#one of my favourite things on the planet is that he understands and acknowledges just how inportant that movie and story is for so many

[spandexual]

My head is also plagued by whispers of “Kaguragi x everyone, Kaguragi and everyone” so would like to ask something like, what’s your favourite thing about his relationship with each ranger on the team be it parallels or dynamics or like who should be making out, or whatever is fun about Kaguragi x everyone to you, lol

Also who are your favourite reds to smash together, lately I’m into crossover shipping so toku is fun for that

If my ask is messy, feel free to omit something and answer however you like and let imagination take its course~ I just want to make it fun and love your opinions so 💋🫰

I think I've already made my feelings on Kaguragi x Racles pretty clear lol but for the main gang

Kaguragi x Gira: Kaguragi seeing Gira as someone to be manipulated like everyone else vs Gira being the only person to actually see through the mask he wears and liking (what he thinks is) the person underneath but never really managing to get through to him. Kaguragi grows to respect him more as time goes on but Gira would have to work REALLY hard to get underneath that mask and no one around him would understand why he's trying that hard, least of all his brother. I think if in time he did actually manage to see Kaguragi unmasked it would basically immediately turn into the most toxic yaoi on the planet even surpassing kaguracles lol. But the thing is Kaguragi does kinda like him despite everything...

Kaguragi x Yanma: completely incompatible lmao which would be fun for bants but I don't think they'd root tbh. If they did it would be "heavily intoxicated" (not actually that drunk at all bc Kaguragi's tolerance is through the roof and Yanma has anti-drunk technology or some shit idk but they would both say that to avoid saying that they were just really horny). Most of their relationship would be just arguing and a lot of Kaguragi trolling by pretending to not know anything about technology when he's actually very competent.

Kaguragi x Himeno: not each other's types at all BUT they would be besties and they would talk about relationships together for sure. Himeno has been on that flatly anti-Racles shit from birth basically and has always been like GIRL DUMP HIMMM abt it meanwhile Kaguragi is like aww no but I love him :( anywayyy when r u gonna ask out Rita ;) which always works to change the topic. I think they would spend a lot of time talking about beauty and fashion and then into heavy technology and deep state politics and then back into who they should hook Jeramie up with without a break in the flow. Very difficult to follow their conversations.

Kaguragi x Rita: have a lot more alike than they have not but neither of them really like to acknowledge it as their masks are so different. But when they are alone and are relatively relaxed (as far as either of them can get) I think they can have a decent conversation even though it would never stray further than work. Just two north ends of a magnet yk. so alike they constantly slide off each other lol

Kaguragi x Jeramie: I think Kaguragi wouldn't really know what to make of Jeramie personally or politically and Jeramie is a bit too naive to really get whatever Kaguragi is on about either. They wouldn't necessarily have a bad relationship but I think it would be very touch and go, especially as Jeramie is close to Gira.

this post is super long so I'll make a new one for redxred lol

[qnewsau]

All the winners of Melbourne's new drag awards the MEDEAs

New Post has been published on https://qnews.com.au/all-the-winners-of-melbournes-new-drag-awards-the-medeas/

All the winners of Melbourne's new drag awards the MEDEAs

The inaugural Melbourne Excellence in Drag and Entertainment Awards (MEDEAs) took place last night, announcing the winners of 26 categories celebrating the vibrant queer performing culture in Naarm.

“I’ll continue to strive each year to give you all the awards and recognition that you all truly deserve,” founder and president of the MEDEA’s Leasa Mann said in her opening address.

“I’d like to thank you, my community, for allowing me to present these awards to you. For understanding that it’s my first year doing so and allowing me time and grace to work on improving things as we continue to move forward.”

She continued before announcing the Trailblazer Award to Cerulean & Stone Motherless Cold for their strength, excellence, commitment to education and fighting for the rights of others as well as celebrating their own communities in the First Nations and drag community.

Image by Dean Arcuri

And the winners are…

“It’s been a tough year but I am so grateful every single day that I get to express myself with this art form,” Drag Performer of the Year Max the Drag Queen said.

“I am so honoured to be part of this community. Thanks to every single person that has been in a venue that has paved the way for drag in these spaces.

“My mom always said that I was I was put on this planet to perform, and that’s what I’m gonna keep on doing!”

‘Favourite Drag King’ winner Freddie Merkin took a moment to acknowledge all the fellow Kings he shared the nomination with, as well as the communities he continues to be a part of thanks to this art form.

“Thank you to every single person here who I’ve had the honour to work with. Honestly, I see drag performers doing incredible things, especially those Queens and sisters of mine. The time and effort and costuming that you put in has really pushed me to be a better king. So thank you all from the bottom of my,” Freddie said.

Highlights from the night of nights

Besides the amazing outfits on display and a red carpet livestream hosted by 2Joocee, highlights of the night include D Flowers winning ‘Belle of the Ball’ looking glamourise in a ballgown while still wearing Crocs, a stand up set the had everyone in stiches by ‘Bitch of the Year’ Missy La’Minx, Art Simone announcing a return season in Melbourne for Fringe Festival of Fountain Lakes in Lockdown which won ‘Best Drag Production Show’ which soon heads to Canberra and the Opera House in Sydney, and the Lifetime Achievement Award going to the CEO of Melbourne Drag, the one and only Paris.

“As soon as I walked into the room, I just felt the love and spirit of our community, and I felt what we have to offer,” Paris said in her acceptance speech.

“I’ve been fortunate enough to work over five decades and I’ve seen a lot of changes, and I’ve seen so much good that we’ve all done.”

But just because she has won a Lifetime Achievement Award doesn’t mean Paris is done with the spotlight, having moved to the country during Covid, she took the opportunity at the MEDEA’s to announce that she is moving back to the city to thunderous applause from the crowd.

Image by Dean Arcuri

The full list of winners:

Cerulean & Stone Motherless Cold – The Trailblazer Award

Maison Burlesque – Favourite Burlesque Related Business

Styled by Esther – Favourite Drag Related Business

Egson Ham – Favourite Dancer

Freddie Merkin – Favourite Drag King

Art Simone – Favourite Drag Queen

Bettie Bombshell – Favourite Burlesque Performer

MX Burlesque – Favourite Burlesque Event

The 86 – Favourite Burlesque Venue

Sircuit / Mollies Bar & Diner – Favourite Queer Venue

Sircuit / Mollies Bar & Diner – Rising Drag Star of the Year

Winter Greene – Rising Burlesque Star of the Year

Dazza & Keif Reenact the Romeo & Juliet Movie playing all the roles – Best King Event

Baby Drag – Best Variety Event

Bonez – Best Large Event / Festival

Fountain Lakes in Lockdown – Best Drag Production Show

Paris – Lifetime Achievement Award

D Flowers – Belle of the Ball

Mitchell Sheldrick – Technical Contribution of the Year

Tamara Keane – Costume Designer of the Year

DJ Argonaught – DJ of the Year

Justin Teliqure – MX Congeniality

Jemima Handful – Choreographer of the Year

Missy La’Minx – Bitch of the Year 

Bettie Bombshell – Burlesque Performer of the Year

Max the Drag Queen – Drag Performer of the Year

Congratulations to all the winners as well as those nominated.

It was a night where hundreds of artists and creatives came together in full style and glamour to celebrate their communities.

Image by Dean Arcuri

Find out more about the MEDEAs here.

For the latest LGBTIQA+ Sister Girl and Brother Boy news, entertainment, community stories in Australia, visit qnews.com.au. Check out our latest magazines or find us on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and YouTube.

[blackbeak]

remember when timothée just kissed a fan's cmbyn tattoo? yea i think about that a lot.

[moonyboboony]

I don’t have Twitter because I’m just not built for it LMAO- but I stumbled across screenshots of tweets about Joe Locke on instagram.

They were criticising a number of things:

His ears

His eyebrows

His missing tooth

I could laugh, honestly, at the sheer lack of control anyone on the planet has over how these features look on anyone.

I’m aware this show isn’t focusing specifically on appearance in this sense, but everyone knows it’s message involves kindness.

To others, to yourself.

To accept who you are and who you become, and to be comfortable in yourself.

One of my favourite things about Heartstopper is that it is completely different to the majority of TV shows in the media. It celebrates its difference, it shows us it is absolutely okay to not fit into this twisted idea of what is suitable or acceptable. It shows us that it can be happy and good.

So why are there fans (who cannot have missed this, can’t possibly have not acknowledged what it is trying to do) still attacking people because of the way they look?

Why does anyone do it at all?

Is it because they are different to what we usually see? Is it because they don’t fit into what society deems attractive? Is it because we, in 2022, still can’t allow normal to be fucking normal?

Hair grows.

Teeth fall out.

Ears stick out for gods sake.

Of course, all of these things can be changed. Surgically, artificially— but for what? Why?

Because other people decide they are something that needs to be fixed or hidden.

Because of the influence of other people.

Now, where did I see a similar narrative?

You should never change anything about yourself unless it is FOR yourself. Please, never let anyone try. Please, please don’t.

Some of you understand Heartstoppers purpose, but not enough understand that it alone acts as an umbrella for countless things, including how you view others and how you view yourself. I wouldn’t advise becoming a fan if you decide be a hypocrite.

Now, that poorly written rant aside, I’d like to shift my attention back to the handsome Joe Locke.

He is a beautiful person, inside and out.

He is passionate about the work that he is doing. 

He cares about what he is doing and what the show is pushing for.

And some of you are ready to ignore that because he has a missing tooth? Because it has been decided that features he was born with aren’t up to an imaginary standard? You sound utterly and unavoidably ridiculous; it’s embarrassing.

I’ve already mentioned that I’m not big on following celebrities, but I’m not idiotic enough to avoid acknowledging that he is a remarkably talented individual who made is debut into acting as a main character in an incredibly important and globally loved series.

And he absolutely smashed it.

[dragon-kazansky]

Stuck with you | Helmut Zemo

Requested by @cherry-season I've changed it up a little, but it's still based off your request :)

This is a lengthy one, sit back and enjoy.

This was less than ideal. One moment you're chasing Flag Smashers through an otherwise abandoned building, then you're trapped in a room with the Baron Helmut Zemo.

The only way this could be any worse is if you were stuck in a room with Walker instead. You could guarantee that man wouldn't be leaving alive if that was the case.

Still, Zemo wasn't exactly your favourite person on the planet either.

The solid steel door had slammed shut behind you. You were unable to get it open, fearing it only opened from the other side. You're not sure exactly what kind of building this was, but it had clearly not been used in some time. Things were falling apart or rusting over.

"You can keep trying, little bird, but it won't open."

You take a deep breath, trying not to say anything snarky to him. You did not need his sass today.

"Well, I'm sorry, Zemo, but you're stuck with me unless we do something."

"I'm not complaining."

"I suppose you're used to being locked in a room." You turn away from the door and look around the room, not yet feeling up to actually acknowledging his presents by looking at him.

"Yes, but this time I have lovely company. I am at an advantage."

"Yeah right," you say, sarcasm dropping with every letter.

You want to sit down, but you do not want to touch the musty floor. You take to leaning against the wall with your arms crossed, finally looking at the only other human in the room.

"At least in a cell you have furniture."

"To an extent."

"Still, it's better than this horrid and dark room. Plus, something smells funky in here and it isn't me."

"Course not, you smell lovely," he grins at you.

"OK..."

Helmut, realising there isn't much to do other than talk to you, removed his coat and goes to lay it out on the floor, figuring you would be more comfortable sitting on it than anywhere else. However, he stops when call out.

"What are you doing? You'll ruin it!" You take the coat out of his hands and hold it close to you.

"Concerned about my coat?"

"What? No! It's just... it's a nice coat... probably expensive too. You'll ruin it if you put it on the floor."

"What do you suggest we do then?"

"I don't know, but let's not sacrifice perfection." You brush the coat down with your hand as you drape it over your other arm.

Zemo chuckles as looks around the room. It isn't a massive space, but there's very little in it, making it look quite roomy. He walks over to the opposite side and brushes along the ground sigh foot, deeming it worthy enough to sit on. You see him sitting with his back against the wall, looking up at you.

"Do you really want to be sitting there?" You ask, feeling kind of bad he would ruin his clothes like that. Who knows what kind of filth is in here.

"It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

You sigh softly as you walk over to where he is.

"You're braver than I am, then."

"I don't know, you're rather brave," he doesn't sound like he's teasing you. He doesn't look like it either.

"If you say so."

Zemo gazes up at you. You can't read his expression, which feels a little unsettling.

"Put the coat on."

"Sorry?" You frown.

"Don't be, put it on."

You look at the coat still draped over your arm. Why did he want you to put it on?

"Why?"

"If you trust me just once in your life, let this be that once. Put the coat on, little bird."

You unfold the coat and put it on. It doesn't fit all that well, but it's warm. You look at him, unimpressed.

"Is this what you wanted?"

Zemo grins as he holds open his arms and gestures you over with his fingers. You look at him suspiciously.

"Zemo, what are you doing?"

"Come here. Unless you want to stand until who knows when. We could be in here quite some time, and since you won't sit on the floor, there is only one place for you to sit."

"You have to be joking."

He shakes his head and gestures you close with his fingers again.

"You're going be insufferable after this." You shimmy over and get down, taking a seat on his lap.

Zemo uses his arms to support you, but you're too busy gathering the coat and making sure it doesn't touch the floor. He chuckles in your ear as you purposely turn your head away from him as you shuffle in his lap, trying to get comfortable.

"Better?"

"Sure..." You're too embarrassed to look at him.

Helmut gives you a little squeeze, tugging you closer to his torso. This time when he chuckles, you feel the vibration of it rumble through his chest. He moves his head so it's buried in the crook of your neck.

"What are you doing?"

"Tormenting you. I have you in my grasp, I'm not going to waste this opportunity to mess with you."

"Is that all this is? An opportunity to mess with me because Sam and Bucky aren't here?" You shake him from your shoudler and glare at him.

"Or perhaps I'm just seizing the opportunity to have you all to myself?"

"I don't understand you..." Your gaze flickers between his beautiful brown eyes.

"Would you like to?" He grins at you.

"I don't know... but I suppose it will help pass the time. Where shall we start?"

"Check the inside pocket." He nods toward the coat around you. You follow his instruction and search the inside the pocket. You feel something small. Grabbing it, you pull it out and hold it up.

You look at Zemo unimpressed.

"I already know you like Turkish Delights. You made that clear." You look at it.

"They were my son's favourite."

"Yeah, I remember you saying," you mutter.

"That one is for you."

You think him quietly and open it, eating it. You look at him.

"I thought you were going to tell me more about you," you say, licking the powder from your fingers.

"I'm starting slow."

"Zemo, you can be honest with me. I'm pretty sure I know all of the awful things you've done. Nothing will surprise me. Plus, I'm already sitting on you, so if you're worried about what I think, I don't think you have to worry."

There's a cheeky smile on his face.

"Are you always this honest and modest?"

"Only when I want to be." You wink at him. You only realise what you've done after you see that mischievous glint return to his eyes.

"I see. I would very much like you to be honest with me."

"What makes you think I haven't been?" You tilt your head curiously at him.

"If you hated me as much as you tried to make it seem, I doubt you would actually be sitting here on my lap, eating my sweets, and giving me the time of day."

He's right.

"Then, I'll be more honest with you staring now. I don't hate you, Zemo. Not really. Don't get me wrong, I'm not happy about what you did to my friends, or the fact you brain washed Bucky and bombed a building and blamed it on him. You're an awful person."

Zemo nods softly.

"But, right here, right this minute, I'll pretend for a moment that none of that matters. Just let me see the man you are here and now." You look at him with a tiny smile, wanting to see the person he was in the moment.

"Well, so far, I'm the man who has let you put on his coat and eat his sweets. If I had access to a kitchen, I would make you a drink and we would sit and chat in a more comfortable spot."

You chuckle softly, you find yourself reaching for one of his hands, taking it in your own. He lets you, watching you do so.

"What else?" You ask, keeping your voice soft. You like the atmosphere you have created.

