little bit scary. I’m just going to take a deep breath.

Before we part ways, let’s discuss the future of “Good Omens.” Gaiman has said that he already has ideas for Season 3, should it happen. If you were to do another season, is there anyone in particular you’d love to work with next time around or anything specific you’d like to see happen for Crowley?

Oh, Neil Gaiman knows exactly where he wants to take it. If you’re working with people like Gaiman, I wouldn’t try to tamper with that creative void. Were he to ask my opinion, that would be a different thing, but I can’t imagine he would. He’s known these characters longer than me and what’s interesting is what he does with them. That’s the bit that I’m desperate to know. I do know where Crowley might end up next, but it would be very wrong if I told you.

[At this point, Tennant picks up a pencil and starts writing on a hotel pad of paper.]

I thought you were going to write it down for me then. Perhaps like a clandestine meeting on a bench in St James’ Park, but instead you’d write the information down and slide it across the table…

I should have done! I was drawing a line, which obviously, psychologically, I was thinking, “Say no more. You’re too tempted to reveal a secret!” It was my subconscious going “Shut the fuck up!”

[iburnedmyselfalive]

FOREVER.

┃synopsis brothers best friend!sam x female reader,, reader takes sam with her to get her nipples pierced.

┃18+ nsfw, all smutty n shit I know i said i would be taking a break for awhile but guys this is based on a true story (winks) and its been bugging me, not proofread sorry :’(

You and Sam Monroe have always shared a close bond, perhaps inevitable given his status as your brother's best friend. Over the years, with his frequent presence, your relationship naturally blossomed, forging a strong connection between the two of you.

Your birthday came and went, and just a couple of days prior, you finally mustered the courage to book an appointment for a piercing you'd been longing for. Despite your excitement, you couldn't shake the nerves; you were a total wimp when it came to pain. Faced with the prospect of enduring it alone, you pondered the idea of bringing along a friend for support.

Initially, Sam wasn't your first choice at mind, but with all your other friends tied up, you figured, why not? After all, he'd seen your body before, albeit accidentally during that awkward vacation moment when he stumbled upon you changing. Though flustered at the time, it was never brought up again.

As he locked his car and stood beside you, he gallantly held the door open. "So, y'feelin' nervous?" he teased, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

"No," you replied, your tone dripping with sarcasm, rolling your eyes as the piercing shop loomed ahead.

"Maybe a little," you confessed in a hushed whisper, earning a shake of his head and a chuckle. He reached out, grabbing the door for both of you, his easy confidence adding a touch of reassurance to your jittery nerves.

As you approached the front desk, butterflies twisted in your stomach, a nervous energy coursing through you. Confirming the appointment, the receptionist informed you that they'd be ready in about fifteen minutes due to the busy schedule. You nodded reassuringly, both you and Sam making your way to the small seating area.

He could sense your unease, fully aware that this moment would rattle your nerves. "Drink," he offered, handing you a bottle of water you hadn't even realized he brought along.

"Relax, I'm right here, remember? n' you've gotta stay hydrated, you look pale. Does this shit really get you that worked up?" he questioned as you accepted the cold bottle, nodding in response. A mixture of nerves and excitement coursed through you; after all, you'd been eagerly anticipating getting your nipples pierced for ages.

Shortly thereafter, you found yourself in the chair, your shirt pulled up and bra discarded, feeling a rush of vulnerability as the piercer meticulously arranged her equipment. With a gentle touch, she guided you to lie back on the piercing table, where she began the process of cleansing both of your nipples with precision, using alcohol and surgical scrub.

"I'm going to need you to take a deep breath, alright?" she asked, her voice calm but firm, as she positioned the needle within your line of sight. You nodded, steeling yourself for the inevitable discomfort, and closed your eyes, bracing for the sensation.

"Relax," Sam's voice broke through the tension, his tone soothing yet tinged with a hint of excitement. Despite his attempt at reassurance, you couldn't help but feel his gaze lingering on your exposed chest, his curiosity palpable.

As you focused on regulating your breathing, you couldn't shake the awareness of Sam's presence beside you, his unwavering attention drawing a flush to your cheeks. Despite the nerves that fluttered within you, there was a strange sense of comfort in knowing that he was there, offering silent support during this intimate moment.

"Took it like a pro," he whispered softly, his hand a reassuring presence on your back as you both emerged from the place. There was no denying the pain, it was sharp and present, impossible to ignore. But even in the midst of it, you couldn't help but be aware of Sam's gaze, lingering a bit longer than necessary on your chest.

His eyes traced the movements of the piercer with keen interest, noting every grimace and subtle shift in your demeanor as the needle pierced your skin. It was as though he was cataloging every moment, every reaction, committing it to memory with a mixture of fascination and concern.

And damn well you were taking him like a pro now.

"You think you're special, princess?" he sneered as he loomed over you, your legs tucked up, stuffing you fully. "All dolled up, begging for it like a good little slut," he taunted, his gaze burning with raw dominance.

"Just like those piercings, you're gonna take every inch of me, whether you can handle it or not," he declared, with each aggressive thrust, he asserted his power over you, his cock buried deep in you, his balls slapping against your skin as your juices flowed freely, dripping all down your ass.

"You're nothing but a toy for me to use," he growled, reveling in your surrender. "Beg for more, beg for it like the desperate whore you are," he commanded, his voice dripping with authority.

"oh fuck, sam!" you cried out, eyes squeezing shut.

"That's right, take it all, take it like the filthy little slut you were meant to be," he snarled, his lips assaulting your neck in a possessive kiss before he left his mark, branding you as his in the most primal of ways.

"So fuckin' sexy," he murmured against your skin, his lips finding purchase around your breast, his eyes locked onto yours as his tongue teased over the piercing.

"Sam," you pathetically whimpered,

"mhm," he mocked in response, the vibrations sending a delicious sensation through you. "You like that?" he asked, pulling away for a brief moment before attacking your other nipple with a fierce hunger, sucking hard.

"yes, yes, yes," you moaned, your fingers tangling in his hair, urging him on as pleasure surged through your body.

"I can feel you getting off on this," he snarled while he pushed his fingers into your mouth. "You tryna' let everyone know what we're doing baby, hm?" he taunted, his lips grazing your ear with a hint of menace.

"m'gonna cum" you whined out, squirming beneath him.

"Even your dear brother?" he sneered, completely ignoring you.

"He'd tear me apart if he caught us like this," he warned, his fingers probing deeper. "But you know damn well I won't stop, no matter who walks in," he growled, his desire fueling his aggression.

"Do you like 'em?" you managed to choke out, your voice strained around his fingers, but he only chuckled darkly.

"You know I do. Watching you squirm as you got them had me throbbing," he admitted, his grip tightening on your hair.

"I've been waiting for this moment since the damn beginning," he spat, the anticipation making him reckless.

"And now that they're healed, I'm going to show you," he promised, his voice dripping with cruel intent.

"I'm going to show you just how much I love 'em, how much I love you ."

[janumun]

A Bond Everlasting (LaDS Rafayel - NSFW)

Rated: NSFW/18+ Pairing: Rafayel/Reader Words: ~17k

Tags: soulmate AU (the red string of fate, with a twist), college setting (and they were roommates), angst with a happy ending, mutual pining, minor violence and action, scent kink, blow job, oral and vaginal sex, facial, multiple orgasms, vaginal fingering, overstimulation, merman knotting, sexual rut/Lemurian sexual cycle

Summary: Rafayel tries — and miserably fails —  to forget the one his red thread weaved against once upon a time, even a decade after its break. Finding her, once more, years later, and residing within the same place as her doesn’t help his cause. 

A/N: A happy very belated birthday gift to you, @chibamari. With all of my love and all of our favorite heartbreak, I hope you enjoy this, darling friend.

I. EBB 

The red string of fate. Rafayel found he truly loathed the concept.  

What was it, truly, if not just the Fates contemptuous scorn upon them?  

Forcing kinship and eternity in between a pair that did not mould against the other. That would, if time given, drift apart as mere bottled wishes left traversing, lonely, across the seas.  

And yet, the manacles remain celebrated, since time immemorial. As legends of the rare, and lucky few, destined to be bonded in harmony.  

Rafayel used to be — once upon a time — part of the same foolery brigade as the rest of them, the day his red thread spun and found itself interweaved against his first, and last, love. To her, he promised a Lemurian’s vow of faithful eternity. 

Until the day that blood-red thread quivered and ruptured apart, weakened by her absence.  

Leaving to Rafayel only the hollow remains of a heart rejected. The brand of its mockery left behind as indelible remains of the severed — useless — string wound against his finger.  

II. FLOW 

Deft, practiced digits streak a brush across canvas; the truculent quality to his paint lines reflecting the agitated knot of Rafayel’s brow and the hand he scrubs through his hair in chagrin at constant-wheeling thoughts. Bold strokes; an amalgamation of bright colors — gentle turquoise and oceanic azure — setting into paper to shape unconscious form to his muse, for his current class.  

It is only when he hears the ripple of applauding gasps behind — “You’re amazing, Senior Rafayel!” — is he knocked back into his senses, angling a stupefied gaze up at what he’s made of his project: originally an interpretation of the depths of the sea, the topic he’d presented his class for the day.  

He notes, in no small proportion of growing aversion, the strokes of his brush having shaped form of a delicate back — hers — against the backdrop of a vast sea, reminiscent of home. His thoughts — he muses in self-derision — having lent unconscious connection in between his place of most comfort to the person who stood as his entire comfort. 

Rafayel’s head throbs with heat, as if knelling the oncoming of a particularly harsh fever. Perhaps his less than perfect health was to blame for his momentary lapse of concentration.  

“Is the lady underwater inspired by anyone in particular, Senior? Your brushwork for her seems particularly passionate.” 

Rafayel’s mouth twitches into an insouciant, cool smile, he directs at his students. “Hmm I’m not sure. Perhaps, she’s inspired by that one mermaid movie they’re currently playing in theatres.”  

“Oh, ‘Aquatic’? I’ve seen it!” 

“Me too! It's really good.”  

“The part where she turns to sea foam—” 

A seamless lie; he lets it steer the focus of conversation away from him and his lapse in concentration. Turning back towards the board to proceed with his lecture.  

Opting to teach a fine arts course to a bunch of junior year students, for extra annual credit, was clearly shaping to be one of the worst decisions he’d ever made.  

Especially so, when the subject in question, he’d offered to teach for, in the first place, remained starkly absent throughout the duration of the lecture.  

III. EBB 

Shouldering open the door to their shared apartment, Rafayel steps inside, staggering under the weight of his stack of the newest arrival of deliveries. The apartment is silent, devoid of the sound of her characteristic pattering footsteps.  

Depositing his packages down against the side of the sofa in the living room, he collapses back into the cushions, tuning a distasteful frown towards the empty kitchen counter. Recounting to mind, the events of this morning, having shepherded him into an entire day of distraction at the University.  

“Ouch.” She hissed, a sound of surprise, wrenching her arm back from the sizzling frying pain at the spits of oil it spewed.  

Rafayel released an exaggerated sigh at the sight, ambling over towards the kitchen. “Let me help.”  

“You know, I’m perfectly capable of fixing breakfast on my own.” She attempted heroic reassurance, even as she easily treaded backwards to let Rafayel replace her at the stove.  

“Yes, yes, I believe you. I'd still like to ensure you don’t burn our apartment to the ground while I’m away at work. My paintings are priceless treasures, you know.” He deftly takes the eggs off the stove and plates them before shoving her share at her. “There you go, Miss All-Capable.” 

“Stop making fun of me.” She smiles in relieved gratitude, moving to set cutlery across the table. “And thank you.” 

Rafayel swivels a puffed smile her way. “Whatever would you do without me?”  

She shakes her head at him, attempting no effort to refute him. “Indeed.” Her fingers brush against his as she moves to pass him his share.  

“Rafayel.” She sweeps a sudden grab at his hand, digits entwining in between his. “You’re a bit warmer than usual. Are you feeling sick?” She smooths a gentle hand across his forehead.  

He feels his face burn darker at the sudden intimacy of their contact. “No, I don’t.” Instinctively jostling away from her touch. “I’m just tired, is all. I was up the entire night, after all.”  

“You really need to fix that terrible habit of yours. A healthy body leads to a healthy mind!” Rafayel can’t tamp back the grin from his face at her chiding. 

“Take better care of yourself. I can’t be here to keep you in check round the clock, you know.” She sighs in resignation.  

“Yes, yes, my noisy Mistress.”  

“Speaking of which,” She begins, just as Rafayel seats himself at the table. "I'll be out late tonight.” 

Rafayel feels his smile frost over; a dreaded, sour feeling immediately spurning at the base of his belly.  

“I have a study date with Caleb.” She does not meet his gaze, forking at her egg.  

Rafayel hears himself speak before he can tuck back his impulsive thoughts. “You sure you should be trusting the man this much? I don’t—” 

“’Like him.’ I know. I don’t know why you’re so biased against him, he’s a good person.”  

The praise dredges bitterness across his tongue; ashy and tepid. His fork nearly stabs at his own food, a disapproving moue he knows is dark upon his face. “Sure,” he intones at last, grappling against his desire to ask her not to go, to spend her day with him instead. “Have fun.” An unfair burden he knows he throws onto her shoulders; he does not possess the right to dictate who she chooses to associate with.  

And yet— 

Rafayel’s gaze deliberately treks the line of red thread adorning his ring finger — treacherously cut off a few centimetres in and dissipating into nothingness. Following the absent line of it; her own finger sits vacant against the wooden table-top. An immeasurable dejection he isn’t able to shuck off, no matter how many times his eyes have witnessed its emptiness.  

Perhaps she is right and he is sick, an inscrutable tremor setting into his fingers as they continue on with the rest of their meal in silence.  

IV. FLOW 

The oncoming dawn encroaches a gradual shell-pink spill of color across the velvet skies as Rafayel’s feverish gaze drags, listless, to the view past the patio windows, the bone-deep ache from the day past yet to recede.  

The angry scrapes of charcoal rushed across paper, forgotten as the unfinished sketch drifts purposeless down onto the floor to join the rest of its discarded predecessors.   

She has yet to return home — Rafayel had stayed up the entire night and remained planted, firm, within their lounge, to make sure he would be there to greet her on her return. She'd never been away from their apartment overnight.  

Rafayel knows because he had — on more occasions than he could count and didn’t wish to acknowledge — found himself crumpled within cool sheets, self-confined to the privacy of his room, listening in to the comforting sounds of her padded, soft movements around their apartment.  

She'd often slip back through their door, close to midnight — she made it a point, always, to return home, no matter the hour — after slaving away hours at the library for her Hunter exam. She'd try for quietude; he knew, so she wouldn’t disturb his absent sleep.  

A gentle clink of mugs at the kitchen counter as she’d make herself a cup of a coffee in preparation of burning the midnight oil.  

Despite having the physical structure of their apartment — a shelter and comfort in name — his room’s four-walled sanctity, it didn’t truly feel warm as a home until the moment she stepped past the threshold and into their shared space.  

And only when he’d hear the soft crinkle of pages turning steadily as she’d settle herself onto the living room sofa to study, would he find himself beckoned into slumber. As if she too, knew on instinct, how her presence aimed to soothe, choosing to make space for her studies right where he could hear her, in the lounge, instead of the confines of her own room. 

Yet now.  

Midnight had come and gone, dawn scraping indigo for approaching light, and no signs of her return.  

A long day behind him endured in feverish unrest and the toll of another sleepless night, doesn’t help disentangle burgeoning thoughts of her within the embrace of another man at that very moment, one not him. He can’t help but sorely curse himself for his ill-thought decision of staying the night up, waiting for her like some sorry love-struck fool.  

Not that he would’ve been able to sleep, either way; a part of him mocked in muted whispers.  

His thread throbs; a nipping bite of rejection and along with it, his body. Languid gaze absently trekking the severed thread, flickering incandescent against his ring finger. The constricting heat of it, as if traversing up his veins along with the fever within his body. Colluding against his heart, as if it wishes to eventually wither him up instead. A slow, bittersweet poison.  

Rafayel feels nauseous.  

He’s beginning to contemplate on retiring for the meagre, precious hours before his upcoming classes for the day — perhaps that bitterly strong liquor she’d stowed into the fridge earlier would help do the trick — just as the door lock clicks open.  

The sound violently startles Rafayel out of winding, unheeded thoughts enough, he springs off the sofa just as she steps foot over the threshold.  

Opening his mouth to put words to turbulent emotions — a million queries — before his questions wither off the tip of his tongue when he fixates a good, long look at her.   

She appears downright exhausted and an instinctual, foreboding spurts forth in him. The look on her careworn face, light-snuffed gaze meeting his — Rafayel thinks, mirrors the state of his own affairs — before it dissipates into stifled surprise. “Rafayel, what’re you doing up—”  

And before he can tamp himself back into composure, Rafayel’s striding the few paces it takes for him to reach her, dragging her into his embrace.  

She stiffens at the contact on instinctual reflex, it chips away at another piece of his heart. Tightens the strangulating hold of his severed thread against his soul.  

He hedges her tighter into his embrace, regardless. Head pitching down onto her shoulder; a hand he smooths down the line of her quivering back before she relaxes into him, at last.  

“Rafayel—” Arms twitching by her side and up as she circles him within her own comfort, returning his warmth in the cling of desperate digits against the back of his shirt.  

“You’re late. You're so late.” he gripes, half-hearted.  

A beat. Two passes. 

“Yeah, I’m sorry.”  

A peculiar relationship; she calls them friends — close — inappropriately so and he’d agreed to be one, to her, if it were the sole thing that allowed him to be by her side. For her to not abandon him once more. A relationship edging something far gnarled than friendship.  

He doesn’t believe even she has a name for what they share, in moments as these, where Rafayel forgets himself and the boundaries he holds himself to. Turns blind to pretenses and masks he fixates, so delicately crafted, for her benefit and the safety of his own heart. 

He is not, however, a man strong enough to ignore the strain of his beloved’s gaze, tiredness rimming her entire being, she feels so brittle in his arms, and it ruins him to not know the cause of it.  

“...Got something on your mind?” He murmurs into her hair. 

“Perhaps.” Her response is slow, halting.  

“Want to tell me what it is?” He breaks away from her, enough to let his eyes scour her face in stern scrutiny.  

A whispered laugh escapes her at his inspection.  

“...Rafayel, how do you feel about an early morning stroll with me?”  

V. EBB 

The shores of Whitesand Bay stretch empty within the wee hours of dawn, quiet, save for the twittering song of birds cutting across the sky and the gentle wash of waves at their bare feet as they amble along the sandy belt. She hasn’t uttered a word since, absent gaze trekking the gradual rise of the sun above the horizon, light flittering its diamonds across the lap of waves.  

The easy access to the sea — and by extension, the remarkable view — was one of the reasons they’d jointly agreed upon renting an apartment this close to Whitesand Bay, two years prior. On any other usual occasion, Rafayel’s fingers would’ve been upon pen and paper, soaking inspiration up and through rough strokes, sketching across paper.  

Now, however, his focus is all but entirely removed from his environment, vision honed in on her by his side.  

“It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?” She murmurs, gaze still fixated upon the horizon. “I’m not an early riser like you are so I’ve never seen the sunrise here up this close.”  

She's skirting the issue, Rafayel has no mind to force her to spill her heart when she does not wish to. 

For her, he is willing to remain patient.  

Regardless of the consequences to his person.  

He joins in on her flimsy facade.  

“If only I wasn’t a little too aware of the fact.” Tapping a light fist against her temple, he angles a skewed smile down at her. “Despite my very arduous efforts to get you out of bed on multiple occasions, you’ve persisted in your terrible ways, Miss Hunter.” Heaving an exaggerated sigh. “You’re far too stubborn for your own good, I fear.” 

That gets her breaking a smile, the tensed knitted worry within her gaze easing just that tiny bit; Rafayel plucks it up for the small reward it is. “A classic case of the pot calling the kettle black. Like you’re any less bull-headed.” She defends. “Don’t make me recount all the times you nearly gave poor Thomas a heart attack because your paintings weren’t ready even mere hours before the exhibitions they were supposed to be featured in.”  

His mouth pulls into a distasteful moue at that. “Don’t tell me you’re on his side. He refuses to understand the world of difference it causes in between using cherry red or wine on a canvas. If it were up to that simpleton, he’d have me besmirch all my works, just for the sake of those trivial exhibitions.”  

She chuckles. “Now, no need to get so worked-up. You know Thomas cares for you and wishes to have your talent recognized like it deserves to be.” She moves to seat herself by the shore, close to where the waves lick up at the sand. Rafayel follows suit.  

“I know how much passion you pour into your paintings.” Crinkling a gentle smile up at him. “That’s exactly why I love your art so much.” 

Rafayel’s heart catches at his throat at the easy slip of her compliment.  

She's never been sparing with her appreciation of his artworks. 

Ever since she’d chanced upon them a few years back when they’d only shortly been re-united at the time.  

She’d always been generous and open with her admiration.  

His heart, however, wasn’t immune to its traitorous stuttering, every single time at her attentions and praise.  

Perhaps she discerns the look on his face, tapping into his emotions, or realizes the curious intimacy of her statement, she wrenches her gaze away from his. Rafayel swiftly feels the keen loss of it.  

