#again though if you have reasons you’re unable to go to the theater then this post isn’t meant for you feel free to scroll on

[lylahammar]

“I would go but it’s too expensive” maybe I’m nuts galore but what if we all canceled our subscriptions to streaming services and used that money for going to the cinema instead (and live shows too I see yall mentioning those and I absolutely agree). And then just pirate everything else idk just a wild wacky thought

idk if this is a boomer take but I think ppl should make more of an effort to go see movies in theaters bc I couldn’t bear it if the movie theater industry went down and the only way to watch movies was through streaming I’m not strong enough

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Since Vincent and Calem have already gotten things, how about Randy x male reader? Perhaps reader was supposed to work out the machinery around the theater or something. Reader later ends up as a night guard at Candy's and encounters RAT once again. I assume they kept this a secret since it was the 60s or something.

Ever since Rat's malfunction that ended up hurting a kid, somebody had to be called in to make sure future incidents like that didn't happen again.

Soon you came into the picture: a young man fresh out of college with an engineering degree.

Turns out you got more than you bargained for--as suddenly technical problems sprung up left and right in the low-budget theater, so you were showed how to fix them all.

Nothing was too difficult, but it's all such tedious work.

Your favorite form of work was animatronic maintenance, where you fixed up Rat and Cat (though Rat was your favorite out of the two).

Randy met you first day on the job and personally showed you how the characters functioned as suits and animatronics.

He shares a special connection with Rat, so when the latter needs repairing he’s gonna watch you work (even when he’s on break).

You struck up a friendship with him, though his alcoholism and ego are both rather off-putting.

He offers you a beer while shining Rat’s teeth and you look at him like he's stupid.

"What? It helps me give him a goofy voice and the kids love it!"

You’re concerned about why he feels the need to get plastered in order to put on a convincing act for children.

But you just go back to work. Maybe he’s got a rough home life and this place was his escape. You couldn’t judge.

Fast-forward to when the theater is shutdown and you receive a notice of termination along with your final paycheck. The reason was apparently due to a “plethora of health and safety violations” but that was extremely vague.

It’s a shame, you thought Randy was a cool guy. You hoped he got help somewhere, though you haven’t seen him around town at all.

Years later more restaurants themed around animatronics pop up and you worked at a few of them, but you never stayed long at Freddy’s.

It felt like they were trying to copy R&CT. Nothing would ever have the charm like that place once did.

So when you learned Candy’s Burgers & Fries was opening up, you were psyched to see the company spring up in ads again and applied immediately.

Unfortunately all the dayshift/mechanic positions were full, and you ended up taking on the nightshift as a guard.

Just watching animatronics for a week didn’t seem so bad. But they had some glitch that made them quite aggressive.

Besides that, it wasn’t too bad...until the 5th night.

You see Rat--or at least you think you did--hiding in the shadows, though you’re too distracted by the other animatronics to really pay attention.

Later in the night, you hear the sound of whirring machinery and think it’s Old Candy, but the raspy call of your name definitely didn’t sound like him.

So you shine your flashlight and see none other than Rat himself...your old friend.

“Randy..?”

His head twitches, and he leans into the office to look at you. 

Bringing the light up to his face, you were shocked to find that in his eyesockets were...

Glowing human eyes. Glazed-over and lifeless.

In that moment you connect the dots. He wasn’t glitching like the others, and he was a wire animatronic that shouldn’t be able to move from room to room on his own. 

Not to mention the awful smell coming from him that none of the others had..

So there was only one other possible explanation.

“Have you...been stuck in that suit all these years?” You ask. “What happened to the theater that day?”

Apparently that was a touchy subject.

Rat’s twitching gets more violent as he lashes out at you, scratching your arm, but you manage to flee from your office and evade the other animatronics, escaping the restaurant just as 6 AM arrives.

You see Rat claw at the door, unable to leave, though you could tell from the way his shoulders slumped that he regretted hurting you.

For a moment you thought you saw oil leaking from his eyesockets, but you just left, needing to treat your wound.

You wondered what you were going to do now.

Was that...really him?

[pikablu410]

Study Session

“Thursday at 12 sound good?” The text read

“Yeah, that works for me.” He had text back.

David took a deep breath then sighed. What had he gotten himself into? He was going on a date with a girl he met on Tinder later that day. Thankfully the date was at 6, so he had enough time to get ready before then. All he had to do now was…

“Great, you’re here! You ready to study some organic chemistry?” A painfully cheerful voice nearly shouted at him.

“Yeah, let’s get this over with.” David mumbled to himself. He didn’t even need to study for this class. Why did Steven even ask to form a study group with him? Neither of them were struggling with the materials, and David was pretty sure they both had A’s in the class. Maybe it was just because Steven wanted friends and they were both the only freshmen in their class. David wasn’t against making new friends, but Steven was just...odd. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something about Steven didn’t sit right with him.

“Alright, I’ll go get some water and snacks. You can sit down anywhere and I’ll be right back.” Steven said. David was so lost in his own thoughts he hadn’t realized he was in Steven’s room now. Freshmen were required to live on campus, but the dorms were pretty nice for a college campus. In their particular dormitory the rooms were more like apartments. Each one had a living room with a small kitchen in the middle and two bedrooms off to the sides, each with their own bathroom and enough space for two beds. 

David decided to sit down while Steven was out of the room. There were a few posters of video games and various knicknacks on the desk; a pencil sharpener, a desk lamp, a little stand-up figure, but overall the room was pretty bland given Steven’s boisterous personality.

“Alright, let’s get studying!” David heard, turning around to see Steven carrying 2 bags of chips and at least 4 water bottles. How long was he planning to study for? Steven then sat down, got out a notebook, some papers from class their professor had given them, and a few pencils. 

“If you need some materials don’t hesitate to ask. I’m here if you need anything.” Steven said. It felt weird, like Steven was trying to be really personal with him. David couldn’t put his finger on the word, but that was why he was so distant around Steven. He just pulled out his notebook and a pencil and started writing.

After some minutes of studying, David heard some sort of distorted noise. He looked down and realized it was his stomach growling. 

“Are you hungry? I got the chips out for a reason.” Steven said, pushing the bag towards David.

“I guess I am. I thought I had eaten enough before coming here.” David said, opening the bag of corn chips and taking a few out. For whatever reason, David was starting to feel starved. 

“Maybe just eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich wasn’t enough.” David reasoned to himself as he took another handful of chips. He hadn’t noticed it, but half the bag was gone just from him alone. Steven hadn’t eaten a single chip.

“I like your shirt. It goes well with your, uh, jeans.” Steven tried making conversation, pointing towards David’s plaid button-up shirt. 

“Thanks.” David simply said, grabbing another handful of chips. He had moved onto the second bag without noticing. Steven hadn’t said anything about it, just continuing to go over the content.

After about an hour of studying, David was ready to head off and prepare for his date. It was five hours away, but anything would be better than this marching through the swamp of organic chemistry. He was just looking for an excuse, for Steven to stop talking about resonance structures and ethyl substituents. Just thinking of the words made him feel ill.

However, as Steven was talking, he put his left arm around David’s back, like a cliche couple would in a movie theater. He was about to shrug it off with his arm, but he couldn’t get it to move. It was like his arm was paralyzed. David then noticed an aching sensation in his groin. He could feel his cock stiffening in his boxers, and even against the fabric of his jeans. Was he getting turned on by Steven flirting with him?

David looked over at Steven, the sensation in his pants only intensifying as he did. When had Steven looked so cute? David couldn’t take his eyes off of the boy, just listening to him ramble about some molecule they were working on. As Steven was talking, David couldn’t help but let out a moan. Steven looked surprised at first, but then a smile grew on his face. Then, Steven put his pencil down and took his hands to David’s jeans, slowly pulling them and his boxers down until David’s throbbing cock was released. It looked like it would cum just from a slight touch. “Shh, just let it happen.” Steven whispered into David’s ear. Then, he started jerking David off. David’s moans grew louder and louder, but he was trying not to cum. He had to hold on to his glasses to keep them on his face. The sane part of him knew this was wrong, that he didn’t actually like Steven like this. But as more and more doubts entered his mind, the harder it was to actually hold back.

“Just let it out. You know you want to.” Steven urged. David couldn’t take it anymore, busting his load right in Steven’s hand. Ropes of white goo burst up in the air, covering Steven’s hand, David’s legs and a bit of his jeans. He hated to admit it, but that was probably the best handjob David had gotten in his entire life. Steven got a tissue and cleaned up his hand as well as the resulting mess on David. David was just sitting back, still unable to believe that just happened.

As Steven finished cleaning up, he said, “You sound hungry. Why don’t we take a break to eat.” Steven then got up and went to the kitchen, David finding it hard not to follow. He wasn’t hungry, was he? A rumbling in David’s stomach proved that wrong, but for some reason this felt off to him. Why was he listening to Steven so intently?

The smell of parmesan and fried meat stopped David’s thoughts, realizing he was now sitting at the table near the kitchen. In front of him sat a plate of fried chicken and a separate plate of lasagna. David was hesitant to take a bite, but his growling stomach was urging him to consume.

“Don’t be shy. I made it all for you.” Steven sweetly said, pouring David a soda to drink.

David knew this was wrong. Part of his mind was screaming for him to get up and leave before this got worse. He felt so helpless and trapped, confused as to why he was doing what he was doing. 

But the larger part of David’s brain wanted to eat, and that’s exactly what he did. Grabbing a huge forkful of lasagna, David stuffed himself with the cheesy, meat-filled pasta. He moaned as he swallowed the dish, immediately going back for another bite.

“This is really good!” David nearly moaned out as he took his third bite within ten seconds of the last two. 

Steven smiled and sat down next to David, who took a large bite out of the fried chicken. It too was delicious, as if the meat fell right off the bone. He didn’t notice it, but as David ate pasta sauce and grease covered the edges of his mouth. The food was just too good to resist. So he kept eating.

And eating.

And eating.

And- how long had he been eating this lasagna and fried chicken? He must’ve been at least close to finishing by now. So why did the plates still look like they were full of food? Steven must’ve gotten up to get more, David reasoned to himself. But part of him knew something wasn’t right about this. He was too busy eating to question Steven though.

As David sat back to take a breather, he let out a huge burp. He had been drinking so much soda he hadn’t noticed how gassy he felt. David then felt a hand on his stomach, looking over to see Steven rubbing it.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you, just keep eating.” He seductively cooed.

At hearing this, David looked down to see he was now sporting a gut. He could see stretches of skin peek through his button-up, the buttons near his belly struggling to hold on. David was disgusted and wanted to get up, but he felt a familiar feeling that prevented him from leaving. 

“No, I can’t be hard again. This can’t be turning me on. I just came. I hate being fat. Why am I so hard?!” David’s mind was racing. He couldn’t help himself. He wanted so badly to leave or just wake up and leave this nightmare behind him. However, he just sat back and let Steven rub his now bulbous gut.

“It’s okay. You can let it out. You don’t have to worry with me around.” Steven once again cooed,

“You should eat. I don’t want you to go hungry.” He added on, and quickly after David was stuffing his face with more greasy chicken and lasagna. 

David’s mind was once again fighting a losing battle. Steven’s charm and the food was just too much for David to handle, and he was further plunged into gluttony against his own will.

As David took another huge mouthful of lasagna, he heard a “ping!” sound before his belly jiggled for a few seconds. The feeling was enough to push David over the edge and he came in his pants, moaning loudly as he did so. David’s mind was so overwhelmed with pleasure he was unable to think straight.

Once his mind had cleared, David had forgotten what he was worrying about. He rubbed his gut as he looked over at the empty plates that once held lasagna and fried chicken on them.