"I am the man who will look after you for as long as it takes your friends to find us. I shall be the best company I can be right now, if you'll continue to let me." He meets yours eyes, feeling the way you place your fingers between his.

"Not like I have much choice." You grin cheekily.

"I'll take it." He closes his fingers over your hand, letting you settle your entwined hands on your lap.

"When we get back to the house... maybe we could have that drink?"

You feel his breath fanning across you face. He feels all the more closer now as you look at him.

"If you would like that, I won't deny you the pleasure of my company," he smirks.

"I have to say, your company is nice."

Your noses are almost touching. You're really not sure how you find yourself to be in a position where you would even consider getting any closer to him.

"You changed your tune rather quickly, haven't you?"

"Seems so."

His eyes flicker to your lips. Oh, the temptation is strong.

"Maybe we should see how things go." You're whispering now.

"I can wait."

"I won't make you wait too long, after all, you're on borrowed time." Now you're looking at his lips.

"The bitter truth."

"Just means we have to make the most of it. Show me the Zemo I see before me. It won't change the fact they'll send you straight back to prison, but it might make us friends." You stare into his seemingly lost gaze. There's something about the way he's looking at you that you can't read, but he does look lost.

"My free little bird." He whispers.

"Trapped in the cage that is you." You let go of his hand to wipe the tear from his cheek.

He hadn't even realised.

Suddenly, you hear voice from the other side of the door. You hate to do it, but you part yourself from Zemo and stand up, dusting yourself off despite the fact you weren't all that dirty.

The door takes a couple of big tugs, but the boys get it open.

Zemo gathers himself as he gets up from the must old floor, patting down his pants as he stands beside you.

"We were looking for you two," Bucky says, coming over to you.

"We got trapped."

"Why are you wearing his coat?" Bucky looked you up and down.

"I was cold. Zemo was being a gentleman." You cross your arms.

Bucky eyes the Baron suspiciously.

Zemo shrugs and places a hand on your back gently.

"Shall we leave this horrible little place now?" He asks you.

You nod and walk out with him. You walk a little closer to him than you had before, and he notices it. His arm settles around you as you both leave the building together.

It's strange how such a small incident could bring you closer to someone you never expected to. You look at Zemo and smile. You'll make the most of the time you have left with him.

@ajeff855 @moonstuffsteve @sky-writes-stuff @lieutenantn

[d-criss-news]

Nine Songs: Darren Criss

When Disney, Phantom Planet and Mr Hudson collide: Glee star, Emmy and Golden Globe winner and musician Darren Criss talks Andrew Wright through the pivotal songs in his life and the unexpected ways they found him.

“When we are younger, our gateway drugs to a lot of popular things don’t come from the sexiest of places. It’s up to you how proactive you want to be with your curiosity from there, and how far down the rabbit hole you want to go, if you go down at all.”

Choosing the songs that define you is a tricky business to say the least, especially when the power of song has provided an ongoing soundtrack to your life. “When you’re as avid a music consumer as musical artists are, trying to pin down Nine Songs is difficult,” Darren Criss laughs. So much so, his final choices only really crystallise as our conversation draws to its close. “It’s hard for me not to see the value and joy in literally everything,” he explains. “The curse of the creative person is that your ideas and your interests always move way faster than your body can execute.”

Criss is a creative par excellence. As well as his Emmy and Golden Globe winning performance in The Assassination of Gianni Versace, where he played serial killer Andrew Cunanan, to his upcoming role in Muppets Haunted Mansion Halloween special as The Caretaker, he’s also a prolific musician. Criss enjoyed a decadent musical consumption since childhood, so “this was a bit of an archaeological dig,” he admits. As such, everything from jazz standards, to 808s, punk rock, ‘90s teen pop, and musical numbers are excavated in the course of our extemporaneous journey through the music he loves.

Equally on his mind is how to go about approaching the task of creating his Nine Songs, full stop. “The interesting social experiment is: Are my answers going to be songs that actually shaped my life and were formative to me as an artist? Are they songs that were formative to me as a human being? Or am I picking songs that I think represent who I am to people that do not know me? All three of those things aren’t necessarily the same thing.”

He reaches a conclusion of sorts. “For the purposes of making some kind of decision, I’m gonna lean less into trying to look cool to your very cool readership, and more into the literal, ‘What made me think about music in a different way? And hit me in a very emotional way?’ I think that’s probably the healthiest route.”

Embracing the accessibility that characterises Criss’ picks - or at times the initial touchpoints that led him to them - are something he vacillates over during our chat. “I’ve seen a lot of other people’s Nine Songs and they’re super cool. It’s like Leonard Cohen B-sides and old opera records and stuff. I’m gonna be pretty honest with the pop culture zeitgeist of how I grew up but explain why there is so much value in those moments.” His contemplation continues into the next day, Criss’s publicist passes on his regrets at being tentative to admit how he encountered one of his song choices via the Shrek soundtrack.

A yearning to reinterpret accessibility and the value attached to it drives Criss, however. He tells me that a festival performance that applied the anarchic verve of punk rock to a more refined Great American Songbook number remoulded his perception of music entirely. His love of the fusion of these two genres in particular symbolises the salient musical backdrops of his childhood - the guitar bands he played in with friends, and his musical theatre endeavours that led him to Broadway and multiple Ryan Murphy juggernauts, including his breakthrough playing Blaine Anderson in Glee.

Criss employs these contrasting musical lexicons, and other areas in between, on Masquerade, his new EP. Comprising five stand-alone “character-driven” singles, it sees Criss donning different musical personas. “I’m leaning into people that might know me as an actor,” he explains. “Because if actors can do Shakespeare, romantic comedy, and then do a horror movie and wear a prosthetic nose and a wig, I didn’t understand why I couldn’t just do that with music.” The song “walk of shame” draws on jazz-standard chords interlaced with hip-hop production, “i can’t dance” looks to new-wave, and “for a night like this” is the product of Criss’ goal to create the ultimate end-of-the-night crowd-pleaser for a new-year bash, wedding or bar mitzvah. “This is all of the parts of me as a lifelong fan of these genres, trying my hand at servicing the pieces of them that I love.”

“I really love all styles of music and understanding what makes them unique and special and what makes them really pop. There are so many things that really make things sing - for lack of a better verb - and I like acknowledging those things and celebrating those things.”

“So, let’s begin. I have runners up and shit, and I have artists, I don’t just have the songs, so we might have to pick them as we go.”

“Part of Your World” by Jodi Benson

“When people read this, they’ll go ��That’s cute, he likes Disney songs’, but it’s more profound than that. Some of the most formative pieces of music to hit me at a very early age would have been any of the songs that were coming from ‘The Disney renaissance.’ The early-mid ‘90s explosion of The Little Mermaid, Aladdin and Beauty and The Beast.

"One of the through lines between the three of those musicals was Howard Ashman, who is one of my all-time heroes. Dramaturg, songwriter - he really was the voice behind what made those songs great. I have always loved Howard’s lyrical sensibility and also Alan Menken, his partner who wrote these songs with him. There was a musical structure to a lot of the songs which I would unconsciously pick up in my own songwriting, not just musically, but the idea that not only did somebody make these songs, but they wrote them for a story.

“There’s a clip of Howard Ashman vocal directing Jodi Benson, who was the original voice of Ariel. It’s a wonderful example of his genius, where not only was he songwriting but he was storytelling in the way he would tell her how to perform it, and you can really see the song coming to life in that clip. That’s when you cross the street from ‘It’s a song’ to ‘This is an experience.’

"There are certain ingredients that are required to elevate music that goes beyond just a nice melody, a beautiful orchestration and a good voice. There are things that are required to really give a performance a characterisation, context and a vulnerability, that he architects in real-time with Jodi Benson. You see that what he’s doing is what makes the record so special, and that’s something that’s always been inspiring to me.”

“MMMBop” by Hanson

“I think my love of Hanson was because some people didn’t like it, so I was like ‘Fuck you, I like this, how do you feel about it?’ But this is difficult for me, because you know, I’m speaking to The Line of Best Fit and we’re trying to be cool! Although, do you know what’s cool? Being accessible! Writing a pop hit when you are 10 years old. Being in a band with your brothers and you’re all below the age of 15, you have a record contract where you are writing, producing and performing songs that are doing well.

“I was 10 years old when their first album Middle of Nowhere came out, and I remember reading somewhere that there were these kids that had a record. At the time, I was playing guitar and I was writing songs, but in my mind I was a kid, and that was it. I couldn’t be on the radio; you had to be a grown up to do this.

"This was the first time where I realised ‘Holy shit, kids can do stuff!’ It’s the value of seeing yourself in the media - that’s a whole other conversation to talk about - but there’s an immense value in feeling like there’s a piece of you out in the zeitgeist and doing well because it’s encouraging. You go, ‘Holy shit, maybe I can do this as well.'

“When you see children doing things, you’re ‘Wow, this is so cute and fabulous’, but then when you actually look at it you go, ‘This is miles above what most people in this age group are capable of,’ and that’s all I saw, because I was in the same age group and I was so inspired by that. This whole album was really a turning point for me, where I was like, ‘I can do this, I can do music too, because these guys can.'

“Ooh La La” by Faces

“This song really blew my mind. It became my own theme. It’s that ‘Make your heart sing’, nostalgic moment when you’re a teenager, driving in the car listening to it, playing guitar with your friends and you’re singing “I wish that I knew what I know now / When I was younger.” You’re like, ‘because I’m an adult now, I’m 15-years-old. If I only knew what I know now.’

“I was doing theatre from a young age and I was part of a young conservatory called A.C.T. in San Francisco. By way of somebody who knew somebody, I had an audition for a movie. As a kid not being near New York or Los Angeles it was really exciting, and this audition was for a film called ‘Max Fischer’, which would become the movie Rushmore, which would become one of my favourite movies of all time by the now very distinguished Wes Anderson.

“Separate from my own objective love of Wes Anderson, when this movie came out I was just around the age of getting into my own sort of identity with music, but also movies - indie movies - and trying to assert who I was. So, I see this movie Rushmore and I love it. I love the soundtrack, I love it so much, it’s one of my favourite albums ever. This song is the end sequence, and the way it made me feel - the vocals on it, I could play it on guitar and it was part of a cool movie - it really represented a lot in my life.

“And because of the acting thing, and Rushmore being great - it’s about this kid in high-school who's misunderstood but has his own agenda - everything about it was just so fucking cool to me. To this day, I cite that song as one of my favourite records of all time.”

“Recently Distressed” by Phantom Planet

“A guy that really formed the way I would sing and write songs is Alex Greenwald, the frontman of Phantom Planet. I went to see Phantom Planet because I loved Rushmore and I found out that Jason Schwartzman [who had been cast as Max Fischer] was also the drummer for a band called Phantom Planet.

"So, when I saw their name on the bill I went, but I didn't know their music. I was barely 14, but their set blew my mind. It was Rock and Roll, but I loved Alex Greenwald’s voice. I loved everything, and I would follow their career from there. I always tell people that my voice is a combination of me trying to be Alex Greenwald, Paul McCartney and Rufus Wainwright, but failing. Alex was incredibly formative for me.

“One of their biggest records was a little while after I first saw them, which was the song for The O.C., "California." That was more of an Elvis Costello thing, and they employed a lot of stuff that sounded to me like The Beatles and a lot of ‘60s mod/pop-rock. But later they would employ things from Fugazi, Radiohead and harder shit, and that eclecticism, again, only accelerated my love for Phantom Planet.

“Recently Distressed” is from their 1998 album Phantom Planet Is Missing. This was a cool rock song that employed these George [Harrison] and Paul [McCartney] background vocals and included all of the things that I loved. It was harder but melodic and employed minor 4th chords and more complicated chords than I was used to. I had grown up with power chords - which are very Gregorian - on a lot of alt. punk rock, like Green Day or Nirvana, and if Kurt Cobain was using power chords then that’s how I was playing guitar. Hearing this music was like ‘Oh, I’m using full chords, not sevenths, minor 4th chords, diminished chords’, shit that I would learn to use more and more.

“When you haven’t experienced much, anything that gives a hint towards possibility, even though it’s probably always been there, you’re like, ‘I like this, I’ve always kind of liked this, but it’s very encouraging to hear somebody else do it and it’s gonna make me reconsider my possibilities.’ That was literally the moment that my power chords turned into full barre chords.”

“Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk” by Rufus Wainwright

“I forgot the other day how I got into Rufus Wainwright, because all of this stuff I was getting into quite young. It’s like when I talk to 11-13 year olds, it’s funny to think that this was when I was really starting to build my musical identity. But then I remembered, and I didn’t want to say because I didn’t want to sound uncool, because he is such a revered artist who exists in a much cooler place than what I’m about to say.

“I loved soundtracks and I would always buy soundtracks for movies that had cool playlists. I had the Shrek soundtrack, and there’s a cover of Leonard Cohen’s seminal “Hallelujah” that Rufus does and he smashes it, and I’m like, ‘Who the fuck is Rufus Wainwright? What a beautiful voice.’ Then I saw that he was going to be at the Virgin Megastore in San Francisco one week, so I go and he’s there promoting his new album Poses. I remember I didn’t have enough money to buy the album that day, so I had him sign my sneaker and I saved that shoe.

“The first song on Poses was “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk”, which is a very dark and reflective song about his own battles with addiction, but he’s singing it over this really beautiful, whimsical song that has a lot of really great wordplay. I always love when artists, especially lyricists, can encapsulate an idea with not exactly what they’re talking about. The song’s called “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk”, it’s not called “Addiction”. Its talking about things that he craved and how that’s representative of other things that he’s gone through. There was a sophistication and elegance to that that I really gravitated towards, that I didn’t possess but wanted to shoot for. So when I saw him, that was a big one for me and he would also continue to influence me later in my life.

“I’ve become friends with Rufus since. I’ve performed with him and we’ve made records together, which is crazy. His songwriting was very complex and punk-rock, but he had this classic cabaret voice, the kind of voice that I don’t have. I was fascinated that there was somebody that could write this really dark material but have such elegance on top of it. He was virtuosic on the piano, which I thought was very cool because musicianship is always the thing that gets me going the most about artists.

“You know what? People say, ‘Don’t meet your heroes.' I completely disagree. Chase the living fuck out of your heroes. I’ve spent a lifetime doing so, it’s made me a better artist, and I’ve sometimes got to meet them and work with them. I’ve worked on music with Alex Greenwald of Phantom Planet. I’ve performed with Hanson. I’ve performed those Disney songs with Alan Menken at The Hollywood Bowl.

"This is all because there are people that I love who I have put on my vision board, and the things that they have done are the things that are bringing me to them. So it is nuts, but at the same time you’re like, ‘Well, what else did you think would happen?’ They did stuff that some part of me connected with, so obviously there’s a magnetic pull towards that person.

“Rufus Wainwright is one of my absolute favourite artists of all time and like I said, me trying to sing like him and failing is a big part of my own journey as an artist.”

“3x5” by John Mayer

“John Mayer’s another guy that came around when I was 15. I heard a song of his on a middle-of-the-night, singer/songwriter college radio show. This is where I used to get music. You would listen to these carefully curated playlists that you wouldn’t be able to hear anywhere else, and the host played “No Such Thing”, a new song by this young kid who had just dropped out of Berklee College of Music - John Mayer.

“I’m listening to this song and I’m like, ‘Not only is this guitar playing really interesting, but the lyrical value and everything that is going on here ticks all the boxes.' It was jazz, but it was pop. And he did something that all these other guys and girls I’ve mentioned did. They made something very unique and very accessible.

“I immediately went out to buy this album, Room For Squares, and I listened to it over and over again. It was an album that was really formative for me. "3x5” is a really beautiful song that employs a lot of chord structures and melodies that blew my fucking mind at the time, and it made me wish that I could write songs like that.

“That album was a huge turning point in the way I played the guitar, because it was the first time in my life where I would look up tabs. Up until this point in my life, if I heard a song I could play it instantly. It was like a party trick, I would get how it worked if I heard it, because most of the songs I would hear on the radio - especially those that involved a guitar - were [centred around] power chords. And now I’m hearing all of these ninth chords and thirteenths, and I’m like, ‘What the fuck is this?’ So I’d have to look up tabs.

