#i would absolutely be unable to fully keep my composure

[darsynia]

I totally misunderstood this game at first. I blame the lack of sleep. I think you'd be the type of person whom I couldn't make eye contact across the table when someone says something that could vauguely have inappropriate connotations.

Oh no problem! You're one million percent right, though, oh my gosh. I'll never forget when I was about 10, my Sunday school teacher Audrey was about 80 years old and she sat with me when our church went to the city cathedral for a celebration.

Well, our church used watered down port wine for Communion and this cathedral... did not. Their wine was like WHISKEY or something, incredibly strong, and every time someone took the sip they'd make a genuinely terrible face when they turned around! Audrey and I sat in our pew and desperately tried not to die laughing at everyone's miserable shocked expressions. It was 20 minutes of stomach-aching, gasping hilarity!

Thanks for sending this in!!

Tell me something you secretly think about me?

[a-hazbin-reader]

Hello, happy day, first of all. Secondly, I would like to see how Alastor would give the talk to his children (the talk about how babies are made) or what would happen if his children asked him how babies are made.

😳

Alastor X Reader Headcanons

✅️Romantic

❌️Platonic

✅️Parental

TW: Shenanigans!!

Description: ☝️⬆️

His kids don't really even think about where they came from, they just know that they come from their mother and father

They don't really think about how they came to be until...their mom is suddenly pregnant again

Alastor sits down the kids, holding the youngest little girl in his lap while you hold the twins at your sides

They can't help but notice the happy look you're sharing with your husband, knowing that you two are about to announce something good

Alastor adjusts the toddler in his lap and gives his twins a sharp grin, obviously unable to contain himself

"Now, my little ones~ Do you remember how you've been asking for another sibling?"

You can't help but laugh as the twins look at each in confusion then look up at their father, the little girl shaking her head

"No-"

"Well, your mother and I have good news! Due to sheer luck and absolute carelessness, your mother has managed to spawn another baby!"

You can't help but gawk at your husband, he's trying to put all the blame on you for getting pregnant!?

You don't even get a chance to speak before your husband is kissing you, chuckling at the pout on your face

"That's not entirely true, but yes, we're having another baby."

Your twins lean on you and rub their cheeks against you, their little tails wagging in excitement

The youngest girl is still too young to understand, but she copies her siblings anyways, bleating and wiggling her tail to the best of her ability

It's a sweet moment that you wish you could take a photo of but you're too busy hugging your babies and snuggling up to your husband

It's not until later that night that it becomes a problem as Alastor is putting the twins to bed and you stand in the doorway to watch

He tucks them in and kisses their foreheads before wishing them goodnight, just about to turn out the light when it happens

"Papa, where do babies come from?"

The look on Alastor's face is enough to make you laugh, hiding it behind your hand as your husband freezes in place before regaining his composure

"Why! From mommies and daddies of course! Just like your mother and I!"

The little boy sits up fully, his sister soon following after as they give him an annoyed look

"Yeah but HOW did you make us?"

The rational part of Alastor's brain tells him that he should just tell them the truth and be done with it

But when he looks at his twin's innocent faces staring up at him expectantly...he absolutely fumbles it

Alastor lies lies and LIES through his teeth, every baby myth known to man comes to his mind as he weaves some crazy tale of how babies come to be

The stork, cabbage patches, water sprites and berry bushes-ANYTHING BUT THE TRUTH

You have to leave because you can't stop laughing at your husband, barely calming down before erupting into laughter again when Alastor climbs into bed with you

"Don't laugh..! What was I supposed to say?!"

He lets out a pathetic bleat and hugs you to him tightly, rubbing your stomach in an attempt to soothe himself

"Oh I don't know...maybe just a PG version of the truth?"

You look back at your husband to see the shocked look on his face, pulling away to see if you're being serious

"Are you telling me you could look them in the eyes and tell them what we do in bed?"

You start to get up, laughing at him

"I can go do it right now if you want-"

His arms suddenly reach out and grab you, careful of your stomach even though you're not showing yet

"NO!"

He's dragging you back into bed and rolling on top of you to keep you from getting up, fixing you the most pitiful puppy eyes you've seen yet

"Please don't...let them stay innocent..."

You can't help but roll your eyes and pet his head, leaning in to kiss his forehead before laying back

"Oh, you sappy man of mine...~ I won't...~"

You keep your promise and don't tell your twins the truth, but it's all for nothing because Angel is the one who tells them

To be fair, he didn't realize it was such a big deal at the time, he just wanted to correct some misinformation

Angel was eating with the twins, holding the littlest girl in his lap while he half listened to the older two ramble on about the new baby

"So you squirts excited for another baby in the house?"

The little boy hums in thought as he munches on his snack, ears flopping as he bounces in his seat

"Yeah but I wanna know when we'll see the stork deliver them!"

"I thought the baby was gonna come out of a cabbage?"

"What about the berry bush?"

This is where Angel might've messed up...

"What!? Don't tell me your parents fed you some lame story about where babies come from! Listen, you two most certainly didn't come from no bird and this little cutie right here?"

Angel holds up the baby girl, the toddler happily kicking her feet in the air

"Didn't come from a cabbage or nothin'! You all came from your mom because your parents had sex!"

"...what is sex?"

Now Angel sees where he fucked up, sucking in a breath before looking around the room nervously

"Okay, I'll tell you, but you guys better not tell your father I told you this!"

Angel leans in and starts whispering, the twins hanging onto his every word and forgetting their snacks

Alastor is hugging you as you sit in his lap, taking the moment alone to kiss and snuggle you, gently caressing your slight baby bump

When suddenly your little girl comes running in and points at Alastor accusingly, her brother rushing in not long after

"Papa, you lied!! You had SEX!"

You have to cling to your husband suddenly as he jumps up, looking shocked and gasping dramatically

"I did NOT! Who taught you such a word?"

The little boy giggles and runs out of the room, his sister chasing after him as they chant Angel's name

"Angel did~!"

"You little brats! You promised not to tell!"

It's all you can do not to laugh, burying your face in Alastor's shoulder as he sputters out nonsense about his children and their innocence

"Oh honey~ It's not that bad, they were bound to find out anyways..! And Angel isn't the worst person to tell them..."

You gotta act fast if you want Angel to have a chance at surviving this-

"My innocent babies..."

"It's okay, darling, you still have two other babies you can lie to about how we made them~"

He visibly perks up at that, sitting back down and resting his chin on you as his tail wags

"You're right, it's not too late to lie to them..!"

This one was so much fun!!

[mmigrainee]

One of my favorite themes is the inability to let go. An absolute unwillingness to move on. Conscious or subconscious.

This is especially noticeable in the narratives of my two protagonists from different plots. For example, Lothaire, whose actions are in one sense or another guided by his sincere obsession with Cyric. He doesn't have anyone closer than him, and he doesn't want it to be any other way. He never gave up on Cyric, even in the darkest times, and he will never give up. This is his main leitmotif. That's the main reason why I always highlight his dedication.

The theme of detachment from others has always been present in Lothaire's life, but later it began to carry a different connotation.

He is unable and unwilling to move on, he sacrificed his beliefs and ambitions for someone he will never let go of. Rather than ascending to unparalleled heights and pursuing his past ambitions, he would prefer to descend to the very bottom alongside Cyric, willingly following him.

Meanwhile, Jaelrae, even considering her avoidant tendencies, has something in common with Lothaire. And I'm not even talking about the fact that they both serve petty tricksters. I'm talking about the inability and unwillingness to let go. It's just that in the case of Jae, it's less conscious.

She tends to sabotage any relationship she has simply because the feeling of connection makes her feel vulnerable. Weak. And she really, really doesn't want to be vulnerable and weak. Just because beneath this facade, behind the veneer of feigned composure, behind the layer where she strives to keep everything under control, but explodes extremely easily, there is truth. The truth is, she is simply afraid. She seems to be afraid of losing control, which she has never fully mastered. It's like she's desperately trying to prove something to herself.

Her relationship with Vhyr, in spite of this, was quite close to the extent that she could afford.

But where is the opportunity to "grow into a better version of herself", and where is the relationship that she simply can't really sabotage?

Despite her and Raun's bickering and witticisms, despite her explosive nature, despite her feigned discontent with being in the company of her own god, it was stability.

It was the only truly stable relationship for her and, oddly enough, in her subconscious, something most akin to friendship, perhaps. This is a predictable scenario, this is the framework within which their interactions functioned. It's a strange feeling of comfort of being in something stable and unchanging, a sense of control.

And as soon as she lost it, it, unsurprisingly, broke her much more than she could ever have expected. The realization of how much she really cared and the newly formed emptiness were painful, of course. And it turned out to be so painful for her that she became fixated on it.

Instead of following Vhyr into a new life, she called him a coward and a traitor, and clung to the remnants of the past.

Instead of going through the pain and moving on, she plunged into a strange mix of grief and denial. A cycle of bloodshed and mourning for the past, but at the same time denying that the past is now really the past.

The realization of how valuable that past was, and now the inability to stop clinging to it.

She had sabotaged all her opportunities to move on just to stay tending to the ruins, which she hadn't realized how much she valued before it wasn't ruins.

[ethanhuntfemmefatale]

absolutely love the points you've made here and would like to thank you on bent knees for inviting me to talk about ethan hunt's relationship with violence

the point about mi1 versus mi2 is really great and I think crucial to figuring out the trajectory of ethan's scalpel-versus-hammer arc and the impulses behind it. For my 2 cents I just want to take a second to talk about the scalpel-versus-hammer line...I have mixed feelings about it in Fallout, I feel like (this is mostly personal taste with a dash of speculation) it's meant to serve a double purpose of acting as "Ethan commentary" and "Erika Sloane characterization" (literally almost typed angela bassett she's fully angela bassett to me) but it kinda doesn't work because Sloane's perspective on Ethan and the movie's/audience's perspective on Ethan don't mesh. I almost feel like I would have liked it better if she was more obviously wrong. There's a hint of a knife-to-a-gunfight joke going on in scalpel versus hammer, I kinda think it would have been fun if the script had leaned into that, you use a scalpel, I prefer a gun, the point being to emphasize the idea of ethan as woefully inadequate for the job she wants walker for, the job of militarized killing. We don't actually need Sloane to be completely right about Ethan for her comparison to hit home. In fact, given how little she knows or cares about Ethan, her accurately cold reading him would be a bit odd.

As a representation of Ethan, I like scalpel in some ways and not so much in others. I like scalpel because it's a tool used for surgery, it's meant to be able to help people by fixing problems without causing any other unnecessary damage. That tracks with Ethan's MO while incorporating the way he uses violence in the sense of "necessary cuts," no body count if there's any way to avoid it. That being said, like you get at in your points about MI2 and beyond, 'scalpel' implies a level of sterility, cool-headed logic, precision, and control that I would argue Ethan never truly has again after MI1. (Incidentally in MI1 he's still emotional and irrational, trusting Luther, risking everything to try to trust Claire.) When he gathers a team in Ghost Protocol, he invites in chaos, just as he has started getting himself in line. The edge of desperation, plans spiraling out of control, unexpected chaotic parts coming into play, is a key aspect of McQuarrie era MI. A big part of the reason for that, I would argue, is Ethan's priorities. @interropunct and I were talking the other day about the key differences between McQuarrie era Ethan and Jim--Jim is a self-styled mastermind, the man behind the computer, and like Lane in RN or the Entity in DR1 he's defined by his emotional composure and emotional removal, which allows him to use people like chess pieces, setting up traps. (They don't always work for Jim, lol--he killed his whole team and he didn't even get the real NOC list to show for it--but that aspect of his character design still holds.) Ethan is very consistently portrayed as caring too much about everyone in the world, being unable to let anyone suffer in his stead, and it's those qualities that consistently make him vulnerable, make him desperate. They keep him from really being a scalpel--he kills multiple people to save the French cop in Fallout! Talk about a hammer! He is over and over set against the forces of calm, collected do-what-is-best specifically because his primary objective, protecting everyone he can get behind him, makes it impossible for him to make calculated "hard choices," or stay in control of any situation for long.

Anyway your ideas are excellent, thank you for inviting me to add on! I'm always so fascinated by the ways McQ chooses to portray the question of Ethan and violence.

"You use a scalpel, I prefer a hammer."

I am having so many thoughts about this line because sure Ethan is a scalpel but like no he's not he's...well ok let me try and meta for a second

Because Mission Impossible 1, he's a scalpel. By god is he a scalpel. He manipulates and deceives and seduces and tricks and betrays and sets people up and pulls off these delicate and precise maneuvers and leaves without a trace and he shows people what they want to see whether that's being flashy or subtle or dumb or smart or

And he survives the worst time of his life by using all of these skills as they're being used against him and he hates it

I think thats why I'm fascinated by his interaction with Max, because they're using the same playbook and they are aware of what the other is doing so they have a little fun with it. Like, Ethan is living through hell and he's desperate, and he's pretty scared of Max underneath that boyish grin. But it's fun. They're both being a good sport about it. Because it's mutual. But it's mutual in a very different way to Jim/Claire's manipulation of him is mutual. I'm not sure I'm expressing this well.

He hates it, just a little at first, and then by the end I think he hates it a lot because

Mission Impossible 2 happens and (if memory serves right because I haven't seen the film in years) he's trying so fucking hard not to be a scalpel. He's trying to be a hammer.

And he's rough and abrasive and reckless and little bit feral. He's split lips and bruises knuckles. He hits hard and expects to be hit harder, because he's punishing himself and punishing the world and it shows. He learns violence as a tool and learns how to use it. And he hammers his way through the problem because he can't stomach the thought of being a scalpel anymore.

And then, slowly, through mi3 and beyond, we see him walk the path back to being a scalpel.

He'll never forget what Jim and Claire did to him but maybe he doesn't let the wound fester anymore and let's it start to heal.

But he can never be a scalpel again.

Because he's learned the advantages of a hammer too.

Sometimes you need to be a ghost but sometimes you need to make a scene.

Because a scalpel could never fight the way Ethan fights. To the bitter end, blood between his teeth, and not necessarily his own. Would never drive a car off a building to get to the bottom faster, wouldn't drive a car post drowning to death, wouldn't crash a helicopter on purpose. Could never do the most extreme of the stunts that Ethan pulls off.

I mean, he's better at them because he can be a scalpel while doing them. But to do them at all...

But a hammer could never put on a mask and become someone else. Could never seduce a target. Or interrogate someone without them ever figuring out they were interrogated. Or break in somewhere to steal what they need and leave without a trace.

Walker could never have done what Ethan did in Paris. Because Lark and Walker weren't two different people. They were the same person with part of themselves hidden behind a vail so they could blend in. But Ethan. Ethan thought "I need to be Lark" and then became him. Dead eyed stare and "I slaughtered women and children with smallpox" and the White Widow trapped in his gaze terrified down to her marrow. A hammer couldn't do that. Only a scalpel.

Ethan swings between scalpel and hammer as needed and becomes something of the two combined, becomes something terrifying

It's what marks him, out of all the IMF, as the living manifestation of destiny. As the mind-reading, shapeshifting, incarnation of chaos. The one they tell stories about, the stories that surely can't all be true

So Ethan's not a scalpel. And he's not a hammer. I'm not sure what he is. And maybe Ethan wonders about that sometimes too.

Side note: I would like to invite the king of mission impossible 1 meta @deanwinchestersfloralwallpaper to way in, since I'm sure they'll be able to articulate all of this much clearer than I have

[levis-little-nuggie]

hi! i just saw the post about requests and could you write some fluffy sex headcanons with the brothers? we don't really see stuff like that so i thought i'd ask

Bless you nonny for the request 💜💜 this uh, turned out a lot longer than I had anticipated, probably because I haven't written anything in a good while 😅

Asmo and Belphie will have their own posts 💜

Nsft, obviously, so everything is under the Read More. I made the reader as gender neutral and inclusive as I could. Please let me know if at any point, I was exclusive.

Fluffy Sex Headcanons of the Demon Brothers

(minus Asmo and Belphie)

Lucifer

This man will top or bottom solely dependent upon what you want. Sex with him is moreso about pleasing his partner than just getting off. His preferences are fine tuned to your desires and your body’s limits. Lucifer’s sin feeds off of the immense pride a lover feels when they know you and your body better than you do

He may act cold and aloof in public and in front of others, coming off as stoic and arrogant, but it’s a completely different story behind closed doors.

However you want him, he’ll comply. You’ve done the impossible and captured his heart.  Don’t let this old man and his brown shoes fool you, he’ll drown you in passion.

He’ll gladly play the Dom role, but he’ll also gladly be your sub as well.

If you’re into BDSM and prefer him to Dom, you can expect an intensive aftercare routine that would rival Asmo’s. It’s not that he doesn’t like hurting you or pushing you to your limits, he just wants to reward you for being so good for him and wants to remind you how much he loves you.

If you’re into BDSM and prefer to Dom yourself, go crazy! While you would be capable of marking and bruising his skin, you can’t physically hurt or break him beyond light scratches. He can break out of whatever restraints you put him, even if they are demon-grade. You would need actual spells to diminish his strength to put him on par with a lower-class demon if you wanted him to actually feel any real pain, but if it’s what you want, he’ll do it. Expect a conversation beforehand about what you want and how he can do that for you. He wants there to be clear communication so he knows how best to serve you in the moments to come.

Sure the sex is fantastic, but he’ll show you how much he loves you in the tender moments after. The afterglow is his favorite part, both of you basking in the remnants of pleasure coursing through you, the physical numbness, and the swell of feel-good chemicals swirling through your bodies. This is when he’ll hold you closest, pepper your skin with kisses unable to stop himself, he’ll play with your hair if you have it, his eyes will be bright, his smile will be unrestrained. He may even start humming a long-forgotten lullaby or your favorite song as he rests his head against your chest, hearing your heartbeat in blissful content until one of you decides it’s time to get cleaned up.

No matter how long the day has been, the amount of hours he’s put into all that damn paperwork, he’ll always make time to pamper you after sex. If you prefer to shower alone, he’ll let you go first and have the bed ready with new, clean sheets and clean towels set out for you when you’re done. Prefer to sleep with pajamas? He has a drawer dedicated to your favorite things along with some new ones he bought for you.

Mammon

Ah yes, the tsundere. The dumbass in the streets, dumbass in the sheets. The one who has more hair-brained ideas than he does fingers and toes in one week. One of the greatest banes of Lucifer’s existence.

His push and pull personality might have you questioning the validity of his feelings, but I believe that Mammon wouldn’t be partaking in fluffy sex at all unless he was absolutely smitten.

