#but i wish tumblr would let you mute instead of block

[alwaysbethewest]

.

[real-total-drama-takes]

I have a dumb question?

Why everyone mad at the smut?

But those say I would never draw questionable outfits to many said characters, but it's not smut they will say.

When I go on AO3 I was 12ish mostly was more not kid friendly or teen friendly, I guess.

My solution is baby gate:

We kick out all the kids and teens out. Call their parents, snitch on them for looking up smut, block their access to internet, and never let them grow up ever. In fact, we should ban total drama for the new generations because it's too grown up for them in general (I am joking... this a joke)

See that's not nice or solving anything.

Or other solutions we ban anyone from the fandom we just don't even dox them to point the take their own life (I am not serious about this too)

So either you think teenagers should never see anything related to smut to sexual to inherently grown in general.

So, do we raise children who are not our own and band together to ban them off Tumblr and the total drama fandom as a whole to save "purity" and protect the children in general?

Because most of you sound like the church.

I want safer ways of teenagers to grown up in general, do want teens reading smut or watching porn.... NO. I rather they not but I can't raise or control these teenagers.

BUT... I don't want them to end up like me.

I was sexual assaulted growing up a lot sometimes reading a safe smut scene between who teens that loved each other at that time made me understand what happened to me was wrong. I don't want to realize years later they were groomed, abuse, and used like sex thing because instead of exploring it out in a fictional space of writing then doing it in reality.

So maybe we should write more with tag only for adults, toxic relationship included, main characters aren't good people here.

Sex is not everything.

Love is not everything.

A lot of things aren't everything for many.

You sound like bitter old people, and I am higher than Jesus for not liking smut or ever writing smut.

People exist even if we don't want them too.

Smut and porn been here longer than this fandom as a whole.

We can do something about it but with understanding, respect, and without judgement as growing adults and adults in this fandom.

Also, you can mute writers, block, and call people out ONLY WHEN NEEDED TO!!!

Point in case this more complicated than it seems.

Courtney to Leshawna to Katie to Alejandro to Lindsay to Heather are often in sexualization, stereotyped, and fucked in manner that I don't like at times.

Like if you go I am writing this for letting you know from my own personal experience that I been sexualized or harassed as a child to teen as black teen like Leshawna or in case of Alejandro stereotype... I wrote this story to release my pain, confusion, fear, and the placed burdens of others off me for now in my story of fanfic.

You go WELL I DIDN'T LIKE IT AND THAT NEVER HAPPENS IN REAL LIFE....

Your ignorance is a privilege I wish I can say I crave as a child to teen. Unlucky for me I had to go through awful shit then if it's in my stories then why are you still here if your judgement is I don't belong to you- you who is high and mighty so damn powerful- even skilled writer at that.

You complain but not create.

You don't like what you see or read then create better and make it a safer place for others like you.

Shame is badge of honor at one's home were parents don't believe you growing up.

Some others are here to escape, some for joy and community, some for since 2007 times them growing up with this fandom but now we divide ourselves like we aren't in a fandom called total drama.

We need to address the fact that no wants to hurt child, we don't want any child to teens scarred or burden at a young age, but to not realize they themselves are people makes me feel like maybe we should do something in were maybe whole 2 weeks just teen/child friendly context for the new generation joining the fandom.

From an abused child to teen that had no sex education until 16 years old due to the lgbt+ club in my high school forced in my system after saving me from getting sexually harassed by an 18-year-old boy that I thought was being just nice to me. Now a growing young adult in therapy who can't live with themselves and what happened to me.

It's just cartoons and fandom to some of you.

Some people find families to love to reasons to live in brain rot of total drama.

I really like sillies here and the stories some you of you put on AO3. We can't always control what we like or dislike...

Some writer age them to 33s to 40s

But I will say I don't like 12 to 30 ship or rareships that only smut. That's problem I don't want to open up on

I don't like self inserts or OC dating Duncan and being friends with Gwen but hate on Courtney 24/7 or something similar to that only because that's my own opinion to deal with, but I am not like oh I would never... I am like could never and mention each time without doing something about it.

You know how I deal with it? Mute.

Even Block as last option.

So the point is we can do better as a fandom, yes! And no!

No because you guys keep fighting with yourselves more than anyone else I have ever seen.

I don't write smut, but I make drawing of the said characters in very tiny to sexual context, yet I am not like those awful smut writers!

Dude... you are at the level of the smut writers too. Bestie the glass house of the fandom is in shambles from the hot air and rocks we keep throwing and missing at each other!

So maybe tag as only mature and not for teens.

UH>>>>>>> there must be more I left out too.

I am fanfic writer, and I want to leave because I think I am more harm than good now with some of your talks what should not be in this fandom or what should.

I regret to inform you that I wish to cancel my mind and never wrote if it meant you guys were going treat me like I am in church again and I am their hopeful for belonging but instead everyone wants me to never be me or even be there because I am not like you.

I don't know how to please you when I am trying to just exist and write stupid cartoons kiss, be parents, and be mature.

Instead I guess I can only write 55 million words of 33 million stories of them never growing up, no kissing, no friendship, no affection, just drama and competition in general to please thy holey moley of the fandom.

Also we should write more asexual or queer relationship in a health manner.

AND STOP BEING RACIST TO LESHAWNA--- WHY YOU ARE LETTING HAROLD AHHHHHHH AHAHAHHFH DO THAT TO LESHAWNA

I am emotionally not okay, and I didn't know where I can say this. But the point is I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT FANDOM DO YOU WANT FANS WHO FEEL SAFE, HAPPY, AND CREATE FOR THE FANDOM OR SHAME ALL THAT AREN'T LIKE YOU OUT HERE.

LOOK THERE'S SHIT WE NEED CALL OUT AND NO ALLOW BUT ARE WE MORAL POLICE

DO THE HEAVENS SAY TOTAL DRAMA FANDOMS MUST NEVER WANT SEX OR GROWN UP?

I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON BUT YOU GUYS ARE FIGHT?

ARE YOU FIGHTING?

FIGHTING FOR WHAT?

FIGHTING EACH OTHER OR SAFER PLACE FOR ALL?

SOME US NEED JOBS AND BASIC NEED MET BUT WE GO HERE HAVE FUN THEN SEE THIS AND I AM LIKE WTF IS HAPPENING?!

ARE WE FIGHTING? WHY?

I need someone else to explain to me like I am 3 years old. To do less harm in general and understand wtf going on

[beesinspades]

i wish tumblr would let you mute people instead of straight-up blocking them. also the fact blocking doesn't mean their posts won't appear on your dash.....ugh why

[artofapeach]

I so annoying at petit princess right now. She have this anon that keep going on and on about how bad vivizepop is. But instead just ignoring it and blocking the anonymous, she just go back and forth with this anonymous and it getting so annoying.

Yeah, I get that! All this drama sucks and I just wanna move on too and constantly going back and forth doesn’t help anyone

Buuuuuut…it’s her account and she can do what she wants with it.

Who knows why she keeps going back and forth. Maybe it’s to educate others who may come across the post, maybe it’s to show the absolute incompetence people are with character design and Viv, maybe she actually feels like she can change anon’s mind, or maybe she’s just letting off steam! Either way, if she feels like she can handle answering those asks, she should be able to do so. Once she hits her limit, she’ll stop, I’m sure.

If you wanna be annoyed at anyone, be annoyed at anon! Be annoyed at all the people who keep bullying Viv! Be annoyed at the haters who keep barging into our fandom! At the actual big artists and animation names somehow thinking Viv “threw a fit over criticism”! Be annoyed at the people who actually started and continued this drama! They’re the reason why it’s happening in the first place!

I know I am! I’m SO annoyed! I lost respect for a lot of artists I had originally liked! And I wouldn’t mind complaining about it over and over again! I wouldn’t mind anon coming over here so I can give them a whole handful of sense! If nothing else just to let off steam and have a statement of the difference between criticism and bullying and how character design ACTUALLY works! I am so fricking upset at people’s audacity and being a keyboard warrior sounds pretty fucking good right now! Especially if someone dares to come on my account and talk shit!

This isn’t to invalidate your annoyance, of course. I think we’re all just sick of the topic, but we portray that annoyance in different ways.

Here’s a tip though! Leanne usually tags her asks with “ask answered”. You can go in your Tumblr settings and add that to your muted tags. That way, the posts won’t show up on your dash unless you specifically want to see it. And you can remove it from being filtered when all this drama is over (I’m hoping this weekend or something, internet goes too fast to marinate on a topic for long)

We all curate our own online experiences! I wish antis would realize that 😒

Hugs for everyone who’s been drained from all this! And remember that the antis are not the majority, they’re just super fucking loud X3

[gusu-emilu]

Ship: Wei Wuxian / Wen Ning

Summary: Wei Wuxian gives Wen Ning a heartbeat, but not in the way either of them expected.

Rated T, No Warnings Apply

POV Wen Ning, Burial Mounds Settlement Days, references to WWX's poor health, First Kiss, Pining, Cuddling, Presumably Unrequited Love, or more accurately: whatever these two have going on, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, and the inherent homoeroticism of necromancy

Ch. 1/2, 6k, read on AO3 above or on Tumblr below

Wen Ning has always known that Wei Wuxian is not someone to hesitate.

The moment Wen Ning enters the Demon Subdue Palace after packing up the last sack of turnips, Wei Wuxian grabs his wrist.

“Come look!” He tugs Wen Ning deeper into the cave, slender fingers wrapped around Wen Ning’s wrist. He grins at Wen Ning over his shoulder. “I’ve made some more demonic devices, probably my best batch yet. I’d like to see the impersonators down in the town copy these!”

Wen Ning steadies his balance, not fully recovered from Wei Wuxian suddenly whisking him away.

Wei Wuxian has never hesitated to touch him. Wen Ning still isn’t quite used to it, having grown up in a family of doctors whose every touch felt calculated, and among clansmen more focused on war and strength than friendship. Clansmen who rarely respected him, never mind showed him affection.

Even now, he exists in a constant state of volatility due to his outbursts of resentful energy. Every family member in the Burial Mounds is careful around him, even A-Yuan at times.

But not Wei Wuxian.

Wei Wuxian is entirely different. Has always been different.

The first time they spoke, Wei Wuxian had already been comfortable with casual touch. Wei Wuxian hadn’t hesitated to lay hands on him to adjust his archery posture—steady hands he can still imagine on his upper arm and around the side of his ribs, friendly pressure like a heavy quilt, as Wei Wuxian comforted and praised him.

Then the war began, and Wei Wuxian choked him in Lotus Pier—furious, merciless hands like paws of a frightened animal. Wei Wuxian hadn’t hesitated then, either. He would’ve fully choked Wen Ning had he not held back enough to let him speak.

Then the war ended. Now Wei Wuxian uses him as an armrest, fixes his hair, arranges talismans on him, even once tried to pick him up and carry him as a joke. (He'd been a bit too weak to manage it for long. Wen Ning hadn’t thought that part was funny.) Now he drags Wen Ning around by the hand, all without hesitation.

Had Wei Wuxian hesitated before raising him from the dead?

Wen Ning isn’t sure which answer would comfort him.

“Take a look at this one,” Wei Wuxian says as he places a stone tablet in Wen Ning’s hand. A faint black cloud winds around the tablet, the smoke’s path tracing the red fulu writings carved into its surface. “Still pretty weak, but I’m getting closer to replicating yin iron with just regular stone.”

Wen Ning glances back and forth between the tablet and Wei Wuxian’s tired but enthusiastic smile. His eyes are bright with joy, but dark circles frame them. He hasn’t eaten much in the past few days, instead focusing relentlessly on his experiments, despite needing to save energy to heal the stab wound from Jiang Wanyin.

But Wen Ning still hasn’t figured out how to make him rest. Maybe admiring the new batch of demonic devices will help calm his inventive frenzy.

He nods, giving a small smile at Wei Wuxian. “That’s good.”

“Weak yin iron will be much easier to use. Better for small applications here and there, less dangerous…” Wei Wuxian squats by the scattered piles of demonic cultivation tools and notes, rummaging through to find another invention, the tablet already forgotten.

The black cloud around the tablet continues to swirl, small wisps seeping into Wen Ning’s skin. The tablet feels more like a block of dust than like stone, but despite his dulled senses, he notices…something else. A second sensation.

A throb.

“Wei-gongzi?”

“Yeah?” Wei Wuxian says, squinting at a page of especially messy notes.

“Does…does this have a pulse?” The stone continues to throb weakly, more of a resonance than a physical sensation, its aura cold like resentful energy.

Wei Wuxian looks up from the papers, one eyebrow raised. “It’s still doing that?” He stands and takes the tablet, examines it. “Hm. This might be good! I’ll have to find out what flow pattern of resentful energy caused this.”

Wen Ning closes his hand. Strangely, he wishes for the tablet to still be pulsing against his palm. It had felt kind of pleasant, if disturbing. “Resentful energy can create a heartbeat?”

“Well, it’s not exactly a heartbeat. But yes, if channeled the right way.”

“…Does that mean I have one?” Behind his back to prevent Wei Wuxian from noticing, he presses three fingers to the inside of his wrist, where years ago Jiejie had taught him how to read the flow of his blood. A black vein of resentful energy now covers those lifeless pulse points. “I’ve never felt it.”

Wei Wuxian turns the tablet between his hands thoughtfully. “No…you don’t have a heartbeat.” Then he grins, one of those sly grins that crosses his handsome face slowly, as if an idea has rushed into him so quickly that he needs to pace his smile just to contain it. Wen Ning doesn’t like those grins, because they make something flutter inside him.

“At least, not yet!” Wei Wuxian adds. “Do you want one? I could figure something out—”

“No, it’s okay. I’m fine without one.” The last thing Wei Wuxian needs is another project to stay up all night for—least of all an unnecessary project that Wen Ning requested by accident. Wei Wuxian has done enough for him already.

“I’m serious!” Wei Wuxian says. “It shouldn’t be too hard. I can test it right now.” He trails a finger over the blood-red writing on the tablet and mutters a few words under his breath. The black smoke around it thickens. “Just something temporary, to see if the idea works.” He steps closer.

Nervousness immediately jolts through Wen Ning. It’s unfortunate that death has muted the nerve endings in Wen Ning’s skin but has done nothing to quiet his anxious mind, which is always at both its most overactive and sluggish around Wei Wuxian.

Wen Ning watches the tablet’s red markings begin to glow, watches Wei Wuxian’s expression harden to a chiseled concentration.

“Come here,” Wei Wuxian says.

If Wei Wuxian’s hunch works, Wei Wuxian will ignore his health until he finishes developing the method to give Wen Ning a permanent heartbeat. If it fails, Wei Wuxian will still ignore his health, this time trying until he finds a different method.

It’s best to not let him try. To give him a firm “no.”

But Wen Ning has never been good at those. Especially when it comes to Wei Wuxian.

He has also never been good at lying to Wei Wuxian. Although he must do so for the sake of Wei Wuxian’s health, it’s hard to admit that he doesn’t miss his heartbeat.

He misses many small details of his body. Jiejie had taught him the ways of Dafan Wen medicine, made him attuned to the evidence of life in himself. He knows how fast his heart rate is supposed to be while lying in bed, knows which pressure points she once worked at to calm his anxiety, knows the irregularities of the breaths he no longer takes.

He used to like his heartbeat, his breath, their soothing rhythm as he fell asleep. It was comforting to understand that much about himself, to follow this evidence of life, when in childhood a piece of his soul had been snatched and left the rest of him a puzzle.

Now the lack of this evidence of life feels like a testimony against him.

Wei Wuxian could return some illusion of life to him. Would be happy to do so.

Selfishly, Wen Ning wants him to try. Being a walking experiment has its unsettling moments—more accurately, a constant hum of discomfort—but there is something morbidly enchanting about letting Wei Wuxian mold him into whatever he envisions. Into the magnum opus of a genius.

An even more selfish part of him wants to beg Wei Wuxian to try, because how symbolic would it be for Wei Wuxian to restore his heart, of all things…

“Wen Ning?” Wei Wuxian asks softly.

“Okay,” he answers, and instantly regrets it.

Wei Wuxian smiles again, this time the smile he saves for when he is about to tinker with the Ghost General. Wen Ning has learned all of his smiles by now, and he still doesn’t believe that there is one specially for him. But Wei Wuxian gives him that reassuring nod, the warm curve of his lips, the eager yet slightly rueful glint in his eyes, and Wen Ning can only recall seeing that expression the previous times Wei Wuxian rewrote pieces of him.

Wei Wuxian explains exactly what he’s going to do and how the resentful energy will flow. Wen Ning nods, and Wei Wuxian rests a hand on Wen Ning’s chest—casually, moving without hesitation, like always. “It won’t actually restart your heart. Just give the illusion of a pulse for a few minutes.” He furrows his brow as his focus intensifies. “That is, if it works.”

The feeling of Wei Wuxian’s hand on the center of his chest is stabilizing, yet it sets Wen Ning’s mind into disarray, despite how many times he has felt this before.

Wei Wuxian closes his eyes, preparing to reroute the resentful energy inside Wen Ning.

A cool stream of energy enters Wen Ning. Growing colder, gushing rapidly—

Freezing—

Then over almost instantly.

Wei Wuxian opens his eyes. “Feel any different?”

Wen Ning feels a bit dizzy, which is new. He hasn’t experienced vertigo since becoming a fierce corpse. But that fades quickly, and soon he is left with only the feeling of thick fabric pressing against his chest where Wei Wuxian’s hand rests.

He shakes his head. “Do…do you feel anything?”

Wei Wuxian shifts his hand, presses harder against Wen Ning’s chest. Waits, then sticks three fingers in the groove of Wen Ning’s neck, and that feels nice. Wen Ning almost wants to hold his hand there—

“No. I guess it didn’t work.” Wei Wuxian sounds much more tired than before. He removes his hand.

“That’s okay. I don’t need a heartbeat.”

“You want one though, yeah?” Wei Wuxian begins sifting through the inventions scattered across the cave, perhaps looking for another device, perhaps just hunting for kindling to spark an idea.

Wen Ning had been too selfish by agreeing to this. Who knows how long Wei Wuxian will research this now?

“I don’t want you to start another project,” Wen Ning says, and the faint thread of anger in his voice is stronger than he intended, even though that anger is mostly directed at himself. It's been harder to control his emotions since resentful energy began feeding them.

Wei Wuxian looks up, startled. Then he grins and gives a small laugh. “Are you turning into your jiejie now? Bossing me around…”

The joke only strengthens Wen Ning’s resolve. It reminds him that he can invoke Jiejie’s authoritativeness. He has never been good at following in his sister’s footsteps, but calling upon her immovability is almost as effective at steeling him as resentful energy. “You should sleep or come help us outside instead of always working in here.”

Wei Wuxian rubs his eyes. “I know, I know. You’ve all told me many times.” He seems to regret the slight bite in his tone. He tends to snap once in a while, the effect of stress lashing out from behind his mask, but it always dissolves as quickly as it appears.

“I’ll listen to you,” Wei Wuxian says, gently this time. Wen Ning feels a wave of relief. But then Wei Wuxian smirks and adds, “For now. I really do have some theories I want to test.”

“But—Wei-gongzi—”

Wei Wuxian rises to his feet and walks over to him. Stands and looks at him for a while, then says, almost murmurs, “I have enough projects for myself.” He tucks a strand of hair behind Wen Ning’s ear, and Wen Ning nearly melts. “Let me do something that’ll make you happy.”

This is bad. Very bad.

Wei Wuxian isn’t even telling the truth. His projects are all for the protection of Wen Ning’s family, not for himself. But the fond touch, combined with the sweetness in Wei Wuxian’s voice, is already enough to make Wen Ning bend.

He would much rather take care of Wei Wuxian than be taken care of. But if he weren’t worried about being a bother, he would tangle his hair just for Wei Wuxian to run his fingers through it, to twirl and comb and braid it the way he unravels and reorders the resentful energy inside Wen Ning.

“You really don’t need to. Getting a heartbeat was just an idea,” Wen Ning mumbles.

“And a good idea! We all need more comforts around here, don’t we?” Wei Wuxian nestles three fingers in the groove of Wen Ning’s neck to search for a pulse again, his brow knit in thought. Despite himself, Wen Ning can’t help but be glad that he can feel that touch a second time.

When Wei Wuxian experiments on him, the tugs and surges of resentful energy don’t exactly feel good. It’s like ice cracking under his skin, leaving shards that poke out of him. Or like the bony hand of a skeleton yanking at his insides, ripping him apart and rattling the pieces around.

The pain and discomfort frighten him. Remind him of what Wei Wuxian is capable of. What Wen Ning is capable of.

Yet he finds enjoyment in the fear, in the icy fingers of resentful energy, because those are the shadows of Wei Wuxian’s hands on him, reshaping him.

And before Wei Wuxian experiments on him…that feels too good. The doting—almost loving—attention, the careful examination, mumbled words, soft touches…

Wei Wuxian pulls his hand away and brings it to his own throat. His glance darts around the cave as he seems to calculate something in his mind.

Then he grabs Wen Ning’s hand and presses Wen Ning’s fingers into his neck. The sensation comes delayed, but Wen Ning feels it.

A pulse. Wei Wuxian’s pulse.

Wei Wuxian continues looking around the cave and thinking, as if this is just another ordinary step in a routine. But to Wen Ning, this is—this is—have they ever done something this intimate? How can Wei Wuxian let him feel the rhythm of his pulse, of his life force, and act like it’s nothing?

Somehow that makes it even more intimate, that Wei Wuxian doesn’t seem to mind…

Wen Ning counts the beats to himself.

Too slow. Not by much, but Wei Wuxian’s heart rate is too slow for his age, his size.

Wen Ning would make a mental note to tell Jiejie, but he knows she’s already aware. Wei Wuxian’s health has been deteriorating since he stepped back into the Burial Mounds.

“Wei-gongzi?”

“Mn?”

“I…I have a different idea.”

Wei Wuxian lifts Wen Ning’s hand from his neck, but doesn’t let go. He smiles. “What’s that?”

“You can just give me the tablet.” Wen Ning looks down at the slab of stone, thin black wisps of smoke swirling around it. “I can feel its heartbeat.”

“You don’t want your own?”

He shakes his head.

Wei Wuxian playfully taps the back of Wen Ning’s hand a few times. Four times, to be exact. Wen Ning can’t help counting. “That heartbeat isn’t very human, though.”

Neither am I, Wen Ning wants to say, but he knows Wei Wuxian will scold him if he does. “It would be more than enough,” he says instead.

“You’re going to make the Yiling Laozu feel like a fraud if you let him give you scraps and call it ‘more than enough.’” He sighs and glances down at the tablet. “But you can take it until I come up with something better.”

“Then…is there something that you don’t think is a scrap?”

Wei Wuxian brings Wen Ning’s fingers to his neck again, and the warm pulse hums through his fingertips. “Well, there’s my heartbeat.” He winks. “I’d still call that a scrap, though.”

“No it isn’t,” Wen Ning blurts.

Wei Wuxian raises his eyebrows. Then his expression turns thoughtful. “Would you rather keep feeling mine?”

Wen Ning doesn’t reply, but he knows his face says everything. Not even rigor mortis can hide the answer.

“Forget about that useless rock, then.” Wei Wuxian pats his chest. “I’ll be your heartbeat for now.”

Wen Ning is sure that if he still had blood flow, he would be flushed. Panicked energy begins to twitch inside him. “N-No, it’s okay—”

“You don’t want my finest craftsmanship, and you don’t want my scraps! What am I going to do with you?”

“Nothing,” Wen Ning answers quietly.

“Yes, something.” He takes Wen Ning’s hand and tugs him toward the slab of stone he uses as a bed. “Hm. How should we do this? Maybe—”

“Wei-gongzi,” Wen Ning says, exasperated. He likes that Wei Wuxian never hesitates, never slows down—it’s attractive, in a frustrating kind of way—but it often leaves Wen Ning in the dust with his mind still sputtering and struggling to function.

“Alright, sit here.” Wei Wuxian gestures toward the bed. “If you want to,” he adds.

It’s pointless to ask if Wen Ning wants to. He wonders if Wei Wuxian knows that he doesn’t need Chenqing or yin iron to make him do just about anything.

Suddenly filled with dread, a dread that he is going to like this too much, he steps forward and awkwardly sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Perfect,” Wei Wuxian murmurs. He taps Wen Ning’s knee twice. “Spread your legs.”

Now Wen Ning is certain that he would be flushed if he were alive. “S-S-Spr—what?”

“Hey.” He smirks and points a finger at Wen Ning. “Who taught you to have thoughts like that? Don’t worry. I just need you to make room for me.”

Wen Ning gets out some garbled form of “okay” and spreads his legs, creating enough space for Wei Wuxian to sit on one of his knees.

Which Wei Wuxian does.

Sit on his knee.

He also wraps his arms around Wen Ning’s neck and pulls him closer until his cheek touches Wei Wuxian’s chest.

“I can’t do all the work myself.” He cups Wen Ning’s chin. “You have to move too.”

Wen Ning swallows—by habit, since he doesn’t really need to do that anymore—and positions himself so his ear rests over Wei Wuxian’s heart. He can’t feel Wei Wuxian’s heartbeat through the robes, but the gentle sound of thum, thum seeps into him right away.

Warmth, too. A lot of warmth.

“Good?” Wei Wuxian hums.

Wen Ning makes a small noise of contentment in the back of his throat. He fiddles with his hands in his lap, trying and failing to find a good place for them that isn’t Wei Wuxian’s legs. “I hear it.”

“Only hear it?”

He opens his mouth to object, but he knows that Wei Wuxian will spot the lie before it leaves his lips.

Wei Wuxian opens the collar of his dark outer robes and lets Wen Ning rest his head on the thin red inner garment.

Even warmer. Softer.

He can feel Wei Wuxian’s heartbeat.

He hasn’t felt something like this since he was a child. It’s…not what he expects.

Jiejie had taught him how to take a person’s pulse. How to place three fingers on each wrist and find the six pulse positions corresponding to the meridians of the body, to identify the different types of pulses—their depth, width, length, strength. How sometimes the pulse feels like beads rolling along a table, while other times it feels like the crisp pluck of a guqin string, and so on, each revealing secrets of the body, guiding how to best heal the patient.

All that knowledge had once been exciting. It seems mundane, now.

The medical analogies for a pulse at the wrist, Wen Ning realizes, don’t work to describe what a heartbeat from the chest feels like when it’s pressed against his cheek.

It’s like wading in a warm stream, sunshine beating on him. The gentle lap of current, its smooth rhythm—thum, thum—like the most natural and simple form of expression.

Wen Ning wishes Jiejie had instead taught him how to decipher a person’s soul by listening to their heartbeat, because with this strange, steady language reverberating in his ear, it almost seems possible.

“Now?” Wei Wuxian asks.

Wen Ning doesn’t make a sound this time.

He counts Wei Wuxian’s heartbeats and tries to guess how many fit into a minute. They remain like that, long after Wen Ning loses count, with Wei Wuxian’s warm body in his lap. They both relax, and Wei Wuxian’s heartbeat eventually fades into Wen Ning, like it’s his own.

His awareness returns when he notices Wei Wuxian’s heartbeat slowing even more. He pulls away, immediately missing the comforting solidness of Wei Wuxian’s chest, and looks up to see a calm, drowsy expression on Wei Wuxian’s face. His eyes are heavy-lidded and almost fully closed.

“We’ve been telling you,” Wen Ning says softly. “You don’t sleep enough.”

Wei Wuxian rubs his eyes. “You really are becoming bossy.”

“I just want you to take care of yourself.”

“You and your jiejie are like a pair of vultures. Circling me when I’m weak and picking at me!” He gives a wan smile and reaches around Wen Ning’s back to rub his shoulder. “But I appreciate that you care about me.”

Wen Ning absorbs the feeling of Wei Wuxian stroking his shoulder, the thrum of Wei Wuxian’s heartbeat still lingering in his ear. “I appreciate that you care about me, too,” he mumbles.

He’s not sure if Wei Wuxian hears, but figures he knows anyway.

* * *

The next day, Wei Wuxian lets Wen Ning listen again.

And the day after.

And the day after that.

It becomes a pattern, as reliable as the beat of Wei Wuxian’s heart. Wei Wuxian is more likely to skip a meal or lose a night of sleep than he is to shirk his self-proclaimed “heartbeat duty,” and Wen Ning begins to wonder if Wei Wuxian likes it as much as he does.

Then Jiang Wanyin and Jiang Yanli show up in Yiling.

That night, Wei Wuxian drinks like he wants to waterboard himself.

He forgets about heartbeat duty after that. Wen Ning lets him.

* * *

Two weeks later, Wen Ning brings a medicinal draught Jiejie prepared to the Demon Subdue Palace. The sun outside sank long ago, leaving behind deep blues and browns that bleed into the entrance of the cave. A single candle flickers on a rock shelf in the cave wall, illuminating the craggy wall and the floor strewn with bits of metal and wood and crumpled talismans.

Astoundingly, Wei Wuxian is not hunched in the corner scribbling away. He’s in bed scribbling away, his sleeves rolled up and his tied-back hair slightly disheveled the way they are when he digs in the mud pond for the lotus pods that won’t grow.

He hadn’t come out to farm since the day before. Wen Ning wonders if he’s fixed his sleeves or his hair since then.

Wen Ning steps over as quietly as he can manage with his clumsy feet and waits beside the bed, holding the draught with both hands and feeling a faint sensation of its warmth. “Wei-gongzi?”

Wei Wuxian presses the wooden end of his brush into the corner of his mouth. “Do you know how to make a Spirit-Attraction Flag attract only ghosts of a certain age?”

“…No.”

“Mn. I—wait—” He cuts off and draws what looks like disjointed pieces of an array scribbled in the margins around rejected brushstrokes.

Wen Ning lets him write for a while, then says, “My jiejie made this for you to drink.”

“And why,” Wei Wuxian asks without a pause in his writing, “is she spending resources on me instead of saving them for A-Yuan and the others?”

“You need medicine, too. Because your stab wound still hasn't healed, and—and Jiejie says your body still isn’t used to not having a gold—”

Wei Wuxian abruptly stops writing. Wen Ning clamps his mouth shut, and wishes he hadn’t said anything.

With a lack of pleasure that he fails to hide, Wei Wuxian scribbles a few more things, then stands up, slices a cut in his finger, and begins trailing red lines on a Spirit-Attraction Flag. “I’m going down the mountain to test this.” He looks over at Wen Ning with a softened expression and walks out of the cave.

Wen Ning doesn’t need him to say that it’s an invitation to follow. He always accompanies Wei Wuxian down the mountain. He’d rather Wei Wuxian sleep, but at least leaving the Burial Mounds always puts him in a better mood.

After they pass through the final protective array and the forest around the path begins to change from grim black leafless trees to green trees shaded blue by moonlight, Wei Wuxian seems to relax. But instead of testing the flag in the clearing where he usually does, he continues walking.

They reach the edge of the forest. A few clouds in the sky hide some of the stars, but the moon is out, a bright half of a silver coin. They pass the town from a distance, still close enough to see amber dots of light from the few lanterns lit at this time of night, but far enough that even Wen Ning’s sharp vision can’t discern clear shapes of the buildings. Wei Wuxian stares at the town once in a while, as if he can see something in the muddied blocks of light.

They enter a different patch of forest and stray just far enough inside for tree branches to reach across the sky again.

Wei Wuxian holds up the flag and examines it.

He lowers the flag to his side.

“Wei-gongzi,” Wen Ning says quietly.

“Yes?”

“Did you…”

He trails off when Wei Wuxian begins slowly rolling up the thin canvas. “I think I just wanted to go for a walk,” he says. “I’ll let the spirits rest today.” He sets the folded flag on a large rock and sits on the ground, his back against the stone, looking out at the plains and town from the recesses of the forest.

“I like walking with you,” Wen Ning says, and sits beside him.

Wei Wuxian usually buries his sorrow in his projects, in the crop fields, in his games with A-Yuan. This aimlessness is the closest glimpse Wen Ning sees of Wei Wuxian’s true state of mind. Wei Wuxian ensures that he is alone whenever he truly lets in his sorrow, but Wen Ning accompanies him during the times when he comes close. As if Wei Wuxian wants him to see—wants someone to see—but refuses to reveal everything.

No one else but Wen Ning has sat next to Wei Wuxian while he draws portraits for no particular reason (he never shows them to Wen Ning, but Wen Ning can guess whom he draws), no one else has slept across the cave from him while he mumbles in his sleep, no one else has wandered down the mountain at night with him.

Wen Ning doesn’t know if he should feel privileged or worried that Wei Wuxian lets him see this much.

He doesn’t think he deserves to know Wei Wuxian’s deepest thoughts, but he wants Wei Wuxian to pass more sorrow onto him, let him shoulder some of the pain. Wen Ning’s heart is dead, he can take it.

“Wen Ning,” Wei Wuxian says. He smooths his robes, adjusts his fitted sleeves. “I haven’t done heartbeat duty in a while, have I?”

“You don’t need to.”

“Maybe I want to.”

Wen Ning looks down at his knees, but Wei Wuxian scoots closer.

With their backs against the rock, Wei Wuxian hugs him in, rests his hand on the side of Wen Ning’s head, cradling him against his chest. Wen Ning tucks his arms away, trying not to touch Wei Wuxian, but Wei Wuxian takes one of his hands.

“It’s okay,” Wei Wuxian says.

Wen Ning waits a moment, wishing he had proper breath to steady himself, then carefully wraps his arms around Wei Wuxian, nestling close to his slender frame.

It feels different this time. Not because their position is different, or because Wuxian’s heartbeat is any faster or slower, stronger or weaker.

There is no purpose this time. It isn’t for Wen Ning to experience sensations more fully. It isn’t for Wei Wuxian to find comfort.

They are just two bodies cast aside from life, bodies that struggled to catch each other during their fall until they landed in each other’s embrace.

Holding Wei Wuxian feels as natural as his heartbeat, as inevitable as each thrum beneath where Wen Ning rests his head.

And just as fleeting.

Wei Wuxian is more alive than any person he knows, yet is wasting away more each day, having given up everything to protect the Dafan Wen.

And Wei Wuxian is not his. Only one thing ties them together: they have each made the other into a member of the living dead.

With whom did it start? Was it Wei Wuxian, who brought Wen Ning back as a fierce corpse, or was it Wen Ning, who held Wei Wuxian down as his core was removed? Or was it the world that did this to both of them?

But despite the thread of shared death that ties them together, Wei Wuxian could break that connection if he wanted to.

Wen Ning is bound to his family, bound to this unnatural body, bound to Chenqing's laments. He can never reenter the world.

But Wei Wuxian...

One day, Wei Wuxian may have the chance to belong in the world again. With his shidi and shijie, with Lan Wangji.

Wen Ning will always be banished to the margins of the world.

“How long are you going to live with us?” Wen Ning finds himself asking.

Leaves rustle quietly in the forest, clouds disappearing above their heads to reveal more stars against the dark liquid sky. An owl hoots questioningly far behind them.

“Until tomorrow,” Wei Wuxian says. “Ask me again tomorrow, and I’ll tell you again.”

“I can’t ask you that every day.”

“Then don’t ask me at all.” He strokes Wen Ning’s hair, over the back of his head and down his back. “I’m not leaving.”

Wei Wuxian continues playing with Wen Ning’s hair, running his fingers through it, stopping occasionally to work out a tangle. Not for the first time, Wen Ning wishes he could feel touch more strongly. He had dreamt of moments like these as a teenager, gentle caresses from Wei Wuxian, impossible moments. He hadn’t realized he would receive them one day after they had given up their lives for each other.

“When do you think we’ll get our next visitor?” Wei Wuxian asks. “Think I can make that Spirit-Attraction Flag into a Guest-Attraction Flag?” He chuckles. “We can hang it at the ridge. People will be drawn from miles to come talk to us. Tell Uncle Four to get lots of fruit wine ready." He fiddles with the sleeve of Wen Ning's robe. "I’ll have you test out the flag. Wear it like a cloak, and go walk around Yiling to see how many friends you make.”

“I can barely get anyone to buy turnips from me.”

“Change of plans, then! I’ll make a Customer-Attraction Flag, and we’ll finally be rich.”

Wen Ning smiles. “What are we going to buy once we’re rich?”

“Toys for A-Yuan.” Wei Wuxian rubs across Wen Ning’s shoulders, back and forth. “Every toy in Yiling.”

“We should buy every toy in Lanling, too.”

“That’ll need a lot more money. We’ll have to grow bigger turnips.”

“A giant one.”

“A single giant turnip?” Now there is real laughter in Wei Wuxian’s voice. “I’ll have to plant you as the seed to grow something big enough. Don’t tell your jiejie. Although she might figure it out when you disappear, and meanwhile a turnip the size of the Burial Mounds takes over Yiling.”

“I still won’t tell her.”

Wei Wuxian makes a low humming sound. “I can always count on you.”

Wen Ning melts more into Wei Wuxian’s embrace, surrounded by his warmth.

“Too bad that no matter who we bury in the lotus pond,” Wei Wuxian says with a sigh, “those plants still don’t want to sprout.” This time he doesn’t rub Wen Ning’s back or fiddle with him while he talks.

He’s never said something like that about the lotus crop without following it up with a confident proclamation—But when have I ever not achieved the impossible?, They’ll poke their heads out soon!, My lotus flowers will be the biggest you’ve seen, just wait!

He’s never left hanging the chance that the lotus crop might not grow.

Wen Ning waits for the cocky remark, but it doesn’t come. “They’ll sprout if you’re the one growing them,” Wen Ning suggests, filling in the declaration that Wei Wuxian missed.

“…Yeah.”

Wen Ning’s stomach sinks. He looks up. Wei Wuxian smiles at him and guides him to rest against his chest again.

“It’s only been two weeks. They might take a while,” Wen Ning says, his face nearly turned into Wei Wuxian’s robes.

“I’ll just cheat and make a Lotus-Attraction Flag.”

“I’ll help you.”

“Of course you will. You’ll also help me with the flag for attracting guests to marvel at the beauty of our lotus pond!”

Guests again.

Wen Ning knows that Hanguang-Jun had visited on the day his consciousness returned. Jiang Wanyin and Jiang Yanli had met with Wei Wuxian soon after. Both left marks on Wei Wuxian.

Is he thinking about them?

Wishing he had warmth of his own to give Wei Wuxian, Wen Ning hugs him tighter. He's not sure if they lower to the ground in one movement or slowly slide down, but eventually they lie on their sides, facing each other, arms tight around each other. Wei Wuxian’s heartbeat speaks, and Wen Ning listens.

I’m lonely, it whispers. I’m so lonely.

Who is there in the Burial Mounds for Wei Wuxian to feel the same affection toward as he feels about Hanguang-Jun? Or to provide the same comfort as the company of his siblings?