Silence sweeps once more between them, her gaze having drifted back into the seas and with it, the steady droop of her shoulders as she curves in tighter against her huddled knees. “It was a place, similar to this one, where we first met. A lost little human meeting a young Lemurian washed ashore.” Her voice barely hikes above an octave. “I didn’t think Lemurians existed for real before that, and to know I shared a red fate with one...”  

His throat closes against a sharp inhale at her whisper, the first time she’s chosen to address their past severed bond, ever since their reunion.  

Why now. He means to ask. A question that dissipates off the tip of his tongue, un-uttered.  

“We were so young back then and I inadvertently hurt you. Ever since I moved away, and time just passed, regardless...” She pauses. “You must’ve really hated me for that, huh.” She angles a cautious smile at him. 

I did not. Rafayel means to refute and yet his tongue refuses to cooperate.  

She continues on, as if she had long perceived his answer and made peace with his supposed resentment of her, unperturbed by his lack of response. Her reaction vexes him.   

“I’ve hurt someone dear to me again. Caleb—” 

The familiar name spurns bitter within his chest. “Did he do something to you?” His fingers jam against coarse sand, snagging his thread tight against his ring finger. 

“No! No. Caleb’s a good man, he’s been nothing but kind to me.”  

Deep within the recesses of his heart, Rafayel knows it, he knows it only too well; he only wishes he could truly bring himself to hate him.  

“He...” Her fingers tense harsher against her arms. “Last night, he asked me to be his girlfriend.” 

His ring finger throbs; the missing line of its thread seeming to constrict against Rafayel’s neck.  

“I turned him down.” 

A quick, involuntary bite of wicked relief thrums at the back of his breastbone. And yet— 

Why do you look as if your heart is shattering into a million pieces? 

Rafayel’s mouth seems to form words on its own as if he wishes for his own demise. “Do you regret it?” 

Her silence is a dagger that digs pointed, deep in between his ribs, the longer she lets it steep.  

She meets his gaze, a turbulent question within hers, beseeching. “I don’t know… I don’t know if I should.” She looks as if she has more to speak, restive teeth biting into her lip to hold back unsaid thoughts.

Rafayel dares not parse the emotions he sees flittering within her eyes, dares not hope for what he cannot have. Not again, for his heart to fracture once more by setting up false narratives. He has loved and will love still for eternity — he doesn’t, however, have the tenacity to bear being abandoned again. 

And so, he shutters himself, gaze wrenching away from hers, a frown knitting tight against his brow. “Whatever it is that you want, if it makes you happy, I want you to grab onto it for yourself.” Fingers brushing against hers from where they rest within the sand, index and middle lingering longer against the base of her ring finger. Before he moves, carding hesitant digits through the fall of her hair.  

For it is the only way he knows how to love — regardless of broken vows — in her happiness, even if it would never be found by his side. 

VI. FLOW

The dream stirs vivid beneath restless lids — Rafayel hasn’t dreamt of that time of theirs together in so long, a welcome awareness of his mind’s conjuring, he embraces in that moment.   

Perhaps by-products of an exhausted, sick mind. 

Or yearning for an unfulfilled wish.  

A sweet sting of desire, just as the first time he remembers it. He lets himself drown deeper into the abyss of its calling. 

He’d cut a boring class during first semester at college — he could no longer remember the subject — in lieu of chasing the path of an ambitious sparrow within a secluded spot. Located far back along the grounds of the college and protected further underneath the dense foliage of the overgrown greenery as he’d sat perched upon a bench, motionless and silent.  

Save for the smooth rush of his pencil across his journal. Detailing the quest of the bird as it leapt across the grass towards a lazing cat, blissfully dodging the feline’s half-hearted attempt at pawing it away.  

Tranquility rippled only at a surprising intrusion; she’d walked into his private space — she always seemed to find him — and he’d startled at her presence.  

“Oh! Sorry. Rafayel, I thought I—” 

Their relationship on strained ice at the time — neither of them choosing to dig up unfulfilled childhood vows or the break of their fated thread. 

 A hastened apology she’d tripped over, for disturbing him before her eyes had flickered to the open journal in his lap and she’d breathed an awed sound. Called it beautiful — a slip of the tongue, he could tell, from her demeanor.  

They'd gotten back into conversation — albeit halting — after that.  

The moment, a pivotal one, in Rafayel allowing himself to accept her back into his life, both emotionally and physically. 

He recalls the citrus notes to her perfume as she’d tentatively seated herself by his side. The way her hair curled delicate against the curve of her cheek, beckoning Rafayel to dare a hand out and slip it back against her ear. 

The unconscious brush of soft digits against his as she’d moved to accept the proffered journal from him, when she’d asked for permission to view more of his artworks.  

The relief that had sunk into his marrow, body strung far too tight for so long — he felt each ache settle and ease, when she returned to his side. As if their bond still remained.  

As if it had never fractured in the first place. 

She moves to tug the curtains close, clipping back the last shafts of light from Rafayel’s room; his damp brow now decidedly relaxed in restless slumber, after being exposed to the heat of the sun for so long.  

He’s made a habit of drawing his windows open at night, perhaps to relieve the fevered pitch of his body off the cool breeze wafting of the sea. Restive sleeplessness; keeping him tossing until near close to dawn, when she often catches him falling, thankfully, into exhaustive sleep at the end of his long, disturbed nights.  

Rafayel had been out of sorts for nearly two weeks now; a distracted gaze and a listless stride his constant companions. Adamant and mulish in his response, at inquiring of his health, every time, that he was perfectly alright and merely plagued by the weariness of sleepless nights spent on his paintings.  

Barely a day or two into that ridiculous spectacle of his before her patience with him had expired and she’d hauled him off to his room and strong-armed him into bed.  

A rueful smile tugs at her mouth at the recollection of their silly argument then.  

“Hey, ow. Easy, you’ll break me! Aaah... too late. I think I’ve already dislocated my wrist. My life as a painter is done for. Ow.”   

“Rafayel. Shut up unless you want me to gag you as well.”  Forcing the covers over his body; she glowered at him for obedience while she hastened to take his temperature.  

Rafayel’s mouth soured deeper in distaste the longer she fretted over him. Opening his mouth, surely to protest, before she cut him off. “You’re running a low-grade fever.” 

Pressing a gentle hand over his forehead, “Please, rest now.” 

A knot twisted in between Rafayel’s brow at her plea. Threading his fingers against hers. “Alright, alright I will,” he murmured, a gentle thumb he smoothed against her furrowed brow. “So, stop making that face now.”  

His agitation at his prolonged ill-health, however, had manifested in numerous half-finished drafts and rough sketches, he’d filled sheets upon sheets of paper with, littered upon his bed.  

The subject matter of most, inexplicably similar in features; a fact that surprised her, for Rafayel had always been one for continual exploration of a wide variety of subjects in his artworks, rather than one stationary objective.  

She reaches for one such sketch now, discarded by his bedside. Predictably, it is the same subject her eyes have grown accustomed to: the graceful arch of a person’s — a woman’s — back, the cascade of her hair shrouding her gaze from view. It is ethereal, haunting. Lonely.  

And. 

She exhales an unsteady breath. Although a mere unpolished sketch, she feels Rafayel’s longing in the hastened strokes of charcoal across her visage.  An inscrutable sprout of emotion twinges at her chest each time she looks upon this faceless woman, a desire to tear her gaze away from the care put into the strokes and never look at them again and yet, it’s as if her hands are not her own, each time they sift through his sketches to reveal a new one made. She despises it, and the feeling of her selfish loathing itself. Not when she bears reason nor right to feel the way she does.  

The ring finger of her right hand throbs, an echo of her turbulent emotions manifesting in the faint red restraint flickering against the base of her digit before it winks once more out of existence. 

No.  

Her gaze instinctually jumps to Rafayel, his prone form still deep in sleep.  

She'd nearly forgotten the other reason for her undue distress these past couple of days; worry for Rafayel occupying each of her thoughts, leaving little space for much else.

She sinks, weak-kneed, onto the bed, right next to Rafayel. Carding her fingers through the soft brush of his hair, gently thumbing a line down his temple.  

She’d thought her mind was conjuring illusive tricks the first few times she’d caught that fleeting flicker of red across her finger. 

Impossible, for it had been nearly twelve years since she’d lost her bond after being forced away from Rafayel. And then, her eyes had insistently tried tracing the line of it, every time it shimmered against her finger, hoping that it would perhaps.... 

Just maybe, if a miracle were to occur— 

That it would re-connect. Back to the only person she’d ever loved. Back to him, her beautiful Lemurian. That perhaps, he’d grant her another chance. That perhaps there was a sliver of hope that Rafayel would love her back once more.  

Once more. 

 Her yearning dashed in the brutality of a truth, far too incomprehensible to her mind. 

On the day her grandmother caught sight of her glimmering thread before she’d informed her with much joy; a red thread of fate, if once severed, made an appearance once more, within the lifetime of rare, chosen… fortunate individuals. If Fate ever ordained for the individuals to find new love once more. Another love so great, it changed Fate’s threads and course itself.  

“You’re blessed, my darling girl. Most people are happy enough if they get to enjoy even one fated love throughout their lives. But you've found two in your lifetime. It is a joyous thing, my love, do not be sad. Do not weep.” 

“...Perhaps, it is time you let him — let your past go.”  

Like ice curdling within her veins. As if Fate itself were playing upon her a cruel jest. She could never. How could she ever? 

And then, her denials had crumbled entirely, shortly after that dreaded truth.  

Her oldest friend, her sole pillar when she’d lost Rafayel. The person who’d held her close and kept her heart safe—  

When she’d lie in bed all day during her earliest days, screaming from the deluging fever of her bond withering. 

—It was the day her childhood friend, her Caleb confessed.  

Even without the evidence of a corporeal bond connecting them, that had been her last straw.  

She presses her lips against Rafayel’s cheek, overwhelming emotions threatening to surge, unable to resist or hold herself in control. “I could never.” she vows under her breath, fingers stroking down the line of his cheek. “Even if you have let go of me, Rafayel, I’m—” 

She feels the roughened pads of his digits against where she touches his face, perturbed at the sudden movement. His eyes flitter, restless, beneath his lids, grasp tightening upon her wrist. “My beloved bride.”

She tries and yanks herself away from his touch, startled at his unconscious murmuring. Rafayel does not let go, nudging his cheek against the crook of her captured palm.  

“Rafayel.” She urges, her heart stuttering over its beats. “Rafayel, please wake up.”  

At long last, he listens; that beautiful, florid gaze misted with the callings of sleep still, as it focuses on her. He makes an indiscrete sound. “Is it morning already? Agh, my head hurts.” He continues to nuzzle his face against her palm.  

“R-Rafayel! Hey!” She winces, hand unbearably hot within his hold. “Let go of me now. If you’re up, have some breakfast instead. You need the energy, dummy.” 

“Don’t want to let you go. Pamper me more.” And yet, he refuses to heed her lukewarm pleas, extremely wilful in his post-sleep, feverish daze.  

She huffs out a breathless laugh, her apprehension ebbing, gentle, into silence the longer she feels his warmth against her.  

Maybe she is allowed to indulge just a bit longer.  

 VII. EBB 

An errant thread and an inexplicable long spell of heat, as if trudging up a steep path, burgeoning fast towards an inevitable destination he could not quite clutch at. Unsolicited suspicions, as to the true nature of his predicament, incessantly rapping at his thoughts.  

Rafayel feels that dour twist to his brow; darkening his features at the wheeling course of his mind. 

 She’s caught him in similar moods since his “illness” commenced, more times than he can count. The endless time afforded his way, involuntarily threading his thoughts to places he doesn’t wish to visit. He doesn’t wish, ever, to alarm or upset her, setting to ease her thoughts the moment worry mars her features, testing index and middle against the sharp knot at her forehead before his attentions — and hers — are compelled entirely her way.  

That is also something that has shifted in between them, into something entirely different. He’s been unusually attuned to her for the duration of his peculiar period of ill-health.  

She has always been his primary muse, the focal point where all of Rafayel’s tangled thoughts find eventual and inevitable convergence. However, somehow, all of those sensibilities have turned sharper, impossibly aware of... her.  

Unconsciously turning to placations the moment he comprehends her distress. Choosing to bury, in turn; soothe the heat of his body within the scent of hers. Her hands on him when she fusses to take his temperature, her clothes, he takes a surreptitious, lungful breath of, when she moves close to towel the fevered sweat off his body. Truly, he does not understand what is wrong with him.  

Two weeks in now and his need for answers has driven him to near madness. He’s loathe to admit he must consult one, perhaps, more knowledgeable on the subject than he.  

He paces into the lounge, heavy in thought, fingers worrying at the phone in hand. 

“Oh, you’re up. Are you feeling any better?”  Just as she calls over to him from the kitchen counter.  

“Of course,” he fibs, tucking the phone back into the pocket of his trousers. He ambles over to her, dressed neat in her trainee uniform as she works a paring knife around an apple. “What’re you doing?”  

“You should have something healthy to eat while I’m away.”  

“Ah.” He plucks a piece of fruit off the plate next to her, eyeing the peculiar shape. “So, you decided to cut me some apple bunnies.”  The corners of his mouth drag into a skewed grin. “I am not a child, cutie.”  

She makes an inflated motion of surprise, pressing a hand against her chest. “Really?”  

And when he rolls his eyes at her, “Of course you aren’t,” she grins. “I’ve never met any children as stubborn as you.”  

“Cheeky.” He flicks a gentle hand against her forehead.  

His eyes skim towards the wall clock and back towards her neatly pressed outfit. “You have an on-field Hunter’s exam this afternoon, don’t you? You’ll be late if you dawdle any longer. Besides, I can feed myself just fine.”  

She startles a bit as her eyes, too, take note of the hour. Hastily shoving the plate of her fresh cut fruit into his hands. “Alright, I’ll leave. You better eat, then rest up. Don’t exert yourself, alright?”  

She steps past the counter. “Come, Kiki.” A white dutiful ball of fur capers up to her as soon as she calls. Rafayel hedges further against the counter just as the white ball tumbles into her waiting arms.  

“There, what a good girl you are!” She croons over the cat, petting at that little fiend pet of her friend’s. She rises to her feet. 

“I’ll drop her off at Tara’s before heading to the centre.”  

“Good riddance,” Rafayel mutters, blenching just as she moves closer with the cat still in her arms.  

“Rude, I’m sad to see her go so soon.” She pulls a glum face at him.  “Do you want to pet her goodbye before she leaves and you start missing her?”  

“I won’t,” He dissents, even as he braves the tips of his fingers against Kiki’s head in a cautious scritch before snapping his hand right back. “Bye, white menace.”  

Rafayel’s moue of specious disapproval turns deeper with her knowing grin. “Let’s go now that you’ve said your farewells to Uncle Rafayel.” She kisses the top of the cat’s head as it purrs in elated satisfaction at her attentions. 

He quirks a flippant brow at her. “All affections for the furry feline, I see.” 

She laughs, the sound an aching balm against long-wrought nerves. “Why, is my fish jealous of a little kitten? Come here, then.”  

“I am not—!” He sputters, just as her hand curves about the back of his neck and pulls downward, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead.  

The previously simmering, barely tamped warmth of his body bursts forth with a brilliant vengeance, his skin set ablaze at just the graze of her touch. Rafayel has to actively constrain himself from keeling over entirely on the floor from his sudden deluge of emotions. Has to curb the quiver of his arms from wanting to steal that heat back against his body.  

She draws back, just as swift, on her feet. The pink of her cheeks is infectious, enticing. Rafayel stares at her, mute and slack-jawed, even as she backs out of the kitchen and through the front door. “I’ll see you tonight, my little fish!” And then he’s left to his own spiraling thoughts.  

Ah. Rafayel scrubs agitated palms down the length of his face in the ensuing silence of their home. His scarlet thread burns incandescent in his hind-vision, flittering in its sporadic expansion. If only she knew how entirely ruined he was at her feet, alone.  

VIII. FLOW  

“You rejected Caleb’s confession?”  

She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t anticipated Tara’s baffled outburst.  

It was part of the reason why she chose to reveal the ‘news’ to her this unceremoniously, as she gently eased Kiki over into Tara’s arms while they stood at her open front door. She adored Tara but was of no mind to be sat down at length while her best friend grilled the details out of her.  

Not ready for the difficult conversations that would ensue; of her past grievances, the break of her fated thread and how she dreaded, within a dark crevice of her heart, that Caleb might turn out to be the one her Fate was once more, trying to bind her to. How could she even begin to delineate it wasn’t what she wanted?  

No, she wasn’t ready for that conversation with Tara, at all.  

“I’m going to be late for my exam, Tara.” She gives her a contrite smile.  

“Yes, I know, sorry, darling, but… why? I really thought things were well between you too. And I was sure there was something going on—! I— can’t you say?” Her friend’s gaze is weighty, imploring. “Is there... someone else?” Her eyes widen. “Is it—” 

And the longer she’s met with terse silence, the heat of her gaze wanes in gradual realization before, at last, she retreats her onslaught, a troubled groan leaving her lips. “At least tell me you’re alright. I’ve been worried about you.”  

“I know, Tara, I’m sorry. I’m perfectly fine.” She gives her free hand a squeeze before withdrawing back a few steps. “I should really go now.”  

Tara loses another sigh. “You really should. Promise we’ll catch up later?”  

“I promise.” She raises her hand in farewell, jogging down the few steps to her house.  

Tara calls out to her just as she reaches the foot of her stairs. “Good luck, girl! I’m cheering for you.”  

She flashes her friend an appreciative smile.  

With Tara, she really can’t be sure if she meant her encouragement for her qualifying physical exam. Or something else entirely.  

Knowing her friend, it was probably both.  

She reaches the examination centre just under the wire, right as the towering gates to the grounds swing shut behind her and two other late-comers.  

Toggling open her Hunter’s Watch, she hastens to join the formation up ahead of several other students, already lined in neat rows for their on-field Wanderers exam. Sidling in place, into her empty spot, just as the instructor in front drones on the list of rules for the exam, from upon his podium. “You are to form pairs of two, as per your roll numbers and enter your designated Protofields, to commence your exam. Before you begin, make sure...” 

He goes over the structures of the regulations one by one, detailing what actions would mete them points and what would deduct them in case of improper conduct.  

“These Protofields have been simulated under intensively controlled environments and contain a plethora of C and B-grade Wanderers you are to deal with, within the desired time limit. Coordinate with your partner, watch each other’s backs and follow all routine safety regulations. Violators will be disqualified on the spot.” He continues. “Keep within bounds of all marked fields, maintain your senses and you should do well. Lastly, trust your education and the skills you have acquired over the course of these years via means of your perseverance and hard work. May you reign victorious, young Hunters!” With his final words, the crowd disperses, heading towards their designated spots for their exams. 

She taps her fingers against her Hunter’s Watch, pulling up the specifications of the Protofield she is to clear, before setting out. 

 

“Gabriel? Hi.” She calls to her team-mate as she moves to join him, recognizing the man from the same class division as hers.  

He returns her greeting, the two setting to sync their data via their watches within the final minute countdown before their exam commences. The flux nexus, in front, pulses to life upon confirmation of both their identities, filtering its pre-programmed wavelength to project upon the barren field. A kaleidoscopic flitter of energy wheeling across the space once is their only indication of a protofield activated, before the two step forwards, cautious, weapons at the ready.  

“No.” Rafayel’s jaw steels in chagrin, hearing the resigned, gentle finality of the words on the other end of the line.  

“Rafayel...” Talia coaxes.  

“I said no. You’re wrong.” He gnashes out, even as the heat simmers, muggy and suffocating, within his body. Even as he continues to deny the indubitable truth of her words.  

For if he did, he would have to face the looming fate of another horrifying possibility.  

The regret of asking for Talia’s help sits heavy within his throat. Facts she utters in such certitude, it leaves Rafayel irrationally agitated. He knows it is not her fault.  

 He hears her soft sigh on the other end of the line. “You told me you’ve been suffering these bouts of ‘fever’ since the past two weeks, an ‘illness’ that refuses to abate and that your...” She pauses, as if seeking words best to voice her next. “incomplete thread has been showing sporadic signs as of late.” 

“Yes.” His voice is quiet, stiff. 

“Rafayel, you’re experiencing early symptoms of an oncoming rut and you know it. You feel it. You didn’t need to call me, when you’re well-informed on the matter yourself, even if you’ve never experienced it before.” She pauses.  “The only reason you reached out to me is that you wanted me to validate your suspicions, isn’t that right?” 

He does not respond to her astute observation.

“An unmated Lemurian cannot experience sexual cycles the same way as a bonded Lemurian. And as you are well-aware, my thread was long severed.” He refutes, contemptuous. “You know what, forget I asked. You clearly don’t understand what’s wrong with me any better than I do. Sorry for crashing your honeymoon. Goodbye, Talia.”  

“Is your thread truly severed, Rafayel?” Her voice rings, solemn, from the other end of the line, just as Rafayel moves to disconnect the call. He pauses, gaze involuntarily skewing towards his lengthening line of red thread. The frown in between his brow turns severe, as if being coerced to witness a sight against his will.  