“I think any young artist can attest to this - when you try and learn other people’s shit, it’s the best tool for educating yourself. Playing other people’s music really helps you lock in what your own style is. Trying to learn these songs - and sometimes pulling it off and sometimes not - really changed the way that my hands moved around the guitar and considered chords and voicings that I’d never really thought of.

“There’s another tie to musical theatre here, where I remember seeing Audra McDonald, who is a very venerated theatre actor, and she did a cabaret. If you’re familiar with cabaret culture, it’s more about performing the story of the songs – ‘Life is a cabaret’. She did a John Mayer song because she thought it was from a musical theatre show, and I was so tickled by this, because I was like ‘Yeah, if you really think about it, I don’t think he knows this and I don’t think his fan base even thinks about this, but there’s a number of his songs that feel very theatrical in the way that the lyrics play with each other and the way the chords move’.

"When I saw this I thought, ‘That is why I like John Mayer’, because yes, he’s an amazing guitar player, but he’s also a really strong songwriter.”

“Cabaret” by Me First and the Gimme Gimmes

“Also, around this time growing up in San Francisco, as a guitar player playing music with your buddies, the number one thing that you play is punk rock. There are different parts of the spectrum of punk rock, there's the NOFX, Swingin’ Utters, like real punk, punk. And then there’s the pop-punk thing that was happening at the same time, which was also equally influential - blink-182 and Green Day.

“Fat Mike was the frontman of NOFX. I loved NOFX, and Me First and the Gimme Gimmes were a supergroup of different members from different punk bands, of which Fat Mike was one of the main architects. They would cover songs and turn them into punk rock songs. They have an album of hits from the ‘60s, and they also have an album called Me First and the Gimme Gimmes: Are a Drag, and that record is just a tonne of musical theatre covers that are done through punk rock.

“That was completely in line with everything I loved at this time of my life but didn’t really know how to articulate. I loved punk rock but I also really loved musical theatre. Not only the performative element of it, but there was a real musicality to musical theatre that wasn’t as present in some of the other shit that was popular at the time, just harmonically, or where chords would go. There was a sophistication I loved that seemed to not exist in punk rock.

“Then hearing Fat Mike at The Warped Tour going ‘Alright, which one of you Motherfuckers loves Julie Andrews?’ and hearing a mixed bag of reactions, because people were ‘What? I was not expecting that from you, sir?’ And then they start playing “My Favourite Things”, a classic Rodgers and Hammerstein song which is very accessible, but sophisticated nonetheless. And I am just living. I’m like, ‘This has got the attitude and simplicity of punk rock, but the sophistication of a beautiful song.’

“That was the first time in my life where I went, ‘It’s just all music. All these categories and boxes are completely arbitrary.’ So I thought, ‘I can do that.' I was playing power chords in punk bands but I realised that you can take chords and make them into other rhythms and voicings and have the same song. I could take a punk song and make it jazz. I could take a jazz song and make it country. So, quite providentially, I would end up on Glee, where they took popular songs and would sometimes do their own versions.

“By that point, I had been doing this my whole life. The first time this ever became a possibility for me was seeing Me First and the Gimme Gimmes, and that way of thinking about music and genre. I’ve put that into Masquerade, and it’s all born from that moment of ‘Oh my God, nothing has to be one thing. It’s just about how you look at it.'

“Cabaret” is from a pretty famous musical that I would’ve probably heard about later in life, but I first heard that song as a punk song and then I went back and heard the original. It doesn’t matter how these things happen, the inspiration happens and then you can go from there. But Me First and The Gimme Gimmes were a huge gateway drug and I play “Cabaret” now every year at my festival. That’s why the festival is called Elsie Fest, because it covers the song.”

“Modern Nature” by Sondre Lerche

“One of the great joys of being a younger brother is that you get to inherit the music of your elders. My brother and I were both really proactive consumers of music, so we would share stuff with each other all the time. But then he would come home from college, which is like coming home from a music festival essentially, right? He was in a new time zone with new people, so he’d bring home these mix CDs that he’d made from people that he’d heard about, and he brings home this guy named Sondre Lerche.

“Hearing this guy blew my mind, because he also was using jazz chords and drawing on musical theatre. Musical theatre’s a massive category, so I can’t just say that musical theatre sounds like one thing, but when I say this, I’m referring to The American Songbook, the jazz standard songbook. “Modern Nature” was a duet that I would go on to play many times with one of my oldest musical collaborators, Charlene Kaye. When we got to college and we both found out that we loved this guy.

“There was a much more whimsical way to how he wrote these songs. And what’s crazy is that loving this guy meant that we also loved Rufus Wainwright, that we also loved these other artists. But Sondre was the first time I considered that I loved that type of music, but I didn’t know that you could be a singer/songwriter and put out music that sounded like it.

“I don’t know if ‘twee’ is the right word to use, but with “Modern Nature” there was a playfulness about it, and again, a musicality that I really gravitated towards. There is a through line - there was a sophistication that was accessible, and me trying to learn those songs did make me rethink the way that I was writing music. The structures were weird and different and I liked that.

“To this day, I find myself writing songs that I think might be difficult for people to ingest, because they’re a little too left of centre, and I realise that I’m trying to write like Sondre Lerche, or I’m unconsciously just copying him.”

“Everything Happens to Me” by Mr Hudson & The Library

“I was in an H&M in Stockholm when I was 21, and I heard this really cool groove and the lyric was “Why must I always play the clown?” It was sung with a really thick British accent, had an 808 feel on it, and lyrically it had an attitude. Who would say something that sounds so like you’re in a Gilbert & Sullivan musical, but it feels hard? It was cool.

“I went home and looked this up and it was off the record A Tale of Two Cities by Mr Hudson and the Library, which would really, really fuck me up. I bought the album immediately because I loved this song. I had to order it on the internet because I couldn’t find it. It was doing well in England and he was on the festival circuit in the early-mid 2000s, but the first song on the album was a musical theatre cover with 808s.

“It was a pared-down, sort of a hip-hop version of “On The Street Where You Live” from My Fair Lady, and I’m like ‘No fucking way, this guy gets where my head is.’ I’d thought about punk rock musical theatre, but I never thought about 808s and 909s scoring these beautiful songs. I go down the track list and he has “Everything Happens to Me”, which is another very famous standard, and he had this really cool, what we would now call chill-hop, ‘study beats’ version of this song. I was like, ‘This is it. This guy gets that good music is good music and you can reinterpret it to offer it as a new song.’

“I would later become great friends with Mr Hudson. I got to meet him years later when I was with Columbia Records, and they said to me ‘Who do you want to meet?’ He was at the top of my list. I went to London and we’ve been friends ever since and have created all kinds of music together.

“He told me a story where Tyler the Creator went up to him once at Coachella and said, ‘Oh man, “Everything Happens To Me”, that’s like my song.’ We both wondered if Tyler the Creator knew that it was a Chet Baker cover. And we were thinking how cool it is that you can offer these songs to a new audience through a different lens. Tyler’s a smart guy, he’s very cultured, and I’m sure he did know. But it’s more the idea that if someone experienced this song and didn’t know that it was a cover, and this is like the first time they ever get to experience it.

“Mr Hudson would go on to do his own thing with Kanye and was on 808s & Heartbreak and has had his own career. I think “Supernova” was a hit in the UK, it didn’t really cross over here to The States, but before that moment for him, that Mr Hudson and The Library album changed my life. People use that phrase willy-nilly, but this literally was a turning point in my life. It all had to do with the same thing that happened with these other songs, where I saw someone do what I always wanted to do but didn’t really know how to pull off. Where he had this fusing of old songs delivered through a contemporary lens, but also laced it with his own original material that also employed the things that made that old songwriting interesting.

“It’s like changing the font of a great essay but finding the font and figuring out that that font is its own art form. He really displayed that marvellously on this.”

The Masquerade EP is out now

[cherryatiny]

𝐀𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐳: 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲

𝑁𝑜𝑡𝑒: 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑎 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑦, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔 <3

𝐺𝐼𝐹𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒, 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑡 𝑔𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑠

⩥ 𝐊𝐢𝐦 𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐣𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠

„Mmh, honey, the pasta is amazing, so yummy, you should give this recipe to Seonghwa, the boys would love this.”

You murmured and dug into your food, barely taking a bite, playing around with your fork.

„Is something wrong Y/N?” asked Hongjoong with a concerned look at your sudden behaviour change.

„Well, I was thinking... you know, I'm getting old and I was thinking that I shouldn't postpone it for the child's sake. Uhm, I-I want a baby Joongie. I want to be the mom to your child.”

Hongjoong was at a loss for words, not knowing what to say to the words that came out of your mouth. His hands taking yours, keeping them warm and kissing the top of your knuckles.

„You've known my opinion, I've already told you many times that I'd be more than happy to become a dad to our baby. It's your body, honey. If you think that you're ready to become a mom, I'll be more than happy to acknowledge your decision of us becoming parents. Now, finish your pasta, you need to eat and be healthy, and you can't be under stress, so after we eat, I'll give you a good massage and we'll move to my favourite part.”

You let out small laughter at his words, pleased to know that Hongjoong isn't disapproving of you wanting a baby. After all, he could still act like a dick and tell you that he'd leave you if you got pregnant. As you finished your meal, Hongjoong wrapped you in a tight hug, showering you with kisses and love. And at that moment you knew, that your baby would have the most caring parents it could ever have.

⩥ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐒𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐰𝐚

„Hwa, Hwa, what do you think of this dress, it looks good right?“ Twirling around in the changing room to see yourself from all angles, you asked your boyfriend Seonghwa for his opinion on the tight-fitting burgundy dress with a high slit on one side. You were supposed to accompany him to his company's gala, so you two went for some shopping.

„You look amazing love, we'll take them, now let's go and pay already, so we can go eat. I'm starving.“ you changed back to your clothes, folding the dress over your elbow, careful not to crease it. As you came out of the changing room, on your way to the cashier, you passed the baby section of the store, stopping to look at it. Seonghwa quickly noticed that you stopped, since his arm was wrapped around your waist, turning around to see you crumbling and melting over all those cute baby clothes, he couldn't help but frown, not understanding as to why you were checking out baby clothes.

„Uhm, what are you doing? Let's go Y/N...“ he took your hand to tug you and make you go, you not moving a step. „Seonghwa, you could wait for hours until I found the right dress, you can wait another 5 minutes. Come on, don't tell me you don't find these cute. Just look at how small it is, and all those lovely patterns“

„Okay Y/N, you found one babygrow with teddy bears on it, can we go now?“ You looked at him in disbelief, taken aback by how dry and kinda mean his answer was. „What's the attitude of yours? You don't want a kid one day?“ Crossing your arms on your chest, you looked up to meet his radiant eyes, Seonghwa without a doubt trying to come up with a diplomatic answer. „No babe, that's- that's not what I meant- Uh, let's go Y/N, I'm hungry.“

„No Seonghwa, I'm not moving from here. I want a baby, and if you don't want me to throw a tantrum and embarrass you in front of the whole shopping centre, you better tell me your opinion on us having a baby right now.“ he put on his awkward smile, rubbing his temple. „Y/N, I- the vision of us being parents to a little bundle of joy, sounds appealing, and if that's what you want, we can discuss it over lunch, okay? Now, please baby, I want to eat already.“ Seonghwa showed you the pout he knew you couldn't resist, paying for the dress you two were off to his favourite restaurant. And after finally getting to eat, it was as if Seonghwa's mind got switched, immediately joining you in your baby fever.

⩥ 𝐉𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐘𝐮𝐧𝐡𝐨

„Now open your mouth- waaa, you're such a good baby, eating so well anything I give you, even though the spinach porridge tastes horrible...” you cooed at the adorable child that was sitting in front of you in a baby chair.

You were at your friend's apartment, feeding her little princess while she was cooking. „Is Yunho coming to pick you up?” she asked with a curiousness in her voice. „Yeah, well, he's supposed to pick me up, but you know how packed his schedule is, and I don't want to stress him more, with constant nagging. But I think he might be here in maybe 20 minutes.”

Feeding her princess the last spoonful of spinach porridge, you wiped the baby with a towel, since green stains were everywhere, starting from her tiny fingers to the bridge of her nose. Changing her baby grow, so she's not in dirty clothes, laying her on the ground, you surrounded her with many different educational toys to play with, you breath out after taking care of the baby.

„Wah, Sora, you have my full respect after this day, who would've thought that taking care of a baby is this exhausting.“

„Hahah, thank you so much Y/N, you helped me a lot today, yeah well.. it is hard, but you get used to it after a while.“ and as you both chatted over a coffee, the doorbell rang signalising Yunho was here. Sora opened the door for Yunho, greeting him politely before letting him embrace you in a warm hug, showering you with kisses.

„I'm sorry I'm late Y/N, we had to finish one thing.“ he said as you walked over to the tiny princess who laid on the floor playing with toys.

„It's okay Yuyu, at least I had more time to play with this cutie, isn't she adorable? Yunho, let's make one too, I've been thinking about this for a long time, what do you think? Having a little me or you, we could feed with our love, play around with, go on walks together..., work has been exhausting lately and having a little bundle of joy to brighten up our days...“ Yunho's eyes widened happily at the idea, he actually wanted to bring it up a long time ago, but didn't want you to feel pressured so he let it be

„Baby, that sounds amazing, but only under one condition! It'll become a dancer like daddy!“ you laughed and nodded, pecking his nose, before bidding goodbye to your friend Sora to let her rest and as well get home as soon as possible so you can begin the process with....

⩥ 𝐊𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐘𝐞𝐨𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐠

„What are you doing?” you asked your boyfriend Yeosang who was sitting in the living room, his eyes glued on the screen of the TV. „Watching a variety show.”

„Variety show?” you shrugged your eyebrows and sat down on the couch next to him, wanting to see yourself since it was a rarity for your boyfriend to watch TV, less so watch some stupid variety show. Cuddling closer to Yeosang, to get warmer, you laid your head on his chest, his arms wrapping around your body. „It's about kpop idols, who have to spend their days taking care of a baby.”

You hummed in understatement and watch how the people on the screen struggled to take care of babies, failing in washing or feeding them. Unable to hold the laughter any longer at how clumsy they were, you drifted your eyes to Yeosang, finding out he probably didn't find it as funny as you did. His face focused as if he was trying to learn as many things as possible, his eyes shining softly in loveliness. „What's with that look honey?” noticing you staring at him, he took his eyes off the screen, looking at your face, curiousness hearable in your voice.

„I just liked how cute it was, the giggling of the babies and how tiny they look, with their big eyes. You just want to smother them with kisses and cuddle them all day long.” You expected everything, but definitely not this, looking at him in shock. „Oh wow, I mean, yeah, they're cute.. do you want one? I've been playing with this idea in my head for a long time, but I didn't know how to approach you with it. Do you want a kid?”

Eyes widening in excitements, he pulled you closer to him, squeezing you hard in a hug. „I thought you would've never asked. I would love to have a child oh my god Y/N, you've just made me the happiest man on this planet. We are gonna make babies!”

⩥ 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐢 𝐒𝐚𝐧

Me: [video attachment]

Me: oh my god Sannie, look at how cute it is when it tries to say 'mama'

San: adorable but not as adorable as you

Continuing in your previous activity of scrolling down all the baby-themed pages of Instagram, you adored all those lovely videos of newborns with their parents. Drifting your mind into your little world full of babies, you heard the front door opening, signalising your boyfriend San came back home from the work. Getting up from the couch you were sitting on, you ran to the hallway, falling into his embrace, he picked you up slightly so that you were standing on your tip-toes, eye-level with him, giving his lips a light peck. „What was with the baby videos you sent to me the whole day, darling?”

Landing you back on your feet, you took his bag from his hand and went to the kitchen, San following you. „I don't know, I just couldn't help myself, they were too cute to not send you.” Placing his bag on the dining table and sitting on the kitchen counter you poured yourself a glass of water, waiting for him to react to your words in any way, instead he just hummed in understatement. „Mhm, maybe you've caught a baby fever.” chuckling at his words you put the glass back on the counter, tilting your head and looking him deep into his dark eyes.