Everyone in the Burial Mounds has tried their best to provide the support of a new family for Wei Wuxian. He has even called them his family. But try as they might, how could the Dafan Wen replace his shidi and shijie?

The shidi and shijie Wen Ning helped Wei Wuxian save, only to steal him away from. He knows that it was Wei Wuxian’s choice to lead the Dafan Wen to the Burial Mounds and live with them, but would he have made that choice if he had never formed a relationship with Wen Ning and his sister? The thought makes guilt churn in his stomach.

“Wei-gongzi?”

Wei Wuxian runs his thumb in gentle circles over Wen Ning’s shoulder. “Yes?”

“Is that something you want?” He pulls away from Wei Wuxian’s chest to look up at him, though not quite into his eyes. “Guests?”

“Don’t take that all so seriously. If guests come, would they be as good of a drinking buddy as Uncle Four, or as good of a storyteller as Granny, or as energetic as A-Yuan? They couldn’t compete.”

“But you meant it,” Wen Ning says, surprised at the force in his own voice, quiet as it is. “I’ll help you bring guests here.”

Wei Wuxian smiles and brushes his thumb over Wen Ning’s cheek, the touch warm and soft like hushed words. “You’re already too good to me. Don’t worry about me.” He sighs and looks up at the sky. “Each of us will have things we want, but can’t have. It’s just part of living.”

Wen Ning, too, looks up at the star-studded sky through the dark silhouettes of trees. The full shapes of the constellations are broken up, but he can picture which stars are waiting behind the black hands of tree leaves.

As he follows the disjointed forms of the constellations, he decides that he will relieve Wei Wuxian’s burdens.

He is not sure at what moment he makes the decision, but it settles into his bones and becomes his purpose for the night.

Not just for the night. For as long as Wei Wuxian is by his side.

The day Wen Ning’s consciousness was restored, he had heard A-Yuan singing a song about walking the “single-log bridge.” Curious, Wen Ning had asked where A-Yuan learned the song.

“Xian-gege,” had been the answer. The song’s lyrics had been about Wei Wuxian walking alone into darkness.

Wen Ning will not let him walk alone.

If Wei Wuxian wants to walk the single-log bridge, Wen Ning will carry him across it.

“Will you tell me about them?” Wen Ning asks.

“About what?”

“The things you want, but can’t have.”

* * *

Thank you for reading! Next chapter is coming soon. If you enjoyed this fic, come visit me on AO3!

[dekumaxxing]

why do stannies intentionally irritate the people they “admire” to get attention im gonna lose it

[the-darklings]

—𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆;

—PART XVII. | ALL PATHS LEAD TO NOWHERE

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 38.7k+ (truly curious to know if i’m the biggest clown on tumblr)

summary: “Remember this moment. This is the moment you chose to face death.”

warnings: angsty, swearing, strong violence x 2 (I mean there’s two of them) 

notes: I’m so nervous for this chapter hahahahaha. But you’ve waited long enough, let’s roll on Parabellum. 

children of ares series: 01 | …. | 15 | 16 | . . | 18 |

There are moments—fragments, really—that shift the course of one’s life.

Be it for better or for worse, they mark a second in which one path ceases to be and another takes its place. Sometimes this change is brought forth by one’s own actions. Other times it’s a change that is not in your control.

It’s like being caught in the eye of the storm.

Unable to fight back, unable to do anything—just a ceaseless struggle.

The clock in Doc’s clinic tolls 6pm and you feel the path you were once on disintegrate beneath your feet. You knew it was going to happen the moment John fired that bullet but now it’s an absolute.

Your eyes press shut and you clench the tiny box between your fingers, your head bowed.

“I’m sorry, Mr Wick.”

John only grunts. “Rules.”

“Ah, rules,” Doc repeats in defeat though with no small amount of disgruntlement. “V, if you hurry—”

You stand without a word, pushing back the dislodged floorboard messily back in place. Your hand slides inside your pocket, securing the box in your hand.

“Thank you, Doc.”

You don’t look at him as you say it. Your eyes linger on the ring on your middle finger and you exhale, turning to go.

“Vipress.”

You don’t turn to face him.

There is disappointed in Doc’s voice. “You can help him.”

“Doc.”

John sounds wary, his voice a soft rasp. You don’t react at first but slant your head in their direction after a moment.

There are visible traces of pain across John’s features. His dark, wet hair sticks to his face and you gaze at him for a beat, silent. Just observing him. His dark eyes are focused on you as well. You’re not sure what to make of the muted hope you see there.  

It’s odd how different he now appears to you.

He’s still John but there is something else now.

Your eyes slide towards the older man standing next to him, only to find him peering at you with a minute frown. There is an expectation in that weighted, wise gaze.

“I don’t owe him anything.”

As simple as that. For the first time since Winston told you those words weeks ago now—before this whole mess began—you feel the truth of them.

You’re done owing anyone anything. Even a shred of your time.

“If that’s the case,” the older man mutters and despite your best efforts to keep your expression empty, his next words still manage to cut deep. “Then you’re no better than the rest of them.”

Your fingers form a loose fist. “And if I am?” you wonder softly. “No better than the rest of them?”

An icy caress of a question but Doc only shakes his head. “I know that’s not true.”

The tension in the air hangs like a suffocating blanket. The beat of rain against the windows reverberates through the room but there are no other sounds beside it.

“It’s fine, Doc,” John inputs after an uncomfortable pause, taking the bloody needle from the man’s worn hand. “Give it to me.”

You watch as John grabs the lamp, swinging it and a mirror in his direction so he can see his own shoulder. His shaking fingers push the needle into the bloodied skin and his expression twitches, his jaw clenching. As always those are his only tells of pain.

It’s slow progress though.

Slow, painful and messy.

Your feet move.

They carry you in John’s direction in a few unhurried steps, and you don’t look towards Doc as you brush past him, shoving the lamp and the mirror aside roughly. John stills when your fingers pinch around the hook of the needle, pulling it out of his shaky hold.

Pressing your fingers against the warm, bloody skin, you sink the needle back into his shoulder carefully, pulling on it.

“(Name).”

“Don’t bother.”

“I’m—”

“I said don’t bother.”

Your eyes meet.

Ice sits inside your heart; a rigid, unmoving thing that leaves little space for anything else.

It’s a foreign feeling to you.

That look in his eyes only makes it worse. It’s a look that belongs to a man from your past—the few rare times he’s ever allowed his guard down around you to see this. You don’t need his care now.

“Where will you go?”

You sink the needle back into his skin, not answering.

He grabs your wrist and your eyes snap to him, your expression hardening.

“Get your hand off me.”

He lets go but his expression is unyielding. “I can help you escape the city.”

“Why?” you question coolly. “Guilt getting too much for you, John?”

He doesn’t try to defend his actions this time, either, and you scoff. Readjusting your grip, you sink the needle back in. Almost done now.

“You could at least pretend to be sorry,” you bite out and try to block out the pain you feel. “If he dies—”

Your voice cuts off, a lump in your throat impossible to swallow.

Some remote emotion flickers across John’s expression briefly but you blink and it’s gone. There is regret there but you doubt it’s regret for what he did.

“I’m going to Casablanca,” he begins after another minute of silence as you finish closing the wound, wiping it clean so it doesn’t get infected. His words freeze you though. “Come with me.”

You stare at your bloodied fingers.

Your eyes find his again, and you only give him a cold and knowing, “You mean you’re going to the Elder.”

He blinks, a slight furrow appearing between his brows when he stands, buttoning his shirt. It doesn’t take him long to realise what you’re getting at. “So are you.”

“He has the power to overturn the Table’s decision.”

John turns to face you fully at that, his eyes narrowing.

The Doc stands to the side, cradling a drink in his hand as he glances towards the clock again.

“You know where he is.”

Not a question.

“No, I don’t,” you answer softly, distracted. “But meeting him is not going to be as easy as you think. You don’t find him. He finds you.”

John steps closer, his bloodied shirt halfway buttoned up and you use a spare cloth to wipe your hands of his blood.

“You’ve met him.”

There is a faint trace of surprise there but you don’t acknowledge it. “Again, it’s not that simple,” you say, shooting a wry look towards the clock. “No one just meets the Elder. You…”

You hesitate, your composure wavering, and when your eyes meet John’s again, you offer him a frank, “You have no idea what he is.”

Stepping outside feels like stepping into a war zone.

You scan the cramped alleyway, squinting through the deluge for any possible targets.

John is behind you, close enough to feel the heat emitting from his body, and you try to disregard the uncomfortable lock of your back muscles.

Ignoring his presence, you look back towards the Doc and offer him a forced smile.

“I’ll be back for tea in a week or so,” you tell him mildly though your voice wavers just a bit. “You better keep the kettle hot for my favourite Jasmine tea, Doc.”

“Best of luck, dear,” Doc says, and you hear the worn sadness in his voice. “I wish you good health. Both of you.”

He doubts he will see you again but you don’t take it as an insult.

“Tarkovsky Theater,” John’s raspy voice almost makes you jump. “We can get there in 10 minutes.”

You glance at him briefly, stepping into the rain, ignoring the shock of cold water on your skin again. “Not in a mood to watch ballet.”

You start walking down the alleyway and he follows after you. “Do you have a safe way to get out of the city?”

“No,” you answer honestly, your voice bland. “But I will soon.”

John brushes against you, his body tense and ready for a fight. For a good reason, too. You’ve both effectively just became two most-wanted individuals on the planet. John even more so than you due to the large bounty on his head.

“I have a ticket with the Ruska Roma,” he informs you and keeps up easily with your brisk pace thanks to his long legs. “I can’t change what happened but…”

Pausing at the mouth of the alleyway, you twist your body to face him, your eyes narrowed. The truth is that you would be a fool not to take his offer. Despite everything that has transpired in the last twelve hours, he’s still the safest option right now.

The issue is that shards of ice shred your heart every time you so much as look at him.

“(Name)—”

“Don’t call me that,” you bite out quietly but you know he hears you even over the pour of rain and the bustle of Chinatown. “I don’t want—”

A shift over his shoulder and you throw a blade at the blur of a figure. The metal sticks inside the man’s chest, his face contorting in pain as he collapses on his knees, his gun falling to the ground.

Stopped just in time but effectively leaving you with just one blade.

A movement of bodies behind the compact row of stalls catches your eye, more than one or even two.

John looks at you at the exact same moment you look at him.

“Run.”

You tear through the streets together, keeping ahead of the band of footsteps you can hear chasing you down. No guns yet and you count your blessings while they last.

John is unarmed, you know that much without needing a verbal confirmation, and one blade is not enough to face off against so many.  

Water clings to your lashes, leaving you busy blinking the moisture away to see clearly.

“Here.”

John shoves a door to a random building open, and you’re not sure if he knew it would be unlocked, or if he simply guessed it but you follow him inside all the same.

Breathing deeply through your nose to conserve your strength, you follow him up the staircase.

“I certainly hope you have some sort of plan instead of boxing us in.”

He turns towards you briefly. “Weapons,” he grunts and you nod in understanding, following him albeit reluctantly.

At least now you have a confirmation he’s aware of where you are after all.

The weapons around are old though, mostly antiques that are encased behind glass cases, and you’re not sure how many of them are in usable condition.

John—expert marksmen that he is—begins assembling a gun at once, pulling apart spare parts while you grab your remaining blade using the back of it to help you break the glass. Below, the door slams open, a thud of hurried footsteps racing up the creaky stairs and you straighten.

Detaching yourself from the torrent of worry and anger, you let yourself move.

John shoots the first man through the door with a gun he assembled seconds ago and you take care of the other two.

You share a look—a fleeting, cautious thing—and rush to the other room together, grabbing any weapon on hand.

For now, at least, you have no choice but to stick together.

The attackers come in a flurry after that.

They’re fast. Hard trained. Their attacks are successions of quick jabs and punches but you’re faster. You and John split apart, dividing forces and it’s almost easy after that.

The blade in your hand slips between your fingers with expert ease as you wrap your arm around one attacker, sinking the polished metal into the man’s neck once, twice, thrice—

A sequence of burying the blade deep into the unguarded flesh that spills blood everywhere. From the corner of your eye, you spot John on the floor and drop the body, moving towards him.

He throws himself backwards as knives sink into the wooden floor in front of him, his legs spread. He returns the favour swiftly, but unlike the attacker, he doesn’t miss. Every blade he throws finds its target.

Another man burst through the door and you throw a blade at him, hitting his shoulder. The man lurches backwards but doesn’t fall and John draws blank, his hands free of weapons.

“Axe.”

It’s the only thing you mumble as you launch yourself at the attacker pulling out the knife from his shoulder. You deliver a swift uppercut to his jaw with your elbow, kicking his feet from under him as you throw your leg over his body and wrap your arms around his neck. He tries to slash at you with the knife, cutting across your jacket sleeve. There is only a tingle across your arm that indicates broken skin but nothing more serious. That throws the man back though, and he doesn’t get a second chance to fight back before John throws the axe directly at his chest. The impact is strong enough to push his body into yours and you throw him aside, grimacing in annoyance.

Readjusting your jacket with a small huff, you shove your hands into your pockets to check that both boxes are still intact. Upon finding them, you bend down and rip your bloodied blade from the man’s hand, wiping it on his jacket before pocketing it, too. Steadying your breathing, you incline your head towards John who stares at you like you sprouted a second head.

“What?”

“You’ve gotten quicker.”

“You’re the one who once told me I have the potential to be faster than even you,” you remind him and step over the dead body. “I took your advice to heart.”

He’s still stronger and far, far more experienced than you. Not to mention a deadly marksman. Your speed is the biggest weapon you have against someone like him.

Aside from your poison.

For a second—just one—you entertain the idea of what exactly the outcome would be if you ever faced off.

Your eyes sweep over him, considering, before you dismiss the awkward tension between you and stalk past him.

He follows silently, recognising the very reluctant and fragile peace you’re offering right now. If only to help you get to where you need to go.

Everything is too fresh, raw, and you need time to process it all. A luxury you can’t afford right now.

The streets are still gushing with rainwater when you step out of the old building. You both scan the streets, cautious and tense, but there is no one in immediate sight, and you let John lead this time. You know where the theatre is but John seems to have some sort of shortcut in mind.

You feel his occasional glance in your direction, almost as if he’s checking if you’re still beside him, but don’t you acknowledge it.

You need more weapons. More poison. Desperately. But the nearest secure location you have is at least fifteen minutes in the opposite direction of the theatre. It seems like you have no choice but to put trust in John’s plan of using his ticket with the Ruska Roma. His past is still murky to you. He rarely shared anything about his life before Tarasov recruited him.

You only know that he was an orphan in one of the Ruska Roma clans.

John’s hurried footsteps suddenly halt, his body rotating to practically cover you from sight.

The blade is in your hand quicker than a breath and you catch a glimpse of smart-looking suits, a golden ring each—

John goes rigid at the sight of weapons.

You shove past him.

“Aspetta!” you call out loudly, raising your hand in a pacifying motion, stepping past John’s broad body. “What family do you belong to?”

Relief follows the recognition you glimpse on their guarded glares. The sight of you, at least, has brought you a window of opportunity.

“Salucci,” the shorter one answers stiffly, reluctantly.

A quiet breath escapes you, your heart beating fast but your mind races.

“Part of Cosa Nostra, no?” you point out, still in Italian, watching them closely. John is quiet but his presence is like dark, barely contained storm only a step behind you. “That means you are allied with Camorra.”

“You are Excommunicado,” the taller one snaps, his eyes narrowing on John. “No alliances will save you now.”

You huff a breath of reluctant agreement, bobbing your head in chagrined understanding. That much is true.

But the heavy, golden ring on your finger won’t have you accepting defeat now.

“Your families have been bound by blood and loyalty long before the Table was established.”

John’s stare burns holes in the back of your head but you don’t lower your guard.

The shorter man speaks first. “What right do you have to speak on behalf of our families, Vipress?”

Your trembling hand hangs in the air for a moment before you slowly turn it, revealing the Camorra head ring to them. It sits on your hand like a beacon, a crown, an order of indisputable authority and you see both men recognise it at once. Their composure falters at the sight of it and you scramble for any memory of Camorra’s words, power, influence.

You envision Giovanni and Gianna and Santino.

A family of nuclear power and control, twisted up and broken just as you often feel.

“As the current standing head of Camorra family, appointed by Santino D’Antonio, the last of the D’Antonio name, I ask that you honour that alliance,” you declare, cold and self-assured, and notice that your shaking hand steadies. “I ask that you turn around and walk away. Go and know that I will remember this kindness if you do. Or you can try and kill us and end up dead either by our hand or the hand by the Camorra’s Four. They have sworn their services to me until such time that Santino is fit enough to represent Camorra once again. What say you?”

Silence disturbed only by easing of the rain. Now nothing more than a drizzle.  

“It won’t be the first time our two families fought,” the taller one says, this time in English and his next words are full of disgust. “You are an outsider. Your word is not binding. You are nothing.”

Two voices hiss at that.

Make them regret that.

And another; lower, full of authority, but no less chilly: They are fools. They should be terrified of you.

Your lips press into a hard line. Behind you, John shifts, readying himself.

“It will be binding when my knife is in your throat, assuming it’s not my poison that does the job first,” you don’t raise your voice, you don’t need to. You channel something else, someone else; a phantom you have not conjured up for a considerable length of time. “Honour the alliance or blood feuds will be the least of your worries.”

A spark of unease—maybe even fear—and you find yourself relishing it. “Honour it or you will learn what happens when someone tries to wage war against Camorra while I’m in charge,” you state calmly and add an even softer, “Go in peace or you will have blood.”

Your hand drops slowly, not out of fear but because you have nothing else to prove to them.

The shorter man lowers his pistol first and nods at his partner to do the same.

The second man follows, reluctant.

The first man’s expression lacks warmth but he nods his head, a polite acknowledgement. “We may have been bound by old loyalties, signora vipera, but others will not be.”

You say nothing. Instead, you repeat a motion you’ve seen Giovanni do multiple times in the past, and press the hand with Camorra ring over your heart, offering them the tiniest of nods.

A sign of favour as you always understood it. Giovanni rarely gave them out and both men seem caught off guard by it as they shuffle backwards and towards their car. They get inside and the car crawls away in reverse.  

You keep your eyes on it, ignoring John’s attentive stare on you. The surprise you feel radiating from him even if he doesn’t voice it.

Acting boss of Camorra.

The Camorra.

Yet it does not feel like a burden. Doesn’t even feel unearned.

Power suits you, cara mia, a memory of Santino whispers against your ear—now seemingly from a lifetime ago. Back during the blood feud with Albanians years ago.  

A gunshot rips through the air, a bullet whistling past your head as you fall back. You throw yourself to the side, rolling across the floor, and John hurls himself in the opposite direction.

More shots follow but it doesn’t come from the direction of the car. It’s someone from the other side of the street, sitting on a motorcycle and you glare in their direction.

Bullets separate you and John, and you know you can’t stay in your spot unless you want to be riddled with lead.

“I’ll meet you there!”

John’s expression hardens, indicting he heard you. His mouth parts and he moves as if to cut the distance between you but more bullets hit the ground and he drops back. His expression is deadly calm and that focused lethality will be wielded to a deadly result soon.

“Meet me there!”

Splitting up is the last thing he wants to do, you can tell as much from the strain on his face, but you don’t have much of a choice. Rising from your crouch, you prepare yourself for a sprint under the cover of the containers littering the area. Divide their attention.

You don’t bother with goodbyes.

You lock your muscles, draw a deep breath, steady yourself, and then you sprint.  

Same mistakes, same path, a gentle voice reminds you but you ignore it.

“You’re late.”

“What happened?”

You shrug carelessly, pushing yourself away from the building, and scan the street behind him.

John looks no less dishevelled than you likely do. His still-damp hair is splattered to his forehead and new additional cuts are visible on his face.

“Bodies,” you intone blankly and look him up and down before demanding a monotonous, “You?”

There’s a slight limp to his gait as he steps closer, grunting a dispassionate, “Bodies.”  

Getting here created six additional casualties. All mercifully unknown to you and it’s a small relief. You’re not quite sure how you would handle facing against someone you know or have a connection to. You don’t want to think about what being made Excommunicado might reveal.

John strides towards the receptionist booth, and the lady gives him the exact same, dry response she did you, “We’re closed.”

But John is not a man to be deterred easily. He grabs something—a medallion of beads and a silver crucifix—from his pocket and slams it against the glass with enough force to rattle it.

In under a minute the doors to the theatre swing open and a guard comes to greet you. You’re ushered inside under tense but non-hostile silence. John falls in step beside you, and neither of you lowers your guard despite the fact that this might be the closest he’s come to home in years.

The guards examine you both closely when you come to a stand before a table, a soft piano tune filling the otherwise quiet space. More heavily tattooed and armed men sit behind it. At least a dozen eyes drill into you. Befitting security for a higher up on the New York food chain.

John places his medallion on the table and starts removing everything in his pockets without prompting. A standard procedure for him.

You pretend you don’t see the silver viper ring he places on the table.

“Your weapons.”

That gets directed straight at you.

Of course.

No meeting the Director with weapons on your person.

You’ve only heard stories about the woman who runs the Ruska Roma in New York.  

Formidable individual if the stories are anything to go by.

John complies, removing his belt, though the cautious air around him doesn’t drop. You follow his lead, removing your blade and placing it on the immaculate tablecloth, except even more reluctant.

“Remove everything, Vipress,” one of the men grumbles in Russian. “We know your tricks.”

Your jaw clenches subtly and you become very, very aware of the two boxes nested inside your jacket pockets. Your two aces. The idea of them being in anyone’s hands but your own or select few you do trust coils your stomach.

Your chin tips upwards and you refuse to move, staring down at them defiantly.

The atmosphere thickens with tension.

John glances at you over his shoulder, his dark eyes guarded but you see a spark of pleading there. “V.”

You don’t move for another few, uneasy moments before finally burying your hands in your pockets and removing the twin boxes. Placing them carefully on the table, you cast a hard, warning look at the men before straightening. An unspoken warning.

With that, the tension eases a few notches and the guard gives the go-ahead for you to proceed.

John takes the lead, you beside him, as you both enter the dark auditorium. It’s empty with a lone ballerina practising on stage and a hunched back of a sitting woman visible in the distance. It surprises you when John hesitates, taking the sight in. He feels your brief glance in his direction and turns towards you.

A thousand things burn behind his eyes but he doesn’t say anything, choosing to instead begin the trek towards the spot the woman is sitting.

The ballerina on stage slips up, falling on the floor with a thud and in the empty, grand space the fall seems to echo. A dark, painful sound of yet another failure.

The dark-haired woman—the Director—barks something at her in Russian that you’re too distracted to register. The girl stands up, shaking and unsteady, as if she’s done this a thousand times before. It takes strength to straighten into a picture of perfect elegance and begin the dance anew. Your eyes linger on that poise and control, almost envious of beauty the ballerina is able to create with nothing but sheer will. That dedication to go on you can and will admire in just about anyone.

The Director, you come to learn from just one glimpse, is a woman of stern beauty. Dark red lips, midnight black hair, and a posture of a female who demands respect. The amount of jewellery she wears is only an indicator of her wealth and status. Proud and effortlessly in control of those around her.  

John, much to your mute shock, lowers himself to the ground. A humbling of likes you have never seen from him before. Head bowed and medallion wrapped around his hand, he appears more like a boy seeking repentance than a man who is feared by all.

The sight of him like this completely stops you in your tracks.

Director barely spares him a glance, her dark eyes cool, dismissive. “Jardani,” she greets, her voice and accent smooth but just as cold as you expected it to be. “Why have you come home? And brought a spare, too,” she adds, her attention coming to rest on you briefly.

Her stare is fierce enough to make you feel like a misbehaving child who has inconvenienced her by breathing despite the fact that you’ve never met her before.

John thinks for a beat and then extends his hand with the medallion still wrapped around his digits. Apparently the only response he can offer.

The Director looks unmoved, one eyebrow arching almost mockingly. “You present this to me like an answer.”

“I still have my ticket.”

His ticket. Ticket back home. The one place where he might be able to escape back to and start a new life. His homeland of Belarus.

But he must bury this dream, too.

He made sure of that himself.

The Director makes a small sound at the back of her throat, looking him up and down.

“After all the havoc you have wrought over these last few weeks do you truly believe your ticket is still valid?” she demands, her voice thin with poorly veiled bafflement. “You are too quick to forget that Ruska Roma is bound to the High Table and the Table stands above all.”

As if either of you could ever forget. Behind John, the ballerina keeps dancing and the music keeps playing.

The Director shakes her head slightly, frowning in disapproval as she stares down at the man before her.

“So this is how you honour me?” she bites out, every bit the disappointed guardian. “By inviting death into my home and bringing me a snake,” she pauses, her scowl easing, and simply takes him in for a moment. A brief shake of her head follows. “Oh, Jardani, look at you. What has become of you?”

What indeed.

You don’t look at him. From the corner of your eye, you still see how his head lowers though. Perhaps he, too, is wondering that same exact thing.

But when his head lifts, it’s not John that fills the space between you.

A low growl of Russian slips through his lips, a declaration and a demand all at once, and he finishes with a forceful, “You are bound and I am owed.”

The older woman regards him impassively, not even a twitch in her expression. You admire her composure. Not many can deal with John with as much poise as she is.

“Enough, Rooney,” she snaps—so loudly and so suddenly—that if it hadn’t been for years of dealing with sudden, jarring sounds you might have jumped. Behind John, the ballerina falls to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. The Director rises sharply, scowling. “With me. The snake stays.”

It’s public knowledge that you speak Russian and yet—

John rises smoothly but his expression is steely. He replies in Russian, too, something colder lingering in his tone, “She’s coming.”

The Director arches one of her eyebrows, her blood-red lips thinning further with silent disapproval. You get the impression she’s not used to being challenged.  

“You do not get to make demands, Jardani.”

A warning and a reminder of how much of a thin ice he is on.

But it’s not John she’s talking to. The barely man before you doesn’t back down. Doesn’t even blink. Iron and ice and something dark stares back at the Director. He seems to expand. Filling the air with something frightening. You’ve seen a great many—men and women alike—balk under that suffocating regard. 

“She’s coming with me.”

As simple as that.

The Director folds her arms over her chest, pulling her scarlet shawl closer over her body.

“They could kill me for simply talking with you,” she points out, her voice dropping to cutting whisper. “And you truly expect me to risk even more for a brief fancy of yours?”

Brief fancy.

So that’s what you’re known as around here. John Wick’s brief fancy.

“I’m right here.”

The Director slides her keen gaze your way, her chin tilting as she looks you up and down.

“Yes, you are. The Russian’s Viper,” she states blandly, and you hear the judgement there. “I’ve heard much about you. Reality, however, is often disappointing.”

It’s a bait to get a reaction. She’s taking count of your character and trying to judge what will break your composure first.

Frankly, you don’t give a shit what she thinks of you. What any of them do.

“With all due respect, Director,” you begin flatly. “You either help us or I walk out of that door now. I don’t have time to waste, and I’m certainly not going to grovel if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

This time John doesn’t interject. He lingers like a dark phantom beside you; silent but terrible. For the first time since you walked into the auditorium, you see realisation on her face. Of who exactly she’s facing against.  

She scoffs, staring you both down, resolute.

“You are not at your hotel where Winston’s favour guards you, girl,” she says coolly, her mouth a stern, harsh line of red. “Your weapons and poison would have been removed upon entry,” she notes, and adds an even stiffer, “Do not take that tone with me.”  

“I still have my hands.”

It slips out easily and once upon a time you never would have dared to even dream of saying something like that. Not to someone of her power.

You don’t feel afraid though.

You just feel determined.

“V.”

You ignore John, not dropping your stare. Whatever sentimental connection they share is of little interest to you.

Her inky gaze feels like blades slashing across your skin. She looks you up and down again, and the silent battle continues for several seconds before she finally speaks, “They told me you were smart but I do not see it,” she says, her voice dry. “You won’t leave this building alive.”

You venture a step forward and then another. You like her more with every step you take because she doesn’t move away, doesn’t flinch. She holds her ground and your respect for her only grows.

Something about the gleam in her eyes tells you that it might be feeling shared for the exact opposite reason. Because you are willing to take that risk.

You’re being reckless, Winston warns beside you.

Make her respect you, another voice shoots back at once.

“What I am right now is someone who has nothing to lose,” you tell her softly. Your throat aches and you bottle away the brutal memory of a gunshot and blood, his blood— “So, with respect, should I just go now?”

The Director offers you a mirthless smile, looking away from you and towards John who still stands unmoving behind you.

“Hurry it up.”

She casts one last, shrewd glance your way before she turns, briskly walking away. You exhale, too. Steady yourself.

John halts beside you but you don’t look towards him. Instead, you move after the woman ahead. Walking past, you briefly glance towards the stage where the ballerina still sits curled up on the wooden floor. Her expression is crestfallen, cautious.

You can’t help but wonder how she ended up here. What her life story is. If she, too, knows hunger like you do. If you talked with her, would you find comfort in another jaded soul?

Looking away, you follow the Director.

The woman stays silent until you step backstage. She slams the door with enough force that betrays her irritation, her steps hurried but firm. Self-reassured.

Despite her harshness, you do find yourself liking her.

“Owed,” she repeats suddenly. “You are owned nothing, Jardani.”

John doesn’t reply and stepping backstage feels like stepping back in time. The scene that greets you—practising ballerinas and wrestling matches—gives you an odd sense of nostalgia. John used to take you to old gyms, too. Together you used to spar for hours. Skin slick with sweat and bodies aching. There was always a grin on your face though.

Once upon a time, he made you feel alive even if your life was nothing but struggles and pain.

“Life is suffering.”

Your attention turns to the austere woman before she gestures with her head for you both to follow her. Two guards linger behind you, and it’s an effort to not snap at them whenever they come just a bit too close behind you.

Seeing young men wresting on safety mats up close somehow hits harder. You pick apart the core elements of their techniques as you stroll past. Can see too many similarities to John’s style—even echoes of your own, all taught by the man beside you. Over the years you’ve learned to separate yourself from his technique. Learned that there were too many weaknesses to exploit when physically you were so different. However, seeing all of this still evokes an unexpected sting of emotions.

A puppy though. The Director is wrong to assume that this is all for a puppy. It’s about so much more than that. A history she is clearly unaware of.

The dark-haired woman mostly ignores you as she converses with John in short, curt sentences but you hardly let it affect you. You’re used to silently shadowing Tarasov’s steps. Being unseen is what you excel at. Your ego is also not that fragile if she’s hopeful for a reaction.

The Director leads you two into her private office. If one can even call it that. It’s a large but barren space. An old, wooden desk sits in the middle of it with a fire crackling on the other side of the wall. Few classical paintings litter the vast, dark space and some you recognise at once. All those museum and gallery visits with Santino—

You clamp the thought down immediately. Lock it tight.

Your teeth click in an attempt to control your emotions, and you barely hear the Director’s brisk “sit” to John.

There is no second chair.

Ignoring that, you stand on his right, your arms loose at your sides. The older woman doesn’t offer you a seat and you don’t ask for one.

This, clearly, is to be a bargaining between her and John only.

“The truth is,” she begins, casting her eyes over you both. Surprisingly. “I can’t help you even if I wanted to. The High Table wants your life. You can’t fight against them. Can’t outrun them. You could go to the dark, but they are there, too.”

John considers her words but doesn’t disagree with them. His position is even worse than your own. A hefty bounty sits on his head.

But...

“No,” you say quietly, and the Director looks towards you. “There is something—someone—who stands even above them.”

For the first time since you came here, you see a crack in her demeanour. An unease and a concern. She wipes them quickly but you still notice them. By the way John shifts slightly in his seat, you know he has as well.

“You do not know what you speak of,” she murmurs, her voice dropping as she stares at you, unblinking. “His attention is not something you should ever wish to invite your way.”

“I have in the past.”

She leans back in her chair, a glimmer of surprise there. The Director blinks, then, and looks at you through different eyes. Knowing eyes.

“So this is your plan, then?” she demands sternly. “You seek to meet him?”

“We seek passage,” John confirms, glancing up at you and you meet his stare briefly. “To Casablanca.”

The woman scoffs, peering at you both like she’s just realised that you’re both insane. “The path to paradise begins in hell.”

John’s expression tightens at her jovial voice, and he leans forward suddenly, sliding his arm across the table so she is once again faced with his medallion. Her expression tightens at the reminder. Her raven hair glows in the muted light the fire casts while she silently ponders her next move.

“So be it,” she voices at last, coolly indifferent. “What about the snake?”

John’s expression doesn’t waver. “She’s with me.”

The Director lets loose a soft sigh and shakes her head. “The ticket is for you, Jardani, and you alone. If you wish to waste it, so be it. She, however, is not of our blood, so I owe her nothing.”

She’s not wrong.

You don’t belong anywhere.

Your fingers tighten into fists, hidden by the folds of your coat, and it’s then that you feel it.

The Camorra ring.

I will never abandon you.

You savour the memory, pull it close, and hold it to your heart.

“A Marker, then,” John’s voice cracks through your senses and you freeze. “From me to you.”

Something ices over in your heart. A sickening weight forming in the pit of your stomach.

“No.”

His eyes lift to you. They’re softer, lighter in the glow of the fire. “Let me do this,” he says gently, sadly. “Let me try and make this right.”

You almost punch him. “No,” you snap, gnashing your teeth as you exhale forcefully. “No more debts. No more favours in my name. Enough. This is what got us all here in the first place. Oaths and egos and unwillingness to simply listen. I will not have you bound to another Marker for me. Never again.”

John stares up at you, his expression gentler then it was moments ago.

He seems to have no response to your declaration.

It’s the Director that breaks the tense hush that has fallen over you. “You speak for Camorra now, do you not?”

Your head snaps in her direction. Her stare is calculating and you bristle. “What of it? I’m not sworn in if you’re hoping for some sort of negotiation. I don’t have that right.”

You suppose it shouldn’t surprise you that she knows, either. News like that spreads quickly. For it to be effective Hector would have had to call it in the moment you left the Continental and even then it didn’t stop everyone.

The Director’s eyes narrow, her fingers tapping against the wooden table once. “I will grant you passage,” she states frankly. “But I should hope that one day you will remember this for the kindness that it is. You have Santino D’Antonio’s heart. That means you as good as have Camorra. Ring or no.”

Her deliberate words seem to suck the air right out of the room. The absence left behind is near deafening.

Your gut coils, a buzz in your veins.

He loves you.

“Fine,” you breathe out, choked. “I will remember this kindness.”

She nods once, her expression sly, and holds out her hand to John. “If this is what you truly desire,” she says lightly. “But know that if you hand it in, I will tear it.”

It takes some time before John finally moves, untangling the medallion and presenting it to her. She still wears that same, derisive expression as she rips the medallion apart and John staggers to his feet. You take a step back, confused, watching as he shrugs off his suit jacket. He extends his hand towards you and your eyes narrow.

“John?”

He doesn’t reply, unbuttoning his shirt as one of the guards takes the metal cross ripped off the medallion, heating it over the open flame.

Your stomach sinks. Swallowing, you take another step back, giving him the space to turn the chair around and sit down on it, pulling his shirt back and exposing his back.

The tattoos on his skin are another call from the past.

There is a second in which the world seems to hang suspended before—

The metal scorches into his skin, into his tattoos, and John grunts in pain. His teeth grind together, his dark hair falling into his eyes but he lets little else slip. As if dissatisfied with the lack of reaction the guard digs the poker even deeper. The stench of burned flesh finally reaches you and you try not to gag. It lasts another handful of seconds before the guard pulls back. John remains upright though you can see the quiver in his body.

“With this, your ticket is torn,” the Director reminds him and you can’t quite read the inflection in her words. “You can never come home again.”

John says nothing, shakily lifting his head to look her way.

Director sneers and rises to her feet abruptly. “Take them to the lifeboat,” she orders sharply and cuts a look your way. “Do not forget your words, Lady Camorra.”

It’s another mockery and nothing more than that but you don’t fail to notice how John’s jaw clenches at those words.

The door behind you slams shut and then quietness settles over the room.

The guard waits to the side while John shrugs his clothes back on, and you ignore the faint grimace creasing his features. His jacket is the last to go and you hand it to him wordlessly.

The guard clears his throat before you can exchange any words, however, and you step past the older man, hearing him behind you.

The trip doesn’t take long. It’s also mercifully accident-free as well which makes a nice reprieve from the chaos that has ensued over the last 48 hours.

The lifeboat, the guard explains roughly, will take them to a larger vessel.

He hands your belongings back to you at the docks and your relief is likely palpable. Your fingers tremble around the twin boxes, and you place them back in your coat where they belong. Secure and tucked away.

Right now, the safest way to get to Casablanca is over water. It does, however, mean sailing the ocean. Which will take time.

Time alone with your thoughts is the last thing you want right now.

Is he still alive?

Your fingers tap against your thigh repeatedly.

“Tell me.”

Blinking, you look towards John who sits slumped opposite to you. His back will hurt for a while. At least with how hot the metal was, it should have cauterised the wound. It will still mean a far less comfortable journey for him.

“Tell you what?”

You’re not particularly in a mood for chitchat with him.

You’re out here due to necessity, not choice. You have little to say to a man who nearly killed your friends less than a day ago.

John stretches his long legs out, grunting slightly in pain when his back settles against the cool metal behind him.

“About the Elder,” he broaches, his voice low, scratchy with both exhaustion and pain. “How do you know him?”

Know him.

That’s not exactly the term you would use to describe it.

The Elder.

Something in your veins burns. A scratch of memories that you’ve tried to smother for a long time now.

John’s stare is expectant. Heavy.

Maybe a distraction would be good. You don’t have to tell him everything.

“Roughly six months after your wedding,” you start, your voice cracking, and then stop. Clearing your throat, you force your voice to remain steady, “I did a job at Chicago after which I was summoned by him.”

His brows knit.

“Summoned?”

You lick your dry lips while you mull over your boiling thoughts, reluctant to say more.

“It’s a long story.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “We have time.”

Your attentions settles on him, and you examine him closely. No one but Winston—and to some degree Charon—know about the full extent of what really happened during those long months in the desert.

And even then, some things—some memories—you haven’t shared with anyone.

Being forced to recall it now, after you worked so hard to shake that connection off, unsettles you more than you would care to admit.

You walked this path once before.

Sighing, you close your eyes, exhaling through your nose. When you open them again, John is still waiting patiently, agog.

You part your lips, skimming your fingertips over the ruby ring on your hand, and begin your tale.

—BEFORE.

.

The first thing you notice is the heat.

It’s near suffocating though it lacks the humidity you associate with countries you’re used to frequenting.

This is something else—something you haven’t encountered before.