“Thanks for the meal, Steven. You know I love to eat.” David joked as he jiggled his belly a bit. It wasn’t that he wanted to be chubby, but that was just a side effect of eating so much. That didn’t stop him, though. Food was just too good to resist.

“You’re welcome. I still have more if you want.” Steven offered.

David thought for a second before impulsively saying, “Sure, why not?” It wouldn’t mess with his diet that much. Again, not like he cared. Part of him wanted to care, but it was becoming easier and easier for David to shake that worry off. If he wanted to eat, who was he to stop himself?

Steven brought a multilayered cake to the table, as well as a box of donuts, and David was already feeling himself drool at the mere sight. A milkshake was also place in front of him, instead of the soda he had before.

“If you want more, or anything different, just tell me. I’m happy to oblige.” Steven said with a smile on his face. David loved that smile. He wished he could ask Steven out...wait, no he didn’t. He had a date with a girl sometime this week. At least David thought it was sometime this week. His mind was foggy, probably from all the studying and eating. A quick nap when he got back to his room would fix that, David assured himself.

The food in front of him would have to do for now, David reassured himself. And with that he grabbed a donut, taking a huge bite out of the treat. He quickly learned they were filled with cream, which only added to the taste and pleasure of eating them. Licking the cream off his face, David grabbed another donut immediately after finishing his first. Then, he took a slice of cake, grabbing another just to satisfy himself.

As David ate, he thought he heard a noise below him. Like a noise you would hear in an old house. Leaning back to take a break, David confirmed that he was hearing creaks below him. Looking down, David noticed a larger belly than before. It swelled out into his lap, rising and falling with each deep breath he took. David counted 2 rolls that were apart of his gut, a gut that nearly reached his knees. He noticed two more missing buttons on his shirt; evidence that he actually had grown that large. That wasn’t the only result of his growth, as David could feel cool air on parts of his thighs. Sure enough when David looked at his legs, the seams of his jeans had torn to reveal flab that was stretching the fabric tight. In fact, David wasn’t even sure his jeans were covering his rear anymore, his underwear working overtime to obscure his nudity. 

At first, panic arose in David’s stomach. He didn’t want to get fatter, thinking others would be repulsed by him. For the first time at Steven’s, it seemed like David’s mind was fighting back and winning. David tried to stand up, but he didn’t realize how much energy that would take; energy he didn’t have. 

David was about to try getting up again, after a few seconds of catching his breath, but suddenly a sweet smell ran through his nostrils. In front of him a donut was being held. It was on the same level as his mouth, as if it were destined to be consumed by him. Unable to resist the smell, and the taste, David opened his mouth and devoured the pastry.

“That’s good. Keep it up. Just relax and eat.” Steven said, holding another donut for David to eat. He was now losing the battle, just as he thought there was a turnabout. He felt a hand on his gut, realizing that Steven was now massaging his belly and feeding him at the same time. David didn’t want to get up now. This was too good of an opportunity to miss. And the opportunity only got better as David felt a familiar sensation below his gut. 

The big guy started to moan, the taste of the food and Steven’s treatment of his stomach creating a pleasure previously unknown to him. Another donut, more moaning. Another donut, it got even louder. Steven had to move on to feeding David handfuls of cake. Icing got around his lips, lips that moaned even more frequently in pleasure. David was desperately trying to reach under his stomach to relieve himself, but he was struggling both due to his stomach and the resistance in his mind. He knew this would be submitting to something he’s not, but why was it so hard to resist then?

Another ping echoed throughout the room. David realized there was only one more button holding his shirt together. The last resistance.

“Why are you resisting something that makes you so happy? Admit it. You love to eat. You love growing fatter, and being fat.” Steven quietly pressured into David’s ear. 

David was holding back from moaning and let out an exasperated, “No…”

“Aww, it’s alright. You’ll change your mind soon. It’s so much better to let go than resist. Just give in.” Steven cooed again, his hand moving lower down David’s stomach. David knew what came next. He wanted to stand up and run out of there, but he felt too heavy to even move from the chair. 

David tried to say something to stop Steven, but another handful of cake stopped him. The taste clouded his train of thought, unable to resist for a few seconds. Soon after, he felt a touch on his dick, realizing it was too late to leave now. Now David let out a loud moan, his dick feeling especially sensitive to Steven’s touch.

“No...no more…” David panted out as he was jerked off.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you that well. It sounded like you said ‘more’?” Steven asked as he let David demolish another donut. David let out a moan, struggling to keep himself together.

“M...more. I...want...more…” David panted, desperate for food. His mind had all but given up now.

“That’s what I thought.” Steven whispered as he fed David another handful of cake.

Steven then held up the milkshake to David’s mouth and had him chug the creamy drink. Despite drinking from it frequently, it still felt like it was full when David was drinking it. David could feel the last button on his shirt slowly start to come undone, and sure enough he heard another ping as he finished the milkshake. Shortly after, David let loose and came from the pleasure of growing and Steven teasing his cock. Moaning louder and longer than he had all day, David covered the bottom of his belly in his sticky goo, Steven backing off to clean his hand. 

Again, David couldn’t remember what had just happened a few seconds ago. All he remembered was immense pleasure, and, after seeing two empty plates, he attributed it to that.

“Thanks for the food, Steven. And thanks for helping me gain, I don’t really have anyone else this supportive of me.” David said as he jiggled his gut. It covered his thick thighs and poured off to the sides of them a bit. His moobs were the size of porn star’s pair of breasts, and they were starting to go under his thick arms. As David felt his belly, he realized his jeans had torn off, and he could barely feel his underwear on his ass. Despite all this, David didn’t seem to mind. He seemed more relaxed and laid back than ever before.

“What are you up to now?” Steven asked, still in the kitchen.

“I actually just recently got past 600 pounds.” David said proudly.

“Nice! I think that calls for some celebration.” Steven said, pulling something out of the oven.

A few seconds later, Steven placed a deluxe, meat lover’s pizza right in front of David. The pizza took up at least three quarters of the table, and if David had to actually guess it looked to be 18 inches across. There were mushrooms, pepperonis, pieces of ground beef and tons of cheese. Steven then set down a glass of beer next to David’s plate.

“We can have a bit of fun because of this, can’t we?” Steven offered, but David didn’t need much convincing.

The big guy immediately tore a slice of the pizza off, downing half of it only to quickly follow up with a chug of beer. Steven knew David loved beer. He did love beer, right? His mind was too cloudy to remember. But as he chugged more, David let out a big belch. It surprised him at first, but David went back for another swig only to let out another belch. Steven refilled David’s glass as he went back for more pizza.

Cheese and sauce got all over his mouth and chubby cheeks. Some of it also dripped down onto his stomach, and of course it got all over his hands. David decided to lick his lips and clean up his face, but he was a little confused when he felt a bit of stubble on his face. Licking his chubby fingers off, David felt his face to in fact touch stubble on his chins, cheeks and upper lip. It was like he was growing a goatee, but David was confused as to how that happened. He was usually clean shaven, so this wasn’t there this morning. As David went to get the cheese that dripped onto his gut, he noticed that was hairier too. It was just some fuzz, but there was definitely hair growing on his chest and belly, it being more and more prevalent as he approached his crotch.

David was confused, but a slice of pizza being shoved into his mouth snapped him out of his haze. He happily ate the pizza Steven had fed him, as well as the beer Steve had him chug. David felt lucky to have such a cute friend who was willing to find him. He just wished he had the confidence to ask him out. Unfortunately, as he thought that, David let out a massive fart from his rear.

“S-sorry.” He stuttered as he went back to devouring slices of pizza.

“Don’t be. You probably liked it anyways.” Steven chuckled, getting up to refill David’s beer again.

As he thought about what Steven had said, David started to realize that Steven was right. David let out a belch, and he got immense pleasure from it. Exploding from his rear gave the same effect. Feeling his body jiggle from the vibrations, the power he felt from it and just the overall feeling made David very happy. That was one of the reasons he loved beer. It always made him gassy, and he was glad Steven didn’t seem to mind.

Going back to reach for more pizza, and more beer to drink, David continued to eat. He didn’t bother to think about how the entire pizza should’ve been gone by now, just wanting to consume the cheesy goodness. David didn’t hear the creaking emanating beneath him, too busy devouring everything placed in front of him. As he went to scoop up some cheese that fell onto his chest, the chair finally snapped and sent David to the ground. His body jiggled for nearly a minute after the shock, David letting out a huge fart to continue the sensational feeling. All the wriggling had turned David on and he could feel his dick start to grow hard just from the feeling of his body moving so.

Looking down at his body to get the cheese and sauce that fell there, David realized he had grown bigger. His stomach was pooling onto the ground, off of the sides of his thighs. And his thighs felt pretty wide, being twice as wide as a thin person’s waist. He couldn’t feel his underwear anymore, and he assumed it snapped off while he was eating. His tits felt like they were drooping off to the sides as well, and when David grabbed them he felt that his nipples were a lot more sensitive than before. If he wasn’t hard before, he definitely was now.

That wasn’t the only change, as David saw that his stomach was now covered in hairy fur. It was particularly noticeable in between his moobs, around his deepened belly button and towards the bottom of his belly, near his dick. David knew he was never this hairy, but for some reason it felt right, like it was normal. Feeling his face, David discovered that what had just been stubble before was now a full on goatee. It covered his other, fatty chins too, resulting in most of the goatee emphasizing the beard, but David was more worried about why it was there than how it looked. As David further felt his face, he realized there were bits of sauce and cheese stuck in his goatee. Instinctually, he licked around his lips to eat them, the foreign texture of his face sending surprising chills of pleasure down his spine.

“Steven! I need help!” David said, struggling to stand up. He hadn’t realized how fat he had gotten.

“What is- Oh! That was what that noise was. Congratulations on getting big enough to break something under your fat ass!” Steven cheerily said, as if David wasn’t a complete mess.

“S-Steven…” David panted, “I think I got too big. I have to be at least 800 pounds right now, and I don’t know how I got so b-big so fast. Plus, I’m all h-hairy!” Whenever he tried to get up by himself, David had to catch his breath. Steven kneeled down next to the fatty and started to rub his hairier belly. David let out a fart and started to realize what was happening, but he was too big to do anything about it.

“Don’t worry. This is what you really want. Just relax and I’ll take care of it.” Steven hypnotically said, bringing himself closer and closer to David. David knew what was going on, but it was too late now. He was never this fat, nor hairy, nor gassy. He never wanted this...or did he? His mind was in conflict. He couldn’t remember himself as anything other than a fat, hairy slob, so why was his mind fighting that reality?

“Shh, just let me take care of it and we’ll be alright.” Steven whispered as he kissed David on the lips, pushing his tongue inside the slob’s mouth. David was surprised at first, but he couldn’t help himself but to reciprocate. Feeling his tongue in Steven’s mouth set something off in him, and he no longer wanted to resist. He was Steven’s big fatty, and Steven was his feeder. They loved each other, and took care of each other. As they kissed, David came under his belly, now submitting to this reality.

As they separated, David let out a deep, long belch. Both chuckled, Steven going back to rub David’s hairy belly afterwards.

“Glad I wasn’t in your mouth for that one.” Steven joked, but David just took pride in his gassiness. They both loved it, so why should he be so ashamed?

“Can you help me up now? I-I really can’t do much on the ground here.” David joked, struggling to push himself off the ground again. Steven just giggled and helped David off the ground, grabbing him by his love handles and slowly heaving the blob up.

“I wanna do one last thing.” Steven said, winking and slowly helping David waddle to his bedroom. David was already getting excited again. He didn’t think about how he was already getting hard again, or how he had already came so many times today. He just wanted to get in bed with Steven.