“You’re experiencing a re-connection and you’re not allowing yourself the happiness that comes with new love. It’s a rare and beautiful thing, for your red fate to find itself weaved against a new person you would cherish.”  

Rafayel does not have the resolve to discredit her words despite his vehement disagreement; having known her experience the loss of her first love, the agony of her days after. And only years later, had she allowed herself to love once more, a happiness Rafayel was content to stand in observance to, glad at her well-deserved peace.   

He, however, was different from Talia. He’d rather his Fate dissipate entirely than for it to wind itself against a stranger. He was different, for Rafayel knew he would never love again, never cherish another, no matter the decades in between.  

For him, there would never be anyone else. 

A transitory pressure curdles heavy about her shoulders as they pace past the barrier and into the protofield. The familiarity of their training grounds dwindles away, large looming falls of thick trees rising, ominous, to blot the skies. Blanketing twilight, instantaneous, overhead. A slow, sweeping curl of gray, mists about their feet, soaking into the dank ground beneath. 

Beside her, she hears Gabriel’s apprehensive breaths. “I can never get used to this.”  

Weapons at the ready, they trudge a slow, cautious path through the simulated wilderness. Gnarled branches seize and snick at their clothes, the craggy mire beneath, a strenuous trudge to keep upright through; as if the forest itself were alive with wicked intent.  

Gabriel’s firearm is the first to go off in a thunderous shot, breaking a flock of obsidian birds to startle into the skies. She follows suit, breaking into a dash along with him; the dark, hunched figure of a fleet-footed Wanderer she aims her gun at and fires, the shot catching it right against its head. The creature lurches forwards onto its body in a seething screech of sound, following its crackling demise into a spoor of pungent smoke.  

The two maintain their steady pace of weeding the area of Wanderers, most they’re able to dispatch with ease. Reflexes and hard ingrained years of training coming into play, the more battles they win through, setting into an easy rhythm of partnership.  

The Wanderer Gabriel skews his sword through in a final thrust, disintegrates into smoke with a rattling gurgle.  She pauses to survey their surroundings, the deep, metallic skies yet to dissipate entirely: indication of a cleared exam. Up ahead, she spies a peculiar forking at the path, the protofield seeming to disperse into dense, murky mist past the intersection. Gabriel flicks the blood off his sword, moving to join her. “Strange.” 

“Yeah. I don’t think low grade Wanderers can distort protofields to this extent.” She agrees. 

“Likely an A grade, at least. Shouldn’t be harder than what we’ve handled so far.” He pauses. “Besides the fact that this one seems like it can replicate itself into weaker copies, judging from the splice it’s created in the field.” 

She frowns at his conclusion, likely accurate. There shouldn’t be an A grade on the loose within a junior hunter’s exam, to begin with; a Wanderer class reserved only for the final year senior field exam. Signals are, as expected sparse, this deep within the protofield, and with an A grade, at hand, tampering the protofield, the possibility of communications being established sits non-existent, at present. She drops a distress signal onto the Hunter’s site, regardless, moving to join him at the fork.  

“We’ll have to clear out the Wanderer, either way, if we want to leave this protofield.” She swipes her empty magazine for a new one, securing it fast back into her gun.  

“Right.” Gabriel’s own fist tightens against the hilt of his sword. “You take the right, I’ll take the left? The distortion should be obliterated on its own once we eliminate all of its copies. I’ll see you soon, partner.”  

“Right back at you. Good luck.”  

Gabriel flashes a flimsy grin at her before treading onto the left path. A swift heavy oppression belts massive across the field, the compression settling a deafening din to her ears. “Hah, Gabriel, wait—” 

But it’s too late. Her partner’s form, long digested by the roiling clouds of black before she can call him back.  

Something’s not right. An A-grade Wanderer shouldn’t be able to exert that kind of pressure. 

An electromagnetic resonance tremors across the space, as if something rattles at the confines of the protofield from beyond. Wanting in.  

Sweat gathers clammy and unpleasant across the back of her neck, her eyes skittering back towards where Gabriel vanished into the murk.  

She firms a hand around her gun, steeling her spine for courage. Whatever anomaly has occurred within the premises of their exam can be dealt with later. Her first priority; to help Gabriel out in eliminating all of the A-grade's clones and dissipating the distortion in front before they planned their next move. And help would arrive soon, once transmission allowed her distress signal to go through, they just had to hold on until then; she reassures herself.  

Moving forward to stride past the muted obsidian barrier at her right.  

The dark cloak of the Wanderer’s protofield washes across her skin like skidding, frigid fingers of emptiness, it spills an involuntary shiver down her spine.  

The cold, metallic spires of the protofield taper off into the void overhead as she steps onto the main field. A skittering figure, one, two, three; lunge, whip-swift, towards her as soon as they spot her, gaping maws and needle teeth poised to tear into her before her fight or flight reflexes jam in. She empties a volley of bullets into their bodies, sieving clean through the approaching Wanderers. Lobs of inhumane flesh, dissipating as soon as they hit the ground.  

Several far smaller figures melt out of the darkness to aim their attacks at her; one after the other she takes down in swift shots. Breaths trembling harsh and hot, her heart hammering over its frantic beats the longer the fight persists.  

A fatigued mistake; being mere seconds slow to switch her empty gun for another, costs her a hard, long gash sliced through the sleeve of her shoulder by the remaining Wanderer. Fire licks up across her arm in a sudden shock of pain, muted instantaneously underneath the roiling pump of adrenaline. She wrenches a dagger off her leg strap. Twisting her torso about to bring her uninjured arm up in a sharp arc, furiously tearing a split through the last Wanderer with a fierce yell and the remnants of her fraying stamina.  

The Wanderer’s remains snivel into a fire just as it hits the ground, the cool, metallic gloom giving way to the unraveling edges of the original forest once more. 

And just as her eyes adjust to the shadows of the protofield once more, she catches sight of a figure slumped upon the grass, unmoving. “Gabriel!” She yells, forcing her limbs underneath her through the pained grit of bared teeth. Clutching hard at her arm to stopper the slow rivulets of blood flow seeping from the gash before she stumbles across the grass towards the man.  

Her Hunter’s Watch blinks, in indication of a transmission successful — her distress signal. Collapsing to her knees at Gabriel’s side just as her watch flares to life in blaring red, an ominous warning running across the screen.  

S-Grade: Deluge Wyrmlord.   Protofield type: Memory Distortion Solo Hunters, do not engage.  

Her mouth runs dry at the far calls of her name—  

“Special Grade—!” Gabriel’s voice resounds just from across the field. “—Run!” 

The collapsed figure at her feet assimilating into thin air, a trick blanketed over her weary mind, by the workings of a high-class Wanderer.  

She feels that intense bone-crushing pressure creep across her back once more, her breath coming through in fits of raspy air. Fixing the barrel of her gun back across her shoulder, she fires, just as a great, dark talon comes across her face, drowning her in darkness.

The call has barely disconnected when Rafayel tosses the phone aside, staggering onto his feet under the heated weight of his body. His eyes drift — an involuntary reflex — towards that squeamish glow of red, his thread flickering in and out of sight, the extended length of it, an alarming sight. Vexation ticks harsh at his jaw.  

Before he’s able to reign control, the spits of a brilliant vermillion fire spurt forth from tapered digits, rushing across the incorporeal red string, in an effort to blaze the blasted thing off of him entirely.  

The fire dissipates, harmless, as expected, with the absence of a pure solid medium to burn. His thread glimmers to life once more, as if deriding Rafayel with its presence.  

Beyond agitated, fervent digits pluck upwards, summoning his Evol to life for a stronger burst of energy —   

A sudden inundating contraction pierces in vengeance across his heart, sending a bolt of excruciating pain lancing through his chest. Rafayel flounders; violently pitching to his knees from the intensity of its sensations. His breaths are hard to smother past lungs that burn for oxygen and yet refuse to inhale. 

Red throbs, vivid and urgent, across his ring finger, as if the call of a terrible siren, knelling of ill-fate and destruction.  

His own fire, begs to consume, hurtling across his skin, a throat that chokes from the fervid heat of his bond, threatening to annihilate him entirely. He feels his humane features molding against the translucent glimmer of cerulean scales, his human form scattering in response to the irrefragable call of his bond, his mate.  

She’s in danger. 

Alarming apprehension dawns upon his mind, the sole thought of her throttling his mind, his oath promised, urging to call upon the one person her thread connects to, a Fate irrefutable, a bond everlasting.  

No. 

A savage inferno tears across Rafayel’s body — scarlet and florid licks of fire — until it engulfs him entirely, leaving nothing in its wake.  

Silence is all that remains behind. 

IX. EBB  [TW for this chapter: passing mentions of domestic abuse]

White peels back from her field of vision; slowly revealing to her the dreary, stifling atmosphere of an incredibly familiar room. A young girl stands amidst a crowd of mourning adults, some in loud tears. Others who secrete their faces into handkerchiefs and shake their heads in dismay at the “poor orphan”. Nausea wrestles pungent within her belly at the sight.  

Her gaze, involuntarily shepherded, past the throng of mourners and towards the picture of the deceased — she knows that face before she sees it — her absent father who had often left her to her own devices, save for the times he was not actively trying to assault her with stray bottles of alcohol, laying in plain sight or the utensils and plates she used to serve his meals, on days he wore down all of their expenses for another swig of tepid, cheap alcohol.  

She knows the child in front of her now feels neither sadness nor remorse as people who call themselves her relatives step over, one after the other, offering words of specious pity and solace she has no use of.  

It was also the day she’d met her Grandma for the first time.  

The scene in front falls out from beneath her feet, traded for the sounds of defeated shrieks and futile violence in the tiny fists that try and shove off the social workers, from bodily dragging her away from the familiarity of her old house. The young girl screams and screams for Rafayel, begs them not to take her away, that she doesn’t want to live with her Grandma several cities across the seas; a gap so wide, how would she ever find the only person who had meant the entire world to her, once more? She hadn’t even told him she was leaving. They wouldn’t let her leave the house, for fear she might run away.  

Her head throbs in vicious pain, ominous tendrils of rooted fire curling through the recesses of her brain as she watches the girl’s — her — futile resistance. 

A gibbering shadow skates past the edges of her vision. She feels like she’s forgetting something direly important, skirting just past the edge of memory. 

The young girl never told the adults around her of the young Lemurian boy — bonded though they were. She knew of the dark whispers that coiled through the cesspool she lived within, how the Lemurians were a species, well-coveted for how steeply priced their bodies sold for, within the black market. 

Her fierce possession and numbing worry for her vulnerable Lemurian had kept her from ever revealing her thread in another’s presence. For how had any of the adults stepped up to be her protectors, ever, in the young girl’s life? She trusted no one, save for herself and her sole mer-friend. She'd promised him they’d stay together forever; she’d vowed upon the sole pair of glimmering seashells, they’d found sanded within their beach, that she’d marry him when they grew up. She had— 

Obsidian smoke curls about her limbs, seeps into her lungs; a slow, poisonous ingestion. The deep, dark dreary roar of a beast sounds from afar, within the recesses of her memories.  

“You abandoned me.” She whips on her heel, coming face to face with her young Lemurian, eyes listless, lightless.  

“No.” She totters away from the horror of her nightmares manifested.  

An ice-cold hand wraps about her torn sleeve, digits digging deep into her wound. She cries out in instinctive pain, wrenching at her arm in an effort to free it. Her wild gaze meets Rafayel’s. Older, far frigid; the present Rafayel looks at her with an insouciant emptiness, it tears at the heart bruising within her chest. “You abandoned me,” he repeats.  

His hand jams about her throat, lifting her clean off her feet. She throttles violently within his grasp, breaths coming in rapid, tapering hisses. “And then, like the rest of those shameless humans, you thought it wise to appear before my eyes once more.” The pressure upon her wind-pipe increases, bit by bit, forcing tears into wide, panicked eyes. “You wanted to capture me too, didn’t you? You're just like the rest of them.” Rafayel’s just ire, cleaves like knives shoved right beneath her breastbone, bleeding out her heart. 

It’s an illusion, Rafayel would never. A stray whisper catches at her ears.  

“Would I really never? Well, aren't your thoughts so convenient. Admit it, you’ve always known.” Rafayel’s gaze is dark in barely tamped wrath and disgust. “I despise you, you and all your kind.” 

“R-Rafayel...” The dull, grey curl of smoke — previously shifting in wait at the edges of her vision — approaches nearer, her defences swiftly waning underneath his assault. Fingers, she scraps bloody against his grip upon her throat, and yet he refuses to relent.  

“It would be better for you to perish here, no? You'll leave me free to live my own life then. I would no longer be shackled to you like some pet.”  

“Y-You were never—” 

A furious scarlet fire splinters a path through Rafayel — his body distorts out of existence for a moment before he gathers form once more. A surprised brow he raises in question at the interference.  

“Snap out of it!”  

Rafayel?  

Her swimming gaze hones in on her beloved, from across the indifferent Rafayel’s shoulder, surely another wraith of her mind; wide blown panic, turbulent within his gaze.  

“What do you think you’re doing believing that sham?” Another burst of Evol sparks across his fingers, aimed at the other Rafayel.  

“You must trust me, believe in me alone.” Another volley of enraged fire skewers through the Rafayel holding her captive — cleaving past him harmless — the latter views him as if he were an offending impediment. “That thing is not me. It’s trying to devour you!” 

“Shut up,” the colder Rafayel speaks, hand jamming tighter against her throat, causing precious breaths to come through stuttered wheezes.  

The other Rafayel steps forward, a desperate hand he holds outstretched for her; an electromagnetic interference rippling about his body, stalling his further motions. “You have to believe the truth in front of your eyes — believe me — to be free of its prison. I have never, not for a moment, held our past against you.”  

“An imposter,” the cruel one says.  

Rafayel drives another step forwards, through the whipping waves of the scape’s resistance, snicking wounds across his jaw, tearing at his clothes. “I don’t regret meeting you.” The gentle azure of his gaze sparks vivid in a deluge of emotions; misery, panic and hopeful sincerity commingling. You were — you have always been my greatest joy, my only muse.” 

The Rafayel that holds her captive bites out an inhumane bark, eyes fading swiftly into obsidian. “I hate you, I’ve always hated you.”  

“Do you remember,” Rafayel urges, heaving another step closer. “the seashells you used to weave into necklaces and put on me when we first met? You told me they made me seem as brilliant as a Sea God, your Sea God, when you did.”A splintered laugh escapes his mouth at the recollection. “Even when I told you the ocean’s gods didn’t wear necklaces made of shells.” 

His voice breaks, emotions raw and desperate within the throaty catch of it, dragging her down the spiral of fond memories. “And the songs you used to hum for us in that odd, off-note voice when you were happy, you’ve retained that silly habit long even into your adult years now.”  

Emotions spurt and tumble free-fall from the inky desolation of her heart, tearing open at the seams of doubts and guilt.  

“And when you are mad, the reckless storm that gathers at your face is endearing. When you forgive me just as easily, the smile that lights your face...” 

A distant rumble sounds through the scape of your illusions, world crumbling apart at the seams.  

“I remember it all, like irreplaceable ornaments, treasures. Without you, I—” He bites back, harsh, at his words. The curious blue sheen across his face, glimmers. 

Eyes that glisten in moisture that threatens to seep past damp lashes; Rafayel’s eyes fall shut in a scraped plea.  

Emotions fueled by the catch of a distraught mind though he were, his words snag, painful, at her throat, springing tears to flow free-fall, at the comfort of his tender confessions. She, too, remembered all there was to know about him, her Rafayel, because of how she adored him. His words and steadfast affection seeping gentle into her mind now, in swift recollection. 

The great, dark beast in front has long shed its false skins, rattling useless in the face of her realization; it wrenches away from her body as if burned. “Pestilent humans.” As it flees entirely from the scape of illusions, great, dark fractures spilling up the space with its departure. 

She drops towards the disintegrating floor, once released, heaving in great lungfuls of air. Rafayel — the wraith of her mind — lunges forward, snatching her body mid-air against his as they fall, with the demolition of the Wanderer’s illusions shattered from her mind.  

A deluging rush of remembrance; the exam, the Wanderer, of being dragged into darkness by the Deluge Wyrmlord tumbles back into a now clear mind. 

And this Rafayel, having stood witness to all her memories.  

He lands on nimble feet, upon the now revealed protofield of the Wanderer; the weight of his Evol, she feels, scatter into the air.  

“You’re injured.” He mourns softly, fingers glancing gentle against the abrasion of her throat from where the Wanderer choked her, down her bruised arm, the blood long staunched in dark red across the cut. 

“I’ll be fine.” She cradles his face within a careful palm, face softening in overwhelming gratitude. If only she, too, could tell him how much she truly loved him. 

Rafayel makes a skeptical sound of disapproval. A hand, he sifts up into her hair and curls about the back of her head. “Hold still.” And before she can finally think to question why a figment of her mind still persists outside the cast illusion, Rafayel is pressing his lips against hers, mouth moving to part hers until she feels warmth flow into her, the shock of his actions making her throat swallow around him on instinct. 

The dull throb at her arm, the cuts and bruises across her aching legs — breaths that seep in easier, with the patched abrasions of her throat — give way to strength as she witnesses her wounds stitch up, in disbelieving surprise. 

“A Lemurian’s essence holds healing properties,” He breathes, heated against her lips. “our tears, saliva—” He pauses. “You’ll feel better soon.” The fever of his skin beneath her grasping fingertips, his shallow breaths come in quick; the flush across his cheekbones feels much too corporeal to be mere figment of her imagination. 

Her eyes widen in disbelief, mind refusing to comprehend his presence. Restless hands tracing the shape of his firm body underneath hers; his neck, the strength of his shoulders, down the unyielding expanse of a solid chest. 

It just couldn’t be. 

“Are you... real?” She slips a palm about the curve of his cheek, index and finger pinching at the flesh. “You can’t be real, you can’t be here.” 

Rafayel chokes on an incredulous laugh. “What an inane question, can’t you tell, silly girl?” He sounds offended. 

A plethora of questions tumble within her mind as Rafayel bumps his forehead up against hers, moisture glistening like pearls upon his cheeks. “I can sense you. And I felt it, when I nearly lost you.” He grits out the words, chagrined; breath hitching in pain as if reliving a nightmare. 

Her heart shrivels at his admission, aching gaze tracing the outline of his Lemurian features. “But, I... I don’t understand. You look so different, Rafayel, what—” 

A great ominous roar sounds from the center of the protofield, the Wanderer now having recovered from its short rebuttal of having been torn away from its prey.  

Rafayel lets her down onto her feet cautiously. Taking her hand in his, his skin sits unbearably warm against hers, “Questions later. We have to get rid of that Wanderer right now. Come on.” 

She nods at him, the two turning to face the Wanderer before they fixate their stance. Hurtling forth in tandem towards the approaching monster; weapons materializing within firm fists. 

They rush, as one, at the large winged creature, aiming right against the base of its great talons. A shield thrown upon the Wanderer, comes half-way down with their first assault.  

Back against his, she feels him tackle down the monster’s onslaught of weaker Wanderers, unearthly fire blazing away at its minions. A shimmering, amethyst line of fetters gathers form with his Evol, to grasp about the Wanderer’s body as it rages. She feels his breaths coming in harsher, feels the way he tightens his body through each motion of offense against their enemy — in no condition to be fighting off a high-class Wanderer with the weight of his sickness slowing him down.  

She captures Rafayel’s wrist in hers, jolting him backwards. Lunging in front of him to take the Wanderer’s next full-bodied assault. “Rely on me, I’ll fight for us both!” She calls to him over her shoulder. 

She catches his mute moment of surprise, out the corner of her eye before he bursts into quiet laughter. “What a reliable bodyguard.” Curving a palm about her shoulder, his Evol, she feels resonating against hers in harmony. “But if you insist.” Weaving their Evols together to strengthen; the dark fetters that plunge forwards this time, chain about the Wanderer’s girth, firmer, breaking clean through another of its shields.  

The Wyrmlord screeches in crazed agony, ramming a heavy appendage straight for them. The two lunge in opposing directions to avoid the assault; Rafayel, a split second too slow to dodge as its claws catch at the side of his abdomen, tearing at his shirt.  

He hurtles heavily onto the ground, body rolling across the Protofield before he swiftly catches himself, teetering back on to unsteady legs. His pants come in harsher, the scales across his face glimmering in fevered sweat; his body’s condition holding him back.

“Rafayel!” She calls for him on an urgent shout, rushing the Wanderer from its side, to cleave clean through its shield of defense. “Don’t push yourself anymore and stay back! You aren’t well!” 

He shakes his head at her, holding his body high once more. His shallow wound, she sees, stitch up soon after, the incandescent cerulean glow of his scales striking against his features. “It’s not what you think it is.” Rafayel streaks forward just as the Wanderer attempts to take flight for a sweeping offensive. 

He springs for the monster, using the momentum of his run, punting hard off its body; vicious chains of static purple zipping through it, to bring it crashing down onto the ground. The Wanderer’s remaining shield shattered in one critical hit, bringing it down in a violent collision of great, dark wings and a massive scaled body, vulnerable to damage.  