A bag gets pulled from over your head, and your eyes squeeze shut at the bright flare of light that blinds you. Squinting, you try to blink the dark spots from your sight and focus on the man before you.

He had introduced himself back at the Continental as Rafik. Patient and soft-spoken, he had told you all you needed to know to end up here.

A summoning by the Elder.

An individual who supposedly stands above the High Table.

You’ve only heard stories of this man; a few terrified, sometimes even joking, whispers.

The Elder is more of a boogeyman than even John is.

You had half a thought to refuse Rafik and his companion Saad. Except the tone of their explanation made one thing abundantly clear: either you are to come willingly or you will be “encouraged” to come.

That was followed by fear. Not because you doubted you could kill these men before they took you. You could. But because their presence at the Continental must have meant that what happened at Chicago slipped through the cracks after all.

You found an odd sense of relief that they made no mention of Santino being taken, though.

But what other reason would a man who supposedly stands above the twelve most powerful crime powerhouses in the world want to see you?

You.

Viggo Tarasov’s deadly little puppet.

Rafik squats before you, the bag previously over your head now in his hand, as he observes you.

You’re inside a makeshift tent. Open and airy. Wind flutters across the expensive, beautifully sown cashmere and silk—a stunning display of colour and patterns—and beyond it lays nothing but golden dunes as far as the eye can see.

You shift your body on the maroon carpet, noting your weapons that have not been removed.

“I would like to apologise for the secrecy,” Rafik speaks, his voice soft. “The Elder, however, values his privacy. And until such time he knows you can be trusted, this is a necessary precaution.”

“Why am I here?”

Because they said you have been summoned. But not the reason for the said summoning.

If this is to be a punishment, you rather get it over with.

You didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to Winston and Charon.

You…

You’re not quite sure why that bothers you quite so much but it does.

Controlling your frown, you rotate your limbs slowly again, staring at the man before you. Despite Rafik’s reassurances that they hold no malicious intent, you know better than to trust strangers who implied that you didn’t have a choice in coming here.

“You are here because your particular skillset has piqued the Elder’s interest.”

That gives you a pause.

Skillset.

The relief is so immense that you almost allow yourself to slump over. The silent dread you’ve tried to control since Rafik told you about the summoning gradually fading.

You’ve been so convinced that this was about punishment for Chicago. About someone figuring out that you are responsible for the chaos unleashed through the Black Dragon’s ranks.

Your eyes pointedly drag around the tent, noting few other men all dressed in loose, billowing robes. Fitting attire for desert life. All the faces staring back at you are varying shades of golden or brown but they don’t appear hostile. Just calm. Observant.

Few things don’t fail to escape your notice though.

“Where is this Elder, then?”

Rafik’s head tilts slightly and he moves to stand. “It is not so simple, (Name),” he says and moves towards the small table standing not too far away from you. You watch every shift of his body, your senses straining to keep aware of other men, too. “You must first earn the right to meet him. He would like to offer you a position of honour but it is reliant on you proving yourself worthy of it.”

Your eyes narrow, a slow exhale slipping free.

“How do you know my name?” you ask, keeping your voice as calm as his own soothing lull. “And what makes you think I care for his approval?”

A gamble. But you have to know if they can be pushed. Where exactly you stand if this is not punishment after all.

For a moment Rafik simply gazes at you, his dark eyes inscrutable. His robes are less extravagant than those of other men. Fewer layers and more compact. Though the colour is just a few shades paler than the golden sand around you.  

“The Elder knows a great many things about you,” he answers as if that should explain everything. “Hence, I know these things. As for his approval, it could set you free.”

Something flutters in your chest at those words. You control your expression, not letting your eagerness or confusion slip. Instead, you simply watch the man before calmly, expectant.

A few minutes pass like this. No one so much as shifts.

Your body is still sore from Chicago. Muscles worn and frail. Your eyes skip over the men inside the tent again. They’re far enough that you could take most of them out before they likely got too close.  

“So I’m a prisoner here until I earn the favour of this man?”

An uncomfortable, leaden sort of silence greets your blunt question.

Rafik’s head tilts in your direction and he picks up the small table easily, walking back towards you.

There is a curious light in his eyes as he examines you. You have no doubt that every word you speak will be reported back to this mysterious leader later. Judged and picked apart piece by piece.

You hate the uneasy roll of your stomach at that thought.

Perhaps you’re being too foolish and hasty to test them like this.

A man so powerful he stands above the Table. Above it. What kind of power does this Elder wield to do something like that? How does he even do it?

“No. Never,” Rafik rebukes easily, almost disappointed. “He believes in free will.”

You suppress a snarky remark at that.

“No babies—girls or boys, or children in general,” you point out as he places the small table before you, seating himself down on the other side of it. You watch him and he watches you. “No women, either. I’m not naive.”

Something flickers in that dark gaze again and he hums quietly. Wind flutters his fitted robes and you try to ignore how your own attire—suitable for the nippy New York winters but little else—is making you almost boil alive where you’re sitting.

“How did you know?”

A quiet, curious question. He doesn’t deny it though.

“I might have had a bag over my head but I still have ears.”

You listened to every sound as you were marched here to this tent. The soft murmurs and the animals and the wind and your shoes sinking into the sand.

“You do not have to fret,” he says with a twitch of his mouth that implies wry amusement. “You are the Elder’s honoured guest. No one will harm you here.”

Given different circumstances, you might have believed him. He has a demeanour of a man who is easy to trust. Some sort of magnetism that makes you feel pinned down by his unfaltering regard.

“You said he’s interested in my skillset,” you begin after a deliberate pause, still staring at him. “You mean the poison, don’t you?”

Your most powerful and destructive weapon.

There is a memory of Rafael, choking and bleeding, but you shake it away at once. You’re glad that Kishi is nowhere in sight; a small miracle but one you are immensely grateful for. Right now, you need to tread carefully and without distractions.

“Yes. The Elder is a man of power but he cannot do all himself,” Rafik responds and takes one of the four cups sitting on the table. A small brown thing with a pretty pattern curling around it. Another three cups remain untouched; one green, another blue, and last red. “As such, he has disciples who help him and council him. Saad, you have already met. Then there's me and one other. There are four positions in total but the fourth has never been filled before.”

Interesting.

So he’s nothing more than a glorified secretary to the most powerful man in the world then.

“Why?”

He doesn’t drop his stare as he raises the cup to his lips.

“Because no one suitable enough has been found to fill it,” he answers simply, like it should be obvious, and his words might have been insulting if it wasn’t for the gentleness of his accent. “He was, however, hoping that you would be a suitable candidate.”

Candidate.

Implying a relation unlike the one between you and Tarasov.  

You breathe slowly, feeling the dry air fill your lungs as you try to gather yourself.

Every word spoken feels like some sort of battle, a test even, and you wonder what exactly this is all building up to. You’re likely too exhausted for anything physical but your mind can keep up, if only for now.

“No offence to you or your master but what makes you think I want this?” you wonder carefully, purposely infusing stiff politeness into your words. “What’s stopping me from standing up and walking away right now?”

You never would. You’re not stupid. Not without careful planning and preparation. Deserts are some of the deadliest terrains in the world for a reason. Especially when one is ill-prepared and hadn’t had the time to adapt to the climate.    

“You are free to leave whenever you please,” Rafik says bluntly, a single eyebrow rising. Definitely disappointed at that suggestion. “I should warn that there is nothing but sand for hundreds of miles in either direction, however. You will be dead within two days, if not less.”

You make a small noise at the back of your throat at that, looking around once again.

The tickle of wind at the back of your neck is a small mercy. It’s sweltering.  

“So I am a prisoner.”

As gentle and as quiet as his own suggestion.

Rafik raises the cup to his mouth again, slower this time. His eyes watch you keenly over the rim though. It’s then that become aware of the fact that neither of you has looked away once from the other.  

“The Elder is willing to offer you a position in his ranks,” he says calmly after a pause. He lowers the cup to his lap where his legs are neatly folded. Experienced and relaxed. He trains and likely meditates, too. He knows how to control his body. There is strength there. His voice might be soft but you don’t doubt he can hold his own. Though the far bigger threat is that razor-sharp edge to his regard. He’s smart. You can tell. “If you impress, if you succeed, then your debt to the man known as Viggo Tarasov will be wiped clean. He will never be able to touch you again. You will outrank him, in fact.”

Your heart seizes at that.

Your debt wiped away.

Free.

You could—

Biting one side of your cheek, you fold your fingers into loose fists, forcing yourself back to reality.  

Eyes narrowed, you mutter a knowing, “But I will be serving the will of the Elder which, I wager a guess, means that I will never be a part of the underground in the traditional sense again.”

Rafik inclines his head in a silent nod.

“What happens if I still refuse?” you finally ask, your words low, tense. “Will you kill me?”

His index finger traces the rim of the cup, a gesture almost striking you as thoughtful, and his eyes narrow.

“No, killing you would be a waste of great talent,” he says and nods towards the cups. “The choice will be yours. Drink.”

At first, you don’t move, still peering at him before you eventually force yourself to look down at the cups.

“What is it?”

They all look innocent enough. But you suspect it’s not that simple.

All three cups hold liquid inside and Rafik raises his cup once more, tranquil as before, but his eyes remain sharp.

“A choice,” he intones quietly, and his lips press together while he cradles the cup between his palms, leaning closer. “The Elder believes that a bargain can always be struck between those willing to compromise. So I represent you with this offer: you will stay here for six months, you will learn, you will train, you will be forged and tested.”

A lump forms in your throat and you feel the tension between your shoulder blades return, almost a distant ache.

“And then?”

“If in six months time you still wish to leave you can.”

As if it’s ever that simple.

“Just like that?”

You don’t even bother masking the sceptic bite to your words.

For a moment, if you didn’t know any better, you would say Rafik looks amused. He hides it well though, nothing more than a glimmer you spot only because you’re watching him so closely.

“Just like that,” he echoes, unperturbed.

The other men don’t so much as move or shift in their spots. They feel more like sentinels than men. Rafik simply waits for your countermove. He doesn’t appear irritated by your questions or doubts though, and that says more than words ever could and you wonder if he realises that.

You examine him just as intently, trying to weight the honestly of his words. “All this trouble to get me here and then I can just leave?”

His fingers still.

They’re long and his hands are strong, even a touch elegant. For a moment it makes you think of Santino, and you have to stop yourself from shaking your head to clear the image.

“You do not believe me?”

The question is not angry, but it’s not happy, either.

What an odd man, you can’t help but think. It’s like you can read him and not read him at all at the same time. But something about this back-and-forth, about the knowing expression he sports, that forces your next question.  

“Why should I believe a stranger?”

Rafik lowers his head in consideration, accepting your valid suspicion and lifts the cup again. You must make an odd sight. There is no doubt in your mind that you look like a tightly coiled snake, your expression distrustful and gaze hard, ready to strike. Rafik is tranquil. Steady. But there is something.  

“Because the Elder does not believe in forced loyalty,” his words bring you out of thought and you feel yourself frown. “It would only breed resentment. He believes that six months will be enough time for you to see.”

Slanting your head to one side, you bite out a cool, “To see what?”

His reply is no less tart. “That you are meant to become more. That your place is here.”

Just how unlucky can you get?

Though you did have it coming, you have to admit.

After the Hunt—after all you did to hurt those who tried to hurt you—your name and all the terrible things you are capable of ripped through the underworld like wildfire. An effort to step out of John’s shadow and keep yourself alive. But it was only possible due to Santino and Camorra.

If he didn’t find you when he did…

Still, what you did caught plenty of attention. You simply didn’t realise till now just how much.

“The Elder sure sounds confident.”

It’s a light statement, a bait.

Rafik doesn’t bite though—too smart just like you first suspected, but he does gesture towards the small table separating you again.

“Before you are three cups,” he begins mildly but something about that gleam in his eyes makes you sit up and focus in a way you haven’t in a long while. “One of them contains tea. The other two will kill you in less than five minutes. The only difference will be how much pain you will experience before it ends. A test of your skill.”

A slight, cold smile twists your lips. “And if I refuse to play?”

He looks like he expected that question. He almost looks pleased by it.  

“You are free to refuse,” he replies easily, his tone placid. “But dehydration has already started to set in. You will not last very long before you are forced to make a decision if you wish to live.”

The smile on your face remains, sharpening. “What a warm welcome from your master.”

He doesn’t react to this taunt, either.

For a long, tense moment you simply peer at each other, seizing the other up.

Rotating your left shoulder and then neck, you reach for the green cup and lift it to your lips, taking a large mouthful.

A flare of surprise in that dark gaze but it’s gone in seconds. “That was a confident move.”

You drown the strong tasting tea in the cup in another few mouthfuls, licking your lips before shooting a calculating look his way. “The only cup with any poison in it is in your hands. You keep lifting it to your mouth but haven’t taken a single sip of it. You just wanted to see if I would panic. Next time, at least make it a challenge for me.”

You lower the cup back onto the table with a hum. “Thyme, mint, lemongrass, geranium, sage, verbena and hmm wormwood. Berber tea. Exquisite if well made. Tell your master thank you for his hospitality.”  

Rafik’s expression is as serene as before but something churns behind that calm now.

You give him a polite smile. “Where am I staying?”

.

.

Winston once told you that there is a fine line between arrogance and confidence. It’s very easy to slip from one to another without noticing.

Your little show with Rafik was admittedly both.

You wanted to see how he—and by extension this Elder—would respond.

The said response was unusually anticlimactic, however. You were shown to your tent and told that you will get several days to get used to the climate and settle in before your lessons are to begin.

The last thing you wanted to do was spend six months stuck in a desert god knows where, but you are also smart enough to realise that it’s much easier and preferable to play along.

For now.

Or at least until the uproar about Chicago dies down. Until the suspicion fades.

It’s not like you have much of a choice.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re curious.

You’ve never heard of anyone meeting the Elder before—much less spending time with his tribe. As a guest of honour of all things, too.

You’ve been watching the men around the camp like a hawk over these last several days, waiting for anyone to so much as look at you funny.

But there has been none of that.

The men mostly keep to themselves and their duties. It’s not quite like being ignored—there are polite nods and greetings every morning and evening—but they don’t exactly chitchat. Your Arabic is poor at best and it’s hard to tell how many of them actually understand or speak English. So even though you’re not sure what their orders are in regards to you, the ever-present instinct forces you to never lower your guard around them. Despite the lack of hostility you’ve received, it’s still startlingly clear that you are an outsider to them.

But there is a routine here. Routine and order.

Desert life is a harsh one. It’s waking long before the sun has risen and starting chores before the heat gets too overwhelming. Everyone here has a job to do: from food preparation to taking care of the animals to cleaning and even sewing. No one is excluded, and there is an odd sense of unity to be found in the soft murmurs as the men work. There is an ever-present togetherness about this place that admittedly surprises you.

As per their culture, all work is paused for prayer at least five times a day.

You keep a respectful distance when that happens. The last thing you want is to disturb anyone during an act that is clearly of great importance to them.  

During the first three days, you mostly linger in your tent, only coming out for meals and general exercise. Your body is still healing and your weakness has wrapped around your throat like Boutin’s bony fingers had.

You hate being incapable. You hate yourself even more for allowing yourself to slip this much. Building yourself up takes twice as long as falling apart does, and you know that it will take substantial effort to get back to your old form.

Your nights are still haunted as well.

It takes you hours to fall asleep, and even when you do, nightmares are quick to chase you out of slumber. You stopped sleeping inside your tent after the first night.

Desert life, you have also come to find, fluctuates between scorching heat during the days and freezing nights once the sun sets. But you welcome it—like it even.

There is also the matter of the night sky.

It is beyond breathtaking. You have never observed stars so bright anywhere else before. So many of them are visible each night, it feels like you could reach out and sink your fingers into the very fabric of that inky blackness and tug them all loose. Whenever you awake from feverish nightmares with Kishi’s laugh nipping at your senses, it’s the stars and the coldness of the night air that lulls you and eases your frightened mind.

You’re no longer stuck underground when all of eternity seems to stretch above you.

So for the last two nights, you have found yourself wrapped in a camel fur blanket, sleeping by the fire in the middle of the camp. The fire doesn’t go out all night and you take full advantage of that.

Last night Kishi was joined by Boutin and Rafael, too, which filled your wakeful hours with a certain green-eyed heir.

Which is…surprising.

John you’re used to having inside your head. His spectre is a constant you rely on almost every day. Santino has never quite managed to warm his way in before. Not with John taking up all the space there but…

But something has changed. You know it has.

It’s only been little over a week since Chicago yet it feels like years have passed.

And Santino D’Antonio has left his mark without even realising it.

A part of you can’t help but wonder if he knows where you are, if he has noticed your absence—if he even will—and if he does, if he will care.

Will he search for you?

Will Tarasov?

“He likes you.”

Your fingers still against the soft, warm nose of the camel before you and you ignore the heated, wet huff of breath against your palm.

“Animals know loyalty,” you say, your words a touch dull but still respectful, even though you don’t turn to face the man behind you. “Humans tend to be lacking in that field.”

Rafik comes to stand beside you, stretching his arm to touch the animal’s nose as well. The camel remains laying in his spot, still munching, and you ignore the tickle of evening breeze against the back of your neck. The sun has almost set and the camp is bustling with preparations for dinner. It’s hardly a grand affair but the food is delicious all the same even though it lacks the refinement you've gotten used to in Santino’s presence.

“Until their hunter instincts kick in and then they kill you far quicker than any human would.”

A sound tickles from the back of your throat; one that’s not quite a laugh but not quite mocking him, either. The camel releases a muted sound, too, his large lips moving leisurely.

“You disagree.”

It’s a smooth assessment but one that does manage to finally drag your attention his way.

His back in similar attire everyone wears around here. Loose robes and turban around his head, hiding the crop of pitch-black hair that reminded you of John when you first saw him at the Continental.

“Oh, I agree,” you remark and feel a slight but surprisingly genuine twitch of your lips. “To disagree.”

There is a whisper of amusement that passes over his features and he inclines his head as if accepting your words.

“Why me?”

He withdraws his hand from the camel’s head and you feel your own hand drop away, too. Your body slants to face the man before you fully. Your weapons are all on you though you did have to get creative after being forced to wear your new attire. A fitted but still loose cotton bodysuit that covers your skin respectfully but allows you to move around comfortably. Your new heavy-soled shoes took longer getting used to than the jumpsuit did. The latter has clearly been crafted for your looming training, and all spares came in typical pale colours to make the heat more bearable.

“What do you mean?”

Standing straighter, you give him a long, searching look. “I think you know perfectly well what I mean,” you point out, respectfully temperate. “You said the Elder took interest in my skill set. But there are a great many other poisoners around the world, some even better than me on a technical level.”

The camel makes an indistinct noise again, and the now cooling wind brushes against the cotton hugging your skin. Goosebumps pinprick your skin as silence sits between you.

Rafik folds his hands in front of him, a gesture that eerily reminds you of Winston, and you have no idea what to call this thing between you. It feels so much like you’re mentally circling one another, trying to figure the other out.

He’s to be your overseer till The Elder deems you “worthy” of his time. But a part of you can’t help but wonder if Rafik is his own sort of test.

“I confess that I do not know the full extent of the Elder’s thought process,” he begins and his eyes narrow a bit. “But he does what he believes is right.”

This time, you don’t bother masking your scorn, and a slight snort manages to slip free. You regret it immediately and turn to face the camel again, hoping to buy yourself some time.

A muffled sound of him stepping closer behind you reaches you, and you tense, your heartbeat spiking. “You find fault with that statement.”

Not a question and your head turns back towards him as you try to force the old, irrational spike of fear down.

“I’m not going to badmouth your master if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

A flash of something across those strong features but it’s gone quickly.

“You can speak your mind freely here.”

“Can I?” you mutter coldly before you can stop yourself and immediately bite your tongue, hating the defence you’ve suddenly been put on. It’s like something is scratching from inside your mind, waiting to burst out every time this man is anywhere near. Your eyes cut to him. “Is this another one of your master’s tests?”

A smile curls his full lips, slow and indulgent. “If it were, you would know,” he rebukes. “I imagine it would be a touch more deadly.”

Your terse expression eases, the pinch of your mouth relaxing somewhat. Something is buzzing under your skin though, something you haven’t felt in...ever.

“Fine,” you begin firmly, briefly letting your tongue wet your lower lip. “A great many dictators thought that what they were doing was right but it often leads to genocide. A man who believes himself to be higher power is often a highly dangerous one because he can justify just about anything inside his mind. So I can’t help but wonder why me?”

Something, something, something in the way he gazes at you—a digging, intent look that makes you fight harder to keep your own expression coolly disinterested.

The sounds of camp fill yet another silence between you. It’s nigh impossible to tell what the man in front of you is thinking but you watch how his hands loosen, dropping back to his sides and he takes another step closer. This near, it’s much easier to see his shadowed features.

“It is true that there are others who are perhaps more skilled,” he says softly, and you tilt your head back just a touch to see him better but not allow yourself to be seen as less. He pauses briefly at that, another minute twitch of those lips before he continues, “But I believe that what you possess that others don’t has little to do with skill.”

His eyes shift away for a moment, sweeping over the camp and you can see the love there, pride even. You’re not quite sure why seeing that surprises you.

“There is a vast difference between imitation and creation,” he tells you and when his eyes find yours again, you are forced to hold back a shiver. “Anyone can follow instructions but not just anyone can create,” he explains, a note of wonderment there, and his face leans closer, just slightly. “And to become. There is no greater power one can possess. You can learn from him for he knows your craft like no one else does.”

You lean back, blinking.

Confusion fades quickly as your mind scrambles.

“Are you trying to tell me that the Elder is a poisoner?”

“You sound surprised.”

Inhaling, you give him a hurried, “No, I just—”

Rafik’s head slants again, considering you, but this time he appears surprised by what he sees.

“How fascinating,” he whispers, staring down at you like you are a puzzle he can’t quite make sense of. “You, yourself, hold such potential yet you fail to realise it.”

You don’t answer, gazing at him with mute disbelief.

A poisoner. The Elder. The man who stands above the Table. The key to his power over everyone.

As if sensing your trail of thought, Rafik muses a thoughtful, “How do you fight against something that’s invisible? Tasteless, even. Everyone needs food, water, and oxygen to survive. Every single one of those things is easy to manipulate and control and often to such a...deadly result.”

Deadly result.

He’s been hinting at this from the start, you simply weren’t listening.

“So he controls through fear.”

Rafik steps back, something more distant falling over his features. He’s a handsome man, that much you can admit easily, but right then he appears colder somehow.

“He controls through caution,” he rebukes firmly but his voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t sharpen, either. His regards shifts once again though; something clever, something that challenges you. “There has to be order or everything collapses into chaos. But the Table is free to do as it pleases as long as they stay in line.”

Your reply is immediate and you know he’s waiting for it. “And if they don’t?”

You can’t believe you are discussing the High Table as if they were a bunch of unruly toddlers ready for a scolding.

The Elder.

A poisoner just like you. If you are considered of interest with your knowledge, then just how good is he?

It surprises you that instead of feeling threatened or unsettled in any way, you find something else blooming in your chest.

A curiosity, a question, a need to know and understand.

What is he? What can he do?

It’s a feeling you haven’t felt in a long, long time.

Heart pumping and mind racing not because your life is in danger but because there is something to unearth—to discover.

Rafik doesn’t answer you.

He only gives you one last, lingering look and turns to go.

“Your training begins tomorrow,” he says by the way of a farewell as he walks away. “Do not be late.”

Winston kept you alive.

Santino woke you up.

Maybe it’s finally time to stand up and do something with that.

“You became his student?”

The muted surprise you hear in John’s low voice shouldn’t surprise you.

Once, you felt a similar sting of surprise at those conclusions.

Pausing, you squint at him while blinding Moroccan sun beams overhead. Your journey together had been tense and awkward but you had focused on survival, pushing back your personal feelings.

It’s good to finally back on solid ground after few days of nothing but water though. It’s been uncomfortable and you’ve barely slept, constantly terrified that something might happen and the ship might capsize. All that water and no escape.

It’s irrational and stupid but despite the self-reassurance that everything will be fine, you haven’t been able to shake the terror.

That, coupled with the unknown of Santino’s current condition, have exhausted you to the bone. The anxiety you feel coats your being like a second skin and you hate it.

John picked up on your discontent quickly but you had shut down any inquiries from him down.

You’re not sure you can discuss your fear over Santino’s life with the very man who shot him.

“Something like that.” is the only, tired reply you manage to muster up.

You’ve just arrived at the Post of Casablanca less than twenty minutes ago, and the stunning white of the Hassan II Mosque greeted you long before you docked.

Being back here sends shivers down your spine. A clash of memories from two different times and with two different men.

“I’ve never heard of that before,” John states mildly, a question there. “Does anyone know?”

Despite your facile conversation, you both scan the people around you. Everyone and anyone could be an enemy in waiting. The fact that you both disappeared off the radar for a few days would have drawn even more attention. Familiar dry heat fills your lungs and if it weren’t for the brisk shore breeze you would be sweating already.

The streets are bustling with life as always. You pass the fish market, sticking close to each other. Surprise attacks in crowds are common and harder to anticipate. Women and men alike clad in colourful djellabas mingle around, purchasing food or bargaining for a better price. Darija rings in your ears as you walk and you work your jaw—that, too, brings back memories.

“Winston. Cassian, too,” you reply, trying to refocus on your conversation instead. John’s features are empty of the pain he was burdened with a few days ago. Unlike you, he got to rest during your journey, giving him that edge back. “A few others know that I spend time there but not much else.”

Like Santino. Like the woman you are here to see.

You expect John to latch onto one name in particular and don’t have to wait long.

“Cassian? He’s one of them?”

Glancing at the spectre of a man on your left, you wonder what to make of the sudden wariness and strain on his face, and arch an eyebrow.

“He was meant to be. He was like me, in training,” you reveal and can see the way John’s mind races as he tries to digest this new information. This took him off guard, you can tell. You also can’t help but feel like you’re missing something right now. “Saad ended up getting his spot though. Of course, when you train under the Elder, it doesn’t take long before another family tries to recruit you. Even if you don’t make the cut. We became as good as family after he learned I that trained with them. And when Giovanni D’Antonio—”

You stop dead in your tracks.

The city gate stands before you.

There was no gate the last time you were here. Just an archway that marked the beginning of the city.

Now, however, heavy bronze metal greets you. Each side of the gate is a work of art, weaving metal into intricate, elegant patterns. But what truly grips your breath is the design sitting at the centre where the gate splits.

Sun and a moon. Both not quite touching but drawn together in a circle of unity. The moon side has a handful stars hanging over it in an arching curve of metal while the sun side exudes thick, golden lines indicating sun rays.

“What’s wrong?”

The thundering of your heart rings in your ears, and you wonder if he can hear it, too.

John’s features have gone taut with focus, no doubt wondering if you recognised an enemy about to attack you. But it’s not that.

The gate—

“It’s nothing,” you choke out and the lie is so obvious you almost grimace. “We should move.”

You throw yourself forward, putting one foot in front of another. John follows but you can practically taste his confusion. It sits thick in the air but you ignore it, cutting through the street market. This isn’t something you can fully explain to him, nor do you want to.

The flow of Arabic fills the air, and let your eyes to journey over the food stalls. Vegetables, olives, spice, oils. On the other side, you spot merchants trying to sell jewellery, ceramic teapots, perfume bottles—all handcrafted, and all done so with great care and pride. Different scents trickle through the air and you draw deep breaths, soaking the atmosphere in.

A part of you...

A part of you has missed it.

Missed this place.

That gate though. Your stomach churns when you think about it.

Your end goal of Moroccan Continental lays on the other side of the city. Getting there will take time, especially with both you trying to stay low.

The sun sinks behind the horizon another hour later, and you both use dingy, dank alleyways to cut through the heart of the city. You planned the entire journey beforehand, comparing your knowledge to settle on the quickest, most discreet route.

A tap of shoes clicks through the empty alleyway behind you, and you slow as you round the corner. Dragging your eyes John’s way, you both share a meaningful look in the darkness.

You suppose it was only a matter of time before someone caught up with you.

Three men appear through the shadows, all armed with knives and determined expressions. They block all the exits, cutting off your path, and you roll your shoulder blades leisurely. John doesn’t make a sound but you can almost hear his mental sigh of exhaustion.

It’s a clash of fists.

You grapple for the crude knife one of the men tries to use against you, swiping it wildly towards your neck. You duck. Swing for his gut. The punch lands and you pull him closer. He gasps for breath and you grab his arms. Slouching, he seizes your wrists painfully, heaving. He tries to yank himself back from your grip but his hesitation costs him.

You sink your own blade between his ribs brutally, twisting once. The man gurgles, shocked. Then crumples.

You’re not in the mood to play.

John has already taken one of the men down, struggling with another and you lift the knife, aiming for the throat—

“Stop!”

The voice rings out like boom, echoing. Everyone in the alley stills.

Another man steps out of a building further down the street, lighting his cigarette as he does so.

A familiar face.

“They’re off-limits,” the newcomer informs unfazed by the dead bodies.

The man trying to kill John doesn’t see it that way. “But they’re Excomunicado.”

You step closer in warning and the attacker shifts, wary.

“And the manager has granted them amnesty,” the man argues placidly, unfazed, even a touch irked. The attacker loosens his grip on John and the newcomer smiles, glancing over them both to give you a wider grin. “Welcome back to Casablanca, Miss Vipress.”

You dip your chin, lowering the blade. “Yassin.”

The attacker and John relax at the same time, slowly stepping apart as Yassin takes an indulgent drag of his cigarette, waiting.

“Please, come with me,” he says with a gesture of his arm, his smile fixed in place. “We have been expecting you.”

You’re not quite sure what to make of that but don’t comment. Stepping past the only surviving attacker, you raise an eyebrow at the dirty look he shoots your way.

You suppose seeing two of your buddies being killed doesn’t constitute for a good night. But they also should have known better.

John’s stare sweeps over your body—no doubt checking for injuries—but you don’t acknowledge that, either.

You’re just about to point out how Yassin hasn’t stopped smoking despite his promise to quit the last time you saw him. But before you can the said man swings around, firing his pistol.

The surviving attacker collapses behind you with a sickening thud, and then the night is peaceful once more. The sounds of buzzing nightlife echo from somewhere in the distance as Yassin calmly pockets his pistol, giving John a slight smile. Almost apologetic.

“Welcome to Casablanca, Mr Wick.”

With that and a cheery little laugh, the man leads you the remainder of the way to the sweeping grounds of the Moroccan Continental.

Stepping through the doors opens up the courtyard and it’s another journey through time. Belly dancers, thick smoke, daring fire displays, palm trees, and glasses of vin gris all intertwine to create an air of festivity though it’s nothing more than and ordinary Tuesday. Live music plays—flowing and jovial—and you look briefly around you, feeling the buzz of excitement in the air.

You’ve been part of this excitement once before. This lush celebration of life. Tipsy on the world and recklessness that had flown through your blood. Then, on that night, you had been ready to burn the world down without a care.

“Ms. Al-Azwar waits for no man,” Yassin speaks and you snap out of your stupor as you enter the hotel itself. The man leads you down a dimly lit hallway but you don’t need him to. You could find your way around here just fine. Yassin pauses by a doorway with fluttering curtains and turns towards John, smugly amused like the assassin is missing something, “Best of luck, Mr Wick. Miss Vipress.”

He inclines his head, a wicked gleam in his gaze and you fight back a grin. John seems to realise that it’s not a joke that’s going to be explained to him.

He steps through first.

It’s quiet here, so far away from the chaotic party at the courtyard. He moves towards the table to the side where a cluster of familiar photographs sits.

You linger behind him, not moving—

A growl. Something brushes past your leg and John stills, carefully lowering the picture frame back onto the table. He shifts towards the large canine baring his teeth at him with a snarl and then looks towards the dog at your side.

Their savage growls are directed at John only, and you fold your arms over your chest.

A silhouette steps into sight ahead, and John pivots towards the figure who raises their arms before John can so much as open his mouth.  

A loud gunshot follows. Neither the two dogs nor you react.

John falls backwards with a grunt, catapulted back by the sheer impact of the bullet.

“Sofia!” he calls out with a grunt of discomfort. “You can’t kill the bearer of your Marker.”

The manager of the Moroccan Continental steps into the light, her gun raised, and expression pinched. The look in her amber eyes is fierce, annoyed. She glares down at the man on her floor like she’s debating on whether to sick her dogs on him.

“I didn’t kill you,” she drones, her voice icy. “I just shot you.”

There is a moment in which she notes the lack of blood or any visible damage.

“Nice suit, John.”

The man grunts again, lifting himself slightly, his arm raised.

“Nice to see you too, Sofia.”

The woman prowls closer, and seeing her pitiless glare only makes you realise how much you’ve missed her. Her and her acidic tongue.

“I should shoot you both right now,” she says bluntly, her attention finally settling on you and her eyes narrow. “You look like shit by the way.”

You feel like it, too.

Nodding your head in agreement, you reach to pat Ikar and Santana. Both dogs flock to your side now that their master hasn’t proceeded to attack the newcomer again. “Thanks,” you mutter, scratching Ikar behind the ear. Tails wag happily and it makes you smile. “Hey, gorgeous darlings.”

You’ve seen what these dogs are capable of. But in private they’re still just loyal companions eager for belly rubs.

“Stop spoiling them,” Sofia bites out.

“I’m petting them,” you shoot back.

You hear the manager huff but she doesn’t stop you.

There is a rustle of clothing behind you and Sofia’s features go rigid with tension, her grip on the gun tightening and—

Your head snaps to look behind you.

Golden, round metal greets your sight and you see red.

John looks regretful as if already predicting how badly this will go down.

A Marker.

“Don’t even think about it,” the manager hisses, every bit the furious woman ready to rip someone’s throat out with her bare teeth. “You’re Excomunicado that Marker means shit.”

John searches for what to say before settling on a measured, “This is your blood. Your bond.”

You knew that this Marker existed. But you didn’t think he would stoop so low as to try and call it in less than a week after so blatantly refusing his own. No matter how good of a reason he thought he had.

But it seems that rules are only important to John as long as they fit him and his needs.

You knees crack from how quickly you rise to your full height. “I’m taking a shower.”

Behind you, John stands, too. He staggers closer. “V—”

Marching briskly towards Sofia, you pause beside her. It’s very hard to keep a straight expression.

“Can I have a change of clothes?”

Her expression darkens when she fully takes in your haggard appearance and she nods, her gun still trailed on John behind you.

You don’t bother looking back as you depart the room.

This was supposed to have been a request for help, not a demand for one.

The hallways are known to you. This isn’t the first time you’ve walked them. You navigate the narrow space easily, even though you’re practically dragging your feet after you.

You’re tired.

Just so tired.

All the ghosts from your past nip at your heels as you enter an unlocked room sitting at the end of a winding hallway. It looks like nothing has changed in it. Same square layout; wooden furniture, a vanity, wardrobe and adjoined bathroom. A neatly made bed is stationed in the corner, and you almost crumple at the sight of it. Those rich khaki coloured covers look so inviting.

Closing the door with a click, you shrug your coat off, your breaths growing laboured with every inhale. Here, alone, your shoulders tremble under the overbearing weight of everything.

Dragging your trembling palm over your face, you work to steady yourself, stripping. It’s difficult to breathe, stand, exist, but you drag your feet forward anyway.

You have to.

If you stop now, you don’t think you would ever get back up.

The water takes a minute to warm up when you turn on the shower, and you count in your head as you push yourself under the spray.

A webbing of tingling pain rakes through your limbs but you ignore that, too.

Bracing your hands against the freezing tiles, you shiver under the scorching heat of water beating against your bare back. In and out.

Your head sinks as the dense weight of both water and life pulls you down.

Several minutes pass like that. Then you attempt to move, to wash away the grime. You stare blankly at the drain as water gurgles down it.

The whole affair takes substantial effort.

By the time you get out of the shower fifteen minutes later, your muscles are laxer but no less worn. You’re shivering and you’re unsure if it’s exhaustion, adrenaline drop, lack of food, the heat, or something else entirely.

Wrapping the towel tightly around your body, you push your way back into the guest bedroom and flinch.

For a second, Santino’s ghost sits on the bed, glaring, but you blink and he’s gone.

He sat on that bed once before, seemingly half a lifetime ago now, and you wish you could launch yourself back to that time. Even if back then you were so bad. Teetering again.

He came for you again. Just like before Chicago.

And then you won a war for Camorra.

With blood, bullets, poison and forged loyalty.

Together.

Collapsing in a chair by the vanity table, you pull the tiny phone form your jacket, turning it on.

You feel cold to the bone as you wait, your shivering growing worse; an unrelenting, heinous sense gnawing at your heart. You can’t shake the dread that you may find news that will shatter your world. Break it whole.

Please.  

The phone buzzes the moment it turns on and you almost drop it. Readjusting your grip, you inhale deeply. Laboured.

In and out.

He’s out of surgery. Stable but hasn’t woken up yet.

A small sound slips free and you press the phone to your chest. You hold it there; simply gasping small, relieved breaths as you curve your body down.

The ring on your finger and the chain around your neck both burn. But it’s a good burn; a happy one, a relieved one.

“When I said come visit,” a voice declares from behind you, and your eyes snap open, catching sight of Sofia entering the room in the mirror reflection. “I meant when you were free, and that prick Tarasov was buried six feet under, so we could celebrate. Not when you’ve been made Excomunicado and with Baba Yaga in tow.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell her instead, forcing your tense muscles to ease a touch at the sight of her. “I didn’t know he would try and hold the Marker over you.”

She stands still for a moment, surveying you.

You’ve missed her and it’s been too long.

Her hooded stare is uncompromising when she addresses you, “I thought you said if you ever saw him again you would shoot his kneecaps out.”

A small sound slips free; almost a chuckle.

“I was drunk when I said that.”

Sofia stalks closer, unsmiling.

“Not drunk enough to forget you said it,” she states coolly, and her tone implies that she’s both disappointed and exasperated.

Your shoulders droop and you place the phone back on the vanity. A part of you wants to hold it. Your fingertips linger on the screen for a heartbeat before you finally remove them. It fills you with hope despite all the chaos.

I can do this. I will do this.

“Things...” you begin but your voice fades. “It’s complicated.”

The manager comes to a stand behind you and stares. Your eyes meet in the reflection.

“Yeah, it always is with you.”

You’re not sure what to make of her entire demeanour. She’s unsurprisingly angry. You can’t blame her for it, either.

“Thank you,” you say with a small sigh. “I know how much of a risk you’re taking.”

Her daughter. The very reason why John has that damn Marker in the first place.

Sofia made the call to keep her daughter safe from this life. To hide her. She’s now left to pay the price for that decision. All she has left are memories and old photographs that can be found in almost every corner of her private quarters.