However, the short walk from the kitchen to Steven’s bed had tired him out, David’s body now covered in sweat from the exertion of so much force and energy. As he sat down on Steven’s bed, the frame letting out a screeching creak in protest, he rubbed his gut to feel the sweat hair move around from his hand. The feeling didn’t feel new, and it turned him on since reminded him of how much of a slob he was.

“Alright, you know what to do.” Steven said, and as if by second-nature, David leaned on his stomach, sticking his fat ass out as he laid there. Steven smiled, stripping himself before getting behind David. 

“Time to have you finally submit to being my fat piggy.” Steven said before plunging himself into David’s rear. David let out a loud moan, new images flashing through his mind. He imagined himself as a skinny guy, but it quickly faded from his memory. He saw images of himself making out with girls, and dressing up for dates with them. Those too, faded. They were replaced by images of David, butt naked, plunging his face into a wedding cake. Of going out to fast food restaurants and clearing the places out. Of getting drunk, growing fatter, and pigging out at parties in high school.

“Admit it!” Steven shouted, which snapped David out of his trance. “Admit that you’re my fat pig!” Steven shouted again. 

Moaning from all that was racing through his mind, David nearly fell into the pool of sweat beneath him.

“I’m…” David moaned out, trying to focus within all the pleasure, “I’m…a fat...piggy…” Letting out another, gargantuan moan, David came for the fifth time that day before collapsing on the bed. Steven got off the bed and went back out to the kitchen.

“I’m...yours...” David admitted before letting out a huge fart, then a belch. He was Steven’s fat piggy, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

But something still bothered him. Wasn’t he supposed to do something with Steven? Another belch removed that thought from his head, David passing out from exhaustion until his next meal.

[weuschoiceheart]

⋘I-Land (OT9) / Enhypen⋙ Love, I-Land

A special collection of stories, for a special group of boys...Happy anniversary to eggies, it’s been a year since I-Land announced the first batch of trainees, a year since we all dive into this roller coaster ride of a show.

~ Inspired by Taylor Swift’s love songs ~

Tagging: @mari-kigold @akira-star @affectionaterainoflove @enhypenthusiast @periwinkle-ink

Warning: suggestive in K’s part (just a brief makeout session), angsty in some parts BUT there’s fluff to make up for it, cursing (literally all my works have curse words in them, I can’t write without making the characters curse at least once lmao)

Word Count: 6k+

K - Wildest Dreams ; passionate love

You didn’t know how you two ended up like this.

It was just a simple school project, and you’ve told yourself it was going to be nothing more than that. That's what you kept repeating in your head, over and over again as you called him over. Yet in your heart, you knew you just wanted him all over you again, even if it’s just temporary, even though you knew it would tear you apart.  

Nothing lasts forever...but this is gonna take me down.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

You shouldn’t be making out with the school’s enigma, you shouldn’t have invited him to your house in the first place, knowing it would end up like this, with your lips latched onto his. You shouldn’t be reciprocating the kiss, his mouth hot against yours, one hand tangled in your shirt to bring you ever closer, the other wrapped tight around your waist that you knew it would leave bruises. And most of all, you shouldn’t be enjoying this as his lips moved down your neck, his warm breath tickling your sweet spot, tongue flicking over your collarbone.

Because you knew this moment would be your last, before he disappears and leaves you with a gaping hole in your heart.

K finally pulls away, panting slightly as he tilts his head, a cute gesture that doesn’t match the smirk on his face. “Your lips are so red.”

Bringing a hand up to touch them, you knew they were swollen from the amount of times he bit and nipped at them. Your eyes flicked to his, before looking away. “Well, so are yours.”

K studied you for a bit, his gaze searching, making you feel suddenly small under his glare. What is he thinking? After a moment, he lets go of you, standing up and straightening out his shirt. “I’m going to go. See you tomorrow.”

And suddenly, you felt that panicky feeling in your chest again, and the fear came rushing back. You don’t know if you’ll see him tomorrow, or ever again. Those were just casual words, something to say instead of “goodbye,” because some part of you, maybe it was just wishful thinking, hopes he feels the same. But K isn’t like that. He’s like the autumn breeze that comes and goes, before sending your life into winter without his presence. He never abides by the rules, and floats in that gray area in between, where your relationship with him also lies.

You knew what you were getting into when you kissed him on the rooftop that day, knew that it would only cause you pain. You don’t want your time with him, all these passionate moments of love, to disappear until you can only recall them in your wildest dreams.

Your body reacts before you can think, grabbing his arm as he turned to the door. He stiffened in your grasp, but didn’t make an effort to break away.

“Stay, please.” You mentally curse your voice for sounding so weak, the hand on his arm trembling.

K turned around to face you again, his cold, calculating eyes softening as they met your uncertain ones. His arm finally relaxed, and he sat down again.

“Alright.”

Heeseung - Superstar ; idol love

“I swear to god, why aren’t they picking up?” you tapped your phone in frustration, frowning. As if on cue, a message lit up your screen, and you opened it, curious to see the reason behind your friend’s unresponsiveness.

Sorry, I won’t be able to make it to the concert. I’m working on a project with K.

“K, huh?” you shook your head at your friend’s words. “Aren’t they afraid that he’ll break their heart? Project, my ass.”

Sighing, you pocketed your phone. There’s not much you can do to convince them that their relationship with K was only going to hurt them, but you couldn’t stop the two from having their hands all over each other, ever since your friend came to you screeching about their first kiss on the school rooftop. Like some romantic K-drama where a bad boy falls for the good girl.

Well, not like your love life is any better....

You shook your head, deciding to push these thoughts out of your head and go enjoy your school’s spring concert by yourself. At least you’ll be able to stare at Heeseung all you want without your friend teasing you.

A small twinge of sadness echoed in your chest at the thought of Heeseung, but you quickly pushed that out of your mind. You weren’t here just for him, of course. Youngbin and Geonu were doing a duet, Seon had a sexy solo that he’s been bragging about for weeks, and Nicholas, Jaeho, and the rest of their dance team prepared a special stage as well. So no, as much as you like spending most of the time ogling Heeseung, you were there to support your friends, have a good time off from your studies, and ignoring these annoying fangirls that always surround him—

Yeah, right. You knew it all circles back to Heeseung eventually.

Kicking at some pebbles on the ground, you sighed and realized that the guards were about to close the entrance doors soon. Joining the queue of parents and students, you handed your ticket to the theater teacher (who fixed you with a scrutinizing stare, perhaps remembering you as that problematic theater student she took under her wing a few years ago) and entered the auditorium. The lights dimmed, and the show began. 

You screamed yourself hoarse during the performances, cheering on your friends (turns out Seon’s performance did live up to the epic stage he was talking about, you saw the girls—and some boys—practically drooling), and the thought of Heeseung left your mind. Until the final encore, that is, when he and Geonu took center stage to cover “Butterfly” by BTS.

Your eyes widened as he started singing, heart racing a million miles per hour. A smile unconsciously made its way onto your face, and your breath caught in your throat as his eyes flickered over the audience. As if reading your mind, they landed on you, leaving you breathless. Please notice me...oh my god, his eyes are so pretty....

“Did you see that? He made eye contact with me!” the girl beside you squealed, and the moment was gone. The smile wiped off your face, and you turned to her, seeing her beaming at the same boy you were looking at before. Your gaze broke away to scan the masses of people staring at the boys on stage with love-struck expressions on their faces, and suddenly you just feel...alone. Some part of your heart broke, and it was like reality struck you across your face.

You were just another wide-eyed fan desperately in love with a superstar who doesn’t even know your name.

That revelation followed you outside after the concert ended, and as if the weather understands your thoughts, it had started pouring outside. Rummaging around in your bag, only to come up empty, you gulped down your tears and resolved to walk home without an umbrella. Damn it, you should’ve come prepared!

Well, you can’t really prepare for heartbreak, can you?

You hadn’t gone two paces however, when you felt something opening up above you, and turning, you almost had a heart attack upon seeing Heeseung standing beside you. He held an umbrella over you both, his eyes darting from you to the ground, a small blush painted across his cheeks. He seemed fidgety, unlike the confident boy on stage moments ago, and you’re left speechless. An awkward silence passed between you two, before he cleared his throat.

“You’re really cute—I mean, you’re Y/N from my research class, right?” You nodded, internally screaming at the fact that he just called you cute. “I...I, um, I saw you didn’t have an umbrella and it’s really pouring out here, so uh-” he laughed nervously, a small grin forming on his lips as he stared at you expectedly. “Do you want to share?”

Jake - Fearless ; first love

“Bleh, sappy couples,” you shook your head, wrinkling your nose at the scene in front of you. Then again, everyone basically called you and Jake a sappy couple, so you really shouldn’t be saying anything.

Speaking of Jake, you caught him running down the road towards you, his umbrella jostling over his head. Laughing to yourself, you watched as the umbrella caught on another, then got tangled in a whole mess of umbrellas. Jake quickly disentangled his from the rest, apologizing profusely to the party of concert-goers who only shook their heads and motioned for him to go. Giving them a slight nod, he ran up to you, thankfully with no further mishaps, stumbling to a stop in front of you.

“Hi,” he said breathlessly, beaming at you. You swear every time you look at him, it was like falling for him all over again. Despite the cold and the rain, the feeling spread all over you and you felt suddenly warm and fuzzy.

“Let’s go.” You grabbed his hand, and he tucked you under the umbrella, arm wrapped around your waist. The two of you began walking home. “How was the concert?”

“Amazing, though I still wish you got to perform,” you snuggled up to his side, unable to keep a smile off your face. Jake sighed, somewhat regretfully.

“You know I have to work overtime this week, or I won’t be able to pay the rent for the apartment.”

“I know, I know.” You turned to him, eyeing the dark bags under his eyes. “You look exhausted....hey, you should’ve gone home to rest, not come out in the rain to pick me up. You can catch a cold—”

“I don’t want you to walk home by yourself after dark, it’s too dangerous,” Jake interrupted. He grinned at you, and you felt like your heart was gonna melt. Is this what love feels like? Then I’m glad that he’s my first.

The two of you were almost home, when you realized that you were approaching the abandoned parking lot near your house. An idea struck you then, and you suddenly grabbed Jake’s hand, startling him out of his rant about the shitty customer at the cafe.

“Come on, let’s dance in the rain.”

“Huh?” Jake’s eyebrows knit into a frown. “Weren’t you worried about catching a cold a few minutes ago?”

You shook your head, a cheeky grin on your face. Your heartbeat quickened, a shot of adrenaline rushing through you. You weren’t usually like this, but you thought back to the shows you watched, and well, first love means trying something new, right? “The rain is letting up Jake, we’ll be fine. Please?”

A flicker of doubt crossed his face, and you thought he was going to say no, before he nodded and closed the umbrella. You let out a gasp as the cool drops hit your face, and a loud squeal when Jake grabbed your hand and twirled you around the parking lot.

You thought this only existed in movies, but it’s all real. You’re dancing with the love of your life, fearlessly, in the middle of a rain shower. His hands clasped around your waist, a wide smile stretching from ear to ear as you grabbed onto his shoulders and he lifted you off your feet, like the ballroom dances in these old fashioned films. The wind whistled in your ears, the rain splashing on the sidewalk sounds like music. You couldn’t stop laughing, and neither can he, and you knew you were going to remember this moment for the rest of your life.

However, your strength gave out after a while, and the two of you stood there, swaying side to side. At this point, you couldn’t care that your clothes are wet and sticking to your skin, and you lean your forehead against Jake’s. He giggled, small droplets of water trailing down from his soaked hair. And he slowly leans in, the distance between you two shortening, your hands begin to shake as your breath quickens.