“Now! Rafayel instructs. Coalescing the bulk of his powers into the clench of a fist, he lunges for the Wanderer; her own movements, complimenting against his. Raising their weapons up high, their Evols converge against the other’s in a final, galvanic purple blast of energy. 

The Wanderer screeches one final sound of agony before it skitters lifeless at the ground, its disintegration setting into tattered fragments of energy.

The protofield around them begins to wane, jagged shards of breakage appearing across the domed surface of it, as soon as the Wanderer falls. 

“It’s over.” She exhales, relief plucking sharp across the back of her breastbone.

“Let me take… a moment to catch my breath.” And with the sheer adrenaline of the fight holding him up now, gone, so too does Rafayel’s strength ebb from him entirely, as he pitches onto his feet. “Rafayel!”  Just as she dives forward to catch him within her arms before his body hits the ground. “Hey!”  

Rafayel’s breathing harder, the sweat that dampens his brow far more pronounced with the appearance of his Lemurian features, glimmering scales gradually fanning wider across his skin. “Stay with me, it’s over.”

And then she sees it, the flittering of vivid red, burning against his ring finger. Pulsing harsher with each labored sound of breath he endures through and her breath frosts within her lungs.

She feels the distant pattering of approaching footsteps just as Rafayel’s hot palm curves about her wrist in a possessive hold. “We have to get out of here. I need to get home.”  

The frantic calls of her name echo across the field; she lifts her head to catch sight of a pale-faced Gabriel, waving his hands at her from just across the area. She shouts at him to stay where he is, cradling Rafayel closer to her torso for fear of his scales being seen. 

In this moment, she cannot bring herself to care for anything except providing what Rafayel needs; the frenetic urgency to his words enough to have her obeying without questions asked.  

Calling for her teammate, once more, to let the others know they were both alright and that she’d be back at a later time before Rafayel urges her thoughts back to himself.

“That’s... enough. Come now.” He moans within her embrace, just as Gabriel utters an unintelligible question of confusion. Her Lemurian’s fingers spasming against hers, “Hold tight.” he grinds out, before they’re both engulfed in a florid sea of fire.  

X. FLOOD 

The two of them come crashing onto a hard, polished surface; Rafayel’s arms tightening about her body in protection, just as his shoulder connects with the floor, with their fall. Deposited into the empty safety of his room — she notes in shock — by his Evol already shriveling out of existence.  

He shudders in visible pain beneath her, just as she scrabbles to get off his body. “I’m sorry—” The ferocity of his strength, however, hauls her back, bodies crushed against each in a firm, searing line. 

Rafayel’s pants rattle hot against the skin of her neck; the harsh rise and fall of his chest, she feels burn against her own, even through their clothes. He keeps them enclosed within that sweltering space of silence for several, long moments. 

Reaching her fingers out to comb through his unruly hair, in comfort, the adrenaline of their fight having fast shifted into worry for his health.  

Why had he decided to come after her in the fevered state he was in? How had he even known to come for her? The questions, unanswered, careened about in an endless cycle within her mind. 

Her Rafayel shifts, face sinking deeper against her breasts. Nosing, delicate, at the space exposed by her open collar as he inhales, long. His previous labored breaths seemingly soothed in her proximity, as he continues to breathe her in.

Her next gasp soughs past her lips on a catch of barely tamped sound, Rafayel’s gaze rolls up to meet hers — hot and piercing.  

“Rafayel,” She cups a hand about his warm cheek. “Let’s get you off the floor now, you’ll worsen your fever.”  

He knocks his cheek further into the space of her palm, lashes quivering shut, in comfort. “I told you... it’s not a fever ruining my body.” He repeats the words he’d uttered to her back in the Protofield.  

“It’s you.” Her mind jostles to a screeching halt.  

“What?” 

Rafayel’s body tightens beneath hers, the lean strength of his arms coming about to lift, with an ease entirely unexpected of a sick man. He moves them both onto the expanse of his bed, seating himself down, with her firm on his lap. “I’ve been going through these feverish bouts because you’ve been calling for me.” He heaves. “I’d never experienced them before because we’d never—” his words break. Rafayel’s fingers slip a slow, cautious path along the base of her spine, it makes her shiver above him. “I could’ve lost you,” he murmurs, “back there.” Hauling her close once more to sink his face into the crook of a tense shoulder as he breathes her in deep.

“I’m here now, I’m fine.” She soothes a gentle palm down the line of his back, the mild quivers that take it, muted into rest with her strokes. “Thank you for coming for me earlier.”

“Of course I did.” His grip upon her body tightens. “You called for me.” 

She rakes her fingers through his hair. “I... did not call for you, Rafayel. Even if I did, it’s impossible for you to have heard—”  

“Silly girl.” He captures her hand within his hair, entwining his fingers in between hers. “Do you not see?” Bringing their palms up close together for her to witness—

Red flitters about her ring finger, vivid — her heart jostles over its beats — the line of it longer and far corporeal, glimmering within the dark of his room, spiraling an undulating path up, up.  

Finding its other half, caught against the base of Rafayel’s finger. Her breath seizes within her throat at the sight, wary gaze tracing the line of the previously absent thread against their fingers. Not daring to believe the implications of the sight and what Rafayel too was saying. “How could this— I thought we were—”

“A Lemurian’s very being is set to perceive their beloved, in their entire capacity. Without exception.” He brings their entwined fists up to his mouth, feathering a kiss onto her knuckles apiece. “And I have not changed since the first moment I met you.”  

The heat of his words is within her head, the frenzied hammering of her heart within her throat. She dares not breathe too loud, dares not speak for fear of this precious moment shattering. The inference of his words could not be clearer and yet. A fleeting recollection of the Wanderer’s cast illusion comes to mind, the cold Rafayel’s unforgiving gaze flashing against hers.  

“Has your heart then... changed?” He asks, the wavering azure of his gaze fixated firm upon hers.

She caresses the back of her fingers against his cheek, down the line of his jaw. “It has not, not for a single moment in all these years but—” She whispers. But could you ever forgive me for leaving you on your own? 

“I’m not asking you for anything beyond that. I don’t care for it.” He shifts a thumb against the line of her lips dampened with a nervous swipe of her tongue. “I’m asking to know if the woman I love is willing to accept me again.”  

Her breath hitches within her throat. Turbulent emotions burst forth within her chest at his words, a sweet ache quivering at the back of her breastbone, the magnitude of his words she isn’t able to comprehend. Unable to believe the words she’s been wanting to hear him say, all this time, leaving that beautiful mouth. 

She surges forward onto his lap, desperate to answer the man who’s entrusted his heart so keenly into her hands. “I never stopped in the first place.” She speaks, adamant. Her fingers brush at his face, down the length of his neck to hold. The pads of them grazing the beauty of his scales, glimmering within the moonlight that shafts into the quiet dark of his room through the gauzy curtains. “I’ve loved only you all these years and by god, Rafayel, I don’t think I could ever love anyone but you.” She’s out of breath and dizzy in love, it’s a feeling she never wants to clamber out of, if it means he’d continue to look at her, just the way he is now.

She hears the audible throttle of his breath; a low, anguished sound, as if she’d told him something he’d considered entirely impossible. Rafayel had seemed so sure of her feelings, and yet, he looks at her now, with a relieved sort of devotion and desire. “Which god?” His whisper is sultry, his gaze along with the heat of his skin beneath have her feeling faint within his embrace, the flex of his arm tightening its hold about her waist.  

She tips her head closer, her lips shaping her answer a mere breadth from his. “My Rafayel, my own Sea God.” She braves a kiss against his mouth. “I love you.” She confesses, “I love you so—” 

Rafayel heaves forwards, filching the rest of her words right against the desperate tongue he sweeps into her mouth. Lips moving against each other in a mesh of reckless teeth and tongue, refusing to release from each other. Her fingers catch at the fabric of his collar, in a bid to drag him closer. Rafayel’s palms, a stable hold about the flare of her hips as she bucks against him in instinctual desire at the feeling of his tongue sweeping into her mouth. Her core grazes against the distinct line of his stiff arousal, straining beneath the placket of his trousers.  

Rafayel moans a low, throaty sound against her damp lips. “This is your fault,” he whispers, feverish. “You’re the one who has left me so vulnerable.” 

The turbulent seas within his gaze burn luminous, the gentle florid pinks of his irises swallowed within the blue that takes them. The scarcity of his scales now fleshing a path from his face. Down the graceful arc of his neck and across the expanse of his clavicle. Disappearing just under the line of collar of his shirt. She treks a reverential path about his beautiful Lemurian features; a shuddered exhale leaving Rafayel, in his inexplicable state of heightened sensitivity. “Do you know what’s wrong with me?” He seizes her exploring wrist within his gentle hold, halting her movements. His chest heaves once more in vehement, anguished pants, his skin impossibly hot beneath hers.

“No, tell me what’s happening to you. Why are you—” 

“—so sexually aroused?” He supplies, mouth skewing into a smile with the hot flush of her cheeks.  

“...I was going to ask about your humane features unraveling but that too. You're... burning up.”  

He sighs against her glancing touch, at the scales of his neck. “Each year, when the moon shifts phases and the tides ebb from the shores, bonded Lemurians go through an inevitable period of increased sexual activity. We are,” he pulses a delicate kiss to the inside of her captured wrist. “extremely vulnerable during this time, our base appetites, near insatiable, unless we bear it through with our bonded mates.” 

A streak of desire spurts within her chest, seeping down into her abdomen to pool in between her legs. “So then, all this time, you were...” 

“‘Sick’”, he continues, “because I wasn’t funneling my desires with my mate.” He tugs her close by her imprisoned hand, murmuring, hot, within her ear. “within my mate.” 

A low moan of desire breaks from her lips at his licentious provocation.  

“I’ve never experienced one before.” He confesses heavily. “I wasn’t sure what it was, when it started; the time of the year seemed to coincide with my symptoms but we weren’t bonded... not to my knowledge.” Rafayel’s gaze treks against the shimmering line of their thread, re-connected. “It’s a rarer miracle for it to find itself weaved against the ones it broke in between, more so than it is for the thread to re-emerge in between new lovers.” He laughs; a low self-deprecating sound. “Fate really played me for its fool.”

She murmurs his name, gathering his hand closer to press a reverent kiss against his ring of red at his finger. “I love you, Rafayel.” she reiterates, dragging his wide, wavering gaze back towards herself, letting the irrefutable truth of her words sink in. That it’s not Fate that tugs at the cogs of their bond now, but her feelings, unchanged as they’ve remained.  

“Promise me,” he implores. “Promise you’ll continue to see me the same, no matter how many years pass us by. Promise you’ll stay by my side this time?”  

Her answer rushed, eager, yearning to soothe. “Yes. Yes, I will. I want to stay by your side.” Stealing her arms about the broad strength of his shoulders, to pull closer.  

“Don’t let me go.” Rafayel breathes. Their mouths crush against each other in a consuming kiss; an urgent prayer he makes of her name. 

Each time she squirms atop his lap with the force of his kisses, her increasingly damp core shifts in glancing strokes above his clothed length. Her fingers jolt about Rafayel’s shoulders, sinking harsh into the skin through cloth, with a particularly ruinous lap of his tongue into her mouth.  

Her fingers fly for the clasps of his shirt, rushing down the length of buttons, generously revealing the unyielding expanse of his chest, the line of his toned abdomen. Briefly trekking the warmth of his skin with the pads of inquisitive digits before her mouth follows suit, drifting from Rafayel’s to kiss a path across the firm expanse of his chest. Slicking a gentle tongue right above his heart in devoted gratitude for the one who loves her so wholly. 

She glides a slow palm down his abdomen, appreciating the tremulous clench of muscles, underneath her touch. Her coveting digits pause at the metal clasp of his belt, gaze canting up to meet Rafayel’s in silent request.  

“Yes,” he grinds out, through arduous pants of her name. “It’s yours, I’m yours, do as you please.” She pushes off his lap, dropping onto her knees in between his legs at his affirmation. Rafayel’s breaths hitch higher within his throat, at the snag of her fingers reaching to swiftly undo the fastenings of his belt, pulling it clean from its confines to discard it onto the floor of his room. Her palm slips down the line of his zipper, stimulating him impossibly harder as she works to release him from the confines of his trousers.  

Until Rafayel sits there; her devastatingly alluring Lemurian, near-naked, save for the shirt that sags against broad shoulders, and the remaining modesty of his underwear. She takes a moment to control her shaky breaths before her thumbs slip under the waistband of his final barrier, keeping him from her gaze. Sliding the garment in one careful stroke, down the strength of his legs until she tosses it off to the side. His cock springs to full length, freed from its confines, hard; it curves, slight, towards his abdomen, the gentle slick of minute bluish scales running along the underside of his shaft. A thing of beauty, just as its owner.

The twitch of his length within her grasp is palpable as she moves to work an admiring fist about it. A lone bead of pre-cum sits upon the flared head of his cock; her tongue darts out in instinctual rapacious desire to sweep it into her mouth. The sweet-salt tang of him she hums against, in a soft moan, “I love how you taste.” 

Long, tapered digits thread through the fall of her locks, curving a loose fist at the back of her head. Her eyes traveling up his torso to meet his, bright in aroused impatience. It makes her want to flip that expression over into something entirely different. She tips forwards, lips falling apart to take the head of him into her eager mouth, just as Rafayel rewards her with his first approving groan. Tongue slicking about the head of him to lick, down, at a vein just underneath the flare of his head. His hips judder up into her face with the action, slipping more of him into her welcoming throat. “What’re you doing to me?” He moans, in gravelly rapture. “Your mouth feels divine.”  

She feels the clench of her own abdomen at his praise, wetness seeping further into the cloth of already damp panties. Her mouth slips further down the thick length of him, working him deeper into her throat as she tries and relaxes against the instinctive gagging intrusion of him. A shuddering string of words, he makes of her name, in overwhelming arousal, help her along on his cock. Until she is sliding about the length of him, back and forth, tongue drooling its spit down the expanse of his cock she cannot fit into herself.  

His fingers have tightened into a near-spasm within her hair, not nearly enough it hurts, holding her fixated in place; the pads of his digits tracing soothing, encouraging circles about her scalp as she sucks at his cock. “You’re doing so — agh — so well.” The fingers of his free hand, Rafayel brings to curve, delicate, about her jaw, tipping up; her eyes finding his, on silent instruction.  

He looks entirely gone, the rugged flush of his cheeks enticing as it dashes across his ears. Springs down the crescent of his neck and across the firm expanse of his chest. Rafayel’s cock hits the back of her throat on her next intake; she swallows against the heady swell of him, deliberate, measured, refusing to relent her gaze as she does. It immediately has the effect she desired; Rafayel’s next breath rattling out of his chest on a wrenched groan of pleasure, the blue of those inhuman eyes glistening brilliant as he propels his hips into her, in a reflexive bid for more.

His fingers skid along the underside of her jaw, where mouth meets throat, grazing for the place he knows she has him settled inside. A long, tapered index, he flicks down the line of her neck — she swallows on instinct, dragging another choked moan out of him as reward — before it comes to rest at the buttoned collar of her shirt. “Off.” He murmurs, hazily. Deftly unfastening open the first few buttons before he curves his index beneath her collar to tug. “Take it off. I want to see all of you when I come.” Pooling a blush into her cheeks at his sweetly sensual appeal. 

She pulls her shirt over her head, lured along by the nimble hands that drag her close, reaching around her, to undo the clasp of her bra before he coaxes that too, off her body. Mouth falling slack, cerulean flashing vivid, in flared arousal and want; to witness the heaving tremble of her breasts as she descends on him once more. 

Rafayel eases stray locks of her hair back against her ear to better afford himself the view of pink, moist lips parting to swallow around him once more in renewed enthusiasm. 

Her hands flitter about the length of him, slick slide aided by spit and pre-cum as she moves to work her tongue around the tip; the broad of it she teases at the slit, making Rafayel shudder above her. Slipping, slow and sure, down the generous length of him, insatiable desires flooding in the clench of empty walls, for the brimming taste of him within her throat.

Rafayel’s pants have turned far harsher, sporadic in impending release. She continues to ease her tongue about his length, her palms soothing down the tense muscle of his thighs before she moves to cup her fingers about his balls. “I’m—” Rafayel snaps.  

The skin beneath her fingers tightening, as she sucks about his shaft, to help him along the final stretch of his incoming release, swallowing up to the base of him in one forceful go. Her throat constricting in protest at the rough intrusion. Rafayel groans out loud — frenzied palms pressing at either sides of her head to force her off of his cock, just as he comes in thick, spurting strokes, across her cheeks, her nose; down the curve of her chest.  

“I can’t take it any longer,” he rasps. Hauling her onto her feet by her arm, he tumbles her back onto the cool, crumpled sheets of his bed. 

She barely has but a single moment to catch her breath — more from the surprise of his vehemence — before the shorts of her uniform, are being wrested off her body in the fervent catch of desperate fingers. Rafayel gets the material half-way down her thighs before his long-frayed patience snicks off entirely; a cool rubescent fire licks up clean across the material, blazing the offending cloth away entirely.  

She’s left dumbstruck, pleasure-addled mind wrung in between faint amazement at his precise Evol manipulation and mild offense at his ruination of her uniform. “We’ll get you a new one.” He heaves — as if he’s read her mind — in between kisses laid onto the instep of her bare leg, working up across her calf. “As long as you let me have you right now, I’ll do whatever you want.” 

Her breath seizes within her throat at his sultry request. Rafayel’s palms trace about the shell of her hips, curving about the sides of her abdomen before he caresses them up her stomach, pressing, light, into the yielding flesh. Her body shudders beneath his testing caresses. One of his hands steals down the cusp of her clothed mound, index and middle stroking at her labia above panties, before he skates them in between her folds. The two moan in unison; to feel how drenched she is for him.  

Her body squirms against his, begging for more of that sweet friction. Hips bucking up into his hand to force more of him against her aching slit. Rafayel towers above her, the delectable flush across that slack, sensual expression has her fluttering in on emptiness, her hole aching to be filled completely — as if she too has taken on the fever of his desires, writhing in phantom heat. Her drifting mind wonders for a fleeting moment, if a human bonded to a Lemurian could experience the mind-numbing lust of their cycles, along with their partners. That stray thought, she believes, with each passing second he riles her up in delirious rapture.  

Holding himself above her upon the crook of a folded arm, Rafayel descends for her mouth, covetous tongue savoring a moan against hers. She feels the hot, wet strength of his cock — already firmed to stone once more — rolling against the inside of her thigh. Just as he slips a long, tapered digit past her underwear, to curve it directly against her soaked opening. Her hips jump violently at the contact, her squeal of arousal Rafayel pilfers against a throaty chuckle. “You’re so wet.” Pressing up into her to make his point, the audible squelch of her slick, loud within the quiet night. “Are you enjoying this, my love?” 

“Isn’t,” she gasps, heat gathering, strong, into her face. “isn’t the answer obvious?” 

Rafayel hums, the skew of his smile tugging higher; a slow, relishing tongue he runs across his upper lip, end to end. And before she can think to parse the intention behind that wicked gaze, Rafayel’s palms are cupping about the soft of her ass —  digits pulsing into pliant flesh — to shear her underwear off, lifting her hips up to shove his tongue in between her legs. 

Her next sound leaves her on a shriek of pleasure, blaring stars wheeling across her field of vision. Fervid digits she convulses into the yank of his hair, in a manner that has to hurt and yet Rafayel makes no move to budge back, mouth sinking deeper against the wet flood of her heat. He curves his tongue up against her fluttering walls, sweeping at the slick. Nosing a stifled hum against her clit and that is all it takes for her over-sensitised body to break, spasming into a prompt, violent orgasm that siphons the breath from her lungs and the voice from her throat.  

Dazed in her floating awareness of the scrupulous mouth that continues to suck at her folds, laving away all of her released desire for himself. And when she sinks a quivering hand into tousled locks in whimpered protests of being too sensitive, all Rafayel offers her is an impish chuckle pressed into the soft of her thigh, right beside her mound. “You had your fun, didn’t you? It’s my turn now.” 

With that sensuous warning uttered, his mouth returns its attentions to her weeping slit once more, lips closing about the nub at her apex, sucking gentle at the bead. The jump of her hips Rafayel conquers, in the indolent arm he shackles about her waist, fingers reaching to hold hers across the quivering pliance of her stomach.  

The broad of his tongue laps a path above her entrance, catching at any stray slick that leaks from her before he eases the tip of it back into her slit, relishing the clench of her walls in a throaty groan. He continues to prolong that titillating torture of his, edging his tongue at just the entrance of her pussy, till her body burns once more within the kindled flames of a cresting orgasm.  

“Rafayel, there — hah — right there. Rafayel.”  Sliding that tormenting tongue into her walls once more, to her relief, to the mewls of his name flooding like rain from a parched tongue, the spasm of her fingers she smothers against their entwined digits at her abdomen.  

“Sing higher,” his stuttered groans smothered enthusiastic, into the drench of her slit. Tongue curling up against her frontal walls, in a drag that has her fracturing under his mouth once more. Tears sprung to lust-hazed eyes from the overwhelming arousal wrought upon her body under Rafayel’s dexterous tongue.  