“Don’t bother thanking me,” she retorts briskly. “This isn’t a friendly favour. I expect you to pay me back.”

You won’t expect anything less from her.

“Not friends,” you mumble. “Right.”

Her one rule. She doesn’t do friends. Too messy and she’s a manager. No favourites.

Finally lowering your eyes, you reach for the drawer, trying to get the medical kit out. One can be found in every room. Fitting considering the usual patrons. A doctor is available, too, but many prefer their privacy.

“Give me that,” she cuts in, grabbing the medkit from your trembling hands. “The last thing I need is you making a mess.”

Then you realise what exactly she’s staring at. The bare skin of your arms and shoulders that’s covered in bruises and cuts. Most of them are old and half-healed, all varying shades of purple, blue and yellow. Your towel hides even more. The still healing ear also draws attention.

Seeing it through her eyes—looking at yourself through her eyes—makes you realise just how dreadful you do look.

Sofia starts with visible cuts first. She dabs a cloth with antiseptic on your shoulder and you press your lips together. Her touch is not gentle. She does everything with grim focus. But she gets things done. You’ve always admired that about her.

“Is he still alive?”

She doesn’t need to clarify who she’s asking about.

“For now.”

It pains you, how true that is. Santino might be out of surgery but is he out of danger?

“And is it true?” she demands.

Chewing on your inner cheek, you only give her a dispassionate, “Is what true?”

Her eyes spark, her golden skin glowing in the moonlight pouring through the window, and she scowls at you. “Did D’Antonio make you his heir?”

“How did you know?”

“He just took the High Table seat,” she mutters, still scowling and her eyes narrow. “Everyone asked questions the moment the news broke about him being shot. Imagine everyone’s surprise when the Devil of Camorra shut down speculations and the Camorra Council by announcing Santino named you to stand in his stead.”

Hector.

Camorra always comes first for him. You know he didn’t do it because he likes you. But he does value his family, his loyalty to them is unbreakable. He may not like Santino, either, but he will still serve to the best of his ability. Gratitude is an unfamiliar emotion in regards to the menacing man, but you still feel it. However minute.

“He did it to keep me safe,” you intone softly, frayed.

Sofia shifts on her feet behind you and presses cloth between your shoulder blades. You flinch and grind your teeth.

“I know,” she deadpans. “He does that. Shockingly. And ironically.”

Your head lifts, a trickle of water trailing down your neck from your still wet hair.  

“What is that suppose to mean?” you question tightly.

She pauses, straightening, and meets your questioning stare unflinchingly. “You know exactly what I mean,” she says frankly. “You do know he loves you, right?”

Oh.

Your heart mangles.

“This is Santino D’Antonio you’re—”

She scoffs, throwing the cloth on the vanity as she glares down at you. “Do you think I’m blind? Or are you playing ignorant?” she questions coldly. Nor does she sound in the mood to back down. “You’re not stupid so I know that can’t be it. I saw how he was with you when he came to my city. How you clung to him and trusted him. How ready he was to go through anyone to get to you. How you looked at him even then.”

Every word is a stab and you try to force those reminders away. Try to force back the memory of rage you had felt at Tarasov, how you had ran like a reckless idiot, ready to throw everything away. Go back and never return—

How Santino had come. Despite the escalating situation with he Albanians, despite Giovanni’s wrath, and how he dragged you back. Not letting you run away. How he reminded you to fight and stand your ground.

The memory of his arms around you and your nose in the crook of his neck hurts.

“I do know,” you admit, your words a weak wreck of syllables. “I—I couldn’t do it again, Sof. I can’t...it hurts too much. I couldn’t risk it again.”

Surely she can understand. She knows about John. You practically spilt your guts to her. She had listened silently—not pitying you, not looking down at you—even while you sobbed your heart out.

“That’s some bullshit you know that, right?” she insists, pushing her highlighted hair over one shoulder, her glare unfaltering. “I didn’t say anything the last time because I wasn’t sure myself but that ring on your finger says all I need to know. Power means everything to him.”

She draws a deep breath, examining your slack expression in the mirror before shaking her head. “But he’s different with you. It’s not that you change him but he...I don’t know,” she mutters stiffly, sounding like she rather not be speaking on this topic at all. “It’s like you make him more bearable. You inspire him to be different. He tries to actually use that minuscule brain of his when you’re around. You can’t fake what I saw.”

A wheeze rattles out of your lungs and your body shakes.

“You don’t even like Santino,” you point out harshly because it’s true. She has always spoken about the Italian like she couldn’t care less if he dropped dead. “Why the hell are you telling me all this?”

Why now? When everything is already barely being held together.

This...

You don’t need this now.

Don’t want to think about it now.

The manager rolls her eyes. “You’re damn right I don’t like him,” she responds bluntly, her mouth pinching. “I would put a bullet in his smug little face myself if I could. But I have eyes in my head and if you refuse to acknowledge it, then I will.”

Her irritation eases a touch, her features relaxing, and she places her hand on your shoulder. The squeeze is tiny, almost caring if you didn’t know what kind of woman she is. “You can’t spend the rest of your life running away from things,” she says knowingly, and a lump in your throat almost makes your eyes ache. You look away, unable to hold her intent stare. “Just because John broke your heart it doesn’t mean that you can never be happy again.”

Sometimes you wonder which one of them she dislikes more: John or Santino.

She would probably shoot them both given the chance.

Most days it’s a sentiment shared.

“And you do realise that you’re talking about one of the most selfish and ruthless men in our world, don’t you?” you say, your voice still thin, weaker than you would like it to be. Sofia has little patience for snivelling. But this is hitting a sore spot at the worst time. “What do you want from me, Sof? It’s not my job to be a moral compass for someone else.”

Santino is his own man. Capable of his own decisions. He is awful and egoistic and often cruel and—

I choose you.

A shudder rolls through your limbs and you squeeze your eyes shut.

“Do you really think that if I ever, even for a second, thought that that was your relationship I won’t have called you out on it?”

You don’t answer her. But you doubt she needs a verbal confirmation to something she already knows.

Of course, she would. She always has.

“Fine,” she forces out through gritted teeth at your lack of response. “Answer me this, then: has he ever made you happy? Genuinely happy?”

A part of you wonders why this is so damn important to her now. Why she’s forcing answers out of you over something she’s always considered “not her business” in the past.

Genuinely happy.

The fact that hundreds of tiny moments immediately jump to mind is answer enough.

You feel how your expression crumbles. “Yes.”

“And if he were to die right now—”

Every muscle in your body goes ramrod stiff before she even finishes. “Don’t.”

She leans back a bit, her eyebrows rising at the venom in your voice, and the self-satisfied expression on her face should make you furious. But it doesn’t.

She only got you to admit what you already know.

That you care for Santino D’Antonio a lot more than you should.

Six years of knowing him.

What you feel for him—

“That’s what I thought,” she says, pleased, but then drops the smugness. Her fingers squeeze your shoulder again, less forceful this time. “Do yourself a favour and open your eyes. Stop running already.”

It’s perhaps the kindest thing she’s ever said to you. It’s certainly spoken with a gentler tone than what you’re used to hearing from her.

You don’t have a reply to that, and she seems to conclude that there is nothing more to pull. Or maybe she just knows you better than to try.

“So,” she begins after few moments of silence, picking up some salve that should ease the muscle ache. “You really think it’s going to work?”

You read the deeper meaning in her words but feel grateful that she’s decided to drop the previous topic. For now, at least.

“I don’t know but it’s our only option,” you tell her and grimace at another dull twinge of pain across your back. The salve has to be massaged in but it still hurts. “The city gate...when was it changed? The one coming from the water.”

Because you need to know—have to know.

Did he do it on purpose?

He had to. It’s too deliberate. A message only you would decipher.

Sofia pauses in her massaging, her warm palm still between your shoulder blades and thinks for a beat. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Maybe a few months after you visited? Why?”

Your heart skips several beats and a faint smile curves your lips.

“Then I think it will work.”

She must hear the defeat in your voice because she pulls back, examining you once more before delivering her verdict. “You should rest.”

“We need to go—”

“You’re both a mess,” she says brusquely, and jerks her chin towards the bed. “We’re not going anywhere while you look like you’re about to drop dead any minute. John agreed. We’ll go to Berrada tomorrow.”

—BEFORE.

.

It takes another two days to ask the question that’s been plaguing you since you got to this desert.

“What about Tarasov?”

Rafik pauses over his meal, turning towards you as his spoon lowers. Your own meal sits half-eaten in your lap—a couscous with goat meat and vegetables—and you twist your spoon between your fingers with a frown. The fire you both sit next to crackles loudly, and you peer at the dancing flames blankly. A sickly weight of dread sits in the pit of your stomach and you shift your aching, exhausted body from training for the hundredth time that day.

The rest of the men pay you no attention. Their heads are bowed and the relaxing, low lull of their conversation washes over you while the spoon twists between your fingers yet again.

“He is of no consequence,” Rafik informs you coolly and digs back into his portion. “You do not have to worry. As long as you are staying here as the Elder’s guest the world outside of this haven is of no importance.”

The tip of your toe jabs into the sand underneath you, and your shoulders lower; an almost instinctive gesture that you don’t realise you’ve committed until you notice the way Rafik’s dark eyes flicker over your body.

Your back straightens. “He will search for me. He—”

“Viggo Tarasov is one man,” Rafik cuts you off, placid but curt, and your eyes meet. Amber light dances over his features and that arresting stare stills your fidgeting limbs. “A piece in a far larger machine, and nothing more than that. He is of no importance. No harm will befall you even if you choose to return after your stay here.”  

Viggo Tarasov.

The man who murdered your parents, who has abused you in more than one way for years, who took your freedom, forcing you to servitude. Nothing more than a dog chained to his will until you work off a debt that’s not even yours to begin with. A man whose only care in regards to you is one that serves his will and greed for power. A man who left you to fend for yourself when John’s enemies came for you—hunting you, hurting you, poisoning you—is suddenly of no importance.

Your appetite shrivels up and dies at those words.

But you know hunger. You know the value of a good meal and water.

So you grit your teeth, dig your spoon back into your bowl, and scrape every last piece of your meal clean even though it makes you feel sick after.

You don’t speak for the rest of the night.  

.

.

“Fascinating.”

“What is?”

Rafik lowers the parchment in his hands and lifts his head, his gaze hooded and pensive as he gazes at you for a beat.

The incense tickles your nose even though you’re both sitting in an open tent, overlooking the golden scenery around you. He picked up on your preference for open spaces quickly, much to your unspoken surprise.  

The wind-chimes and the dance of silken curtains fill the air with melody; a delicate, lulling thing that helps to relax your tense body.

“I confess that I do not fully grasp the intricacies of your work but I think the Elder will be most pleased when I present this to him,” he says and you hear the honesty in his quiet, accented voice. Genuine praise. “The way you perceive things…it reminds me a great deal of how his mind works as well.”

You know that.

These last few weeks have been…

You hesitate to use a word like groundbreaking but they have been.

Your training consists of three parts: the physical kind which means long and gruelling sparring sessions with Saad each morning while Rafik oversees, studying the Elder’s own private research for the rest of the day, and finally meditating.

It’s the last one you struggle the most with.

You’re not good at relaxing or quietening your mind. Not good at trusting yourself in a vulnerable position which is exactly what meditating for hours on end is.

You’ve gotten better. Especially with Rafik often joining you in an effort to help. His voice has become familiar to you for that reason.

The Elder’s private collection of research is something else entirely though.

Astonishing is one of the first words that come to mind.

Parchments upon parchments full of theories and experimentations all written out in neat handwriting. You’ve spent days pouring over them, your mind racing and working overtime.

You have never encountered someone who approaches toxicology and chemistry the same way you do. Never encountered someone who is able to think so wildly out of the box. Someone whose research and concepts feel like opening a gate on your own vague, half-baked notions that always felt foolish when you entertained them.  

The Elder and his work challenge you mentally in a way nothing has before.

There has never been a time before where you would wake up each morning, feeling eager to get through your physical training just so you could go back to your tent and spend the day pouring over more.

Rafik passes you more notes daily as well as “challenges” from the Elder himself—a way to test your own creativity and ability to learn and adapt.

Normally something like this would have annoyed you—you aren’t a kid at school taking exams and have nothing to prove to some man who is yet to show his face—but the challenges themselves are so interesting you can’t force yourself to feel angry.

“You sound impressed,” you joke but feel genuinely curious. “These are just basic, outlandish concepts to be honest.”

“These concepts are impressive and very plausible,” he replies and gives you a measured look. “May I ask why you have not developed them further? This paralyser especially.”

You hum and shake your head a little. “Time and resources mostly,” you tell him and give him a cynical smile. “Tarasov likes to keep me busy.”

A flicker passes over Rafik’s features. It’s brief and too hard for you to read but he straightens, looking at you closely.

“What?”

Maybe you sound a touch defensive but can’t quite help it. Unlike Santino, or even John, Rafik never explains his long, probing looks.

“You have no idea what you could achieve with this,” he says quietly, gesturing towards the parchment. “Do you?”

“Some already fear me.”

After what you did. What you don’t regret doing.

His lips part and his next words feel like a physical blow. “Then they are fools. They should be terrified of you.”

You’re not sure how long you both sit facing each other in silence. His eyes remind you of molten gold in this light.

What could you possibly say to that? The conviction, the quiet approval—they all reflect back at you though they are so minute that had this exchange taken place only weeks prior you won’t have been able to pick them out.

Time has flown startlingly fast.  

There is an odd sense of routine now, too.

Two months into your stay and you feel like this haven truly is all you know anymore. And yet, even though you are disconnected from everything here, your world has never felt bigger. Out of the abyss of numbness and heartbreak, something else is starting to take shape.

No news about Chicago, either. You don’t dare to ask about it, or what’s happening out there in the world.

It’s comfortable here in a way that almost makes it easy to pretend this is all you’ve known.

But even the heat of the sun cannot burn away your longing.

Where is home?

For so long, you thought you didn’t have one or even need one. But now, removed from everything, you have unearthed a different kind of truth.

Home is dreary, grey walls of the Continental. Home is a glass of brandy, a glint of glasses, banter with a concierge who looks reproachful on a good day, and crossword puzzles with a game of chess after dinner.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, as you stare up at the vastness of the sky above, you can even hear a teasing murmur of Italian next to you.

And yet—

You’ve always been selfish.

Home is tied to Tarasov. Home is also tied to John.

Two things you would rather forget.

Playing with the loose material of your pants, you finally give Rafik a firm, “I want to learn more. Tell your master to give me a bigger challenge.”

The most powerful man in the world.

Now you understand why.

Rafik only smiles, pleased.

.

.

“Again.”

Groaning, you see your hot breath separate the sand under your cheek as you lift your head. Saad rotates the bamboo stick in his hand, spinning it lazily as he stares down at you, circling you. His stony expression makes even old memories of John seem hospitable by comparison.

Behind him, just over the curved peaks of the sandy dunes, the sky is starting to bleed pink. You have maybe another thirty minutes tops before the sun is up and the sand beneath you will become too hot to train on.

Reaching out, your now much steadier fingers wrap around the fallen stick, and you prop it in the sand, using it to stand.

The back of your hand swipes against your cheek where grains of sand stick to your sweaty skin. Ignoring the itch of it, you brush it away without dropping your attention from your partner.

Saad truly makes even Cassian appear like a cuddly bear with that unmovable glower.

For a second, your eyes jump to Rafik who stands on the side of your makeshift ring, surveying your sparring session with a detached expression. He never spars with you but always oversees and comments. Compliments as well as critiques.

The Elder’s eyes and ears.

It’s been exhausting.

Beyond exhausting, in fact.

These last three months have been nothing but an effort to crawl back out of the pit you’ve been stuck in. Rafik hasn’t shielded away from pushing you, always seemingly aware of your limits before you even voice them, but still willing to drive just a little bit further daily.

Every bruise and groan and slam to the ground has just made you resent John just that little bit more.

After he left, you just barely managed to hold on. You clung onto your pride and dignity by continuing on despite everything. Even after being hunted and nearly killed numerous times during the Hunt, you still managed to hold on. Even while having to deal with the lingering scars that Tokyo has left on you, you still managed to hold on.

But his wedding had been the final shove to send you over the edge. You thought you were letting him go but the only thing you had let go of was yourself.

You hate the fact that you gave him so much power over you. Let his departure ruin you so thoroughly.

Your John.

You deserve better.

You’re not his or anyone’s second choice. Not a target for others to unleash their rage upon because of his actions.

Flipping the stick, you strike ruthlessly.

So quickly that you don’t fail to spot the flare of surprise in Saad’s black eyes as he just barely manages to block your strike. His leg slams forward but you pull back, twisting your arms till the other end of the stick connects again with a dull but piercing sound.

Saad is usually the one to put you on the defensive, so you use this chance to strike mercilessly, driving him back for once as you throw yourself at him.

The ferocious clanging of your sticks connecting fills the still chilly morning air and you spin, bringing the stick down again and again.

He’s significantly stronger than you—towering an impressive 6’0, at least—and it’s only made more impressive by the hard muscle lining his arms, legs, and torso. Often he swats you away like you’re a pesky fly buzzing around his head.

Saad keeps up but just barely, focusing on his strength to try and force you back and you falter briefly, giving him a moment to strike you in the stomach.

The pain that follows is fierce and sudden, though not unfamiliar. You stagger backwards as yellow sand sprays under your feet and gasp for breath, your expression screwing up in a grimace.

This time you manage to stay on your feet though.

The man before you doesn’t goad you, doesn’t comment, but Rafik does.

“Enough for today.”

Your muscles twinge. Your lungs are burning. Despite doing good and lasting far, far longer than you would have months ago, it still stings that you can’t do better. Your frustration burns as brightly as your drive to finally best the fighter before you.

You can do it. You know you can.

“No.”

Saad steps back, turning the stick in his hand as he lowers it, but a faint frown of disapproval lines his strong features at your refusal.

Your eyes jump to Rafik. “I want to go again.”

The man doesn’t so much as blink. “You are at your limit, viper. Learn to let go.”

“I want to go again.”

Something shifts under that peaceful mask, but Saad speaks up first. “Do as you’re told.”

You don’t bother reacting to his irritated words, your gaze still focused on the man behind him.

It’s not about disobedience.

This is something else.

“No,” Rafik dismisses again, his voice wooden.

Your jaw clenches so tightly your teeth ache. Spinning the stick, you lower it to your side, marching right past the rigid Saad and straight towards Rafik, coming face-to-face with him.

“Then I challenge you.”

“Tread carefully,” he utters though his voice or expression lack any sort of displeasure or annoyance. If anything— “If you do not calm that flame you will not win this match.”

He calmly extends his arm towards Saad; a silent request for his stick but he’s met with hesitation.

The too-long pause prompts a cool, “Your weapon, brother.”

“You do not have to listen to—”

Rafik glances away from you for a second, his attention moving towards the man behind you, and silence follows immediately. Almost like Saad was suddenly robbed of his ability to speak.

Footsteps draw closer a moment later; louder than usual, angry.

Rafik takes the stick calmly, expression unchanging and inclines his head towards the makeshift ring.

You both move in unison, eyeing each other as you halt several feet apart.

Rafik shrugs off his outer layer, leaving him in fitted robes as he gazes at you.

It’s quiet here. Peaceful. Just like the man before you. A world away from everything it might as well be just you two. Finally about to clash physically and not just mentally as you have so many times in these past months.

You’ve been curious about him for some time now.

The faraway noises of camels echo from the other side of the camp. Shuffling of tents opening and people starting their day.

You strike first.

Your grip on the stick unfaltering, you roll it between your hands, crashing it against his.

Rafik meets your strike, and you know from one glance at his face that every move is being judged even if he’s directly involved in the spar this time.

The sticks meet again, and again.

Spin. Pivot. Crash. Fall back. Slam of sticks again.

“You can be faster than that.”

Ignoring his words, you focus on his rhythm. Rafik himself keeps mentioning how every battle is a dance of sorts. That there are patterns and rules and things to learn in the way someone moves. You’ve never quite seen fighting be approached like this. You’re used to opportunities and instinct. Lessons from John and Cassian respectively.

Rafik is neither of them.

John’s advice whispers at the back of your mind but you ignore it.

Something tells you that this is not a fight you can win with his help.

You don’t need his help.

A knock against your shin and you jump back, shooting him a dirty look.

“Stop daydreaming, viper.”

The stick twists through the air in an elegant arc as Rafik observes you, waiting for your next move.

He’s good. Better than you expected him to be but you suppose you shouldn’t be surprised. Though there is tranquil air around him, his body tells a tale of silent, undeniable strength. Broad shoulders, strong neck, a dip of collarbone just visible at this distance that teases hard muscle underneath.

You go low, sand spraying under your feet as you aim for his legs, throwing the end of the stick at his chest. He reacts fast enough, seeing through your deceit, and his stick cracks against yours with enough power to make your arms dip, your muscles trembling to keep him at bay.

You let go with one hand, gambling as always, and the interlocked sticks hit your left shoulder, throwing you backwards. The pain is distant but numbing and your weapon rolls out of your hands in the fray. Rafik comes towards you at once, and your eyes meet for a single second before you throw a handful of sand at his face, kicking at his legs. His stick falls, too, and you don’t waste time.

He doesn’t fall over from the kick but he does go to his knees, and you hurl yourself at him, pitching both of you backwards. He crashes to the ground with a thud, you on top of him, and your concealed blade kisses the curve of his neck.

His turban has come off in the scuffle and you stare down at his dark eyes. Risk a glance at the midnight black hair now visible that you didn’t realise curls just slightly at the ends till now.

You’re out of breath, exhaling heavily through your nose, but still manage a victorious, “I win.”

He’s calm, a few grains of sand still sticking to his cheek and full lips, and you watch that mouth twitch slightly. “Did you?”

Slight pressure against your ribs and you freeze.

A concealed blade in his hand scrapes against your side.

It seems like you’re not the only one with tricks.

A nameless thing passes over Rafik’s features as he stares up at you and you feel it, too.

Your attentions snags on the bare expanse of his collarbone where you just glimpse a tattoo inked onto his golden, smooth skin. It’s Arabic and the meaning escapes you but it takes you a few seconds to force your attention away from it.

But for some reason this entire situation...

A chuckle breaks free from you—a sound so unfamiliar to you now—and you pull the blade back, the hard coil of emotion in your gut easing.

Leaning back, you gaze at him and him you, before you stand to your feet slowly. Your legs feel like jelly but you still extend your hand towards him.

Rafik wraps his fingers around yours, standing so easily you doubt he needed the help in the first place, but you don’t mention it. Easier to pretend.

Easier to pretend he doesn’t linger, still holding your hand before finally letting go.

“Take it.”

He offers the dagger in his hand to you. It’s a stunning thing. Relatively small, elegantly cut, and the handle forged with marble and rusted sort of gold. In today’s market, a creation such as this would fetch a good price. More than good. This is no ordinary dagger.

“No, thank you,” you say with a slight shake of your head. “I don’t accept presents.”

He pulls his hand back but his attention still stays on you. There is a slight flutter under his left eye, almost like he’s trying hard to figure something out.

“And why not?”

This time, you give him a slight smile, turning to go back towards your tent as the sun finally peaks over the dunes.

“Because presents are favours and favours are debts,” you tell him simply and massage your aching shoulder. It will bruise. But it was worth it for what you’ve managed to glean. “I have enough of those.”

You feel his eyes dig into your back as you walk away.

. 

.

“Today’s lesson is going to be different.”

“Different how?”

Your question is neutral but your mind races.

Today is already different. There was no morning spar with both Rafik and Saab too busy with something Rafik only vaguely alluded to last night over dinner.

For him to seek you out in the middle of the day is even rarer. He respects the number of hours and focus you put into your studies of the Elder’s research. He even looks pleased about it most days.

So when he came to your tent, asking for you to come with him, it made you both curious and suspicious.

“It’s a test,” he answers and you feel no surprise at those words, only blooming determination and unease. As if sensing it, Rafik gives you a sideways glance while you stride through the camp, appearing almost amused. “Do not look so tense, viper.”

The searing burn of the sun tingles the back of your neck and you know your replying stare is flat.

“Forgive my well-earned caution,” you begin frankly, squinting at him in the bright light. “The last time your master tested me, he wanted me to drink poison.”

Rafik nods his head once, accepting your words.

His robes are white today. So is your jumpsuit.

You almost match expect you’re still not sure what to make of him.

He’s exceedingly smart. Conversations with him are unfairly engaging even months later. It makes you both like him and dislike him in the same breath, though it would be a lie to say it’s not leaning more towards the former lately.

He’s interesting. Near frighteningly so.

But you know that it’s a sentiment shared.

You’ve caught him peering at you like you’re a rubik’s cube that keeps changing every time he tries to solve it near daily.

“A test of will,” he reminds you and he glances at you again, nodding at the two men who pass you. Hand against his chest; a gesture of goodwill and respect that the men return readily. “You should not fear pain. The Elder believes that pain is one of the cornerstones upon which strength is built. Hence the severity of your training.”

Yes, the intensity has been building rapidly but it has only made you more determined. So far, you’ve met—and often bested—every challenge thrown at you.

It feels good.

This is what you are at your core and every day of hard work and success fills you with new life, new energy to succeed.

Pain, however, is not something you would consider a good teacher. Perhaps in some instances but not in physical training. Pain breaks—it hardly ever moulds or betters someone.

“Speak your mind freely.”

He sounds mildly entertained and his expression is no better when you look at him.

“Just thinking about how poor your master’s logic is.”

Rafik’s steps slow but, as always, he appears curious about your words.

“You disagree,” he assumes wisely and his head slants to one side. “Yet here you are.”

That makes the faint smile on your face fall away. Your feet come to a standstill and he halts, too, turning back to look towards you. A gentle breeze flutters through the tents and canopies surrounding you.

“I don’t know what fancy tales he told you about me,” you bite out quietly and there is a warning in your tone. “But I did not need to go through the pain I did to become what I am.”

His reply is immediate and uncompromising. “Wrong,” he says simply, matter-of-fact, his regard unwavering. “You are who you are, at this exact moment, precisely because you went through what you did. It is a terrible truth of life, but it is the truth.”

The words land against your heart brutally, causing a falter in your composure.

As much as you hate it, as much as you want to hate him for saying it, there is truth to be found in his words.

“This way,” he says after a tense pause between you, gesturing with his hand towards the edge of the camp.

He moves in the direction of the enclosed tent standing slightly apart from the rest and you follow him silently, still digesting his words.

Rafik steps into inside first, holding the flap back until you step inside as well. It’s significantly cooler inside and you sigh in relief.

The tent is smaller and far less extravagant than others around the camp. It doesn’t look lived in, either. You spot a shabby looking table with a few pieces of parchment on it as well as a rickety-looking chair. Much to your surprise, there are few plants around as well.

But what truly catches your attention is the small, curled creature resting at the centre of the tent.

“Do you know what it is?”

You don’t respond right away, forcing yourself to swallow despite your suddenly dry throat. “Cerastes cerastes,” you whisper numbly, briefly looking at the man beside you who watches you with that rapt interest. “Also known as the horned desert viper.”

The golden viper lays curled on a bed of sand in a giant bowl placed in the middle of the space. Its slit eyes are open, seemingly focused on you, and the little horns sprouting from its head make it look even more dangerous. Deadly.

“Correct,” the man beside you confirms, folding his arms in front of him, his attention is still on you. But you’re staring at the viper before you, lost in thought. “The Elder thinks that since he bestowed your title upon you, it is now time to prove you have the strength to wear the moniker.”

You blink.

“What?”

Your head snaps in his direction and Rafik looks momentarily confused till his expression clears.

“Where did you think your title came from?” he wonders as he moves towards the viper. He gestures for you to do the same and you do so but with no small amount of caution.

“The Hight Table. They—”

He doesn’t let you finish. “And where do you think the High Table got it from?”

Oh.

It never crossed your mind to even question it. It was simply a name—a title—granted by those far, far above you when Tarasov first took you in. You feared the Russian back then. Anything above him had seemed like hell waiting to be unleashed. You’ve never dared to ask questions then.

“The poison.”

Rafik nods his head once more, not needing further clarification. You suppose it should worry you. The fact that you’re often able to understand the other’s mind so easily you pick up on true meaning with half a thought.

There has been more than one occasion when you’ve spotted the men from the tribe staring as you debate over dinner. Rapid-fire idea jumping that always ends with a half-cooled meal in your lap.

The Elder.

He’s been keeping you on his radar because he’s been looking for someone to potentially fill that fourth position in his ranks. An apprentice. A part of you can’t help but wonder how many there have been before you. None of them have succeeded though. That says a lot, too.

“The Elder wants you to prove your will once more,” Rafik announces and you just hold back a frown. “To become something more and learn an important lesson. Take it.”

“Excuse me?”

He appears unmoved by the tart disbelief in your voice. “Take it,” he reiterates instead, gesturing at the curled up viper.

It appears undisturbed but you doubt its contentment will last long.  

You work your jaw, your fingers folding into loose fists, straightening. “Desert vipers are venomous,” you point out forcefully light. “In some cases even deadly.”

“Yes.”

It’s clear what the command here is.

Put your life on the line.

To prove a point.

You can sense the way your expression hardens, how your body rotates and you stalk towards him, aggression lining every inch of your body.

A shift through his features when you halt in front of him, practically face-to-face.

He’s no doubt expecting you to unleash a storm but you simply gaze at him. Staring at him—into him.

The suffocating quiet lasts at least a minute.

Then you turn away from him and stride towards the bowl, your fingers clenching tightly as you ready yourself for the inevitable agony.

The closer you draw the more rigid the viper curls, sensing the danger approaching, and you stare at it for several moments.

The creature that has given you your name.

You reach out purposely slowly and wrap your fingers gently around it.

The viper hisses loudly, striking at once—blindingly swift and brutal, and how fitting you share a name, after all—and it’s like a shot of pure fire ripping through your forearm. Blood follows as the fangs leave your skin, and the reptile prepares to strike again but you’re ripped away before it can.

Men shout but it’s distant as they remove the viper, your surroundings growing fuzzy. Everything is drowned out by the roar in your head and the severe, numbing pain shooting up the length of your arm. You can already feel the swelling spreading and your knees fold underneath you.

You fall back against warmth and strength—into the very same arms that pulled you away, and a gasp of silent anguish leaves you.

Your heartbeat is already spiking—reacting to the venom which will only get worse, you know that—and you grasp onto the arms holding you in futile attempt to hold on.

Rafik’s face appears above you as he lowers you to the ground carefully, holding you in his embrace.

A faint, unhappy frown lines his handsome face but there is such light in his eyes. Like he’s mesmerised. Amazed, too.

“Remember this moment,” he murmurs gently and you cling to him harder. “This is the moment you chose to face death.”

The flesh of his palm comes to rest against the side of your face and a whimper of pain slips free. “One day it will give you power few can understand,” he continues like he’s sharing a secret he would never tell anyone else.

His face is the last thing you see as the dark and the pain gnaw on your insides, leaving nothing behind.

There is a sensation of weightlessness and hard, muscular arms around you as you’re lifted into the air, and pulled close.

Then, the faintest of murmurs, “Always exceeding my expectations.”

.

.

You burn for a long time.

The swelling gets worse before it gets better, and the only relief you find is in the bitter, tangy solution that you are forced to drink four times a day.

Sweating is even worse. During the daytime it’s near unbearable with the heat. Nights are better but just barely.

The first time you’re coherent enough, you wake up screaming, torn apart by your feverish nightmares.

Arms lock around you, trying to contain you, but you find no comfort in the embrace.

It’s only when those arms latch around you securely, and bring you outside, still wrapped in blankets, that you find some semblance of relief.

That becomes routine for a while.

You’re not sure how much time you lose to that haze of torment.

Wind tickles your cheek; a playful, kind thing that cracks your eyes open eventually.

The first thing you notice is the fire not too far from where you lay curled up in thick covers. The second thing you notice is the richness of the night surrounding you. The third is the man tending to the fire and lastly the dryness of your throat.

As if sensing your sudden wakefulness, Rafik ganders your way. One side of his face is bathed in orange light while another remains hidden away by the night as he meets you bleary stare.

His pensive expression drops and he stands, bringing a small cup with him as he squats before you. A silent offer as he extends his hand.

You stare at the cup for a long moment, not moving; not sure if you can move, either.  

Picking up on your suspicion, he offers you benign, “Drink, it will help.”

As suspected your left arm, now bandaged, stays at your side. A frustrated groan slips free and Rafik reaches forward, placing his hand at the back of your neck before tilting your head towards the cup. Such careful, gentle motion that it makes you frown as the heat of his fingertips tingles your skin.

To your relief it’s water.

The cup empties in a few mouthfuls.

“Let’s not do that again.”

Your voice is frayed, husky and you wince again at the swelling in your arm. You don’t want to see what lays beneath the bandages. It will take a while to fully recover, likely a week or two at least. His fingers linger against your skin and you listen to his faint hum of thought.

“You did remarkably well,” Rafik praises softly and looks up at him. His collected expression does bring a sense of serenity. “The Elder is pleased.”

You keep the eye contact, listening to the crackling of the flame. “Is he now?”

One of his eyebrow’s arches at the not-so-subtle mockery in your remark. He lowers your head carefully, finally removing his hand from the arch of your neck.

“It is curious that you fail to realise just how high his expectations are,” he states and his lips press into a thin line as he thinks about something for a moment before continuing, “And how few meet them, much less exceed them.”

This time, you don’t bother holding back your cynicism or venom. “And is that what I’m doing? Exceeding his expectations?”

Just as suspected, Rafik does not answer you.

His eyes narrow thoughtfully instead as they drag over your features. As always, he’s searching for something, digging for something. The camp is quiet, indicating it’s likely the middle of the night while the silence between you stretches.

Through the haze comes the memory of this being a frequent occurrence.

You and him and the night sky. The only way for you to get rest anymore.

“May I ask you a personal question?”

You snort under your breath, but a faint smile curls one corner of your mouth.

“We’ve been practically living together for four months,” you say and disbelief colours your words. “And now you worry about asking me personal questions?” you hesitate before adding a bland, “Ask away.”

He leans closer, his strong features filling your sight. Those dark eyes, the curve of his mouth, strong nose, peppering of facial hair and golden skin.

“What is it that you want the most?”

Your heart stutters at the delicate tilt of his voice. “What?”

Curiosity burns under the mask of coolness and you realise, then, that this is perhaps the most unguarded he’s ever been with you. Like he’s indulging in something he never allows himself to indulge in.

“Right now, at this very moment, what is it that you desire the most?”

Your mouth works quicker than your mind. “Viggo Tarasov dead.”

What more could you ever want? You’re done wishing for John to come back no matter how much you may ache for his love.

Rafik ‘tsks’ and shakes his head, turning away for a moment and towards the horizon before looking back at you.

“No—be honest with me,” he says and you marvel at the fact that he somehow manages to make that sound like a request and not an order. “That is bitterness and hurt talking but they are simply layers. Masks you wear to keep yourself safe. I want to know what lives inside your heart. And I know you have one, for I have seen it, no matter how well you try to hide it.”

You feel your pulse flutter at the intent way he gazes at you, at his assessment—so simple yet so ruthlessly accurate—and your lips part in an attempt to control your laboured breathing.

“I—” you choke out, pause, gather whatever little strength you do have and offer him a piece of yourself you rarely do with others. “I want to be free.”

Rafik stares down at you as fiery light dances over his frame.

“I want—I want to belong to myself, not to someone else,” you force out in a weak whisper. Your cocoon of blankets makes you feel safe, removed somehow, and with this man gazing down at you like you’re most interesting he’s ever encountered, the rest slips free, “This world of ours is my home, and I do not wish to part with it but…”

Inhaling deeply, you swallow down the knot in your throat and continue, “But I want to wake up each morning and not dread it. I want to live for myself and be myself. Feel the sun and the wind and know I can do whatever I want with my day. Go places I want. See and try things I’ve dreamt of trying since I was a little girl. I want…I just want to be free.”

Silence follows.

You’re not sure what to make of Rafik’s expression. Not sure what to make of him, or this place, or this entire situation. Not sure what to do with the torrent of emotions you feel boiling inside your chest. Longing, rage, bitterness, pain, determination.

Staying here is making you feel both powerful and vulnerable.

In truth, it scares you. Just how much you like it here.

“So you are a woman who dreams of sunshine yet soaks her hands in blood.”

That ceases some part of you. His words lack accusation, lack any sort of judgement but that perhaps only makes them more horrible.  

“Yeah, I guess I am,” you breathe and you feel your eyes burn. “Just a regular monster but I don’t mind it anymore.”

If your time with Santino in Chicago reminded you of anything is that sometimes in order to survive you have to become something awful. A choice just like everything else in life.

A glimmer of conflict creases Rafik’s expression before he extends his hand towards you, his thumb settling against the corner of your eye where a tear has spilt over. The touch is feather-light but he doesn’t pull back right away. Nor do you push him away, either.

“There are worse things to be than a monster, (Name).”

His voice is kind, soothing, and you close your eyes with a slight nod of your head.

“You should rest,” he tells you and his touch disappears. When your eyes flutter open, he’s already standing above you and reaches out, pulling the covers closer around you. “Sleep well, monster.”

Your eyes meet in the shadows of the night.

“You as well, monster.”

His mouth curls.

His smile is almost warm.

You jolt back to wakefulness, gasping for breath.

Your skin is slick with sweat, your heart drumming inside your rib cage. Pressing a palm tightly against your breast, you force yourself to inhale through your nose, counting frantically. Cotton sheets lay twisted around your bare legs and you kick them off.

Your feet touch the cooler floor and you clutch onto your forearm, feeling the phantom pain there.

The scars from the bite are tiny—you have to hold your arm close and squint to even find them—but the recollection of the suffering they caused is very real.

You rock your body, a touch frantic, as you try to shake off the memories. Your legs tremble when you stand and you stumble towards the bathroom. Goosebumps cover your naked body when you hug the sink and its coldness tingles your skin.

Your fingers manage to turn the tap on the second attempt and cold water gurgles out. Cupping your hands, you splash freezing water onto your face, then press the back of your palm against your neck. Water trickles down the curve of your neck and you sigh in relief. Your arms locked behind your neck, you lean your elbows on the sink, counting your breaths.

Your heart slows.

So does your breathing.

It’s silent.

You’re not sure how long you slept but it’s still dark outside. Despite the rest, you feel groggy and disorientated when you do straighten.

The reflection staring back at you is dreadful.

Bandaged ear, listless expression, deep bags under your eyes and cracked lips.

“Shit.”

There is no time to rest.

You go back to your room, throwing the wardrobe open. One article of clothing stops you almost immediately.