Is he going to—?

Sensing your nervousness, he grabbed one of your hands in his, pulling you in. You felt a little more brave as you tugged at the front of his shirt in your other hand, and connected your lips, at last.

It’s a first kiss, it’s flawless, really something, it’s fearless.

Jay - Ours ; long distance love

Lucky Jake, you muttered to yourself, sighing as you rested your head on the counter. He doesn’t have to deal with stupid customers at this time, and at least he has more experience with people yelling at him. Or maybe you’re just jealous that he has someone to hang out with, go on dates with, and laugh by his side.

You smiled sadly to yourself and took out your phone, opening the photo gallery. You felt a pang of nostalgia and wistfulness as you clicked on the first photo of you and Jay. It was from your date at the shopping mall, where Jay had chosen several outfits and forced you to try them on. It was a time where you had let your insecurities get the best of you, and Jay was having none of it. The photo was of him hugging you after you tried on one of the outfits he picked out.

You look beautiful, you can hear him say. Stunning, amazing, don’t ever doubt yourself again.

I won’t, you had murmured back. Thank you, love.

“Seriously, is this some sort of playhouse? Can’t even do their job right....”

Your head quickly shot up, eyes widening at the intimidating businessman in front of you. Fuck, not him again....

He rolled his eyes at you. “Two large cups of mocha latte with a half shot of espresso. And make it quick, I’m in a hurry.”

You purse your lips in disdain. “Yes, sir.”

Putting your phone away, you sighed as you began making his order. If Jay was here, he would’ve made you laugh by making fun of his attitude, or just straight up told the man off. But he’s not here, and he’s not going to help you out, you thought to yourself, gritting your teeth together as you mixed the coffee. He’s working for that fashion company in Paris, so just let him live his dream. C’mon, Y/N, just make this damn coffee, give it to that damn businessman who can’t keep his damn mouth shut—

“Be careful, you idiot! You’re going to spill them!”

You snapped out of your daze, again, by the harsh voice of the customer, who grabbed the two coffees, spilling foam over your hands, causing you to hiss in pain. And he had the audacity to walk away muttering, “Gosh, I’m never coming back to this shitty place again.”

Swallowing the pain, you went to wash your hands at the sink. It’s part of the job, there will always be some people yelling at you, it’s not your fault, you tried to comfort yourself, though you were sick and tired of this. This endless routine, the fake smiles you have to put on, a gaping hole in your heart you can’t cover up. It’s been over a year since Jay has gone, and suddenly, you missed him more than ever. Frustrated, you turned the faucet off, almost yanking it off the sink in the process. Burying your face in your hands, your mind wandered to something Jay had told you, right before he left for the trip.

Don’t you worry your pretty little mind, people throw rocks at things that shine.

You smiled at Jay’s words, and took a deep breath, calming yourself down. You will get through this. Drying your hands off on a towel, you smooth out the wrinkles in your shirt and set your face in a hard line. Just a few more hours, and you’ll finally get off work. You can do this.

Making your way to the counter again, you prepared to put on your custom smile and act like the cheerful barista you were supposed to be. “Hello! How may I—”

“Y/N?”

Your breath caught in your throat, as your eyes met the person you were just thinking about. No, it’s not possible, how— The two of you stared at each other in disbelief, before Jay’s face relaxed into a bright smile, and he opened his arms.

You ran out from behind the counter and wrapped your hands around him. Nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, you held on tight, and that’s when the tears came, happy and sad at the same time.

Jay didn’t say anything, for there was no need to use words when actions and feelings showed it all. He grasped you in his arms, body shaking slightly as he blinked back the tears from his own eyes. I’m finally back home.

The two of you stood there for who knows how long, but you couldn’t care less. No matter how many annoying customers you have to face, no matter how many times coffee spills all over you, nothing can separate you from what is yours.

You can say what you want, but this love is ours.

Sunoo - Sparks Fly ; pure love

You and Sunoo quietly crept out of the cafe, not wanting to disturb the couple hugging by the counter. Unfortunately for you two though, it had started raining outside, and none of you brought an umbrella.

“Really? And the forecast said it wouldn’t rain,” Sunoo grumbled, pouting. “The weather person needs to get fired.”

You laughed at his words, resisting the urge to pinch his cheeks. “They’re just trying to do their job, Sunoo. I mean, it’s not that bad....should we just make a run for it?”

Sunoo gasped dramatically. “And mess up our hair? How will I take our end-of-the-date selfie with our soggy selves?”

You rolled your eyes, “we can use our school bags to cover us. I mean, it’s either that, or be late to our movie night.”

Sunoo mulled over it for a moment, scrunching his nose in concentration. “Oh, fine. But we’re sticking to the cover until we have to cross the street.”

“Deal.” The two of you shuffled along the awning of the cafe, until you reached the end of the street where the crosswalks are. You two looked at each other, hunching your bookbags over your head. One hand holding onto your bag, you stretched your hand out to Sunoo, a smile crossing both of your faces as he took it.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three. GO!”

The two of you dashed out into the rain, laughing and screaming like little kids. A wild, childish bliss took over you, and you couldn’t stop giggling as you gripped tightly onto Sunoo’s hand. He looked over at you, and you can see that he was having the time of his life as well, smiling so much that his eyes seemed to disappear. You wish time could stop at that moment, as rain poured down around you two, the happy feeling in your chest expanding with love.

All too soon, your journey ended as you two rushed up, panting, to the door of your house. Letting your bags fall over your shoulders, the two of you turned to each other and laughed. You reached over to part the hair from his eyes, and he playfully flicked his head, spraying water on your face. You let out an indignant yelp, before lightly pushing him, then reaching to catch him again before he slips down the wet steps. Sunoo held onto your arm, trying to contain his laughter, though his bright smile gave it away.

“Gosh, we’re a mess,” you said as you tried to catch your breath. Putting your bag down, you fumbled in your pocket for your keys. “But you know what? Let’s do that again next time.”

“Well, hopefully we’ll actually remember to bring an umbrella next time,” Sunoo said, shaking out his wet bag. He grinned at you, and you swear you can see sparks fly whenever he smiles.

Jungwon - Mine ; enduring love

You trudged down the street, not minding the fact that you’re thoroughly soaked by the rain. Everything felt like a blur around you as your mind kept replaying the scene from moments before, and the tears came streaming down your face again, mingling with the drops from the sky. The sound of laughter pierced through your reverie, and you turned to see a couple giggling together at the front steps of their house, the sight making your heart squeeze.

What went wrong?

We were like them too, so what happened to us?

Sniffing, you wiped your nose with the back of your hand, turning away from the scene. Looking around, you realized that you had walked farther away from the house than you expected, and that it was already dark. Should I go back? As much as you don’t want to confront Jungwon right now, you don’t want him to worry either. Would he even worry though? Maybe this really is the end...

Making up your mind, you resolved to just keep walking, until you finally decided on what to do. Taking out your phone, you texted your friend whether you can stay over at theirs tonight. Slipping the device back into your pocket, you continued plodding along.

Until someone grabbed your arm, and you screamed.

“Y/N, it’s me! It’s me.”

Whirling around, your heart rate slowed as you made eye contact with your boyfriend. The rain had slowed to a drizzle now, and you saw that his eyes were red, like he had been crying too.

“Jungwon...” you extricated your arm from his hold, and took a deep breath. “What are you doing here?”

“I ran after you,” he mumbled, looking down at the ground. “After you left.”

You blinked in surprise, not expecting that answer. “O-oh.”

Not knowing what to say, the two of you stood there, and each passing minute felt like a wall growing bigger and bigger between you two. You didn’t know how the two of you even ended up like this—an offhand comment, which somehow led to yelling and cursing, and then you were running out into the streets alone, crying. And now, to this silence. It felt like hours before Jungwon spoke up.

“I’m sorry.”

Gulping, you forced the words out of your throat too. “I’m sorry too. I should’ve stayed instead of just running away like that.”

He shook his head. “No, this was my fault. I shouldn’t have yelled at you...talked to you in that way.”

You sighed. “Well, let’s just say it’s both of our faults, then. It doesn’t matter.”

Jungwon nodded hesitantly, peering up at you. “Should we go back to the dorms?”

You bit your bottom lip, thinking. Everything felt too much, like a fragile heart broken into a million pieces, each one jagged and misshapen. “I already texted my friend that I’ll stay over at their house tonight. Should we—should we just take a break, Jungwon? These days we’ve just been arguing and fighting with each other, I don’t know how we can continue this, if we can even—”

Your voice cracked, and the whirlpool of tears finally broke free as you sobbed, face in your hands. Your body tenses as you feel Jungwon’s arms wrap around you, relaxing slightly as he patted your back, trying to soothe your sorrows.

“Y/N, do you remember when we first met?”

He was working part-time at a restaurant as a waiter, and you thought he was pretty cute. You found that he was going to the same school as you, and the two of you became best friends. You fell for him a few months later, and ever since then, he was always by your side. Until everything fell apart a few weeks ago, when your tempers ran short and tension climbed high.

“I thought you were so beautiful...and remember our promise? I swore I was going to stay with you, that we won’t make the same mistake as your parents. You are the best thing that’s ever been mine. I know it’s hard to be together right now, when both of us are so busy that we don't have time with each other anymore...but I’ll always have time for you, Y/N. I know this sounds cheesy and all, but I just want to say that I love you and I don’t want to let you go.”

Sniffing, this time the tears flow because of his words. Turning around, you gave him a cheeky grin as you wiped your face. “Didn’t know you were such a romantic, Jungwon.”

His cheeks turned a shade of pink, and he shyly held out his hand. You took it, and the two of you started walking back home.

Niki - Jump Then Fall ; childhood love

Never mind, I’m going home tonight.

You raised your eyebrows at your friend’s message. Probably some couple problems with Jungwon. You were about to text back a reply, before you felt your pants get splashed with water.

You lifted your eyes to the sky, exasperated because you already know who did it. Sometimes I wonder how I even have a crush on him. I waited for him after dance practice and this is what I get? Turning around, you faced your friend, or as you like to call him, your greatest enemy, Nishimura Riki.

He has his usual mischievous grin on his face, jumping from foot to foot as he kicks at another puddle. Thankfully, you jumped out of the way just in time. Narrowing your eyes playfully, you said, “I see how it is...this is war.”

The rain had left numerous puddles on the sidewalk (probably due to the potholes your school refused to spend their money to fix), and you chased Niki down the street, splashing him with water. He laughed loudly and reached up (dangit, why is he so tall?), grabbed one of the branches of a tree, shaking the water from it. Gasping, your eyes widened as you got drenched from the drops. You glared at him, only causing his smile to stretch even wider from ear to ear. “I won,” Niki announced triumphantly.

You pouted, rolling your eyes. “Oh, fine. But it’s not fair, how did you even get this tall?”

Niki shrugged, as if it was no big deal, though you want to wipe the smug grin off his face. “I grew 13 centimeters last year.”

“Impossible,” you huffed. He shoved his hands in his pockets, raising his eyebrows at you as if challenging your statement. Shrugging his dance bag over one shoulder, Niki started walking, and you followed. “You just want to brag about your height.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” Niki teased in a sing-song voice. “Either way, I’m still taller than you~”

You smiled grudgingly, stealing a look at him from the corner of your eye. It seems like yesterday when you both were kids, and he was this bouncy little boy who loved to annoy the hell out of you. He still does, but you felt a twinge of nostalgia as you see how tall and mature he had come, and even more good-looking as well. If only he knows how much I like him.

Sensing your stare, Niki wiggled his eyebrows at you, making you laugh at his expression. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” you turned away, embarrassed. You really need to be less obvious, though Niki’s too oblivious to know anything about your feelings for him. 