With how his brothers treat him, he’s reluctant to open his heart to you and fully accept that at some point, you won’t start insulting him either. However, equipped with the sin of greed, Mammon’s completely helpless when you compliment and reassure him. 

His standoffish attitude is a front, a feeble attempt to keep up his reputation as “The Great Mammon,” but he’s got himself wrapped around your finger before he even realizes it and that facade would melt away instantly at your smallest of smiles, a kiss on his cheek or back of his hand, a surprise compliment, anything that makes his heart skip a beat. 

Of the brothers, he has one of the weakest composers around you mainly because he’s also one of the horniest. 

Sex with Mammon can be rushed;  a quickie between classes, a broken composure that has him feeling dehydrated for you, a clash of tongues and teech and a burning desire that encompasses both of you until you find release.

However, the sweetest and fluffiest sex with Mammon would be when either of you are feeling emotionally vulnerable. 

He’ll treat you like you’re the greatest treasure to have ever existed in all three realms, with a delicacy as if you’re fragile because he knows he can be careless and reckless. He’ll be in his head a lot making sure he’s taking care of you, that you feel good, doing his damndest to keep you satisfied so there’s no room in your heart to doubt him. He’ll do whatever it takes to keep that sparkle in your eye when you look at him, to never lose you and never have to experience the day you realize his brothers have been right all along. 

And I mean he’ll do whatever and however. Any wish is his command, but you’ll have more work cut out for you if you suggest the both of you participating in a threesome or more. He wants you all to himself, it’s his greed, but it’s your reassurance and validation that will have him like putty in your hand. 

He’s more than okay with both of you falling asleep in your mess, but more often than not, he’ll wait until you’ve dozed off to clean up. In these moments, he takes the time to worship every inch of your skin, like polishing a priceless jewel. His intentions are pure, most of the time, he just likes to wait till you’re asleep so there’s no chance for you to tease him about it. It also allows his greed to soak up your peaceful expression, the way your body reaches out to him after he’s finished cleaning and comes back to curl up next to you. 

There’s a secret photo album hidden on his phone filled with pictures of the both of you like this, your lashes against your cheeks, your freckles or sun spots, any blemishes or scars that he’s covered in kisses countless of times, your hand in his and vice versa, memories of how sweet and tender your love is, filled with emotions he struggles to put into words. 

Leviathan

It all depends how you play your cards with this one. Teasing him is easy and it’ll get him all flustered, but pair that with his raging horniness and you’ll be walking a fine line between a Dom or sub Levi.

However, if it’s fluffy and sweet sex you want, treat him gently and he’ll return the favor. It’ll take a bit of time and effort to get here, on both your parts, but if you’re willing to put in the work, he’ll make it worth it. Like Mammon, this means sex will be its fluffiest when either both of you or one of you is emotionally vulnerable.

We’ve recently been blessed by the devs on a cannon description of his tail, confirming that it is snake-like with scales. This also means, however, that his tail is sensitive to touch and he has full control of its movements. During a more sweet intimacy, he likes to wrap his tail around a limb, your arm or your leg. It’s only when he’s in Dom or sub mode that he likes to use his tail in a more active manner.

It’s important for him, whether he realizes it or not, that during these moments, that he’s the one touching you, not his tail. If you ask him to use his tail too much during sex, he’ll start to think that you’re only with him because of his tail.

He’ll want to see you even though his room is dimly lit. He also knows his tub bed might not be the most comfortable so he’ll invest in a mattress to put on the floor by the tank, and a few fluffy blankets, from the Ruri-chan line of course, to keep you warm and comfortable so you’ll never want to leave his room, just like him.

He prefers any position that has the two of you lying together, with your face in clear view because he can’t get enough of the faces you make because of the pleasure he’s responsible for making you feel. He’ll be more focused on your voice, your body language, your reactions to reassure him he’s doing something right.

To see your naked skin kissed with the reflection of the water from the tank is his favorite part. He actually got a nosebleed the first time he saw you like that. 

Sex with the otaku is a learning experience that requires patience and repetitive reassurance. He’s certain that no one could ever love him, and it’s going to cost a lot of mental energy, and it can be disheartening at times where it seems he’s not made any progress in loving himself at all, but you’ll both also have an opportunity to create something truly beautiful between the two of you. Falling in love with your best friend, and having your feelings returned with all their heart is one of the most beautiful things to ever experience.

Satan

I like to imagine that Satan is akin to that tiger DILF in Zootopia looking at his tablet while on the train, you know, the one who looks like he’ll take good care of you? Listen, during one of his Devilgram stories, the man pitches a tent (like an actual tent, not a boner you guys) and makes both of you cups of hot chocolate. You can pry this hc out of my cold, dead hands.

Sex with Satan is actually more often fluffy and sweet than anyone would assume because he’s the Avatar of Wrath. Just like all the other brothers, Satan is more than his sin. That being said, Satan is still CEO of Angry Sex™ but he’s also more intune to his own feelings than the rest of his brothers. 

It’s after his more violent fits of rage that he’s seeking your comfort. It’s difficult for him to come down from his wrath; the worse the fit is, the more broken and twisted he feels. He didn’t like coming to you at first because he knows how mentally draining it can be for a human to deal with someone like that, but you’ve insisted in your endearing and stubborn way that he can and needs to rely on you more. You threatened to find all the sources proving your point for the success of any relationship and he eventually gave in, accepting your kindness and your love.

In turn, he provides you with an arsenal of reading material and spells you can arm yourself with for a plethora of reasons; mainly self-defense against demons, a history of successful and failed attempts to prank Lucifer, as well as guides for subjects in class to help you study.

Unlike his previous brothers, sex with Satan is more about the pleasure you both feel. Of course he’ll still be mindful of your pleasure, but he can also get lost in his own desire. No matter how far gone he is, you know that the moment you utter the safeword, he’ll stop immediately and assess the situation. The safeword is actually a simple spell that he’d found when you two started getting more intimate.

On days he’s feeling extra playful, he’ll dress up for you; a collar with a bell, cat ears, a butt plug with a tail attached. He loves to be your little kitty cat, and will practically foam at the mouth if you ever dressed up like a slutty cat for him, but this doesn’t lead to fluffy smut times.

While he has no issues with PDA, Satan reserves his more soft and fluffy side for when you two are totally alone. He’s proactive in looking up cute date ideas and is the type to go all out turning his bed or his floor into a nest of pillows and blankets, cups of tea, hot chocolate, coffee, whatever you prefer, a variety of little snacks, and turn his wall into a projection screen to watch old-fashioned black and white romance movies. 

For Satan, it’s the moments leading up to the sweet intimacy filled with love and adoration that are his favorites. Being the reason your face brightens, tears of happiness well in the corner of your eyes, the way your smile makes his heart stutters, Satan loves showing you how much you mean to him mainly because he knows he’s not the best with words. He could recite any poem of strings of song lyrics, but he believes actions speak louder than words.

He actually prefers for you to have control in these moments; there’s less of a chance he could hurt you and it’s another way to prove his love. He’ll only ever bottom for you. He was reluctant at first, but it’s like you opened his eyes to a whole new world he didn’t know about. He still likes to act like he's a cat and you're his mouse, but he also likes it when you take over and make him bow to your whim. You've gained his trust as well as his heart and he believes that the power dynamic in a relationship should be balanced.

During the most intimate moments, either right after sex or waking up together in the morning after sleeping in, you'll both enter this Cat Speak mode. One of you will start, just a cute little "mrow?" and you'll go back and forth entertaining a semblance of a conversation but without saying anything. There's no actual conversation happening, it's just the two of you making cat noises at each other, giggling and riding the high of this special intimacy specially reserved for these moments of bliss.

Beel

Let’s be honest, 9 times out of 10 your sex with the sixth-born will be fluffy and sweet. He’s like the personified version of a golden retriever. He loves you and has the instinct to want to take care of you. You’re such a small, delicate human, and his brothers love you too so when you’re in Beel’s care, he makes sure you’re satisfied more than just sexually. 

Anything you’re willing to give him, he’ll accept wholeheartedly expressing his love and gratitude in the form of huge grins, hugs, a hearty chuckle, and peppering kisses across your face. 

Even though he’s not as sexually active as some of his brothers, once you get this big guy started, be prepared to cancel any plans you have for the rest of the day… and also the day after just to be safe. He has the most energy and will keep going until he’s had you against every solid surface in his room, minus Belphie’s furniture of course. Regardless of your size or how you look, he’ll make you feel weightless as he carries you around the room effortlessly

He loves the way you taste, gliding his tongue over your skin like you’re an ice-cream cone that never melts, he’s actually growled a number of times when you tried pulling yourself away from him. His eyes had turned shades darker than normal before you snapped him out of it. He would apologize profusely and kill the mood so as to make sure he’s in the right headspace and you’re okay. 

This has only happened a few times, but he still loves to taste every inch of you whenever he has you all to himself. He leaves you covered in hickeys and love bites and even though he’ll apologize, you know he feels absolutely no shame in his brother’s reactions to seeing you covered the next day. 

His favorite part is helping you ride out your orgasm with his mouth. He knows he’s more skilled with his mouth anyway and just, the man cannot get enough of you or your taste. Depending on where he’s at when you orgasm, if he’s close, he’ll paint your skin in his release, and then clean up the mess and drag you in for snuggles. If he’s not quite there yet, he’ll assess your energy levels and wait until you’re ready to go again or keep going, depending on who topped or bottomed. He’s all about consent and wants to join you when you’re fully blissed out regardless if he’s finished or not (meaning he’ll deny his own release in order to lie with you).

Aftercare comes almost second nature to him. He’s already carrying you to the bathroom and soaking you off in the shower before you realize it. The warm water and his large hands invade your senses and he urges you to let go, to let him take care of you and it’s like a dream. His calloused hands offer a sort of comforting roughness that keeps you grounded. If you want shower sex, you’ll have to initiate it.

Actually, that’s pretty accurate for Beel. You want sex? You’re either going to have to initiate it or tell him straight out. Poor guy does not take hints well as he is very oblivious.

[akaashisbabygirl]

show everyone that i’m yours

pairings: atsumu x female!reader

genre: college au, smut <3 (18+)

warnings: NSFW - vaginal penetration, oral (female and male receiving), slight bondage, slight choking, fingering

atsumu’s fingers trailed along your neck, slowly tucking your hair behind your ear.

“what do you think you’re doing?” his voice was cold and serious. it made you freeze on the spot.

yet, however, you decided that you wanted to push atsumu’s limits. you so desperately wanted to test him. to have him throw you over his shoulder and slam you down onto the bed while the frat party continued downstairs.

“i’m not doing anything,” you softly said back to him.

you maintained an innocent tone, acting as if you weren’t just grinding your hips on suna, one of atsumu’s high school friends.

“oh, so you’re going to be a brat now?” he asked, a chuckle escaping your lips.

atsumu never chuckled, not unless he was serious. he always chuckled the same way before he would drag you off and make you aware of who you belonged to.

which was him. and only him.

“i’m not sure where you’re getting the “i’m being bratty from, but go ahead, continue talking tsumu.”

atsumu didn’t like the way you were talking back to him. he knew you were fully aware of what you had just done to piss him off, and yet you were still testing his limits.

his hand snaked around from behind you, wrapped around your neck as he pushed your back against his broad chest.

“keep the attitude up, princess. i’ll fucking make you regret it.”

you smirked, “oh really? just try then.”

“is that so? want me to fuck your slutty cunt upstairs? i bet that’s it, you pissin’ me off so i can fuck you like the dirty fucking whore you are,” atsumu mumbled into your neck, his lips starting to kiss the soft skin.

“i don’t think you could, i’m sure suna could fuck me better than you could. i mean, just look at him, tall... muscular, damn, i might just drool from the sight of him,” you teased.

of course you knew you were pushing atsumu’s limits, that’s what you planned from the beginning. atsumu was always soft and loving when it came to sex. well, not really loving, but he was so into eating you out and making you feel good, but the angry and rough sex you liked more. you liked it a lot. and you would do anything you could to get that rough sex, whenever you could get a chance. that’s why, when you saw suna rintarō, atsumu’s old high school mate, you decided to make atsumu jealous. it’s not always he fucks you in the random bedroom of a frat boy.

atsumu’s hand held onto yours, almost as if he were dragging you up the stairs. you knew what he was planning, and you hated to admit that you were looking forward to it.

he slammed the door to an empty bedroom open, a bedroom with a queen bed to fit the both of you perfectly. he didn’t care about who’s room this was, all he wanted right now was to teach you a lesson for being bratty.

atsumu threw you down onto the bed, his hand leaving around your neck as he moved to lock the door.

“get on your fucking knees,” he said.

his hands desperately unbuckled his belt from his pants, sliding the material down his legs and letting them drop down to the floor around his ankles.

you followed atsumu’s orders, dropping down onto your knees, fingers desperately tugging at his boxers to reveal his hard cock. 

atsumu’s hand grabbed onto the top of your head, gripping your hair. his brown eyes focused on the way you let your tongue poke out from your lips, running it slowly and teasingly against the tip. you tasted his precum on your tongue, eyes looking up to see atsumu’s eyebrows furrow as he tried to keep his composure. his hand gripped your hair tighter. 

a small smirk formed at the corner of your lips as you took the tip into your mouth. atsumu wasn’t having it. he pulled away from your lips, walking to sit down on the bed, “get over here right now.”

you crawled over on all fours, sitting yourself down innocently in between his spread legs, looking up at him. 

“suck,” he ordered.

your lips wrapped around his length, taking in as much as you could. atsumu’s hands grabbed onto the sides of your face, using your mouth like a fuck toy as he began to drag your face up and down his length. 

drool dripped from your mouth onto his cock as you let out choked whines, gagging on his length. atsumu let out grunts and groans as he fucked your face. he loved the way you gagged and made a mess on his cock. 

his grip on your face got tighter as tears began to pool at the corners of your eyes, mascara dripping down your face as you choked. atsumu was getting close, muttering out curse words and deep groans of your name.

“g-god i love fuckin’ your mouth, bet you like it, love havin’ my big cock all the way down your fuckin’ throat.”

your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you felt atsumu thrust faster, trying to reach his own climax. he let his cum shoot into your mouth, pulling his dick out to watch you swallow. 

you opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out to show him that you swallowed all.

“good girl.”

atsumu held onto your shoulders, pulling you up and shoving you towards the bed. he climbed over you, spreading your legs with his large, calloused hands, so he could fit his body in between your spread legs. his hands moved behind your back, pushing your body up to grind against his as his hans fiddled with the zipper of your dress.

his lips aggressively attacked yours as he tugged your dress off your body, your lace bra and panties coming into his line of sight. he loved it when you dressed up for him, all pretty and sexy like this. he loved it. he threw the dress onto the floor, hands moving back to around your back to unclasp your bra, throwing that to the pile of mess on the ground, followed by his own shit.

his lips wrapped around your nipple, sucking as your hands dug into his hair, your body unable to move from the way his body pinned you down onto the bed. 

removing his lips from your nipple, leaving the mess of saliva there, his lips attacked yours, his tongue darting into your mouth. his hands grabbed onto your wrists, pinning them down onto the bed. moans escaped your lips into the kiss as he grinded his hips into yours, his hard on against your damp, lace panties.

his hands moved down, tugging your panties down your legs as he moved his face to be eye level with your cunt.

tongue instantly wrapped around your clit, sucking lightly your clit. his fingers teased your dripping hole, shoving two fingers inside, curling them. sharp moans fell from your lips as his fingers curled inside of you, hitting that one spot which always made you scream out.

your eyes rolled to the back of your head, tongue darting out as atsumu fucked you with his fingers. your leg made its way over his shoulder, hands clutching at the bedsheets as you arched your back to his touch.

“mm fuck tsumu,” you moaned out, hair messy on the bed.

you knew you were close from the way his long digits curled inside of you, sending you into what felt like absolute heaven. he knew how good he was making you feel.

atsumu’s tongue swirled against your clit, eliciting moans from your lips as he did so. his tongue moved to lap at the juices which dripped from your plugged cunt, tasting you on his tongue.

it never took you long to cum on atsumu’s tongue or his fingers. he knew how to send you into an absolute bliss with just a simple movement. he knew your body well and understood the way it would react with every touch. he knew you too good.

your moans became higher in pitch as you came, your cum squirting around atsumu’s fingers. his tongue ran against your hole, collecting your cum on his tongue.

“taste so fuckin good,” he mumbled against your womanhood, licking his lips.

atsumu moved away from your cunt, his hands reaching down to the floor to grab his discarded belt.

“turn around; hands behind your back.”

atsumu’s hands moved the belt around your wrists, tying them tightly behind your back, nice and tight.

he lined his cock up with your entrance after discarding his boxers to the ground. he ran the tip against your slit, loving the way you whined softly underneath him, begging for more.

he pushed in slowly, his hips rocking back and forth at a slow pace. no matter how many times the two of you had sex, it always took you some time to get used to how big he was.

his cock slowly and softly kissed your cervix with every movement. the sounds of your moans mixed with atsumu’s grunts danced around the room, filling the empty silence. no music played, yet the loud noises from the frat party downstairs ran throughout the whole house.

his hand made its way into your hair, softly tangling his fingers into your (your hair colour) locks. his fingers pressed softly into your scalp as you moaned underneath him, face buried in the pillow underneath you, almost silencing you.

atsumu picked up the pace, fucking you rougher and faster. his hips moved in and out of you fast, his heavy balls slapping against your womanhood.

your wrists struggled as they were tied behind your back. you tried to get out of your restraints, but atsumu tied your hands too tightly for you to move properly. he restricted your movements to show that he was in control right now.

he was always in control.

your cunt clenched tightly around him, making him feel so good. his free hand went down, holding onto your waist. he couldn’t last much long.

his hand from your waist slowly moved to mess with your clit. moans elicited from your mouth quickly as you couldn’t stand the constant pleasure you were receiving. moving his hands from your clit and hair, he held onto your waist tightly. you were sure there was going to be bruises there in the morning. but you didn’t care about the bruises and hickeys, you cared about how the two of you were feeling right now.

you were so wrapped up in the pleasure of how good atsumu was making you feel that you didn’t notice the knot snapping in your stomach.

you climaxed around atsumu’s length. he pulled out, slowly moving your sensitive body to lay on your back, hands still tied behind your back. he pumped his cock a few times, his cum releasing on your stomach, some of it drenching your thighs.

atsumu walked off to grab a towel from the small bathroom connected to the bedroom, cleaning you up as best as he could.

“aren’t you the cutest,” he chuckles as he watches you fix your hair, trying to fix your makeup in the mirror to make it look like you didn’t get fucked dumb in one of the bedrooms upstairs.