It’s still here.

You brought it with you the last time you came here and forgot about it.

Your jumpsuit. It’s a muted, sandy colour and still soft to the touch, clearly sown from highest quality material.

You left the desert wearing this. You suppose it’s only right that you should go back wearing it.

Your stomach rolls.

He did warn you. He did say that you coming back is an eventuality, not a maybe.

A self-fulfilling prophecy perhaps.

Putting it back on feels surreal. Despite it being years, the stretch of it still feels familiar and the fit is comfortable. Your blade comes next. The phone is too big to take and when you check there are no new updates on it. That makes your heart clench but you shove the worry aside. No time. Your hands hesitate over two boxes still resting innocently on the vanity though. No space for them on you but…

You open both, staring at the content inside. Two ampules rest in soft cushioned material. Both are smaller than your pinky but hold liquid inside. One clear, one red so dark it almost appears black. You take both out, holding them in your palm.

So much devastation and power in the palm of your hand.  

They should be terrified of you.

Maybe he was right. Maybe everyone should be. Maybe it’s time to give them all a reminder.

Exiting your room, you set out to find Sofia.

John will likely still be resting and it’s a good time as any to catch up with the manager.

Her earlier pounce had been unexpected. She will not catch you off guard like that again. Her words about Santino, however, still nag at you despite you trying to shove them behind another wall.  

You roll your limbs as you walk, and although it reminds you too much of stretching before your morning spar sessions with Saad, you still do it.

The private manager quarters are empty.

No Sofia, no dogs.

Suspicion doesn’t take long to take root in you.

You check on one more room and have your answer.

With brisk steps and a rigid expression, it takes you less than five minutes to hunt down Yassin.

The right-hand waves the person he’s speaking with away when he spots you approaching.

“Where are they?”

Yassin hesitates. Sofia no doubt told him to keep it from you.

Rage thrums through your blood at the realisation that they left you behind. No matter how bad your overall appearance might be, this concerns you as much as it does John. Your life is as much on the line as his is.

When the man still says nothing, you hiss a quieter, icy, “I will not ask you again.”

The shorter man edges back half a step, swallowing heavily.

“They went to Berrada. Left about twenty minutes ago.”

He tries to tell you how Sofia told him to not to tell you—

You push past him, not bothering to say goodbye. You don’t blame him despite your sharp tongue. Your mind slips towards a certain assassin and manager instead.

Thankfully, you know where you can find Berrada without needing anyone’s guidance. You’ve gone to him once before.

Well, not him specifically.

Rafik.

Using the maze of dark alleyways, you get to your destination in ten minutes. No one stops you on the way.

The guards waiting at the gates step up, hovering their hands over their weapons. One tenses when he recognises you.

“I seek an audience.”

The one who recognised you offers a slow, “You can’t proceed.”

Your head tilts as your eyes flicker down his body. There is only two of them—for now—but they should be easy enough to take care of. Should it come to that.

“On whose authority?” you demand, for once not bothering with pleasantries.

“Sir Berrada’s.”

“Tell him the Vipress is here to see him.”

The second guard’s features go slack. You’re not sure if it’s more surprise, suspicion or unease.

“You misunderstood,” the first one voices cautiously. “He is currently seeing someone but—”

Ignoring him, you walk past them before the second guard grabs your elbow. A blade presses against his inner wrist, kissing his unguarded veins.  

“You can try and stop me and lose that hand,” you inform him calmly. “Trust me, I’m someone he will want to see,” you reassure him and feel the grip ease, then disappear. “Smart man.”

The first guard gestures with his arm, showing you the way, and his forehead shines with sweat.

Ocean breeze ripples through your jumpsuit and hair and you hear a voice in the distance, increasing your step.

“—commerce of relationships,” Berrada’s voice reaches you. “I have given you a great gift—”

You increase your speed, the guard almost stumbling to keep up.

“Relations are only as good as long as both sides have a common interest,” you state amiably, matching his falsely pleasant tone as you walk onto the open terrace.

Torches light the area, giving the space a muted glow, and you pay no attention to the guards who point their weapons at you.

John and Sofia snap their heads in your direction, both varying degrees of dismayed. The manager has her hair pulled back, wearing her battle preferred leathers, and both dogs are clad out in their bulletproof vests, too. They came here expecting a fight.

As if there is any other way with John.

Berrada’s face splits into a beaming smile at the sight of you. The man in a dark suit jacket and white suit pants steps closer at once. His hand lifts, waving the guards away and the weapons lower.

“The Vipress,” he announces, dragging the title out, and raises his hand to point at you, a smile still in place. “Now there is a person of interest. We’ve been anticipating your return.”

He doesn’t need to clarify who the we is.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

John is boring holes into your face. Sofia is no better except she’s outwardly scowling at you.

Berrada’s expression turns thoughtful, his eyes zeroing in on your hand. It seems like his interest in John and Sofia has fled for now. That, or he was expecting to see you with them from the start.

“Yes, and with that ring on your hand,” he notes quietly, still staring at your hand. His eyes finally jump up to you when you halt in between the assassin and the manager. “Did you know that the original Camorra ring set was crafted right here?”

When no one responds, his lips purse, displeased. The displeasure if gone with a blink though. “Oh, yes. D’Antonios have always been fond of their little rituals. I imagine they like to pretend they’re better than most. More…civilised. Funny considering that their motto is blood for blood.”

Berrada chuckles, rolling the cigar between his fingers and you eye him, waiting for him to get to the point. “The original boss of Camorra, however, was a man of ambition. He made Camorra something more than a bunch of feral dogs running around. He made them the second seat at the table,” he tells you, waving his arm a little. You know this story. Gianna and Santino told you about the original Camorra boss when you were staying with them. “Yes, he had vision his heirs lacked. He did have three of them though. The original Camorra ring set: head, lady, three heirs and elite guards were all forged here.”

This, you did not know. Though you suppose it makes sense with how old Camorra is.

Berrada gives you a sly little half-smile and steps closer towards you. You show no outwards reaction.

“It is, perhaps, ironic that it is you—someone who is by Camorra’s standards no doubt considered to be an outsider—that should bring this ring back home now.”

“Inform them we’re here.”

Berrada chuckles again, raising his cigar to chew on the tip as he stares at you. “I already told Mr Wick how to find the Elder,” he says flatly. “A great favour. What will you offer me in return?”

His eyes slide away from you, to John, and then Sofia.

Your jaw tenses subtly.

Berrada appears amused.

His attention flickers down and he reaches to pat Ikar. Tension practically radiates from Sofia.

“I do so love this dog,” he says conversationally. “I will keep it.”

“Excuse me?”

You exhale slowly, hearing the stab of ice in Sofia’s voice. She would cut anyone’s arms off before letting them touch those dogs.  

But Berrada is testing her. He likes his little games as most powerful men with egos do.

He’s also her boss. Which means that unless she wants problems she would have to obey.

The man in question laughs under his breath, rising as he holds out his hand in a pacifying motion.

“My apologies. Sore spot, clearly,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all. His attention slides towards you. “Then, if not the dog, perhaps a night with the Italian’s whore?”

You don’t so much as blink.

Since Chicago and your fateful decision to use sleeping with Santino as a cover story, you’ve heard the nickname spat at you many times over the years. It had never bothered you to be frank. People often fail to realise just how much power comes with being a whore. Humans often find themselves at the mercy of their desires. Even if you were Santino’s whore why would ever feel ashamed for seducing one of the most powerful men in your world? The Italian in question always took an issue with it, of course—as he does with any display of disrespect towards you—but you had told him dozens of times that, if anything, it works in both your favour for people to think that.

John doesn’t share your indifference, however.

A sound rumbles through the air. Some bizarre mix between a grunt and a growl, his humble demeanour splintering. He barely shifts but Berrada leans back all the same. You don’t need to look towards John to know that his expression is no doubt menacing enough to scare most.

It makes you remember Dublin—your last job together before everything went to hell after your birthday—but unlike then, his protectiveness does little. It certainly doesn’t change things.

Berrada laughs again, a touch forced this time. “I jest,” he placates, turning to walk back towards his desk. Well, it’s his desk most days. It belongs to someone else but that individual doesn’t like sitting behind a desk. “It is unfortunate that we cannot reach an agreement peacefully.”

He reaches for something on his desk—

BANG

A yelp and Sofia screams, falling to her knees, clutching onto Ikar who has collapsed from bullet impact. Not fatal, and no blood in sight, but your body still instinctively jerks towards them.

Her voice wobbles as she mumbles Arabic to him, stroking the dog’s head soothingly.  

“I am sorry, Sofia,” Berrada speaks, a gun still in his hand. “This was for you to learn.”

You finally drag your eyes away from the scene and turn towards him.

His bravado seems to wane under your death stare, and you hear the ping on the stone where Sofia has let loose the bullet she pulled out from the vest. From the corner of your eye, you see her hand slide down Ikar’s back. A secret compartment where she keeps a spare handgun.

“Don’t.”

John’s faint plea falls to deaf ears.

There is a split second of complete stillness and then like thunder chaos erupts.

A gunshot slices clean through Berrada’s leg and the man collapses with a yell of pain. His guards flurry into action but there’s three of you—five counting the dogs—and it’s a whirlpool of bullets, blood, and death.

You leap at the closest guard, your blade landing into his unguarded flesh and yank his gun free. Rolling across the ground, you shoot another in the face. Two more rush at you and you whistle.

Santana leaps over your body with a growl and sinks her teeth into one of the guard’s. You come to her aid, finishing off the man before shooting another in the chest and then head.

It’s over in under two minutes.

Sofia storms towards the still shrieking Berrada, her face scrunched with unspoken wrath. Ikar falls back, having gotten his revenge by sinking his teeth into the man’s crotch. Satisfaction hums through you at the sight of those bloody white trousers, and you don’t stop her when she raises her gun to his head.

“Sofia, don’t,” John cuts in before she can shoot the other man and she falters.

Her aim veers left and another gunshot booms through the air. Berrada screams again. He writhes, blood staining his clothes, and you stroll closer, staring down at him pitilessly. Both legs ruined.

“He shot my dog.”

Her words are brimming with fury. You hear John sigh behind you. “Yeah, I get it.”

The manager finally lowers the gun, turning to look at you. You’re still angry at her for thinking it’s a good idea to leave you behind, but this isn’t the time.

“Come on,” she says. “We gotta move.”

She marches ahead but you linger. The older man is trying futilely to ebb the blood flow but without medical assistance, he will not last long.

Not even a glimmer of pity resides inside your heart for him.

You turn to go.

“If…if you’re smart…you will not go back to that desert,” he spits out and you halt, glancing back at him over your shoulder. You cut the minimal distance you have created and watch the way he squirms on the floor, his face sweaty. “You…you have no idea what he—”

You stomp on his leg.

He lets out a wail so loud it echoes.

In the distance, a thunderstorm of bullets and shouts drowns him out. John and Sofia have encountered company. You press harder and Berrada gasps, practically convulsing from anguish. He tries, and fails, to grasp onto your ankle so you twist your foot instead. Blood gushes under your heel and the man splutters, staring up at you with genuine terror on his face. There is something satisfying about seeing him like this.

“Do not speak of things you do not understand.”

You hold the pressure until Berrada’s eyes roll to the back of his head, and he slumps to the side, unconscious.

You don’t particularly care if he’s still alive or not, either.

You’re already hunted. What do you have to fear now?

For the first time in your life, no chain is holding you back.  

You leave Berrada in his spot, following the trail of bodies Sofia, John and the dogs have created. You’re glad that you’ve visited this place once before because even with the pathway of death to follow the layout is confusing.

You’re almost at the courtyard when you hear a car pull up outside the premises. A burst of bullets and shouts follow and you hurry ahead. Screams and dog snarls sound and you push through a small tunnel when you spot a jeep ahead. Sofia is behind the wheel, shouting something. Ikar and Santana are already at the back, and John is marching back in the direction of the courtyard. You’re moving so quickly your bodies almost collide and he grips your forearms, his stare frantic.

“There you are,” he exhales, his fingers tightening around your arms. “Where were you?”

You pull out of his grip. “Having a chat,” you say dryly. “Let’s go.”

Sofia is leaning out of the window when you pull the backdoor open, and Santana greets you with a happy loll of her tongue.

You slam the door shut and John takes shotgun. The manager floors the accelerate and the jeep peels away with a spray of dirt.

Collapsing in the back seat, you check the pistol magazine.

Three bullets left.

For several, tense minutes no one speaks as you all wait to see if anyone will follow you. After the carnage you unleashed it will happen sooner rather than later.

“Which one of you suggested leaving me behind?”

In the rearview mirror, you watch them both, noting their taut expressions.

“It was a joined decision,” Sofia speaks first, her grip on the wheel constricting. “And not why you think.”

You wait, your own expression stiff, anticipatory.

“Berrada has been making cryptic remarks about you for a while now,” she explains and briefly meets your stare in the rearview mirror. “He’s been waiting for you to come back, and I don’t mean in a maybe-one-day kind of sense, either. If you were to come, I don’t think he would have let you leave. We planned to pick you up after so you can drop that attitude.”

John says nothing.

You consider them both, leaning back in your seat, and close your eyes.

They both seem to sense that it’s conversation over for you and you don’t contradict them.

—BEFORE.

.

It takes two weeks to recover fully. The swelling takes the longest to subside and training with your left arm becomes a painful, slow affair for a period of time after that.

You give Rafik a cold shoulder for a week while recovering, still resentful of the fact that you had to go through with this in the first place. But lessons are lessons. This was a good one, too. More pieces in the puzzle.

Despite the hard reset you had on your physical training, your academic one is flourishing. Due to more lenient apparatus while you’re physically recovering, you’ve been able to fully submerge yourself in your studies.

The sheer amount of knowledge you have absorbed during these months more than makes up for the viper bite. Rafik used a special salve created by the Elder himself to make sure no scars would remain, and the swelling would go down quicker. Same with the solution you were forced to drink during your delirium while your body was flushing out the toxins.

Supposedly a show of the Elder’s favour and an unofficial apology.

“Sleep seems to evade you even now, viper.”

Your head tilts towards the man approaching your spot by the fire leisurely.

He’s in light robes and no turban, revealing his pitch-black hair—a rarity even now.

He looks like he’s just rolled out of his makeshift cot and decided to wander into the night.

And there is something oddly intimate about seeing him like this.

“Says the man who is out here in the middle of the night.”

Your words are light with amusement and a slight smile appears on the man’s face as well.

Rafik lowers himself on the other side of the fire, glancing at you over the flames. The night air is crisp and you tighten the woollen blanket around your shoulders, cradling the cup more securely between your palms.  

“You looked in need of company,” is the only explanation he offers and your eyebrows jump up.

Your eyes leave him, journeying upwards towards the sky and your lingering smile widens.

“Just enjoying the view,” you reveal quietly. “Sahara desert truly is one of the best places to observe the stars.”

Something changes in the air between you. A slide into something more tense, unspoken.

“What makes you think we’re in the Sahara?” comes his measured question.

Smiling, you lift the cup in your hand. “Berber tea is a Moroccan drink.”

His response is immediate. “So you assumed you’re in Sahara based on that alone.”

Of course, he would expect you to explain your thought process.

You’ve done this dance a thousand times.

“No, I didn’t,” you say, amused, raising the cup to your mouth, and taking a deliberate sip. You’ve been out here for a while now and your drink is barely lukewarm but no less delicious. “Saharan desert viper was a pretty big give away though. Old man Anis also does star charting. No locations were explicitly mentioned in his notes but it did talk about Canis Minor at length. Last confirmation I needed to what I already heavily suspected. Sorry for snooping by the way. I understand the need for secrecy.”

As always, Rafik doesn’t let much slip. He raises one of his hands in front of the flame, soaking in its warmth.

“No apology necessary.”

Comfortable is one way you would describe the blanket of quiet that embraces you both. It envelops you and you peer at the flame, not really seeing it. Several minutes pass like this, neither of you speaking.

Your mind wanders to New York. To Santino, then John.

John.

“You look sad.”

That snaps you out of your deep thought, and your eyes jump towards the man before you in surprise.

He watches you as closely as always. It still catches you off guard sometimes. In many ways, Rafik’s mute scrutiny often reminds you of Santino and his heated looks.

Santino never hides though, never holds back. He blazes. That, perhaps, is the biggest difference between the Italian and the reserved Rafik.

“Probably because I’m alone,” you tell him and can’t help but wonder why he makes it easy to share. Maybe after these long months of working together and seeing each other on a daily basis, you can at least admit to yourself that you like him. “Because I am so deeply unlovable that no one wants me. Sometimes—sometimes I think no one ever will.”

John loves Helen.

Santino, despite his interest, loves power more.

You’re not the first choice for either of them.

Rafik’s head dips and you see him consider your words. You like the fact that he appears to weigh them carefully before offering his own thoughts. He always does.

“There is no shame in being alone.”

“But I don’t want to be alone.”

His eyes lift to yours at that, meeting again, and his hand lowers back into his lap. He watches you for a long time—so long, in fact, that his voice surprises you when he speaks next.

“There will always be a place for you here,” he says and you hear the sincerity his words. “This could be your new home. You do not have to be alone if you do not wish to be.”

Your attention drifts away from his solemn expression.

The offer is tempting. Even if you would never admit it. There could be a place for you here. You even like it here.

But what is this if not running?

Is this not pausing the problems rather than solving them? What is this if not letting Tarasov live out the rest of his miserable, wretched life and allowing him to get away with everything he did? Stealing and killing and thriving while you’re half a world away living in fantasy land.

No.

No, just like Santino you will have your revenge. One day—somehow, someway—you will kill Tarasov. You’ve come too far and sacrificed too much to let him go now.

He will fear you.

He will rue the day he ever thought that tying you to his will was a good decision.

If John is allowed to have his happy life and Santino is allowed to finally have his revenge, then you are permitted this, too.  

“Can I ask you a personal question?” you wonder instead, your voice low, contemplative.

His lips part like he wants to say something but he lets it drop at last second. This time, his slight grin is crooked but genuine. “Five months of living together and now you worry about asking me personal questions? Ask.”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes, reminded of someone else who has a habit of turning your words around on you.  

“What does it mean?” you question, not bothering to hide your genuine interest. “The tattoo on your chest?”

You tried to recall the script and search for a translation in the bound books of the Elder’s private collection but came up with nothing.

His eyes find yours again but something is different this time. His expression is earnest but the look in his dark eyes is piercing, charged.

A preoccupied hum, and then, “An old Latin phrase,” he divulges, his words mild and lifts his hand, pressing it over his collarbone—the exact spot where those words live. “I had it inked onto my skin in my native tongue to remind myself of my path in life. Exitus acta probat.”

“The outcome justifies the deed.”

His blinks and slants his head in a vague nod.

“Somehow it does not surprise me that you know that.”

There is a compliment there but you don’t acknowledge it.

“Latin is often used in medicine,” you say, shrugging. “Also Winston.”

“You miss him.”

It’s not a question. It’s a deliberate and leading statement, opening the door for a discussion. You’re used to having half conversations with him. Each of you allowing the other to drop the topic when you don’t want to answer.

That’s precisely why you don’t bite. Winston is not someone you wish to discuss right now.

“Outcome justifies the deed,” you repeat deliberately, and return the cut that was mentioning Winston with a light, “Is that what you tell yourself when you obey the Elder’s will?”

Your attention focuses on his face, his reaction, but Rafik accepts the dig. He raises his hand to his face, rubbing his chin.

“Is that not what you tell yourself when Viggo Tarasov sends you on yet another mission?” he returns and your expression goes taut, your fingers clenching around the cup. Rafik drags his hand away from his face as he scrutinises you. “You kill in the name of your freedom. But have you ever wondered if it will still be freedom when it is paid for in blood?”

You have.

Of course, you have.

But parts of you that would have once been worried and cared and dreaded the answer to that question have been buried long ago.

The very people who hurt you made sure of that.

“Everything has a price,” is your harsh, cold response.

“Indeed it does.”

There is something deeper to his agreement, you can tell, but you have no way of telling what exactly.

Over the raging whirlpool of flames, you both watch each other intently.

You’re not naive enough to try and pretend that there isn’t attraction between you.

He’s vastly different from John who you still adore deep down even though you’re trying to root him out. He’s not Santino, either. Despite the fact that you would like to pretend that the Italian hasn’t been chipping away at your guard, you know better than that. He’s managed to slip under your skin though you will never allow him the advantage of knowing it. You will wall him off if you have to, force him out, and keep him that way.

You’ve had enough heartache to last a lifetime.

Rafik, however, is something else. Entirely removed from the life you know. With a mind so attractive it’s hard not to find pleasure in the time you spend together.

“Tell me,” you begin lowly, softly. “If I were to come to your tent tonight, would your master kick me out?”

You’re not even sure what works your tongue. Curiosity, perhaps. A test of your own.

Rafik goes so still it feels like you pressed a pause on his entire existence. It makes a pleased hum thrum through your blood. Not for the first time, you are the one with power. But this is by far your biggest victory.

“No,” he says eventually, equally as soft, but he watches you with a look that makes goosebumps explode across your skin even with the blanket wrapped around you. “But I would have to take you as my bride.”

His bride.

The only man you’ve ever entertained the idea of marrying before was John.

That didn’t end well.

A grin moves your lips upwards and you glance down towards the fire to break the tension between you. “No fun before marriage, I can respect that.”

You hope you didn’t accidentally insult him with your carelessness, and that it’s not the reason for his current pinched expression.

“You misunderstood,” he says and something about the hushed timbre of his voice demands your attention. Your eyes connect over the fire once more, and a shaky breath slips free at his next words. “You may not be my bride but I never said anything about you leaving that tent should you come.”

Neither of you looks away.

This is a special kind of battle. One you’re not sure you would mind losing.

Your pulse flutters and a different sort of warmth fills your veins the longer he peers at you.

There is a temptation there. Wipe everything and everyone away. Be so wholly selfish that it makes you more reckless than you’ve ever been before. It’s just physicality, just pleasure, it doesn’t have to mean a damn thing.

You’re your own person. You could claim yourself back this way.

It would be so...easy.

But your heart twists.

A faraway memory of John, of his lips.

An even closer recollection of green eyes, a crooked smirk, and sunlight. What I really want is every last bit of you that you’re still unwilling to part with.

“And what about your master?” you force out eventually and Rafik blinks. Just like that the tension is dispelled. “I half expected to find a secret harem of beautiful women stashed away somewhere but…”

The man before you straightens, his expression clearing, as he seemingly comes out of whatever spell he was under as well. That’s surprising. You don’t think you’ve ever managed to unravel his guard like this before.

“The Elder believes that one rare jewel is worth more than an entire empire,” he voices calmly, his voice pleasant, but there is throatiness to his voice that thickens his accent. “He does not need many when he can have all he needs in one.”

Interesting. You don’t let your surprise show though.  

“How romantic.”

Lifting the cup back to your mouth, you watch him over the rim just like he did with you months ago.

“Do you disagree?”

You shake your head, your cup now empty, and hum under your breath. “No, that’s a nice sentiment,” you note and wonder if you let too much of your hurt slip. “But I’ve found that’s rarely the case in real life. Why does he even think that? A man with so much power could have anything he wants.”

“Because he wants an equal,” Rafik explains smoothly and leans closer. “Because someone like that is worth waiting for.”

You play with the cup in your hand, pressing your chin into the warm material of the blanket as you listen. “Who could even equal the most powerful man in the world?”

A quiet intensity burns in his eyes when he answers. “Someone very special.”

Swallowing, you rise, placing the empty cup in the sand as you move towards the fire, placing another log into the devouring flame. Orange, yellow, and red explode in a visual kaleidoscope. Rubbing your hands in front of it, you feel the heat tingle against your fingertips and sense Rafik’s intent gaze on you.

“Do you have any campfire stories to share?”

Your question is both driven by curiosity and an attempt to divert the conversation towards safer waters.

Most nights, over dinner, men exchange tales from far off lands. Stories and old memories. Most of these stories are told in Darija, an old Moroccan Arabic dialect, leaving you mostly turning to Rafik who would quietly translate the tales while sitting beside you. You’ve grown to look forward to these stories nightly though few ever have happy endings.

All the men living here ended up here for a reason. Not many have happy or easy lives to look back on.

More than just service to the Elder bonds them, and you find comfort in that. Some nameless relief. Shared scars from pain you’ve endured.

Rafik smiles faintly at your inquiry, watching you as you trod back towards your spot. You reach for the kettle, pouring yourself more tea and hold out a spare cup towards him.

The man dips his head in a grateful nod, accepting your offer.

“Have you ever heard of the Terrible Sultan and the Golden Empress?”

You frown in thought, thinking about it as you hand him his cup. His fingers brush against yours, lingering, and you release your hold on it, swallowing.

“No.”

Walking back towards your spot, you seat yourself down, getting comfortable as you lift the pleasantly warm cup into your lap. It’s hard to keep an indifferent expression with him following every turn of your limbs so closely. The attention is not unwelcome but you don’t let it show.

“The Terrible Sultan was the most powerful ruler of his time. They say he ruled all land from the Black Sea to the Red Sea. As well as the golden continent in between, only growing his power with each conquest,” Rafik begins, his accent giving his words an almost dreamlike tilt. “He was ruthless in his pursuit of power and wealth. He was cruel. Feared. He did not care for others. Like his father before him—he wanted to be remembered, not loved.”

The man pauses for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, and you wait patiently.

“The Sultan wanted to claim the world for his own,” he continues after a stretch of quiet and you watch those strong fingers tap against his cup. “His reputation was already fearsome. Killings and brutality were all he had known and was good at. He saw it as his right. And while he was a conquerer who grew his empire, he was seldom loved or inspired a prayer wishing for his good health. But he was a fierce warrior who always fought his own battles which earned him the loyalty of his men. Eventually, he set his sights on a distant, unconquered land.”

Rafik takes a long while to continue after that.

You’re not entirely certain why.

“Little was known about this land beyond the horizon, and even less about its ruler,” he drawls, lifting his head in your direction as if to check if you’re listening. You’re not sure why. He knows you always listen when he speaks. He’s one of the few who manages to claim your attention so thoroughly. “The Sultan did not know what to expect but he was prepared for blood and frailty. He found only one of those things. Blood. But most of it was the blood of his own troops. He underestimated his enemies. Thought them weak. His arrogance cost him but he had the numbers and the resources so he persisted. The land he was trying to invade was not known to him, however, and every battlefield was used against him and his warriors. A great tactician was at play, he realised then. One, perhaps, even greater than him. Something he has never encountered before. So he caught one of the enemies troops. Tortured him for weeks and nothing. The man died before betraying his leader. Fierce loyalty, not fear, ruled this land. The Sultan was furious and bitter for he doubted even his own men would protect him like this. He concluded that in order to take this country he needs to bleed its heart. Find the leader and cut their head off.”

The fire crackles loudly and you blink out of your stupor, shifting in your spot. You’ve been so engrossed in his story, you’ve forgotten all about your tea.

Taking a sip, you savour the warm burn against your tongue as well as the tickle of different flavours against the roof of your mouth.

Rafik does the same. The glow of the light dances through the dark, inky pools that are his eyes and he recalls the tale with an almost wistful note in his voice.

“He set a trap, trying to act like he’s retreating,” he continues, his lips twitching like this next part is amusing him already. “But the enemy leader saw through the deceit, set a trap of their own. An ambush. They were attacked at night, and the Sultan woke up to a blade against his throat. He was taken in the fray. He swore death and ruin, his pride bruised. Yet the figure remained quiet until they were far away from his camp and other men.”

Another lengthy pause.

“What then?” you venture with a nibble on your bottom lip. “Did the enemy kill him?”

Rafik’s mouth curves; a slow, almost beguiled thing. “No, she did not,” he voices, placid as always, and you blink at the sudden turn in the story. “The figure to take the Sultan was a woman, much to his disbelief. He has heard of women warriors in other lands but all he knew of women was their beauty and ability to gift life. This woman didn’t try to hide, calling him a bloodthirsty monster who would not take her empire. The Sultan who has never met another who could ever match his iron-like will was suddenly faced with someone of equal iron. Another ruler. Beauty and rage. A great mind like his own.”

A gust of wind ripples through the camp, fanning the fire that climbs higher and higher. Spittle of embers flares through the air, adding to the canopy of the starry sky above. Your chin dips, your attention going back to the storyteller before you, only to find him already gazing at you.

“What then?” you prompt casually, and let a snarky grin grace your face, “Did she kill him?”

Rafik cocks one of his brows. “Are you hopeful for the Sultan’s death, viper?” he wonders, amused. “But no, she did not. The Golden Empress did not think killing him would be the answer.”

“Then she’s an idiot,” you input coolly, and noting his surprised expression add a flat, “If I am faced with the invader of my lands—who likely killed hundreds if not thousands of my people—and did even worse to other places, I would pull him apart piece by piece. Conquest means the slaughter of the innocent for greed.”

“So you would choose vengeance?”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

The man appears intrigued by your admittance. “Even if meant years of war and suffering for your people?”

He doesn’t need to elaborate for you to understand what he’s alluding to.

“There won’t be a war because the Sultan would have never left that tent alive,” you shoot back swiftly, by now more than used to your debates. Even this late, you feel wide awake. “Send a loud and clear message that if a conqueror like him can die, so will others who come to my lands, wishing to claim what’s not theirs. But I assume that’s not what happened so what did she do? Hold him hostage? Forced him to sign a treaty?”

Rafik makes a soft noise at the back of his throat—a noise that you don’t realise is a chuckle at first. It’s an oddly disarming sound that leaves you staring at him in surprise despite how brief it is.

It suits him and warms him.

Erases the overly calm and controlled man you’ve gotten to know. Nor have you seen him like this before. Relaxed, almost.  

“No,” he reveals, a ghost of a smile still lingering. “They fell in love.”

Silence.

You snort in disbelief, rolling your eyes. “Seriously? The man invaded her country and she fell in love with him? Smart.”

“Surely you can understand the thrill of meeting someone who understands you,” he murmurs, his gaze briefly flickering over your features. “The appeal of finding someone who is your match. Someone who is not less or more, but simply there. The perfect balance to you.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and offer him a cool, “No.”

And perhaps that is a lie but there is truth to it, too.  

“Let me guess,” you say after he fails to respond to that. “They put aside their differences, their love showed them the way to a perfect union, and they lived happily ever after?”

“No.”

You’re sure your expression is as startled as you feel.

Rafik stares down at his cup while he sorts through something inside his mind. “They managed to grow and love one another fiercely,” he tells you softly, thoughtfully. “The Sultan called off the invasion. Told his men that there are other places to claim for he loved her so dearly, he saw how much her people meant to her. And although her people called her golden, he saw a retreat in her. She was his moon. An escape from the cruelty of the sun. He wanted her to be with him. Make her his equal so they could rule together but…”

“But?”

The man before you moves in his spot, stretching his legs out as he looks up at you. “But she loved her people and her home more. She felt like she was duty-bound to keep them safe and the land prosperous,” he explains, his voice pitching lower, sadder somehow. “So she stayed. Refused the offer of his heart and soul. The Sultan was enraged. He thought the Empress used him. Manipulated his feelings so he would call off the war between their countries. But despite his rage, despite all the bitterness, he still loved her. He couldn’t hurt her. So he left. Went back to his vast wealth and his golden halls and yearned for his Empress in silence.”

His voice trails off and you wait for more but it doesn’t come.

“That’s it?” you whisper sharply. “He just gives up on her? Surely he could understand why—”

“He did,” Rafik interrupts, a strain appearing on his face. “He understood her perfectly. Loved her even more for it. She thawed him in a way no else could. He sought her out eventually. They say the two met in secret throughout the years, their passion burning too brightly to be smothered. They would make love under the stars and in those places would bloom oasis full of life and hope. Their gift to the world even if they could never be together.”

You stare down at your lap, silent.

There is such bittersweetness to this tale. To know that they were happy but never happy enough.

“So they never got a chance to be together?”

You’re not sure why it bothers you quite so much.

“The end to this tale differs depending on who tells it,” he says after drawing a subdued breath. “Some say they both eventually married other people and moved on. Others say she died young and his grief was felt through the world till he, too, joined her in the afterlife, desperate to be with her again. Others say they spent their lives loving each other but never finding their way to one another. She would look up at the sky and feel the rays of the sun like his kisses on her skin. He would look at the moon and feel her soothing embrace, a memory of her laughter haunting his sleep and waking hours alike.”

“And what do you think?”

Those dark, dark eyes connect with yours and he watches you for a long while. “I like to think that they loved each other in that life and every life that followed it. Love like that does not die. That which we love, that which is meant to be, will always find a way to circle back and come back to us.”

The silence between you is somehow different this time. You mull over his tale inside your head, staring up at the sky above you.

It has awakened a strange longing inside your heart you’re almost familiar with. Like a distant, hazy dream you can’t quite grasp onto.

Rafik’s head is bowed when you finally look back towards him, regarding him with a hard, pensive stare.

“Got any more vaguely sad tales to share?”

The crooked curve of his mouth comes first, followed by those inky eyes when he glances up at you. They’re warm as he takes you in.

The flame continues smouldering between you.  

Together you sit by the fire through the night, talking about everything and nothing long after the wooden logs have burned to nothing, and the sky has spilt into an indigo haze.

.

.

With eyes closed and head tilted back, you listen to the sounds of the desert.

The wind and how it creates little whirlpools of sand. How animals shuffle and eat and sleep. Wind chimes.

So peaceful.

“Not reading?” Rafik asks from behind you, approaching your spot with measured steps. “Such rarity. I thought you would want to make up for the lost time.”

Your eyes crack open unhurriedly. Like usual the brightness blinds you for a bit before your sight adjusts and you slant your head in his direction.

This tent—decorated with lush maroon silk curtains, multicoloured pillows, teapots and cups for tea ceremonies—is one of your favourite meeting spots. Both for meditating and for discussions.

“I enjoyed our trip,” you reassure him because you can feel his unspoken question. “Thank you for taking me. Darija is beautiful.”

Your trip to Casablanca had been as incredible as you had expected it to be. Rafik accompanied you himself, showing you the sights of the city. The markets, the architecture, and the culture of colours and light. You had requested a chance to visit the city yourself, and apparently the Elder had decided to reward you for figuring out where exactly you were staying. A taste of freedom. Had you known that’s all it would take, you would have revealed this knowledge sooner. When you had told Rafik as such the man had only chuckled.

The trip had taken the entire day with both of you as well as a few others setting out well before dawn to make the long journey to the city.

You’ve enjoyed every second of it. The happy screeches of children running around, and the taste of all the food and tea you tried. But it was a journey of realisation, too. Being back in civilisation reminded you that despite enjoying your enforced getaway, you did miss life. Normal life. People.

Rafik comes to a stop beside you, at the edge of the tent, and you both stare out towards the desert.

His robes are different today. Fancier than usual. White with golden stitches. You try to ignore the brush of his sleeve against your bare arm.

There is that closeness between you. Some odd magnetism you can’t quite put your finger on. And one that you’re not quite sure what to make of.

You suppose it won’t be presumptuous to call you friends but…

There is always that but with Rafik.

“I could teach you if you like?” he proposes, glancing sideways towards you. His gaze lingers on your features and you stare up at him. “Then we can go back whenever you please.”

You know what he’s doing. What his mild suggestion implies.

It’s been longer than the agreed six months.  

He’s giving you another reason to stay.

“That so?”

He notices your tenser intonation; the way words drag out of your throat, almost reluctant. He doesn’t comment.

For several minutes, you stand side by side with your shoulder leaning against the support pole holding the tent upright.

Eventually, his gaze finds home in your body. You don’t let it show how aware you are of the said attention.

There is tension between you ever since that night by the fire. Like an unspoken we could that festers in the distance between you. Most days you are very good at ignoring it, especially in front of others. It’s significantly harder to do so when you’re alone.

His quiet scrutiny continues for a while.

“Look at you,” he begins softly, like he’s just realised something of great importance. “Look at the strength you hold yourself with now. You came to us seven months ago as a shell barely clinging to life. Now you stand firm and look at the sun with a desire for life. You did not let your pain consume you. You shed your skin and been reforged.”

You falter.

It’s peculiar how you don’t notice it anymore.

The steadiness with which you walk. The way your hands shake less. How fewer nightmares haunt you. They still persist but at least it’s become manageable. The muscle and strength you have lost after the wedding has returned. There is still some way to go but these seven months have remade you.

Swallowing, you tilt you head his way, and he adds a quiet, “You make me proud, viper.”

“Stop.”

A tremble through your limbs. It locks your throat, knits your brows, and you pivot towards him. Your crossed arms loosen, dropping to your sides.

His confusion is apparent.

“Stop what?”

You feel how your expression creases, your lips pursing into an unhappy line.

“Making this harder than it has to be,” you say quietly, knowingly. “We both know what this is.”

You know he knows.

You saw how he watched you when you glanced back at him at the market. The light in his eyes when children gifted you with a silken ribbon. How he watched you when you sat side by side on the beach, peering at the receding waves. Your longing expression had focused on the distant horizon where an ocean away your home was waiting.

And all the people you’ve left behind that you did not expect to miss as much as you do.

No matter how much you like it here, this isn’t quite the same.

You miss Winston trying to teach you chess. Miss his music recommendations and snarky comments that are often politely veiled insults. Miss his lessons that sharpen your own skills.

You miss Charon and his soothing, deep voice calling you “Miss”. Miss the way he always makes sure that your favourite food is on the menu, and how he always indulges in your silly attempts of discussion.

You miss—

Then perhaps you can be my exception, hm? My first real friend.

Santino.

It still startles you and unnerves you how often you catch yourself thinking about him, too.

How much you’ve missed them all. You always figured disappearing would be simple, preferable. Detach yourself from everything. No Tarasov, no debts. But the exact opposite seems to be true.

You’ve never realised till now just how much they soothed your loneliness.

“A goodbye,” Rafik murmurs. “Today was a goodbye.”

So he did know.

You’re not sure where to even begin with what you glimpse on his face for a brief second. His head turns towards the desert and you swallow any words you could say.

“Did you not feel welcome—”

You don’t let him finish. “I can’t stay here.”

His attention goes back to you, his voice soft, “Why not?”

“Because I can’t just…” you trail off, shake your head, chew on your inner cheek. You didn’t expect this to be so hard. Maybe it’s because truly have enjoyed staying here. Enjoyed his company even more. “I can’t let Tarasov get away with this. He destroyed my life. After all he’s done...”

You won’t rest till he’s bones and ash.

Not for your parents. Not anymore.

For yourself.

“There are moments—fragments, really—that shift the course of one’s life,” he says, his tone pensive. “You would choose revenge over peace?”

He’s peering at you when your head snaps back towards him. He’s so close you can feel his body heat and he turns to face you as well.