“No, it’s something,” he leaned closer to you, and suddenly you forgot how to breathe properly. “Is there something on my face?”

You shook your head quickly, gaze wandering anywhere but his eyes. Spying a puddle in the corner of your vision, an idea flashed through your mind. Leaning closer, so that your faces were only inches apart, you noticed that Niki’s cheeks were blushing pink at the close distance. Maybe this isn’t so one-sided after all.

“Actually, there is something.” 

“W-what?” You expected him to pull away, but his eyes were dreamy, getting lost in your own. Or maybe you were the one getting lost in his. Tearing your gaze away, you grabbed his hand and dragged him towards the biggest puddle near the curb of the street. Taking a deep breath, you jumped straight into it, causing a huge splash that doused both you and Niki in water. You wished you could capture this moment on camera: Niki’s flustered face when you took his hand, his eyes widening comically as water sprayed his clothes. You laughed out loud, smirking at him. “I won,” you said, mimicking his voice from earlier. 

Your smile faded when Niki didn’t say anything back, the shocked expression still on his face. Confused, you asked, “what’s wrong?”

Clearing his throat, he motioned his head towards your intertwined hands. “Um, you’re still holding onto my hand.”

Maybe it’s cliche, two childhood friends falling for each other, but what’s wrong with cliches? You tightened your grip on his hand, grinning as his face flared red. “Is there something wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” he looked down, making you giggle. Oh, how the tables have turned. You took a step closer. 

“No, it’s something.”

He glanced up at you, unable to conceal a shy smile. You loved the way his hair falls in his face, slightly damp from jumping into too many puddles.

And all I can say is come closer, take a deep breath and jump then fall into me.

Daniel - Fifteen ; platonic love

“When are they going to confess already?” you snickered, eyeing the two teens playing in the puddles. Daniel followed your stare, shrugging at your words.

“When they finally get in through their heads that their feelings are mutual,” Daniel said. “Who knows how long that’ll take.”

You fold your arms across your chest, turning away and gazing wistfully into the distance. “Maybe one day I’ll find love like that.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow at you. “You got time, you’re still fifteen after all.”

Your hands dropped, and you sighed as your shoulders sagged. “I can’t believe I’m fifteen already...high school is so hard.” 

Daniel laughed at the whine in your voice, reaching over to ruffle your hair. You pushed his hand away, glaring at him. “Hey, don’t laugh. You didn’t get any of the difficult classes this year.”

“That’s because I already know I want to major in art so...there’s no need to take these classes anyway.”

You stopped and turned to him, narrowing your eyes. “What in art, specifically?”

Daniel's eyes flickered to yours, looking away in embarrassment. “Oh, just something in music.”

You grinned slyly, probing further. “What in music, exactly?”

Daniel gulped, hoping you wouldn’t laugh at him this time. “Um...well, I really want to become a rapper…”

Your eyes widened and you gasped. “A rapper? Daniel, that’s amazing!”

Your friend blinked in confusion, surprised at your excitement. “You-you think so?”

Nodding fervently, you started walking again. Around you, the streetlights flared to life. “Yeah, I mean, you seem pretty passionate about it. I remembered how the teacher caught you writing lyrics in the back of the textbook when you’re supposed to be paying attention during class.”

Daniel humphed, his long strides quickly catching up with yours. “Hey, math is boring, alright? You weren’t listening either.”

You decided to concede with him on that point, because math, indeed, is a pain in the ass (also because you were afraid he’ll stop letting you copy his homework right before class). “Fine, but I’m just saying that you shouldn’t be ashamed of your dream. You’re dedicated, I know you can do it.”

Daniel smiled shyly at your words. “Thanks, Y/N.”

You smiled back half-heartedly. “And here I am, with nothing planned out. I still don’t know who I want to be, or even who I am.”

“It’s fine if you haven’t figured yourself out yet, just go with the flow and do things that make you feel happy. Then you’ll discover where your interests and dreams lie,” Daniel said sagely, making your eyes roll at his tone. He bumped your shoulder with his. “I’ll always be here for you, yeah?”

“Thanks, but I just...you know how you’re at that time in your life, when you’re just questioning everything? Like, what is the meaning of life? Why am I here?”

“Just to suffer,” Daniel whispered, flinching away as you whacked him on the arm. “Ok, ok, I didn’t know you were going to get this deep.”

“Maybe I should be an English teacher then,” you said thoughtfully. “Make all the students analyze the meaning of the universe, like how Mr. Kim is forcing us to analyze Romeo and Juliet.”

“Romeo and Juliet…” Daniel stopped suddenly, making you bump into him. “Oh no...I forgot my copy of the book at school!”

You gave him a look. “Seriously? I told you to get it out of your locker!”

Daniel scuffed his shoe on the sidewalk, avoiding your gaze. “Well, you know how loud and chaotic the dismissal was...I couldn’t hear you.”

You shook your head in resignation. “Whatever, I’ll just send you pictures of the pages we have to read.”

Daniel’s head shot up, eyes staring hopefully at you. “Really? Y/N, thank you so much, you know you're my best friend right?”

You rolled your eyes. “Just make sure to remember it next time, or you’re on your own.”

(Jokes on you, Daniel knows you’ll grudgingly share your book with him for the rest of the year if he keeps forgetting it).

Sunghoon - Love Story ; forbidden love

“Sunghoon!” you whisper-shouted, grimacing as your boyfriend stepped on a stick. The sound seemed too loud in the quiet darkness, and you looked around wildly. Grabbing his arm, you dragged him behind a rock, lips pursed in a tense line. Heart pounding, you felt both worried and exhilarated at the same time. 

“Sorry,” Sunghoon said sheepishly, scratching the nape of his neck. “Didn’t see that.”

You frowned at him, turning around. “And I thought princes have stealth training as part of their schooling.”

Sunghoon scoffed. “All they teach us is how to look buff and strong so we can pick fights with your family.”

Stifling a laugh, you took his arm again, pulling him along. “True true, that sounds a lot like what they teach Youngbin too...though Youngbin isn’t the fighting type.”

“Your brother’s too soft,” Sunghoon muttered, “I feel sorry for him sometimes...he’d rather be kind than argue.”

Your lips quirked up in a sad smile. “Yeah, but there’s not much we can do about the feud, right?”

Nodding, Sunghoon carefully stepped over a pile of leaves, hand clutching tight onto yours. As the two of you cautiously stepped around the bend in the country road, Sunghoon let out a light gasp seeing what lay ahead. You grinned at his expression, quickening your pace until you two stopped in front of an enormous garden. Its gates were made up of interlocking flowers and vines, a sweeping archway of overhanging branches from two willow trees, and an open field lined with flowers of every kind laid beyond. Pushing away the branches, Sunghoon watched as you unraveled the flower gate and stepped into the beautiful utopia.

“A secret garden,” Sunghoon commented in awe. “How…”

“Youngbin and I used to go here all the time, whenever our families fight,” you answered. “Now that he’s confined to the training field, I feel too lonely being here all by myself.”

“Are you sure Youngbin wouldn’t mind?” Sunghoon asked, not wanting to intrude in sibling affairs.

You cast a funny look at him. “No, I’m sure he won’t. Besides...you’re the person I’m closest to besides him.”

The comment made Sunghoon blush, and he followed you down the path. On each side of him bloomed hundreds of colorful blossoms, making Sunghoon wonder who lived here long ago to tend to them all. Marigolds, roses, lilies, fuchsias, tulips, flowers of every kind decorated the leaves and vines. He reached out to pluck a red rose from the fray, careful not to prick his fingers. Stopping every now and then to admire the flowers, you tugged him towards the open field. Sitting down on the grass, you leaned your head against his shoulder.

“Look, the sun is rising.”

And indeed it was. Sunghoon smiled as you two relaxed in silence, watching the sunlight streak over the horizon in different shades of pink, yellow, and orange. A new day, a new beginning, he thought. He turned when he felt something being placed on his head, only to meet your grinning face as you adjusted the flower crown in his hair. 

“There,” you said, pushing a stray hair away from his eye. Leaning back proudly, you nodded at how the wreath of white daisies complemented his raven hair. “You look pretty, flower boy.”

Sunghoon took the red rose, breaking off the stem, tucked it behind your ear. “No, you’re prettier.”

“Whatever,” you said, though Sunghoon saw that you were trying hard not to smile. “Do you know what this reminds me of?”

“What?” Sunghoon asked, laying back onto the grass. He took the flower crown off and held it up to the sky, scrutinizing your handiwork. You mirrored his movement, turning on your side to face him.

“There’s this story I read in the library a few days ago, about how two young lovers woke up at dawn so they could watch the sunrise together.”

“Oh?” Raising an eyebrow, Sunghoon motioned for you to continue.

“Mhm,” You gazed off into the distance, a thoughtful look on your face. The sunbeams have gotten brighter, and they cast a glow on your face that Sunghoon couldn’t describe, other than ethereal. “It reminded me of us.”

“Who knows,” Sunghoon shrugged. “Maybe someday someone will write a story about us too.”

���A forbidden love story?” You snickered. “Who would write something like that?”

—— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— ——

~ Which story is your favorite? ~

[babbushka]

My thought for a request is going to a drive in with exhibitionist!Flip and him going down on you or fucking you in the bed of his truck and making the springs squeak louder than the movie and drawing attention. I’d like to request that please

Thank you for doing a flip celebration!

Anonymous said: For my request, can I request something with some public sex with flip like maybe at a movie theater or drive in please and he takes it a little too far??Thank you for the special Flip day!

1.8k NSFW (oral sex (f receiving), exhibitionism, sex in a public location, praise kink, fingering, hair pulling)

Snuggled up in the back of Flip’s pick-up truck, you nestle your head against his shoulder. He got a good spot, made sure to get here early for it, for the front-row seat at the drive-in. It’s nice, being this close to the screen, it looks like they put up the whole thing just for you. A brand new movie hit the theaters this weekend, something called Jaws, a flick directed by that Spielberg fella. Folks said it was supposed to be good, and you’re supposed to be watching it, but Flip’s got other plans for the night.

Plans that he is getting antsy to start setting in motion, you can tell. With one arm wrapped around your shoulders, the hand that’s resting right near your chest keeps creeping closer closer closer, and you have to bite back a grin.

“This is such a bad idea.” You tell him straight, and he peers down at you from being a head or so taller, raising a brow in your general direction while some men are on a boat on screen.

“Do you not want to do it?” He asks, sincerity in his voice.

“No we’re absolutely fucking doing it,” You shake your head, looking up at him with a sparkle of mischief in your eye, “I’m just telling you right now that it’s a bad idea.”

Immediately, Flip retracts his arm and uses it to tug you down the back of the truck a little further. It’s been transformed into a more comfortable oasis for movie watching; pillows and blankets pad the otherwise hard bed, a small towel to clean you up when he’s had his way with you, and even one of those new camping coolers filled with snacks and drinks. He bought you one of the big over-priced popcorn buckets, but there was no reason to shell out a couple quarters on M&Ms when you already have them at home.

“We’ll be fine, everyone’s in their cars, we’re in our car…no one can see us.” Flip begins kissing your apprehension away, his tongue hot in your mouth as he trails his tongue across the edge of your lip.

“Except for the security that walks around.” You roll your eyes, letting yourself be manhandled and moved around, until you’re lying down comfortably among the pillows.

“I know the security, we’ll be fine.” Flip dismisses the concern and you can’t help but laugh at his flippancy.

You had made up your mind that you were going to let him fuck you at the drive-in a long time ago, but it was still fun to get him frustrated about it. He always had a bit of an edge when he was all riled up, and you can tell he’s riled up now.