He exhales a pleased sigh against her mound, each heated breath causing shivers to jump across tender skin. A kiss, Rafayel lays right against her swollen clit. 

“Once more.” Her walls clench in wrecked protest, a whimper leaving her throat at his whispered words. “Give me just one more.” He entreats. “I need your taste in my mouth again.” A flitter of kisses he strokes against the line of her pelvis, her mound; dark gaze rolling up to meets hers from in between her legs. She flushes at the intensity of their contact held, without mercy. Her wordless squeeze about her hand given, is all the permission her hungering Lemurian requires to sink back towards her wet heat.  

Tapered digits reach to shape a path about the sensitive bead of her pleasure, pinching in between steady, pleasurable strokes. Before they descend lower, coveting towards her fluttering entrance. Rafayel presses up, gentle, into her walls to coax wetness onto his digits with each drenched thrust of his fingers into her.  

His hand releases from hers, palm drifting up across the plane of her body to cup about a pliant breast. Fingers caressing a circular path about her areola in soft, stimulating strokes and she quivers at the sensation, breaths coming in short, stifled bursts of air.  

Rafayel’s mouth closes about her clit, just as the arch of his fingers hit at a particularly hot, sensitive spot within her pussy; walls spasming about his fingers, swallowing him in. His name soughs past her lips on whimpered gasps with each steady thrust of him up into her walls.  

The pads of his digits tweak about the puckered bead of her breast, thumb denting gentle at the bud, sending a jolt of arousal straight in between her legs.  

Rafayel continues to lap her up, dutiful; his lashes descending in pleased satisfaction just as her third, mind-numbing release crests through her body, leaving her skin a drenched, ruined mess Rafayel sucks at, in throaty moans of delight.  

“Rafayel,” she urges, unable to stand the searing desire he’s put inside her, body hungering for the heat of his cock in desolate emptiness. The overwhelming desire to feel his heat flooding into her, with how long he’s strung her dry for himself. She catches his face in between tremulous digits, pulling him from in between her legs to meet his gaze, dark in fervent desire. “I need you inside me now.”  

Heated obscurity scatters momentarily from his eyes at her fevered request, hips rolling against hers so she feels the hot strength of his arousal brush against her inner thigh; her gasps breaking into the air, at that brief second of contact. Burying her next moan in the vicious bite of teeth at his clavicle, when his cock ghosts across her mound, so close to where she wants him. “If you’re sure you want this...” He groans in ardent murmurs against her mouth.  

Her clambering response is swift and eager. “I want this, I want you.”  

“I’ll let you have me,” he relents in between their wet kisses. “this time, all of me. So drown with me, my beloved bride. Love me.” 

Just as he snaps his hips forwards, the head of his cock pressing her open for himself. The delectable stretch of him, so easy within the drenched warmth of her body as it ravenously sucks at him, all the way in. Rafayel’s searing groan of pleasure, he breaks against her jaw; mouthing, mindless, at the taut skin.  

The union of their bodies, have left them both winded, without breath to draw into aching lungs; several moments they take in between heated gazes and consuming kisses, unmoving. Growing accustomed to this new, exquisite feeling of being so deeply intertwined into each other, she feels she could live like this against him for the rest of her life.  

Until Rafayel begins to move and her world explodes into turbulent sparks of blinding pleasure, unlike anything she’s quite experienced before. His hands are upon her body, covetous digits flittering in between them to touch at dewy skin. Testing his touch against the trembling give of her breasts. Mouth capturing a pert nipple into his mouth, to suck until she keens underneath him.  

Her ankles hook about the base of his spine, dragging Rafayel’s propulsions deeper into her. A stuttered moan, she throttles out of him, at the stimulation before his hand steals about her ass to lift her lower body entirely off the bed. Angling his hips, Rafayel’s thrusts turn impossibly deeper, with the assistance offered in their new position; his pelvis grinding flush against hers on each fevered plunge. “You’re perfect around me, so very — hah — warm,” he grinds out in heedless praise, hips snapping against her harder, in rising intensity, in chase of a hovering orgasm.  

She moans in appreciation around the tongue he slips into her slack mouth in yearning want. “Rafayel,” she chokes out. “I’m so close.”  

“Me too,” he groans, shifting his weight forwards to lean against the crook of his arm at her side. His fingers trek up a path against her slack arm, digits entwining through hers, the line of their red thread flickering in between them both as they approach the crest of their combined pleasures.  

“I love you,” she sobs in between quivering gasps; his gaze crinkling in warmed affection and desire so acute, it drags another whimper out of her.  

“I love you.” Rafayel declares, into the catch of his kisses against her mouth, her cheeks, down the crescent of her jaw. Laving a kiss into the curve of her neck in a worrying bite of teeth, marking her for his own. He switches his pace once more, cock spearing up against her frontal walls in frenzied thrusts. “Come for me,” he beseeches. 

Jaw falling slack in a daze of undulating desire when she obliges at the heated scrap of his words, tumbling over the edge in an orgasm so vehement, her spine arcs clean off the bed. “You’re so good for me.” He worships.

Cresting waves of pleasure, she rides in the hard clench of her walls against Rafayel’s throbbing cock, pulsating hot within her until he too follows soon after. An incomprehensible swell of his cock inside, rising with its pulsations, has her gasping out a low, keening sound at the aching stretch of her pussy, it prolongs her high onto wondrous, searing moments of dizzy elation. Her toes curling into the sheets as the steady bulge of him catches at her walls and snags inside, hot spurts of cum surging into her, so much of it, she feels light-headed from how stuffed he has her. Just as Rafayel’s head falls low, on a loud, long groan of release.

Their damp breaths break against each other’s mouth for several moments that follow after, as they try and muster their senses back to themselves. Her fingers tracing absent, soothing circles along the curve of Rafayel’s spine until his trembling body stills to a gentle lull above her, quieted in the wake of their vehement orgasms.

A strange, fascinating imprint, throbs scarlet right above his heart — in the fleeting likeness of a fish — just as Rafayel’s rattling breaths abate. Captivated fingers she ventures, to trace against the edges of the mark. “...What is this, Rafayel?”  

“A sign of Lemurian loyalty.” A quiet smile tips across his face at the question.

The swell of breathless surprise, she knows is upon her face. “My devotion, here on, it’s yours to do with, as you please.” A kiss he buries into her palm in overwhelming affection. “I’m allowing myself to be trapped by you.” 

A low sob of adoration breaks from her throat at the words, just as the proof of his vow fades fast into his skin. A hand, she brings about his neck, to haul him down against her, to treasure a kiss right above where his heart thrums its beats, elated desire burning warm within her chest.  

Rafayel moves above her, maneuvering their positions until she rests at her side, within the circle of her arms, bodies still conjoined. His cock — she realizes with dazed shock — is still hard within her body. “Are you afraid?” He asks, gentle fingers carding through the mussed tresses of her hair. “I’ll need you much more times before I’m sated, you know.”  

She shakes her head at him, palm moving to cradle against his cheek. “I want all of what you have to give me, Rafayel. I’ll take it all.” 

He drags her closer by the hips at her affirmations; his touch along the back of her ass tending a slow fire back up within her weary body, as he moves to hoist her leg up against the cut of his hip.  

And she lets him show her just how profound a Lemurian’s devotion to his beloved truly runs, throughout the entirety of the night and into the greeting of dawn — a depth as unbounded as that of the Oceans.

End Notes: Tagging as requested: @samanthagnicole , @catboi-anon , @bitches4lifebro

If you’d like to be tagged in my future stories, you can fill this short form here.

You can also find me on Ao3 and twitter, if you’d like to scream with me about hot characters.

[gomzwrites]

Task force 141 found out about your soft spots

Summary: You’re one of the members in the taskforce, and you’re one of the more quiet, self-reserved and stoic soldiers among them. They didn’t mind since they respected your personal space, but at some point, they saw just a glimpse of your rather different, softer side. a/n: I’ve had this idea in mind for a long time and just wanted to get this out there, English is not my main language so I apologize for any mistakes along the way! This is also my first fic so feedbacks are appreciated :] Tags: incorrect military terms/training, fluff, can be read as platonic or romantic, x gn!reader, reader's text is in purple Part 2 is out! PLEASE DO NOT RESHARE MY WORK ON OTHER PLATFORMS WITHOUT MY PERMISSION 

Captain John Price

You were on a mission with Price in another city, stalking and trailing the target, when suddenly the target decided to take a turn and entered a cafe. With the captain’s signal, both of you followed and took a spot in one of the corners in the warm, bustling cafe. It was a perfect atmosphere; the cafe was not necessarily noisy, but the number of people and music were busy enough for you and your captain to stay hidden and blend in well. You kept a keen eye on the target, noticing that he was in the queue and, so far, not presenting any signs of danger or threats. The captain gave your foot a nudge as he diverted your attention to the young waitress beside the table that you didn’t notice. "Hi! What would you like to order?" The waitress spoke in the local language that you didn't understand, but you knew she was most likely trying to take an order with the way she held a small notepad and a pen. You gave a small nod as you glanced at Captain for a moment, who was also reading the menu. You do the same, only frowning slightly as you couldn't read anything as well, and because you wanted to get this over with, you randomly pointed at one item to the waitress as she smiled and jotted down your order.

When the waitress walked away, you followed the captain’s gaze on the target; it seemed that he was still in line. You're slightly confused but relieved that the target remains in sight. Not long after, the drinks ordered previously arrived, but your eyes remained fixated on the sketchy figure. It wasn't until the Captain cleared his throat that you broke your gaze and stared down at the table. You froze slightly at the sight before you.

You watched a little wiggle action of the foam on top of what you assume is coffee before you. Except it's not the normal flat latte art kind of foam, but a huge bear foam with a cute face drawn with chocolate. You blink once, then twice before releasing a breath you didn't know you were holding.

This is so cute!! 

You thought to yourself internally as you felt yourself smiling, before realising the situation at hand as you snapped your head towards the captain, hoping he didn't see you, and to your relief, his eyes were still glued to the target. You take this opportunity to slowly take out your phone and take a quick picture of the drink before doing the same and observing the target again. As soon as you do, the target made its move and headed to the exit, which made the both of you follow promptly, seemed like he had a bag as well which was definitely not good news. You were a bit disappointed that you were not given the chance to try the cute drink, but you know you have a job to do, so you just hope that perhaps you can take a closer look again at the coffee later on your phone.

What you didn’t know was how the Captain noticed the change in your demeanour when you spotted the drink; he honestly wasn't expecting much from you, thinking you might just ignore it. But he saw from the corner of his eyes just how your eyes widen slightly, how they are shining when you realize what you ordered, and the way your cheeks had a shade of pink on it as you smile. He rarely gets to see you smile, and he found it endearing to think a cold soldier like you has a liking for cute things. He smiled internally as he noticed how you took the photo sneakily when you thought he wasn’t looking.

He made a mental note to bring you to a cafe he knows that have those famous latte art drinks after the mission, just to see you smile like that again.

John Soap MacTavish

The military base has decided to bring in military working dogs to aid in the next mission, which involves scouting and detection for drug detection at the port, where secret drug trafficking from a certain group of terrorists has been reported.  

"Soap, you’re assigned to Max and Judy; you’ll have to talk to Sergeant Sam about the training," the Captain says as he walks through the compound. You noticed how Soap seemed to tense slightly as he clenched his jaw; you also noticed how his breath hitched as he stared at the two German shepherds standing on the sides of the dog handler; you knew he had a bad history with canines in general when you stumbled upon his journal once; and seeing how uncomfortable he was, you decided to step up for the job.

"Captain, can I do it instead?" The captain glanced back, his beard shifting as he thinks for a moment before nodding and giving you permission. Soap stared at you upon hearing your voice and gave you an apologetic yet grateful look as he breathed out a sigh of relief.

"Aye thanks… Let me know if yae ever need something from meh in the future."

He watched as you gave him a gentle pat on his shoulder as you nodded. Unbeknownst to him, you actually own a German Shepherd yourself, and you’re very much a dog person, and you’re excited to start the training with the military dogs. He stood on the side as you approached the two dogs, nodding along to the instructions given by Sam. As you bent down and extended your hand out, the two dogs gave a few sniffs before finally warming up to you, with their tails wagging as they circle your body. He’s impressed with how friendly you seem with animals, and you were natural with the dogs.

After the training, he went around looking for you as he held a bottle of ice-cold mineral water, hoping that he could give it to you since you were training heavily under the hot, blazing sun. As he turned a corner, right behind the shed, he heard a few barks. He softened his steps as he leant in and took a peek behind the wall, and he was glad he did.

Who’s a good boy? Yes, you are! Yes, you are! Come here! Oooh, such a big boy are you? You did such a great job with me just now~ oh! No wait wait- aH-!

He watched with a grin as he took in the image before him. You, giggling and rolling on the floor as the dogs lick and nuzzle your face and neck, having fun and relaxing with the dogs. He would almost forget that they were military dogs, and yet, with you? They looked domestic. On top of that, he has never heard you laugh or speak like this before; sure, you were using a baby voice and all as you cooed the dog, but he didn’t care because you have the softest yet brightest giggle, a stark contrast to your usual stoic self. He left after watching you for a while, smiling as he walked away to let you have your moments with the doggies. Next time, he’ll definitely want to join you in the training if it means getting to see this side of you more often. 

Kyle Gaz Garrick 

You groan as you sit on the passenger side as Gaz drives the Jeep. It was almost 9.30 pm as you were both ordered to buy a few furniture pieces, tables, and chairs specifically as an emergency thanks to Soap breaking them when he was messing around earlier.

"Why can’t we buy it tomorrow?"

Gaz asks as he, too, frowns and crosses his arms as a yawn escapes his mouth.

"We have a meeting with the other members from London tomorrow, and we can’t make them sit on the floor now, can we?"

Captain replied with a sigh as he frowned; he too was tired and annoyed with the situation, but he has a point. Gaz has asked you for help since the furniture needs to be carried, and you followed along (not without silently complaining).

The day has been terrible for you, it seems like bad luck was looming around your shoulders in every moment. Just this morning, you stubbed your toe and you couldn’t find your left sock, then sprained your shoulder slightly during the sparring session with Ghost. Not only that, the sandwiches that you always order for dinner were out of stock, so overall, you’re not having the best day. But who can you blame? You just decided to suck it up as you nod and follow Gaz. 

After parking a spot in IKEA, both of you decided to split up to find the respective wood and parts of the tables and chairs that, thankfully, the details of them have been sent to you by the Captain, so that the process can be faster before the store closes for the night. You sigh as you place the last part of the table in the trolley, crossing off the last serial number and name. You walk towards the place that Gaz told you to meet up with before stopping when you walk past the kid's section.

There it is, in all its glory: Djungelskog and the other notable plushies in the corner. Truth be told, you actually own two Blåhaj (they're in your house) and a baby Blåhaj in the quarters. You’re a big fan of plushies, especially the ones from IKEA and Miniso. You just haven't saved up enough cash to bring the big brown bear home. You take a step, then another, inching closer to the tray, until you’re right in front of the bear. You glanced around to make sure no one is around before you gently pick up the bear, thankful that there weren't many people in the first place due to the late hour. Without a second thought, you gave in and squish your face into its tummy as you give a big sigh and hug it tightly, smiling to yourself as you feel the stress dissolving away. Something about burying yourself in the soft cushion of cotton is healing for you; it gives you a safe, warming feeling, and it reminds you of the comfort that you never got much of as a kid.

You gave it a few more squeezes before finally parting ways with the bear, softly nudging its nose a few times as you whispered softly:

I swear I’ll come and bring you home next time I come.

You smile and place the bear back in its original position, glancing at it one last time as you spot Gaz in the distance, then swiftly push the trolley towards him. Gaz pays for the parts, and both of you head to the car. You get ready in your seat and fasten the seatbelt before Gaz speaks up.

"Oh, I forgot something. Give me a sec"

You haven’t even had the chance to ask back as he bolted back into IKEA. What did he forget? All the parts have been bought, and the store is nearing its closing time as well, but whatever it is, you waited patiently.

Maybe it's because of the long day, but as you rested your head on the window, you dozed off while you were waiting and didn’t wake up until you heard the driver's side car door open.

"Sorry it took awhile, we’ll go back now"

You nod sleepily as you murmur. "What did you forget?"

"Oh, don't worry about it", Gaz replies as he presses the gas pedal and promptly drives back to the base. You didn’t question further; you figured he probably needed something himself.

You went straight to bed after dropping off the equipment for Soap and Ghost to handle, immediately passing out as you landed on the soft bed.

The next morning, you were getting ready for the day as you stretched, satisfied that at least the sleep last night was good enough. As you open the door, a soft material lands in your room with a soft “umph” sound, you immediately look down cautiously, and that's when you see it.

Djungelskog, with its head tilted to your side as its fluffy hand remains on its tummy, on your floor. You were confused, and frankly, you were not awake enough to fully comprehend what just happened. But once you connected the dots, you smiled to yourself as you lifted the bear up and hugged it.

You make sure to buy Gaz something next time as a thank you.

Simon Ghost Riley

The day was mundane; after a few gruelling missions, the task force had many reports to do. You’ve opted to do them in one of the empty meeting rooms; you liked doing work in these rooms more than facing the concrete wall of your own quarters. At least here, the table was wide and it was fairly quiet; sometimes Ghost will join you as he feels the same. You enjoy his presence because, unlike the rest of the group, he is one of the few people you like spending time with in silence. Today was no different.

The hours go by quickly with the room filled with nothing but paper shuffling and turning pages. You sigh as you place down your pen and give a big stretch, deciding to take a break as you stand and move towards the door. The big man himself also follows along; you don’t question it; you figured he might need a break too.

As you walked away from the room, you decided to go to the bathroom. You passed by the training hall as you overheard the Captain and Laswell talking over some topics for the upcoming mission, but something caught your attention.

"....My wife brought cheesecake; it's in the fridge…."

Your ears perked up to the sound of cake; you haven’t had any dessert recently, and you do like cheesecake. You make a mental note to take a trip to the mess hall after using the bathroom, hoping to have a slice yourself.

As you make your way to the fridge silently, you approach the kitchen and let out a soft sigh of relief when the place is empty. You slowly open the door of the fridge as you poke your head in and search for any sign of cake. You were about to give up when you couldn’t see any, but you jolted slightly when you felt a pat on your shoulder. You quickly turn around, only to be met by Ghost again, with a plate in his hand. As you look at the plate, which has a slice of cheesecake, your eyes blink with hope as you slowly glance back at him. He gives you a nod as he hands you the plate, and you nod back as well with a smile, happy and grateful that he saved you a slice. You take a seat at one of the stools and grab a fork as you eat the cheesecake happily. Ghost leaned against the counter opposite you as he makes himself a cup of coffee. He watched silently as your mood seems to improve. Earlier, he saw how you stopped in your tracks when you overheard the conversation, how your eyelashes fluttered, and how your steps grew lighter. He immediately went to the kitchen when you head to the bathroom and managed to pry one last slice of Soap before he finished them, hoping to save you a piece when you come by later. As you take the first few bites with your eyes closed, you give a hum of approval as your shoulders drop. It’s not like the cheesecake was extremely good, but you can tell from the texture that it was homemade. You miss baking yourself; the last time you did it was with a roommate before you joined the military. You missed those silly moments as you clumsily mixed the ingredients and argued with your friend to stop adding too much sugar into the batter, or the time your friend made fun of you for baking the hardest brownies that can break cement if thrown at them. You also tend to have favouritism towards home-cooked stuff, no matter who made it; you always liked how the food tends to taste just slightly better. Is it because of comfort? Or the memories that flood your mind when you take in the smell? You honestly don't know; maybe it's both. Or maybe you like the thoughts and love people put into the meals when they cook. You were so lost in thought that you didn't realise you were swinging your feet idly on the stool. The stool was slightly taller than the regular one, and your legs barely touched the floor.

Ghost finds the view a bit charming—to see you relax and content over a slice of cake. It's not that he is complaining; he just never really saw you this comfortable before. He observes you silently and takes note of how you like to munch on your right cheek more than the left, making it puffy. He chuckles to himself when you start swinging your legs too. He's glad that he managed to snatch the last piece of cake, and perhaps in the near future, he’ll bring you some cake to share with you.

•·················•·················•·················•·················•·················•·················• a/n: that's all! Let me know what you think!! like a part two or something, have a nice day/night! :>

[banj0possum]

Touchdown

Playboy!Jock x GN Reader

CW: playboy behavior, mentioned nsfw

🏈Brandon was the star player in the school football team, who had his pick of anyone he wanted because of his good looks and talent in sports.

🏈He was used to short relationships that meant seemingly nothing, it was always just them walking up to him all flustered, him flirting, then a one-night stand or two, then a breakup that left them either a sobbing mess or with a burning hatred for the jock, either way, he thought nothing of them in the long run.

🏈He was sitting with the rest of the football team during lunch when he saw you. He wasn't sure if you were new or not, there were many people in the school that he didn't pay any attention to, so seeing you for the first time made him intrigued.

🏈You were sitting alone in one of the tables close to the corner to get some much-needed peace and quiet when you feel a weight on the bench next to you. You turn and see Brandon, a member of the football team. You raise a brow at him while taking a bite out of your food.