“shut up! everyone’s gonna know.”

“no one has to know,” he stopped for a moment, “we could just go back to my place and continue for the rest of the night.”

“i’m holding you against this, miya.”

“good girl.”

© all content belongs to akaashisbabygirl 2021, do not repost or change

[thefanficmonster]

One Can Never Escape Destiny

Shan-Yu x Empress!Reader (Female)

Warnings: Murder scene (non-graphic)

Genre: Angst, Romance (one-sided)

Summary: After fulfilling his plan of taking over China Shan-Yu and his army have made it to the palace of Empress Y/L/N Y/N. However, one obstacle the warrior still fails to overcome is swaying the Empress herself, getting in her good graces. Unable to kill her, he is left to do all he can to have her spare him as much as a civil word.

Requested by Anon. Hi lovely! Thank you so much for such and amazing and so different request from what I’m used to. This is my first time writing for a Disney character, a villain even, so I hope to have fulfilled your expectations even with it being so late in posting. Please enjoy! Love, Vy ❤

She refuses to eat or see the light of day. She’s been hidden away in a single room of the palace ever since China fell. She attempted to fight and gave her all when her eyes met his poisonous ones and her sword’s blade collided with his. The fight was a difficult one, he had to admit. She would’ve won had she not had a heart of gold. Putting her right-hand man’s under the sharp dagger in his merciless hand left her no choice. She loved that man, he could see it in her eyes. And he wasn’t going to kill the pathetic excuse for a member of the Empress’ council, but seeing that look of devotion and adoration in her gaze when her eyes met with his drove him in a fit of absolute rage. He couldn’t restrain himself and let the blade slide across the man’s neck only after the Empress had surrendered.

“NOOO!“ She had shrieked in terror and sorrow, all her pain audible in her cry that echoed all throughout the palace, piercing the monstrous warrior’s ears. He couldn’t bare to see her so distraught, over another man on top of all, so her ordered his men to take her to one of the chambers and leave her to collect herself. She still had fight left in her though. She escaped from his men’s grasps and overpowered them both until a third one knocked her out cold with the handle of his dagger. A choice of action that landed him the second dead body to be thrown out of the palace that night.

He specifically instructed the man taking Y/N to her chamber to be gentle and caring with her and to leave the door unlocked, maybe even open a crack. He didn’t want her to feel trapped in her own home. 

He sat by one of the windows all through the late dark hours of the night and even met the sunrise at dawn. He contemplated so many things, scolded himself even. He had become the ruler of China and yet he had never felt so low and defeated. He even let his mind wander to the option of killing the Empress for his own peace of mind but he knew he wouldn’t be able to the second he realized he wasn’t even able to picture himself doing it. The very though sickened him to his stomach and he was disgusted with himself to have ever allowed himself to think such a thought.

The main thing troubling him was the fact that he didn’t know where such admiration came from. He had never admired nor respected a woman before but he felt the need to bow before her instead of the other way around. He wanted to be her loyal servant, tending to her every need at the bat of her eyelashes. He could barely believe himself either way - killing her or adoring her, they were both thoughts bordering into insanity, he couldn’t tell which was worse. Of course he could, he just wanted to lie to himself. He knew he could never lay a hand on her.

Shan-Yu had fallen under the spell of the very Empress he was supposed to end in order to fulfill his evil plans.

He should want her dead while he’s prepared to kill whoever dares even wish her harm. Funny how destiny works. Or perhaps this is karma punishing him for his evil ways by putting one bump in the road right in front of him - one so easy to get rid of in theory, but he could never commit to it.

It has been four full days since that fateful night and he hasn’t heard nor seen her. He’s not willing to disturb her peace and earn himself an injury from the infuriated Empress but the hours of overthinking, contemplating and self-battling are weighing heavy on him. His men are beginning to notice, although they’d never say anything - they may be cruel, dumb fools but they respect their lives enough to not put them at a risk like that. Not even a risk, more like certain death. They all obeyed his orders of bringing the Empress food three times a day every day and they all witnessed the defeat and worry that washed over their leader’s face whenever they brought back the dishes untouched hours after they had delivered them. 

So, after a lot of self-convincing and doubting, Shan-Yu has bitten the bullet - he is walking the halls to the Empress Y/L/N Y/N’s chamber. He makes it to her door sooner than he’d like, his confidence is not fully built. His composure could easily be shaken. His words are scrambled and even if he could form coherent sentences, he knows they die in his throat.

‘Pull yourself together, you pathetic mutt‘ He scolds himself for the hundredth time in the past hour. Easier said than done, though. She’s a woman of incredible strength, power and character. She was respected by every individual in China, not a single soul looked down upon her. They had already hated him, but now that he has allegedly put their dear Empress in misery, he’d be dead along with his army if they weren’t so strongly feared.

Shan-Yu brings himself to knock on the chamber doors, his voice a faint echo through the massive hallway when he calls out, “Empress, may I enter?”

No answer, as he expected. He is half expecting to not even be there, to have escaped. He knows her better than that though.

Cautiously pushing the door open, he’s met with a dark room only lit by the moonlight seeping in through a small rectangular window directly opposite the door. He sees her silhouette in the windowsill. She’s sitting facing away from him, looking out of the window at the rooftops underneath the clear, starry night sky. She doesn’t bother to turn her head to acknowledge his presence, also as expected.

A small detail he notices sends shivers down his spine - there are metal bars on her window. Why?

“I was a rebellious child. I knew my destiny before even understanding what it meant. All I knew was that I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to be Empress. I wanted to be one of those brave souls who were prepared to leave to a front knowing they might not return.“ Her voice rings through the cold, dark space, bouncing off the walls in a haunting manner, enchanting him. “My father knew I would be more than capable of running away so I was frequently spending plenty of time here, locked up. As I am now.“

She is still facing away from him but he still shakes his head as though she could see him. “You are not locked here, Empress Y/N. The door is always open. This palace is still yours.”

“That you are right about.“ Y/N’s head turns finally and his heart drops.

She is pale, eyebags weighing heavy under her tired eyes. Her hair is covering her face but her pale complexion is more than visible even from behind her locks. She looks like she has been crying, not that she’s a woman who cries often. A tear of hers has the same value as a bar of gold.

She continues. “Chu Bao, the man you killed in front of my very eyes, was the only man I’ve ever loved and the only person who saw me as more than my title. I’m not just an Empress! Everyone forgets that!“

He feels hurt by her remark, “Y/N, I know. I know better than anyone. I have overtaken all of China and yet you are my greatest prize...”

She cuts him off, her shaky hands pushing her hair to the side so she can look directly at him, her crystal eyes meeting his menacing yellow ones with such intensity he feels it almost like a physical presence. “I am no prize, you monster! I’m a person who destiny played wrong! I given a role I have never been happy with. But I had to play it to maintain the honor of my family and of China as a whole. It taught me a valuable lesson: No matter the tries, one can never escape destiny. So...” she trails off, her eyes losing their feisty glow as she turns back to the window, “I embraced it and became one with my land, this palace, my title. And I will stay one with them till my death. Now, leave! And don’t bring me food anymore. Don’t check on me. I want it all to end the way it started - in this palace, in this chamber. I want to go out with the last bit of dignity I have. If nothing, I will die without ever bowing to you. I may have surrendered, but consider this me prolonging the fight.” He hears her scoff, a humorless chuckle, “The moment I die will be the moment I win.”

Shan-Yu has never been a man to live to face defeat. He always defeats the defeat, stands up taller than ever whenever he’s been brought down. Now is different, however. His defeat is inevitable. It hasn’t even happened yet, but he knows the battle’s lost. His hands are tied. He would never disobey a wish of Y/N’s nor could he live with her slowly dying. He cannot keep her alive against her will, and he can’t end it all quickly for her either.

She has already won, but she’s not aware.

Empress Y/L/N Y/N has defeated the monstrous, villainous conqueror Shan-Yu twice in her life: once when she had him fall in love with her and again when she chose to put an end to her life, leaving him powerless.

All he can do now is accept his defeat and allow for Y/N to become nothing but a battle scar on his heart.

[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.  

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

So I did the random word generator, and I got paper. And that made me think of paper airplanes. So, how about reader making a paper airplane and throwing it through the SDR2 Boys window, and inside the paper airplane is a love letter confessing reader’s feelings toward them.

T h a n k you for this bc I gotta practice writing the bois. I absolutely love writing these types of scenarios owo

..........

Teruteru

“Oh? What could this be~?” The chef noticed the paper airplane that appeared on the floor of his cottage, picking it up. 

It was only then he noticed his partially opened window and chuckled. For him, it was easy to put two-and-two together.

“Ah, how cliche. Do I have a secret admirer on this island? Perhaps they wanna share all their secrets with me~?” The thoughts running through his mind almost made his nose bleed, though he managed to control himself as he unfolded the plane to read its contents.

And it turned out to be a simple love letter from you--short, sweet, and innocent. You even marked it with a heart at the bottom of the page.

Teruteru’s face became tomato-red as he clutched the letter to his chest, before hurrying out of his cottage and to the hotel restaurant, unable to contain his excitement any longer.

“I’m on my way, my new beloved~!!” He trilled, knowing you’d be waiting for him there.

...............

Gundham

“Huh..so this is what the mighty winds have carried into my domain.” Gundham mused as he looked at the paper airplane that somehow landed on his bed. He looked outside for a moment, wondering who could have sent it--but there was no one.

“A mysterious messenger, hm..what do you think, Cham-P?” He glanced at the large golden hamster on his shoulder, seeing his nod of approval. “Fuhaha! Then it’s decided! Now..let us see what this message entails.”

With a hum, he unfolded the note and read it thoroughly, gawking about halfway through it. 

“...wh-what...this...is this...a-a proclamation of love?!” He tugged his scarf over his blushing face. “But..who could love such a....ah..” Then he reached the bottom of the note and saw it was none other than-

“[Y/n], but of course. There’s...a certain aura to them that..I can’t help but feel enchanted by,” he muttered to himself. “But I shall harden my heart until I know this proclamation is true, lest I turn out to be a blind fool..”

With that declaration, he got up and summoned the Dark Devas to his side, before venturing out of his cottage, clutching the note tightly.

............

Kazuichi

“AH!! I’VE BEEN AMBUSHED!!”

The scream made you stop in your tracks as you looked back, seeing the door fly open and a certain mechanic come rushing out. 

“[Y/n]! Thank god you’re here!” His hands flew onto your shoulders. “I got hit by an object!! I-I think someone was tryna kill me!!”

‘Oh boy..’ You thought, realizing that your plan didn’t go accordingly. “Well, did you see what the object was?”

“N-No...but...what does it matter?!!”

“.....wouldn’t it help to find out what it was if you’re convinced it was attempted murder?”

“..that’s true. C’mon. I don’t wanna go back alone.” Kazuichi dragged you into his cottage, making sure he locked the door once inside. “It came through that window, hitting me in the back of the head....damn it. I just wanted fresh air and I can’t even get that!” Then he shut the window with a huff.

“Was it this?”

Looking back, he saw the paper airplane in your hand. “Yeah-!! Wait...a paper airplane? Seriously? That’s what attacked me?”

“I sent this.”

“...so YOU attacked me?!”

“I didn’t mean to!” You snapped, causing him to fall silent, before you unfolded it and handed it to him. “It’s a letter...for you. It’s got nothing to do with murder, I promise.”

He cautiously took the paper and read it, mumbling to himself. By the time he was done, his face became red. “[Y/n]...is this true?” He looked up at you with a toothy grin and stars in his eyes. “You like me??!!”

“Yeah..” You smiled back. “Though I was hesitant to send it since, y’know....you had eyes on Sonia-”

“Oh! Don’t worry, I only admire Miss Sonia from afar!” He explained. “As the princess she is, I only wanna respect and defend her. Nothing more! I-I’ve honestly...liked you for a while too. My bad for not reading this sooner.”

“It’s okay,” you chuckled. “At least I have my answer.” 

...............

Fuyuhiko

“Sheesh, try not to poke my other eye out next time, okay?”

“Wh-Wha..” You spun around to see the Ultimate Yakuza, realizing he was clutching the note--that was once a paper airplane--in his hand. “Sorry, Fuyu..I had no idea where it would land so I uh...booked it. Kinda. How did you know-?”

“Saw you taking off before this even got into my room,” he explained. “I still got one good eye to keep a lookout for things.”

“..ah, I see..” You rubbed your neck awkwardly. “So um...you must’ve read it.”

“It’s laughably cliche, but...I...uh...d-do feel the same way as you..” Fuyuhiko mumbled the last part, but you could hear his confession clear as day, and your eyes lit up.

“R-Really? I mean...I...I wasn’t sure, since I know you’re still trying to move on from-”

“It’s okay.” He sighed, looking back at you. “It..hasn’t been easy, but..you were the first to forgive me after that trial. Even though...I acted like a total shithead to you when we first got here. Still feel kinda bad about it..”

Your racing heart eventually calmed itself, as you smiled gently and approached him. “It’s okay. If..you wanna make up for it, maybe we can..uh..hang out at the movie theater sometime today?”

“Tch, like a first date?” He chuckled. “Alright. I’m in.”

............

Nekomaru

“[Y/N]!!”

The booming voice made you nearly slam the mailbox door on your hand. You had a habit of checking it mornings and nights.

You whirled around to see Nekomaru rush over to you, a wide grin on his face as he clutched a certain note in his large hand. “I have received your confession letter and accept it wholeheartedly!!”

“R-Really?” You gawked. “Just like that..?”

“Of course!” He laughed. “Your method of delivery is unique! Very old-school. And clearly you’ve put all of your heart and soul into this letter. If I were to ever reject that hard work, my name wouldn’t be-!!”

“Nekomaru Nidai?” You chuckled, feeling calmer now that he was serious.

“See? You already know me better than I know myself!” The Ultimate Team Manager grinned as he hugged you to his chest. “Can you hear that? My heart is beating with great spirit and love!!”

“Yeah, I definitely hear it loud and clear.” Smiling, you hugged him back, happier than ever.

...............

Twogami

When Byakuya found a paper airplane on his desk, he didn’t know what to think at first.

This was childish at best--sneakily throwing it through the window and then taking off? If one of the others wanted to talk to him about something, then they should’ve just rang the doorbell. 

Surely he wasn’t that intimidating of a leader...even if some didn’t like it.

But curiosity eventually won over everything else, and so he took the paper, realizing there was a message on it. “Hmm, very strange..” He hummed, opening it to read what it said.

And he swore his heart stopped, realizing this was a confession and the sender was....you?

Did you really think of him that way? Even though..he hasn’t fully told you the truth about his Ultimate?

And if he did, would you still send him something like this?

.............

Hajime

Hajime didn’t know why he woke up earlier before the morning announcement--until he noticed something right next to his face. “Huh..? What’s this?”

Sitting upright, he picked up the object. “Oh, a paper airplane. Haven’t seen one of these in forever.”

With a small chuckle, he unfolded it, having noticed letters on the inside of it--and also a red heart, oddly enough. He read the message written and...his heart began racing as he realized this was a love letter.

Even though he had his suspicions, he couldn’t believe someone on this island would love a talent-less person like himself.

Why?

As he read the sender’s name, Hajime jumped as he heard a knock on his door. He quickly stuffed the note under his pillow before going to answer it--seeing you on the other side.

“A-Ah..[y/n]..hi. Thank you for knocking..” He tried to play it cool, tugging on his shirt collar awkwardly, though you just smiled.

“I take it you read it already?”

“What? Oh! Uh..yeah..” The poor boy’s face grew redder by the second.

“I thought the paper airplane idea was too childish, so...I figured I’d come here and confess myself. But...seems I’m a little too late for that.” You chuckled nervously. “So....?”

“I-I don’t know what to say..” He admitted. “Why me? I’m the most ordinary out of everyone here.”

“Oh. Hajime.” With a small laugh, you took his hand into yours. “Because it’s you that I feel happiest around..all those times we’ve spent together..meant a lot. I had fun and I’d like to do more of them with you.”

“A-As..your boyfriend you mean?” Hajime gulped, smiling as he tried retaining his composure. “Sure. I’d..love to do that.”

............

Nagito

“Heh..I never would’ve guessed a nobody like me was at the center of someone’s heart..”

“Uh, I’m right here, Nagito.”

“Oh I know.” The white-haired male chuckled as he spun around on his heel, facing you. He looked down at the love letter you had cleverly disguised as a paper airplane. “But..come to think of it..Mikan’s words had me a bit...crushed..”

You tilted your head, remembering the third trial. “You mean, when she said-?”

“That I had nobody who loved me? Well, it seems she was wrong about that.” His smile seemed to stretch wider as he put the letter in his pocket. “I guess I can’t call myself a stepping stone anymore..now that I have a new purpose--one that fills me with a much greater hope!” He wheezed out a small laugh.

While his laughter usually unnerved the other students, you could only smile and feel your heart grow warmer whenever you heard it.

“Yes, yes..perhaps this was the love she was talking about.” Nagito put a hand to his chest. “But this love wasn’t born from despair.”

“Nah, that’s just a twisted sense of love.” You reached out to take his other hand into yours, bringing him slightly closer to you. “This is real, genuine love.” 

His face became a bit flushed, though it wasn’t from the despair disease, but from the simple realization that..

He was lucky enough to be loved.

..........

Izuru

“So, instead of talking to me, you sent this.”

“Oh!” You turned around to see the “Ultimate Hope” standing before. There was an open note in his hand that you tried to deliver to his room in the form of a paper airplane.

The keyword is “tried”, as he was quick to call out to you before you had the chance to run away. So you felt embarrassed, especially as he skimmed over your letter.

After a long and awkward silence, Izuru finally looked up at you. His face remained blank, though you could tell he was curious about your message.

“Yep, that’s my uh..confession.” With a sigh, you approached him calmly. “I know..love is something foreign to you, but...I figured I’d take my chances. Even if the world’s gone to shit, I had to at least get this off my chest. And before you ask...no, it’s not because of your talents.”

“....I see.” He muttered, his gaze returning to the letter. “You understand what I am and what I’ve done, and yet...huh...?” Then he put a hand to his chest, stunned for a moment as he felt his heartbeat slightly quicken.

Wait..

His heart?

What was happening to him? 

What is this?

“Huh, they might’ve suppressed your old feelings. But..not all of them, it seems.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that exactly.

This was something he definitely couldn’t have predicted.