“Say it again and maybe this time I’ll believe you.” You murmur against his lips one last time, adrenaline from the public act, so out in the open – literally under the stars – beginning to pound in your chest.

“If you seriously want me to stop, tell me.” He says, big brown eyes filled with the light from the screen.

He’s so handsome, too handsome for his own fucking good, you think, but if you tell him that now, his ego will go through the roof, so all you do is pat his cheek lovingly before shoving his head down playfully, and ordering him to, “Shut up and eat me out already.”

The one problem with this plan was that your genius husband didn’t take into account the fact that the bed of his truck isn’t long enough to fit the both of you the way he normally eats you out, without his legs hanging off the bottom. So after a moment or two of figuring out positioning, he settles on turning his whole self around. His feet rest by your head, and you pat his leg sweetly, rolling your eyes at him.

“Will you talk to me?” Flip props himself up on one elbow, eyes wide and eager, “Let me hear you?”

“Someone will hear!” You scoff in fond exasperation, giving his leg a shake.

“The movie’s so loud, and everyone’s got their windows rolled up, won’t you let me hear you?” He asks again, and you lick across your teeth and nod.

With that, he ducks his head under your skirt, and tugs aside your panties. You’re already a little wet, how could you not be with him hugging you close and kissing you throughout half of this movie? How could you not be, with the knowledge that this was coming?

His fingers slip between your folds and he begins the steady process of stretching you out just a little, just enough to get you to relax. He’s not going to dick you down out here, that would just be asking for trouble, so he doesn’t have to finger your pussy for long. Still, the two of you savor the feeling of his thick fingers shoving themselves up up up into you, and you do your best to swallow your moans.

Carefully, Flip builds up a rhythm that has you growing anxious for more, desperate for more. He’s not going fast enough to give you any proper friction, it’s slow, it’s tantalizing, it’s maddening. Your grip on his leg is all you give him as an indication, because you know that if you start begging now, you’ll be shouting it for the whole drive-in to hear.

Gripping his calf now, he gets the hint, and you can feel the hot breath of a chuckle ghost across your inner thigh as he positions himself perfectly to press his plush lips right against yours, kissing your pussy for a moment before his tongue finally finally finally drags through you.

You swallow down a moan, unable to stop the little sigh that escapes from your throat as he begins to make out with your cunt, his tongue thrusting shallowly at first as he licks and sucks on your folds. Teeth scraping gently over your flesh, you’re so sensitive already, your nipples hard in your blouse.

“How is your tongue so long?” You hiss out as quietly as you can, face already starting to pinch up in pleasure. You’ve completely given up on watching the movie, whatever troubles the characters are having require far more attention than you’re willing to give them.

“Like it?” He mumbles into your body, making you shiver all over, making you shudder, as his thick muscle rolls into you, dragging around patterns that have your head lolling back against the pillows.

“Yes, don’t stop, please don’t stop.” Spreading your legs as far as they can go for him, you press your hips up to his face, feeling his nose breathe in against your thigh, panting against your cunt, “I could keep you here all day, you’re so good at this. My pussy eating champ, that’s what you are.”

“Pull on my hair.” Flip moans breathily, and you waste no time tangling a fist into his silky locks.

“Way a-fuckin’-head of you honey oh my god…!” Your eyes roll back as he responds to the yanking of his hair, so you do it again and again.

Holding him in place, you get so lost in your own pleasure that you’re not so certain you aren’t suffocating him. Flip’s got his arms wrapped around your thighs, hugging you tight to him as you squirm and whimper, your nipples rubbing and chafing against your blouse. One of your hands leaves his hair and pinches at it instead, the sting going straight to your clit.

Then he does something with his tongue, something so good, that you can’t help yourself as you yelp out an extremely too loud, “Oh fuck!!”

At once, Flip wrenches himself away, and at that moment, the entire drive-in theater is also screaming and cursing loudly, because blown up ultra-tall and extra-wide is the largest shark you’ve ever seen, mouth pried wide open showing off a row of teeth that have frightened the entire crowd.

“Holy shit!” Flip feels like he’s about to have a fucking heart attack, even has to slap a hand against his chest to catch his breath, your slick shining on his goatee, as the realization that the timing had saved your asses stuns him with its convenience, “That was close.”

“Sorry, you have to warn a girl before you do that though!” You smack at his bicep, big and strong and flexing in his flannel.

He snickers at you, pushes his fingers back up into your cunt as he settles right-side up next to you once more. He’s got his other arm settled underneath your head, acting like a pillow, as you throw your leg over his hip. Kissing him, you can taste yourself on his tongue, a reminder of where he just was, what you were both doing.

“Are you gonna come?” Flip asks as he strokes his fingers against your walls. You’re relaxed enough and stretched enough and certainly fucking wet enough now that he can fit three inside your cunt, and it’s almost like he’s fucking you with his cock from how thick that feeling is.

“Yeah, yes – I – I’m so close.” You grind down on his fingers, clutching and holding onto his flannel as you pant against his neck, chasing the feeling, knowing that your time is running out, knowing that the movie will be over soon.

“Want to come down my throat or on my fingers?” Flip kisses the top of your head, but you don’t have the energy to think.

“I – I – don’t make me choose.” You whine, eyes shutting tight as you bite your lip, his fingers pushing and pulling, in and out, in and out, thumb rubbing your clit, your whole body on fire there in the back of his fucking truck.

“On my fingers then,” Flip decides for you, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear as he speeds his hand up, “I want to watch you.”

It only takes a few more moments of attention before your body spasms against his chest. He fingers you through it, thrusts into your pussy as it clenches and throbs, comes comes comes all over his palm. He feels so accomplished, and you’re blissed out of your mind, and the people in the theater are screaming again, and none’s the wiser.

A few moments more, and you’re calmed down enough, snuggly again. Flip’s wiped himself away, cleaned up between your legs with his little towel, and cracked open a nice cold pop for the two of you to share sips from.

“Well, what’d you think?” He finally asks, making you scoff out a laugh, because of course it went well, of course it was amazing, your husband wouldn’t let you have anything less.

“I think…” You say, knowing that you’re likely going to do this again, likely going to want to do more than just get eaten out here in this makeshift bed, “You’re gonna need a bigger truck.”

-----------------

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I am once again taggin' some flip lovin' friends lol @mochabucky @sacklerscumrag @artsymaddie @bitchydecisions @direnightshade @reyloaddict55 @thembohux @kylorenswhxre @sunflowersinthesnow @babayagakeanu @safarigirlsp @steeevienicks @materialisthicc @hswritingrecs @han68000 @rosi3ba3z @chapterhappygirl @loverofallthings @groovetoob @bxnnywriting @glassbxttless @angel-bxby3 @smallgirlbigpersonality @lovelyyy-luna @2000andwhat @raddo1975 @cornmousequeen @metsienmenninkainen @caillea @painttheskylineforme @holding-on-to-starwars

[rodeo-boots]

can you do a f reader with dutch vdl and do like a fluffy date? you can add nsfw if you would like :)

I didn't include any NSFW, so it's only a fluffy date <3 hope this is okay, I tried to keep it short (and hopefully sweet)

Rating: General

Words: 1289

AO3

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You couldn't remember the last time someone had invited you out on a date, least of all a proper one at that.

Tonight, everything had been paid for by Dutch; the gown you wore, the hairstyle at the barber beforehand. He had made sure you've had every chance to doll yourself up to your heart's content, and he himself didn't look any worse to begin with.

Dutch had always been a particularly fashionable man, had always worn clothes that appeared finer than his budget should allow. It didn't bother you, if anything made you all the more attracted to him, but who could resist a man like him in the first place?

To say you had been surprised when he had asked you out would be an understatement. For a few moments, all you had been able to do was gape like a fish fresh out of water. He's had that glint in his eyes; that promising, mysterious expression upon his face, and ever since, you've been curious how the evening might play out.

Now, it wasn't long until you'd know.

You had already gotten dressed, had taken Dutch's elbow when he offered it to you and walked up to the coach with him.

No riding today, he had said. We travel like high society.

And that you did, with Arthur holding the reins and quietly stirring the horses in the desired direction. He had agreed to do this task for one reason alone; to get out of camp for a while and run his own errands in the city of Saint Denis. Apparently, he had made some friends for himself there, a freelance painter who he wished to assist with something.

You knew it wasn't your topic to ponder on, and so you didn't. Instead, your attention was only reserved for Dutch.

On the way there, you had watched the landscape pass by, had watched how wilderness soon shifted into civilization and smelled the difference in the air.

If it had been up to you, the two of you could've lit a candle back at camp, could've sat down on the shore of Flat Iron Lake and enjoyed your date right there. But Dutch needed this night to be special.

And truthfully, you held no complaints about that.

Eventually, the coach slowed to a halt.

You had reached your first destination of the night; the theater, which would show a play Dutch had been particularly giddy about. He often talked about the beauty of acting, about the value of the stories told in a very unique way, and all his talk had made you curious in turn.

Arthur opened the door, and offered you a hand to climb outside.

It wasn't long before Dutch had slung his arm around your waist, protectively holding you close while he passed a few dollar bills over to a scoffing Arthur.

"Meet us back here in two, maybe three hours," he said, Arthur giving a nod before pocketing his money and being on his way.

Turning towards you, Dutch gave you a smile. "Let's enjoy this night, shall we?"

You returned the gesture, feeling only the slightest bit of nervousness at having to mingle with a crowd soon enough, though with him by your side, you knew there was nothing to worry about.

Without ever having seen a proper play, or a show, before, the offered entertainment was a lot different from what you had expected.

All the way through, Dutch leaned close to you and pointed out one thing or the other, whispered an anecdote here and a comment there into your ear, making you laugh and smile just the same.

It was easy for him to brighten your mood, to make you forget all about your everyday worries and distract you with something much better than that.

The evening progressed, and you soon stepped out into the night again.

At this time of day, the streets were nearly empty, only the light of streetlamps left to accompany you when you moved along the pathway.

Dutch had wrapped his coat around your shoulders the moment he had seen as much as a goosebump upon your arms, and you pulled it closer around yourself thankfully.

"Where are we headed?" You asked, remembering how he had asked Arthur to be at the coach in another hour.

Dutch hummed lightly, glancing over at you with a small grin. "It's a surprise," he explained, taking your hand in his to lead you along.

While you had known the path you had taken, and had known that it led directly to the nearest saloon and hotel, you stayed quiet, thanked him when he opened the doors for you and let you step into the warmth first.

It was odd how cold the nights around here could get, most of all when the days were often as humid and hot as possible.

Dutch walked up to the bar, not ordering a drink but quietly talking to the bartender instead, who passed him a key and pointed him in the direction of the rooms upstairs.

Your heart fluttered within your chest, following eagerly when Dutch offered his hand once again to guide you along.

What you hadn’t expected, however, was the appearance of the room you stepped into in no time at all. Of course it was spacious, richly decorated and splendid, but there stood a bottle of fine wine on the nightstand, and the sheets were sprinkled with rose petals.

"Dutch..." He closed the door behind you, using his position to let his hands settle upon your hips. You hadn't even laid eyes on the gramophone yet, too overwhelmed and surprised by everything in front of you.

"Yes, Darling?" He mumbled, nuzzling the back of your head as he lightly swayed the both of you, spinning you around to properly align your hands.

"You didn't have to," you brought out, unable to find any better words just now.

Even though you had known that Dutch had always been a romantic at heart, you weren't sure what you had done to deserve all of this.

"I wanted to." He leaned in, his mustache tickling your cheek as he pressed his lips to it, letting go of you for only a moment to set the needle of the gramophone down on the record.