🏈The fact that you seemed so uninterested in his presence was amusing to him and he started making small talk to you, a little teasing and playful insults sprinkled in, perhaps some flirting if you squint.

🏈But all you did was reply to his questions about your life in the driest ways possible with absolutely no interest in conversation with a playboy like him.

🏈You've heard of him before from some friends of yours, how he's fucked probably half of the cheerleading squad and had a lengthy history of chatting up girls just to fuck them and leave. All of this and the way he presented himself to you as some stuck-up douche who's only talking to you in order to make fun of you made you annoyed and a bit revolted by him.

🏈Brandon on the other hand couldn't get enough of you. The more he talked to you the more interested he was about you as a person. You were modest, you had interesting tastes in music, you had cool hobbies he's never heard of before from anyone he's talked to in the past, and most of all you were...beautiful.

🏈You weren't that different from everyone else compared to looks, sure you were a bit prettier but average nonetheless, why does he think you're so cute all of a sudden?

🏈the bell rang, and you immediately stood up to walk to class, much to the jock's dismay.

🏈He takes your hand before to went off with a gentle but tight grip.

🏈"uh...so you like, have good english scores right? You think you could tutor me sometime?"

🏈Ohhhhhh so that's why he talked to you, because you were a nerd and he needed you to copy homework from.

🏈You offer your English essay, but he refuses, asking if you were available to help him to make his own.

🏈You were pleasantly surprised to say the least, you never thought someone like him would choose tutoring instead of copying from someone else for an easy A+.

🏈You let out a small laugh and smiled at him. "huh, Alright. See you after school then..." You then run off in hopes you wouldn't be late to your next period.

🏈Brandon stood there a bit frazzled, why did he say that? Why does he want to be tutored all of a sudden? Why was your smile so precious? Why is his face heating up???

🏈Before he could get his thoughts together, his friends approached him, ushering him to start moving or else he'll be given another detention. He snapped out of his confused state and tried to laugh off the thoughts of you swirling around his head.

🏈Who the hell were you to make him feel so...good?

an: making a part 2 soon, probably, hopefully. requests are open so feel free to give any suggestions of more funny lads to write about!

[baelarys]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞

Aemond targaryen X reader niece

word count : 2887

Warning : Incest , smut

Your entire body itched, feeling the corset squeeze your ribcage to the point of almost fainting. Your ladies hurriedly arranged your hair, while two others smoothed the blue and silver silk dress you had chosen for the ceremony.

You wondered if a wedding dress really needed to look so impeccable, feeling the weight of expectation and tradition. You were about to marry, and to your dismay, a man as callous as your uncle Aemond. You knew this moment would come, but still, the surprise hit you hard. You had been engaged since childhood, but you hadn't believed the proposal would still stand after the accident at your aunt's funeral.

Your mother and siblings would not attend. Your mother had recently given birth to your two new younger brothers, and Jace and Luke were still too young to travel alone. So, you found yourself alone in the Red Keep, the ancient castle you once considered home.

As you prepared, a feeling of loneliness enveloped you. The absence of your family weighed on your spirit, making the moment feel even more difficult to face.

Your ladies continued to work diligently, trying to make every detail perfect. Her skillful hands masterfully braided your hair, adorning it with fine silver threads. The blue and silver silk dress fell elegantly, reflecting the light of the candles that illuminated the room.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm your mind and heart. Then, you heard a knock on the door. It was time, you thought. One of your ladies opened the door, letting in Queen Alicent, who would escort you to your future husband. You would have preferred it to be your grandfather instead of her, but dear King Viserys was in a deplorable situation regarding his health.

Alicent looked at you for a few seconds, perhaps remembering a similar moment from her own youth. “You look beautiful,” she said, trying to make you feel better.

You nodded gratefully, although the anxiety was still present. The queen offered you her arm and, with one last look in the mirror, you headed towards the destiny that awaited you. It was a small celebration, but without taking away from the prestige of a royal wedding. Lords from all over the kingdom were present.

The great hall was adorned with banners and flowers, the glow of the candelabras illuminating the faces of the guests. As you walked down the hallway, the murmurs faded, leaving only the echo of your footsteps and the rapid beat of your heart.

Aemond was waiting for you at the end of the hallway, his expression as impenetrable as ever. His violet eyes watched you with a mixture of intensity and coldness. Beside him, the septon waited, ready to officiate the ceremony. Alicent led you to your spot, and then discreetly retreated, letting the solemnity of the moment take over.

The septon began to recite the ritual words, and although your thoughts wandered between anxiety and resignation, you maintained your composure. Aemond took your hand firmly, his grip a reminder of both the strength and severity of your future husband.

When it was time to exchange vows, the words left your lips almost mechanically. You promised fidelity and loyalty, although inside you, a voice whispered doubts and fears. Aemond, for his part, pronounced his vows with the same determination he used on the battlefield.

It was time for the banquet, an event filled with flowers and music designed to liven up the festive atmosphere. You responded with a courteous smile to the lords and ladies who approached your table to shower you with gifts and congratulations.

The large banquet table was adorned with exquisite floral arrangements and silver candelabras, illuminating the opulence of the hall. You and Aemond presided over the head table, and although music and the hum of conversation filled the air, a feeling of unreality enveloped you.

Lord Tyrell's son approached the table, a charming young man who had caught the attention of many ladies at court. His distinguished bearing and easy smile made him a welcome guest at any social event.

You bowed slightly in respect as he approached, returning his smile with a courtesy befitting your status. "Princess," he began with an elegant bow, "allow me to congratulate you on your marriage. The beauty of this celebration is surpassed only by yours."

"Lord Tyrell," you replied with a smile, "I appreciate your kind words. The presence of your house is always an honor to our family."

"It's a pleasure to be here," he said, his eyes shining with an interest that went beyond mere politeness. "I must confess that I have been waiting for an opportunity to speak with you. Stories about your grace and charm do not do the reality justice."

You laughed softly, grateful for the distraction his gallantry offered. "I thank you, my lord. However, I do not believe I am worthy of such praise."

"Not at all, my lady, I am being completely honest." Your smile spread wider, feeling a light blush on your cheeks. The young Tyrell then looked at Aemond. "The prince is lucky to now have a lady as beautiful as you."

Before you could respond, you felt a strong squeeze on your thigh that made you stop. Aemond, who until then had watched the interaction with an impassive expression, clenched his jaw at Tyrell's words. "Lord Tyrell," he interrupted, his voice firm and cold, "I appreciate your congratulations, but I would like to remember that my wife is not a possession, but a companion worthy of respect."

The young Tyrell, without losing his composure, bowed his head slightly. "Of course, Prince Aemond. My apologies if my words have been misinterpreted. I only intended to express my admiration."

Aemond gave a brief, strained smile. "Your admiration is noted, but I would appreciate it if you expressed it with greater caution."

"I understand," the young Tyrell replied before returning to his table. Aemond hadn't taken his hand off your thigh since then, and you could feel his nails slowly digging into your skin.

"What is your problem?" you said with an annoyed tone, trying to remain discreet in the curious eyes of the court. You tried to push his hand away, but you felt him move it higher, sending a shiver through your body.

Aemond leaned his head towards you, whispering in your ear with a voice thick with possessiveness. "My problem, dear wife, is seeing other men thinking they can approach you so blatantly."

"It's just courtesy," you responded defensively, feeling Aemond's hand move up and down your thigh, brushing carelessly near that area. "And stop doing that."

Aemond, with an expression of apparent innocence, raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"

“That,” you replied, trying to stay calm as the chill continued to run through you. "Your hand is too close."

Finally, Aemond withdrew his hand with an expression of disdain. "Very well," he said with a tone that obscured the brightness of his gaze. "If this makes you uncomfortable, I will stop."

It was almost midnight, and the reality of the wedding night was beginning to weigh on you. It was mandatory that the marriage be consummated that same night, and although you knew that this moment was imminent, you couldn't help but feel a knot in your stomach.

Alicent, with her usual foresight, had advised you to retire to your room first to prepare. Following his recommendations, you headed to your chambers, where the ladies-in-waiting were waiting for you with the usual diligence. With speed and precision, they stripped away your dress, letting the intricate layers of silk and lace fall to the floor. Then, they let down your hair, which fell in loose waves around your figure. Finally, they wrapped you in a thin robe that covered your body, trying to offer you as much comfort as possible in that tense moment.

You walked over to the table to pour yourself some wine, hoping the drink would calm your nerves. As you raised the glass, the ruby liquid reflected the dim light of the candles, and you took a sip, feeling the warm relief it provided. As you savored the wine, you heard the door open. You froze, too embarrassed to turn around and look.

The sounds of Aemond removing his suit filled the room. The rustle of the fabric sliding over his body and the soft jingling of the clasps on his vest mixed with the rapid beat of your heart. You tried to focus on the wine, but your husband's presence behind you was impossible to ignore.

Aemond approached you, grabbing you by the waist and forcing you to turn around. You were now face to face, and you noticed that the patch he always wore to cover his eye was no longer there. In its place, a beautiful sapphire shined in the hole where he had lost his eye. His appearance was intimidating and fascinating at the same time.

He caressed your cheek with a gentleness so unlike him, his touch was surprisingly soft and comforting. "Fear not," he murmured, his voice low and reassuring.

Before you could respond, Aemond planted a kiss on your lips. A new feeling blossomed in your stomach, a whirlwind of nervousness and anticipation. Guiding your inexperienced lips, he led you to explore the rhythm and flavor of his own. Deftly, he gently bit your bottom lip, silently asking you to make way for him.

Your heart was pounding as you felt the caress of his tongue, exploring firmly but slowly. You responded timidly at first, but little by little, you began to reciprocate with more confidence. His hands, strong but tender, held you carefully, slowly tracing lines of fire on your skin.

They broke apart, You took a deep breath, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions inside you. Aemond slowly guided you towards the bed.

Aemond took a seat first, gently pulling you to sit on his lap. Your cheeks were adorned with a deep red color, a mix of shyness and anticipation. Wasting no time, he captured your lips again, this time with more urgency and desire.

He laid you down slowly, making you lie on your back on the mattress. His body hovered over yours, creating a feeling of warmth and security. His lips moved in a passionate dance with yours.

With fluid movements, Aemond began to leave a trail of kisses from your cheek to your neck. His lips lingered there, sucking gently and leaving little marks of love. The touch of his lips and teeth against your skin sent waves of pleasure through your body, and you couldn't help but let out small sounds of satisfaction.

Aemond carefully stripped you of the thin robe that still covered your body, taking a moment to admire your figure. His eyes roamed every line and curve, filled with a mix of wonder and desire. The intensity of his gaze made your cheeks blush even more, a warm current of anticipation running through your body.

With unexpected softness, he approached again, his lips tracing a path of wet, burning kisses from your neck to your collarbone. Each kiss was a point of fire that lit your skin, creating a path of pleasure that spread with each caress.

His hands, strong and sure, explored your body with an expert touch, discovering your every reaction. "You're beautiful," he murmured against your skin, his voice husky and heavy with desire. "Every part of you."

Suddenly, Aemond cupped one of your breasts in his hand, squeezing it with a firmness that drew a small gasp from you. He played with your sensitive nipple, his skillful fingers causing waves of pleasure that made you arch your back.

Without warning, he lowered his head and devoured the other breast with his mouth, sucking and nibbling with overwhelming passion. You felt like you were in heaven, each touch and kiss lifting you to new heights of pleasure. You thrashed around on the bed, your hands gripping the sheets as you tried to take in the intensity of the sensations.

He continued his attention, alternating between his hands and his mouth, making sure every part of you received his devotion. His lips moved with precision, tracing circles around your nipple before sucking it hard. At the same time, his other hand massaged your other breast, his fingers causing spasms of pleasure with each touch.

Aemond continued his descent, his lips leaving a trail of burning kisses along your stomach and belly. He stopped for a moment, admiring your intimacy already wet from his previous caresses. The vulnerability of the moment made you try to close your legs, a gesture of modesty that Aemond gently prevented.

“Let me show you how much I want you,” he murmured hoarsely, his words sending a new wave of pleasure through your body.

You nodded, feeling the heat inside you intensify. Aemond settled between your legs, his solid, confident presence providing you with a strange mix of calm. With slow deliberation, he left a long lick over your lower lips, eliciting an involuntary moan from your lips.

His hands rested on your thighs, holding them open while his lips and tongue continued to explore your intimacy with a skill and attention that left you breathless. Every caress, every lick, seemed designed to take you to new heights of pleasure. You felt the tension inside you growing, a delicious pressure that threatened to overflow at any moment.

He didn't stop, his tongue moving with a precision that made you arch your back and clutch the sheets. His fingers joined the dance, exploring and teasing, taking you beyond your limits. The mix of his mouth and hands was almost too much, every movement a promise of ecstasy.

Aemond introduced another finger inside you, eliciting a deeper, pleasure-laden moan from you. His movements were slow and deliberate, moving in and out with a precision that seemed designed to explore every corner of your being. The sensation was overwhelming, each thrust of his fingers sending waves of heat through your body.

Your moans intensified, and your body instinctively responded to his attentions, arching into him in a desperate search for more contact. Aemond increased the speed of his movements, his fingers delving deeper, exploring and teasing with a skill that left you breathless.

Aemond withdrew his fingers suddenly, drawing a moan of protest from you at the abrupt absence of his touch. He leaned over you, capturing your lips in a deep, passionate kiss as he expertly removed his pants. You felt the warmth and firmness of his erection brush against your entrance, eliciting an involuntary moan of anticipation.

Aemond eased into you slowly, his erection pushing through with deliberate precision. A burning sensation washed over you, and you tensed at the invasion, but he stayed still for a moment, allowing you to get used to the new sensation. You breathed deeply, trying to relax as your body adjusted to his presence inside you.

After a few moments, he began to move with slow, measured thrusts. Every movement was calculated, designed to maximize pleasure while minimizing pain. The intensity of the sensation increased with each thrust, and soon, the initial burning transformed into a wave of pleasure that ran through you from head to toe.

Your moans joined his, a chorus of sounds that filled the room. Your throbbing insides clenched around him, each contraction eliciting moans of pleasure from both of you. Aemond gradually increased the pace, his thrusts becoming faster and deeper.

You felt the tension inside you grow, a delicious pressure that built with each movement. Your moans became louder, and your body arched towards him, seeking more contact, more intensity. A knot was forming in your belly, a buildup of pleasure that grew with each thrust. Finally, Aemond reached a specific spot inside you, causing you to come immediately.

Your muscles clenched and you overflowed, the overwhelming pleasure enveloping your body. Aemond continued to move inside you, his own moans of pleasure echoing through the room. A few seconds later, he reached his own climax, spilling his seed inside you.

Both were left breathing heavily, their bodies intertwined as the intensity of the moment began to dissipate. Carefully, Aemond eased himself out of you and settled next to you, wrapping his arms around you in a protective gesture.

You laid your head on his chest, feeling how tiredness gradually invaded you. Aemond covered you both with a soft blanket, his large hands running over your back in a calming and protective gesture. The warmth of his body and the constant rhythm of his breathing provided a feeling of security that enveloped you completely.

"Rest, my love," he said softly, his voice filled with an unexpected tenderness. You let sleep guide you, your heavy eyelids closing as you snuggled closer to him. In the tranquility of that moment, with the sound of his heart beating beneath your ear, you fell into a deep, restful sleep.

[seeminglydark]

A look-book and little break-down of Caro’s style and fashion Journey. I didn’t include their cheer uniform or GasCo uniform because those really didn’t influence their actual style much, other than the Varsity jacket and work jacket. I thought it would be fun to set it up almost like a magazine article and I’m in love with the results. I hope you enjoy it too. (The cover is my fave thing ever, just so you know.)

Here’s the Text:

Caro Greene, Cheerleader to Ghosthunter! An exclusive look at superstar Caro Greene’s style evolution. From femme to them!

The Teenage Years! Caro has been aware the high-femme style their parents chose for them was not the look they wanted for a long time, but didn’t know how to address it. Pairing their best friends tee-shirt over their Prom dress was the first step in figuring out their own personal style! From there, they tested out the route of borrowed too-big sweaters whenever they weren’t under the watchful eye of their family.

GasCo Era! Years of emotional neglect build until Caro chops off their hair, an asset more important to their parents than their happiness, and finds themself abruptly homeless, with nothing but some jeans, shirts and an oversized jacket belonging to their long-gone boyfriend. They get a job at the local gas station, and are gifted a new jacket that fits, with their new name on it, in their favorite color! More gender exploration leads them to a better haircut, and their first time trying a binder, and starting to not hate how they look.

Thrift stores, Sneakers, and T! Now in a new environment with supportive people at the GasCo, Caro discovers thrift stores and the tacky ‘80s aesthetic of their dreams. After years of other people controlling their body and looks, starting on low T is a big step in taking back control. They start wearing crop tops and sleeveless tees to show off new body hair, but also love chunky colored sweaters since they’re always cold. Sneakers go with everything, and when you’re short, the possibilities are endless in the kids shoes section.

Mil-Liminal! Caro’s podcast Mil-Liminal goes viral, and they are given the choice of staying faceless and anonymous, or taking the stage in live shows. They decide to do a face reveal, and that means choosing an iconic ‘look’ for their live performances. They choose their favorite color, GasCo Purple, and a jacket that is a blend of their varsity jacket and GasCo work jacket, two clothing pieces that always made them comfortable. They wear their trans identity on their sleeve, and top it off with the snapback look they donned years ago on their first venture ‘out’ as a teenager. The rest is history!

Current Caro! Which brings us to the present! There’s been some small changes, oversized sweaters and tees with a cosmic theme, which is new for the usually spookified Caro. They’re sporting white hair instead of their trademark blond, and have added a cross earring and a pendant to their Mil-Liminal uniform. A black snapback shows up as often as the purple one, and there’s a new bounce in their step, but perhaps they’ve just been indulging in too much coffee these days.

Caro Green is from my webcomics Seemingly Dark and Mil-Liminal, and podcast Mil-Liminal.

[undertheorangetree]

The Last of the Dragons

Chapter One- The Consummation

Summary- With the Targaryen dynasty at risk, the last of the family must make unsavory decisions in order to ensure their reign continues.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ NSFW. Female reader. Angst. Politicking. Consummation of marriage with witnesses. Mentions of death. Trauma. Uncomfortable smut.

Author's Note- This first chapter is not very sexy!! There is (consensual) smut but it is not hot nor is it meant to be. The sexy smut will happen later. With that said, the link to the full chapter is below :)

series masterlist

When the dust settles around the Dance of the Dragons, she is the only member of her family still alive.

Her mother burned by dragonfire, her step father cut down on dragonback. Jace and Luke lay dead at the bottom of the ocean alongside Aegon and Viserys while Joffrey lay scattered across the streets of Flea Bottom. It is a reality she does not like to face and though she still has Baela, Rhaena, and their grandfather, she knows she is the last of her family line. The last of Rhaenyra's blood, the blood of the true heir. 

It is that blood that damns her the moment Aegon is found poisoned, laying dead in his litter.

She had been spared alongside Baela and Rhaena, though she knew that was more so Corlys's idea than anyone else's. Aegon had demanded her head the moment he learned that it was she and Silverwing who had been responsible for Daeron's death but Corlys had managed to talk him down to simply keeping her as a hostage. He had argued that by having her bend the knee, it would show her mother's loyalists that he was the true king above all others, that her fealty had the power to stop Cregan Stark's march south and would calm tensions in the Riverlands and Eyrie. Aegon had agreed, though only after Alicent had prompted him to, and she had been spared from the executioner's block. Though as she sits at the small council table, staring at her last living uncle, she wishes Aegon had found the kindness in his black heart to swing the axe.

The Battle Above the God's Eye had left Aemond with another scar, this one having ripped through the flesh of his left shoulder and bicep. She wishes it crippled him further, that Daemon's final act managed to cut his arm from its socket, gouge out his last remaining eye and send him plunging into the depth of the God's Eye but other than a deep new scar, her step father managed little. 

"Lord Corlys and I believe that it is important, especially now, to assure the smallfolk that this war is far behind us now. Aegon's death threatens the already fragile stability we have managed to find ourselves on," Alicent explains, though it is not directed at her. They had all been whisked away into the small council chambers less than a handful of hours after Aegon had been found dead and that grief is still present in Alicent. Her eyes are rimmed red- a common trait of hers now- and her voice is hoarse from crying, but she still manages to stay strong before the men gathered. She and Aemond had been ordered to sit in on the small council meeting but neither have been given leave to speak. They sit silently, waiting for the moment that deemed their appearance here necessary as Alicent turns to her grandfather. "Which is why we have come to a kind of agreement."

"We want the Iron Throne to remain in Targaryen hands just as fervently as all others here and with the death of our king so fresh, it is of the utmost importance that we find a suitable heir quickly. One that puts both the Blacks and the Greens at ease and prevents a continuation of the war," Corlys says, fingers pushing at the small ball that rests before him. 

When the two of them had the time to discuss a potential heir, she has no idea, but perhaps it is a blessing that they had. With Aegon and all his children dead, there are few options left for the throne. She knows in her heart that she is the legitimate heir, being the only one left who has Rhaenyra's blood running through her veins, but she is a woman. After all that has happened, only a fool would attempt to crown her. The same could be said for Baela and Rhaena, though their claims are not as strong as her own. That left Aemond, a man, but widely hated for all he had done throughout the war. 