[caffeinatedbraincell]

Another TOG ficlet! Sorry I was really feeling all the feels today and needed to get them out. This is just angst~ (check out this old ficlet of absolute fluff after if you’re feeling sad)

Read on AO3

Joe’s hand shook slightly as he touched pencil to paper. He held it there for a long moment, the contact so slight it was barely there, before lifting his hand. With a sigh, he picked up his well-worn eraser and rubbed away at the nonexistent dot.

“Awful lot of eraser crumbs for a blank sheet of paper,” Andy commented, walking up behind the couch Joe was sitting on. “Room for one more?”

Joe scooched over, pulling his knees up to his chest to make room. Andy shoved the unfolded pile of laundry to the other end and sat down next to Joe.

“Try again,” she prompted gently.

“I can’t draw anymore. Nothing looks right. Every line is wrong, every mark…” Joe huffed in frustration, tossing his sketchbook onto the coffee table. “It’s not working.”

“What were you trying to draw?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hard without a muse, isn’t it?”

At that, Joe felt something crack inside him. Some veneer of composure, finally giving way beneath the weight of his grief. He felt his eyes well up with tears. “I miss him so much, Andy. It feels like I’m suffocating on air, starving with every bite of food I take.”

“I know, baby. I know,” Andy soothed, curling an arm around her little brother and pulling him closer. Joe sniffled, pressing his face into her shoulder.

“Surviving isn’t our superpower. It’s our curse. Isn’t it?” He tilted his face up, looking at Andy with large, teary eyes. “Isn’t it?”

Andy looked at him sadly, saying nothing.

“Why am I here if Nicky isn’t?” Joe asked. “Why can’t I be with him? He promised he would never leave me. I didn’t even get to say goodbye-”

His words were cut off by a sob, and Andy cupped his face, wiping his tears away gently.

“It’s alright. Let it out. Let it out.”

“You were right, Andy. There is no God. There cannot be a God, at least not the one my Nicolò prayed to.”

“There is still hope, Yusuf. He may come back. Anything is possible.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

Andy sighed. “I don’t know what I believe. All I know is that missing him hurts, but watching you miss him hurts more.”

“When we lost Quynh in the ocean, did you hope that she was alive or dead?”

Andy froze at the question. “Joe-”

“Because I don’t know what to hope for.” Joe felt his whole body start to tremble, as though caught in the throes of some terrible fever. “I want him to be alive. But I don’t want him to suffer. You can only suffer when you’re alive, so…”

“I’m going to make you a coffee, Joe, and you’re going to drink as much of it as you can. Then we’ll go from there, okay?”

Andy stood up to go to the kitchen. A gentle hand caught her wrist, stopping her. “Andy?”

“Hmm?”

“Would you be angry with me? If I ever- you know. Tried to...be with him? Join him?”

Andy inhaled sharply, turning to face Joe fully. Joe flinched.

“This is the last we speak of that, am I clear?”

Joe nodded, unable to keep fresh tears from pooling in his eyes. Andy closed her eyes and sighed, softening slightly.

“I’m sorry,” Joe mumbled.

“No, I’m sorry, honey. I shouldn’t have- I know how you feel, Joe. I’ve gone through what you’re going through. I’m still going through it.”

“How do you get up every morning?” he whispered hoarsely.

“You learn to make do with memories. And to be grateful for who you have,” Andy replied, cupping a hand behind Joe’s neck and kissing his forehead tenderly. “And deep within, somewhere, somehow, hope persists. It is a most wretched thing.”

Joe managed a half-laugh that was really more of a sob. Andy took his hands and pulled him to his feet.

“Come to the kitchen. You can see the front door from there, too.”

“How did you know I was watching the door?”

Andy shook her head with a smile. “You were never any good at subtlety. Not when it came to him. We’ll make coffee together while we wait, hmm?”

[19tozier]

something human (richie tozier)

warnings: fluffy n sweet, 2019!richie x reader, assume this takes place before any events of chapter 2

based on the song something human by muse

[losers&reader are adults in this]

richie plasters a smile on his face, as wide as he absolutely can. the crowd is cheering for him, applauding and hooting and yelling, and it’s a sight that will never fail to make him feel warm. he’s worked his entire life for this, and it always feels good to have it pay off.

for now though, he’s drained, and all he can think about is the call he always looks forward to making when he gets backstage.

as soon as the curtains close, his smile drops, the bone-deep exhaustion making itself known. he goes through the motions of what’s expected of him: he drinks the water bottle thrown at him, he wipes his forehead on a towel he passes to some stagehand, and he only half-listens as his manager blabbers in his ear.

he manages to tune everyone and everything around him out until he’s safely in his dressing room, the door closed and no one to disturb him until he has to leave. it makes something in his chest loosen.

his phone is plugged in exactly where he left it, fully charged in anticipation for his routine. he picks it up and takes it off the charger, smiling at his lock screen.

it’s a picture of you and him from right before he’d left for this tour, sleepy and rumpled on the couch. you’re dressed in one of his sweaters, your cheek pressed into his neck as you smile for the camera. he’s pulling a goofy face, unable to keep serious even for a moment. it was one of the best nights he can remember in a long time.

the picture makes his heart feel three sizes too big, especially when he unlocks his phone to click on your contact. it only rings once before you answer it, breathless.

“hi, rich,” you murmur, your voice warm and bright and so deliriously happy to talk to him.

the tension in all of his muscles melts away at the sound of your voice, a tired but genuine smile creeping across his mouth. “hey there, angel,” he murmurs back, kicking his feet up onto the counter.

“how was your show?” you ask him, the same question you always ask, and you sound so soft and so sweet that richie almost has to scream.

he shakes his head even though you can’t see it. “same old, same old. got a lotta laughs tonight, you know how it is.” he pauses, thinking back to what he just performed. “the joke you wrote was the best part.”

you giggle, slightly breathless. “the one about your weird kink?”

he’s too warm at the sound of your voice to really take offense to your teasing of him, but he plays the part anyways. “yes, the one about my weird kink, asshole.” he rolls his eyes. “i still stand by the fact that just because i accidentally slipped into a voice one time does not mean i have a kink.”

you hum. he can hear the smile when you say, “sure, baby, whatever tickles your pickle.” you giggle to yourself.

he smirks. “well, darlin’, that would actually be you who—”

“richie!” you cut him off, laughing so hard you wheeze.

he can picture you in his mind: you’re probably curled up in the corner of the giant couch in the living room, some crime show paused on the tv. he knows you’re wearing one of his sweaters and some fuzzy socks, because the snapchat you sent him right before the show featured both. the phone is probably jammed against your ear and you’ve probably got a glass of wine sitting on the coffee table.

it sounds so cozy, and he knows it would be even cozier if he was there with you. all of a sudden, there’s a lump in his throat.

“i miss you so much, (y/n),” he rasps before he can stop himself. he usually tries not to break down like this, acutely aware that him being gone is already hard enough on you, but this time he can’t help it.

you’re silent for just a beat too long before you whisper, “i miss you too, rich.” the tears in your voice are painfully obvious. the mood from before has all but disappeared. “i miss you so much.”

richie swallows, trying to keep his composure. “only twenty more shows, doll. twenty-three more days, and then i’m right there with you.”

you sniffle and his heart breaks. “only three more weeks,” you repeat weakly. you sigh, the sound just barely loud enough for him to hear. “i hope they go by quickly.”

he sighs, letting his eyes fall shut. “me too, baby.”

he knows he doesn’t have long before he has to load onto the tour bus, and you’re probably just as exhausted as he is. it’s relatively late for you in LA and he feels bad keeping you up.

“i love you, angel,” he says, a bit desperately. he knows you know, the ring on your finger and the wedding on the horizon proof of that, but he’ll never get tired of telling you.

you make a soft sound, almost awed, and he’s lit up again by the reverent way you whisper, “i love you too, richie. i love you so much.”

he leans back, beginning to tell you some silly story of whatever happened that day. as he hears your giggles, he thinks, i really hope these next three weeks go by quickly.

***

it’s quiet in the apartment when richie lets himself in.

he’s certain it’s because you’re still asleep. it’s early in the morning after all, and you don’t know he’s home. as far as you’re concerned, his flight lands tonight. he didn’t tell you he’d managed to snag the last seat on a much earlier flight.

it’d been a hard tour, on both of you. this is the longest either of you have been apart, and his crazy schedule meant your phone calls after his shows were sometimes your only communication at all. it hurt to be away from you, but now he’s home, and he’s determined to stay at your side for as long as possible.

he smiles to himself, dropping his bags by the couch and gently placing his keys on the counter. he’ll deal with unpacking later, maybe after some kisses and a nap.

the bedroom door is slightly open when he gets to it, so it’s easy to push open without creating any noise. he quickly shuts it behind himself, not wanting the light from the windows in the hallway to wake you up and ruin his surprise.

he has to suppress his coo at how adorable you are, curled onto his side of the bed with your arms wrapped around his pillow. you’re only wearing one of his shirts and underwear, and it makes heat pool through richie’s veins. later, he tells himself.

quietly, he toes his shoes off and pulls off his jeans and jacket until he’s left only in a t-shirt and his boxers, much like you. only then does he let himself climb into bed beside you.

you don’t wake up immediately. you just scrunch your nose and murmur something unintelligible, rubbing your cheek against the pillow. it’s so adorable richie can’t help but reach out to cup your jaw, and that’s what finally wakes you up.

you blink your eyes open, disoriented, and you don’t really register that it’s richie in front of you for a couple of seconds. when you do, though, you gasp, quickly reaching out to pull him into your arms.

“what’re you doing home?” you breathe against his neck, holding him so tightly his ribs ache. he laughs into your skin. “i thought your flight wasn’t until later!”

he presses his lips to your forehead. “wanted to surprise ya, doll.”

his fingers won’t stop running up and down your back, and you’re so sleep-warm and soft that he feels his exhaustion begin to pull on him. you cuddle yourself even closer, leaning up to kiss him gently.

he hums against your mouth, fitting his hand to the back of your head to keep you there. it doesn’t lead anywhere, both of you too exhausted for much more, but it’s the thing he missed the most on tour. this simple intimacy with you, and the humanity of being in your arms. it’s more powerful than he will ever understand.

“i love you,” he mumbles into the kiss, tightening his hold around your waist. “i love you, i love you, i lo—“

“rich,” you laugh, pulling back to kiss his cheek. you gently take his glasses from his face and put them on the bedside table. the blurred smile on your face makes him more sleepy. “i know. i love you too.”

you snuggle back beneath his chin, your eyes already closing. he presses his mouth to your temple, holding it there as he, too, starts to drift off.

“i’m really glad you’re home,” you whisper into the quiet, your lips moving against his skin.

he smiles, pulling you closer. “me too, angel.”

[kurodachimagic]

Chocolate and Cherries - Chapter 3

Summary: When Adachi falls into the arms of a kind stranger his life changes for the better.

Rating: Pg 13

Tags/warnings: Fluff, getting together, au, Writer Adachi, Chef Kurosawa.

Word count: 6.2k

A/n: This story was written for the cherry magic mini bang! Thank you@hiwatari-art for inviting me to join! Had a lovely time working with you as always. Thank you to my other artist over on twitter guacagabs. The entire story is being posted right now.

Read on ao3

Adachi adapted to his new and strange life as a wizard fairly quickly. He realized that he just needed to take the morning train before rush hour and the night train after it to avoid most of the accidental mind-reading incidents. It cost him precious time out of his day, but he didn’t mind it as much when he gave in and started typing on his phone to put his best foot forward in maintaining his writing schedule. Some sacrifices needed to be made and such was life.

With his writer’s block under control, Adachi threw himself fully into his book. Every second that was not spent working or sleeping, he was writing or doing research for it. Days soon started to merge into each other, but that was completely fine in his opinion; as long as his book became a reality, he was willing to sacrifice his free time.

At some point during the following week, Adachi ran into Kurosawa while taking out the trash. He turned around and there he was, sporting a bright smile that was akin to familiar with how much they had been seeing each other. Then, something odd happened. Adachi felt blush rising to his cheeks as he stood so close to his neighbour that he could smell his cologne. He instinctively closed his eyes and inhaled that sweet aroma, a foreign feeling settling in his stomach. He wasn’t sure of what could have caused him to react like that, but he clearly needed to rest for a bit. Maybe so much work was giving him anxiety. He said a quick goodbye to Kurosawa and rushed back home.

The following day Adachi pressed the wrong button in the elevator and exited one floor below his own. Not noticing his mistake, he tried to open a door that looked just like his, only to jump back when it opened swiftly to reveal Kurosawa wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.

Adachi choked on his own spit, his eyes unable to ignore the fact that Kurosawa was not wearing a T-shirt - or clothes at all for that matter - and that his hair was dripping onto his torso, the droplets continuing to travel down his body in a mesmerizing way.

“Hello!” Kurosawa smiled. “I think you got the wrong flat - unless you wanted to pay me a visit.”

“Uh, yeah,” Adachi said, his eyes finally meeting Kurosawa’s. Then, he noticed a familiar smell, perhaps vanilla and chocolate.

“Would you like to come in?” Kurosawa asked, setting his hand on the doorframe, his fingers softly brushing against Adachi’s.

Adachi suddenly felt as if he was inside of a movie, romantic music and all. He could see Kurosawa pulling him inside by the belt loops and kissing him deeply as he dropped his work bag to the floor. He moaned, letting himself be guided into the flat without breaking the kiss, the door shutting behind them just as the towel started to come undone on its own, revealing Kurosawa’s -

Adachi removed his hand from the door frame and blinked repeatedly. “I have to go, sorry!” He mumbled and ran the remaining flight of stairs leading up to his flat, before hurrying inside and locking the door. ‘What was that?’

That night Adachi paced so much around his flat, for a moment he considered the possibility of the floor just giving in and him falling straight into Kurosawa’s flat. Had those been Kurosawa’s thoughts or his own?

--

Ever since that night, Adachi’s thoughts and dreams were plagued by Kurosawa’s face and his naked torso. It was often some sort of fantasy where Kurosawa cooked for him and fed him wearing only an apron or coming up in only a towel, asking to use his shower as he bit his lip and ran his fingers through his hair.

After many nights of waking up with a start and drenched in sweat but awfully satisfied, Adachi had no choice but to start questioning his sexual orientation. Maybe there was an actual reason he had never felt the need to pursue a woman. To be sure of his conclusion, he would need to avoid Kurosawa until he had found a definitive answer.

--

Funnily enough, the more Adachi avoided any and all common areas in the building, the more he saw Kurosawa. His plan had a fundamental flaw: they lived in the same building and Kurosawa knew exactly how to find him.

Perhaps the reason he had never come knocking on his door was the fact that they saw each other fairly frequently - increasingly so, even - but now that Adachi had made the decision to avoid him, his neighbour just kept coming up under the most ludicrous pretences.

Sometimes he would come asking for cooking ingredients like milk or sugar, two other times he brought Adachi’s post up, one time he offered to take out his trash for him since he was on his way down. You see, the nice old lady living next door had laughed at Kurosawa’s demands and told Adachi that his neighbour was a professional chef and she knew for a fact that he always had cooking ingredients on hand because he did her shopping every day as well as bringing her food or cookies on occasion.

Adachi had blinked repeatedly, truly baffled by his behaviour but at the same time, he had started to look forward to their little meetings, especially now that there was no doubt that Kurosawa was purposely seeking him out - and baking him cookies in the middle of the night.

He’d narrowed his eyes but didn’t comment on it. Instead, he took advantage of this new source of information and asked about Kurosawa’s girlfriend, but after providing a short description, he found out that the woman in question was his sister. To his surprise, this made him feel absolutely gleeful; it brought such a huge smile to his face that he felt a bit flustered and after a quick thank you and a small bow, he ran back home.

He had flopped onto his bed and placed his arms behind head pondering about this new development. His reaction to finding that Kurosawa did not have a girlfriend, paired with all the dreams Adachi had had about him, had made him realize that he was interested in him, as a person, as a friend, and as everything the other was willing to give him. The problem was that Adachi had no romantic experience at all and the sole thought of going in search of Kurosawa had made him feel sick to his stomach, so he’d decided to wait for the perfect opportunity. That day came two weeks later.

A Friday night, barely past midnight, Kurosawa knocked on his door, once again, with a box quite similar to the one he had received before.

“Hi,” Kurosawa said, biting his lip.

“Hello,” Adachi answered with a small smile. “What can I do for you, Kurosawa?”

“I hope it’s not too late. I wanted to ask you a huge favour.”

“No, of course not,” Adachi said, purposely placing his hand on the door frame, closer to Kurosawa’s. “What do you need?

As if they were magnets, Kurosawa rested his head against Adachi’s hand. “Would you try these cookies for me? I think this is the final version of my recipe.”

Adachi gasped. He could see how long Kurosawa had been working on the recipe, how nervous he was to get his approval, not only because he had inspired the cookies but because he trusted his opinion.

“Absolutely, I love cookies,” smiled.

The image changed before his eyes. Adachi sat on his sofa with a grin, Kurosawa straddled his legs and fed him bits of cookie, watching him raptly, asking if he liked them.

Deciding it was best to stop snooping in Kurosawa’s mind, Adachi removed his hand from the frame and took the box before walking in. “Come in, please. I’ll make us tea.”

“Oh, thank you.”

Kurosawa walked in, set the box on the coffee table and looked around curiously. He grabbed a cookie before coming to stand beside Adachi, watching him fill the kettle and move around the kitchen.

“What?” Adachi asked, feeling Kurosawa’s eyes burning holes through him.

“What?” Kurosawa said in the same exact tone.

Adachi blushed and focused his eyes on his tea set. “You are looking at me weirdly!?”

“Oh,” Kurosawa laughed. “I’m sorry. It’s just - would you mind trying the first cookie without the tea? It could change the flavour profile.”

“Oh. Of course!” Adachi said, extending his hand to grab the cookie but Kurosawa was having none of it. Instead, he held the cookie to Adachi’s lips, waiting for him to just take a small bite.

With a resigned sigh, Adachi bit into a cookie and moaned as a bit of cherry exploded inside his mouth adding a touch of tartness to the chocolate. He didn’t really realize what he had done until he saw Kurosawa’s eyes widen.

“Is it that good?”

“Yes,” Adachi said, trying to regain his composure. “These are the best cookies I’ve ever tried. I could eat them every day for the rest of my life.”

“I’m glad you like them. I created this recipe thinking of you.”

“Really?” Adachi asked, already knowing the answer.

Kurosawa simply nodded.

Adachi closed his eyes trying to find the courage needed for what he was about to do. “I wanted to talk to you,” he finally said.

“Oh?”

“I know why you keep coming,” Adachi said as he stepped closer to him.