„Yeah I know, I want a baby San. Make me a child please.” almost choking on his water he spilt some of it on you, taking you back with his action. „Uh, I, baby? I mean, yeah they're cute and all, but having our own? Wouldn't you prefer having another kitty? Byeol must be feeling lonely...” pouting and shrugging your eyebrows, you scoffed at his words playfully. „I'm feeling lonely too, so make me a baby, we might consider buying another kitty, but first things first, I want a child, think of the idea, we could shower it with love, play with it, imagine walking it to the kindergarten every day, the idea itself is just so precious.” smiling at your words San thought about the idea as well, firstly seeing you with a swollen belly, he could peck every day and then caress it singing to the baby in the womb, then after it was born, just seeing the tiny bundle of love sleep in his arms, all those making his heart flutter, sooner or later after some serious discussions, agreeing to try for a baby.

⩥ 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐢

„Isn't Seonghwa's daughter cute? Aww, she's such a cute princess, I was playing with her while you two trained and she's so polite and kind as well. Seonghwa must be an amazing father no doubt.“ coming home from his practice you accompanied him to, Mingi was so exhausted, that he just laid on your lap, listening to what you had to say. Humming in agreement to your chatter about Seonghwa and his little daughter.

„Seeing how well he manages to take care of her, despite being an idol, I realised that it's possible and I don't necessarily hold back just because of your work. I wanted to come with this idea in a few years when your schedule won't be so hard, but I just really want to have a child. I want to be here for you so I'll understand if your schedule won't allow you to have a child right now, but just think about this, okay Mingi?“ Not getting any answer you leaned down, to look at his face, seeing him already asleep. „Geeesh, you could've told me that you're asleep, now I have to overgo this conversation again in the morning.“ pouting, you lifted his head lightly to not wake him up, laying down and putting it back on your belly. Pulling a comforter over the two of you, you caressed his head as you were slowly falling asleep yourself.

As you woke up to the sound of your alarm, sitting up, you noticed that Mingi's side of the bed was empty and cold, meaning he left a long time ago „He's probably training already...“ Stretching your body to wake up properly, you went down to the kitchen to get yourself a glass of water to start the day. Instead being met with a fully served table full of your favourite breakfast meal. „If you want a baby, you have to eat proper and healthy meals, I actually heard you yesterday, so don't worry, you don't have to overgo the conversation again, I'm in. Now, come and eat before it gets cold.“

⩥ 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐨𝐨𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠

Laying in the rose-scented water with foamy bubbles, your back pressed against your boyfriend's chest, Wooyoung's hands wrapped around you, you two just laying there and enjoying the peaceful and relaxing moment with each other. „Wooyoungie, yesterday you asked me what gift I want for Christmas.“

„Mhm, yes I remember, so? Have you decided, you know, because I don't want to give you something you won't like...“ Tilting your head back to look at him, hesitantly smiling at him. „I was mulling over it carefully... and I came to the result that I want a baby.“ you could feel his grip tighten around your frame. „A baby? Why a baby when you have me? If we'll have a baby we won't have that much time for each other, I don't want to lose you. You'll abandon me for the sake of the baby. You can baby me.“ Sighing at his jealousness of your potential baby you turned your head back to its previous place, looking at the wall in front of you, trying to come up with the best response.

„Wooyoungie, what are you talking about? Are you jealous? Don't be, of course, I won't abandon you, you'll still be the number one person in my life, along with our baby. Come on, have you ever taken care of a baby? Trust me you'd love it, I could take care of you and the baby as well and shower you both with my love. I want a baby Wooyoungie, please honey, pretty please.“ Kissing your shoulders, Wooyoung nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck. „But why a baby? We could get a puppy, it's basically the same.“

⩥ 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐢 𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐨

„Baby, baby, baby, baby!“ playfully yelling those words into Jongho's ears, knowing well the word 'baby' irritated him since yesterday's night when you confessed to him that you want a baby. „Y/N darling, please stop.“ looking at his whining face, you poked his nose, kissing his cheek. „Not until you tell me why you don't want a baby, yesterday you just told me no without any reason. I need to understand, Jong.“ Sighing at your childish demeanour, your eyes digging holes into him. „Okay, okay, but promise me to stop with this when I give you a proper explanation.“ Raising his pinky to your eye-level, intertwining yours with his.

„Remember that you just pinky-promised, so, what were you asking? Ah right, why do I not want a baby? I mean, isn't it obvious? I'm too young to have a baby! And you're too, you should stop hanging out with hyungs' partners, I'm sure they gave you this idea!“ pouting at his explanation, you crossed your arms on your chest. „Okay then I want a kitty!“ looking up at your face to see if you were serious, he realized you were. „Oh my- Y/N, why are you doing this? We don't need a baby nor a cat right now!“

„We need! You won't let me baby you and take care of you anymore since you try to act like an independent adult, that's why I want a baby or kitten I can spoil with love.“ laying his head in your lap, looking up at you. „If that's why, you can baby me, but no baby for a few years and no cat, it'll leave fur and hair everywhere. But if you insist, rather the baby than the cat.“

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Five Fics Friday: August 27/21 *40th B-DAY EDITION*

Happy Five Fics Friday, everyone, and a special one because it’s my 40th birthday! Today I’m choosing to feature five of my favourite comfort fics for you all to read! <3 These are just fics that make me happy; it’s not a normal 5FF, but I hope y’all will indulge me all the same. 

PLUS 

I want to share with you guys five of MY OWN FICS, and I would really love a Kudos or comment on my own work, if you can spare a mo’ for my b-day <3

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FIVE OF MY OWN FICS

I Knew You Loved Me by inevitably_johnlocked (T, 743 w., 1 Ch. || Morning Cuddles, Fluff, Clingy Sherlock, Idiots in Love, Slice of Life, Morning After, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Declarations of Love, Pet Name, Bed Sharing, Snuggles) – John and Sherlock share a lie-in the morning after their first time. So fluffy and gross your teeth will fall out. Part 4 of I-J's Tumblr Ficlet Collection

Loved. by inevitably_johnlocked (G, 1,231 w., 1 Ch. || First Sherlock POV, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Nose Kisses, Morning After, Love Confessions, Morning Cuddles, Emotional Sherlock, Sentiment, Bed Sharing) – Sherlock reflects on his relationship with John. Part 5 of I-J's Tumblr Ficlet Collection

The Healing Touch by inevitably_johnlocked (G, 2,307 w., 1 Ch. || Caretaking,  Domestic Fluff, Stroppy Sherlock, John Loves Sherlock, Love Confessions, Sofa Cuddles, Insecure Sherlock) – Sherlock's broken his foot and he's becoming unbearably stroppy. Good thing John has the healer's touch... ;) Part 3 of I-J's Tumblr Ficlet Collection

Corn Dog Daddy by inevitably_johnlocked (M, 2,719 w., 1 Ch. || Sherlock POV, Fluff and Crack, Corn Dogs, Fairgrounds, Coming In Pants, Euphemisms, Military Kink, Flirting, Sexy John, BAMF John, Smol Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Humour) – Sherlock and John wind down after a case in a small town at a county fair. Sherlock's imagination goes awry as John's sexiness drives him crazy. Also: John knows how to handle a meat stick. Part 2 of I-J's Tumblr Ficlet Collection

Date Night by inevitably_johnlocked (G, 4,451 w., 1 Ch. || Anxious / Worried Sherlock, Caring John, Schmoopy Fluff, Fidget Cube, Baking / Cooking, Date Night, Established Relationship, POV Sherlock Holmes, Understanding John, Grumpy Sherlock, John’s Bum, Kisses, Hugs, Domestic Fluff, Touching, Hair Petting, Light Humour) – It's John and Sherlock's first Date Night as an official couple and Sherlock needs it to be PERFECT. Mrs Hudson helps. Part 7 of I-J's Tumblr Ficlet Collection

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FIVE FAVE FICS

Trapped and Upside Down on the M6 by BootsnBlossoms (E, 4,256 w., 1 Ch. || Whump, Car Accident, Hurt / Comfort) – Everything felt wrong. His hair was going the wrong way. His arms were bent in ways he wouldn’t choose to bend them. His neck hurt and he couldn’t really feel his toes. Something was dripping on his face – and rolling up. A car crash. He had been in a car crash.

A Promise Made to Be Broken by PlantsAreNeat (E, 37,018 w., 7 Ch. || Fake Relationship, Pining, Slow Burn, RST, Eventual Relationship, POV Sherlock) – A young John makes an ‘if we’re still single at 40, we’ll get together’ pledge to a woman who ends up all wrong for him. She keeps reminding him of the promise, and won’t let go of it. John asks Sherlock to pose as his boyfriend at a family wedding, so as to dash her hopes permanently. Sherlock, who has at last acknowledged his feelings for John, reluctantly agrees despite knowing how painful it will be to ‘have’ John, but not keep him.

A Week is Just Seven Days Isn't It? by scifigrl47 (T, 39,906 w., 4 Ch. || Humour, Friendship/Bromance, Stroppy/Bored Sherlock, Undercover/Army John, Texting, Pining-ish Sherlock, John Whump) – When John heads overseas for a week, Sherlock's forced to fend for himself. It goes about as well as anyone could have anticipated. Which is to say, very, very poorly. Don't worry, things'll be fine in just seven days.

Triage by scullyseviltwin (E, 51,612 w., 14 Ch. || Character Injury, Introspection, Pining Sherlock, Falling in Love, Slow Burn, Sherlock POV, Toplock) – Sherlock’s mind goes exceedingly, devastatingly quiet and gray-blank. When he speaks it’s through a thick haze, it’s through molasses, he’s so disconnected from the words that it may as well be the unconscious shooter speaking.

Perdition's Flames by i_ship_an_armada (E, 63,435 w., 21 Ch. || Treklock AU, Est. Rel, Genetic Engineering, Angst & Fluff, BAMF!John) – Sherlock would do anything to save him. Risk anything. Give anything. His money, his life. His soul. What he does, though, is change both of their destinies forever. Genetic re-engineering is the only option left. It turns out researchers underestimated the life expectancy and potential abilities of genetically re-engineered subjects. The British government and what would eventually become the United Federation of Planets, however, had not. Part 1 of PF Universe

[kittyprincessofcats]

She-Ra S5 E08 - Shot in the Dark

There might be spoilers for the rest of the season in this post!

I absolutely LOVE this episode, and at first, I couldn’t really put my finger on why I liked it that much. And then Noelle tweeted this:

And yeah, that’s what it boils down to. This is the first *happy* Catra episode since... basically since “Once Upon a Time in the Waste” - and back then, the happiness didn’t last long.

(I also just think that story of AJ being so worried about Catra and Noelle reassuring her with every script is so adorable. I love to see how much they all care about these characters.)

Now let’s get into the episode!

- “Why does space hate me so much?” Yeah Glimmer, as I’ve said before, your powers don’t work in space because otherwise things would be way too easy and this show would be over way too quickly.

- “So, your plan is to, what? Ram through an armada of ships?” “No! ...Maybe!” 😂 I love Adora.

- The way Catra’s hands are shaking when she tells Adora they’re going to get caught... oh, baby 😢. And how Adora suddenly looks so worried... gosh, these two.

- Catra and Adora playfully arguing over whether or not Catra ‘defeated’ them in the past is so cute. I love this kind of ‘former enemies’ bickering and it’s why I was so glad they didn’t wait until the very end of the show to redeem Catra.

Bow: “Adora, Catra’s right.”

[Everyone’s eyes go wide.]

Bow: ... “That felt weird to say.”

😂 Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Bring on all the ‘former enemies’ bickering, please!

- So, is this just because Wrong Hordak’s “brains were scrambled”, as Bow put it, or do all the clones randomly blurt out that Horde Prime has a weakness whenever they hear someone ask about it? I’m going to assume it’s the former. Also, the way he keeps blurting out more and then denying that Krytis exists is super funny.

- I like how they set Krytis up before with Catra having visions of it back in Taking Control - still pretty convenient that just hearing the name lets her make the connection, but I’ll take it. (Is it meant to be some lingering effect of being connected to the hivemind that she’s having visions of it again now, or is it just her remembering what she saw before?)

- I love the detail that Darla’s information on Krytis is locked and they need administrator clearance to access it. Shows again that the First Ones aren’t that different from Horde Prime - they were also ashamed of their failure to conquer Krytis and tried to hide the information on it.

- “In- In- In- Incorrect. It is located nowhere, because it does not exist, because Lord Prime destroyed it.” I honestly think this line should be a meme. When you want to hide something from someone (but you know it does exist), just quote that exact line (kind of like “There is no war in Ba Sing Se”). I once said it to my sisters when they asked about certain fanfics I wrote as a teenager. (“Nope, they are located nowhere, because they do not exist, because Lord Prime destroyed them.”)

- Changes in the opening: Micah, Spinnerella, Scorpia and Mermista are now standing mind-controlled around the Heart of Etheria in the villains’ shot. They’re also all missing from the final heroes’ card. In that final shot, Perfuma and Sea-Hawk both look sad now, and Netossa looks angry.

- Catra touching her neck when she sees the spire on Krytis... 😢. I’m here for the angst, but I also just need Catra to get lots of love and comfort after everything she’s been through.

- Can we talk about how absolutely ADORABLE her space suit is, though? Bow is absolutely right to coo over those ears. And when she tries to take it off with her foot? And Adora laughs about it? And Catra smiles when she sees her laugh? ❤️❤️❤️

- Wrong Hordak still denying that Krytis exists while currently being on Krytis is absolutely hilarious to me. It reminds me of flat-earthers or anti-vaxxers, or people who try to deny Covid exists (while others are currently dying from Covid) - not that any of those are funny, of course. I just mean that wrong Hordak nicely demonstrates how ridiculous they can sound.

- Catra calling out the Best Friend Squad on how dumb their plan is and then reacting with “Honestly, what did I expect?” is absolutely iconic. They really were missing her as the team’s braincell all along.

- Bow and Glimmer teasing Catra about her “first mission”, Catra grumbling that she’s going to kill Adora’s friends, Adora responding with a really calm “Please don’t” - everything about this is perfect. 🤣

- Also, small detail, but I love how Catra has a hard time walking in her spacesuit because she’s not used to wearing shoes.

- The remaining rebels looking around the destroyed camp is really sad. Frosta immediately trapping Castaspella in ice and checking her neck is great, though. That’s what they should have been doing all along. Why didn’t they also check Shadow Weaver’s neck, though? I know she’s intimidating and all, but there was no way of knowing if she’s chipped.

- “How did the rebellion lose so many of our finest members and yet we’re still stuck with you?” Castaspella’s asking the real questions! I like how literally no one in the rebellion likes Shadow Weaver. (Though honestly, I’m also glad she’s not chipped. Imagine how hard fighting a chipped Shadow Weaver would have been.)

- “But if you try anything, I won’t hesitate to strike you down.” Castaspella said ‘I won’t hesitate, b*tch!’

- Every single part of Wrong Hordak’s existential crisis (and Entrapta’s handling of it) is absolutely hilarious. I’m not going to quote all of it here, but pretty much every line of it is comedy gold. My favourite moment is probably “It seems Wrong Hordak has begun to question the meaning of life” (and everyone’s annoyed expressions at his crying) 😂😂. (On a more serious note, though: As much as it’s played for laughs, Wrong Hordak turning his entire worldview around in such a short amount of time is also pretty epic.)

- Catra just cutting through that door - damn, she’s strong! And I love Adora’s blush! (Yeah, the door was probably just an illusion, but my point still stands. She’s at least strong enough that it doesn’t seem completely weird that she'd be able to just cut through a door like that.)

- “You have an arrow that turns into a magnifying glass? I can’t believe we were losing to you guys.” 🤣🤣 Catra realizing the people she was fighting are actually idiots will never not be funny.

- It goes hand in hand with Bow realizing Catra is actually a cute kitty with an adorable sneeze. Good stuff. And the way her tail gets fluffy when she insists she’s not cute? D’awww. (Bow saying “The angrier you get, the cuter you are” reminded me of that scene in Steven Universe where Peridot loses her limb-enhances at the beginning of her redemption arc and Steven calls her cute and “an angry little slice of pie”.)