They are damned regardless of who is chosen, the risk of further rebellion at every turn. She does not pity the remnants of this council for the choice they must make now. The realm rests on the shoulders of the six people left in this room and that is a burden she would not want to carry.

"And you have an idea as to who the most suitable heir would be, my lord?" Lord Larys asks. Though he sits at the table, he is not truly facing it, leaning on the cane in his hands. She turns her head to look at him, his eyes wide with his question, and feels her stomach turn at the mere sight of him, their master of whisperers. 

Corlys looks toward Alicent, waiting until she gives the faintest nod of her head before speaking again. "My granddaughter, the princess, is Rhaenyra's last surviving child. Aemond is the last surviving child of King Viserys and acted as Aegon's regent for more than half his reign. The dowager and I propose that we unite house Targaryen once and for all and have the two wed to serve the realm as king and queen, like the Old King and Good Queen Alysanne. Equal in power, so as to bring all this unrest to an end."

Read the rest here :)

Taglist- @ammo23 @bellstwd @kckt88 @aemondsbabygirl @shygardengalaxy @duds31 @at-a-rax-ia @ladymarg0t @queenofshinigamis @drakar-i @cl-0-vr @castellomargot @moonlightfoxx @ladybug0095 @marihoneywk

[moonstruckme]

James Potter or tasm!peter parker fluff or comfort?? I dont mind whatever you write ill love 🙏🙏

Thanks for requesting :)

cw: implied past abuse

tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

Peter’s having a rough week. These things always seem to happen to him. He’s got a big presentation at work on Friday, by which time the project he’s been underfunded and understaffed for has to be finished. His Aunt May has been busy with work, too, so either you or Peter is at her place most nights trying to help out, except she seems to think when it’s Peter it’s familial responsibility but when it’s you it's an unfair burden, so it’s mostly been Peter. There’s also an impressively organized cell of criminals he’s been trying to investigate before they blow up a bank or something. So of course, he’s sleep deprived to boot. 

And while you know the rough edge of frustration in his voice isn’t meant for you, hearing it makes your skin tighten nonetheless. 

“How does a person run out of salt?” Peter stalks through the front door and straight into the kitchen. “Or maybe the better question is, why does it take going to three bodegas to find one with salt in stock?”  

He’s soaked from the rain, and you feel guilty for being all cozied up on the couch while he’s been running around the city. Maybe it’s irrational, but you feel sort of like you should have been stressed out and cold all night, too. In solidarity. 

“May didn’t have salt?” you guess as Peter opens the fridge, stooping low to peer inside. 

“You should see her pantry, babe. It’s like everything either expired at the turn of the century or got bugs in it. Hey, did you make anything for dinner?” 

“No.” You hesitate. “You told me you wanted to eat at May’s, so I had the leftovers from last night.” 

“Shit.” He closes the fridge, resting his forehead on the door. “You’re right. I totally forgot, I only made enough for her.” 

“I’ll make something now.” You stand. Peter gives you a look that conveys both apology and gratitude as you join him in your small kitchen. “You feel like pasta?” 

“Thank you,” he says, kissing the top of your head lightly. 

“Course,” you murmur. Really, it feels like the least you can do. “Would you mind chopping up some basil?” 

“For my own dinner?” Peter teases. The levity in his voice is obviously forced, and the air between you heavies as he realizes you’ve heard it too. 

You almost don’t want to ask, but you do want to be a supportive girlfriend. You can lend him a compassionate ear. “How was work today?” 

He sighs, grabbing the cutting board from a cabinet near your feet and shutting the door with perhaps a tad too much force. 

“It was…ahh.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, stooping again into the white fridge light to find the basil. It casts dark shadows underneath his eyes. “You’ve gotta be sick of hearing about this.” 

“It’s okay. Unless you don’t feel like talking about it.” 

“No, it’s just, how do they expect us to stick to their tight schedule when half of my lab is being pulled away to other projects all the time?” Peter’s knife slices through the basil, hitting the cutting board with a sharp thunk. “Today, we were down one intern who caught the stomach flu, and it set us way back. One intern shouldn’t be that crucial to a big project like this!” 

You hum, ignoring the way the back of your neck prickles. The tension emanating from Peter is completely valid, your reaction a bothersome, purposeless souvenir from an old life. You find yourself staring into the pot of water and waiting for it to boil. 

“And it’s not like it’s anyone’s fault, but all the rest of us are working extra hours to try and get this done in time.” 

Small bubbles in the bottom of the pot, rising tentatively to the surface. Peter’s knife thunks a quickening rhythm on the cutting board. 

“If they’d given us the money we asked for, we could have hired more people, been working with better equipment, but instead—” The water starts to rumble, steam warming your face. It’s thick in your throat. “—it’s like we don’t even work for a top-notch lab. Like, do they think we really believe they don’t have any resources to spare?”

Peter’s voice is rising, irritation sharpening his words. You reach to turn down the stove when big bubbles reach the surface, splattering hot onto your wrist. You ignore the sting. 

“My boss keeps talking about how important this presentation is,” Peter goes on, opening the cabinet next to your head and reaching inside, “but if it were really important, he’d have—” He slams the cabinet door. 

You both freeze. 

To anyone else, it would look like nothing—the way your expression stays perfectly still, your muscles stiffening just slightly, the invisible pause in your heartbeat. But Peter knows you. 

“Sorry.” He sounds as breathless as you feel. “I’m sorry. You okay?” 

“Mhm.” Despite your best intentions, your voice comes out pitchy. You can’t make yourself move in a way that feels natural, so you stay not moving at all. Steam wafting warm up onto your face. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Peter says, tone softer than you’ve heard it in days. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to yell.” The roiling pot has calmed to a gurgle. You can see him swallow in your peripheral vision. “Can you look at me?” 

You take in what you hope is a subtle breath, turning to your boyfriend with a wan smile. “Sorry,” you manage. “I don’t know why I did that.” 

“It’s okay,” he says, brows bunched in the middle. Brown eyes like a puppy’s. 

He shifts his arms, a question, and you step into them. You do it more for him than for you, but the second Peter’s arms wrap around your back the last of the tension shudders out of you. You hug him back, rubbing between his shoulder blades reassuringly. 

“I scared you?” he asks, still in that soft voice like he’s afraid of startling you. It’s not really a question. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to get so mad.” 

“You’re allowed to be mad,” you argue weakly. There’s an embarrassing blockage in your throat. “It’s not your fault if I freak out, you should still be allowed to vent.” 

“No, but I know how you are.” Peter squeezes your shoulders. “I can vent without slamming things. It’s not nice.” 

You don’t have much of an argument for that. Still, “You really shouldn’t be the one comforting me right now,” you point out. 

A light hum. “Says who? I’m feeling a lot better already.” His hand climbs up to cup the back of your neck, his face turning down so his lips rest on your head. “Should’a just gone straight for the hug when I got home. Might have saved us both a lot of ranting.” 

You push your face into his sweatshirt, mindless of its dampness. He smells like rainwater. You don’t know how you could ever have thought, even for a second, that someone like this could be capable of hurting you. 

“I’ll make a note of that,” you murmur. 

“Yeah, please do,” Peter teases, pressing a kiss to your head. He pulls away and sets two still-chilled hands on your face. “Are you really okay?” he asks sincerely. “I know how scared you get, sweetheart. I’m so sorry I did that to you.” 

“You didn’t mean to,” you tell him, “and it wouldn’t be your fault anyways. I’m really okay.” 

Your boyfriend nods, but he still looks troubled. “Another hug for good measure?” 

“For you or for me?” 

A corner of his mouth kicks up. “Does it matter?” 

It doesn’t really.

[chaos-in-deepspace]

L&DS Sylus: Boobies | 18+ Drabble

Listen...I don't wanna hear it. I know I said I was gonna wait for him to come out so I could learn his character...BUT HIS BOOBS ARE RIGHT THERE GUYS! And I'm a whore. So anyway this is a ten minute drabble so don't expect much!

Pairing: Sylus x Reader Warning: Motorboating, Mentions of Edging Disclaimer: This is an original fan work for “Love and Deepspace”. Do not repost on other platforms or plagiarize. All characters shown in this fic is 18+.

Blog Information | Masterlist

Sylus

It absolutely wasn’t your fault…nope not in the slightest. If anything, it was his fault. Why a walking red flag had to be double caked up with boobs that you could drown in was unfair, unjust…a crime. So you couldn’t help yourself, especially not as you watched him box. His chest was literally jiggling and you were drooling.

“Hey…Sy,” you called out, finishing your own reps. Really the entire time you had been…distracted. Watching him was a workout for the eyes though. You had to concentrate hard to follow the bounce of his chest. Sylus looked over, his red eyes taking you in before he smirked. He was covered in a small sheen of sweat and he looked so damn good like this you didn’t know how to handle yourself.

He took off his gloves, tossing them to the side as he walked over with a confident gait that had you already melting. Who knows what would happen when you did this…perhaps he would show you just how good of a boxer he is by punching your gut…gods you could only dream, “You’ve been distracted,” it wasn’t a question but a statement, “Mind sharing what had your attention?”

You licked your lips, nodded your head and hummed, “I am so down to share with the class, but first can you come a little bit closer for me?” you said. Sylus could tell you were up to no good, especially with that hungry look in your eyes. His steps seemed to echo in the private workout room and you shivered as he loomed over you.

“As you wish,” his voice was like a whisper and you bit your bottom lip. You had to do it…if not now then when would you? Nobody else was gonna do it for you, so now was the time.

Your hands itched for a moment, fingers wiggling and you could see Sylus’ eyes looking down and glancing. Your hands came up, reading to grope him when he caught both your wrists with precision. His eyes were only slightly wider as it appeared he figured out what you had planned. He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your lips, “Is that anyway to ask for what you want?” oh now you were in trouble.

Your gaze went from his lips to his chest, the way it clung to him was enticing and you swallowed the saliva pooling in your mouth before you actually started drooling, “If I ask will you let me?” you questioned, almost anticipating his rejection.

Instead you watched Sylus tilt his head, that cocky smirk was always present as he licked his lips, “Perhaps, but only if you ask nicely,”

You took a deep breath, “Sylus…” you began, steeling yourself, “May I please put my face in your boobies and go brrrrrrrrrr-” you made sure to shake your head with the motion. He stared at you, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I must say…I don’t think I’ve ever met someone as straightforward as you,” he sighed, then to your surprise he backed up and let go of your wrists. He put his hands up, “Go ahead, nobody else is here and I can see just how much you want it,”

This was a trick…right? Entrapment…well it was a good thing you didn’t care about all of that. You surged forward, grabbing both sides of his boobs and smashing your face in the middle. You squeezed them until it engulfed your cheeks and you made an obnoxious noise like a motorboat. It was the happiest moment of your life as you stilled, just soaking in the moment of being squished against his bosom. 

Then be backed away, his hands roaming over your sides, “Now then,” he began, noticing how content you looked, “Since I’ve given you something you really wanted,” he began walking back towards one of the walls. You were confused, looking down at him with how he was holding you up. Your back hitting the cold wall and your eyes widened. Wait…wait.

“Now I get what I want…isn’t that fair?” His face ghosted over your thighs and you shivered.

“Wait…Sy…we can talk about this,” you began, knowing exactly what would happen if you let him. Flashbacks of him edging you for literal hours went through your mind, and it seemed he was happy you caught on.

“Fair is fair…now open up,”

I regret...nothing

[talesofesther]

𝔈𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔞 𝔉𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢

↳ 𝐂𝐡 𝐭𝐰𝐨: 𝐀 𝐭𝐨𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬

Aemond Targaryen x Reader/fem!OC

Series Summary: You made a promise to Aemond once, when you were young and naive, and the only friend he'd ever known; yet you abandoned him before you could fulfill it. Between broken bonds, a betrothal, and flames that still burn deep within you; this is the story of how you fell apart and found each other again.

A/N: This chapter is a little event-heavy at parts, I hope it's not boring, but all is essential to the plot. <3

Word count: 4,9k

Masterlist | Previous chapter

There would be a supper.

The whole family united once again at the Red Keep, Viserys had said; had wished.

You, along with Helaena, Baela, and Rhaena decided to get ready together. Helaena had been a good friend to you during your stay at the Keep when you were younger, and she, unlike Aemond, had been overjoyed with your return; welcoming you with a tight hug and wide smile.

Now, you stood before the tall mirror in the princess' private quarters, slowly twirling in your heels as you held the fabric of the black and gold dress she'd given you.

"Oh, you look divine, it suits you brilliantly," Helaena exclaimed, softly clapping her hands together. She came to stand behind you, clasping a golden necklace around your neck. A finishing touch, as she'd said earlier.

"Are you sure?" You asked timidly, glancing between Helaena and your sisters who sat on her bed waiting for you.

Baela nodded, a smirk stretching her lips, "It's beautiful, sister, dare I say that perhaps you should indulge in gowns and dresses more often." Her tone was playful, she knew you better than that already.

You scoffed halfheartedly, looking down at yourself and the rich dress you wore—intricate golden details were sewn into the dark fabric, the skirt wasn't bulky but it was long enough to prompt you to take care of where you'd be stepping. "I can only imagine trying to ride with something like this."

"Maybe if you spent less time on dragonback and more time being a proper lady you wouldn't have to wonder," Baela teased, raising a brow at you and holding back a chuckle.

Your cheeks warmed up, it was true that more often than not you favored the company of your dragon over other people; finding an easeness to being yourself when her fiery gaze held nothing but devotion for you. Yet you narrowed your eyes at your sister, "And you set a fine example, do you, sister?"

Baela simply shrugged, falling into a fit of giggles shortly after. You, Helaena, and Rhaena couldn't help but join in, as the last rays of sunlight seeped through the thin curtains.

─── ⋄✧⋄ ───

The arrangements for the supper started being made as soon as the sun vanished on the horizon, a large table set with the finest of feasts, illuminated by several candlelights and torches as the maids brought forth tray after tray of fruits, meat, bread, and wine. A small group of musicians even stood at one corner of the room to provide entertainment.

As the King wished, the whole family was indeed present. You and the girls were the last to walk in before Viserys arrived. Baela and Rhaena kept on towards their seats beside Jace and Luke respectively, while you hung back when Helaena tugged at your hand.

You turned to the Princess then, taking hold of her other hand as well. From the corner of your eyes, past the table and the figure of Aegon, you caught a glance of Aemond; his brother spoke with him but he didn't appear to be listening as his eye met yours. He looked at you rather unabashedly, a barely there smile hinting at the corner of his lips as he gave you a curt nod in greeting.

"Tell me you'll be staying."

Halaena's voice captured your attention again before you could react to Aemond, and your gaze fell back onto her.

She squeezed your hands, "For a while, at least," she smiled, a little shy but genuine, "I could use the company."

"I-" You hesitated, unsure if it was even up to you to decide. You settled for giving her what you hoped was a reassuring smile in turn, "I can certainly try to."

It seemed to be enough to lift her spirits, as she let go of your hands to walk toward her seat at one side of the large table, while you headed for the other, closer to your father.

Viserys finally arrived, his chair being carried by four guards as it would be too much effort for him to walk. Everyone stood up, out of respect for their King, father, grandsire, and uncle. The silence was held in the warmly lit room until he was in place beside Queen Alicent.

One of the nearby guards pulled a chair out for you when everyone sat down again and you thanked him with a nod and a smile. You were sitting at one end of the table, just beside Rhaenyra and your father, and Aemond happened to sit at the opposite end, looking directly in your direction.

You refrained from meeting his stare again, part of you could feel the tension lying heavily in the air and, amidst so many other people, you found it best to ignore and avoid questioning and curious glances. Instead, you noticed Rhaenyra looking at you, one hand resting atop her pregnant belly and the other holding her chalice of wine, a gentle smile on her features. "You look lovely, darling."

Glancing down at your hands in timidness, you mimicked her smile; "Thank you, you do as well."

Much like Laena before her, Rhaenyra had always been kind to you. When Rhaenys had taken Baela to ward on Driftmark, Rhaenyra had subconsciously done the same to you, she'd treated and educated you as her own; While Daemon taught you how to handle a sword, she'd shown you everything she'd learned as a young princess at the royal court, as well as lessons in High Valyrian—which you caught on pretty quickly and had the time of your life rubbing on Jace's face, dropping random lines in the old language only to watch him roll his eyes halfheartedly.

Daemon would usually try to hide a smile whenever he caught you and Rhaenyra together, just as he is now.

"How good it is, to see you all tonight," Viserys spoke slowly, his voice tired and taking much effort off him, drawing everyone's attention, "Together."

Alicent suggested a prayer before eating, and so you drew your hands together atop the table and closed your eyes. While she spoke you felt the familiar weight of Aemond's gaze on you; the waters were still murky between you and him, and despite having already exchanged a few words, you still didn't have a single clue of where you stood with each other. Things still felt… strange and out of place, the invisible wall dividing you stood ever so high.

Viserys then proceeded to raise a toast to both Jace and Luke, and their betrothed Baela and Rhaena; with a special mention to Luke being the future Lord of the Tides.

You raised your cup along with everyone else, a small smile hanging on your lips as you inclined it towards Luke before taking a sip; stealing a smile from the young boy in return.

With a tap of his cane on the floor, the King stood up from his seat, albeit with slow and unsteady movements as his body barely supported his weight anymore. "It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow, to see these faces around the table," Viserys spoke, taking a steadying breath between each word as he looked around at every member of his family. "The faces most dear to me in all the world, yet grown so distant from each other in the years past."

At the other end of the table, Aemond's heart bled at the last of his father's words. He clenched his jaw, eye remaining downcast, and observed the gentle flickering of the candlelights atop the table. He refused to look up again as he knew he'd get trapped by how the golden light of the fires highlighted the outlines of your face, as you offered that kind smile of yours ever so freely to the very people who'd once hurt him.

The one-eyed prince wanted to be angry at you, to say he didn't care whether you now favored Rhaenyra's bastards over him. But a more stinging feeling decided to take hold of his heart, and he felt bitter and hurt with envy… and longing.

Viserys then removed his golden half-mask, exposing his decaying face. "My own face… is no longer a handsome one," he jested with a bittersweet grin, "If indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am." The King gestured at himself, his voice holding as much conviction as he could muster, "Not just a King, but your father. Your brother. Your husband. And your grandsire. Who may not, it seems, walk for much longer among you."

The room held the silence for a moment, everyone feeling the grim reality hang heavy in the air. Aemond chanced a glance up then, only to find your eyes already on him. The prince gulped, closing his hand into a fist as he held your gaze; gentle, welcoming, caring. For someone who had abandoned him, you still insisted on looking at him with unbridled sympathy.

"Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts," The King insisted, "The crown cannot stay strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. My firstborn, Rhaenyra, will assume the throne once I'm gone, and I wish her rule to be as peaceful as mine. With her family stood by her side." Viserys weakly hit the table to accentuate his point, looking around himself as everyone remained quiet yet with attention trained on him.

"So set aside your grievances." Around the table people from both sides of the family looked at each other, the unspoken tension still present, anyone would be able to see it. "If not for the sake of the crown, then for the sake of this old man... Who loves you all, so dearly." Viserys finished at last, falling back onto his chair as the exertion of speaking took its toll.

Rhaenyra was the first to raise her cup, in a toast to Queen Alicent, who in turn, raised her own cup to the Princess. Both seemingly rather committed to acquiescing to the King's wishes for peace and unison.

Their sons, however, had diverging ideas.

Aegon had been having quite the fun teasing Jace about his new betrothal, and you nearly choked on your wine when the Velaryon boy suddenly slammed his fists on the table, standing up. You glared at him as you set down your chalice, even if he wasn't looking at you.

At the other end of the table, Aemond slowly got up from his chair as well, keeping quiet yet with a narrowed, nearly taunting eye. You brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of your nose, entirely fed up with the boys' antics.

With a tight smile and a voice bordering on sarcastic, Jace raised his cup; "To Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond, we have not seen each other in years," he glanced in your direction for a moment, yet you couldn't read what his look meant, "But I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we can yet be friends and allies. To you and your families good health, dear uncles." Bringing his cup to his lips, Jace finished his toast with a teasing grin.

You played along, bringing your chalice back to your lips as well to hide a chuckle. Eyes ahead, you held Aemond's gaze while you took a slow sip, watching as he settled back in his chair. Candlelight burned within his pupil, there was a barely there sway to his lips as he took a sip of his drink as well.

"I would like to toast Baela and Rhaena," Helaena started, getting up and holding her cup as she turned to your corner of the table. "They'll be married soon. It isn't so bad, mostly he just ignores you," she spoke, tone soft despite the lamentable words, "Except sometimes when he's drunk."

You shot her a sympathetic smile when she finished, and when she saw you, Helaena quickly added; "And to my good friend," she spoke your name with fondness, "Whom I've missed dearly, and hope to share more days together, before she leaves again."