“Why?” Kurosawa asked, taking another step forward, his lips almost brushing against Adachi’s.

Adachi looked at his lips and closed the distance between them, surprising even himself with his boldness. He felt Kurosawa’s hand on his arm, grounding him.

Suddenly, they were standing in the kitchen, cooking together, wearing matching rings. Then, they were walking under the moonlight with sakura petals falling over them. The image changed again and this time, they were standing at the altar, Kurosawa giving him a lopsided smile as he said “I do.” The scene rapidly changed, Kurosawa picked him up and threw him into their bed effortlessly before crawling over him, kissing him, slowly removing his clothes one by one until -

Adachi gasped and stepped back, bringing a hand to his lips, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. Then, he smiled realizing how right that felt even if their lips had barely touched.

Kurosawa’s usual smile deepened as he pulled Adachi close for a proper kiss; the first of many.

[fanficshiddles]

Butterfly Into Chains, Chapter 7

Esme curled up on Tom’s lap, she was still trying to get her breathing back under control.

‘P… please… I don’t think I can take anymore.’ She whimpered, looking up dazedly at Tom.

‘Shhh, lovely one. Don’t worry, we will take good care of you.’ He stroked her hair back and then caressed her cheek with the back of his hand.

‘No… no knotting though?’ She questioned.

‘No knotting.’ Tom assured her with a smile.

David took off his shirt and Esme couldn’t help but stare at his body. Her mouth felt like it was watering, and Tom noticed the look on her face. He chuckled and slipped off the bed, propping her head up with a pillow.

He glared at the others and they all moved back, giving them a little bit of space. Tom sat on the chair at the end of the bed again, getting the perfect view.

David took off his trousers and shrugged them down, he had gone commando, Esme’s eyes widened when she saw how large his cock was. Hard and ready to take her. She squirmed and closed her legs, attempting to move up the bed. But he captured her ankle and dragged her back down towards him.

‘Relax, poppet. This won’t hurt at all. On the contrary, it will feel so good.’ David said softly, pushing her legs apart so he could settle between them. He didn’t put his entire weight down on her, not wanting to crush her.

He gently held her chin and pressed a soft kiss upon her lips, taking her breath away. He moved slowly, moulding his lips to hers and giving her time to get used to the feeling. Then he slipped his tongue into her mouth, exploring and teasing her.

Esme was pleasantly surprised with how good it felt. Her eyes fluttered shut and she gripped at the bed sheets beneath her, needing something to hold onto.

David kissing her kept her distracted from what was going on down below. He was stroking himself, getting ready to take her. He suckled on her tongue as he rubbed his tip up and down her wet cunt, making her jolt every time he moved over her clit.

She whimpered into his mouth when he started to push into her. He was met with some resistance at first, but when he changed tactics and started kissing and sucking her neck instead, along with sliding a hand down between them to stroke her clit, her body welcomed him in a bit easier.

‘That’s it, open up for me… good girl.’ David hummed against her neck.

He inched his way in slowly, then he felt the initial pop as he pushed in completely. She cried out from the feeling, gasping in shock.

‘Easy… that’s it. Almost there.’ David then pushed the last few inches into her and he stilled.

He was struggling to keep his composure, she was clenching around him so hard. Squeezing the life out of him.

The rest of the Alphas stripped off, unable to resist stroking themselves while they watched David deflower her. Anxiously waiting for their turn. But Tom kept fully dressed. He was leaning back on the chair, watching Esme and David intently while he sipped his whiskey. Even though he was painfully hard in his trousers.

When David felt Esme relaxing more around him, he started to move very slowly. Keeping deep. He wanted to feel as much of her around him as possible, because she was utterly divine.

He was able to fuck her for longer than he thought he would manage to hold out for. But then he felt his cock starting to throb.

‘David.’ Tom warned. ‘No knotting, remember.’

David grunted and thrust once more into her, then reluctantly pulled out of her. He gripped his cock and squeezed, especially over his knot that started to form. The he exploded and came all over her stomach, as she lay there, feeling a bit defeated.

Esme was so relieved that he didn’t cum inside of her. But she found that her body wasn’t happy about that, her cunt was throbbing at the loss of cock. She whimpered and writhed on the bed, ashamedly wanting to be filled again.

David finished cumming and he wiped the tip of his cock against her inner thigh. Then he slipped off the bed, out of the way. ‘Absolutely wonderful.’ He praised.

The poor omega didn’t get time to recover or process her loss of virginity. Because it was Chris’ turn.

He moved onto the bed and smiled at her softly. ‘Alright angel. You are such a beauty, I can’t wait to try this lovely pussy of yours.’ He stroked her and chuckled at her bucking her hips up towards him.

Tom looked to David and smirked. They most definitely had her now.

Chris was happy with how wet she still was. So he grabbed her legs and pulled them up to hook her ankles over his shoulders and she gasped at the position, it opened her up even more to him as he didn’t waste any time and slid into her.

There was a small bit of resistance. But he took his time and was soon fully sheathed inside her warm cunt.

‘Ohhh god. David, you weren’t lying about how wonderful she feels.’ He moaned.

Chris took a firm hold of her legs as he started thrusting into her. While it was a decent pace, he was still mindful about her being fragile and new to it all. But the angle for Esme was bringing her to completely new heights as the broad head of his cock kept hitting her g spot every time he pulled back enough, before thrusting into her again.

He lasted about the same length of time as David did. Tom was about to remind him not to knot her, but he pulled out in time anyway and didn’t even need to stroke himself to completion as he came over her stomach, his sperm joining David’s.

Esme had a blissed out look in her eyes, she could barely focus. But she trembled as Chris rubbed her stomach, massaging the sperm into her skin more.

‘Good girl, Esme. What a wonderful body you have.’ Chris praised as he got off the bed and allowed the next one to go.

Ben and Michael had a stare down before both rushing towards the bed. Ben shoved Michael out of the way, Michael snarled in annoyance and was about to retaliate, but Tom grabbed his arm.

‘Don’t.’ Was all Tom said, and Michael reluctantly backed down.

Ben crawled up the bed towards her, she glanced down and her cheeks burned red at the look of hunger in his eyes. But instead of crawling right up over her like she was expecting, he hooked his arms around her thighs and latched onto her cunt with his mouth.

‘Oh my god!’ Esme cried out as her head fell backwards in pleasure.

Ben’s tongue lapped her up hungrily with long, broad strokes. After feeling her thighs tremble against the sides of his head, he concentrated on her clit and swirled his tongue over it continuously until she came undone on his tongue. He lapped up all of what she had to give, growling and moaning in delight at her taste.

Esme thought she had died and gone to heaven. While she had enjoyed Tom and David’s fingers on her earlier, and ashamedly she enjoyed the cocks too, there was something rather special about being licked like that…

Ben reached up and grabbed at her breasts while he licked her a few more times. She shuddered under him as he then smacked his lips together, licking them as he crawled up over her fully. He kissed her deeply, she could taste herself on his tongue and was slightly unsure at first. But the way her clit throbbed at the action was all she needed to know to relax and enjoy it.

The third Alpha to take her was gentle too, he allowed her body to adjust before he started moving properly. By now, Esme was absolutely loving the full feeling that the Alphas cocks were able to give her.

A deep part of her did wonder how it would feel to be knotted, but at the same time, she was glad they weren’t claiming her fully like that.

‘Oh fuck…’ Ben grunted, thrusting rather sharply into her once that made her gasp. ‘Guys… she’s so tight.’ He growled, burying his face into her neck to suck her skin.

Esme’s knuckles were turning white as she grabbed the sheets so tight, but then she wrapped her arms around Ben instead, feeling a little braver now and she dug her nails into his back. That turned him on more as he picked up the pace for the last few thrusts.

‘Ben. Pull out.’ Tom reminded him.

Ben’s knot started to swell just on the outside of her cunt, he put all of his strength into his willpower to pull out. If it hadn’t been his pack leader telling him to do so, he didn’t think he would’ve managed to release her.

While panting, he stroked himself over her, cumming on her stomach.

‘Oh, sweetheart. That was sensational.’ Ben praised, leaned down over her once more to kiss her softly.

Michael growled in delight at finally having his chance. When he crawled on the bed he loomed over the small omega, a big grin spread across his face.

‘Over onto your front, darling. I want to take you from behind.’ He helped to flip her over, because her body was completely spent.

Part of her was glad, as it meant she couldn’t see him or the others watching. Tom was unnerving her, the way he was just sitting at the end of the bed, watching closely.

Michael propped her up and slid an arm underneath her middle, to support her. Her arms were shaky as she tried to support herself. But she almost melted completely when Michael started pressing kisses up her spine, right up to the back of her neck where he flipped her hair out of the way to get better access.

‘You’re such a good girl for us. This has been so much fun.’ He whispered, then nuzzled into her hair. He inhaled her scent deeply and with his free hand he reached underneath her to play with her clit, making her arms and legs shake. If he hadn’t been holding her up, she would’ve collapsed for sure.

While she was distracted with his clit fiddling, he thrust determinedly into her. Her cunt yielded to allow him in. She was starting to feel a little bit achey, just from all the penetration she was receiving for the first time ever. But as Michael’s cock started massaging her insides, the new position giving her a new kind of pleasure, she forgot all about her aches and pains.

Michael nipped at her shoulder as he rocked into her, his finger still strumming her clit quickly. It was more sensitive than ever having been flushed out by his cock inside her, there was nowhere for her little nub to hide.

Michael almost lost his mind when he felt her cum around him. He shuddered and lost his rhythm as she clenched around him, as if trying to milk his cock. But he remembered his place and was able to pull out just in time, his cock spraying like a hose all over the bed beneath them.

When he removed his arm from her, she collapsed down. Panting, exhausted. She wanted to sleep, more than anything. Even if her body was still tingling all over in pleasure. She was starting to think she had died and gone to heaven.

Michael smoothed his hand over the swell of her bum, making her tremble.

‘Lovely.’ He purred.

As she lay there, trying to catch her breath, the four Alphas who’d had a taste of her looked at Tom. He was eyeing her up hungrily, his finger on his lower lip.

Slowly he stood up and started undoing his shirt buttons.

Michael, Ben, David and Chris shared a look, all totally jealous of what Tom was about to do.

‘Turn around, lovely. Let me see your beautiful face.’ Tom said.

Esme took a moment before doing what he said. She rolled onto her side and curled herself up into a ball. But she raised her head and looked down the bed to Tom. Her stomach lurched as he slid his shirt off and then started unbuckling his belt.

‘It’s my turn now.’ He growled.

[hphmmatthewluther]

HPHM April Prompts 2021: Day 4: A Potion To Remember

@stupendousbookworm​ ‘s #aprilprompts2021 heats up today, as Matthew and Merula work together to brew a Love Potion. I decided to make this a part 2 of yesterday’s prompt, and while it isn’t needed to enjoy this, it will explain some things that are mentioned. Either way, enjoy!

Prompt # 5 - Uh oh, it's potions class with Professor Snape! Oh, but what's that? MC is paired with (Love Interest) to make Amortentia! What will MC smell like, and what will MC smell?

“Matt, are you feeling alright?” Rowan asked as the Ravenclaws trotted down to the Dungeons.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, absolutely. Why do you ask?” he said, playing with his silver bracelet.

“You just seem a little...distracted by something.” Rowan explained, “You spent most of Charms looking out the window.”

“Did I?” Matthew said absentmindedly. “Oh, well, um...” he wasn’t exactly sure how he could articulate the events of that morning.

“I’m just saying, whatever happy mood you’re in Snape’s bound to crush it. Besides, didn’t you ‘schedule’ an argument with Merula this lesson?”

Matthew looked confused for a moment. “Why would that be a b-” he began, before stopping himself. That was close. Just a few hours earlier, Matthew and Merula had agreed to no longer be enemies, but that wasn’t something that just  disappeared in the eyes of Hogwarts, especially as neither had told anyone about this.

“It’s just…” Matthew continued, “Well, I found out the school is planning something. But I’m not sure if I’m allowed to talk about it.”

“Then it is for the best that you do not talk at all, Mr Luther.” came a cold voice from behind them, causing them both to jump. “You would surely do us all a favour.”

Matthew quickly tried to regain his composure as Professor Snape emerged from the shadows, moving towards the classroom. The two Ravenclaws began moving at a brisk pace to get there before him, having made the mistake of letting him in first once before. They got into the classroom and turned to see Snape slam the door shut, leaving anyone behind them out in the cold.

“Get to your seats.” he ordered. They obeyed quickly, moving to their table. Merula was already there. She had the tiniest smile on her face.

“You cut it close there.” she said, getting out her notebook. Matthew nodded, sitting down in his usual place. He sighed, trying to marshal his thoughts for the lesson ahead. He found himself unable to look to the girl on his left without blushing, and so focused on pulling out his cauldron. There was so much he wanted to talk to Merula about, but he was terrified. He knew that he couldn’t do it here, with other people watching. Perhaps the best thing to do was push any and all of those thoughts out of his head until later. Yes, that would work. After all, this was a Potions lesson with Snape: was there anything less romantic? I don’t know, a poltergeist spraying stinksap everywhere? Said a voice in Matthew’s head. He elected to ignore the voice. He could do this, right?

Snape finally relented and let the late students into the class, mainly because so many of the Slytherins were still in the hospital wing thanks to Peeves.

“Since there are so few of you, you will be working in pairs for today. You will be brewing Amortentia.”

Oh you are kidding me. Matthew cursed under his breath. Why did Snape have the innate ability to know the last thing he wanted in every situation. There was a slight sir among everyone else, too. Merula’s cheeks went slightly pink. Barnaby looked around, confused.

Snape suddenly looked extremely stern. “Amortentia, also known as a Love Potion (“Oh!” said Barnaby) , is one of the most dangerous potions ever concocted, and anyone found to be using it outside of this classroom by me will be expelled. Do I make myself clear?” There was a series of nods. This was one of the few things Matthew and Snape agreed on. A potion that messed with free will shouldn’t even be sold, as far as Matthew was concerned. If anything, he was glad Preston and his lot weren’t here to learn it. Still, at least he and Rowan could work on it by themselves.

“Khanna, you will assist Mr Lee today.” Snape said, “I do believe he will need someone who knows what he is doing.” Matthew’s eyes widened. He could already see exactly where this was going.

“Which leaves Mr Luther and Miss Snyde. Well, what are you waiting for? Get to work!”

“Well...” said Merula, clearly sharing in the awkwardness of the situation. “Wh-Why don’t you go and get the ingredients, Luther, and I...I’ll get the cauldron ready.” Matthew nodded and headed off to find the right ingredients. This was too much. Even his mind couldn’t cope with everything lining up like this. He picked up the Ashwinder eggs, and moved to collect some Pearls to crush before being stopped by Snape.

“You’re being awfully quiet, Luther,  for such a vocal critic of the Love Potion.” he sneered.

“Well...it’s been a tiring day, Professor.” Matthew explained, “You know, what with Peeves and everything.” He tried desperately to hide his disdain. Why was he doing this, especially when he knew there was a dance coming up?  Snape looked at him. “It is a pity that these things must be done, but in my experience it is better that students know how to brew safe Love Potions rather than risking it, or buying from untrustworthy sources. I would not be surprised if there is an epidemic of Love Potion usage in the coming months.”

Matthew nodded, a frown on his face. As always, Snape had an extremely pessimistic view of Hogwarts students. They could see how stupid Love Potions were, he was sure of that. Matthew grabbed the Peppermint and Moonstone and headed back to Merula. Everyone else was fully concentrated on their Amortentia. This is an opportunity… said that voice in his head again. Matthew disregarded it.

“Okay, stir seven times clockwise...” Merula whispered, as Matthew added in the crushed pearls. The room was strangely quiet, with everyone concentrating intensely on the incredibly complicated potion, or in Matthew’s case ignoring any intruding thoughts.

“I don’t think we’ll ever get the chance to have that argument.” Matthew observed, causing Merula to chuckle.

“I think you’re right there...” she said quietly, peering at the instructions, “Right, we’re almost there, put in the rose parts.”

Matthew obeyed, placing in the thorns and petals. Matthew made sure to do it in one movement, but had to maneuver around Merula to do it. 

“Hang on-” Matthew said, trying to keep still. “Oh, here, let me-” He brought his arm up, but she moved at the same time, which ended up moving them next to each other. 

“Yeah, um...okay..” Merula said airily. Matthew quickly finished adding in the rose petals, but one ended up falling on Merula’s hand. She quickly pushed it into the potion, which turned a pearly white. Matthew and Merula, meanwhile, had gone bright red as a spiral of steam emerged from the mixture.

“Um...well, looks like we, um...we did it.” Matthew stammered, moving away from Merula and taking a breath. “Now for this smell test.”

Merula went first, and Matthew grabbed the sheet Snape had given them to record their results. She leant over the potion and took a deep breath, her nose wrinkling. Matthew brought the piece of paper onto his lap.

“W-Well?” he asked, staring at the glowing mixture. Merula cleared her throat.

“Um...it’s a breeze. A sea breeze.” she said, taking another smell, “And...the woods, too? And...I think...apples. Yeah, definitely apples.” she sat back down, looking strangely nervous.

Matthew nodded, writing what she said down. He tried to ignore memories of his hometown, with its vast expanse of trees and a beach just outside his doorstep. He also blocked out the type of shampoo he used, and the fruit he had for lunch every day. “Right, my turn then.” He stepped forward over the mixture and leaned in. He looked at the potion, and felt the steam touch his face, before taking a sniff. Well, that’s that.

“So?” she said impatiently, “What’s yours?”

He looked up at her. “It’s like...Christmas...you know, ginger and cloves and cinnamon...” he noted, “Then there’s something I just can’t recognise...and then there’s...umm…nail polish.” he said, the last two words spoken extremely quickly.

“Sorry, what was that?” Merula asked, a smirk on her face.

“N-Nail polish.” he said, eyeing her nervously. Maybe it was the steam from the Amortentia slightly obscuring his vision, but through it, as Merula noted down their findings, she looked...well, she looked absolutely mesmerising. Matthew forced himself away from the smoke, shaking his head. Then he looked at her again, and was horrified to discover that she was still absolutely stunning.

“Alright, you might as well tell me how you did it, Luther.” Merula said suddenly. Matthew looked at her. His brain’s normal methods of dealing with problems weren’t working, and was beginning to give way to impulse.

“S-Sorry, what?” he said, sitting back down and copying the notes onto his paper.

“How you made the Love Potion smell like you, you dolt!” she hissed. Matthew’s jaw dropped.

“Firstly, how dare you I would never, Secondly, we worked together on it, you would have noticed, and thirdly, how do you know what I smell like?”