- Castaspella’s cape getting stuck in tree branches and the like is pretty funny, ngl. This is why Edna Mode said “No capes”.

- Shadow Weaver saying that her gifts are “far subtler” than mind-control is very fitting. Her thing is manipulation, after all. She doesn’t need to control people’s minds when she can just manipulate them and raise them in a way that’ll make them do what she wants. It’s scarier than mind-control in a way because it’s far more realistic. Mind-control doesn’t exist in real life, but manipulative parents (or just manipulative people) who will mess someone up emotionally? Very realistic.

- I like that you can tell that something’s off about Entrapta’s voice this time if you pay attention to it.

- “Seriously? How have you guys stayed alive this long?” Yup, the people you were fighting are idiots and you’re the braincell of the team now, Catra.

- I love the creepy music when Entrapta tells them it’s the first time they’ve talked since the last floor.

- Also, I love how Catra’s first instinct is to just launch herself at Melog, even though you could tell she was terrified just a moment earlier.

- I really like the moment where Glimmer realizes there’s magic on Krytis, especially since she doesn’t have her other powers right now.

- Melog bonds with Catra because they have the same sneeze ❤️❤️

- “Are you... are you petting the thing that’s been trying to kill us?” I love this whole moment 😹. I also love how Adora is so protective of Catra and immediately yells “Get away from her!” when Melog seems to get angry.

Catra: “I’m sorry. I got angry. It’s something I’m working on.”

Adora [with sparkling eyes]: “Aww, you are?”

Catra: “Yes! Now can you please...” [deep breath] “Yes. I am.”

I love everything about this. Catra genuinely working on her anger issues, Adora being so touched about it (remember back in Taking Control where she wished that Catra would ‘at least try’?), Catra having to hold back her anger because she realized Melog responds to emotions - perfect. ❤️😂👍

- Catra is so sweet when she calms Melog down. And the moment where they form their bond is really nice.

- So, can Catra understand Melog because of their bond, or because they’re both cats? I’m assuming it’s because of their bond?

- Melog’s backstory is really sad. But Adora offering to take them to Etheria is a really sweet scene.

- I like the parallel between the Best Friend Squad realizing that magic is Horde Prime’s weakness (and that the only planet he ever failed to conquer had wild magic) and Shadow Weaver telling Castaspella that the First Ones weakened Etheria’s magic and they have to set it free.

- “Stop me if I try to take the power for myself.” I’m not sure how I feel about that line. I like how SPOP has very much written Shadow Weaver as ambiguous so far. She’s not a good or nice person by any means, but is she at least on the side of the good guys and really trying to help now or is she still only after her own selfish goals? I very much did not want Shadow Weaver to get any sort of redemption or forgiveness, and I’ve always interpreted her as still being power-hungry. So, I have mixed feelings about this line. I like that it canonically acknowledges that Shadow Weaver is still tempted by power and might actually try to take the magic for herself, but asking Castaspella to stop her if she tries makes her look more selfless and like she’s taking precautions against it. (But then again, could Castaspella even stop her if she tried? I’m pretty sure Shadow Weaver is the stronger one of the two. So, you could still read this as Shadow Weaver being a master manipulator and only saying this so Castaspella will feel more inclined to trust her and go along with her plan - while knowing full-well that she could easily defeat Castaspella if it ever actually came down to it.)

Glimmer: “So, just to make sure I get it - We’re going to go running through a Horde blockade while relying on the magic of a creature we just met?”

Catra: “That about sums it up, yes.”

You know what this means - Catra’s a part of the Squad now!

- “Punch it, Darla!” I still love that the ship’s name is Darla. Also, all of their expressions when they fly through the blockade should be a “draw the squad” meme.

- Catra holding Adora’s hand and getting embarassed about it ❤️❤️ (while Adora is dumb and doesn’t even notice).

- I did not expect us to get a Glitra cheek kiss this season, but I’m not complaining! Also, Catra complaining while Glimmer and Bow are hugging her is such a cat thing; I love it.

- “We made it. We’re home.” Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think this is actually the first episode this season that ends on a happy / hopeful note and not on some kind of cliffhanger. And I really like that. This is where the “space arc” of season 5 offically comes to and end and I’m glad it has its own little happy ending. (And as much as I like the final episodes of the season, the space arc is still probably my favourite half of it.)

I love this episode, mainly because of what it means for Catra. She’s finally happy, she saved the day, she’s bonding with Bow and Glimmer and constantly flirting with Adora, and she has an amazing therapy cat now! I loved all the bickering between her and the others and how she’s starting to open up to them. Also, Wrong Hordak was absolutely hilarious in this episode and I commend Entrapta for having the patience to deal with his existential crisis. This was a really nice way to wrap the space arc up and bring the Squad back to Etheria.

[Previous episode]   [Next episode]

[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.  

[tothatmanonthebridge]

Review: Star Trek - The Original Series 'The Squire of Gothos' (S1 Ep18)

Trelane obviously has done his homework on humans, but he failed to learn the most sacred rule of human civilisation:

You don’t get to pick your own nickname.

It is a depressing thought that an outside vision of Earth would see war as our primary pastime, our way of being. But while Trelane gets the pattern right, he definitely misses the substance. War is not a feeling. It is something that happens to us, but it’s not the complex web of love and fear and hope and anger that constitutes our experience, whether in wartime or peacetime. Even when Trelane gets angry, it’s ultimately a shallow imitation. He says he experienced genuine anger, but for all his dramatics he never accesses the ‘real thing’.

Still, even as the episode positions the crew of the Enterprise as morally superior to Trelane, it does serve to poke holes in the ideology of the Starfleet. The phasers are notable for having a non-lethal setting, but they *can* kill. And Trelane’s demonstration of their power is chilling. Of course, the most disturbing element is Trelane’s giddy enthusiasm as he murders helpless creatures for no reason, when we have seen much more restraint from our heroes even when in direct conflict.

Every episode, the show announces that ‘space is the final frontier’. This statement evokes feelings of adventure and discovery. But, the American frontier was a violent conquest. The mission of the Enterprise, and its calm thoughtful realisation, might seem completely opposite to the lawless brutality of the wild west (that is to say, how it is depicted in film, the real history as I understand it, while very brutal, was much more complicated). However, the essential principles are similar: they are colonisers, never questioning their right to be cover new ground, and to settle wherever they please. Even if it’s relatively bloodless, I’d argue that it’s still violent.

Of course, a frontier does not have to be spatial. The frontier in the Star Trek universe is more one of knowledge (especially as the show so far can’t seem to decide if the ship is exploring mapped or unmapped territory). Acquiring knowledge about other species and planets is sort of gestured at half-heartedly within the plot, but really just like any good science fiction work, Star Trek deals with problems of human nature.

Even in the ostensibly ‘sillier’ episodes such as this one.

Some more thoughts:

I fully expected Desalle to bite it in this episode, he just exudes deadshirt energy and somehow he survived? Somehow everyone survived?

(Well, everyone human. R.I.P. Plum’s ex-girlfriend).

Actually wasn’t that creature the last of its kind? Did Trelane commit genocide??? It certainly fits the theme of the episode.

I noticed that Spock seems more comfortable in his position of authority here. It’s a nice continuation from Galileo Seven.

I love that this show seems fixated on two things: finding any excuse to dress up the women in period outfits, and undressing Kirk as much as possible…

The ending is obviously very similar to Charlie X, thank the PTB for deus ex machina eh? I do think Squire of Gothos is a better episode, although I did actually manage to have sympathy for the highly unlikeable Charlie at the end, who seemed genuinely terrified at going back to a life without love or affection, whereas with Trelane it was just a tantrum at playtime being over. It was appropriate of course, but by that point I was ready for it to be over tbh. I did love the spotlight focussed on Trelane and then slowly disappearing. It was a very appropriate artistic choice for our dramatic antagonist.

Queer Trek Corner:

How does this show keep getting gayer??? I realised I needed a dedicated section to keep my thoughts straight.

Not that my thoughts are ever ‘straight’ of course...

While Spock’s turn-on is obviously Kirk beating him at 3D chess, Kirk’s is evidently Spock delivering sick burns – which he does several times to Trelane in this episode. Here, Kirk gives Spock the most adoring look I have ever seen on a human being I MEAN COME ON THAT IS NOT A HETEROSEXUAL LOOK

And when Trelane attempts to force Kirk’s compliance, from a room full of onlooking crew members, he chooses to threaten Spock.

I’m sorry, it is a truth universally acknowledged that the villain will threaten the hero’s love interest. It’s a tale as old as time.

Now, Spock may not be a helpless damsel

-- I mean except in certain fun role-play situations… too much? --

but the effect is the same.

I think this could easily be one of my favourite episodes of season 1, but time will tell!

Next up: Arena

[dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice]

You could do it with: IDW: Megatron, Ultra Magnus, Max, Rung and Bayverse Optimus?Thanks! You have a good day! :D (2/2)

HI I’M BACK FROM THE DEAD. MY GHOST LITERALLY WROTE THIS. I know it’s extremely late but my writers block has been hitting me during the pandemic while I’m stuck at home so hopefully I did this ok.

@bellisimapormesana

Character wasn’t stated so I’m defaulting to a cybertronian! Reader.

IDW Megatron

He feels you.

Seriously, this poor mech is as pessimistic as you’ll ever get.

Don’t make me bring in the depresso espresso memes.

It took you a while to warm up to those who were pesistant in becoming your friend (I’m looking at you rodimus), so getting anywhere with him is going to take forever.

If your not at Swerve’s cracking jokes and getting into crazy shinanegans while Ultra Magnus just sits there with his helm in his servos, you’re either alone in your berth room or wandering the many halls of the Lost Light.

Normally Megs is too deep in thought to pay attention to notice most walking by, but his optics will set on you when he almost walks into your frame sat on the floor. But you’re too busy observing the stars outside one the windows to acknowledge him.

You would expect him to take a least a few times of running into you to actually realise that your processor was currently far away from being a happy place, but like I said, this guy’s been through shit.

One single look at you. And he knows.

The way your optics are dimmed already give off the tell tale sign that your mind is wandering places. Like, there’s a whole universe right in front of you, galaxies and technicolour planets passing by, you should be dreaming of the adventures you will have, yet you sit here, frame slouched, with a solemn empty look across your face.

Everything seems to stop still for Megatron as he stands there. Memories and nightmares flashing across his processor, bringing back glimpses of emotions that he wished to never feel again.

Everything about you screams loneliness, and he feels his spark shatter at the sight of you.

There is no way on Cybertron that he will let you experience the depression he did.

He won’t force any means of physical comfort upon you, since you could just push him away so easily if you wanted to.

All you hear are a shuffle of pedesteps and a gentle thump as he sits himself beside you, glancing at you once without uttering a word.

Through that single glance, he showed you that he understood, and reassured you that you’re not anywhere near alone in this universe. And he had your back.

Ultra Magnus

When you first boarded the Lost Light, you had blended in amongst the crowd and didn’t really speak up much.

Therefore it took Magnus quite a while to find out who you were.

The poor mech didn’t really have much time to make many friends, since he was too busy either speaking about statistics, or chasing Rodimus throughout the ship to try and prevent any disasters from taking place.

The first time he really noticed you is when you actually started to hang out with Roddy and the rest of the main crew.

He would see you dissappear around corners as you tried to avoid ending up in trouble with your fellow pranksters, or sitting at the bar as Swerve proceeded to die of hysterics at the joke you cracked.

He also saw you exit Rung’s a couple of times as he went in.

The first time he exchanged a conversation with you was at the bar with everyone else.

You were sat between Rung and him as you fiddled with your servos. He noticed that you were quieter than usual as you stared at the half empty energon in front of you.

He hadn’t had the slightest clue of what to say to you as you sat there. He was just downright confused as to why you weren’t being as loud as the others.

Suddenly a thought came to his mind as he recalled something.

While you were well known for being slightly disobedient when you joined Rodimus on his adventures, he was mildly surprised at how well your reports were laid out. You may be a funny prankster but your reports came on the dot, full of the right amount of detail that Magnus would be satisfied with.

So while it may had not been a great way to greet someone, he brought you out of your silent state by praising you on how well your reports were.

You looked up at him, slightly taken aback at the sudden gesture, but you returned it with a small smile and a quiet “thank you”.

He didn’t know straight away of you pessimistic states and episodes, but it didn’t take him a while to realise it either.

He would notice there would be times you would seclude yourself to a quiet space, and he would notice your seat to be empty at meetings every one in a while.

He’s a busy mech, so he can’t always pay attention to you, but in his free time, or when he is walking the halls, he would see if you were on your own or not.

He’d find you at a window or an empty room, and gently ask if you would like to accompany him in going over statistics or organising some files.

“Isn’t Roddy meant to assist you in that?” “Yes but he never does it properly and disappears within five minutes.”

Some things he offers to do with you may be boring, but it’s enough to keep you distracted and on the plus side you get to spend time with your favourite Magnus.

Fortress Maximus

He’s the type of mech to observe people, especially you, from a distance.

While others seem boring or just make him nervous, you’re the one who seems to catch his optic the most.

Because you confuse him.

One minute you’re laughing tears of lubricant out of you optics with Drift as Ratchet storms in, covered helm to pede in pink glitter glue, then the next you’re sat in the dark confines of your berthroom, the only light provided is a dull blue hue from the data pad you’re reading off, eyes absentmindedly scanning across, but never actually taking the words in.

It takes him a small amount of time to properly realise how deep of a state of pessimism you were in when you were experiencing these episodes from time to time, and somewhat understood how you felt, since this poor mech is one sensitive bby once you delve down deep enough.

The next few days are spent with Max confining himself to his own berthroom, making some begin to wonder where he had disappeared off to. Some thought he was just distancing himself (like me because of shitty corONA). But instead his was carefully thinking out some form of plan to try and eventually manage to keep you as your happy self 24/7.

He - somehow - convinced Red Alert to allow him access to a weeks worth of some security clips and gathered a basic routine of when the pessimistic mood would begin to set in by the way your body language started to shift slightly and slowly but surely, you drifted away from the crowd and eventually found yourself in the confines of your berth.

He’s not a stalker I swear.

He sensed your shy nature, and being a somewhat shy bean himself it took him a few minutes of mental preparation, but he managed to stop being a wallflower at Swerve’s when he spotted you come in.

You avoided the eyes of most as you were just there to grab some energon and whisk away back to the earth story you were reading in your berthroom. You eased your way through the small crowd, cringing at some of the loud laughs that reached your audios.

Reaching a clearing in front of the bar, you were about to open your intake to ask for a drink, when you felt a large presence loom behind you.

Turning around cautiously, you were met with a white and blue chest plate.

Your attention was taken away from the loud noises as your audios picked up a quiet “hello” as you looked up to meet a pair of nervous red optics.

Max knew he was big, even for a cybertronian, so he was concerned that his large presence gave off an intimidating demeanour, and it would scare you away.

However, much to his surprise and luck, you gave him a small smile and gave a quiet greeting in return.

You two spent the next few hours in a secluded booth in the corner of the bar exchanging mutual conversation while sipping on different concoctions of Swerve’s drinks.

You were enjoying the new company, basking in the presence of a fellow awkward cybertronian you could relate to. You found it cute as you found him staring at you, only too look away while staring down at the drink in his hands.

On the other hand, Fort Max was internally proud of himself managing to keep you from the depressing depths of your berth and also of you not avoiding any form of social contact for the night.

This carried on for a few months or so. Max kept up the effort to watch over you, becoming alert if you would suddenly leave in the evening or if there was nothing on. He would take another route, and catch your attention before you reached your room, gently asking you to join him on some sort of activity. Whether it was crafting something Rung recommended, or going star gazing.

In some way he would coax you out and put a smile on your face.

IDW Rung

You think you can get away from the observing eyes of god Rung the therapist?

After one appointment with you he could see that you weren’t as happy as you presented yourself to be.

There’s nothing much to say for this guy except for the fact that you keep going to these sessions with him.