“This isn’t peace,” you argue weakly, your voice thinning with hurt. “It can be, I know it can be, but right now it’s just running. Hiding. Pretending. I’ve been putting it off like a coward because I do like it here,” you say because it’s true, and you mean it, and it hurts how a brief crack in his stoic expression appears before it disappears, so you add, “If I stay a day longer...I will never leave.”

Because you keep making excuses. Just one more day, just one more moment. Just another day of studies. Just another sparring match. It’s all for your own good, you try to convince yourself.

His voice is still that gentle lull when he asks you a faint, “And would that be so terrible?”

“No. No, it won’t be,” you breathe, your admittance raw, and step closer to him, deciding to finally put your cards on the table. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me. Thank you for your research, and training, and patience and...just everything. You are not what I expected you to be.”

Understanding dawns over his features and his bearing changes. A straightening of his shoulders. The very air around him seems to thicken with that authority you’ve only caught glimpses of a few times. “You know,” he says deliberately. “Since when?”

“I suspected from the beginning but I knew for certain after the viper bite,” you confess and try not to twitch under suffocating intensity of his stare. It’s different from Santino or even John—the former always fond, teasing, hungry; and the latter aways gentle, subdued, half-hidden. “It was never about proving a point or even being brave. I wanted to draw you out.”

Because if that hadn’t revealed his hand, nothing would.

His eyes darken at that, almost pitch-black, so you hurry along, “I’ve been practising with viper venom for over a year now. Since it was used to poison me during the Hunt. My threshold for it is higher. I didn’t go under right away and your words. Always exceeding my expectations.”

You can still recall the muted ring of it inside your head. You haven’t been able to shake it since.

Rafik’s chin juts up and you feel naked under that probing stare. He’s not hiding anymore. What you see before you makes you finally understand why they fear him. “So it would appear we were both testing one another.”

You swallow, your proximity grating against your senses. “Rafik is not your real name, is it?”

“It is not,” he admits evenly. “It is the name of my brother.”

His brother.

Of course.

The younger man who came to visit with his entourage two weeks ago. You had thought then that it was a ploy. That perhaps the supposed “brother” was one of his actual advisors playing pretend. The idea that he does, in fact, have a sibling startles you for some reason.

Maybe because they are so different.

The real Rafik is quick to smile. Charming. Able to weave conversation out of thin air much like his brother.

They bore striking resemblance to one another but you still had your doubts. There was affection there, too. They were close but one stark difference between them was clear.

It revealed itself when Rafik and sat down beside you that night by the fire, giving you a curious, yet critical stare.

And when you had asked why he was here and beside you, he had offered a rather simple response in return.

I’ve never seen my brother quite so taken with someone before. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

And he had stayed by your side the entire evening, even after his older brother had joined you in his usual spot on your left. Together you had talked for hours, long into the night, and it had been as pleasant and as easy as breathing.

He had left the very next day with a kiss on your knuckles and a playful gleam in his brown eyes.

I do not doubt that we will meet again, viper.

Unlike his older brother who is power and order, Rafik is a dreamer.

Not bound by anything or anyone.

“Why bother with any of this?”

Why bother with the whole charade for months when he could have introduced himself as himself from the start. You’ve been mulling it over in your head for a while. A trick? Some sort of test?

“Because you cannot wear a mask forever,” he tells you calmly and leans closer. That crackle of power coats him and now that he’s not suppressing it, you feel it acutely. “Sooner or later the truth slips through. I wanted to know you without titles or expectations,” a pause, and flash in those dark depths before he exhales, “Hello, my viper.”

It’s funny.

Coming from anyone else, it would be possessive. Perhaps even twisted. Like claiming ownership of someone.

He makes it sound tender.

It should please you that you were right about his intentions in regards to hiding his name. It was a test after all. But not one you expected. And not one you did very well on.

“Hello, Elder,” is your hushed greeting, and a chill nips at the skin of your neck.

Finally face to face with everything out in the open.

Your throat is dry and for once it has little to do with the Saharan heat. “Do you stand by your word? That I can leave? It’s been over six months.”

His rapt attention splinters. It gutters him of any previous warmth to be found, leaving something colder and dourer behind.

“There is no happiness for you on this path,” he states, his words brisker that you’re used to hearing from him. It seems to sharpen his accent, too. “You’ve walked it once before and where did it lead you?”

A hushed breath escapes you. “To you.”

The Elder dips his head in a slow, wilful nod.

“Yes. To me,” he says, his mouth a firm line. “I understand the vengeance that drives you. But you will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose, and it will always lead you back to me. I tried to show you a different path. Wanted to help you realise your own potential. Encourage your research with my present.”

Those words. There is something almost damning about them.

Denial and anger swell swiftly. “You don’t know what it’s like,” you mutter, your words chipped with ice because he taught you to force calmness into your being. He’s the most powerful man in the world. He should petrify you as should the possibility of his wrath. But he doesn’t. “No one does. You have no idea what it’s like seeing his face and seeing him thrive. He…wait…what…what do you mean present? You haven’t given me any.”

He tried to give you that golden dagger after your spar but aside from that…

“Haven’t I?”

Your mind scrambles, picking apart the last seven months with him. Did he mean food and shelter? Did he class that as—

Encourage your research with my present.

Research and present.

“It was you,” you breathe, straightening as realisation hums through you. “The flowers, for my birthday, that was you. Why?”

There had been no card on those flowers, and you assumed that it had been Winston who gave them to you based on your conversation the night before.

Just how long had he been waiting to summon you? How closely has he been following your progress?

“I heard about your spiral,” he voices, a touch forlorn, reading your expression. The confusion. “I had hoped to extend a lifeline your way. I’ve hoped that it would give you a reason to go on. When it didn’t work, I had you summoned.”

He’s right. The flowers didn’t give you a lifeline.

Winston and Santino did that. By pushing you to crawl back to your feet. By demanding that you fight back. For yourself.

Their faith in you was the lifeline.

“And now I wish to leave,” you tell him faintly. “Will you let me?”

Because he doesn’t want you to. He doesn’t need to say it for you to know it. It’s written in the very fabric of him. It can be found in everything from the way he’s standing, speaking, to the way he’s surveying you.

Silence hangs over you for a long, long time.

Finally, the Elder shifts closer, reaching for you.

His hand is large, warm, and dry when it comes to rest against the side of your face.

“You are bound by a debt,” he reminds you. “Should anything befall Viggo Tarasov before it is repaid, I will know.”

A ball of acid sits at the back of your throat. “And after the debt is repaid?”

His disappointment is clear. He no doubt expected his warning to be a deterrent.

“After,” he states icily. “He is yours to do with as you please.”

Your heart flips.

“Your word.”

It’s practically a demand.

Reckless, reckless, reckless, a voice that sounds too much like Winston hums. But just this once you don’t heed the warning.

He leans closer. “My word.”

It sinks into you; a roar of vicious victory. One day, you will be able to kill Tarasov without fear of consequences. One day. Your freedom first and then—

“It will destroy you,” he states mildly, his eyes tracking over your features, and you tense. “Your desire for vengeance will poison everything in your life, and one day, you will find yourself back here but a part of you will be gone. It will hurt you and maim you if you do not control it. Do not let that fire consume you.”

He leans so close you feel the warmth of his breath when he presses his forehead against yours. Your eyes flutter close, a tingle racing down your spine.

You’re more alike than you would ever dare to admit.

Drawn by a bone-deep need to be understood. Challenged.

“I am, however, a man of my word,” he murmurs and you feel the tingle of those words brush against your mouth. “You are free to leave, ya amar.”

The weight against your forehead disappears. And the faintest brush of his lips against your forehead follows—nothing more than a whisper of a phantom—before it’s gone, too.

He lets go of your face, and your eyes snap open when you feel him pull away.

Your sight blurs in front of you—a smear of his white robes—and you only see his back as he turns away from you, facing the desert once again.

You can’t see his face anymore.

“Go now,” he declares, his voice cold, aloof. “While I still allow it.”

You’re not sure why you hesitate but you do. Just for a heartbeat.  

Then, you take a step back, and another before spinning around and walking out of the tent.

You pretend that you don’t feel his stare on your back until you disappear from his sight.

A bump shakes the jeep and you jolt.

Sand greets you.

You said goodbye once and now here you are.

You had left the desert with the knowledge that even if you were to change your mind last minute the camp would no longer be there.

For security, it would be relocated. Less lack of trust and more common practice.

That’s why you went to Sofia and then Berrada. Berrada should have been the line to contact Elder with.

The Elder.

You rub your face.

Maybe he will not wish to see you. It’s been years. And now here you are. Coming back only because you’re in trouble.

The jeep crawls to a stop.

The journey here had been mostly silent, all of you lost in your own heads. Your only topic of discussion had been your next step which is apparently to wander out into the desert and hope that the Elder will want to see you.

You walked away from the desert, from the man himself, years ago and had spent that time forgetting you ever came here. To avoid the temptation of simply giving up and disappearing again. Every time it got hard, running away had seemed like the most obvious choice.

You push the door open, jumping out and the heat hits you like a brick.

You’ve forgotten how suffocating this dry climate can be. Still, you wager your attire is significantly more comfortable than John’s pitch-black suit.

Sofia lets out Santana and Ikar, too, giving them some water.

You ignore the conversation between the manager and the assassin, wandering further ahead, and lift your head towards the sun. The camp could be anywhere after so many years. Trying to go back on memory would be useless.

Despite that, you still try to recall as much as you can, turning from one direction to another. East is Casablanca. You drove west, deeper into the Sahara—

“Water?”

Sofia stops beside you, offering the bottle and you take it from her, drowning a large gulp.

She wants to say something. You both watch the horizon, and you don’t have to wait long.  

“Come back with me,” she speaks up suddenly, and you turn to look at her. Her expression is firm, no-nonsense. The one she uses on unruly patrons. “Stop this suicidal plan. I can hide you in the city.”

Thinking back on her earlier words about Berrada, you only offer her a small, indulgent smile, “For how long?” you question lightly. “This is the High Table, Sof. They will never stop coming. They will rip Casablanca apart piece by piece. And they will kill you, too. I can’t do that to my friend.”

“We’re not friends,” is her immediate and tart retort.  

You dip your head. “Right.”

She huffs a breath, visibly frustrated.  

“What if it doesn’t work?”

You think about that for a while.

Dying out in the desert is not the worst way to go given your lifestyle.

It would be slow, sure. But at least there would be minimal pain.  

You imagine your slight smile is a touch sad when you turn towards her, your hair fluttering in the breeze. “Everyone’s story ends at some point, right?”

Her expression turns icy at that. She takes a few steps closer and you’re practically face-to-face.

“You stand there and act like you’re so alone but I think you’re too much of a coward to face the truth,” she snaps and you blink in surprise. Her voice drops, softening, but her stare is still cutting. “There are people out there who would fight for you. If only you asked.”

You can feel John’s attention on you both but doubt he can hear you from his spot by the jeep.

“You’re right. There are,” you agreed quietly and she seems to deflate at your easy admittance. “But I got myself into this mess, and I will climb out of it myself. I’m not dragging my family down with me.”

You don’t need to say it out loud for her to know she’s included in that statement.  

“If I don’t make it back—”

“You better shut your mouth,” she snarls. “If you think that—”

You step closer, wrapping your arms around her. It’s brief but tight, and you inhale the scents that are uniquely her. It lasts only a moment before you loosen your arms, releasing her.

“I’ll be seeing you,” you tease.

She swallows visibly, her forced glare not as effective as she would no doubt like it to be.

“You better.”

Then she turns sharply and marches away without looking back and you bite back another smile.

One proud woman.

The jeep peels away minutes later and only a speck of darkness is left as your companion.

You pivot west and begin your trek.

Five minutes pass before John catches up with you.

“What are you doing?”

“Walking.”

A defeated sigh slips out of him. You almost make a comment that this is what talking with him is like on a good day but fight back the urge.

Much to your surprise, he lets it drop.

The heat is merciless.

Despite that you both still put one leg in front of another, walking for over two hours in complete silence.

Mentally, you try to prepare for both the worst and best-case scenarios.

Best: the Elder finds you and you manage to find a way to get your Excomunicado lifted.

Worst: you both die out here.

“We should talk.”

His voice startles you so much you almost flinch.

John’s breaths are louder than usual, his skin shining with a layer of sweat. At least he knows enough to not start removing clothes. That will only dehydrate him faster.

“About what?” you wonder, pushing your legs harder to get you up a steep dune. “Everything I wanted to say to you I did back at your house.”

You drag the back of your hand across your forehead, controlling your breathing. Unfortunately, you have a sinking feeling you already know what he wishes to discuss despite your words.

“About what happened,” he begins warily. “At the Continental.”  

Your feet slow until you stop completely, giving him a curious look.

“Let me tell you what happened,” you say calmly, cordially. You don’t want to waste energy by being angry at him right now. “You nearly killed two of my friends, and shot the third in the head with his condition currently unknown to me. And here I am, hunted, because I loved you too much to let you die.”

He doesn’t react to your words, so you can’t help but ask, “So tell me, John, what is it exactly that you wish to discuss with me?”

He gazes at you, silent, and once you would have given anything to have him look at you with so much emotion.

“Do you still love me?”

You laugh. You can’t quite help it.

Shaking your head, you turn away from him, “Go to hell.”

“V, wait,” he mutters. “V—”

Something, a coil, snaps.

You round on him and he has to stumble to a stop.

“You swore a life debt to me. A life debt,” you hiss, your voice crackling with rage. Your throat aches from it, and it feels like a furnace has suddenly woken up inside you. John, for once, appears taken aback by what he sees. “I called it in and you as good as spat on it. Spat on everything we ever stood for. I practically begged you to listen but you didn’t. It might have broken my heart but at least I could understand your decision to leave, to be happy even if it was with someone else. You know why? Because I wanted you to be happy. But how do you justify this? How?”

His brows knit and his mouth parts. “I thought that it never would have ended. I did what I thought was right.”

You nod your head with a tepid smile. “I know you did,” you reassure him and he squints at you, surprised. “I don’t blame you for going after him. I would have done the same. Do you at least regret it?”

He hesitates. His head lowers.  

“It was a mistake,” he whispers. “I should have listened to you.”

A sound tickles the roof of your mouth and you look up towards the sky. The sun is starting to set. With the night will come a very different challenge.

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

He knows it isn’t but it’s now a choice between the truth you both know, and a lie he might try and convince himself of.  

“No,” he admits, still staring downwards. “The only thing I regret is that it’s causing you pain.”

He gazes up at you and you sigh, trying to relax your body. The explosion came out of nowhere but you suppose it’s the shock finally wearing off.  

“That’s the problem right there, John,” you mutter and there is a note of defeat in your voice that makes his expression crease. “You think this is just about Santino but it isn’t. You nearly killed the people without whom I won’t be here today. You killed men I knew, men I worked with, men who had lives that I knew about. Even when I had nothing, I had Ares and Roberto and Santino. My friends. They never gave up on me though they could and should have.”

That seems to do it. This time the realisation on his face is different. Like he’s finally grasping how much bigger this is. How much more pain he’s responsible for. You suppose from his perspective it’s easy to assume it’s only about the Camorra head but Santino is not the only person in your life. He never has been.

“I just wanted you to listen. That’s all.”

You don’t stop him when he decreases the remaining distance between you.  

“I can’t change what happened,” he admits, his expression softening, and a distant ache hums against your heart. He reaches out, cautious, his warm hand touching yours. “But I can make amends and I will. I swear.”

You used to dream about his skin on yours. Dream about kissing him and having a life with him. Dream about all you could achieve together—an unstoppable unit of raw skill, and with unmatched potential.

Together you could have had anything.

Together with this man of focus, will, and integrity.

Except that’s all it was. A dream. And John’s dream was stronger than your own.

You’ve grown tired of holding his happiness against him. It’s not fair to either of you.

You’re not his lesser anymore. You’ve worked for years to be regarded just as good as him. You’re not that young, naive girl who used to shadow his every step and watch his back with blind adoration.

Let him prove a point for once.

You’re tired of chasing impossible dreams—chasing him.

“Your word means nothing to me.”

Your hand slips from his.

.

.

You’re burning.

It’s oddly peaceful though. Familiar.

This is better than water. But anything would be better than water.

You’re alone. But you suppose that’s only right, too.

You’ve lost count of the time. It feels like you’ve been lost in this desert for weeks, if not months. You’re not even sure which one of you collapsed first. You or John. Maybe you helped each other till neither of you could go on.

Peaceful.

You never thought death would be so peaceful.  

“How did we end up here, I wonder?”

Your eyes crack open at that voice.

Everything blurs. Golden, bright glow blinds you as everything spins but you still see him.

Oh.

You’ve worked so hard to hold yourself together, to push everything back and focus, that seeing him is like a punch right through your chest.

Suddenly it’s like a floodgate has been opened and you feel the sting in your eyes.

Your cracked lips part and only a pained, dry sob escapes you, “Santi.”

He’s standing above you, gazing at you before he lowers himself down so he can see you better. He’s a hybrid. A man of past and present that you’re seeing morphing into one. Dark shirt, wild hair, a too familiar silver chain around his neck that all point to the past—to when you first met him. But then there is his expression. The playful gentleness of his eyes, and the slant of his mouth that makes him look like he’s a breath away from smiling. This expression you know. Heat and gentleness and—

And love.

You saw this expression at Naples. You’ve been seeing it for years now. Even if you always chose to turn away from it, from him.

“Hello, amore.”

It’s a whisper, a caress, a hug, and a kiss all in one and your expression crumbles.

Golden sun shines upon him—another remnant of Naples, of watching him napping in the sun—and this brightness is so different to the last time you saw him.

Clinging to him, your hands covered in his cooling blood, and so very desperate to hold onto him. Pull him back to life by force if you have to.

He was so still.

You held onto him like you could force the warmth back into him. Share your life with him like he has shared his with you so many times.

He can’t be here. He can’t be real because last you saw him he was being rushed to surgery. While all you could do was stand back and watch, hoping that the blood you gave him would help him stay alive. Your life force, now coursing through his veins.

“You’re not real.”

Your words are a croak and his head tilts.

He looks unbothered but your assessment, only vaguely amused.

“Of course not,” he shoots back breezily.

You blink, trying to clear your vision, now reduced to clinging to his voice instead.

Everything blurs again.  

“Then why…why are you here?”

This time amusement from his expression fades, leaving something solemn behind. It’s an odd sight. You don’t see him like this often and you want him to smile. You want him to live—

“Because you are dying,” Santino states promptly, but not unkindly. Those green eyes soften when he reaches out, his palm hesitating over your jaw. “Because you did not want to be alone. So here I am.”

You’re unsure if you can say anything in response to that.

You’re just glad he’s here. That you’re not alone after all. That here, at the end of it all, death wears a familiar, loving face.

“Maybe we’ll both die together,” he muses suddenly and you blink, realising that your eyes had begun to close. You find him laying beside you, face-to-face, and exhale softly at the proximity. He looks so real this close up. It reminds you of Naples. “Rather poetic if I do say so myself, no?” he adds quietly.

A soft teasing. Crinkling around his eyes. You want to reach for him even though there is no strength left in you for that.

“No,” you exhale. “I won’t let you.”

His mouth curves; a grin you don’t see often because it’s softer, crooked. It’s your smile. That one special smile he only ever bestows you with and it only hurts more.

Wind teases his brunette curls, wild and untamed as him, and you’re not sure why his smile transforms into something more sardonic.

“We both know no one would miss me, amore.”

You can’t believe he would still think that. Surely he doesn’t? Surely he knows—

“I would,” you choke out, fragile and wet, your eyes burning, burning, burning— “More than anything.”

The hardness, the arrogance both recede at that—like dispelling a cloud with your fingertips and those green eyes drag over your features.

“Ah, well if we both somehow survive this and see each other again,” he whispers and like always the low roll of his accent washes over you like a wave. “That might be nice to hear.”

You want to see him again. So very badly.

“I promise.”

Santino smiles again. Fainter, understanding.

I choose you.

He did, didn’t he?

You still owe him a trip to Paris.

Maybe in a better and kinder world...

Maybe in that world, you would have met him first. Maybe in that world, you would have loved him forever. Maybe in that world you’re together and happy and Paris is a flight away every weekend.

Imagine you and me—and everything we ever wanted.

“Will you stay?”

His mouth parts and he shakes his head slightly, almost in disbelief. His fingers come to rest against your face and even though you know it’s not real, it feels real. Real because he’s touched you like this so many times before the gesture is known to you. It lives in your bones and right now, it’s like phantom fingers are touching you after all.

“Where else would I go, hm?” he wonders softly, and his forehead ghosts against yours—not quite touching but close enough for you to feel a little less afraid as your eyes slip close. “Always.”

Your lips part—

A harsh yank.

Everything tips. The world unravels around you.

Santino is gone from your side.

Everything goes dark again.

You’re floating inside a sun.

The suffocating heat singes your edges but you’re not helpless. Your own fire burns just as brightly and you will not be devoured.

You refuse to be.

You rebel. You trash.

It’s so hot you can’t inhale without feeling liquid flame sliding down your throat. Like water—

A jolt.

A wheeze slips loose and you blink.

A buzz of voices, soft and muffled, reach you but you can’t decipher what they’re saying. Your body feels like lead. Something wraps around you—warmth and strength, strength and warmth, and…

You lean into it for a moment. It scratches at something deep down. Like a phantom limb expect it’s a sensation that sits in your gut.

It doesn’t fit right.

Because it’s not right.

Then comes the coolness of water wetting your lips. Your fingers reach blindly, trying to grasp on to something. Anything.

Then quiet. A whistle of the wind. More water. Something else, not water. A tangy, bittersweet flavour. The heat recedes, fading.

Soon enough you feel the coolness of the wind against your sore skin.

Your eyes flutter open. Sandy dunes and a maroon carpet greet you. A far away, enchanting chime of bells. Your head rests on plush pillows.

For several minutes, you don’t move a muscle.

But you can feel it.

The way he watches you.

That intensity can be felt even without you putting him in your sight.

Then, comes that achingly familiar, low voice, “Welcome home, viper.”

. . .

an: any survivors? anyone still alive after that? I can’t even type this without tumblr lagging and honestly I’ve pulled a nearly 24hr hustle to get this chapter out so I’m dead tired. If you’re still here, if you’re still reading, if you’re still with me - thank you from the bottom of my heart. I’m both very scared and very excited about your reactions.  

[sevarix-blogs]

Might be a heavy question: I'm someone who ships Merceleth (Mercedes x Byleth) and I find that there are people out there who go out of their way to bully those who ship Byleth with the students even after the timeskip citing power dynamic difference and saying that those who support such ships endorse problematic stuff and I'd be lying if I said that stuff really makes me mad and want to support my ship harder if only to stick it to them. What should I do to ignore them?

honestly? block them. tumblr doesn't have a mute function so that's what you gotta do if you really want to ignore them. you know why your ship isn't problematic, and you don't need that kind of negativity. i kinda wish people who didn't like ships simply said 'i don't like this ship' instead of going on rants about how it's problematic. it's rude. you can have reasons for not liking it, that makes sense. but don't go calling everything problematic.

are there ships i find problematic? yeah. are there ships that I personally think would never work or are toxic? definitely. but you know what I do about those ships? I filter them. I pretend they don't exist. no need to shame anyone who likes them. and i'm talking about some really popular ships, too. i simply filter them and ignore them instead of going on rants about why i think they're toxic. if you feel the urge to call a ship problematic on a public blog, first consider if 1. that is necessary and if for some reason it is, 2. DO NOT USE THE MAIN TAGS

i'm also a bit tired of the 'power dynamic' argument for byleth x (past) student ships. the arguments against byleth x (past) student ships are very weak imo. it's a fictional game at the end of the day. let people have fun.

(also this is just my opinion, you're welcome to have your own that is different from mine. just don't start discourse on my blog please. anon you are fine i'm talking to potential drama-starters)

tl;dr block/filter stuff you don't like and you will be very happy lol

[universemarvel]

The time Peter should have FIRST called Mr. Stark “Tony.”

By @universemarvel for @sdottkrames

Rating: general audiences

Relationships: Tony Stark & Peter Parker

Characters: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Summary: an irondad one shot where Peter gets... hurt., and handles it in a Peter Parker Way™️. Tony is honestly just trying his best okay?!?

Part of the @friendly-neighborhood-exchange

Read on ao3 here

Or continue reading via tumblr here...

~

“Peter!”

The kid jumps and his head snaps towards his mentor. He smiles sheepishly. “Yes, Mr. Stark?”

“What are you doing?” Tony held his coffee mug up in front of his mouth in a poor attempt to hide the smile on his face.

Peter looked down to his messy table, which was occupied by empty blue and silver snack wrappers, drinks, and his Spider-Man suit, which he was currently scrubbing with a sponge. He picked up one of the wrappers that still had some did in it. “I’m... trying all the pop tart flavors,” he said, taking a bite out of the pastry.

“You feeling alright?” It’s not often he could walk up unnoticed upon Peter.

But Peter just smiled. “A little lightheaded from the sugar rush, but otherwise fine;” his smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Why?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Why are you scrubbing your suit with a sponge? I’m sure there’s a dishwashing machine somewhere in this building,” he finally revealed his smile.

Peter’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Is the suit dishwasher safe? Because that would actually be great.”

Tony laughed. “I’m not answering that. What happened? And please don’t tell me you’re hand scrubbing your multi-million dollar suit because you forgot to put on deodorant.”

Pink painted Peter’s cheeks as he smiled and shook his head. “No, I just got something on it and it stinks. Do you want to smell it?” He offered the suit up, and Tony took a step back reflexively.

“No thanks, kiddo, I’m rather enjoying my coffee at the moment. However, I do have a decontamination gadget for a reason, so let’s throw it in there for a few hours so we can go back upstairs for dinner. That is, if you’re still hungry after eating New York’s entire stock of pop tarts.”

“Of course I’m hungry,” Peter smiled, “and if your cleany-box doesn’t work, can we try the dishwasher?”

“Absolutely not.”

__________

After dinner, the pair found themselves scrolling through Netflix. Peter’s lightheadedness from earlier had slowly been developing into a headache, but he didn’t want to bother Tony with it.

He didn’t feel like watching a movie, which he figured was a red flag, but he picked a Star Wars movie to avoid raising suspicion.

“Are you sure?” Tony’s voice pulled Peter from his attempts to distract himself from his headache.

“Am I sure...about what?”

Tony eyed him suspiciously, and Peter tried to think of what he did that was out of the ordinary so he could reverse it.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Tony squinted his eyes.

“Of course.”

“Correction-“ his mentor rolled his eyes; “do you have any pain at all?”

Peter shook his head, still trying to figure out what his giveaway behavior was. “Why?”

Tony crossed his arms. “Because we watched this movie last night.”

Peter’s breath caught, and he reached for a lie. He shrugged. “I feel like you didn’t appreciate it enough the first time.” His mind replayed the evening before. “Aaand you fell asleep, so technically you can’t say you watched it last night.”

Tony’s mouth was still pressed in a thin line, revealing his doubts, but he just shook his head. “Okay,” he gave in, “but don’t make me regret this.”

Peter smiled, hoping the well-known noises from the familiar film would minimize his headache’s growth.

__________

Still in the process of waking up, he was glad the room was so nice and quiet. He knew he was still at the tower because it was always loud at his apartment. His headache was gone, and realizing he was in his room at the tower, he wondered with a start how he’d gotten back here from the living room; he figured he must’ve been pretty tired last night to have been so out of it.

He waits for the noises of the tower to reach him, but they don’t. He sits up quickly, somehow quietly. Too quietly. He looks down at the sheets, and runs his hands back and forth on them. He can’t hear them, and his eyes widen. He can see his chest is moving quicker with his increased breathing pace, but he can’t hear that either.

He brings his fingers to his ears and snaps.

Nothing. He tries again, watching his hand this time to make sure he snaps correctly, still nothing.

He feels true panic swell up in his chest, and jumps out of bed. He rushes to put a shirt and a pair of pants on, and the silence of his movements scares him; he feels like he’s watching a movie on mute, except he’s never not heard at least his own breathing. He opened the door, and paused; the silence of the hallway greeted him like a wave, rushing into his head with an overwhelming ringing he feels rather than hears.

It hurts.

On second thought, he closed the bedroom door again, shutting himself off from the hallway. It had to have been whatever chemical was on the suit. The suit which was now decontaminated and as clean as it had been new. How helpful would it be going to Mr. Stark without any information? Maybe if he could retrace his steps from yesterday, he could find out what the chemical was. He glanced at the clock, and saw it was 7:15. Tony wouldn’t be awake for several hours still, so Peter could get a head start until then. If all went well, Peter could even analyze the sample and neutralize it before Tony was up for his usual weekend 11 am breakfast.

__________

Peter made it to the spot he’d been sprayed by the bad-smelling stuff by 8 o’clock. He landed, slowly turning around to assess the area. It was a bright alleyway, lit from the morning sun’s reflection off a nearby skyscraper, but was still secluded and generally ignored by passerby’s due to it being a dead end street, blocked off by a wall of brick apartment.

He realized that he hadn’t said anything to Karen, who had no doubt been talking to him since he put the mask on; he wondered what she had been saying, and felt partly guilty for what was probably perceived as him ignoring her.

He didn’t want to tell her he couldn’t hear, however, for fear of some hidden protocol that would alert Tony, so he did his best to try to sound natural, a difficult task given that he couldn’t hear himself.

“Hey Karen,” he said, and paused. What did she normally say to him? Ask him how he was doing? How he slept? She would have for sure commented that she was glad to see him, but her usual trail of discussion had probably been derailed by the fact that he hadn’t acknowledged anything she’d said throughout the entire trip thus far.

“Sorry for ignoring you,” he said after giving her a chance to talk, “everything’s fine, I’m just trying to find something. Here. For Mr. Stark.”

He waited a beat, hoping he wasn’t cutting her off or waiting too long to respond, but honestly he had no idea.

“Could you help me find any synthetic chemicals on the walls or ground here? I’m looking for the stuff I got sprayed with yesterday.”

If she replied, he didn’t know, but he was glad to see diagnostics pull up as Karen began to highlight a plethora of invisible substances in the environment around him. With each one that pulled up, Karen did a quick calculation as to what it was.

He scanned his surroundings; urine, vomit, urine, blood, urine, some more urine, a few unidentifiable splotches, but he could tell from their location and position that they weren’t what he was looking for.

His shoulders slumped forwards, and he frowned.

He saw a shadow grow forward into the alleyway, and jumped around in a twist to see what was there. It was just a garbage truck, but the fact that it was now looming over him in the alleyway without him knowing it was even there still had his blood running cold. He jumped onto the wall and started climbing. Halfway up, Tony’s face appeared on his display. He realized it was an incoming call, and too late requested, “Karen don’t answer!” As the call connected through.

He couldn’t hear anything of course, and knowing Tony was currently talking to him made his breath quicken. Also the fact that it wasn’t even 9 am, which was early — and therefore abnormal, for Tony.

“Hi Mr. Stark,” he greeted as happily as he could. “I’m, uh, climbing up this wall at the moment, can I, uh, can I call you back later?”

He hoped Mr. Stark said yes, and he wished he’d have video called so Peter could see his expression and attempt to read his lips, but he couldn’t. Instead he quickly exhaled “Karen, hang up,” and watched as the call disconnected. He climbed onto the roof, and hoped that Karen’s compliance to hang up meant that Tony hadn’t said anything too important. Besides, Peter should probably head back to the tower anyways to start figuring out what was wrong.

Now that he was on the roof, however, he was met with another wave of panic as the view of the skyline met him. He looked at the silent scene of a busy New York City morning, down the streets where he knew cars were still honking, people were talking, phones were ringing, and kids were yelling while they played on their weekend, a morning free from school. He knew it was going on, and he was missing it. Sure, this was every day for a lot of people, but he was Spider-Man. His job required his ears.

As if to prove his point, his spider sense flared up, and he fell to the ground. He looked around, not knowing why or where it had come from, but he didn’t see anything. Was he even the one in danger, or was it alerting him that someone else needed his help? After nothing happened for another moment, he ran to the side of the building and looked down. The scene he saw was normal, people walking, cars driving, even the alleyway he had come from was clear. His spider sense was still pulsing though, so he ran to the next side of the rooftop, frantically looking towards the street.

His eyes immediately found the scene, a car crash. It had just happened, and he wondered if he’d have been able to prevent it if he’d been able to hear. He didn’t know if they’d crashed before or after he’d felt the warning, although experience told him it was the latter. He swung down to the scene, and saw the driver open their door and fall out of the car. He ran up to her, seeing the passenger seat was empty, and helped her to her feet.

“Are you alright ma’am?” He asked, and not seeing any blood on her or problem with standing on her own, he thought so. Except her expression was still extremely worried, and she was talking, yelling maybe, but Peter couldn’t tell what she was saying. She then stumbled forward. Peter caught her, confused as to what she was going on for. She had just been in a motor vehicle accident, after all, so maybe a bit of odd behavior could be expected? He wished he could hear her to be sure.

She pointed back to the car. He looked, but didn’t see anything in the seats, besides boxes that had fallen in the back; other people were approaching the car now, too, trying to open the crushed back door. His spider sense was still calling, and he wondered what was in the back that could be dangerous. What everyone but him currently knew of. He turned back to face the woman, but she just grabbed his arm with a grip that told him that Something was Not OK and brought him around to the back, tears on her face now. The driver of the other vehicle ran up to them, saying something, before turning and walking anxiously with them. Confused, Peter cautiously followed them to the car, pushing past other people.

He suddenly saw behind the boxes in the back seat that there was a baby car seat, spider-sense screaming, and he was pretty sure he cursed out loud. He darted past the woman, pushed past the small, struggling crowd, and tugged the jammed car door, ripping if half off its hinges. He pushed the boxes out of the way to get to the baby. He tore the seatbelt in half to let the car seat loose, and handed the entire seat to the woman.

He glanced at the baby, happy and relieved to see her alive— crying but unharmed, and he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The mother unbuckled her, smiling now, and seeing that the scene was okay to go on without him, Peter left.

He swung away, away to a rooftop surrounded by nothing but open sky, and crumpled to the ground.

His spider-sense didn’t stop. He didn’t feel safe anymore. His chest tightened, and he felt like his airway was closing. He closed his eyes tightly and focused on breathing in, slowly, breathing out, slowly. Repeating it. His fingers dug into the rough artificial ground.

Someone could be screaming right next to him, and he wouldn’t even know it.

He could see something flashing even through his closed eyelids, and opened his eyes to see this at his display had changed.

Next to a transparent box showing his elevated vital signs, Mr. Stark’s concerned face was on the screen. He said something, but Peter shook his head.

“I can’t hear you, Mr. Stark,” he said, hoping his voice was louder than a whisper, “I can’t hear you.”

Tony frowned, typing something on his screen and saying something else Peter hoped wasn’t supposed to be directed at him, and at once a new message popped up on the screen, all systems online and functioning correctly.

Peter just shook his head again. “I’ll be right there,” he said, “I’m heading back to the tower now. Please meet me there, please.” And he hung up before Tony could try to tell him something again.

He had to take four breaks on his short trip back to the tower, just to breathe. He felt like he was dying, but he hadn’t been hit by anything, so he couldn’t be. It painfully reminded him of an asthma attack like those he used to have pre-powers.

But, unlike those past times when he wouldn’t have even been able to stand, every time he caught his breath even just enough to stand up again, he forced himself to keep going. He was so afraid to see someone get hurt, or worse, without him being there to prevent it from happening. His never relenting spider-sense made him feel like people were getting hurt around him; it made him feel blind, like he couldn’t see things he knew were there.

It wasn’t even 10 am when he arrived back at the tower, but Peter fell into the tower window, gasping. He saw Mr. Stark stand up in surprise at Peter on the floor, before rushing over to him. Peter pushed himself up so he was sitting, and ripped off his mask. He felt the tears on his face and didn’t know how long he’d been crying for. He just wished he could hear the voice of his mentor as he stopped in front of him.

Peter reached forward and grabbed his shirt, seeing that the man was trying to talk to him.

Peter cried, “I can’t hear, Mr. Stark; I can’t hear you.”

Mr. Stark pulled him to his feet, touching Peter’s chin so that Peter could see his face, and tried to say something else. Peter shook his head. “I can’t hear you,” he repeated, “I can’t— I can’t hear anything.”

Mr. Stark pulled Peter into a hug, where they stayed until Peter could feel his heart rate slow and his breathing calm down. He pulled away to wipe his eyes. Mr. Stark gently took his arm and led him into the lab, where he handed Peter a metal device shaped like a pencil. He pressed a button and a nearly (but not quite) opaque holographic blank screen popped up in Peter’s face out of the long side of the not-pencil, making a sort of hand-held paper in Peter’s hand.

Suddenly the words, “can you understand me now?” Typed into the screen, and Peter looked up. Tony said something else, and the words, “it usually works pretty well, just let me know if something doesn’t make sense” appeared. Peter raised a confused and interested eyebrow.

“This is neat,” he said curiously. “Why do you have this?”

Tony shrugged, and started speaking. Then, “It’s not the first time I’ve had deaf friends hanging out in the tower, you know.” Peter didn’t know that, but didn’t ask further. Whoever it was had his respect, though.

“So do you have any clues?” Tony’s question popped up on the holographic tablet.

Peter shrugged. “Pretty sure it was whatever I got sprayed with last night.”

“Makes sense. You were pretty out of it yesterday you slept through most of the movie and didn’t even wake up when I carried you to bed.” Peter scrunched his eyebrows at the image.

Tony went on. “When did it kick in?”

Peter cocked his head to the side; “what do you mean?”

“What time did your hearing go away this morning?”

Peter shrugged. “Sometime last night.”

He looked at the screen, then at Tony when nothing appeared. Tony was staring at him with an expression Peter had seen before, usually when he’d done something wrong.

Tony spoke, and Peter was for once glad he had good reason to look away to understand him.

“So. You woke up. Your first morning missing a pretty important sense. And decided to go out as the crime-fighting, life-saving, danger-seeking Spider-Man?”

Peter didn’t know if the punctuation on the screen was intentional, but it helped give him an idea of how Tony sounded.

“Ummm, not exactly,” he replied, keeping his eyes on the screen; it was weird talking and not hearing your own voice, and Peter partially wondered if he was talking too loud. “I went to see if I could find a sample of whatever was in the, uh, the spray.”

Tony turned to the table beside him and pushed a button. Silent videos from social media popped up of Spider-Man helping a woman to her feet, then pulling a baby from a crushed car. He had to admit that even without sound, he looked a little lost.

He glanced back at Tony, he was now looking at him skeptically.

Peter shrugged. “I got distracted.”