Merula stared at him for a moment. “I...well, I...I thought it smelled like you, okay?” she whispered, “When we went into the Forest on my broom, I guess I...look, it doesn’t matter!” she declared.

“Mm, I don’t know...” said Matthew, adding the final few sentences to his notes, “We did schedule an argument for today, did we not?”

Merula laughed at that. “Guess so. Still, at least we held off until we finished the potion.”

“Yeah, that’s progress at least.” Matthew admitted, allowing himself to smile. “Merula...I never thanked you.”

“For what?”

“For that apple. I’d skipped breakfast to get on a train to go into London without my Dad noticing. I was starving by the time I found my way to the Ministry, and lost, and afraid. And then, I saw you and...your mother...and you helped me. You didn’t need to, but you helped me.”

“Yeah...I guess I did, huh. Look, Matthew, today has been one hell of a ride, huh?” she said, leaning back on her stool.

“Merula, it’s not even lunchtime.” Matthew reminded her, pushing the hair out of his face. Merula almost fell off her seat.

“Merlin’s pants...what even...” she stammered, before bursting into quiet laughter. Matthew found himself laughing too, wiping his eyes. He could admit it to herself now. Merula Snyde has an adorable laugh. Heck, Merula Snyde is just adorable.

“Having fun, are we?”

Professor Snape was leering over them. “Well, it appears you have made an above-par potion. It appears that while Mr Luther cannot follow school rules, he can at least obey potions instructions.”

He stared for a moment, before stepping away, gliding over to Rowan and Barnaby’s cauldron.

“And the winner for ‘Most Backhanded Compliment’ goes to...” Matthew muttered.

“I mean, he’s not wrong...” said Merula, putting her notes away. “Do you think this is because of...”  she scribbled ‘C-E-L-E-S-T-I-A-L B-A-L-L’ on her note book. Matthew shrugged.

“Probably. He said he thinks there’ll be a load of people using Love Potions soon.” Matthew explained.

Merula sighed. “Ah, well. At least I don’t have to worry about you using one.”

“And I hope I don’t need to worry about you.” he said in a mock-posh voice.

“Oh, you absolutely don’t, good sir.”

“Why thank you, madam-”

“You are dismissed!” said Snape finally, “Those who were not here will have to catch up over the weekend. Your homework is a scroll of parchment on whether or not the Love Potion should be made illegal, due next lesson.”

Before the lesson, Matthew would have said ‘Of course’ in response to that question, but after having brewed one, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the fact that it was one of the best Potions lessons he had had, bar perhaps the one where he stuck a toad in his mouth to hide that Animagus leaf. Though, maybe he just enjoyed making a potion with someone else. As he left the potions classroom, Rowan caught up to him.

“I guess you survived working with Merula.” they laughed, as they walked up the stairs.

“Yeah, I guess I did…” Matthew sighed, as they moved towards the Great Hall. What Matthew did next was perhaps a little selfish. He still felt the need to be closer to Merula, and had both a fear and desire of asking Merula to this Celestial Ball, and it felt like he couldn’t tell anyone about it. Perhaps that was why he gathered his friends as they got ready to have lunch. “Listen,” said Matthew as they approached Ravenclaw table. “You’ll never guess what McGonagall told me...”

It took exactly two minutes and six seconds for the whole school to find out.

[halothenthehorns]

THE FOUR CHAMPIONS

"Merlin's shit-"

"I'm going to kill someone-"

"Can't go one bleeding year-"

"Got to be a way he doesn't do this-"

Maybe it was because of the way Harry was acting that hadn't left them so surprised, maybe it was because by this point they were just so sick but unsurprised at Harry being dragged into everything, but whatever it was, they skipped right to angered disbelief and began shouting at once of the injustice of this.

Harry only half-heard something going on around him. It just didn't seem real, and yet it explained what had been bothering him since Percy had brought this up over the summer. He did compete in this bloody Tournament, and something went wrong.

    "-to hell he can't! Just put him back on the train. He can go stay at the Burrow for the year, problem solved!"

"Oh hey, the train," Lily said with a sideways look at her son. He was still running his hand through his hair in a vain attempt at flattening it, his eyes vacant and in no way showing he was following a word of what anyone was saying. When Lily just kept getting odd looks from the others, she got up to sit on the table in front of him, then leaned in close to Harry and tapped him on the shoulder, waiting until he fully looked at her before explaining. "I just thought of a way Hogwarts would have gone to the other schools: They'd have taken the train. It is magical after all, so as long as it was given a destination, the tracks and a station would appear with the train as needed."*

Harry gave his mother a weary smile. Clearly talk of this Tournament wasn't actually making him feel better, but it was still nicer to think of that train going to some other school without him where he wouldn't have even been involved, so he finally engaged her back by saying, "That's pretty cool, but where would the Hogwarts students sleep once they got there? Remus didn't exactly look comfortable when he did." He finished with an attempt at a smile towards him.

Remus returned it at once, the boys finally relaxing when they saw Harry was at least trying to act normal again.

Lily said right back, "Magic, love. Those compartments could easily be converted to mini bedrooms once they arrived. It would actually be easier than squeezing all of Beauxbatons into that carriage."

"About as comfortable and roomy as the Durmstrang boat," James finally agreed.

Sirius was still grumbling foully under his breath, glad that Harry was at least coming back around, but still unable to stop himself from pressing the point he'd been trying to make. "Here's me agreeing, yes that would work, but that's not the point now! Harry shouldn't have to be in this Tournament. Someone set him up, so he should be able to leave school until it's f'ing over!"

Remus sighed, giving him a pitying look as he reminded, "You know as well as I do why that wouldn't work. Magical contracts are binding. You can't just pay a fine when you don't do it. Harry's name would be as bound as the other champions. If he didn't compete, something really bad could happen to him. His magic could be in danger. Merlin, I don't really want to know specifics because no one's ever broken one and lived long enough to say it."

Sirius groaned, raking his hand through his hair so hard in frustration he was likely to pull out a few strands, and didn't care one bit.

They all looked absolutely miserable, just so tired of hearing about Harry's life like this. This Tournament was going to be dangerous. Harry was going to have to deal with even more terrible things than he'd already had to before, and that was saying something!

James' mind kept flickering around, his face purely sour as he tried to come up with something else to say, but what came out wasn't particularly helpful. "You know, I think I'm really starting to hate this holiday."

Harry gave him a surprised look, but before he could even ask he'd continued, "It's apparently the day we're going to die." He only paused for a moment to grimace in disgust at that sentence.

"Your first year you got attacked by a troll-"

"But that's the day Hermione and I became friends," Harry reminded, "so I'm rather fond of that memory."

"No, I agree with your father." Lily huffed, ignoring the fact she'd always liked this holiday as her and James' anniversary for their first date. Now didn't seem the time to indulge this. "Because it also happens to be that same day Mrs. Norris was attacked, and that awful Chamber mess happened."

"Plus that was the day Sirius apparently lost his marbles," Remus added.

Sirius simply shrugged, having nothing to add to that but "agreed, this holiday sucks."

Harry really couldn't disagree that he didn't seem to have a very good track record for this particular day of the year. Still, looking around at all of them, he couldn't resist a smile either. For some reason the mention of Hermione had made his mind want to flicker to something else, like he should be angry, but not at her, maybe one of his friends though? What would Ron and Hermione do that could actually make this feeling worse? It was such a contrast to watching his family now, so outraged on his behalf they were all clearly stewing and trying to come up with some way to get him out of this.

Still though, Lily did marginally relax as she watched her son regain his normal composure. Sadly this only kicked up her anger at the situation another degree. She got to her feet and began pacing the length of the couch as she stormed. "I still want to know how the bloody hell this happened to him! How did his name even get put in? Someone had to have done this to him! And why!? What on earth could be the point of doing this to him!?"

"My money's on Moody," Sirius smirked.

Harry only had the smallest moment to glance in surprise at his Godfather, opening his mouth with that old look of something flickering in his eyes, when James snorted, giving him a sideways look as he told him, "You know, sometimes I think your jokes are actually your mind trying to warn the rest of us how crazy you are."

Sirius' grin widened. Of course he didn't mean it of the head Auror, even if he was retired now, but it was making him feel better to at least pretend this was a joking situation. "Well, look at it this way: every single DADA teacher Harry's had has had some interest in Harry. It's definitely in Moody's capability to pull off a stunt like this."

Lily just sighed before saying, "Can someone offer up a real solution before he starts accusing Ron next?"

"Oi!" Sirius pouted, but didn't argue the point, recognizing he wasn't making anyone else feel better by his picking.

At least Sirius' fun had turned off the harder question Lily asked, why would someone do this to Harry. It wasn't hard to think up the reason. Their boy seemed to have more enemies than friends it felt like, but it didn't really help them to start listing them. Top of their list was Voldemort, and by extension any Death Eater he had at his availability. True, they only knew of one at the time, but he was off somewhere else, scheming something else. That did leave the nasty suspicion they had that there were two current Death Eaters around Harry at school, but as much as they hated Snape, and had a very growing dislike for all the suspicions they already had about Karkaroff, it was mind blowing to think either of them could pull this off under Dumbledore's nose.

Their opinion of the Headmaster was at an all time low considering everything they suspected, and basically knew even if they weren't there to see it all, involving his hand in Sirius' jail time. Still, that was the outside world, this was his bleeding school! He should be able to have stopped this from happening!

They had no answers, and no one to ask.

Considering Lily had thrown the book to the ground and kicked it into the wall in her temper to take her shock and hatred of this situation out on something, James had to walk across the room to go and fetch the book. None of them had even marginally calmed down, but they did come to the same realization James had. This had already happened to Harry, he had lived through whatever they were fixing to find out, and that was the most important thing to them. Whatever came next, Harry had survived.

James tried his best to steady his breathing so that when he found his right spot, he didn't keep screaming bloody murder about this. It was best he didn't anyways, because even in their shouting, Remus was the only one who hadn't gotten up in his outrage, still too sore and curled up into the chair with a very fussy baby now. His infant son's agitated whining at this mess only accented how the rest of them were feeling though, so it wasn't exactly as calm an environment as he was trying for as he began.

Harry just sat there with every eye in the hall on him, convinced he'd heard wrong.

"I feel like everyone in the hall wouldn't be looking at you if that were true," Remus grumbled low enough Harry couldn't hear.

There was no applause.

Sirius made a breathy noise, like he wanted to laugh at Harry's expense for that but he couldn't really get it out.

Instead a buzzing, unpleasant, noise was growing. McGonagall reacted first, getting to her feet and sprinting to Dumbledore's side to whisper something in his ear.

"I can only imagine what she's got to say about this," James sighed.

"Hopefully something along the lines of, I know the perfect solution of how to get him out of this," Lily huffed.

Harry turned to face his two friends, telling them he hadn't done this.

Harry sighed with pure misery. Somehow he just knew that was going to pop up a lot. It didn't make him feel any better that saying this to his two friends gave him an aching feeling, like one of them wouldn't even believe him. That couldn't possibly be true, right?

Neither answered.

At the staff table, Dumbledore repeated Harry's name, telling him to come up there. Hermione had to give him a push to get him to move.

"I'd need more than a push to get my behind up there," Remus shuddered.

Harry got to his feet, feeling wooden all over as he stumbled between the wide eyes of the Gryffindors and the stone faces of the Hufflepuffs. It seemed to take forever as he came forward, feeling like a spotlight was on him the whole time.

Lily sighed deeply, shifting in her place and having to stop herself going over to her son, snapping at anyone for staring too long. This wasn't his fault!

The buzzing kept growing louder as every eye in the room wouldn't look away from him.

He finally approached Dumbledore, who continued by telling Harry to go through the door like the others had.

"Honestly, this is one time I wanted him to get special treatment, put him somewhere else, like the train home," James ground out. He didn't care how bad of an idea it was logically, he wanted someone to do something other than just stare at his boy!

He wasn't smiling.

"Be a little more worried if he was," Sirius mumbled.

Harry kept going, edging around until he passed Hagrid, who neither waved nor gave any of his usual greetings as he too stared at Harry the whole way.

Harry was getting more despondent the longer this kept going, remembering all of those shocked faces and just wanting to scream that he hadn't done anything.

His face looked as astonished as everyone's.

"Anyone want to place bets on when this is going to wear off?" James moaned, just trying to say something that didn't depress him for just a second, though it clearly didn't work when everyone else ignored him.

Finally Harry passed through the door to see the three champions in a small circular room, covered with portraits over a fire. Harry found them imposing in the firelight.

Lily had her hair wrapped so tightly around one finger it was beginning to hurt, but she didn't release the strands, just kept pulling harder in agitation of picturing her Hare Bare having to go through all of this.

Fleur was the first to notice him, asking if he was there to tell them to come back into the hall?

"No, they wanted to make sure Hogwarts' mascot got shoved into this bloodbath as well," Sirius growled. All four of them looked at him like they were really going to do more than smack him this time, but when Sirius put his hands up in surrender meaning he regretted his own joke, no one acted on it, no matter how much they wanted to.

She thought Harry was there to give a message, but Harry couldn't come up with a way to answer.

"I still don't either honestly," Remus snapped.

He simply stood there, watching them, as it occurred to him how much taller they were.

Sirius plugged his nose to stop a snort of laughter, knowing he'd have loved to pick on both Harry and James for that any other time as they were usually on the shorter side even when they were the same age as those around them, but knew he couldn't have gotten away with it. Still, he regretted his missed opportunity the moment it passed, because no matter how stressed they all were for this, some humor really would have done them good for even a moment.

The first person to enter behind them was Bagman, who came bouncing in and grabbed Harry's arm, dragging him farther into the room as he exclaimed how extraordinary this was.

"NO!" Lily snapped at once. "I do not care for one second what the bloody hell you think is going on, but this is not extraordinary or anything else! My son-" she strangled herself off, her cheeks puffing up with indignation but clearly trying to hold off another shouting fit that this was Bagman's first reaction!

The others didn't look any better, Sirius in particular looked like he'd been smacked. What was Bagman playing at, trying to make this look like a good thing? Everyone should be trying to work on a way to get him out of this!

Turning to the other champions and shouting about how they had a fourth champion!

Lily couldn't seem to stop herself constantly uttering the word 'no' under her breath, and didn't seem likely to stop until something else happened.

Remus gave an exhausted sigh at that declaration, still trying to work out in his head how this had been done. That Goblet was one of the oldest of magical items. It would take something really powerful for it to have broken and spit out four champions. The question of who on earth could have pulled this off was still open ended, though, as they had no actual suspects.

Krum and Cedric looked more surprised, though hardly reactive. Fleur, though, gave her hair a toss and began laughing, saying Bagman had made a good joke.

"I wish," Sirius sighed, though even he'd admit this was never funny to begin with.

Bagman was shocked, saying this was no laughing matter. Harry's name had just come out of the Goblet. Krum and Cedric's expression continued growing more confused,

"I almost envy the reaction," James groused.

while Fleur frowned telling him there must be some mistake.

"Well, she's got that one right," they all agreed.

Harry couldn't compete, he was too young.

"Ironically, that was only a rule this time around," Lily sighed, "and still not my biggest problem."

"Really?" Harry asked in surprise, the first time he'd actually tried to speak to any of them since his name had come out, so though Lily didn't look happy she explained.

"I know you can handle a lot love, I've seen that proven time and again. No, what I, we," she quickly corrected since all of the boys housed the same face she did, "are so mad about is that you didn't volunteer for this. If you had, well, I can't say I'd be pleased, but, Merlin help it, I can't pretend you haven't dealt with this dangerous mess before. It would have been your decision at least. No, the fact that someone put your name in, forcing you to do this, that's why I'm going to be putting someone in their place," she finished with a dangerous flash to those green eyes.

Harry looked around in surprise, but when he saw nothing but agreement from the others, he felt a flash of warmth finally chase away that cold dread. No, he still wasn't happy about this situation he'd landed in one little bit, but the absolute fact that his parents were so infuriated on his behalf, not because they hadn't a shadow of a doubt he could handle this, but because he'd been forced into this, left him feeling almost giddy.

James couldn't stop himself from smiling just a bit as he kept going now. At least his son finally looked almost back to normal now.

Bagman agreed this was amazing, but since the age restriction had only been put in place this year it should be overlooked. The Goblet had used his name, there was no ducking out.

"Please stop saying that, though," Sirius pouted, not really exaggerating it much as he continued. "The point is, he shouldn't have to do this!"

"Where's Dumbledore?" Remus agreed with a heavy sigh. "Maybe he could, I don't know, if the Goblet was tricked once, can't it be convinced again to take his name back, or something?!"

"You let us know if you figure it out," James huffed.

It was all down in the rules, he was obliged

"If you put your name in," Lily stressed the word "you" for emphasis like she was speaking to a two year old. "Harry didn't, so he isn't obliged to do anything."

"I think it's moments like this where I hate magic," Harry agreed.

to do so and just do his best!

He was cut off by the entrance of Dumbledore, Crouch, Karkaroff, Maxime, McGonagall, and Snape.

"Why is Snape there?!" Sirius fired up at once, finally having something else to put his temper on. "Everyone else, I don't care, but, bloody hell, can he just not be there for one second!? He has no part of anything going on. Merlin, he'll probably start a cheer squad for this happening to my pup!"

"Malfoy'll be captain of that," James agreed just to finish the joke. He couldn't muster up an ounce of humor for it though.

Harry could still hear the noise coming from the Great Hall before McGonagall shut the door, and Fleur darted to her headmistress at once, telling her that they were going on about this little boy competing with them!

Harry finally felt something other than numbness, anger. Little boy?

"Oh, that's what got through to you, then?" Remus asked mildly.

"You want to insult a boy, you start calling him little," Lily agreed with an almost amused smile, which increased to actual laughter when indeed every boy in the room looked agitated at her.

Maxime drew herself up to her full height,

"I can believe how scary that is," James nodded absently.

her head brushing the ceiling as she swelled at Dumbledore what the meaning of this was?

Karkaroff said that he'd like an answer for this as well, two Hogwarts champions? There was nothing about that in the rules, or had he not read them properly? Giving a cruel laugh at the end.

"Guess people really will be calling Hogwarts biased now." Harry rolled his eyes, thinking back when this had just been a recurring joke, he'd never expected this as an end result.

Maxime agreed there was nothing saying Hogwarts would have two champions, it was unjust!

"Agreed," all five of them muttered.

Karkaroff added on that the age had restricted them bringing more from their schools.

"Yeah, I feel like you only would have brought one if you could get away with it." Sirius rolled his eyes.