You may not want to tell him everything but he tries his best to try and show that he understands you.

Instead of these meets going the same as most others, Rung will have you stay for longer and make it more interactive with things such as making crafts such as model ships, and also will tell you a story about each one.

Hell, he would sometimes book appointments for you, mostly in the evening when you weren’t busy.

You enjoy the company, but it also means poor Rung actually has a friend that talks to him more and frequently visit him.

You’ve never gotten his name wrong once.

And that puts a little smile on his face each time.

If he finds you in one of these states, he won’t say much at first. Just gently holding your servo as you both sit by a window until he quietly begins to tell you a story to get your mind off any negative thoughts.

Bayverse Optimus (aNgRy MaN)

Bruh

He feels you too

He’s lost too many friends he considers family

Has been known to go into pessimistic states himself

But doesn’t know if anyone else experiences these things like he does

When he watches you around base he sees you having lots of fun with the younger bots, pranking Ratchet or practising you abilities in the field with Ironhide.

In his attempt to make sure that no one really finds out or suffers when he’s in this depressive mood, he tends to worry about it in the dead of night when nobody is around.

Or so he thought.

He has takes up the opportunity to walk around base during the late hours, sometimes to sit and take in his surroundings while trying his best to push any bad thoughts to the back of his mind whilst he stargazes.

Only to find that looking at the stars reminds him how far away he is from home, since when he looks up, none of the flickering dots are familiar, and another wave of sorrow hits him.

This would happen almost every nights, unless he needed to rest up for a mission.

One night he was doing the same, recalling both good and bad memories, when his audios picked up a quiet screech, like metal on metal, from behind somewhere.

While it may have just been the wind, Optimus knew he needed to be alert for any surprise attacks from the Decepticons, so he got up as quietly as he could and spent the next couple of minutes attempting to locate the source of the noise.

Another very similar noise had led him up to the roof, but at their point he still didn’t know if this was a threat or not, so he cautiously lifted his helm over, a servo hovering over his blaster.

What he didn’t expect was to spot your silhouette in the moonlight, sat on the edge, staring into space, a solemn look on your face.

He was taken aback slightly at this sudden sight of you, since you were normally so bubbly, and had managed to bring out a low chuckle in him every once in a while.

Relaxed that it wasn’t Ravage skulking around, he was still concerned about you.

He would sit next to you and spend the next hour or so speaking quietly with you, finding out and understanding why you seemed so down.

While he wouldn’t mind staying out here with you for the remainder of the night, you both knew Ratchet would scold you both for not recharging properly, so he took you down silently to your berth, and stayed by your side until you were in deep slumber, then return to his own berth.

This happened almost every night, just the both of you basking in each other’s presence and company, and pointing out Earth constellations into the early hours of the morning.

Enjoy :)

Oppy out.

[zoryany]

(Of Loyalty and Royalty) "You know, Captain Solo," the Empress said, delicately putting her wineglass down. Han tried not to stare at the motion, or at her, or anywhere. Things were always awkward around her. "I had my doubts, but I am beginning to see what Luke sees in you. I am glad he has you." Han breathed a sigh of relief. Then the Empress *had* to add, "Of course, my husband does not share this response."

Royal Imperial Skywalker AU (parts 1-6)

Send me things!!(always accepting, for this or any other verse, just… slow)

It had taken several minutes of insisting, and some creative thinking on his part, but Han had finally gotten Goldenrod out of his and Chewie’s collective hairs, having sent him off on some convoluted mission to find a very vital component for modifying the Falcon. It was weird enough being in the Palace, even with Luke, so being here without him was absolutely surreal. The night before had not been a restful one, that’s for sure.

At least now he had Chewie with him. Something about that big, walking fuzzball made everyone feel more at ease, it seemed – aside from the moments it was clear he was about to lose his temper. Then? It was best to steer clear, unless you wanted to lose an arm. But… even in the early days, Luke seemed to be comforted by his presence.

Han would argue until the day he died that he was not out of his mind for missing the fact that Luke was, indeed, the Imperial Prince, given just how fumbling the kid was right off the bat. Too earnest for his own good and stumbling over his words, you’d think he’d never spoken to another human being before. Which… well, clearly wasn’t the case, but perhaps he just didn’t have as much experience with the sorts of conversations regular folk might have. And for that, he always seemed so nervous when he tried to talk to Han. It was endearing, of course, and played a large part in winning the scoundrel over, but it absolutely screamed “Outer Rim Crop-Duster” without giving a hint at any form of nobility. And yet, when he was around Chewie, he seemed to just… relax. Words flowed much more naturally, whether he addressed the Wookiee or the captain, and a good portion of the tension he carried in his shoulders would just evaporate.

The ease of interaction between him and Luke had grown over the weeks, of course, but Chewie had always been an effective buffer in any situation. He was also effective when it came to negotiations for that very reason, and it was why Han almost wished his first mate had been around for the previous night’s dinner. True, all parties agreed it was for the best that he’d stayed behind, but still; it would have saved Han a lot of discomfort.

“Well, pal,” Han sighed, flopping down on his overly luxurious bed and sprawling out, “how’s it feel, living the high life?”

Perched awkwardly on the foot of the bed, Chewie gave Han a look absolutely brimming with irony. Given his history, as well as that of his people, Chewbacca had never really been in favour of an Imperial Regime in and of itself, but there was a certain level of respect he’d always held for the newfound freedom the Wookiees experienced under the current system. He would speak ill of the life of his people under the Republic, and the galaxy headed under Palpatine, but he carefully maintained an air of neutrality towards the current Royal Family. Through it all, though, Chewie had never sought a life of luxury. He’d always been content to live day to day, repaying the life-debt he was convinced he still owed Han and doing whatever he could to find his place in the galaxy.

Han supposed that over two centuries was plenty of life lived, and sometimes you just had to find your thrills no matter their source.

“Yeah, yeah, I getcha,” Han conceded, sitting back up and running a hand through his hair. “Can’t say I’m feeling all that at home here, either.”

Chewie took a few moments to glance around the room, taking in the décor and the pure extravagance everything seemed to exude, before he finally rumbled out his opinion on the matter.

As he pushed himself off the bed and wandered over to the balcony door, Han shook his head and sighed again. “Yeah, I agree, buddy. It really is… A lot, isn’t it? No wonder the kid felt restless here. I never woulda pinned him to live in a place like this, either.” He spent a brief moment looking out at the sprawling city below him, wondering just how Luke felt every time he took in the same view, before a wry grin spread across his face. “Wanna see a little more of where your new favourite cub grew up?”

Chewie rolled his eyes. On occasion, Han would complain about how much more Chewie liked Luke than him, a joke which seemed to have worn a little thin, but the fuzzball ultimately nodded, and the two breezed out of the room to get a closer look at the wing in which they were to reside for the foreseeable future.

***

“I know, pal.”

It turned out the Imperial Palace – or, at least the sections of it they had proper access to – was not as interesting as they would have liked it to be. They were in the guest wing, of course, and had encountered far too many droids restricting access to other, more interesting sections of the building. The two could make it past if they so chose, but decidedly chose not to, if only to avoid landing on the Empress and her husband’s bad side, and to not to piss off Luke or land him in any more hot water than he might already be in. So instead, they’d settled onto an elevated veranda, sprawling and luxurious and attended by a number of other droids who sought to meet their every need, feeling every bit as though they had landed themselves in a gilded cage of their own.

“I’m not sure what the next move is either.” Chewie draped a warm, hairy arm around his shoulders, and Han was grateful for it. “I can’t live here any more than you can. It just ain’t gonna happen. Luke knows that too.”

He left the next bit unsaid, and as Chewie finished his thought for him, Han found himself wishing he didn’t understand Shyriiwook nearly as well as he did.

For a moment, he tried ignoring his first mate, but another, more insistent rumble, accompanied by a not-quite-painful squeeze to his shoulder had him groaning. “You’re right, of course. As usual. I can’t stay here, and I can’t just drag Luke away from this place. I’m not sure we get to be happy, yanno? In a perfect world, I’d just take the kid with us, travelling the galaxy, adventurin’ from place to place, non-stop.” He paused and allowed the wry smile to twist at his lips. “Pretty sure Luke wouldn’t be strictly opposed to that, either. But…”

Silence rang heavy between them, even with the bustle of the city-planet below them. On another occasion, Chewie might have chimed in with the missing thought, again, but right now, it was clear there was no need. Han wasn’t avoiding it because he didn’t want to acknowledge it; he was avoiding it because it brought a level of pain he never wanted to confront when he was only just getting closer to Luke.

At the end of the day, it was duty that came into play, before anything else.

“Ah! Captain Solo!” Han nearly jumped out of his skin at the crisp tone of the droid as it interrupted his thoughts. “Here you are. And Chewbacca! I nearly thought I had lost you.”

He had to suppress a groan as he forced a grin and faced the gleaming golden droid. “Nope. Still here. Can’t get rid of us that easily.”

“Well, that is indeed excellent,” Threepio continued, completely missing the irony. “I do believe I have found the component you were looking for. I have placed it with your ship until such a time that you may require it.”

“Well,” Han drawled, genuinely surprised the droid had found anything, given his description, “I guess I’ll just have to take a look at it next time I’m fixin’ up the Falcon, and I’ll let ya know how you did, yeah?”

Chewie chuckled softly from behind him, but the droid carried on. “Her Majesty has requested your presence, Captain Solo. I must request that you follow me.” Request was more than likely putting it mildly.

Chewie raised a brow at the droid, rumbling a soft inquiry in Shyriiwook, but Goldenrod seemed unfazed. “I apologize, Mr. Chewbacca. While I recognize your desire to accompany the Captain, the Empress has asked to speak with him alone. However, if you so choose, I may wait with you outside her chamber while they carry out their business.”

The Wookiee was losing patience with the droid almost as quickly as Han was, but Chewie had always been better at maintaining his composure. Despite his own frustrations, he growled an agreement. Both Han and Chewie followed the protocol droid to the hallway leading to the Empress’ chambers, Han being ushered in while Chewie was pointed to a position just to the side of the doorway.

“Mistress Padmé awaits you inside, Captain Solo. I advise you do not keep her waiting.”

“Yeah?” Han felt his lips contort into a wry, contrary sort of smirk. “Well, I’ll make sure I don’t. I know better than to keep a woman like that waiting.”

“Indeed, you do have some wisdom in you after all, Captain Solo.” Threepio’s voice was chipper and polite as ever, but if he didn’t know better, Han would almost think the droid was mocking him.

“Right,” he replied, face darkening slightly, before turning to his friend. “See ya later, Chewie,” he said with a nod. “Try not to tear off Goldenrod’s arms while I’m in there.” He’d lowered his voice, but not enough to go undetected by a droid’s auditory sensors, and Han took more pleasure than he probably should have in the way Threepio seemed to jump at the comment.

Striding forward, the assured steps he took into the chamber worked to conceal the anxiety that truly roiled beneath Han’s composed exterior. Something about the Empress caused his legs to turn liquid and his wits to escape him. Luke was able to disarm him with his charm and catch him off guard enough to force him into idealism; the Empress disarmed him completely with her ability to read right into the core of his being.

Actually, every member of the family seemed to share that ability. His thoughts hadn’t felt private since he’d landed on Coruscant. The Empress could see right through him, the Princess shared her mother’s eerie personal precision, the father had his own brand of intimidation, and Luke…

Luke had always been able to sense Han’s vulnerabilities. Even when it wasn’t obvious that was what he was doing, it was present enough that the kid seemingly maintained a solid connection with him no matter what. Now that Han knew just what Luke’s connections and abilities were, he couldn’t help but feel just a touch more wary of him. He’d never much believed in the Force, nor did he really know what it did, and he didn’t quite trust it.

But… he did trust Luke.

He knew just how gentle the kid could be. Despite the insecurities they both felt, despite knowing what seemed to eat at him the most… Han held faith in Luke. It made him uncertain. Han was unaccustomed to uncertainty like this. But even though he was entirely unsure what the future held, he knew he had faith. A faith he hadn’t come close to holding for years before this, but faith nonetheless. He was not about to abandon that just because he was about to face the Empress, the most powerful woman in the galaxy, and someone who could very well dismiss his existence on a whim.

“Captain.”

The door closed behind him, and Han found himself in another room that seemed overly lavish and luxurious compared to what any being actually needed. He hadn’t really noticed, but they’d moved beyond the guest wing of the Palace. The droid’s escort had been so seamless that he didn’t even realize the route they were taking was unfamiliar and led past paths that had previously been obstructed. He’d been purposely misled to this chamber, and would be escorted back to his own private room so he could not find this one again, he was sure. It instilled a growing sense of unease within him, but Han would not back down. Holding his own against the Empress was all he could do. It even seemed liable to become his greatest achievement ever.

Han was not an Imperial Loyalist. He never had been. He wasn’t a rebel, by any means, just went where the credits were, but most Imperials were fairly stingy with their credits. It was the outlaws who paid the best, and for so long, he’d pledged himself where the fortune laid. But now… well. Was it fortune that drew him to Luke? Or something else? So many could look at his history, look at Luke’s identity, and draw their own conclusions. Han Solo, smuggler, scoundrel, and Imperial Leech.

Luke had never seen that in him, though. And, well, if Luke believed in him…

“I can sense your discomfort.” The Empress’ voice was somehow both cool and warm. She had an inviting air about her, something that begged you to share your every last secret, but she never shed her nobility. Calm, collected, and in control… that was the Empress, and Han wasn’t sure he would ever stand a chance against her in any sort of battle, of the wits or otherwise. And yet, he wasn’t sure that mattered. He would hold his own against her for Luke’s sake. That much felt so certain, no matter what.

“Discomfort, Your Majesty?” Yeah, playing it off seemed like his best bet. What else was he supposed to do? Just admit to the fact that he felt uncomfortable around her? No, that was a weakness he wasn’t about to show off just yet.

It seemed, though, he couldn’t fool her. The Empress wore an expression that seemed far too similar to a predator capturing its prey, though it did not contain the same level of cruelty as one who was about to devour. No, she seemed ready to play with her food before deciding if it should be consumed immediately, or if it was worthy of keeping around for a bit longer.

“You have not shown any signs of comfort since arriving at the Palace, Captain.” Her smile grew, but as it spread, it only became more inscrutable. Han really had no idea whether it carried more welcome or intimidation with it, but he could certainly tell that it carried more. “It is my sincerest hope that you may find some level of ease within our walls. I do not wish you to be on edge for the entire duration of your stay. After all, what kind of hosts would we be if you could find no trust in us whatsoever?”

Han quirked a brow. “I really gotta say, Majesty, it ain’t nothin’ personal. Promise. Your family’s done nothing wrong to me. Got no reason to stand against ya. Plus with Luke around, I’m really not about to do anything stupid like that. But you can’t blame me for being a bit nervous. I ain’t used to dealing with big shots like your family. And I’ve got no interest in kriffin’ things up. Especially not for Luke. Kid’s been through enough. He don’t need me comin’ in to make things even worse. It was his choice to have me here, and if I didn’t think he actually wanted me anywhere near the rest of your family, you better believe I wouldn’t have agreed. Sorry to say it, but my interest in politics is almost negative, so it would take either a huge stack of credits or the word of someone I trust to get me at the Palace at all.”

Did he actually just say all that? In his head it hadn’t sounded that bad. It just sounded like his usual ramblings. But actually saying it out loud…

The Empress clutched a delicate goblet in her gloved hand. It was filled with wine, and she took a long drink out of it before setting it down and smiling at Han. “You know, Captain Solo,” she said as the glass delicately took its place atop a coaster on the end table. Han tried not to stare at the motion, or at her, or anywhere. Things were always awkward around her. "I had my doubts, but I am beginning to see what Luke sees in you. I am glad he has you." Han breathed a sigh of relief. Then the Empress had to add, "Of course, my husband does not share this response."

“Well, Majesty, can’t say I expected him to.” Han hadn’t noticed, but a droid had placed a full tumbler of Correllian Whisky next to him, and he was quick to take a swig of it before he continued. “Can’t say I expected any of you to like me at all, to be honest. Still not sure if that daughter of yours is all that sold on me, either.”