"I hope so too," you mouthed to her with an even bigger smile, raising your cup high before bringing it to your lips again. The wine burned down your throat in a mix of bitter and sweet, and you turned to Aemond out of instinct, only to find him pointedly avoiding your eyes this time around; his head angled away from you and towards the band at the corner, his blind side now turned to you, eyepatch over the scar that brought telltales of a tightness to your throat and made you gulp down another sip of wine.

A cheerful melody began as the musicians played their instruments. At last, supper proceeded without interruptions; Jace invited Helaena for a dance, many more food trays were brought forth, and your family was happy, laughing and talking and being together as if this had been your normal for the past several years.

Yet for you, there was a gaping wound that was Aemond's absence, a doleful sentiment in your heart at the clear distance that still lingered. He still refused to look in your direction, instead keeping his eye focused on Jace and Helaena as they swirled together. You watched his fingers tap the table rhythmically, posture ever so straight with his hair falling neatly over his shoulders. It felt wrong to be at the Keep and not have him by your side.

You were in the middle of pushing food around your plate with your fork when you heard Luke quietly chuckling beside you; once, twice, and a little louder. The boy had what seemed to be a rather mocking smile on his lips as you glanced at him, with your brows furrowed in mild confusion.

Aemond abruptly slammed his fist on the table, causing you to startle and snap your head forward. The music stopped, and the one-eyed Prince raised to his feet, holding his cup high. "Final tribute," he spoke rather calmly.

Silence lingered in the room, and you could feel tension and apprehension coming back into the air as everyone waited with bathed breath. You glanced around yourself, sitting straighter, but ultimately your attention landed back on Aemond.

He held your gaze for a moment, and he had a smug tilt to his lips but the glint in his eye you couldn't decipher. "To the health of my nephews," Aemond continued steadily, "Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…"

There was a pause. With trouble a wrong word away, you knew. You furrowed your brows, shaking your head to Aemond almost imperceptively. He looked away from you then, focusing instead on Luke, who sat beside you.

The one-eyed Prince hummed, and grinned. "… Strong."

"Fuck," you cursed under your breath, feeling the weight in the air pressing down on your chest.

"Come," Aemond chipped, his smile widening and cup still raised high. "Let us drain our cups to these three… Strong boys."

"I dare you to say that again." Jace challenged in the same heartbeat, having stopped his dance with Helaena, his chin raised high and fists already clenched.

"Why?" Aemond turned to him, standing just as tall, "It was only a compliment." He walked towards the older Velaryon boy, a cocky stance and self-satisfied grin betraying his words. "Do you not think yourself strong?"

Aemond had barely said the rest of his words when Jace's fist collided with his cheek in a firm punch, forcing the Prince's head roughly to one side, his long hair flying with the motion yet none of his wine was spilled.

And so the brewing tension tipped over the edge.

Both you and Luke abruptly raised from your seats, chairs loudly scratching the floors. Luke barely managed to take a single step before Aegon unceremoniously pushed him face down onto the table, plates clattering with the disturbance.

Someone screamed; "That is enough!" Yet you couldn't really figure out who, as you hurriedly rounded the table. Why, you weren't exactly sure, but your heart was pounding.

Aemond easily shoved Jace to the ground, turning away with a chuckle falling past his lips as the guards proceeded to hold Jace from fighting back.

Everyone was standing up from their seats, some faster than others. Your father had a bored look on his features while Alicent and Rhaenyra seemed quite alarmed with the small fight unfolding amidst their family yet again, right after the King had begged for peace.

You stood frozen to the stone floor, breath hitching until there was a distant sting in your lungs. You couldn't help but think if both sides of the family were fated to be forever apart. And if you and Aemond were to share the same destiny.

"I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, mother," Aemond explained without an ounce of shame when Alicent grasped at his arm—as mothers do with misbehaving children, you couldn't help but think.

A low hum fell past Aemond's lips again and he pried his arm free from Alicent's hold, in favor of taking a few steps closer to Jace, bordering on provocative; "Though it seems my nephews aren't quite as proud of theirs."

Jace shook himself free from the guards who had been holding him back. He dashed for Aemond with reckless abandon, a furious expression on his features.

And you… suddenly all you saw was your best friend, blood on his lips and face held together by fresh stitches—doomed with a fate you'd die before allowing to happen again. There was a flame pulsing through your veins, it spurred your feet forward before you even had time to think.

You reached Aemond at the same time Jace did, and you came to a stop between them, one hand flat against Jace's chest, keeping him in place. You stood between them, unafraid, with a fury in your eyes—the same one people kept saying you'd taken after your father.

Seconds of silence trickled by ever so slowly, like drops of the thickest blood. Everyone's eyes were on you yet for the first time you paid no mind to it, narrowing your eyes and glaring through your lashes, you held your ground. Jace clenched his jaw and huffed through his nose, his eyes a mix of confusion and anger.

You could feel Aemond's stare on your back as well, yet you couldn't have a single clue what he was thinking, you only knew it was heavy and insistent. You couldn't know how the one-eyed Prince's heart started thundering inside his ribcage; or how any and all thoughts of striking up trouble had vanished like smoke in the wind when you stepped in front of him, when yours was the hand that stopped the Velaryon boy from attempting to harm him.

"That is enough, Jace," You spoke with a finality that left no room for argument or challenge, leveling Jace down with a step forward, which forced him to take one back and away from Aemond. "We are here to make amends, not make things worse." Lowering your voice, you tried reasoning.

Jace scoffed indignantly at you, he seemed to have other words on his tongue but decided to bite them back. Instead looking at you with a scowl on his face; "You tell him that", he nodded toward Aemond, who stood behind you with a small yet proud smile.

"Go to your quarters. All of you, go. Now," Rhaenyra finally intervened as she and Daemon approached you, shifting a warning glare between Jace and Luke.

The young Princes hesitated, the oldest still holding a staring contest with Aemond. Yet when you refused to move aside he relented to his mother's orders and followed his brother, as well as Baela and Rhaena, to their quarters.

A shaky exhale passed through your lips when, slowly, the adrenaline left your body. Your shoulders slumped and you closed your eyes briefly, hearing nothing but the crackling of the burning torches on the walls and a few distant steps as your family left the room—supper most certainly over now, even if half the meals on the table were barely touched.

Aemond's presence was warm and persistent behind you; you could feel how he had come closer, breath almost fanning over your neck, but you didn't dare turn around. Instead raising your eyes to meet your father's gaze.

Daemon had both hands resting on the hilt of his sword. He regarded you with amusement, if nothing else. One corner of his lips turned upwards. You watched as his gaze drifted up and behind you, his expression hardening the slightest bit in what looked a lot like a warning, before he too slowly turned around and left the room.

You couldn't know if your father's silence meant something good or bad, but right now you couldn't dwell on it. Aemond took a step around you at last, his eye remaining downcast, yet a shiver ran up and down your spine when, as he walked past you, his hand brushed yours.

You kept your eyes trained on him as he slowly walked away, turning right and taking the path to a secluded hallway. After a few seconds of debating, you followed.

─── ⋄✧⋄ ───

Aemond's steps were not hurried, moonlight coming through the tall windows of the lone hallway created a silhouette of his shadow as he wandered. Waiting for something, someone. With hands loosely held behind his back and silver hair almost shining under the soft light, he seemed… serene.

Yet the Prince was anything but, his eye was hazy and unfocused whilst his mind drifted. It had taken him off-guard, how you stood between him and Jacaerys, one hand firmly holding the bastard back; and if Aemond didn't know better, he'd dare say there had been a protective aura to your presence then, undeniable and unwavering, as you shielded him—the mere thought of it left Aemond lightheaded as his heart picked up pace, and he decided it'd perhaps be too dangerous to indulge.

But you had taken his side, nonetheless. Against his own volition, Aemond found himself smiling.

"Had you been looking for opportunities to ruin supper?"

The familiar sound of the one voice Aemond had missed so dearly, for so many years, made him halt his steps. He kept his back to you, only turning his head to glance over his shoulder. He hummed, keeping his voice steady and neutral. "I don't know what you speak of, my words were innocent and true."

The low sound of your chuckle graced Aemond's ears, and he held onto his breath as you came closer. His eye tracked your movements, you circled him with your gaze down and the light of the moon shaping your grin, until you reached the stone walls beside him and leaned back in front of the tall windows.

Caught in your orbit, Aemond was drawn to you, taking one and then two steps after you; he stood before the moonlight and before you. He kept his distance yet never strayed far, trapped between two halves of his heart; one naive and bleeding with longing, and the other broken and still abandoned.

"Oh," You breathed, a glimpse of your teeth showing with your grin, the apples of your cheeks highlighted by the silver haze of the moon. "As innocent as a maiden."

"The night had been much too dull for my tastes, my lady. Wouldn't you agree?" Aemond raised a brow at you, fighting a grin of his own.

"Perhaps I would, had you not taken away my chance of toasting you and your remarkable sense of decorum." The smile on your lips gets a little loose having Aemond so close again, "Or lack thereof," you teased; he seemed oblivious to the warmth you felt.

Aemond clicked his tongue, glancing away and then back at you, "Shall I grab us two cups of wine then? Aegon tells me I should drink more anyway." If the light of the moon weren't so silver and bright, you would've seen the pink dusting his cheeks ever so lightly.

Another chuckle escaped you and Aemond almost joined you. And for a small moment in time, it was easy. For a moment, you were both eleven again, young and carefree and laughing together. Always together.

But the cold wind of reality seeped through the open windows.

"Se dārys eptan syt lyks," You spoke, becoming quieter and more careful as your smile dropped a little and your gaze raised in hopes of finding his. ('The King wishes for peace.')

Aemond pursed his lips, blinking once, twice, and you wondered if he felt it too. He took you in with a guarded stare, hesitating, until; "iksis bona skoro syt ao iōrtan rȳ nyke se nādrēsy?" His voice was tight yet devoid of much sentiment. ('Is that why you stepped between me and the bastard?')

You lowered your head with a sigh, avoiding his eye again and focusing instead on the ends of his long hair and how the silver strands contrasted with his Targaryen blacks. "Don't call him that," you mumbled.

"Why?" Aemond inquired in the same heartbeat, a little louder and urgent, "Because you've grown so fond of them over the years you've-" He choked on his own words, unable to speak them out loud as he felt the heartache inside his chest and around his throat eat him alive.

"Aemond." And oh, the sound of his name in your voice could make him crumble. You spoke it all soft and tender, and Aemond didn't know his name could be uttered with such devotion. You spoke as if you cared, as if you had never left. It felt like a cruel kiss over his gaping wounds.

You pushed yourself off the wall you were leaning against, one hand slowly wanting to reach for him. "I could never forgive them for what they did to you, but they are… family now."

But Aemond took a step away, straightening his posture and clearing his throat. The one-eyed Prince strived to keep his face devoid of any emotion, even if it was nearly impossible as a sharp pain started from the depths of his skull and eventually surrounded his scar—he knew a pounding headache would soon follow too, as it always did.

"Why did you do it?" Aemond mumbled, voice stiff.

You regarded him with an unreadable look for several moments, and then; "I don't know." You spoke in an almost unheard breath.

It felt as if a dragon stood in the lone hallway with you, threatening to burn both you and him; the heat of its flames looming in the corners since the first time you saw each other again. With your heart in your mouth, you asked what perhaps both of you had been avoiding until now.

"You stopped sending me letters, why?"

It caught him off guard, you saw it in the way Aemond turned his head from you with a grimace, his jaw tight. "It became pointless... after such a long time. Did it not?" He looked at you again only after he spoke, there was something accusatory in his eye; or that's what he wanted you to see.

You mulled over the words, and something akin to boldness—or desperation—urged you to take a step closer to him. "Aemond, our time apart," your lips hung open and you fidgeted with the fabric of your dress, "I never meant for it. It was never my intention to stay away for so long." You promised, looking Aemond in the eye after seven years of only ever seeing him in your memories and dreams.

Aemond's face did something complicated, like he was sorting through how he should feel about this. His brows scrunched and you could hear his breath catching as he stood unmoving.

"My father… he thought it best that I didn't leave Dragonstone on my own." You ran your tongue over your dry lips, "And I… didn't fight him." The last of your words were spoken with a defeated sigh, loaded with regret.

"I could have gone to you," Aemond uttered, almost whimpered. The corner of his lips raised in a half smile that held nothing but pain as his eye pooled with unshed tears that blurred your silhouette. "Had you only asked."

Both of you hung by a thread under the weight of how much you'd missed each other, how much you wished for nothing more than to fall into a forever embrace; and yet, none of you felt entitled to it. You were finally within arm's length of each other again, yet it felt like you'd never been further apart.

"Perhaps I should have," you whispered to him, and it felt a lot like a loss, of something you'd only just found again.

For a moment you and Aemond held each other's gazes, both filled with tears of sorrow and longing; and even so, both reaching the mutual agreement that something had been lost.

Time.

The time lost couldn't be returned, the distance still lingered, and rebuilding would take time and care.

Aemond still believed you'd stopped caring for him, sometime during those seven years. An evil part of his heart sometimes whispered to him that you never did care, that you were like the others, and he feared that perhaps the only friend he knew wasn't even his to lose.

And you now believed that Aemond held only resentment toward you, that your connection had been forever stained; and you couldn't help but feel guilty for it, for not fighting harder to come back to him.

If only you and he knew the depth of the love you still felt for each other, things would be ever simpler.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

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[nyoomerr]

i think it’d be really funny if for a fic drabble it’s just hot food blogger luo binghe who’s dated every woman on the block scrambling cuz he thinks his boyfriend who hes totally gone for likes another man’s cooking more then his (jokes on him, shen yuan’s talking about HIS videos, he just doesn’t wanna admit it)

picky food critic sy and mean but brilliant chef lbh is one of my favorite pairings in the world, actually

---

Luo Binghe had always taken pride in both his cooking and his presentation. 

When he was younger, the meals he made served as a tribute to his mother. He ate well both because he knew she’d have wanted it for him and because the part of himself that would always be a hungry child of a poor single mother couldn’t stand the thought of being able to eat good food and choosing not to.

Then, when he was a bit older, cooking presented a new, more literal value: money. The daughter of a rich businessman had taken an interest in Luo Binghe from the meals he brought in to school, and Luo Binghe had by then already become wise to the fact that using empty-headed rich kids like her could pull a person out of the station they were born to. Luo Binghe used that girlfriend’s money to put himself through the first year of college; after that, he found someone with deeper pockets and won them over with his cooking as well. 

Well. Perhaps by that point Luo Binghe had learned how to win a woman over with more than just his cooking, but seduction was temporary. A woman would sleep with a pretty man that could promise to be a good lay; she’d only empty her wallet for a man who could measure up as something more permanent, and providing her with good food was the most surefire way to prove a man’s worth as a longterm boyfriend. 

So Luo Binghe cooked for his mother, and for his own hunger, and for the bills he had to pay by means of vapid girls who he cared little for but were easily swayed by good food.

After college, Luo Binghe became a chef, and then a sous chef, and then a head chef of a restaurant that he more or less controlled completely. He made a name for himself beyond being known as the pretty gold digger who’d dated half a dozen rich young ladies, and a wealth of his own that only multiplied when he began raking in advertiser’s money from blogging about his food on top of just selling it.

Luo Binghe’s food was good, and he knew exactly how to use it to position himself advantageously through life until he didn’t need advantages anymore. It had given Luo Binghe his life and his wealth and - most recently - his love, so Luo Binghe had no reason to feel anything but confidence in it.

“Binghe, can we have mapo tofu tonight? I’ve been craving some ever since I saw that video that’s been going around, ah, it looked so good…”

Luo Binghe feels his eye twitch. Nothing but confidence, he reminds himself.

“It’s rare for Shen-ge to want food he saw online,” Luo Binghe says sweetly, without answering Shen Yuan’s question at all.

“Is it?” Shen Yuan asks, not looking up from his phone. He’s currently sprawled inelegantly over Luo Binghe’s couch, giving Luo Binghe a perfect view of the way his shirt rides up, teasing him with a perfect sliver of Shen Yuan’s soft stomach. “I feel like I end up eating the food I see online way more frequently than the average guy, honestly.”

“Shen-ge frequently eats it; it’s rare for him to want to eat it,” Luo Binghe clarifies.

After all, this is how Luo Binghe had met Shen Yuan, the harshest food critic online. Luo Binghe had idly thought the small challenge of getting such a picky eater to endorse his food would have been good for his business, and invited him to try some. 

Shen Yuan had accepted. He’d then proceeded to eat Luo Binghe’s food with an enthusiasm, blissed out expression, and a symphony of erotic noises that had Luo Binghe, known playboy and talented sex-haver, feeling as if he’d just experienced the sexual awakening of a teen facing their first set of nudes.

That was fine, though, because Luo Binghe would simply seduce Shen Yuan the same as any other pretty face that could be swayed by good food, and - 

- and Luo Binghe could let Shen Yuan stay a bit longer, if only to hear the earnest way he praised Luo Binghe’s cooking and wished to hear about what it meant to Luo Binghe and asked if he could help Luo Binghe with the dishes -

- and inviting Shen Yuan back again and again would be strategic, because being the only chef who managed to not only wring a five star rating but a glowing review from such a notoriously harsh critic had been quite good for Luo Binghe’s business after all -

- and adjusting his menus to both suit Shen Yuan’s preferences and lean into heavier, fattier meals was good for Luo Binghe personally, because a lifetime of being a picky eater had let Shen Yuan grow up into skin and bones, which was bad for both Luo Binghe’s tiny remaining morality that was reserved for feeling bad for people who looked hungry and Luo Binghe’s sex life, since someone so skinny wasn’t very good for holding -

- and somehow, in the past year, Luo Binghe’s life has once more given cooking a new meaning: it’s what brought Shen Yuan to him, and got Shen Yuan to stay, in a way far more meaningfully than it ever got those rich young ladies to stay with Luo Binghe in the past.

It has also allowed Luo Binghe to grow into an ugly, wretchedly possessive thing, knowing that Shen Yuan likes his food best, that it’s his food that has filled in the little fat on Shen Yuan’s hips and thighs. A part of Luo Binghe becoming a part of Shen Yuan, and Shen Yuan enjoying it -!

“Well,” Shen Yuan says, “I want to eat this food. So - mapo tofu?”

Luo Binghe grinds his teeth. It makes the possessive parts of him howl that his picky eater boyfriend could be made hungry by another chef; if Shen Yuan had not specifically asked Luo Binghe to make the meal for him, and instead had genuinely sought out the online chef, Luo Binghe might have truly snapped.

…Perhaps this is a level of ownership that Luo Binghe should not feel over Shen Yuan’s eating, if their relationship is to be a healthy one. After all, if Shen Yuan were to ever be apart from Luo Binghe for longer than Luo Binghe could prepare meals for in advance…

Luo Binghe resolves to never be away from Shen Yuan for so long a period.

“Mapo tofu, then,” Luo Binghe agrees, smiling with sharp teeth at Shen Yuan. 

Shen Yuan finally glances up from his phone, beaming at Luo Binghe. 

“My Binghe’s the best after all, ah!” He says, clearly smug with himself, and some of Luo Binghe’s irritation slips away. 

For Shen Yuan, he really…

…He’ll really make mapo tofu better than anyone!!

Luo Binghe had made some just the other day actually, for a video for his blog, but he doesn’t bother to make it the same way this time. Food made specifically for his cooking blog is always slightly altered from how it truly tastes best - it must be designed to look good for the viewer, rather than tasting or feeling good. Besides that, Luo Binghe is not above altering recipes before giving them out so that his own cooking would always taste best, preventing copy cats from stealing the clientele of his restaurant. 

And, more importantly, this is the mapo tofu that Shen Yuan has specifically asked for, spurred on by a impotent online stranger who probably made a good-looking meal out of luck and nothing else. If Luo Binghe makes mapo tofu that is only good in a normal way, it won’t successfully prevent Shen Yuan from thinking of that stranger’s cooking ever again, ah!

So: a doubanjiang sauce that Luo Binghe has been fermenting personally, rather than store bought, and scallions instead of garlic greens to suit Shen Yuan’s preferences specifically. Tofu cut into chunks that Luo Binghe knows will be just the right size for Shen Yuan’s perfect pink lips and tongue, and the final dish plated in a way that is messier than is presentable for pictures but will have a better ratio of sauce to food, and -

Shen Yuan frowns. Luo Binghe, who has not seen Shen Yuan frown at a meal he has personally made in all the time he has known him, feels a spike of panic. 

Is his food not Shen Yuan’s ideal, anymore? Has Shen Yuan found another standard that he prefers, another chef to feed him? No one could feed Shen Yuan as well as Luo Binghe can, he’s sure of it, so why -!

“This doesn’t look like the mapo tofu you made the other day,” Shen Yuan says.

Luo Binghe blinks at him. “The mapo tofu that… I made?”

“Yeah? Didn’t I say I wanted it because I got hungry looking at your latest blog post?” Shen Yuan pauses to take a bite of the dish, his eyes fluttering shut and a low noise in the back of his throat escaping him in his bliss. “Ah, fuck it, this is way better than I thought it would be, forget the blog post!”

Saying so, Shen Yuan digs in to the meal in earnest, and Luo Binghe is left to watch him as he makes peace with the fact that he had, in fact, called himself an impotent fool when he thought it was someone else who had made mapo tofu that Shen Yuan liked the look of.