Snape said his due, saying it was Potter's own fault.

Lily's hand twitched, her face so murderous in that moment the others had to fight down the urge to duck as she looked likely to draw her wand and do something irreparable to Snape for saying that. She was as sick and tired of hearing about him as the others, seeming to regret every moment she'd ever stood up for him previously as she could no longer even think about him without wanting to scream in his face for starters.

James felt the exact same way, the murdering part as he'd never pretend to stand up for Snivellus if his life depended on it, but he kept going with only the faintest hope Dumbledore would kick his slimy butt out of there before he could keep going long.

Saying it wasn't Dumbledore's fault Potter had decided to break the rules, he'd been doing that since he arrived here-

Dumbledore cut him off.

James looked so furious by the time Dumbledore had cut in, Sirius and Remus decided Snape should be lucky James hadn't ever managed to find some way to take a limb off in school, because he'd clearly do it now.

Then he turned to Harry and calmly asked if he'd put his name in the Goblet of Fire?

"Least Dumbledore didn't lose his temper on this," Remus huffed.

"I've never seen Dumbledore lose his temper over anything," Sirius sighed. "It'd be really weird to even picture it."**

Harry said no at once, while Snape made a soft noise of disbelief in the shadows.

Lily made a murderous noise of disbelief in plain view for everyone to see.

Dumbledore, ignoring Snape, then asked if he'd asked one of the older students to do it for him?

"Would that work?" Harry asked in shock. That was an even simpler solution than the Aging Potion.

"I, well sort of, I can kind of picture it at least," Remus said with crossed eyes. "If the Goblet works so that it takes the essence of the person who put the paper in, well it would be absorbing the person, not the name on the slip. So if another person wrote Harry's name down, and the Goblet accepted that name to go with the person who put it in, well I couldn't see why this wouldn't work."

"You'd really have to work on an older student to convince them to give up their chance for you," Sirius agreed in tones showing how impossible that scenario would be.***

"What about a Polyjuice Potion then?" Harry asked. "You'd turn into someone physically old enough."

"If Dumbledore had the thought to set up against an Aging Potion, he'd most likely have done it against all Potions. If you had one in your system, I don't think you could get through," Lily explained.

"Problem is," James ruffled up his brow as he sorted through this, "what would be the point? No one would do that as a joke, because anyone who put their name in would want their own go at it."

"No one was suggesting this as a prank," Lily muttered with pure mutiny.

"Oh, he knows," Sirius sighed. "No one here's pretending a student is powerful enough to do this to the Goblet. Even Hermione couldn't get away with that. No, it would have to be someone at Dumbledore's level of magical power, and how someone managed to do that without Dumbledore realizing is still what's getting to me."

Harry sighed. Clearly they were as lost as he on that front, so he kept at the other thing instead, at least that didn't explicitly have to do with him. "But now I'm really thinking about this, couldn't a whole school do that as a form of cheating? What if every single Durmstrang student just put down Krum's name, that way the Goblet would have no choice but to shoot out that name?" His frown increased as he jumped to, "what if it wasn't the Goblet that was magicked, but every person at Hogwarts who just thought they were putting their own name, but really put mine? Though," he quickly amended when he could sense how wrong that was even without letting the others deny this, "I guess that would be just as hard to pull off around Dumbledore."

"And wouldn't explain how Cedric got in, and a fourth name came out," James agreed gently. Still, they were all happy to at least have seen him try. It was good to see him trying to throw those kinds of things out there, as it meant he wasn't solely trying to rely on his mind for answers anymore, which only ever led to hurting him.

Again Harry said no, and Maxime said he was lying at once, while a shake of Snape's head showed he agreed with her.

"I am going to rip his head off," Sirius said sincerely.

McGonagall stepped in, saying Harry couldn't have crossed the age line, while Maxime pointed out Dumbledore must have made a mistake.

"Now she's just being ridiculous." Remus rolled his eyes. "We've seen an abundance of evidence it's stopped a number of students, so why on earth could Harry get around that?"

"Can someone please stop blaming Harry and instead get to how he doesn't have to do this?" James agreed.

Dumbledore agreed this could be a factor, while McGonagall told them all they were being ridiculous. Harry couldn't have crossed that line, and if Dumbledore says he believes him that should be good enough for everyone!

"Thank you, McGonagall!" Lily nodded sharply, happy at least someone was around to keep these idiots in their place.

She shot a very angry look at Snape.

"Well deserved, that," Sirius nodded along.

Karkaroff turned to Bagman and Crouch then, saying they were supposed to be the objective judges, and they had to admit this was irregular.

"Oh, no one's arguing this is irregular," Sirius rolled his eyes.

Bagman still had a smile on his face, while Crouch had been standing silently in the shadows this whole time.

"Actually more surprised he hasn't spoken up by now," Lily said briskly. "Put his bleeding opinion out in the open of all of this."

He looked ghastly in the dying light, but he spoke in his usual curt tone as he said the rules must be followed. The Goblet of Fire had chosen him, so he was now bound for the Tournament.

"No!" Lily snapped again, sick of this being everyone's go-to answer. She was seconds away from getting to her feet and stomping her way to Crouch's house and telling him off next. "You find a bleeding loophole and get him out of this!"

"If there's a way around getting an underage student into the Goblet, there should be a way to get him out of it," James agreed in seething tones.

"It was a rule an underage student shouldn't be in," Remus agreed with an ugly look in place, "but then again, isn't Crouch the one who decides what rules should and shouldn't be followed?"

Harry looked at him in surprise at this. Clearly something had just gone over his head, but even though James agreed he didn't notice Harry and instead kept going.

Bagman seemed to decide that made the matter closed while giving a charming smile to everyone.

"I do not like him anymore," Sirius growled, any shine gone to be replaced by a murderous growl in his voice. Quidditch player be damned, no one should be in a good mood while this was happening to Harry.

Karkaroff insisted this wasn't right. He wanted all the names of the students resubmitted until all the schools were even!

Lily opened, then closed her mouth, shutting her eyes for a moment before opening them and saying "actually, that seems fair."

"Wish I could say otherwise," James sighed, "but the man's got a point."

"That doesn't solve our problem," Remus sighed, keeping the baby in his lap as close to his chest as he could like he feared someone was going to wrench him away any second and throw him into this Tournament. "Harry's still stuck in the bleeding middle of this, but it might take some of the heat off of him if they do pull that off."

No one looked remotely happy, but if this was the solution that everyone ended up coming to, it would have the benefit of Harry not being the sole attention anymore at least somewhat.

Bagman reminded the Goblet had gone out, and it would not reignite until the start of the next Tournament.

"So tell it to do otherwise!" Sirius snapped in outrage. "It's a magical object, use some f'ing magic on it and get it to do what it's told!"

Karkaroff exploded at them all, saying Durmstrang would take no part of this! He was tempted to just leave now!

"You know it's sad when I can't even say he's not wrong," Lily moaned into her hands, pressing her face so tight into them in frustration she was leaving nail marks on her forehead. "I'd be just as bleeding pissed if this was happening from another school."

A new voice told Karkaroff how stupid that was, leaving his champion. They've all got to compete, which was convenient.

"Now why couldn't this one have been here this whole time instead of Snape?" James huffed, thankful someone else had stepped in, hoping against hope whoever would find a way out of this for his son.

Moody had come in, while Karkaroff turned nasty eyes on him and told him no one understood why this was convenient.

"Pretty sure he's saying what none of us want to hear," Lily mumbled, still not removing her face, her curtain of red hair hiding most of the act, and she didn't look likely to move until her Hare Bare was pulled out of this.

Moody told that it was obvious, someone put Potter's name in so he would have to compete.

Maxime exclaimed it was so Hogwarts could have two bites at the apple, and Karkaroff agreed with her: he'd be lodging complaints against everything he could.

"And a number of other things, which do absolutely no good," Sirius rolled his eyes in pure contempt. "If I could have a go at the Goblet, I'd be doing it now as well."

Moody reminded if anyone should be complaining, it was Potter, but he'd stayed quiet.

"He's actually got a point there," Remus raised a brow at him. "You haven't spoken a word."

"I kept hoping someone would find a way to get me out of this." Harry shrugged, choosing not to add on he hardly ever liked speaking when adults were around discussing him, probably one too many years of the Dursleys had put that into him. They always somehow managed to make it clear if Harry's name was in the conversation he should keep his mouth shut, not that they ever included him in any other discussion either. "Besides," he finished out loud to get rid of his trailing thoughts, "couldn't think up anything to say. I hadn't done anything."

Fleur bit back he was the last person who would complain, he was getting the chance many would die for!

"Oh, please don't say that," Lily sighed, finally raising her head to give a stank eye at the book. This French girl continued to agitate her the longer she spoke.

Moody agreed maybe Harry's death was the end game here.

"That's why I didn't want her to say that," she snarled when James got that out looking more than a little sick after doing so.

Sadly, they'd already realized this, but with any luck maybe Moody would suggest someone who could have done this to Harry they hadn't thought of.

Silence rung in the room. Bagman lost some of his good mood

"Finally an expression that doesn't read, 'oh this is brilliant!'" Sirius snorted.

while he bounced on his heels in unease as he told Moody off for saying that.

"Oh, how I wish he was wrong," Lily hissed.

Karkaroff reminded Moody hadn't made his day until he found six attempts on his life.

"And how do you spend your mornings?" James snarled. Moody and McGonagall were the only ones sticking up for his son so far. He wasn't going to let someone have a go at them without returning. "In fact, maybe you should start that practice!"

He was clearly imagining things. Moody glowered at him, reminding that it took someone with more skill than a fourteen year old to do this to the Goblet.

Maxime demanded what evidence he had of that?

"Logic," Remus raised a brow.

"Common sense," Sirius agreed with a sigh.

"Something any adept person would know," James sniffed.

Moody reminded how it must have taken a powerful wizard to Confound the Goblet into thinking there were four Champions, and put Harry's name down as the only entrance from an extra school.

Karkaroff told Moody he'd thought this through quite well,

Harry felt something just as cold trickling towards his stomach, for the first time wondering on Karkaroff, at what he'd said...and for an inexplicable reason going back to Sirius' earlier joke of who'd done this to him...

and while it was smart, last he'd heard Moody had taken a birthday gift and broken it in fear it was poisoned, so he should forgive them all for not taking him seriously.

"I'd be worried if you did treat him like me," Sirius agreed with an ingenious smirk in his opinion, and when Harry snapped out of whatever that face was and laughed, it was worth it.

Moody reminded it was his job to think like Dark wizards, Karkaroff should remember that.

"Well, there's our proof, as if we needed any more," James sighed. "Karkaroff was, or is, I guess, depending on what time we're talking about, a Death Eater."

"Never heard of him before, though," Remus gave an absent shrug, "so either he's not very high in the ranks, or hasn't joined yet."

"Or we've gotten a spot more dodgy information," Sirius scowled, for the first time really thinking past that rat's betrayal and jumping on the fact that it wasn't just James and Lily he'd got killed. How many more people would that rat get murdered for Voldemort, how soon until he started telling Death Eaters their plans instead of them figuring out theirs?

The others were confident they knew where Sirius' mind had gone, but they were already in a foul enough mood without something else like this being brought up just now, so no one asked him for details.

Dumbledore gave a warning to Alastor, and it took a moment for Harry to realize who he was speaking to.

That managed to snap James onto something far more pleasant at least, as he began giggling at once, managing to get out, "It took you how many months-" before he broke off into a bit more chuckling.

Harry rolled his eyes good-naturedly, but none of them had seen that eye in person. If they had, they wouldn't have questioned him using that as a name either.

Then again, Mad-Eye could hardly be his real first name.

"Oh, but it would have been so much more interesting if it was," Lily agreed mildly.

Moody stopped speaking, though he still kept a distasteful eye on Karkaroff's hateful one.

Dumbledore continued speaking, saying that however this happened, it didn't appear they had another choice but to accept it.

"NO!" Lily snarled in outrage, this time joined in by everyone else as Harry watched. It was his mother, though, who kept going in a full-blown, no-longer-able-to-bottle-it-up tangent as she really did get to her feet, pacing the length of the room in a towering outrage. "I am so bleeding sick of seeing him just saying, okay, Harry's going off to do this insane thing, let's see what happens!"

Remus opened, then closed his mouth as he couldn't come up with an argument for that. The only time he may have tried for some defense was in Harry's second year when Dumbledore hadn't even been around there at the end, but even still with that odd advice he'd given indicating he'd known Harry was around, he hadn't offered words of caution trying to deter Harry. He'd instead said the very thing Harry had repeated in calling Dumbledore's bird to him. Coincidence? Maybe, but as this was the fourth time it felt like Dumbledore was in no way hindering any of this happening to Harry, he couldn't really believe it as much anymore.

James and Sirius exchanged a look that spoke volumes, but honestly felt the exact same way as the other two. Dumbledore had abandoned Sirius when he needed him most, and they'd never forgive him for that. They even suspected he had a hand in convincing Remus Sirius had done all of those terrible things. He was the only one who could have done such a thing to make Remus think the worst of Sirius.

Harry felt something crumbling inside him, though he realized it was already cracked beyond repair anyways. This was just more coming out. He knew in his younger years he'd believed Dumbledore could do anything, but now because of last year, and now this, he knew that illusion would never come back.

Still, James kept going, which did not make one beat of Lily's pacing skip. She kept stalking back and forth, wearing out the carpet like that would somehow help.

Both Cedric and Harry would have to do this.

Maxime tried to cut in, but Dumbledore said if anyone had an alternative, he'd love to hear it.

"That's true," James grumbled. "Everyone else has been doing nothing but complaining, but I haven't seen one bleeding person actually trying to offer up a solution."

Silence. Everyone was now glaring at Dumbledore, except Bagman, who gathered his excited nature back.

Sirius started grinding his teeth to fight back the urge to snarl a few more death threats at someone he never believed he'd direct them at.

He decided it was time to move forward, asking Barty if he'd like the honor of telling the champions what they would be up to first. Crouch seemed to come back to life at being spoken to.

"What's got him so distracted?" Lily raised a brow in surprise, finally stalking to her seat, though it wasn't making the situation any better. "What on earth could be going on that's demanding more of his attention than this?"

Harry sighed, that old feeling returning, making him sure that he knew an answer at some point, and he wasn't too eager to learn this one.

The longer Harry watched him, he noticed that his skin looked unhealthy and far more wrinkled than it had at the Cup.

"I would feel bad for him," Remus sniffed, "if he deserved it. It's his own fault for firing his help and acting like a prick to everyone he doesn't deem worthy."

His voice was as crisp as ever as he told the four of them, the first task was to test their daring,

All five of them gave a few terrible mutterings, still wishing more than anything Harry's name wasn't in that, that they could be hearing about this like Harry should be through the rest of the school amongst rumors and in the stands. Now they were going to have to hear what the Triwizard decided daring was, and Harry would be in the middle.

as it was important for a wizard to face courage in the unknown.

"Well, Ron was right," Harry huffed without a trace of humor. "I've lived that part."

None of them looked remotely pleased about it.

He gave the date of when this would be happening, and that it would take place in front of the panel of judges. The champions were not to ask for help from anyone regarding anything during the Tournament.

"Right, I can see that happening." Remus rolled his eyes.

They would go into this first task with only their wands,

"As opposed to the other challenges? Are they going to take their wands away?" Sirius rolled his eyes, though he shuddered at the thought, not even wanting to imagine that kind of horror.

and they would receive further instructs on the second task after the first. Also, all champions were exempt from the end-of-year finals.

"Finally, the bright side," James sighed, sounding like that was still the worst news in the world. He'd give anything for Harry to be taking those stupid exams rather than this!

"Well, how does that work though?" Harry asked. "Everyone else would be in seventh year. They'd have to take their N. E. W. T. s, right?"

"I feel like winning the Triwizard Tournament is your job application." Sirius rolled his eyes, and Harry realized he wasn't really kidding. With the amount of fame and prize money this came with, it really wouldn't be difficult to find a job with those standards behind you, and you had plenty of time to look.

He turned to Dumbledore to indicate he was finished, and Dumbledore kept watching him with concern.

"Guess he really does look bad." Lily rolled her eyes, unable to find it in herself to actually feel anything for it. It felt like compensation for some of the more ruthless laws he'd been passing of late finally catching up to him.

He asked if Barty would like to stay the night at Hogwarts, but Crouch declined, saying he was too busy. He'd left Weatherby in charge,

Sirius finally managed a real smile this chapter, sad that he couldn't do more at that joke.

and while he was enthusiastic, he may be a little overtly so in this case.

"Didn't know there was such a thing," Lily said, still more grimly than with any amount of humor, but at least they were trying again.

"If there was, Percy would hit it." Remus attempted a smirk.

Dumbledore asked if he'd at least like to have a drink, and Bagman jumped in saying Barty was being ridiculous! Everything was happening at Hogwarts. What could be more exciting than that? Crouch gained some of his impatience back as he told Ludo he would not indulge this.

"Good to know he's not too sick." James rolled his eyes.

Dumbledore offered to have a drink with the other two heads of the schools, but Maxime and Fleur stalked out,

"Can't even blame them," Harry sighed.

into the now silent Great Hall, speaking in French.

"Don't need a translation for that," Remus grumbled.

Karkaroff summoned Krum to him, and they left as well, though in silence.

"Krum didn't say a word during that," Sirius realized in surprise, somehow actually thankful at least one of his Quidditch fascinations this year hadn't managed to tick him off yet.

"You'd think he'd be just as outraged as Fleur," James nodded in agreement.

"He was making a lot of the same faces as Cedric," Harry shrugged, "switching between surprise and confusion. Maybe some contempt in there."

Dumbledore turned to Cedric and Harry, telling them to get off to bed, now smiling at the two.

"I still want to strangle him with his own beard," Lily snarled. "Smiling at a time like this, can't someone at least pretend to be upset!"

"I think we're doing that enough for all of them, love," James sighed.

Reminding that their respective houses would want to be celebrating this.

The two left, and only when they made it to the Entrance Hall did Cedric point out that they'd be playing against each other again.

"I'd listen to a hundred Quidditch matches over this," Lily groused.

Harry agreed, his mind not on the conversation, though. Cedric did catch his attention as he asked how Harry had pulled it off.

"If Harry didn't tell them, what the bloody hell makes him think he'd admit it to him?" Sirius snapped.

"He's not any more special than those arse wipes," James agreed.

Harry gave a mild frown at them both, finally understanding why he would have felt so agitated at Cedric this year, as he was sure once the shock wore off, he'd look at Cedric as a rival again. It still didn't explain that other feeling, this want to defend him and not hear a bad word against him. Considering the last time he'd felt this was towards Dobby, and he'd made a few attempts at making Harry's life hell, he didn't feel like sharing that this time.