Bright peals of laughter echoed through the chamber. There was genuine joy and amusement in the Empress’ expression, and it was enough to make her seem purely human. It was likely a side of her that only the closest and most intimate of associates would see from someone so regal. He’d seen the holos. The whole galaxy had. She was gentle yet stoic, kind yet solemn, genuine yet guarded… She was what you would expect a beloved Empress to be. But this – this seemed to be who she really was, and an unexpected warmth bloomed in Han’s chest at experiencing it. Maybe… maybe he wasn’t so doomed here, after all, if he’d won over the most powerful woman in the galaxy.

Maybe he’d have a chance at winning over the old man…

“My dear captain, you do understand my children well, I must say.” The light remained in her eyes, and Han could practically feel the tension in his shoulders unwind – though, that could very well be the whisky’s work. “Winning over Leia is no easy feat, but I think you have a better chance than most. She worries for her brother. And I assure you, it isn’t personal.” Clever woman, using his own defense against him. “You took her brother’s attention and caused him to be away from her. She was worried sick and missed her twin. It is not your fault – my son has always been reckless and acts of his own accord – but she resented you before she even knew who you were. Please be patient. Luke adores you. She will come to accept you no matter what. Even if she does not choose to show it.”

Han finished the last of his whisky, grimacing a bit at the thought of the princess. She resembled her mother a fair bit and had been seen in public with the Empress more often than Luke ever had been. The twins didn’t look all that much alike, really, especially when seen separately. While together, though, the similarities shone through. Similar mannerisms, expressions, body language… and they definitely interacted like siblings. Seeing them in this capacity left no doubt in his mind that the twins were, well, twins. But the princess always seemed far more like The Princess than Luke ever did The Prince.

The Empress took another sip from her goblet and her eyes settled on the dark liquid within. “My son has always been more trusting than his sister. He has a gentle heart. I know the dangers he faces because of it. That gentle heart is far too fragile for his own good, and while I know that Luke is strong… well. We all know that Luke is strong. He is not some delicate, withering flower that will crumble to pieces with a strong gust of wind. He is trusting, though, and will offer up that most vulnerable and breakable part of himself far more readily than any of us would prefer.” She paused, emptying the contents of her glass before setting it down and meeting Han’s eyes with a piercing, imperious gaze.

“The unease my family feels around you isn’t personal, Captain Solo. Neither we nor you have any reason for it to be, correct? But our concern stems largely from Luke himself. We know his nature, and when he left Coruscant for such a prolonged period of time, we all worked ourselves into a frenzy of worry about just what harm he might bring upon himself. Physical danger concerns us, of course, our family has guards for a reason, even given our own martial prowess. But Luke’s emotional state, especially when he’d fled searching for freedom… you understand why we would be concerned, yes?”

Han just nodded, wishing he had another glass of whisky.

“My husband may not be swayed just yet. Your status as a smuggler certainly does not help, either.” She really knew how to reassure him when it came to tall, dark and terrifying… “The best way to win him over, however, is to continue as you are. Make Luke happy. That is all we desire for him, first and foremost, and the finer points of status can be discussed at a later date.”

Han met her gaze with gritted determination and nodded sharply. “I will, Your Majesty. Swear on the Falcon. I will not let the kid down.”

“Good,” she replied, humour in her voice while intensity remained in her gaze. “See that you don’t. Farewell, Captain Solo. Until next time.”

[hei-ch0u]

Oh boy. Here goes... Shingeki no Kyojin Final chapter (139) thoughts and analysis ✰

Well, where do I even begin to accumulate my thoughts on the final chapter of Shingeki no Kyojin? Even after some time to reflect and read the chapter many times, over and over - I’m still going to struggle to form this analysis. But, alas I shall try my best despite this.

I appreciate anyone who takes the time to read this and understand my own views of the final chapter. Proceed with caution - ⚠️ spoilers ahead ⚠️

This chapter and ending overall has left me with a love/hate relationship with the overall tale in full. I’d even go as far as saying it has tainted my view slightly of the entire series in one way or another and I will never look at it the same way I did - as much as I wish I could. My reasoning for the love/hate relationship I have will come, but, I want to start off by saying that despite it’s ending I will always appreciate this story and Isayama for his work, even if I myself don’t approve of his steering towards the ending.

It is just like I said in my theory, the thing we all need to recognise with this story is that the characters we love and have cherished, were never going to get exactly what they desired and if anything this chapter is a clear indication of that fact. It has been a story that was paved for a bitter, somewhat ‘bittersweet’ ending (yes, I hoped it wouldn’t be in the form of ‘that’, but it was). It is just as Mikasa said - “The world is cruel and merciless, but it is also beautiful”. This tale became the typical embodiment of humanity and how ruthless it can be.

Again, like I said in my theory, it was heavily foreshadowed that Eren was playing devil’s advocate and might have to sacrifice his freedom in this life to save the ones who meant the most to him. We heard hints in OST’s such as My War, Red Swan, Vogel Im Kafig, among others…

“Angel playing disguise with Devil’s face”

“I’ll cry for you in a dream”

“All of my kingdom, for your return, I’d let it burn!”

“Spread your wings, which are dreaded in blood”

“And eternity as you, fly to heaven”

“Like a fallen angel”

“Looking down from above I feel awful”

“Every living being dies someday, whether we are ready to die or not”

“Is that the angel who flew down from the twilight sky?”

“Is that the devil who crawled out from the crevice?”

“Tears, anger, compassion, cruelty, peace, chaos, faith, betrayal.”

It was foreshadowed, all of those things in the last example is humanity in a nutshell. The use of birds to symbolise the dead was shown on multiple occasions. Hell, even in the Levi ova, his friends are shown as 2 birds above him as he continues forward. It didn’t shock me that Eren’s soul was represented or “reincarnated” in the form of a bird - simply because birds are the most free creatures on our planet, they can fly over land, sea and maintain the air around them. Realistically, we should’ve analysed the birds presence more (it was even implied in the opening trailer for season 4. Falco awoke to a bird flying above him, we saw the bird present many times in even past seasons and don’t get me started on how many times it was present in the manga). Our Angel was Eren. He was a fallen angel - a slave to the story and what it means to be human, to feel deeply and make sacrifices. He was never a monster, just a pawn in a wicked game.

For a split moment of initial shock, I let the “judging a book by its cover” ideal kick in. After calming down and having access to proper translations, again I can’t say I love this ending or hate it - it has the bittersweet notion that was intended, but it was also lukewarm. It is not perfect by any means, there are some plot holes and loose ends that could have been tied up by extension. However, Isayama maybe intended for it to remain open for interpretation. Something of which, I’ll reveal what I personally took from the ending.

One thing I am surely certain of, is that I can hold my hands above my head and say this chapter 100% embodied my love for my favourite character - Eren Jaeger. He had such a tragic outcome, he did it all for his friends and loved ones. He was never free, not in life and partially not in death. He was a broken child, in a broken world with a broken fate of shouldering mass amounts of responsibility with no idea of how to change or control the past, present and future. To witness your best friend talking of all the things he was going to see, yet knowing you wouldn’t be there to see it yourself. To know the girl who was there for him forever and always, could never be his to cherish. He had no freedom to do so. To live the life he wanted to, he would have died anyway. If he had ran off with Mikasa, he would have damned his friends. The life he wanted was not feasible, therefore he chose to sacrifice his desires so his friends could live long lives, unlike the one he was damned to. He was a character who was torn along all sides of the coin. Torn between his desires, his duty and his self - all while experiencing memories from all angles. He was not a monster or a psychopath and I won’t let others spit on his name due to their lack of analysis and empathy. He is human. He is allowed to feel. He isn’t pathetic for wanting to live, for wanting to be with his friends or the girl he loves. He is 19. Can you really say you wouldn’t feel the same? It is natural to be frustrated at your life being ripped from under your feet at such a young age. He was damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. Look at his face in paths when he talks with Armin, he is devastated and he had no solution.

However, I do believe he will be reunited with his friends once more. After all, the scouts were reunited in death, so why shouldn’t he? His friends will not live in vain, his sacrifice will mean something. They will live their life to the fullest and find peace in life and then in death - they have Eren to thank for that. Another misconception I want to pick out of the fandom is that they did not condone genocide, they did not thank Eren for ridding the population of 80%. Armin states it as an “error”. What they did do, was acknowledge Eren’s sacrifice for them to live and that they understood it’s not what he wanted himself, but that due to unseen forces. - did he really have a choice? It is not by any means perfect, but it gives them freedom to live out with the walls - was this not Eren’s dream? To be free, not confined within the walls by Titans. He did exterminate all titans, that is one goal Eren Jaeger accomplished. We don’t know the full extent of the power of the attack titan or the founding titan, this is one of the open plot holes. Eren himself explains this, he himself has no clue and his head is a mess - is it any shock that his head is a mess? People would go crazy over less. He was a pawn in a story with no happy ending. At least not for him.

Even in the bird reincarnation theory, I hope he is happy and free. Free to roam the skies, perch upon the tallest mountains, titter along the grass banks of the world and watch over his comrades, his friends, the ones he loves deeply… The tragic protagonist I will always remember. (Especially as one who was done so dirty by his author)

There was so many routes this manga could have taken, fan theories proved this and I do think the ending could have been executed better. We were not getting a happy ending, it is not happy by all means. Those characters left have to live in the aftermath, aware of their friends sacrifice and all he had to put himself through for them to live the lives they themselves desired. My favourite quote will always be:

“Don’t pity the dead. Pity the living”

Mikasa lost her family in more ways than one, she has to live a life where she didn’t get the one person she desired more than anything, but I believe she will move on and Eren will be by her side the entire time until they are reunited in death. Levi is the same, he lost everyone and whoever his love may have been - Erwin, Hanji, Petra (who knows). Either way, he didn’t have those loved ones around in the end. But, he no longer has to fight for survival and can spend the remainder of his time resting until the day in the future he can be reunited with his comrades, friends and even kick Eren a big one, ruffle his hair, tell him its okay and tell him all the things he wanted to tell him like he said. Armin lost his best friend, he held the burden above his head that he himself killed Eren and not Mikasa. However, he has an abundance of friends, he has Annie and he can travel the world like he desired - like Mikasa, he will have Eren by his side for the remainder of his time.

Jean can meet the woman of his dreams and have the children like he desired, knowing that even in their silly quarrels - Eren was loyal to him always. Connie can have his mother back, his family and move on. Reiner can live, not die like he once desired and live on knowing of Eren’s sacrifice, that he wasn’t a monster himself. He is free from the curse, as is Annie, Pieck and Falco. The warriors have their families back. Gabi and Falco can be together unlike their comparisons, sad, but fitting. They are in Paradis, a place we never expected them to be in the end, advocating for change alongside Onyakapon looking after their elder, Levi, alongside them. On Eren’s death anniversary, it is implied they all return to his grave to be together, none of them are alone like we initially thought. Mikasa is not alone in Paradis since it is implied that Levi, Onyankapon, Gabi, Falco, Historia even… still live amidst the walls - I think it would be wasteful to assume such a strong character secludes herself after the love of her life’s death. She does not have to love another man, she can choose to live her life for herself, a long one alongside her friends. This manga has never necessarily needed to have love stories, they are implied, but not needed. For life itself is the embodiment of their freedom.

This above is the rosy way of looking at it and it’s what I personally will take from it. I overall think it is terrible writing and use of dialogue - there’s no denying it. I myself as a writer and artist would have done it differently. Isayama has created a manga with a tragic story that reveals the raw, tainted feeling of what it’s like to be human. We all want things, we all have desires…but we don’t always get them, no matter how hard we try, some will slip from our grasps. That is life, no matter the universe. Yes. But, I do think in ways Isayama did taint and obliterate Eren as a character. This I am disappointed in. It is a typical author ideal of damning his protagonist and the sad thing about being a stories protagonist - you risk being ruined due to being written so complex initially that the author loses sight of how to conclude your arc respectfully. I believe from what we have been shown, he would not have accepted his death that easily and would fight for another way. Although, I cannot blame him as I myself would have felt defeated, suicidal and depressed at learning everything he did after his contact with Historia at such a young age. Remember, how you are brought up in an already cruel world is key - he didn’t stand a chance. But alas, I still feel he would’ve fought. This Eren is not the Eren we saw the majority of the manga, but then again he did change and I feel so sorry that the Titan power had that effect on him.

This is the character development true Eren stans are enraged with. TATAKAE! Fight the attack titan, fight the founding titan, fight against your cruel fate - don’t succumb to defeat. There is always another way. I don’t accept this version of Eren, due to the development we saw built by Isayama of his character, I can’t. It leaves so many gaps among other plot reveals. I don’t see what was accomplished. Eren’s being, his life, was a ploy to keep the other characters we care about alive, but at what cost ? If I was Eren’s friend, I would go forward like he wanted me to, but I could never forget the burden he bared and what he had to go through and what he did to achieve that outcome for me. I would forever be sad. I would be living in a world much like this one, lacking in peace and serenity and above all is that not what we all desire in one way or another? He did not necessarily know the Dina titan would go for his mother, but he had to direct it away from Bertholdt since in the timeline it was not his time to die. Always remember the theory of time, one thing changed, drastically changes the outcome. He did not want civilians or people within Paradis to die, it became collateral damage and no one would be able to fight for some time because of the 80% notion. He gave them time to live, time to change things to the best of their abilities and experience all they possibly could. They became the ‘heroes’, but again, at what cost?

Now, to the plot holes and answers I feel needed to be present for the story to knit together in a better way. This will be less “paragraph” based and more pointed, since…well these things were not explained. Majority of potential foreshadowing was swept under the rug like it meant nothing to bring about the lukewarm feeling I was talking about.

The alien like hallucigenia, what exactly was its purpose? It’s reason for being? It disappeared and ceased to exist. No mention of how it came to be. Even Ymir just vanished. Everything ceased to exist and Eren himself couldn’t understand Ymir’s reasoning other than being able to witness love. This seemed to be cop out on Isayama’s part.

Historia’s pregnancy was heavily implied and emphasised on within the manga, making readers think it meant something (when a creator zones in on these things, its usually for further plot reveal) Her character development was destroyed and she deserved better. She sidelined herself and stayed away till the final moment where it is implied she and Armin will become the negotiators of a new world, all while housing tyrants (Jaegerists). Again a further implication of Shonen manga and its poor interpretation of women.

The conclusion to Ymir and Eren’s particular character arcs was shocking and this can’t be dismissed. We needed both their sides of things to explain more. It lacked real conclusion and didn’t match up to past events or character development. This chapter should have purely been an Eren POV with the ending moments of how the scouts moved on. Of course this couldn’t have been done in 1 chapter, hence the recognition that this manga needed ‘more’ and it wasn’t enough to tie it all together. Another flaw in Isayama’s writing and continuity.

The Ackermans? Don’t get me started. My theory again will entail my rage about this one. Did the Ackerman power cease to exist like the titan curse? What is their origin story? To imply the Ackerman blood concept in all its parallels and foreshadowing to not even have the 2 remaining characters from said bloodline talk about their shared experience in thorough detail is such an abysmal hole in plot. Especially with it being heavily emphasised throughout the entire manga.

I barely saw any signs of Eren being in love with Mikasa? If this was the case, then it should have been shown in the manga and emphasised like isayama did with many other things that eventually had no meaning. I always viewed their relationship as very toxic to both sides and needed amending. So for Eren to suddenly turn round and say he doesn’t want her to be with another man....I find this a very bad continuation and completely disregards how Eren has been the past 138 chapters. Why was it so hard for him to say these things even before he made contact with historia and unravelled it all? Was it the power of the attack titan preventing him?.... (below)

The attack titan and founding titan, explain how it works. Why does Eren himself not fully understand yet he embodies them? Why could he not have flipped the switch? Why could he not ask for help? Explanation is needed.

All the time loop links diminished to nothing other than Eren’s past, present and future…yet its implied in many characters even in their childhoods mentions of things they could not be aware of. How can it merely be coincidence?