"Now, will you accept this dance?" He bowed, stretching a hand out and eventually grabbing yours to kiss the back of it.

Unable to help yourself, you chuckled, let yourself be pulled closer and into his arms. "I’d be a fool not to."

He knew what he was doing, moving expertly and deliberately with every step he took, spinning you, and bringing you close to him again.

You rested your forehead against his after a while, moved slower just so you could enjoy this even more.

His fingers ran up your upper arms, caressed you so very tenderly, the man only pulling away to tilt your chin up towards himself.

"Have I told you I love you, yet?" He asked, his thumb idly tracing over your lower lip.

You nodded. "You say it all the time." But that wasn't a bad thing. Honestly, you couldn't get enough of those three words from his mouth.

"I fear I can't repeat it enough." He smiled, his fingers smoothing over your cheek to hold the side of your face. "You're the most precious person to me." His voice had dropped to a low whisper, your heart continuing to race in your chest at the sound of it.

"And you are to me," you answered, taking the next step and leaning in, capturing his lips with your own for a deep and loving kiss.

[novelconcepts]

Hi there could you please do #25 for dani and jamie ❤

playfully biting someone

The best part of a new relationship, Jamie reflects, is in all the little details. The strange quirks of a person you might never see until you begin dating them, until the hours spent in their company twist from nine to five to all bets are off. Getting to know someone’s body is grand; getting to know them, the heart of them, the truth of their day-to-day, is better.

She maybe hadn’t realized that, until Dani--but Dani is teaching her with every passing day just how much is waiting beneath the surface. There is, it seems, an endless supply of bizarre details to file away, each wreathing Dani in more charm than the last.

Dani, she’s learned, doesn’t like to drive--she’s tried exactly once, and spent the entire thirty-minute stretch drawn tight as a bowstring--but loves rolling down her window and letting a hand dangle in the breeze. She is great with a map, almost pathological at remembering radio stations, but frequently gets distracted by conversation and forgets to point out a necessary exit ramp. She is untrustworthy when left on snack duty in gas stations, constantly inclined to pick up a coffee or a bottled orange juice over water, but always seems to find the best chocolate in any given state.

Food, in general, proves particularly interesting. Dani thrills at the opportunity to introduce her to terrible fast food (”We have this,” Jamie says pointedly, as they pull into their first McDonald’s; “Not even close,” Dani says gleefully, and proceeds to order her a Happy Meal for the sheer joy of it). She is perhaps too invested in what sort of pizza Jamie considers the right kind (”Dunno,” Jamie says in a helpless tone, unaware that there are options. “The kind with, uh, sauce?”). There is, it appears, a right and wrong answer to crust width, cheese ratio, and toppings; the first time she orders pineapple, Jamie almost can’t bring herself to take a bite, she’s laughing too hard at the intense expression on Dani’s face. 

(“You are,” she proclaims, “ridiculous.”

“It’s good,” Dani insists, and there is no sign of a beast about her smile as she watches Jamie try the pinapple-and-bacon monstrosity and, grudgingly, admit defeat.)

She learns that Dani prefers movies at home to the theater, but makes an exception whenever a new action film comes out. Dani likes dancing, but doesn’t love strangers being able to see her do it; she’s self-conscious about her questionable rhythm, at least until Jamie leans close and murmurs that rhythm hasn’t been a problem yet, from where she’s standing. Dani likes old bookstores, new flea markets, ice cream parlors run by elderly couples who compliment her earrings. Dani likes America, as it turns out, with all its many oddities, and Jamie finds that affection infectious. She is rapidly coming to like America, too--at least, the America she’s offered through Dani’s eyes.

Dani is effervescent by daylight, chatting with strangers, eagerly returning stray footballs that land near her in the park to laughing children. She turns thoughtful when the rain rolls in, always at her moodiest when the sky grows pregnant with clouds that refuse to break open. She feels weird, she says, when the moon is nearly full, and she misses constellations whenever they pull up to a city, and there’s something about Midwestern manners she can’t seem to shake whether they’re in Miami or Detroit. 

She’s fascinating, and she’s complicated, and the good days hold just as many facets as the bad. Jamie is growing to love them all--the way Dani shrieks with laughter when tickled, and the way she grows somber at particular Paul Simon songs for no reason Jamie can understand. She loves the way Dani slips a hand beneath the hem of her shirt and holds on for dear life on long drives, her fingers skimming the edge of Jamie’s jeans. Loves how Dani can’t shower with the door closed, can’t sleep with it open, can never figure out the window latch in any given hotel room.

And she loves how Dani behaves with her alone. Not the sex--though that’s only getting better, Dani finding more confidence each time they come together; Jamie’s started to find herself pressed up against doors with unexpected strength, pushed down onto beds with her head spinning and Dani already getting to work--so much as the intimacy. They’re different, she’s learning. Different tiers of the same cake, maybe. Can’t have one without the other, not if it’s good, not if it’s with Dani. 

Sex comes easily, though it’s taken a little while for Dani to open back up again. When she does, the transition is absolute--no fear, no hesitation, her hands and lips and voice winding together to explain, If it’s just today, if I only have now, I need to be here. She doesn’t want to miss a moment, she says. Doesn’t want to let anything slip by. She wants to experience every inch of Jamie, and every inch of this country they’re exploring, and every inch of time won back from an unfair universe.

The intimacy--the way her hand always seems to find Jamie’s pocket, the way her forehead leans against Jamie’s back, the way she lets her foot press against the side of Jamie’s boot under a restaurant table--comes from the same place. That need to remember. That need to be here. If only for today, if only a little at a time, she can’t resist. 

Which brings her to the part of Dani Jamie thinks she likes best:

Dani’s absolutely unexpected need for attention. 

“Did you just--” She hesitates, wondering if she’s hallucinated. It’s such an odd little thing for Dani to have done, sprawled beside her on a motel bed. Such an odd thing, both of them with books open against bent knees and no conversation between them for half an hour. 

And still, she’s almost certain. More so, when Dani gives a guilty grin. 

“You bit me,” Jamie says, wonder in her voice. “Really?”

Dani doesn’t look particularly apologetic. “Missed you.”

“I’m right here,” Jamie says, unable to restrain the laughter in her voice. “You could, ah, initiate whenever you like.”

“Wasn’t about that.” Dani shrugs, small and clean in a post-shower sleep shirt and very little else. Jamie lays a finger between the pages of her book, closing the cover. 

“Was it a food thing, because I have never seen someone put away a burger that size, but I could always order--”

Dani laughs. “No, I just--wanted to.” She shakes her head, looking as though she’s surprised herself as much as Jamie with the simple act of leaning over and sinking her teeth gently into the curve of Jamie’s shoulder. “Didn’t even think about it. Just...felt like getting your attention.”

“You have it.” She always does, even when Jamie’s reading, or starting to doze off, or thinking about tomorrow’s leg of the journey. Somewhere underneath it all, the reliable heartbeat powering her day, she’s always thinking of Dani. That should frighten her. That should worry her very much--and yet, somehow, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. 

“I won’t do it again,” Dani says, “if you didn’t like it. It was weird, wasn’t it? Weird thing to do.”

“Very weird,” Jamie agrees. “You’re a bit of a weirdo, Dani Clayton. Dunno if I’ve pointed that out.”

Dani jostles her, shoulder to shoulder, and Jamie drops her book onto the nightstand. In truth, she loves that Dani is starting to do weird little things just to see what response she’ll get--loves that Dani doesn’t twist herself into knots, questioning an act, choosing instead to just go for it. It feels like the Dani she held in a hallway, hours before their lives had changed forever. 

“What are you doing?” Dani is giggling already, as Jamie curls against her side, nuzzling into her neck. 

“Returning the favor.”

“That--” Dani draws a sharp breath as Jamie finds a particularly sensitive spot and draws the skin between her teeth. “Um. That’s--not what I--”

She’s melting into the pillows, one hand cupped behind Jamie’s head. Her pulse is quickening, though she’s starting to laugh as Jamie rains tiny bites down the side of her throat, along the slope of one shoulder. The cotton of her t-shirt pulled between even teeth, Jamie leans back slightly, meeting her eyes. 

“Wanted my attention,” she says, the words garbled around shirt. “What d’you want me to do with it?”

“This,” Dani laughs, her eyes fluttering when Jamie releases the shirt and returns her mouth to the soft column of her neck. “This is, um. Working nicely.”

“Figured,” Jamie murmurs, letting one hand toy along the curve of Dani’s thigh. “I like it, you know.”

“This?” Dani’s head is casting back, offering more room to explore; her fingers wrap around Jamie’s, guiding her toward an end to this conversation, the beginning of a different kind of discussion altogether. Jamie smiles. 

“You. Doing weird shit just because. Biting my arm, or singing to me in the shower, or just...bein’ here. I like it. Like you.”

More than, she thinks. More than just like. It’s been true for weeks and weeks, maybe since the morning she’d tried to hold firm against pleading blue eyes in a greenhouse. Maybe. She’s more than liked the way Dani catches her gaze, brushes up against her, seeks out her attention for longer than she even knows what to do with. 

Too early to say so. Too early to scare Dani away. She’s getting brighter, getting more hopeful every day, but she still flinches from words like Christmas, like next year, like in a while. She wouldn’t cope well with Jamie telling her the truth just yet. 

Better to just do this. To learn the little details--the tiny stamp of intimacy on every step of this journey. To accept the just try it of pineapple on pizza, of dancing on moonlit beaches, of Dani’s teeth sinking into her shoulder for no reason at all. It’s better. It’s the best thing she’s ever done. 

There are so many details, with Dani. So many stories to learn, so many quirks to memorize. And there is always, at the end of the day, this: just Dani, in her bed. Just Dani, drawing shallow breaths, pulling her down into a hungry kiss as she urges Jamie to explore with eager hands. Just Dani, who wants her attention merely because it’s Jamie offering it up. 

Bit of a weirdo, she thinks, and thank fuck for that. 

[ssahotchhner]

angel of spite

hi, i wrote a quick little something about the reader intentionally making hotch jealous as revenge. i hope you like it (: i'll be working on a few requests in my inbox next. i also finally made a masterlist which i'll link below!

masterlist

questions, comments, concerns

You supposed you should have known better than to spite Aaron for staying at the office too late, again. You had simply texted him that since he was going to be working late to not expect you to be there when he got home. Maybe that had been unfair to him, and you were normally so patient with his work schedule, but the last three nights in a row he had promised to be home for date night and continually cancelled last minute. Tonight, you had gotten angry when he texted you yet again, apologizing and saying he would be back late.

He tried calling you over an hour after you had sent the text message, having just then seen it in the throws of a difficult case, but you didn’t pick up. He tries to push down the flare of annoyance he feels, after all, this was the third time he had flaked on you. But still, you were acting like a child. He also knew part of the reason you were doing this was because you knew it would piss him off.

All he wanted at the end of a hard day was to see you waiting in bed for him with open arms. He put on a big show of being the dominant one in the relationship, but both of you knew Aaron became putty in your hands when you gently scratched at his scalp and whispered sweet nothings in his ear. You purposely took that away from him, knowing it was one of the only things that could get him through a tough work day. The more he sat at his desk trying to work, constantly checking his phone to see if you’d called or texted again (you hadn’t) the more angry he became. In fact, he stormed out of the BAU without saying goodbye to anyone without finishing his report.