Harry insisted he hadn't, and Cedric clearly didn't believe him for a second.

Any feelings he would have anyways slipped away at once as his lip sneered in protest along with the others, outraged at once no one believed Harry about this!

He walked off towards the Hufflepuff common room then, and Harry was left to climb the stairs in silence. Was anyone going to believe him except Ron and Hermione?

Harry's breath released in a sudden rasp, looking like someone had just kicked him when he was down. They all thought it was just lingering agitation at what Harry was thinking, though. Even Harry himself had no idea why he'd felt anything for that.

Harry found the idea ridiculous. Why would he want to go up against those who had three years of magical learning over him? Sure he'd fantasized about entering,

"So did every other person at that school," Remus snapped, "and if they say otherwise, they're bleeding liars."

but he hadn't really meant it, he was never serious about entering.

"I'd be a little more concerned if you did think I'd enter," Sirius said at once, none of his usual humor in his favorite joke, but meeting Harry's eyes anyways with a spark of amusement nonetheless.

Harry managed a sour-filled smile for him, but not because the joke had quite worn off yet. He was just a little too distracted still to really give the laugh.

Someone had done it to him, though, and he got the feeling it wasn't meant as a treat.

"If someone really thinks that, they need a dictionary," Lily scowled.

To watch him make a fool of himself? They'd get their wish.

"Now, I don't think that's really all fair," Sirius sighed, still trying his hardest to get a smile going. "Give yourself some credit."

"No," Harry said back, deadpan.

To get him killed? Was Moody just being his paranoid self,

"So far, I think he's actually been the perfect amount of paranoid," James said with a shrug.

did someone really want him dead?

"I hate that I know the answer to that," Remus scowled.

Well, yes, Voldemort certainly did, but he wasn't anywhere near Harry. He was in hiding, feeble and powerless.

"Well, that's not entirely true," Lily murmured, shrinking just a little closer to Remus and her son.

Yet when Harry had dreamed about him, Voldemort hadn't been alone, he'd been with Wormtail, plotting Harry's murder.

"Thank you, because I hadn't remembered that recently," Sirius scoffed, his too-dark eyes still trying to keep Harry's, to show he didn't really blame his pup for thinking about this.

Harry was shocked to find himself in front of his portrait hole, and that the Fat Lady wasn't alone. Harry recognized the wizened old witch next to her as one of the ones from the portraits in the room downstairs.

"The portraits are the biggest gossips in that school," James muttered randomly, his mind happily latching onto anything old and familiar.

She must have run all the way up here to beat Harry. The Fat Lady looked down at Harry, asking if it was true he really was a champion? Harry replied Balderdash, and the other painting shouted it wasn't a lie!

"Timing," Remus rolled his eyes, missing the time where he would have laughed at the fortune of this password happening in relation to this.

The Gryffindor guardian eased her friend this was merely the entrance word before opening. The noise she opened up to was deafening, as seemingly every member of his house reached forward and pulled Harry in to congratulate him, the twins getting there first as they told Harry he should have said something about entering, looking half annoyed and half impressed.

Sirius groaned into his hands, wanting to laugh along with the twins like he always had, but wanting to smack them a good one for not giving Harry a chance to explain himself because he hadn't done this.

Everyone else was the same. They'd procured food, and kept trying to force it on Harry, despite Harry trying to say he wasn't hungry, and in no mood to be celebrating.

"Never thought a celebration would depress me so much," Remus grumbled.

Lee Jordan had found a Gryffindor banner somewhere and had decided to tie it around Harry's shoulders, all of them asking how he'd gotten over that Age Line.

"And not one bleeding one of them got the picture that you hadn't," Lily seethed, wishing Harry would shout it in someone's face already. He was so clearly upset and frustrated by this.

He kept saying over and over that he hadn't done it, but for all the notice he got he may as well not have answered.

James was opening and closing his mouth, clearly having reached the level of too outraged to speak on his son's behalf anymore, so forced himself to keep going in hopes Harry would just leave.

He began shouting at George that he was serious,

"No, I am," Sirius muttered under his breath, more out of obligation than anything at this point.

he just wanted to go to bed! He nearly knocked some of the younger kids over as he finally bolted up the stairs.

"About bleeding time," Sirius huffed. "Where were Ron and Hermione in that mess? They should have been there to at least try and keep that horde off of you!"

Harry didn't answer, and he was getting the ever growing feeling he wouldn't like it when he got one.

He went into his dormitory to find Ron laid out on his bed, and as Harry entered, Ron said hello.

"That's his response?" Remus rolled his eyes. "Hello?! I would have thought he and Hermione had rehearsed another conversation to try and calm him down!"

He was grinning, but it was a very odd, strained sort of grin.

"What?!" Lily balked, sure she'd heard him wrong.

James didn't answer though, didn't even glance up as he kept staring down at the pages, getting a very bad feeling about this...

Harry realized he still had that banner on, and struggled for a few minutes to remove it with Ron simply watching.

"Awkward silence," Sirius muttered into the room, which had somehow joined the same atmosphere.

When Harry kicked it back out of the room, Ron told him congratulations.

"Please tell me he was being sarcastic," Remus demanded, a furious glint lighting his eyes. "I am begging you to tell me, James, that there was some sarcasm in there."

James did not respond, his face going slack and pale the more words he kept pressing out.

Harry demanded what Ron meant, watching that grin become more of a grimace. Ron explained he was congratulating him getting over that Age Line, and asked how he'd done it? The Invisibility Cloak?

"Why would he, what-" Lily tried to stammer out, her face growing steadily more red the more she couldn't snap out a question.

Harry reminded him the cloak wouldn't work. Ron accepted that, adding on that he would have expected Harry to tell him if that were it, because both of them could have fit under the cloak, but Harry must have found some way to do it!

"He would have told you if he had!" Sirius howled in outrage, the shock finally wearing off, and he began trembling with rage. "How can Ron, of all people, think you'd done this! He's not heard a word from you, and he's really saying you did this!"

Harry's mouth was left hanging open, the expression of mingled fury and disbelief still not quite covering the hurt that was quickly rising. Something had been trying to warn him of this, but even with it resurfacing clear as day, Harry didn't want to believe it. He'd always known Ron had some jealousy issues, but this?! He now couldn't decide what hurt worse, someone putting his name in the tournament, or his best friend treating him like this because of it.

Harry said, again, he hadn't done this, someone had done it to him. Ron just raised his brows at him, asking why would someone do that? Harry felt like it would be too melodramatic to say 'to kill me.'

"Sadly, I can believe it's accurate," Lily hissed.

Ron's look did not change as he told Harry he could tell him the truth, it's not like he was going to get in trouble so there was no need to lie.

"I wouldn't tell him the truth now if he begged me," Remus sneered with as much fuel as he could. "Not the way he's acting."

Dumbledore was letting him play, Violet the portrait had told them all.

"Letting him," James repeated crossly, his voice still coming out too quietly, though. He hadn't quite seemed to get past his own disbelief at the situation yet and was still floored on that.

Harry now shouted back he hadn't put his name in!

"Oh, I'm long since past angry," Sirius growled, entirely sick of this whole bleeding school treating Harry like this, now someone who'd supposedly been a friend had joined in.

Ron believed that as much as Cedric, and everyone else, reminding how Harry had said last night he'd find a way to put his name in when no one was watching.

"And you once thought you could turn a rat yellow with a spell a three year old knew wasn't real. You don't see him holding that against you!" Lily half shouted, a muscle going off in her jaw she didn't seem aware of.

Reminding he wasn't stupid.

"Could have fooled me," Remus snarled.

Harry told him he was doing a really good job of proving otherwise. Ron wasn't even pretending anymore, telling Harry he should get to bed for his big photo shoot tomorrow!

Remus made a noise of pure outrage. He hadn't believed he could be more disgusted with the situation Harry was in, and here was Ron of all people proving him otherwise! The baby in his arms began fussing, and Remus was having a very hard time settling him back down when he couldn't even pretend at that emotion himself anymore.

He pulled the hangings of his bed shut around him, and Harry was left staring at a shadow of one of the few people he'd been sure would believe him.

James slammed the book shut with a sharp snap.

HPHPHPHP

*A lot of you suggested the train as an option, so I'm not going to single any one person out because I loved them all so much, but thanks again for the offer. The more I thought about it, the more I realized what a cool idea it was! Sorry if I came across as a jerk to anyone for my initial turn down of it to anyone.

**Come on, you know I had to make a joke about that.

***This and one other are thrown around all the time to kingdom come about a plot hole in the series, and I'm sure you all know what the other is and I'm already working on a far better explanation for it, but for this one in particular...yeah I couldn't really come up with anything. Magic can be outwitted as has been shown, but in this particular instance I think Sirius said it best, just because it could have happened, doesn't mean anyone could have been talked into getting away with it. All that prize money and glory couldn't have been talked on to my slip of paper.

[sserpente]

24 little kinks | Door 22 🎄

“You remember that chocolate advent calendar I got you for December?”

“I do,” he chuckled and pressed a tender kiss to your temple. “You made me display it in the kitchen so I would not eat it all at once.”

Your smile widened. “How about we get another one?”

Loki raised an eyebrow, only now paying proper attention to the sex toy ad. Then, he frowned. It was an odd mixture of disgust, genuine curiosity and even a hint of arousal flashing in his blue eyes.

NSFW Warnings: slightly sub!Loki

-

“How are you feeling? Better?”

Loki hummed, too sleepy to open his eyes. Carefully, you set the tray with breakfast on the nightstand and sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling his forehead with your palm. He looked a lot better than yesterday. Less… wrecked.

You pulled away his blanket to reveal the wound, seemingly relieved about what you saw. His flesh was very rosy and tender, a dark purple wreath surrounding it but at least, the wound had closed already.

“Let me stand, yes?”

“You shouldn’t exhaust yourself yet, Loki.”

“I am a God, my sweet. I have been through worse. Besides, even gods need to empty their bladders from time to time.”

“Oh.” You giggled, ready to support him but surprisingly, Loki was able to walk on his own. You waited patiently until you heard the toilet flush, as soon as he returned to the room, you pointed to the bed strictly.

The God of Mischief chuckled. “What have I done to deserve such a caring nurse?” He mused, kissing your temple before leaning back into the pillows. Your smile was weak. Once more you remembered what Steve had told you yesterday. Could you stop being an Avenger and was that really the only option? The short answer was yes, you could, if it was to keep Loki safe.

“What is worrying you, my sweet? I will be back on my feet in no time.”

“That’s not it… I know you will, it’s just… Steve said something yesterday, about us.” Loki rolled his eyes. Indignantly, he bit into the piece of toast you had put on the tray.

“You are not having doubts about us, are you?” There was actual insecurity in his voice, making your heart skip a beat.

“No! No, oh of course not… quite on the contrary… Steve believes that… I should stop taking on missions.”

“And why would he say that?”

You shrugged at first. Would Loki agree with him? “He… Loki, I think he’s right about it. If it weren’t for me… you might not have been stabbed yesterday.” His expression hardened, instantly.

“Do not take the blame for this, (Y/N). Don’t you even dare.”

“I don’t… I just… maybe it would be wise if I stayed behind on missions if it isn’t absolutely necessary. Help from the helicarrier or whatever… you’re worried about me, Loki and I’m worried about you.”

“The soldier underestimates that I would do anything to keep you safe. And I can ensure you that nothing and no one will ever get between us, my sweet. Do you truly think I would be safer in battle if I knew you are out there somewhere on your own, unprotected and worried sick about me? No.” He concluded. “That is out of the question.”

Your smile was more eager this time. You would talk about this again once he was fighting fit again.

“Now go and open our advent calendar.” He finished his toast quickly (you had figured out a while ago Loki was crazy about peanut butter and jelly sandwiches), along with the cup of black coffee and some fruit.

You obliged and stood but still raised an eyebrow at him. “I don’t think you’re in the condition to fuck me senseless today, Loki.”

The God of Mischief smirked mischievously. “I can always make you wear that little remote-controlled vibrator while you have your luscious lips wrapped around me.”

Heat flooded your body. “Are you asking me for a blowjob?”

“I do not like that term.” He pursed his lips, then whispered hoarsely, “I want you to pleasure me with your mouth.”

And he knew you wanted that too. Loki was not stupid, he was very well aware he was indeed in no condition to have sex unless you took the lead. You were going to pamper him today anyway. Come to think of it… why not take it up a notch?

Smirking to yourself, you opened today’s box and pulled out a lip-gloss. You frowned at first until you read the description on the back of the package. ‘Lip-Gloss Divine Oral’, it read. ‘To enhance oral pleasure with a seducing mixture of mint and strawberry champagne’. Oh, this was perfect.

“So? What is it?”

“I’ll be right back.” You disappeared before Loki could object.

-

Fifteen minutes later, you returned to the bedroom. Loki had his arms crossed impatiently, yet his blue eyes widened when he spotted you wearing another pair of crotchless panties for him. Panties and nothing else.

“My… the waiting was worth it, it seems.” Hungrily, he eyed you from head to toe.

He sat up, only for you to push him back down, making him chuckle. Unceremoniously, he sat down on his legs, making sure not to put any pressure on his wound and removed the bed sheets. He was semi-hard already, making you grin evilly.

“Waiting must have been really hard,” you chuckled. Loki growled. You knew he’d spank you if it wasn’t for his weakened state right now.

Still grinning, you leaned forward and slipped the blindfold over his eyes. This was going to be an early Christmas present, so you figured. Getting to do whatever you wanted to your God of Mischief.

“(Y/N)…”

You giggled. “Don’t give me that tone. Why do you always get to tease me? It’s my turn today. Let me pamper you, Trickster.”

He hissed when you pulled something rather tight over his growing erection. A penis sleeve which had come along with the pump to make the sensation a lot more comfortable and safer. Next, after applying just a bit of lube, you sank his length into the penis pump.

You could practically feel the turmoil inside of him. He was unused to not being in charge, to not being the one in control. The fate of his life had for too long been out of his hands, submission and patience were not in his nature. During sex, he bathed in the trust and affection with which you lay your naked body in his hands—that was the power of domination, that was the thrill of coaxing orgasm after orgasm from you.

This was different. Yet as soon as you pumped for the first time and watched his manhood tightening against the see-through tube, not only did it send waves of electricity between your legs but also made him moan heartily.

The pump came with a vacuum limiter so no damage could be done. Again and again, you pumped and released him again, watching his now fully erect member dance for you inside the tube. It was incredibly arousing, knowing you held his pleasure in your hands.

“How does this feel?” You wouldn’t know. You didn’t have a penis, after all.

“Good,” he choked out through gritted teeth. Sweat was already pooling on his forehead and his neck, the urge to lick it off with your tongue growing. His reaction made you smile. For a while longer, you teased him with the pump, observing with awe how his penis did indeed grow even bigger than usual.

Once you removed it, he almost complained but you were not going to be stopping the stimulation for too long. The lip-gloss felt fresh and cool on your lips. You wondered what it would feel like for him once you brought your mouth into this game. But first…

For once, Loki was unable to see what you were going to do next. He could remove the blindfold anytime but part of him, so you realised, was enjoying your intimate attention on his manhood. And you were far from done with him.

Licking your lips hungry for his moans and pleasured gasps already, you pulled out and prepared the prostate massager he had refused so vehemently to use. Well, today he would and you would make sure he enjoyed it.

Loki realised what your intentions were the moment you pressed it against his anus.

“(Y/N)… don’t you dare use this thing on m-…” He groaned—because this time, you didn’t listen. You had read enough about how much pleasure it could bring to men. The toy was coated in lube, slipping inside of him easily once it got past that first tight barrier. You switched on the vibrations quickly, cutting him right off.

“Oh, sweet Valhalla…”

Once you were sure it rested neatly inside of him, you pulled away for a moment, watching his member twitch in excitement. And soon, so was his entire body. Loki was shaking, spasming and leaking all over his stomach. He moaned when you switched the vibrations even higher and then brought your tongue to his tip to taste him.

He was bucking his hips by the time you wrapped your lips around his cock and started sucking him thirstily, your own wetness already running down your inner thighs.

Loki tasted heavenly. Like ice and fresh water on a chilly autumn day… eagerly, you let him fuck your mouth, swirling your tongue around his tip repeatedly. For normally, he could enjoy your attention for much longer, the prostate massager inside of him soon took away all of his remaining composure.

He came inside your mouth, grunting like an animal. Greedily, you swallowed every single drop he gave you, letting him ride out his orgasm until he stilled completely. Only then did you remove the still vibrating toy, switched it off and for the time being, wrapped it in a tissue until you could clean it.

“Now that…” he panted, “… is certainly one way to distract me from pain. What, for Heaven’s sake, have you put on your lips?”

You grinned. “It’s a lust-enhancing lip-gloss.”

“Hmm… so that is what you disappeared off with earlier.” Loki chuckled. With but one swift movement, he took off the blindfold. He couldn’t possibly have recovered already but when you looked down, he was hard again—or was he still hard? It was probably the latter.

“My… such a lovely sight. Tell me, did it arouse you to watch me squirm underneath you like that? Did you touch that dripping quim for me while pleasuring me?”

You moaned. Gods, you loved it when he was talking dirty like that.

“N-no…”

Loki growled. “Then do it now. Ride me.” His glance was almost threatening, allowing no contradiction. Obediently, you did as you were told and slowly, painfully slow, sank his rock-hard member inside of you to the hilt. You whimpered.

Loki reached for your hands and held them tightly as you started fucking yourself on top of him. He never took his eyes off of you, letting you do whatever you pleased. You kept rocking your hips, your eager movements hitting just the right spots inside of you.

You were gushing all over him within a matter of minutes, your whimpering intensifying.

“Yes…” He hissed when you clenched around him, milking him for all he was worth. Waves of numbing pleasure washed over your body, your thighs shaking as you kept contracting around him. Loki came not long after. You felt him filling you up with his warm seed, so much of it you could feel it dribbling down between your joined bodies. His twitching and pulsating made your own high linger even longer before it started to fade away and you collapsed on top of him, willing to roll over but Loki held you back.

“Loki, your wound…”

“I’m fine. Stay.”

You sighed. “Always.”

-

A/N: Door 23 will be opened tomorrow, on December 23rd!

This door is loosely based off of a request from @kitkatd7​.

Check out my blog to find more Imagines and take a glimpse at my first (to be) published novel! Also, if you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate so much if you supported me on Kofi! ko-fi.com/sserpente