Tony rolled his eyes, but Peter could see a hint of a smile on his face. He thought he was going to say something but instead he walked around the table to where Peter normally sat, grabbed a paper towel, then reached under the table and grabbed a yellow cube from the trash can.

Not a cube. The sponge from last night, that Peter had used to try and scrub the suit clean. Tony held it up expectantly.

A sample.

“Oh.”

Movement on the tablet caught his attention. “Oh indeed,” Tony said.

____________

They had the chemical’s composition within the hour. They had the antidote by lunch. They were waiting for FRIDAY to make the dose needed, when Peter saw Tony laugh.

“What?” Peter hadn’t said anything, and he looked around to find out what he was laughing at.

Tony’s words appeared, “I think it’s time for lunch. Friday tell us when the dose is ready.”

He laughed again. The words, “sure thing boss” followed on the screen.

Peter frowned. “Why is that funny?”

Tony smiled. “Because your stomach growling is more reliable than my alarm clock.”

Peter rolled his eyes, glancing down at his abdomen. “Traitor,” he jokingly accused.

____________

FRIDAY had the dose ready sooner than expected, so Peter brought the rest of his PB&J down to the lab with him.

He’d forgotten the talk-to-text tablet upstairs, so he didn’t hear anything Tony said and hoped there weren’t any urgent special instructions when Tony handed him a glass of blueish liquid.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “I just drink it?” Tony nodded and opened a can of sprite, leaning it forward for a toast. Peter tapped the cups, and they both drank. Peter made a scrunched face at the nasty taste after emptying the glass, closing his eyes as he coughed.

“So I’m guessing it wasn’t blue raspberry flavored?” Tony asked.

Peter shook his head and coughed, but froze when he realized he’d heard the question. He opened his eyes to see Tony smiling in front of him.

“We did it Mr. Stark!” Peter exclaimed, his voice sounding wayy too loud in his head.

“We did it,” Tony replied, and Peter visibly flinched.

“Everything’s so loud,” he said quietly.

Tony’s smile faded a little. “Hm.” He spoke softly, “whatchya say we stay in for the rest of the day and watch movies with the sound turned way down low?”

Peter grinned, “I’d love that, but then you won’t be able to hear it!”

Tony put his fists on his hips in mock anger, “are you saying I’m old?”

Peter laughed. “Maybe in spider years.”

Tony rolled his eyes and smiled. “That’s what I thought. Now, what’re we watching? And please don’t make me watch that same movie for the third time in a row. There’s only a certain number of times I can listen to the jar jar lizard, and we’ve already exceeded that.”

“Okay. So how about that old movie Predator?”

“Okay, now you are calling me old.”

“Of course, now that I can hear your reaction.”

 

____________

30 minutes, 2 buckets of popcorn, and 1 pizza later, the duo finds themselves back upstairs on the couch, working on pulling up Predator with subtitles for Tony.

“So,” Tony began, “going back to that topic of reactions. How about I add this: don’t go out when you’re injured, as if that’s a new rule. Or impaired in some way. And if something like this happens again, come to me first. Please.”

Peter smirked. “Of course.”

“Nuh-uh, I need a stronger promise than that, bud. I don’t feel reassured at all.”

Peter sobered up, then. “Okay,” he said, “I will. Seriously. I was so scared.”

“Me too, Kid. Me too.”

“I thought I’d never hear you again. Or anything.”

“Aw, you’d miss hearing me?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Just the good stuff.”

“Like how much I care about you? And how great you are? And I’m so glad you’re my kid?”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up before he could stop them. He quickly turned it into a frown as if contemplating something. “Nah, I was thinking more about the times when you’re like, ‘do you want food?’ Or, ‘here’s some pizza,’ is a good one, too.”

Tony narrowed his eyes at Peter, who grinned. “But that other stuff you were saying is nice, too,” Peter added, feeling a blush rise in his cheeks.

“I’m glad you think so,” Tony replied, “because I mean it.”

“Oh,” Peter responded.

“Oh indeed,” Tony replied with a smile Peter could hear in his voice.

The movie started, and Peter rested his head into Tony’s side.

“I care about you too, Mr. Stark,” Peter said quietly. He knew Tony could easily hear over the movie’s volume. “And I’m really glad you’re here for me and that you’re my, uh, my mentor. Well, and like a father figure person, too.”

Tony wrapped his arm around Peter.

“Glad to hear it, Peter. You make a really great kid, you know. And I’ll always be here for you.”

”Thanks, Tony. And you make a really great dad.”

______________

______________

[thegalleonsnest]

Wiggle’s Muse - Short Excerpt turned into a FanFic

Yo, so, I wanted to share a small snippet of a future project I’m working on (while also delaying my current art projects). What I’ve written out here in this post was originally in a format not meant for professional writing purposes, but I said “eh, why the hell not,” and written it out in sort of a short fanfic format for you guys to read. This project btw, is not a fanfic (had to make that clear). What I am working on is a very large scale project for myself and is still in the blocking out/rough draft phases. This right here is probably my most fleshed out scene I’ve written out, and feels pretty complete as it’s own thing. Honestly, I’d appreciate the feedback if any of ya’ll found this interesting! 

Also I’m putting this in a tumblr post because I don’t have an AO3 or fanfiction account, and this is already too short for it anyway. Read the excerpt below

In front of the camera lenses, multiple grumpuses walk back and forth discussing a matter of topics but most importantly, where was Wiggle?

"Has anyone gotten ahold of Wiggle yet? She was supposed to be here hours ago,” a gruff voice coming from out of frame says. “We’ve tried calling her for over an hour, but we got nothing,” says another off camera, “do you think we should reschedule-” before they could finish, the studio doors bust open with a loud thud echoing the studio room. A tall, short armed grumpus with a boa stumbles along the room carrying an oddly shaped banjo.

“There she is,” said the gruff voiced grump, “Wiggle, whatever you got going on, you better do it now cause we got a meeting with investors in half an hour!” From the blurry view of a slightly out of frame Wiggle, she barely registered what the grump said. In a stumble, she walks to the center of the camera’s view & shakes her head, almost slurring her words, “Doooon’t worry, Darling, we’ll get you a new vest later.” “What, no, wait, that’s not what I-” before another word could be said, Wiggle readies her banjo and strikes a quick pose before strumming the strings like her life depended on it.

It didn’t take longer than a few seconds before the crew sprung into action, setting the proper lightning, mics and cameras around her. Her rhythm and measures became a lot more stable, catchy even, and then she broke into song. The next set of lyrics would become an instant, regrettable classic. 

It’s not long before the VHS tape stutters and stops, showing mostly static. A magenta furred Grumpus with some hair covering a part of eye, hits the eject button, takes out the tape and turns off the tv. “Girl, you were a right mess there!” She said with a giggle. “Tell me about it, Vrittany...” Wiggle said frustratingly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And you’re telling me you can’t come up with anything better than that? Come on now!” “I wish I was lying, but I’m not. No matter what I come up with, nothing is topping whatever the heck my walking coma came up with instead!” Wiggle grabs her mug of coffee and takes a longing sip.

The two sit across from one another at the coffee bar. The aroma of that day’s set of cocoa beans waft through the cafe as most of the outside lamps fill out the darker spots inside. The place is nearly empty besides them, and a single muted green furred occupant sitting at a booth at the opposite end of the cafe, drawing away in his sketchpad.

“So, whatcha gonna do?” Vrittany asked sarcastically, “Stay awake for another week? Get inspired again? Hehe.” Wiggle sets her mug down, and answers, “I did try that again, but in style I fell asleep comfortably on a couch in the lobby”. Vrittany looked a bit stunned. “You’re kidding?! You’re crazy!” “Not crazy, Vrittany,” she takes another sip of her coffee before striking a pose in her high stool seat, bellowing out her voice. “Just creatiiiivly driveeeen~” “Whatever you say, darling,” Vrittany says before turning around to her bar’s sink. She cleans several mugs and glasses with gusto while preparing one last pot of coffee, enough for a single cup for later.

Vrittany takes off her apron and hangs it on the wayside of the counter as she walks around to take a seat next to Wiggle. After situating herself, she puts a paw on Wiggle’s shoulder. “Listen, pretty sure this is just a rut you’re stuck in right now,” she says. “Doesn’t every artist go through that every now and then?” Wiggle turns her head toward Vrittany, “Well..yeah, but this is different,” she desperately says. “I can’t let a song I made in my sleep be the best thing I’ve ever made! I know I can make something that’ll shake the world more than whatever ‘Do The Wiggle’ was.” 

Vrittany pulls back her paw from Wiggle to put on her best thinking cap. As deeply in thought as she was, her face immediately relaxes into a deadpan expression, “Have ya tried singing from the heart?” Wiggle cracks a smile, “HA, if only that’s how it works! It takes a musical genius to write a hit song in show biz, not just some field day with my feelings.” “Eh, worth a shot. Got any other plans?” “I’m still trying to figure that out. I need some kind of inspiration...almost like a-”

Before she could finish her thought, they both caught a glance at the muted green furred grump who walked up to them. He mustered up the words and said, “E-excuse me, you’re Miss Wiggle, right?” Wiggle turned in her seat to get a better look at the young Grumpus. She could tell he was nervous, clutching his sketchbook in his arms rather tightly. She quickly put on a more relaxed front to help calm things down, while also still showing off a bit of her excited side. “Why yes I am, Darling,” she said enthusiastically. “And I can tell you must be a fan of mine.” “Y-yeah...!” The green grump looked a little more relaxed, but still stiff in the shoulders. “Hey now, no need to be so nervous. I always got time for my fans.” “Thank you, Miss Wiggle. Um…” “No need to finish that thought, Darling, I know what you’re about to ask and I’m happy to oblige!”

Before the young man could stop to say something, Wiggle pulls out one of her many professional hand out photos that she has, and quickly signs with her autograph before handing it to him. “O-Oh, thank you, Miss, but that’s not what I was going to s-say.” he sheepishly says. “Really? Not an autograph,” Wiggle says surprisingly. “It’s usually the first thing fans ask of me.” “Sorry, I just...I wanted to show you this sketch I made…” 

The nervous grumpus slowly turns his sketchbook around to reveal a fully sketched art piece depicting a stylized Wiggle singing her heart out at the bar with Vrittany hanging out in the background cheering her on. He hands it to Wiggle to give them a closer look. It was still somewhat messy, showing a few guidelines and early roughed out shapes, but for what it was, it was still impressive to the two girls.

“Woah, that’s pretty rad!” Vrittany yelled out, leaning out from her seat trying to get a closer look. Wiggle was pretty stun, gasping at the sight of such a piece of artwork. “Darling, you drew this?! Just now,” Wiggle asked in awe. “Yeah! I was listening to some of your music and then you came in and sat down. It made me wanna draw you as fast as I could,” the green grumps says excitedly before rubbing the back of his head. “Sorry if it’s still a little messy looking though…” “Don’t be, because it is beeeaautifuuul~” “T-thank you so much, Miss Wiggle! T-that means a lot to m-me!” the grumpus says while his face lights up red from the praise. “You’re like an inspiration to me.” “Really now? Like a muse? All I do is sing the night away, Darling. You draw little masterpieces like this from me?”

As Wiggle continues to be enthralled by the young man and his work, Vrittany notices the coffee pot had finished brewing. She gets up from her seat and go back behind the counter to finish her last cup for the night. Wiggle and the green grump continue their conversation.

“W-well kind of,” says the grump, “it’s a bunch of music that inspires me when I draw. A lot of your stuff is so upbeat and fun, it gives me lots of different ideas to pump out!” Wiggle looks back, almost flabbergasted. “I’m...honestly a bit stunned that I had that kind of impact on you, Darling,” she says, almost with a melancholy tone, “...heh, kind of forget sometimes I do make some kind of impression on grumps like you.” She looks back down at the sketchbook, entranced by the creativity that sparked in the moment. That dazzling moment where it all clicked...where could she find that, when someone else can find it in her?

After an awkward minute of silence, the young grump spoke up and said, “If you like, you can keep the sketch page, Miss Wiggle?” Wiggle snapped her head back up from the sketchbook to the green fuzzball. “W-wait really? Are you sure you wanna give up this piece of art?” said Wiggle worryingly. “It’s no problem at all,” said the green grump proudly. “I already took a picture of it to save for later. I’m gonna make a painted version of it online later! Besides, it’ll make me happy if you kept it, since I was going to give it to you anyway.” “Oh Darling, you’re nothing more than a sweet one now, aren’t you? I’ll gladly keep it!” “Thank you so much, Miss Wiggle!”

Wiggle hands the sketchbook back to the green grumpus and he tears out the sketch. “No, Darling, thank you,” Wiggle says ecstatically. Vrittany returns from behind the bar with a to-go cup in hand, saying “Here’s your order, kid.”  “Oh, thank you, Vrittany. How much was it again,” the green grump asked. “Eh, don’t worry about it. Don’t feel like counting change. It’s on the house.” “O-oh you sure?” “You wanna change my mind?” “Don’t think I can, so thank you!” The green grump turns back to Wiggle and says “It was so nice meeting you in person, Miss Wiggle!”

“The pleasure is all mine, Dar-,” Wiggle catches herself before she realizes something. “Actually, what was your name?” “It’s Grite, Grite Tillsland!” Wiggle lets a genuine soft smile grow on her face. She felt a lot more at ease and happier knowing her new friend was much more relax and happy overall. She reached out her paw for a handshake, and Grite reciprocated.

“The pleasure’s mine, Grite, Darling.”

[soopersara]

I looooove Zutara so much. But I’m exhausted by how much the Zutara fandom focuses on salt and hate on Aang/Mai/Bryke/ATLA so much rather than celebrating Zutara, I can barely find 100% Zutara positivity blog spaces. Even in the Zutara Discord there’s never-ending activity in the salt tags. Like, I had no idea it was possible for a fandom to be so consistently angry, but that’s what a lot of Zutarians literally are like. 1/2

The Dramione fandom in contrast is never like this, Dramione shippers just love to celebrate without hating and dissing on canon events so much. Who cares about canon when we know what we love? Why spend so much energy thinking about something they hate? 2/2

I really don’t have any frame of reference for what other fandoms or ships are like. The ATLA fandom (and Zutara specifically) is the first fandom I ever joined, and it’s still my only fandom. I had to stare at your asks for a minute before I even knew where to begin, so bear with me. 

The thing is, people enjoy things in vastly different ways. While you may not enjoy analysis and criticism of the show (which is perfectly valid!), the fact that a lot of people participate in criticism doesn’t mean that they’re always angry or dedicating all of their time to things that they hate. If we genuinely didn’t like the show, we wouldn’t be here, it’s that simple. But a lot of us (myself included, at times), find it satisfying and even fun to pick apart and articulate the things that fell short for us. 

When I first watched the show, there were parts of the ending that niggled at me, and it was frustrating not being able to express what bothered me about it. It wasn’t until I spent time digging around some salty/critical blogs that I started seeing some of my problems with the show being pointed out in ways that helped me figure out how to articulate both what bothered me and the ways I wish they’d been done instead (which, incidentally, has fed into all of my fics). But I wasn’t angry about the show. I didn’t (and don’t) hate the show. It’s like I told an anon who asked if I hated Aang... oh, god, it’s been MONTHS ago now: It’s possible to like/love things and still wish that they were better. And that, for me, is where critcism of the show, characters, and relationships comes from. I love so many things about this show and its characters that I really notice the things that bother me, and I like talking about them because I care about the story, and discussing the things that could have been different has helped me improve as a writer. 

Now I’m not a mind reader, so I can’t say for sure, but I’m almost positive that the vast majority of Zutara shippers are coming from the same place. We love the show and its characters, and yet we wish that certain things could have been better. It probably looks like we’re angrier than we really are when we get into deep discussion mode, because... honestly, it would be exhausting to preface every statement with “I love _____, but I wish they’d done ______ instead.” So we don’t say that. Probably ever. Because most of us who do engage in critical/salty discussions come into the conversation with the base assumption that that’s where all the criticism comes from, and it’s easy to forget that there might be people in those spaces who don’t know that.

Of course, there are people who genuinely dislike certain characters or whatever, but of everyone I know, I can think of maybe... two? -ish? who truly hate the characters that that Zutara fandom is most critical of. That’s fine! Those people don’t have to like things just because they exist in the show! But the vast majority of us criticize because we saw potential that wasn’t realized and we want to analyze that, not because we hate the foundation of the show/character/whatever else.

I’m glad that you’ve had a positive, salt-free (or low-salt) experience in the Dramione fandom, but like I said, I’m not in any other fandoms, so I don’t have personal experience with how they work. I’ve heard from other people that there’s salt to be found in every fandom, but I’m guessing that Harry Potter is such a massive fandom that it’s easy to avoid if you don’t want to see it. The Zutara fandom is medium-ish, so there’s fewer niches to carve out within the ship itself.

That said, if you still want to cut back on the salt in your Zutara fandom experience, don’t be afraid to use the tools that social media platforms put at your disposal. If you notice someone whose posts bother you on ANY platform, it’s okay to unfollow or block them so you don’t see their stuff. On Discord, you can mute and hide any salt channels or categories that are bothering you (or depending on the server, have the whole salt role taken away completely if you’re sure you’re not going to use it). And it’s totally okay to redirect people to salt channels if they start geting off topic in other places! I do it fairly often when people start slipping into NSFW content in general channels. On Tumblr, you can filter tags (I admit that I suck at tagging reblogs because I’m LAZY, but the OPs generally tag correctly, and Tumblr’s filters use the OP’s tags too). “Anti-character/relationship”, “character/relationship salt”, and “character/relationship critical” might be good tags to start with, since those are fairly common. I wouldn’t recommend following the Zutara ship tag on Tumblr, because there’s sometimes mistagged stuff from other parts of the fandom (*cough* antis *cough*), but following a small number of blogs you do like and letting them sort your content for you is pretty nice. And... that’s probably all the advice I have, since I’m only on those two platforms. But remember that the block button is your friend and you’re fully within your rights to customize your social media experience any way you like!

...wowza, I got chatty. Anyway, I hope you’re not too discouraged by your experience in the fandom. The criticism really does come from a place of love and wanting to be able to create better fan content, and as proof, I think I’m going to squeeze in one more writing sprint before I fall asleep so I can bring more Zutara content into the world. 

Hugs, anon! I hope you can figure out how to make your time in the Zutara fandom what you want it to be.

[levyfiles]

I want to start a shyan blog but I’m so scared because I don’t know how Shane and Ryan actually feel about it which makes me nervoussssssss help

Ohhh boy, brace yourself, nonnyhunny. I’ve got some word vomit for ya

To start off with, I just want anyone and everyone who is currently new to navigating this terrain we call the internet to know one thing and that is this one very important concept. Embrace your own insignificance! The internet is a big place. I once read a post on here that encouraged new users to think of Tumblr itself like you’re walking into a Walmart. You’re not here to make friends and you’re not here to shop for everyone else; you’re filling your own cart with the things you need and like and if someone comes along and takes a long good look at the things in your cart and says, “WOAH there, eating trans fats is unhealthy for you! I never eat trans fats because of a big list of reasons! Stop buying trans fats!!” you’re gonna be both puzzled and annoyed because it’s your cart, your Walmart experience; why the hell do they care what you’re gonna get?

However! I get it, the internet is now comprised of six different websites/apps and if you’re on there, there is no way to avoid or curate a completely ideal sense that you’ve made a space that’s all your own. There are going to be people who disagree with you, people who decide they don’t like what you do, but ultimately, in the midst of all that, you’re going to find people who feel the same in whatever regard you express yourself and that’s why it’s important to just express yourself because otherwise you’re going to develop a lot of disingenuous connections with people who would likely try to ruin your life if you disagree with them on some subject or other.

Now with that whole disclaimer in mind, I also understand where you’re coming from. Putting myself in the shoes of someone just trying to participate in a new fandom where there is a lot of contention among the masses about the rights and wrongs of RPF and whether the concept fits in with a philosophical debate about human nature and the way we interact with each other, witness each other’s journeys. That’s simply it, however; it’s an ongoing debate and where philosophy and debate are concerned, I always hold the belief that an individual’s right to ground themselves and say “These are the principles I wish to abide by” is sacred and ultimately, no amount of anonymous hatred or shrieking messages of outrage is gonna change that until you yourself decide that the principle isn’t working for you personally. My principle is that it’s fiction; an AU to explore as valid and sweet to me as demon!Shane headcanons are, but moreso because I identify with queer love stories and friendships forged by strangely deep similarities and complementing souls. I also love personalities like theirs, love the idea of said friendship and what it would bring to a story about two human beings who meet by happenstance and end up building something world-changing together. Still, because I am just a writer and a consumer of media, that’s the nicest thing I can give myself, a fictional account of these things while witnessing the real version happen in parallel. I get to celebrate in the overlap of similarities the real world and my fictional account take and watch it inspire my friends and mutuals to build their own universes and it’s beautiful. 

With that point being made, I also understand the reason a lot of people are nervous about being open about shipping. The backlash from a bunch of strangers seems to take on a note that would make even the nicest person sound like a puritan about to hold some extravagant witch trials. Nothing more interesting than a person claiming to do good in the world using words like “exterminate” “cleanse” or my personal favourite “purge”. I’ve read rumours being spread about shippers that take on their own life especially because it’s human nature to let other people handle the research; it’s human nature to just take a believable narrative at face value. One rumour being that shippers of this fandom write stories where we kill off Shane and Ryan’s significant others. Myself and my friends who are avid readers of the ao3 tag know that that hasn’t been the case since 2016/17 and by all accounts, I have yet to find the fic where this happens (barring a tinsworth fic I’ve only heard about). Mind you, not many of us check out Wattpad but even there it’s more self-insert friendly with themes I can’t even stomach. 

Which leads me to the last point and the main reason you sent this ask, I’m assuming. Ryan and Shane’s personal thoughts on the issue. Now, it behooves me to supply screenshots and proof when I make a claim but let’s consider if instead from the perspective of two adult men who have operated online far longer than a lot of their audience. Given that I am the same age as Shane, I know what the internet used to look like and how far it’s come and RPF is not a brand new thing neither did it pop up out of nowhere when One Direction debuted. And just like fanfiction in and of itself had its pushback from media because of its demographic and absolutely because of its queer-leanings, RPF appears to get a lot of that same energy, but it’s not an inherently toxic past time. Much like any fandom activity, it can get bad because fandom is not a monolith; it’s a bunch of individuals enjoying a medium in the ways they have learned to. You’re gonna get some individuals who “do it wrong” and some who do it differently, but ultimately, just like the forums and the reddit threads Shane and Ryan trawl in their past time, there are circles you learn not to veer into and terms you learn to blacklist/block/mute. With that being an indication of where they’re coming from as internet creators, I am confident when I say that, as long as it’s not being mailed to them, linked or quoted at them, they don’t care. They would know something that gets popular on the internet summons a brand of transformative art and fiction but much like they tend to ignore thirst tweets in their mentions or the repetitive requests for the same things over and over. They’d see it and gloss right over it. Shane is the type who writes long essays on reddit addressing the things that bother him, Ryan is weird and vocal and an oversharer sometimes when it comes to things Shaniacs say to him (i.e. that Voice he did for the occasional Shaniac who approaches him). It’s just one of the incarnations of fandom that they choose not to engage with, which, good? Because it’s a fan-specific activity. Once in a while you get a creator who wants to interact with fanfiction and it goes sideways because not all stories are written for them, much like not all fanart is made with the mindset to share with them. 

It’s just a regular old fan interaction and community habit that builds bigger followings. 

All in all, I’m not gonna tell you what to do. Unless you mean to be in their @’s all the time or link them on discord, or put any of your content in their hands, they are not going to see it. They don’t care. What they do care about is that you’re watching, that you support them and send them encouragement because they’re creating their own medium of content and a bigger following means more people get to see it and extract something positive from it.  

[annakie]

An Annotated Mass Effect Playthrough, Part Five

Will we make it off the Citadel in this update??

List of Posts: 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Flux is my favorite bar in all of the first game, I know there’s not many to choose from, but I like the music best, everybody’s clothed, everyone’s having a good time, there’s slots upstairs for entertainment, there’s dancing, and plenty of space to chill out in.  Also the color scheme is great.  It looks particularly great now with the graphics mod improvements.  

Doran gets a nice glamour shot here.

I’m a tattle tale who always turns this guy in.  I agree with Kaidan...

Also I really love Rita’s quest with her sister.  She loves her sister, Jenna  wants to be helpful, even Doran’s like “Hey I’d love to give her her job back.”  Everyone here is pretty wholesome.  And Jenna gets one of the best surprise appearances in ME3 if you do things right.  ME1Recalibrated fixes the bugs with her quest, too!

Speaking of bugged quests, Hello Conrad!  ME1Recalibrated fixes Conrad’s bug, and even if it doesn’t, ME2Re does.  The only bad thing about that is it makes his apology for accusing you of something you maybe didn’t do make no sense.

Everyone else was sure Conrad would turn out to be evil, too, right? Instead making him into just a big lying dummy with an advanced degree was a great move.  I was kinda hoping he’d show up in the Citadel DLC.   

Harkin is JUST the FUCKING WORST.  I’m always tempted to let Garrus cap him in ME2 because what a waste of air he is and doesn’t learn his lesson.  

This is also maybe the most overt place where FemShep experiences sexism.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, there’s some pretty shitty sexism sprinkled throughout the games (as discussed a bit last post) but ugh this guy, if I could shoot him this game, I might.  At least on renegade playthroughs.

Speaking of Garrus...

Finally, an alien who wants to hang out with us.

As primarily a Kaidan-romancing gal, who tends to keep up with the Kaidan Alenko tag, especially back in the heyday of tumblr, for a while, loving Garrus was... difficult.

In October, when I was finishing up my latest ME3 playthrough and also cleaning up my blog, and also rewatching Doctor Who and thinking a lot about Rose Tyler and Martha Jones, I posted a long thing in a post about Kaidan and Garrus and badly behaving fanbases, which I don’t feel like typing again.  Here’s the whole thing, but I’m going to pull a part of it into here.

I love Garrus, so much.  And I was thinking with this whole parallel DW rewatch / Mass Effect replay think I’m doing right now how both Rose Tyler and Garrus Vakaraian are characters that were ruined for me for awhile due to their respective… overly enthusiastic fanbases who a small percentage of were dicks to people who loved other characters.  The Kaidan tag (and from what I understand Thane got some of this too, but not nearly as bad) was a pretty hostile place for awhile (and yeah I used to regularly check the Garrus tag too and there was a small amount of tag-invasion there but uh, like 5% of what the Kaidan tag got) which made loving the character of Garrus a lot harder for awhile.  But when actually watching seasons 1 & 2 / the end of 4 of Doctor Who, or actually playing the ME games, those characters are awesome.  

Fanbases can be amazing or terrible, and time and time again I think you start to realize that no matter how great a fandom is, there are going to be a few people who can only enjoy themselves by feeding on drama, or on lifting up what they love by stomping on other people/characters/plotlines.  

It’s not fair to characterize everyone who loves a popular thing as someone who does this.  It’s also hard to avoid completely because there will always be jerks, or young/new people who don’t realize what bad form they’re showing.  I did learn by trying to fight it for a year or two, that responding might help that one person not do it again, but it’s not going to stop overall.  

Anyway, don’t be a dick about the things you don’t like.  

It’s sad that even thirteen years past the release of ME1 and eight years past ME3 some people still need to have this fight online.   It’s basically impossible to enjoy like, any non-curated Mass Effect space online because of pissing contests or people spouting the same boring opinions.  Which they’re entitled to.  I’m just real tired of “Kaidan is boring!” “Ashley is a racist!” etc with no further depth of thought being given.

The ability to mute / block people and get away from the worst of it is one of the reasons I’m still on tumblr.  Especially always mute/block “confessions” blogs.  Yeesh.

---------

I’m glad Garrus is here, and I’m glad he’s on the team.  What’s funny though, is that people tend to forget that Garrus like, wasn’t really all THAT popular of a character before ME2.  I know I was only in the fandom for a year before ME2 but I dug in pretty deep in that time.

It wasn’t until he gets his face blown off and starts talking about Old Times that a lot of people started to REALLY like him.  He’s still great in ME1, but not like, elevated to god-tier that so many people did post ME2 release.  But in ME1 he IS neat because he’s really malleable.  Probably the companion who can have the biggest personality shift depending on your choices.

Also, I remember a time when the people who wanted to romance Garrus were like... outliers?  I remember thinking “GARRUS?  As a romance?  That’s... weird.  Who would do that!?”

OH HOW I WAS WRONG.  But that was before reach and flexibility.

Hey I even have a Shep that romanced Garrus in ME2 and ME3.  And I loved it!

Were I to replay a different Shep, she’d be my first choice.

So yeah, I love Garrus, I keep Kaidan in the squad all the time in ME1 and the other spot I try to rotate everyone else somewhat evenly, but you’ll see plenty of him.  Then ME2 he’s by my side most of the way.  And an awful lot in ME3, too.  But I’m happy for him to get crushed on by Dr. Michele and glad to see him and Tali find happiness in ME3.  SO that’s the path we’ll be going down if we get that far here.

I love the Destiny Ascension flyby moment on the Citadel, and it’s so easy to miss.  Also really hard to get good screenshots of.  Thanks Flycam.  Don’t pay attention to the untextured wall in the first pic, just look at the pretty lights!

Let’s go get another squadmate!  This time, a not-as-initially-friendly alien!

What an amazing entrance for Urdnot Wrex.

“Do you want me to arrest you?”

“I want you to try!”

Hell.  Yeah.

Here’s where the somewhat in somewhat evenly comes in.  I probably do favor Wrex and Ashely in the squad in ME1 a little because... well you know what’s coming for Ash and Wrex you get the least amount of time with by far of the other companions.  Also, he’s just... great?  A tank, with some biotics and a shotgun... okay well so am I as a vanguard, but Kaidan has just enough tech powers for us to muddle through where we need to when Wrex is in the squad and he’s so much fun to have around.  His “Fuck you, I don’t care” attitude is great, and his growth story throughout the trilogy is one of the best arcs a character gets, imho.  I just really love Urdnot Wrex.

This is a real nice flight control office you’ve got here, C-Sec.  It would be a shame if someone planted a bug in it later, since literally anyone can just walk on up here uncontested.

This entire area really is so pretty though.

I always pump points into Paragon as much as possible from as early on as possible, and saving these poor guys’ lives is one of the big reasons.  They don’t need to die.

Ash usually still stays in the party up to this point, though sometimes it’s Garrus.  Fist is still a dick in ME2 but he doesn’t need to die here, sorry Wrex.

...raise your hand if you still occasionally forget to pick up Emily Wong’s evidence and have to reload.  I remembered!  ...once I was almost out of Chora’s Den and had to turn around this time.

Kaidan?  Kaidan my love?  My darling... perhaps YOU shouldn’t be the one standing in the middle of the corridor with no barrier or protection?  (I suppose I could scooch over but then I’d look less badass for these screenshots.  Naaah.)

It’d be a shame if someone properly lit the corridor so we could see what’s going on.

But hey... TALI!  Tali Tali Tali!  The first quarian we see, and only one for... awhile?  Is there another quarian in this entire game? I’m trying to remember and seriously can’t think of one.

Anyway, I love Tali, but another character you really need to ignore their most rabid fanbase portions of.  Yikes, Talimancers were really something back in the day.  The biggest problem I have with Tali being in the squad is that normally she’s REALLY useful against Geth and... not so much against just about anything else.  She gets sidelined on my team more than I wish she would.  Especially since she doesn’t show up until very late in ME2 and late-midway through ME3.

Finally, the proof we need.  And the game continues to introduce new concepts to us with the Conduit and we hear the word Reapers for the first time.  We also get a loredump on the quarians and the geth.  

Tali’s voice doesn’t have quite as heavy of an accent in ME1 as it does in 2 and 3.  I guess we can assume she’s lost part of it while on her pilgrimage?  Picking up the local dialects a bit?  The next two times we see her she’s just spent a lot of time with her own people.

Tali’s suit and omnitool look SO GOOD with the updated textures.

I swap Ash out and Tali in at this point, and usually finish up a few more quests along the way.

Ah, Septimus.  You lovesick fool.

Honestly, the very best thing with Septimus is to bring Garrus here if you’re gonna romance him, have Garrus laugh at him for coming undone for love and then... well, ME2 and especially ME3 happen.  But still.  Septimus... always needs a kick in the pants but will get around to doing the right thing.

Hey here’s a cool thing ME1Recalibated does -- Morlan carries a Squad Iconic Armors stock, so you can always find tier-appropriate default look armor for you and all the squad.  Very cool of you, Morlan.  You are currently my favorite store on the Citadel.  Now stop sending me spam, I didn’t sign up for your mailing list.

Look, I have questions about what exactly Xeltan told the consort and how... all that... works... but... I don’t think I actually want to ask them.  Just.. let’s all shut up about all of it, it’s over now.

BTW, according to one of the novels, Councilor Anderson finds Ambassador Cayln super annoying.  I need to re-read that book.

OK fine... I’ll go talk to the Council.

Coming at ya with Actual Proof and a quarian tagging along to back up the claims, the Council is ready to listen.  And while not surprising that it’s finally time to become a Spectre, the actual ceremony is really well done.  With the swelling theme music blaring, and all three councilors stressing what a big deal this is and what will be expected of you, you really feel the weight of this moment.  People take notice.  Although apparently later, Kaidan or Ash get an entire televised event around becoming a Spectre, I guess there’s no time for that right now.

It definitely feels like the game so far has been building towards this moment, not only with POUNDING it into your brain about who Spectres are and why they’re so important and letting you know you’re being evaluated... but it feels like there’s been a shift in the game after this moment.  It’s A Big Deal.

I didn’t finish all the sidequests on the Citadel yet, they can wait, I’ve been here long enough.  Let’s go check out the new cool stuff we can buy.

ME1Recalibrated adds in this Spectre Armor.  Eeehhhhh... no thanks.  We’ll stick with Onyx.

I did cheat myself in a bunch of credits and picked up Spectre weapons though. This ain’t no tryhard playthrough.  

Well OK, we can finish ONE more quest.  Thanks, startlingly loud and triumphant music queue that’s never used again!

Man, this would be SUCH a good pic of the Normandy if... the airlock didn’t go straight through the ship.

We’ve got a ship of our own!  And most of our squadmates to put on it!

Sucks for Anderson to be sidelined, though.  We already love you, Anderson!

It’s cool to get a bit more of the Saren & Anderson backstory here for real.  Still, I enjoyed the book more.  Maybe I’ll do a re-read of all the ME books here soon.

Udina... just keep being you, I guess.  

WE HAVE A SHIP!!!

Okay, whew... we made it off the Citadel.  Now I gotta actually play some more to have more updates to post.  Might be a few days.  Have to actually go back to work tomorrow. :p

Let’s probably do like one sidequest then go get us an Asari!!

[bubmyg]

paperweight - knj

pairing: namjoon x reader

genre: coworkers!au, f2l, fluff, lots of dialog in which i attempt to be funny

word count: 1,961

summary: hoseok rigs the secret santa so namjoon will stop staring at you every time you walk across the office to fill your water or where you get a dress that’s entirely too expensive to fit the office secret santa budget but find that the dinner that’s supposed to accompany it fits the thirty dollar limit, the dress is just extra

a/n: part 4 of my holiday series! as always, if u need the masterlist of the series, let me know bc tumblr is dumb and links don’t show up!!!

“Why did you email to come over here? My desk is like two office blocks away. You could have just yelled if you wanted to talk about—”

Hoseok took a stapler to the stomach, the nearest thing to Namjoon’s clammy hand clasped over his mouse. He caught the hunk of metal with a wheezing laughter, collecting himself enough to place it down without stapling his polo to his stomach.

“Do you have a volume setting I’m unaware of?” The younger hissed.

The red haired man straightened proudly, fingers tucking into his front pockets.

“Nope!”

Namjoon’s shoulders slumped, arm lazily waving his friend closer in some sort of knowing defeat. “So, we have a problem.”

“What?” Hoseok cocked his chin, “You don’t have the balls to do it anymore?”

“I didn’t have the balls to do it in the first place,” He grumbled. His office chair squeaked as he rolled around, ducking underneath his desk long enough to snatch a flimsy gift box before pushing the end against Hoseok’s chest, “I especially don’t have the balls to give her this.”

“It’s not lingerie, is it?” Hoseok plucked open one end with his thumb, eyeing Namjoon seriously, “Joon, c’mon—”

The red haired man paused upon dipping a hand within the cardboard, fingers grasping over something silky. The dress came in cascading pleats of fabric, pooling up and over the lip in the box to hang in a crumpled seam from Hoseok’s white fist. He dropped the box where he’d deposited the stapler, using both hands to suspend the dress across his torso.

It was elegant green with a sloping neckline and a cinched waist and all things that would look beautiful on you but was definitely out of the price range for the office secret Santa.

“This…” Hoseok continued to stare, open mouthed, at the glittering fabric as it swayed over the top of his polished dress shoes, “This is what you bought?”

Namjoon snatched it, not caring that he probably just crinkled the fabric in the most unflattering angles (not that it would matter because you would look beautiful if he’d cut some holes in the discount paper bags meant for holiday gifts and gifted that to you instead). The dress folded over his knee and was shoved back in the tiny hole Hoseok had created before the box clattered against his keyboard, opening, closing, and making the screen cut in a fourth over two monitors all at once. His fingers curled into soft grey locks, elbows hitting his knees as he moaned miserably, “What do I do, hyung?”

Hoseok rolled his eyes, shoving Namjoon, chair and all, out of the way. He brought the box back into his grasp, flicking off Namjoon’s monitor in the process of straightening out the corners they had altered for the worst.

“Do I have to do everything for you?”

Namjoon, ever oblivious to the coincidence in the office of fifty how he’d managed to draw your name, blinked.

“Give her this.”

The box plopped against his thighs when Hoseok was done. Next came a roll of ribbon one propped up next to a roll of jagged wrapping paper Namjoon had tugged messily from his cupboard that morning. He watched mute as Hoseok bustled about his cubicle, snatching official letterhead from a tray in the corner and a brand new ink pen from a bottom drawer. The pen cap clipped into the corner of Hoseok’s lips as he arched over a file cabinet, slapping the letterhead down on top of the metal.

“What are you doing?” Namjoon asked lowly.

“Helping you,” Hoseok grunted, pen tip scratching against blunt metal. He scrawled in silence, Namjoon’s fingernails carving crescent shapes into the plastic arms of his chair as he waiting, toe bouncing against the plastic strip below his cubicle. His friend’s wrist circled in a looping, dramatic end, coming to drop the end of the pen into the cap still ceased between his teeth.

“Here,” He stretched the note out with a raised eyebrow, “Give her this with the dress.”