I wholeheartedly believe that this was not the initial ending of Shingeki no Kyojin, specifically because I and a few others I’ve seen noticed the shift in the story around 10 or so chapters ago. It seemed to be going in the route of a few particular fan theories and then suddenly (quite drastically I’ll add) shifted into this ending. I can only theorise that Isayama changed his original ending along the way to please editors and readers in different ways. In interviews past, he has completely contradicted things he has said about the manga and its ending with what he has produced in the final chapter. When you look at it from a marketing point of view as a selling point, if Isayama had killed certain characters like “Levi” for example or left the ending dark as it possibly could have been (something I wouldn’t have put past yams to do) it would be bad from a marketing point given the likes of Levi is the targeted favourite of the series (even with being a side character) and editors would heavily warn him of this.

People are saying that it’s Isayama’s story and editors won’t have influence - you’d be heavily surprised how much the editing team can have influence, especially when a story of this magnitude becomes so popular. I do think in ways, Isayama gave up. As an artist even myself, its very abundantly clear when a fellow creative loses drive and how the concept of something becoming popular can influence you to become bored and look for a way out. Hence, the clear signs of the story coming out as rushed, its all there, the loss of continuity, the holes in plot and even though Isayama’s art can be inconsistently coherent - some parts of the past few chapters weren’t at the full potential we saw previously. We watched him get better to suddenly somehow revert? That to me seems like a creator who had just had enough and maybe in the end chose to veer off his original plan.

Alas! As I said, I will always love Shingeki no Kyojin despite its ending and loose ties, it holds a place in my heart and has been a favourite of mine since my school days. Being an adult now In her 20’s and experiencing the many troubles of what its like to be human and a creative can sympathise with the struggles and stress Isayama would have been under all these years as his manga gradually became the phenomenon it is now. As it is our favourite characters time to rest and move on, it is his also. Although the story is not where I and many others hoped it would go, I still thank him massively for giving me characters like Eren Jaeger, Levi Ackerman, Mikasa Ackerman, Armin Arlert… the list goes on. Thank you for embodying why Eren was my first and last favourite character. Goodbye Shingeki no Kyojin.

[robin-the-enby]

I've been wanting to request a Marvel one for a while now, but have just finally thought of something that I agreed on—

A oneshot with the avengers and the genderless reader celebrating their first birthday. Like where they came from, birthdays don't exist, the actual celebration and having a date of being born doesn't exist for them.

I'm also only familiar with the movies so I don't know what actually happened after Endgame— So spoilers outside that would be very appreciated if that's alright—

True meaning behind birthdays

Pairing: Avengers x gn!reader (platonic)

Summary: Reader comes from a planet where birthdays don't exist. The others decide to throw the best first birthday party ever for them.

A/N: I made this story so that it doesn't contain any spoilers. I really hope you like this, I tried my best.

Y/BD - your birthdate

Earth didn't have the best reputation among the other planets. Everyone you knew always told you it's a place not worth visiting. But that didn't stop you.

And oh wrong they all were. Sure, Earth didn't have the most impressive technology, but it compensated for it with many rich and diverse cultures. So many nationalities and religions, each celebrating their own holidays and traditions. Sure, some might say that it was impractical for so many cultures to live alongside each other, but you thought it was fascinating.

You've been on Earth for over half a year now and you already knew about many human customs, yet there was still so much more to learn, since they mingled with each other constantly, for example holidays typically celebrated in the U.S. migrated all the way to middle Europe.

However, there were some events that were celebrated by everyone. Like New Years Eve, when humans celebrated their planet's complete rotation around the Sun. Silly creatures. And the biggest catch? Different people celebrated New Years on different days!

You chuckled at the memory, focusing on your previous activity. You were relaxing in the compound's living room, since there weren't any missions that regular S.H.I.E.L.D. agents couldn't handle on their own.

You were soon joined by Tony, a very extravagant and bold man, but still a very friendly colleague of yours. He scooted over until he was sitting next to you and asked "So, how did you enjoy Nat's birthday party?"

Ah, birthdays, of course. Celebrating one's day of birth every year was something all humans did as well. The concept was very foreign to you, I mean, why would anyone celebrate being one year closer to death? Still, you could not deny that you enjoyed yourself very much.

"Are you asking just because you organized the thing?" you asked back with an arched brow. Tony looked at you as if you grew a second head "Y/N! You know I'm better than that!"

"But...did you like it?" he asked after a few moments of quiet. You laughed "Yes Tony, I really enjoyed the party." You could practically see his face light up like a Christmas tree (another thing you discovered during your time here) "Awesome! Say, when can we celebrate your birthday?"

Oh... "Uhm, well, I don't really have one..." you explained. Tony's eyes widened "What do you mean? Everybody has a birthdate!" he chuckled, but his tone was mainly confused. "Well, yes, of course I have a birthdate, but where I come from, birthdays aren't really a thing. We don't celebrate them or even really acknowledge them." you shrugged.

"Well, when is your birthday?" Tony asked. You thought for a moment, before replying "Well, we don't really divide our days the same way you humans do. You would describe someone's date of birth with the day, month and year, whereas we just describe it with the position a certain set of constellations has in the sky at that moment. You'd be surprised how accurate it is." Tony blinked a few times "Yeah, that doesn't clear it up much." You laughed again.

For the next couple of minutes you tried to explain to Tony how it all worked, using "your" constellation as an example, not knowing about the plan the genius playboy had in mind all along.

After he told you he finally understood what you meant, he promptly excused himself, saying he was actually just taking a break from something he and Bruce were working on. You said your "see you later"s and parted ways.

As Tony entered the lab, Bruce, who has been working on their project when Tony had his break, looked up to see who came in, before turning back to the machine set on the working table in front of him. "Hi Tony." he muttered "Did you enjoy your break?"

Tony walked over to his friend and leaned on the table he was working on "Yea yeah. Listen, I have an interesting idea..."

It took a lot of math and research, but after a few days, the two geniuses finally had it. They managed to convert your birthdate from your people's system to theirs and it was supposed to be on Y/BD.

Which was gonna be pretty pretty damn soon.

So they did the most logical thing. They called a secret Avengers meeting to get everyone in on the plan.

"Are you sure they even want a birthday party?" Steve asked, because the last thing he would want to is to make you uncomfortable.

"Of course, you know they like to be involved in everything." Wanda reassured him with a wave of her hand. "Still, I think we shouldn't throw a big party." Steve muttered. "I agree, it's their first birthday, we wouldn't want to overwhelm them." Vision nodded. Tony sighed and slumped in his chair dramatically "Ugh, okay then. You guys are no fun, I swear..." straightening up once again, he eyed everyone seriously "Okay, here's the plan..."

And what a plan it was. Wanda and Vision were in charge of making a birthday cake, Tony and Nat were in charge of the alcohol and your favourite drink. Thor was in charge of getting your favourite snacks, Bruce and Sam were in charge of decorating and that left Steve in charge of taking you somewhere nice until the others had everything ready.

It wouldn't have been that odd for someone from the team to ask you to hang out, but you couldn't help but notice Steve's eyes darting around almost as if in fear. He must've thought he was being sneaky, but that couldn't be further from the truth.

But once you were out of the compound, you could feel Steve relax as he took you to a restaurant that quickly became your favourite after a few weeks of staying with the Avengers.

You two had so much fun, talking about anything and everything. One thing you had in common with the captain was your love for exploring. Of course, he knew much more about Earth than you, but he still missed nearly seventy years. You two would often share your favourite music or artists you discovered, as well as movies or literature.

"What do you think about birthdays Y/N?" he asked you out of the blue. It caught you off guard a little. Just a few moments ago you were discussing if Disney was a good brand or not and now this...Especially when you discussed birthdays with Tony just a few weeks ago. Strange...

"I think it's fascinating how you humans find so many things worth celebrating. I mean, birthdays are a little hard for me to understand, why would you want to celebrate getting older? I thought that humans wanted to avoid that?"

This answer seemed to throw Steve off his rhythm for a bit. "Well, it's not really about that-" he wanted to explain, but was cut off by a buzzing sound. Steve quickly reached into his pocket, taking out his phone, the culprit guilty of disrupting your conversation, checking the text message he recieved, before putting it back and looking at you again "Sorry, Fury needs me for something. Do you mind if I drop you off and then go?"

You were a little sad that your good time had to end so soon, since you both were having so much fun, but you knew it couldn't be helped, so you just shook your head and smiled.

As you made your way back, you turned to Steve again "So, what did you want to tell me, back at the restaurant?" you tilted your head to the side.

Steve almost started talking again, but before any sound could escape his mouth, it seemed like he changed his mind "Would you believe me if I told you I really don't remember?" he chuckled awkwardly. You couldn't help but squint at him. He was acting very suspiciously... "Yeah..." you answered absentmindedly. Just what was going on?

You spent the whole journey back to the compound mulling it over in your head. Was it somebody's birthday? No, surely they would've told you if that was the case. Was it your birthday? But, nobody knew when that was. So what on Earth was going on??

You decided you were gonna confront Steve if he wasn't going o explain anything by himself. So as soon as you were about to pass the compound's living room, you quickly tugged him in, telling him you needed to talk to him before he had to go.

The room was darkened, somebody must've drawn down the blinds. That didn't matter to you in that moment, you wanted answers. Steve became a silhouette in front of you, so you couldn't see his exact expression. You looked into what you imagined were his eyes, and with the most serious look you could muster you said "Alright Steve, quit joking around. What is happening?"

But before your interrogation could progress, the blinds were drawn up and the room was suddenly bathed in light as people yelled "Happy birthday!!!"

You whirled around and saw everyone gathered in the living room, standing around the coffee table, upon which were various snacks that you grew to love during your stay here, complete with your favourite drink, and in the middle of it all sat a beautiful cake. The room was decorated with ornaments in your favourite colours and everyone had a big smile plastered in their face.

Well, you certainly did not expect that. After carefully looking around at everything, you couldn't help but laugh "So it's my birthday??" you asked, surprised.

"Wait, what did cap told you?" Tony asked, alarmed. "Well, nothing specific, but he wasn't subtle either." you smiled and looked at the now blushing Steve from the corner of your eye.

The rest of the day was great, possibly the best one you've had here. Good food, drinks and laughter all around. It warmed your heart to receive so many beautiful gifts, words couldn't express just how grateful you were. One thing still nagged in your brain though...

All of you were seated on the various sofas and armchairs around the coffee table, calmly chatting about beloved memories, exchanging funny stories and everything was heavenly peacful.

"I still can't wrap my head around why you would go throuh all the trouble for me." you shook your head, the disbelief still lingering in your mind.

"Well, that's simple. We like having you around." Tony shrugged. The others nodded. "Yeah, we appreciate having you with us. You're a great friend." Wanda added. "Celebrating birthdays is like showing gratefulness that the celebrated person is still with you." Bruce explained.

Their confessions were so heartwarming, you couldn't help but to shed a few tears. Sam, who was sitting next to you, put his arm around your shoulders, rubbing your arm comfortingly. So that's what birthdays were really about...

It was great to have friends.

[geocookie21]

Sleepwalking Adventures

Just for the record, I sleep walk and do the weirdest stuff. I usually eat/drink if I didn’t do it enough in the day, which is a strange thing to wake up too, however I woke up this morning like this. So why not throw in the Master for good luck?

Also 30°c heat. Normal heat is a big no no for me but 30°c is torture.

————————————————————————-

Day 7 of this cursed heat wave. The sunlight bleeding into the room, completely uninvited, from where the curtain hugs the fan on the window ledge. The fan itself, a futile attempt of pulling in the cool air through the open window behind the shut curtains.

You could feel the warmth of the room (warmth as in smouldering heat) before you even opened your eyes. As you drifted back into consciousness you noted a few things out of place. The first being the light in your eyelids. It was coming from a different direction than you were used too. The second, the sound of a 3rd fan that you were sure wasn’t in your room when you went to sleep. Not that you are upset about a fan being directed right in to your body. Third was your pillow, it was much higher than normal, almost a 75° angle.

You remembered gently your own tendency to do things in your sleep should you become uncomfortable. This led to your understand of the fourth noticeable difference to your morning. You were without your pyjama top. It being the 7th day of a heatwave you were glad to be without it. You could imagine how uncomfortable you must have been with it on and blessed your sleeping self accordingly.

The fifth and final thing however, was something you should have noticed immediately upon waking. In your own defence, you hadn’t opened your eyes yet and were still airing on the side of sleep. The sound of a steady breath coming from behind you would have scared you more if you hadn’t recognised the smell. Old books, faux leather, ink and a little machine oil. It smelled like the Tardis. HIS Tardis. Though you barely registered that the one and only Master was behind you as you slowly woke up.

Again, your attention was misplaced and you looked to the window, noting it was in a different place now as it was when you went to sleep. Looking around you found yourself in your bed, but your head at the opposite side of the headboard. Further half asleep inspections revealed all of your pillows and thin cooling blanket (which had gotten very warm in the night) in a pile below your head, creating the angle you had felt. You smiled at the pillow nest you woke to and inspected further. Again, you should have acknowledged the being behind you, who’s amusement was growing by the second. Instead you focused on the 3rd fan, the blissful fan that appeared in the middle of the night and you hummed in delight.

Clearly without your knowledge, The Master smiled a wide smile, knowing you were feeling more comfortable. He knows his little human hated the heat, so when he found out the week he left you at home had a scorching heatwave he came as soon as his plans allowed.

He though he was prepared for anything. His mind running through a million different scenarios on what he would find when he arrived. Ranging from the normal human action of multiple fans and thin pyjamas to more disturbing events? Such as your home being on fire.

What he was not prepared for, however, was to find his little human sleeping on a pillow nest, upside down and without a top, revealing the sleeper bra that she wore.

An amused sigh escaped him as he set to work, quietly as to not disturb you. He set up another fan in your room aimed at you so help cool you off. He set up suitable climate controls in your home so that you could change it however you liked. Completely independent from the outside temperature, the world could be on fire and burning yet your home would snow if you desired it too.

A little much perhaps, but nothing is to much for his little human. Naturally you rarely ever come here anymore, much preferring the adventures, and the temperature, that you enjoyed in the Tardis. Only the Masters plans kept you away this time. You moaned of course but did as you were asked like a good little human. Earning a pleasant reward the Master decides, then suffering in this heat only added to your efforts to keep out of his way.

Of course you could have called him, he wouldn’t have been angry, but you didn’t want to interrupt him so you stayed put. An effort that he admired and appreciated beyond belief.

Just as his finished, he felt your heart beat increase, as well as your breathing. You were waking up. He decided to lay down on your bed behind you, far enough away not to upset you with his body heat, but enough that his presence was noticeable.

Or so he thought.

He knows his little Y/N can be a little distracted at the best of times. He also knows that you take a long while to wake up in the morning. So he wasn’t truly surprised when you didn’t notice his presence immediately.

Your sleepy hum of delight at the fan was his cue to announce himself.

“Do you like it?” He laughed gently as not to shock you fully awake.

“Hehe yeah it’s nice” a soft smile on your lips

A moment passed as you released that the Master was not meant to be there, nor was he there when you went to bed last night.

“Wait what!?” You turned around wide eyed, the Master laughing at your confusion.

“Hello little one”

“What are you doing here? It’s not the weekend yet?”

Your confusion made him smile, though he’ll deny it to anyone who asks.

“I came back early. I heard about how hot it was here right now so I came back to make sure my helpless human was alright”

“Aww you care about me” your half asleep response came with a half smug smile, fully knowing that it’s true despite what he says.

“I don’t want my favourite human melting, you moan about it enough. Now I have added climate controls and made it so you can be cold no matter what” THAT woke you up. As the Master showed you how to control it and made it 5°c so that you could snuggle up to him in bliss, you reflected on how lucky you were to have him. You knew the Doctor and while she cared for you she’d just tell you to enjoy the sun while you have it. The Master on the other hand, would turn Earth into an ice planet if it would make you comfortable. And you thanked the universe for him.

“Now my adorable human, I have a question”

“Yes?”

“Why are you in a nest of pillows?”

Let’s just say you couldn’t answer for a long while from laughing.