Namjoon scanned the note quickly, eyebrows furling tighter the deeper he got into the literature. “A dinner will be more than thirty dollars, though,” He said finally, still drilling holes into Hoseok’s shitty attempt to forge his signature at the bottom (but mostly at the xoxo etched a handful of font sizes smaller).

“You spent an entire paycheck on a dress.”

“That I still have to give her, by the way,” When Hoseok leaned closer, Namjoon added in a mumble, “The shop doesn’t take returns.”

“Okay fine,” Hoseok placed the note on top of the spool of ribbon, tapping the paper, “You put the note on top of the dress, so she reads it first. The note makes it clear that her portion of dinner is the part for the gift exchange. The dress is just a gift from the who stares at your ass every day when you go to get water—”

“I’m serious about a volume knob. Maybe an off switch. I’ll pay for the surgery, even.”

Hoseok grinned, moving to turn back for his desk, “You owe me one.”

“Wait!” Namjoon slumped into the back of his chair, resembling a miserable middle school boy afraid to ask his crush to step on his toes for three minutes and twenty-some seconds. “What I do if she says no? Will this make her uncomfortable? Oh my god, I’ve royally fucked up haven’t I, I should have just got her that turtle paper weight you saw—”

“You really do only have a grasp on half of your remaining brain cell, don’t you?” Hoseok continued to walk away, voice rising an octave, “Why do you think I rigged the secret Santa for you?”

“You what—”

“Just give her the damn gift, Namjoon,” He shot a thumbs up above his shoulders, “You’ll see!”

His email intended to have his friend reassure him that he needed to exchange his stupid attempt at asking you out for the turtle paperweight he may or may not have already bought and had gift wrapped in a drawer in his desk only worsened the ball of dread twisted in the pit of his stomach.

It also made him ten minutes late for the time he intended to drop the box on your desk and scurry away before you returned from your lunch break.

He weighed the pros and cons of giving you the paperweight and storing the dress in his closet for his roommate to find on accident only to endure how many ever months he remained with the company wishing he’d just grown his balls back and asked you out. He considered how long he’d have to hear Hoseok bitch and risk you hearing him just a desk over. He considered how long he’d had to walk around the entire office to avoid your prying eyes before the embarrassment of your inevitable rejection wore off.

And then his conscious spoke for it all, muscles contracting as he swiped the note and box into his hand and rounded the corner of his cubicle in route for your desk.

Namjoon’s breath seized when you turned to look at him, the rough clattering of his desk chair smacking against his desk startling you just as his looming presence at the corner of your desk did. You cocked an eyebrow, offering a wide, nearly bashful smile at the sight of him.

“Hi!” You chirped, tilting your head, “...are you? Okay?”

“This is uh—” His voice had squeaked twice in his life. Once when he was thirteen giving a speech on the importance of honey bees to the circle of life and now when he was trying to ask out his cute cubicle neighbor who teased him about the bear stickers on the corner of his monitor, was his drinking partner at every company get together, and made straight, khaki slacks look like they belonged on the nearest runway. “—this—” He tried again, thrusting the box in your direction, “—for you.”

“Namjoon…” Your voice was a halfhearted scold, leaning forward to take the box from him. “You didn’t have to get me anything. Keeping me away from Jeongguk during the Christmas party was enough.”

He shook his head, offering shortly, “Secret Santa.”

Your lips rounded, thumb barely underneath the box lid. “Well, you aren’t so secret now, are you?”

“Was going to leave it on your desk during your lunch break but uh…” Namjoon gestured vaguely with his hand in front of his face, “Hoseok.”

You nodded in understanding, flipping the lid over on your thighs. “Ah, well…” You trailed off, squinting hard at the handwriting on the note, cheeks gradually heating the further you got.

“That’s part of the gift exchange,” Namjoon rushed, bracing his hip against the corner of your desk, “The other thing is, uh, from me. I guess. If you want it. Or if you even want the first part.”

The dress fluttered between the ridges in your knuckles as you pulled it out, letting it pool elegantly in your lap as you ran your free hand across the embroidery stitched across the neckline and into the cinched waist. You pulled at the top, stretching it between your palms as you dropped it into your lap, staring blankly at the garment that now covered the company letterhead crumbled between your thighs.

“You really don’t have to—”

“Namjoon,” His name rolled off your tongue robotically, your entire being still buzzing numbly as you kicked your feet backward, rolling for you desk. You disappeared, only to return with a similarly generic gift box, white and cardboard, the only difference being the shiny red bow that was taped on the top left corner. “Take this.”

“Honey, you didn’t have to—”

“Secret Santa,” You rasped, features softened a bit now from their previously stoic state. “Hoseok.”

Within was a rectangular, plastic card, displaying the very logo of the place Namjoon had planned on taking you to. Underneath was a note scrawled in thick black marker in handwriting eerily similar to the note in his own gift.

You can only keep this if I get to come with you. Signed, your secret Santa your neighbor :)

“I’m going to kill him.”

“He told me to trust him but I didn’t believe him.”

“How did he rig the drawing?”

“He’s been here every day since the drawing, trying to convince me—”

“I’m still going to kill him.”

Your giggle broke Namjoon out of his haze of striding a few paces over and breaking his friend’s sacred glass rooster that perched on top of his computer tower. You slumped in silence, smile still stretched bright and proud over your teeth as you regarded him with a shaking head, occasional laughter still breaking past your parted lips.

“So do you want to—”

“Is that a yes to the date—”

You continued to beam, crossing your legs at the knee, “You go first.”

Namjoon huffed, setting his shoulders and wiping his sweaty palms on the front of his collared shirt. “Do you want to go to dinner with me sometime?”

“You know, it just so happens my wonderful neighbor just bought me a stunning new dress…” Your head lulled against the leather back of the chair, smile lessening to just a fond seam of your lips, “How’s Friday after work sound?”

“Perfect.”

Your laughter was already Namjoon’s favorite sound but now he wanted your smile painted to the back of his eyelids so he never had to stop seeing it. “Good,” You nodded, “I’ll bring my gift card.”

He was so starry eyed and floating on a metaphorical cloud that had vaporized above your head that he barely acknowledged his tongue wisping in his mouth, throat vibrating out words.

“I’ll bring your paperweight.”

[noahreids]

Beauty in the Aftermath (CS FF) | 14/14

Summary: Confronted with the sudden appearance of her birth parents, Emma, in a moment of panic, runs. She flees the diner, Storybrooke, the country. She finds herself a day later in the Dublin, Ireland Airport terminal wondering what the hell she has gotten herself into. With some fear, a little determination and a considerable amount of faking it along the way, she sets off on a trip she never planned on taking but needed more than she ever knew. She finds herself, she finds a Brit adrift on his own journey and finds out what home really means.

Rated: M (Sexual content & some Irish whiskey along the way).

Also on: AO3 | FFN Tumblr: [ 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 ] Art!: Cover | Ch.1 | Ch.3 | Ch.5 | Ch.7 | Ch.9 | Ch.14

A/N: I can’t believe we're here, the final chapter. This has been an absolutely amazing experience, beyond anything I could have ever imagined. And it’s honestly because of everyone that’s read, liked, reblogged, left comments, tweeted and just really simply being awesome amazing people. I know I’ve said it before but I appreciate the heck out of each and every one of you. You have no idea. So thank you, thank you, thank you. I wish I could take each of you out for a Guinness or hot chocolate, your choice ;) xoxo

So much love to everyone at @captainswanbigbang your encouragement, patience and work to put this event on is out of this world. Thank you. Thanks to @shippingtheswann, @imagnifika for amazing collaboration and to @halobxist & @meanderingcaptainswanmusings for everything xo. 

And last but not least, please keep supporting all the other CSBB authors and artists. We are one lucky fandom!

And now will Killian find Emma?

Chapter 14

Emma tightly grasps the arms of her chair, whitening her knuckles and holds on until the tips of her fingers begin to hurt. Her heart pounds wildly in her chest as she turns her head, eyes wide. And there, just across the room stands Anna in all her spirited grandeur, hair damp and frizzing from the rain, cheeks pink and eyes bright with elation, like she’s just come in from a race.

Emma isn’t sure if she wants to throw herself into Anna’s arms or collapse into her chair and cry in relief. She’s momentarily frozen, simply trying to find her voice that is currently nowhere to be found. The how and the why and the do you know where he is are all clamoring hard to come out first that they get stuck in her throat, forcing Emma to remain silent instead, blinking at her friend, a new tear escaping.

“Oh, Emma. It’s okay!”

Anna rushes to her side and grabs hold of her hands.

“Yeah?” she squeaks out her question.

Anna squeezes her fingers and her expression gentles from excitement to understanding.

“So, okay. I promise. Let’s call Killian right now, he’s sporting the same expression you are, although with a little more self-loathing.”

Emma’s face scrunches in confusion.

“But he doesn’t --”

“Have a phone? I know, what a dummy! But listen to this, Kristoff and I were on our way to grab a bite to eat at the Brazen Head, and there was Killian, pacing outside a coffee shop. He was trying to figure out how to connect to the Wi-Fi on the phone he’d just bought, muttering over and over that he must have missed a hostel as he looked for you. So anyway, I run over to him and--”

“Anna,” Emma interrupts, eyes pleading. “Why didn’t you just call me?”

“Uh, we only called you about a thousand times,” she says, shaking her phone in front of Emma’s face.

“What are you talking about? My phone never rang.”

Emma fishes her phone out of her pocket, only to find the screen dark. Her stomach drops. She presses the home button and the dreaded dead battery image flashes across the screen.

“Oh look, here’s Kristoff.”

Kristoff’s grinning face fills Anna’s screen and all Emma wants to do is steal the phone away, she wants to ask more questions, she wants Killian to suddenly appear directly in front of her.

“Kris, are you with Killian? I found her. At Abrahams on Lower Gardiner. You’re where? Oh!”

Emma tries to follow the conversation, she really does, but when she hears that Kristoff is with Killian, all she wants to do is be where he is, now. She frantically stuffs everything back in her pack, unaware Anna has stopped talking or that the front door has opened once again.

She just needs to get to him and everything will be alright. She’s sure of it.

“Anna, you need to tell me where he is.”

She is met with silence.

She looks up to find Anna watching her with that same soft smile. One she doesn’t have time for.

“Swan.”

She drops everything. Her bag lands with a loud thump, falling precariously close to the end table, rattling the tea cup and saucer but she pays no mind because he’s there. Killian is in the lobby, eyes a little wild and hair even wilder. His chest heaves with quick breaths as they stare at each other.

“Killian,” she says with relief, with a small gasp before her feet are moving her across the room. He keeps them both upright when she reaches him, wrapping her arms around his neck, lips meeting in a hard desperate kiss.

His arms come around her, and hold her tightly, as she changes the angle of the kiss, wanting more, breathing him in. She only pulls a breath length away, hands gripping the collar of his jacket, eyes closed, words rushing out.

“How, how did you find me?”

“I’ve been to every hostel in the city, some twice and when I found Anna and K--” his explanation breaks off on a laugh as she peppers his face with kisses.

“You really found me,” her voice comes softer, surprise tinting her words and she watches as he turns pensive, eyes searching hers for the words she isn’t using.

He cups her face, thumb catching fresh tears on her cheeks, gently wiping them away.

“Of course. I will always find you. Did you doubt I would?”

She doesn’t want to say yes, or to admit to all the fears and worries that had threatened to overwhelm her, not when he had been looking for her as frantically as she, but he must have read it as clear as day on her face. He has always teased her about being an open book.  

“Emma, where did you think I went?”

She opens her mouth but how does she explain such a thing? Her grip on his jacket tightens and she tries again to explain that there is a little voice that whispers to her when she is at her most vulnerable. One that tells her she isn’t good enough to keep anyone around for very long, one that tells her she doesn’t deserve him, but the words don’t come. She also wants to tell him how badly she wants to fight that little voice, how she didn’t want it to be true with him.

The front door opens and a group of young women tumble in, carrying with them their giggles and a current of cold air.

Emma shivers, tucking herself against Killian. His hand drops to her back, running up and down.

“Emma, you soaked through, sweetheart. Let’s get you dry.”

She buries her nose into his shirt, breathing in the warm, familiar scent of him.

“I’m fine.”

Another shiver and he tuts in disapproval, and she is grateful for the distraction from his question, for him not pushing it further, for now.

“We have to find a place to stay. They might have rooms here, we can ask,” she whispers as the girls pass and disappear up a staircase, dropping them into silence once again.

“I’ve booked us a hotel, with an ostentatiously large comfortable bed, eternal hot water, and room service. Come on,” he explains, finding her hand against his chest and giving it a squeeze.

“But? Why?”

He shakes his head and leans down to capture her lips in a slow, sure kiss. She chases after his lips when he finally pulls away, and looks up at him with heavy lidded eyes.

“I never want you to wonder where we’ll be sleeping again. We’ll keep it for as long as you want.”

“Killian,” she whispers, a touch of awe.

His lips brush her forehead before dropping her hand and walking over to wear she left her bag. He hikes it onto his back and comes back to join her, lending his hand out to her.

“Let’s set sail, love.”

She grabs on tightly but takes a last glance around.

“Wait, where’s Anna?”

“She slipped out with Kris. We’ll meet up with them tomorrow.”

Emma nods to herself but glances quickly towards the front desk. She finds the clerk, watching her over his book.

“Thank you, so much. Especially for the tea.”

He smiles and nods.

“Any time, the door is always opened.”

She leaves him with a last smile and lets Killian guide them to their hotel, never once letting go of her hand.

xo

The room is only dimly lit by the small bedside lamp, casting a golden glow across the white duvet. The curtains are drawn tight, blocking the outside world from intruding in and muting the late night sounds. The quiet calm, only disrupted by the central air kicking on in a cyclical fashion. Emma takes it all in with long, slow looks and deep even breaths.

She sits crossed-legged in the middle of the king-sized bed, comfortably sinking into plush blankets. Her skin is pink from the hot water, fingers a little wrinkled from the generous amount of time she took in the shower and her hair sits in a messy bun a top her head. She is wrapped in a thick terry cloth robe, practically disappearing into the soft cotton and in no hurry to get dressed.

She spots her bag across the room, slumped on a chair and knows she could find something dry to sleep in but she doesn’t want to. All she wants to do is to crawl under the covers, feel the warmth of Killian’s skin against hers and sleep for days, but that would require Killian being back by her side.

She listens and hears the water still running in the bathroom, he too choosing to luxuriate in the first real shower they’ve had in a long time.

She’d tried to convince him to join her, but for once he stood his ground.

“If you’re in there with me, my mind will only be focused on one thing.”

She’d pouted but followed him into the large bathroom.

“But,” she’d tried but he simply silenced her with kiss.

“Most importantly, we need to warm you up and then we can have a nice chat.”

He turned the water on and the bathroom slowly filled with steam. Satisfied he’d turned and helped rid her of her wet clothes. Each layer he’d peeled away, he’d kissed a new spot. Her shirt came off, a kiss to her shoulder. He knelt while pulling her leggings down, he’d pressed his lips to the jut of her hip, warm breath lingering as he looked up. He’d given her a little amused head shake as she whispered please.

“Come here, just for a second,” she’d tried a new tactic and pulled him up. Her naked self, deliciously pressed to his clothed front.

She’d kissed him hard, feeling him hard. She’d sighed and it had been his turn to shiver.

“Emma,” he’d warned. “This is why,” he’d added, closing his eyes, and taking a deep breath before pulling away and pulling back the shower curtain.

“In you go. I’ll call for room service so it’s here when you get out.”  

She’d finally reluctantly agreed and here she is now, waiting for him.

She spies the plate of goodies besides her and while she really isn’t that hungry, she can’t resist the hot chocolate, a sprinkle of cinnamon still decorating the top of the whipped cream.

And that’s how he finds her, in the middle of the bed, hands wrapped tightly around a mug, mid-sip.

When he hesitates at the edge of the room, clad only in boxer briefs, she finishes her sip and drops the mug on the end table, licking her lips and encouraging him to join her.

It doesn’t take much convincing before he’s pulling the covers back, settling against the headboard and before he can protest or explain why it’s not a good idea, she’s straddling his lap, her shy smile quieting any words of concern.  

Her fingers trace his features, tucking a damp lock of hair behind his ear.

“You’re sure you won’t eat anything?” he asks, eyeing the barely touched plate.

She shakes her head slowly, finger tips running along the shell of his ear, down his neck and resting over his heart.

She likes that it beats just as wildly as hers.

“And you’re warm enough now?” he asks, hand running up under her robe to rest on her thigh.  

A nod.

He gives her a wry smile.

“So am I going to have to guess why you were so surprised I found you? Or was it that I was looking for you at all? Or are you going to tell me?”

Her eyes leave his lips and look up, worried she is going to find a trace of anger or disappointment but what she finds is a smile and patience and something that might be love. She thinks of the words on her postcard.

And thinks it might be time to be a little brave.

“I -- for a moment I thought maybe you left. That you realized what a mess I was. That you’d had enough and it was the perfect out.”

“Emma, I’m not going anywhere.”

She looks for the lie and doesn’t see any.

“We could teach surfing in Doolin and eat fish and chips at that little diner every night,” he offers with a squeeze to her thigh.

“You were terrible at surfing.”

He shrugs, not offended.

“Eh, I was improving by the end.”

That gets a laugh out of her and a thought pops into her head, her own suggestion.

“We could run boat tour in Dingle.”

“And visit with Fungie every day,” he finishes for her, inciting another laugh.

But soon she falls quiet, eyes on her hands in her lap.

“Or,” she starts and stops.

He parts her robe just a bit and rest his warm hand over her frantically beating heart, her next suggestions on the very tip of her tongue.

“Or? Or what, Emma? Your heart is racing. Tell me.”

“Or we could go back to Storybrooke?” she finally asks, voice small, full of nerves, eyes downcast but his hand leaves her heart and trails up her neck, tipping her chin up.

“Okay.”

Emma blinks, the word barely registering. It couldn’t be that easy, could it?

“Just like that?” she asks.

“What did you think I was going to say?”

“You just -- you’ve never mentioned it.”

“Neither have you.”

“Killian.”

“Emma.”

She huffs and attempts to move off but his hand and wrist fall to her hips, keeping her in place.

“You just, you talk of all these exotic and extraordinary places that you’ve already been to and all these new places you want to see. But you’ve never once mentioned anything in the US, never mind Storybrooke.”

Now he does look at her like she’s at least a little crazy, so she forges on.

“I know Storybrooke may not be as glamorous as Rome or Bali or wherever, but I need to go back.”

“Emma, those are all places we can visit someday if we want to, but now? I just assumed I’d be going back with you. Did you not think I would be by your side? I’ll follow you anywhere, if you’ll have me.”

He looks away and seems to contemplate his next words.

“And perhaps I’ve been a little reluctant to talk about leaving because in one way, it means saying goodbye to Liam but--”

“It doesn’t!” she interrupts, cupping his face, passionate, sure of her statement and he smiles, turning his head to kiss her palm. “This is definitely not goodbye. This trip felt like a beginning and he’ll always be with you and any trip we take.”

“Thank you, I hope that’s true but that’s only part of what I need to explain. Perhaps you aren’t the only one with fears, Emma. I’ve quietly held onto my own worries, that you may not want me--” before he can finish his statement she covers his mouth with her hand.

“Take that back.”

And she doesn’t move her hand away until she sees the smile reach his eyes and the rumble of a chuckle in his chest.

“So does that mean you’ll have me?” he asks, hand slipping down to the knot in her robe.  

“Of course.”

His fingers deftly undo the loose knot, warm hand parting her robe further, slipping it off her shoulders to pool around her waist.

“When do we leave?” he asks, moving closer, mouth finally, finally, moving along the curve of her neck, bringing goosebumps in its wake.

“Not right now.”

She feels his smile as his lips reach her jaw and move to her ear.

“How long do we have this room for again?” she asks, her voice grows softer with each press of his lips. She arches as he cups her breast, fingers finding her nipple, teasing, pinching and making her gasp.

“As long as you like.”

“A few days then, just you and me.”

Her hips rock slowly.

And she feels his groan against the curve of her shoulder before he flips them, hovering over her.

“As you wish,” he whispers as she helps him with his boxers, lowering them over his hips.

He moves against her, where she’s wet and aching for him, they both sigh.

“I’m sorry for running,” she whispers, voice tight with emotion.

He shakes his head, before capturing her lips, grounding her.

He pulls back, finding her eyes before sliding home, they both groan.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry. We’re here now, that’s all that matters.”

He pulls out before sliding back, stealing her breath and taking them late into the night, together.

xo

The next few days tumble into a week, and while she would like to say they visited all the sights, explored Dublin, got lost in history and legend, in reality they barely left the room. They rarely got dressed for that matter and it was more than okay.

They did manage to see Anna and Kris once, where Emma pulled Anna aside and thanked her for everything.

And they did get dressed to taste some whiskey at the Jameson Distillery before tumbling back into bed, a little warm, a little drunk and full of laughs that melt into moans.

But catching her breath on her final days in Dublin, Emma thinks that she might remember those days and nights caught up in each other, just as clearly as some of the most beautiful cliffs and ancient castles.

She’ll remember the comfort she felt, waking up each day, knowing there was no end no matter what happened next.

It’s this comfort that allowed her to finally pick up the phone and reach out to David and Mary Margaret. With Killian by her side, nodding encouragingly, it had been easier to not hang up when someone picked up after the first ring. It was his hand in hers that helped her apologize for taking so long to call and when Mary Margaret had protested immediately, telling Emma to take all the time she needed, it was his smile that had her asking if they could and meet and talk when she got back home.

“Any time, any where, anything you need. Oh, thank you, Emma,” Mary Margaret had whispered and Emma had known it was finally time.

They booked their flight the next day.

And as their plane climbs higher and higher into the sky, and Dublin slowly disappears from view, she knows they’ll be back again one day.

“Okay?” he whispers as they reach cruising altitude. Emma casts a last look out the window before pulling down the shade.

“Perfect. Just tired.”

“Sleep then, I’ll be here when you wake.”

She drops her head to his shoulder and does just that.

xo

“So this is where Emma Swan calls home,” Killian says as she lets them into her little apartment, flicking on a light and breathing in the familiar smell. She glances back to him as he drops his bag and kicks off his shoes.

“I think wherever you are is home.”

She says and quickly retreats further into the house, shaky hands holding the flowers that were on her doorstep when they arrived. She had told Mary Margaret and David when they were getting in and they had kindly sent a welcome home gift.

It was surreal. She couldn’t believe things were going this smoothly, that maybe she was allowed to be this lucky.

“Swan, are these all the postcards you wrote?”

His voice is distracted, far away. She freezes as she fills a vase with water but then after a beat she lets out a slow breath.

“Unless someone else was sending me post cards.”

“Will you allow me the honor of reading them?”

She smiles at his words and then thinks of what saying yes would mean.

Should he? So many of her truths are on there. So many words to him. Now that she thinks of it, they weren’t so much postcards as love letters to Killian.

“Now?”

“Mmm,” comes his distracted reply, maybe already glancing at the back. Although she knows if she says no, he’ll drop it. It’s that truth that makes her say yes.  

“Sure, go for it. I’ll just be in my room, second door on the right,” she finally responds, not like he won’t be able to find her in the small space.

She thinks maybe she can unpack, maybe she should shower, maybe -- maybe she can’t do anything until he comes to find her or she hears the front door slam shut after he runs away. She shakes the image right out of her head. She knows he won’t do that but what will he think?

Minutes pass and she settles at the edge of the bed, lying back and letting her legs dangle over the edge. She counts her breaths in an attempt to stay calm. After awhile she hears his quiet footfalls down the hall, until they come to a stop in her room.

“Emma,” he whispers but she can’t bring herself to move. She closes her eyes and he walks in further. She feels him standing at the edge of the bed, knees brushing her bent ones.

“Is it too much?”

She peeks up at him through one eye.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters in the most loving way possible and then he tells her to wait and disappears. She hears him unzip his bag and rummage around.

He comes back, still only her postcards visible in his hand.

“I love all of these. Thank you for letting me see a little glimpse into your thoughts but I have to admit, there is one I like one most of all.”

He holds up the last one, the one holding the words ingrained in her mind. She holds her breath.

“I do, I do,” he echoes the last line to her and she scrambles to sit up.

“You do?” she whispers, her question imbued with hope, with awe.

“I do. I love you too.”

She’s not going to cry again, she not going to -- he tosses the postcards onto the bed, scattering beside her and reaches into his pocket.

“Whoa.”

He smiles indulgently, fingers holding a small black velvet box.

Holy shit.

“Calm down, Swan. I’m not proposing but this is a promise. That it’s you and me, Emma, as long as you’ll have me. I don’t want you to worry about --”

“Yes.”

His words trail off and his eyebrow pops up, a grin she loves so much, pulling at his lips.

“Swan?”

“I’m not worried, not about you. It’s you and me.”

He opens the box and gently removes the ring, and even though it’s not a proposal, when he slips the delicate claddagh ring on her finger, she knows it’s forever.

“I’m so glad you found me.”

“Always.”

“And not just that day in Dublin.”

“I know, Swan and I’m pretty sure you found me too.”

He kisses her again and again, following her onto the bed.

She cups his face, pulling back long enough to make sure she has his attention.

“I love you.”

“And I you.”

She pulls him down again, vowing to never ever let go.

THE END.

---

My goodness. That’s it. 

Thank you for reading, I loved writing these two and thank you for coming along on their journey. 

It’s possible I may write a look into their future because I don’t want to say goodbye but... we’ll see.

Have I said thank you! <3

[eorzeasntm]

ENTM Tumblr Cycle 11

Round Six: Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, and Legends from Around the World

Whew, that title is a mouthful, but we wanted to ensure that everyone had a chance to pick a story that had meaning to them.  We had a tale from Japan, legends from England and Nicaragua, and a whole passel of Grimm’s tales to bring us full circle.    The judges and the community all agreed that this week’s best fairy tale cosplay was:

Ni’ko Shae for Puss in Boots

The decision to go with a vertical shot showed off those long kitty legs to perfection, and the choice of an action shot in a dungeon (since this round was free style) let the story fully come to life.  Congratulations!

Our guest judge this week was Momoko, the co-host of ENTM Instagram Cycle 2.  Thanks Momoko!  We did a full on judge swap so you can also check out my critiques for IG Cycle 2, Round Two on our Discord channel!

For the Tumblr models, your critiques for this week are below if you keep on reading.

Judge Momoko

Kota:  I love your glam for this!! It really feels like a Hollywood take on what Little Red Riding hood would wear. It’s also very very easy to tell which fairy tale you’re showcasing, so big props to you!! The apples in the opposite corner to you help to add a couple more pops of red to the overall pic and help balance it.

Yomu: I hadn’t heard of this legend before, so first off, I wanna say thank you for teaching me something!! I thought your use of the Nanamo minion was so incredibly cute and creative!! I think the lighting was just a hair harsh on her, though, and we sort of lost all of the cute pink colors on her, but I also thought how you framed the upper half of the pic with bamboo was both a clever way to stay true to the legend and keep it from having too much empty space!!(It might take me a bit to send them all out today, ‘cause I’m at work, but I promise they’ll be sent today

Haila:  This was such a fun entry!! I’d never heard of La Mocuana and had to read about it, but I loooooove monster girls and creepy folklore in general, so I’m so happy you went with it!! After reading about it, I think you fit the story to a T!! I love the expression and how it’s half-hidden, and the colors/filter really tell that you’re by yourself in a dark cave. I will say that your hair blended in a little too well with the background, but other than that, yours was so creative and fun!!

Peaceful:  How creative!! I never would of thought of doing King Arthur, but you really nailed it!! It’s extremely easy to tell which legend you’re replicating. Your picture’s colors are a little dull and faded, which halfway lends to it, but it also makes it a little muddy. However, I think you adding that soft back lighting over your shoulders easily draws the viewer’s attention back to you, which was really clever!!

Adam:  I think your choice in legend was really interesting!! There’s all sorts of aquatic-based stories, and I feel like Sinbad would be a little more difficult to convey, so props to you for choosing something challenging!! I wish I could’ve seen a more dynamic pose/more of the boat you’re standing on, but the soft muted colors in the background are such a nice combination with the yellow pop of your glam!!

Bria:  Beauty and the Beast is my favorite story!! I really liked your glams and how the colors complimented each other. However, it is a little difficult to tell exactly which fairy tale you’re emulating without the title, and it’s hard to see who the specific model in the picture is. But I also thought that your garden courtyard background was a cute way to imply that you’re at a fairy tale castle!!

Luma: Your choice for your story was way too cute!! I never would’ve thought of doing Jack and the Beanstalk, but I’m so glad that you did!! I think that your choice of environment was super cute, creative, and resourceful!! My biggest thing was that I couldn’t see your face, and your glam colors blended a little too well with your background, but I also liked how unbalanced your picture was; it really helped showcase how giant that beanstalk was!!

Ni’ko- Yours was my most favorite picture!! Your glam was so cute (going for that monotone look to match your hair and tail was a really clever way to make yourself look like a cute tabby), and the boots!! THE BOOTS!! The way that you zoomed out the camera to help elongate your legs was such a clever way to bring focus to the main part of your legend in an almost cartoony way, which I’m a big fan of. I think that your weapon choice and overall color palette is extremely well-done, too!!

Judge Ona

Haila: I learned about this folktale when I took Spanish in High School. Our teacher was pretty twisted, but that’s why everyone loved Senora. I was super excited when Kat told the judges that you did this tale, and genuinely LOVE how you captured it! She hides her face and wanders the forests driven mad by betrayal. If you aren’t the vision of mad, I don’t know what is!

I love the color palette here. Sticking with blues, and only a hint of pinks, you create an eerie vibe. With the filter appearing almost translucent over you, it creates an illusion that you are actually the translucent one.  The glamour choice is phenomenal. In the story it says she is dressed in silks, and this is extraordinarily flowy.

My only real critique is that I cannot see your entire body, and although the filter gives a spooky feel, I wish you could have found a cave entrance or a body of water or something to add to the background. Regardless of this, this shot totally encapsulates La Mocuana, and I am so glad you picked something from Nicaraguan culture.

Ni’ko: If you keep changing Ni’ko’s color I will never know who I am looking at.

However, Ni’ko, I love the choice here! I love how you did a non-human fairytale, where your race could be used to your advantage. I love how you are being showy with your pose, as Puss and Boots most definitely was. Sword up, foot pointed forward toward the front of the image and back hand outstretched as if you’re saying “is that all?”. I also LOVE that your glam looks like the humanoid version of the character we all know; it was an excellent choice to do a big jumpsuit instead of flashy armor.

The lighting is well placed, bringing the viewers eye to your face and the rapier, and the decision to battle such a big enemy was an excellent choice so as its size does not compete with you, because much of it lies just off screen from you.

My only real critique here, is that I wish you maybe had a smirk on your face instead of the blank expression here. A smirk would have conveyed that you are about to kick this monster’s behind, and you are a feline, not a knight. I still love this image and genuinely believe it is one of your strongest yet.

Peaceful: I love your choice of story. Sword in the stone, King Arthur before he was king! It’s a well-known tale, and it’s a strong story to try and cosplay. Unfortunately, you took a big chance and it didn’t quite pan out how maybe you envisioned. However, this image has many strong characteristics, and I would like to go over those for you.

First, your use of this emote or action, shows movement in your character. Bracing yourself to pull the impossible sword from solid stone. You have determination on your face and are focused on the sword. The choice of location lends to the story and is the perfect choice. I would try to avoid the large amount of deadspace in the upper right corner. I know you wanted to get Merlin in the shot, but I think you could have done without him, and closed further in on yourself.

Try next time to place a light on your face instead of the rock in the front, make sure to avoid dead space in the image, change the angle of the image so that its not an upskirt shot which often makes the physics of the clothes act funny, and be mindful of the background (that weird little purple light is very out of place. I think you have some very strong elements, and some weaker ones that you can work on for next week! Remember, you can ask Kat for advice and feedback before submitting.

Yomu: Yomu finds a tiny human in a tree and immediately believes that he may have had too much to drink.

The facial expression had me in tears. You are genuinely freaked out by what you have just found. Your emote here shows excellent action and I can feel the same startling feeling that this woodcutter is feeling! I am pretty sure anyone would feel immediate concern and confusion if they were in this situation.

I love the glamour here, as the story is Japanese in origin, the use of a Japanese style robe helps to place the story’s origin. I am a little concerned about the physics of the robe, however, as it falls slightly unnaturally. The spotlight on your minion is perfect, as the story talks of a shining girl 3 inches tall. Also, excellent choice of filter with particle. I do wish, however, there was a bit more blur to the minion, as this close of a shot lends to distortion and pixelization.

Overall this is a strong image and you do a wonderful job telling the story of the woodcutter. I would loved to have seen more of this story. Try to take into account depth of field, and physics next week. Thank you for also thinking outside of the box and giving us a story from Japan!

Judge Wulf

Bria, you and your costar’s outfits are very well color coordinated! Your location choice is also very appropriate, I feel, since that area of Idylshire gives off a very regal and proper feel. I am a bit concerned that you hair blocks your face! You’re the star of this photo, so make sure you’re the one we see the most of! Always remember: when working with a costar, make sure that they are there to support you and make you look good! That being said, I adore the chemistry between the two of you. Can’t wait to see next week’s shot!

Luma, I admire the lighting in this shot. I am a major fan of bright colors, and you’ve really made the greens, browns, and yellows all come together in this forest scene to make it look both awesome and welcoming all at once. Going with a vertical shot was also a very good choice, I believe, because it makes the “beanstalk” look much more large and imposing, and by contrast you come across much smaller! My main note is this: Since you’re kneeling down and facing away from the camera, you do kind of look a little cloaked in darkness upon first glance. This is a simple fix, though! Just make sure to light up your character a bit more! Once again, I’m really impressed by your concept this week!

Ni’ko, the story of Puss in Boots is one of those that I read over and over again as a kid, and I think you’ve captured a very nice look using the equipment and colors in game! The monster looming over you is also an amazing touch, as it makes you look small, and even more true to the tale! I’m very impressed with your shot this week, but if I had to nitpick, I’d say that it’s only a little off that you aren’t looking at the boss’s face, instead looking through them. Like I said, that’s only a small note though! Very good job this week!

 Peaceful, I instantly knew this was the story of King Arthur! Using iconic imagery to give out key details of what you’re cosplaying in a very important part of any cosplay picture, and I’m glad you’re doing that here! The picture is...very dark though. It may be just my computer monitor, but I find it pretty difficult to see your face or other details about the picture. Could this be an issue with the filter? I’ll tell you where all the darkness does work, though: in the forest behind you. The darkness gives the forest a very spooky vibe, and I’m honestly a little unnerved! For the next week, make sure your character is well lit and visible. Good luck! 

Judge Terrini

Adam: I feel underwhelmed by this shot. You're glamour does nicely call to an Arabic pirate, and there's the boat and water and distant shore but it doesn't really draw on the charm of the Legend of Sinbad. He was one of the early Swashbuckling archetypes and you seem very mellow in this pose. A more dynamic pose and angle would have been nice to see here, something swinging your sword or at least looking away from the camera would have been better to capture the sense of something more. This is a myth, a legend, so you want to capture people's imaginations like the story you're drawing from. Also watch your background composition when you go for something scenic like this. The weather condition colors everything to be rather samey and the sea and sky are both similarly rippled and plain so they come across as uninteresting to the eye. Play with angles and don't be afraid to drop things from your concept for the sake of better composition. Play with it.

Bria: This shot is very playful, and I do like the use of colors (love them blues and purples) as well as the fountain backdrop, but as a depiction of Beauty and the Beast it comes across as a reskin mashup of the Disney movie. It might have been nice if you had your guy wearing an ifrit mask or lion mask or something to up the beast factor, or perhaps went for a different scene from the story. When a competition is fierce, you've gotta push creativity to the limit and really be memorable. 

Haila: I'm not familiar with the fairy tale you're spinning here, but still, I'm entranced. The effects and colors you've chosen with this pose tug at my heart, like you're despairing inside a storm of magic, struggling and pushing onwards. This must certainly have been a moving fable, and your depiction here makes me want to know more. 

Kota: I love the colors captured in this shot, and your glamour is so cute! It's really spot on! Taking the picture by the Apple Trees in North Shroud was great to bring that touch of red into your background as well. The angle of the ground is a bit off-putting and it might be nice to have something more to the image on the ground to enhance the theme with more of a "path". There are some fences in that area too that you might have made use of to that effect. Overall, still a lovely shot.

Judge Nadede

Kota Tumet: This is a pretty good image from you this week. I knew right off the bat that you were Red Riding Hood without looking at the caption, so glamour and your setting did it’s job. I like the lighting that you have and very nice use of depth of field that you have going on there. Your composition I felt was nicely put together as well. I do find myself kinda wishing you were able to incorporate the wolf somewhere within your image as it seems like the only thing missing to make this feel truly complete. So far though, to me, this is your strongest image so far. Keep up the good work.

Yomu Kazul:  I have to admit, yours was one of two stories I actually had to look up and read. After reading “Tale of the Bamboo Cutter,” I felt that you did a good job portraying the scene of the little girl popping out from the bamboo. The composition is nicely done and having the “little girl” looking at you helped at least guide my eye up to you and then back to her with you looking right at her. I thought it was a nice touch using Nanamo minion for the little girl instead of a lala as, if I remember reading right, the little girl was just a few inches or so tall when she pops out of the bamboo. So I applaud attention to detail there. My qualm however is when zooming out to get an overall view of the image, your foreground is a bit on the bright side and going back to where your face is in the image, it’s a bit on the dark side. I would suggest try to make the light to where it is a bit brighter towards you and not so bright closer to the audience. Overall, nice work.

Luma Lee:  Luma, while I like the composition of your shot this week, the bottom part where you are at was hard for me to make out. I wouldn’t have thought Jack and the Beanstalk at all just from looking at your image because it was a bit muddled. After reading the description that you had chosen “Jack and the Beanstalk,” it made a bit more sense as to why there is an emphasis on the tree. What I’m having a problem with is that your lighting could use work, especially around your character. With you in the shadows and your outfit is the same color as your background, you blend in a bit too much. I also think a different filter would have worked in your favor as well. So far this is your best shot compositionally for me, just work on the lighting a bit more. Good job.

Adam Evershot:   While this is a nice shot for you Adam, I felt like you could have done more with the story of Sinbad. I find myself wishing that perhaps you could’ve brought in extras to help you with a “crew” of some sort or brought some part of the story to life. I do find the atmospheric lighting of your image nice, I do wish that you could have done a bit more with the lighting on your character to bring you out just a bit more. Just remember when doing a cosplay type shot to find a way to bring out the story of that character more. Overall good work.