He called you over and over again until you started sending him straight to voicemail. And so by the time he’s able to make an educated guess about what bar you’re in, his rage ripples off him in waves. He flashes his FBI badge to the bouncer to get inside without waiting in line, something he’s definitely not supposed to do, and heads up the elevator to the rooftop. Once up there, he heads straight to the bar. He scans the room quickly, but you’re nowhere to be found. Until, across the room, sparkling golden crescent moons dangled from someone’s ear. Aaron knew those earrings, he had bought them for you for your birthday this year. And standing in front of you is a broad, tall man. Not as tall as Aaron, but he was built a bit wider than Aaron, as if to make up for it. You sit on the arm of the couch, you look relaxed, your legs open just enough to get the man that was in front you salivating.

When your eyes settled on him, you couldn’t help the cocky smile that lit up your mouth. Unbridled fury filled his face when he saw the lawyer in front of you that was clearly wondering what you’d let him do to you in bed. You sigh as Aaron begins walking over you and turn to look at the lawyer, “I’m really sorry about this.” You say, cutting off whatever he was saying.

He frowns at you, “What?”

But Aaron was here now, “Hi baby,” You say sweetly, “I didn’t think you were going to make it tonight.”

He gives you a withering look as if to say I’ll deal with you later, before turning to the lawyer. “This is Ronnie, he’s a lawyer.”

Ronnie stared from Aaron, who was still silent, to you and back again. “And… who is this?” He refers to Aaron.

You open your mouth, but Aaron speaks first, “Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief of the BAU. I’m also her boyfriend.” He gives the lawyer a look that anyone in opposition to the unit chief had experienced many times over the course of his career.

I’m sorry, you were mouthing to Ronnie from behind Aaron’s shoulder. “She didn’t mention a boyfriend.” Ronnie says.

You sigh, leave it to you to pick the one guy in this room that would decide to challenge Aaron Hotchner rather than just apologizing and walking away, “Oh, you idiot.” You murmur.

Aaron tilts his head to the side in an almost predatory way, “Are you suggesting that I’m lying?”

“I’m suggesting that the lady obviously doesn’t want you since she didn’t mention you, Mister FBI.”

“Oh, God help us.” You shake your head and say into your lap and the next time you look up Aaron’s fist has connected with the man’s face and whiskey had splashed on the floor and your ankles. At that your eyes widen, “Aaron, what the fuck?” Aaron had given many men that flirted with you a firm talking to, sometimes escalated to yelling, but never in the entire time that you’d known him had Aaron physically hurt anyone who had advanced on you.

Aaron puts a firm hand on your wrist as a commotion begins to gather around the two of you and pulls you away. He doesn’t speak as he practically drags you out to the back door, down several flights of stairs and out another door behind the building. Once the cold night air hits you, you pull your wrist away from him, “What the hell did you do that for?”

“Did you want him to fuck you?” He practically growls.

“No,” You say, exasperated, “Aaron, we play this game all the time, you’ve never hit someone.”

“You’ve never deliberately gone out of your way to flirt with someone else.”

It was true, you supposed. You always let the men come up to you if they were interested, but you never were the one to initiate. Why would you when no one would compare to Aaron anyway? Today you had come here with specific intentions to speak with someone that would piss off Aaron. “You’re right,” You admit softly, “I’m sorry, I just… I wanted you to feel what I’ve been feeling.”

“Do you think I enjoy coming home late and not spending time with you?”

“Yes, I do! You love your job!”

“So you behave like a child because you’re jealous of my job?”

When he says it out loud like that, it sounds ridiculous and your eyes water, “Yes.” You say quietly, “Because I need to make sure you still want me just as much as your job.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, “Honey, of course I do, but I can’t control when I have more paperwork or a heavier caseload than usual.”

You feel deflated and stupid all of a sudden with the condescension that’s written so clearly on Aaron’s face. “Whatever, let’s just go home.”

“Sweetheart—“

“I don’t want to talk about it. Did you drive the SUV here?”

He looks at you hopelessly and then sighs, “Yes.”

You let him walk a couple of steps ahead of you the whole way, not wanting to let him hold your hand if you were close enough. He did open the car door for you, but you didn’t look at him as you climbed in.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t consider your feelings more this week when I cancelled our dates.” Aaron says. You remain quiet. “I’m nearly certain I’ll be off work this weekend. I’ll make it up to you then.”

You can’t help the roll of your eyes, “You have to stop making me promises that you can’t keep. We all know you’ll probably get a case in the middle of the weekend.”

His fingers flex on the steering wheel, “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Aaron, I’m not even mad about you not being here all the time. I accepted that when we first started dating. I just hate when you promise you’ll do something and then you don’t do it. We planned this dinner weeks and weeks ago and you swore to me you’d get it off. And then we had to reschedule the reservation three nights in a row and you still didn’t show. Then you do show up, but only for the chance to be mad at me and condescend me which just tells me that you could have left work tonight if you wanted to. That’s why I’m mad.”

He supposed you were right. He had ended up leaving work early because he was upset with you. He knew that hadn’t been your intention, you had expected him to quietly stew in his anger until the next morning or until you had come home that night. But he had done it all the same, unable to bear even the idea of you flirting with another man in his absence. He figured it had to do with previously being cheated on because of his job, but he knew you would never do that. Knew that your relationship wasn’t fundamentally broken in that way, could tell by the way adoration still glowed in your eyes when he came home every night. But if he wasn’t careful, he wondered if you ever would. Just the thought had his knuckles whitening as he clenched the steering wheel. It was this thought that had made him punch that lawyer back at the bar.

When you arrive home, you get out of the car without waiting for Aaron, unlocking the door before he’s even out of the car and heading inside, heels in hand. Jack was sleeping at a friend’s house tonight as it was supposed to be date night. You don’t slam the bedroom door, but you close it as Aaron is walking down the hallway which in his mind is the same thing. He stops in the middle of the hallway, wondering if he should go in anyway. A minute later, he hears the intro to The Phantom of the Opera blaring from your bedroom.

He sighs, “Fuck.” He murmurs to himself and turns away from the room. Your mutual love of the theater had been something the two of you had bonded over early in the relationship. Aaron had learned quickly there was a specific stage performance of Phantom of the Opera that you turned to for comfort. If he ever came home to it playing, he knew you had had a bad day. Rarely, though, had you put it on after a fight with him.

He heads to the kitchen and turns on the electric kettle figuring he’d better come into the bedroom with your favorite tea if he was going to brave it at all. He sits down as he waits, resting his head in his hands. The two of you rarely ever fight and so Aaron is still trying to figure out how to do that with you in a productive way.

The kettle switches off and he pours the boiling water into your favorite mug, dunking your favorite tea bag before leaving it to steep. He takes a deep breath before picking up the mug and walking to the bedroom. When he enters, you don’t look at him until he stops by your nightstand, noticing he brought you tea. The gesture is sweet and so you sigh and pause the show.

“Hi.” You say softly to your boyfriend who’s still standing next to you.

“Hi.” He says gently, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” You say, and he knows it’s a test.

“For making promises I know I can’t keep. For leaving work early after I told you I wouldn’t be able to solely to punch whatever man wanted to sleep with you. For patronizing you.”

You cover your hand with his, “And I’m sorry for flirting to intentionally make you upset. You know I’d never actually do that, right?”

Aaron looks down at your hands, “I saw the way you had spread your legs for him, just a little bit, and I…” He sighs, “I never told you this, but my last wife cheated on me because I wasn’t around enough and seeing you like that, I guess I just…” He trailed off shaking his head, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”

“Baby,” You say softly, eyes wide, “I’m so sorry, I had no idea… I never would’ve done that if I had known.”

“I know.” He gives you a small smile.

“Why don’t you come lay down and tell me about your day?”

His smile grows and he crawls into bed, laying his head in your lap and your fingers begin combing through his hair as he talks about the case.

[retvenkos]

romantic at heart | m.

Legend of Korra - Mako x Reader, fluff

tw: none

word count: 4.6k

A/N: canon? who needs her? certainly not this fic. korrasami deserved to be canon earlier so i vaguely mentioned it, and mako and bolin’s apartment is the perfect setting don’t @ me.

Summary: Mako has always had bad luck when it comes to love, but with (Y/n), things feel easy. So why, then, is it so hard to admit it?

the three times he didn’t say it, and the one time he did.

one;

“I’m telling you guys, this is going to be great! Part Four is my favorite in The Adventures of Nuktuk: Hero of the South!” 

Mako shared an amused look with (Y/n) as Bolin led the way into the darkened theater, holding open the door for the group to enter. Asami and Korra passed hand in hand, and when (Y/n) walked past Bolin, they tossed a piece of popcorn at him and Bolin caught it in his mouth.

Mako brought up the rear of the group, and as they walked up to find their seats, he whispered, “How many parts are there, Bo?”

“Seven! And the Finale’s great, don’t get me wrong, but it just doesn’t have the heart that part four does.”

“That’s just because he kisses Ginger,” (Y/n) leaned in and whispered to Mako, earning an incredulous “hey!” from Bolin.

“How’d that work out, by the way?” Asami turned to the earthbender with what sounded like genuine curiosity and Bolin chuckled nervously.

“Ah, well, you know, the hearts of mover stars are fickle, so we didn’t last long… there was something about it being a publicity stunt, but that didn’t make much sense, so…”

“Well it’s her loss,” Korra elbowed Bolin in the side with a smile and he forced a chuckle.

“She doesn’t deserve you, Bo.”

“Yeah, you’re a great mover star.”

A few people in the theater shushed them, and the group settled down into their chairs, just moments before the lights dimmed further and the mover started. The disembodied voice of Varrick boomed through the speakers with a recap of the previous 3 parts of the daring adventure, and everyone fell silent, slowly getting sucked into the mover before them.

Ever since their debut, the Nuktuk movies were a success - a staple of Republic City culture - getting replayed in theatres again and again. After learning that Mako hadn’t seen Nuktuk in its entirety, Bolin called for a state of emergency and got the whole group together so they could schedule a time for a complete rewatch of the seven-part masterpiece.

Mako had been planning to make some excuse - a series of cases that Beifong put him up to, or a slew of paperwork that some higher-paid coworkers pawned off onto him. It wouldn’t be the first time he had to miss something for work, and it wouldn’t be the first attempt at lying to get out of a viewing party. Just three months ago he narrowly avoided a showing of Love amongst the Dragons by faking sickness and saying that Beifong told him to sleep all day so he could be back at work the next. Everyone but Bolin believed him, and Bolin (who didn’t want to see it either but promised Asami he would go) let it slide.

After that, Bolin was better at guessing when Mako was lying, and whenever he needed Mako’s compliance, he set (Y/n) up to the task of cajoling Mako to come along.

So far, their track record had been impeccable.

(Y/n) chuckled at something they saw on screen, and Mako turned to them. “How many cases of Vari-dye do you think Varrick sold after that product placement?” They gestured to the screen where the once blonde Ginger flagrantly mentioned her hair dye product before becoming a, well… ginger. The script was somehow able to loosely tie the product placement into the plot, but the moment earned a couple of well-earned laughs throughout the theater.

“Millions, most likely. Aren’t these movers big in Ba Sing Se?”

“As comedies,” (Y/n) muttered, leaning in, clearly trying to keep their voice down so Bolin didn’t hear. The theater around them was dark and silent, but the light reflected in (Y/n)’s eyes was full of life and mirth. Mako found himself unable to look away.

He cleared his throat, “You do have to give it to Nuktuk and his comedic timing.”

“And Juji’s heart-wrenching death and subsequent resurrection.”

Mako found himself chuckling at their lame joke, and for once, he didn’t mind. (Y/n) smiled triumphantly, as though they had accomplished something truly grand, and angled their bag of popcorn towards Mako. He took some and popped a piece in his mouth, his laughter still dying on his lips. 

“Varrick must be quite the director, to get you to laugh in a totally serious, not-a-comedy mover.”

“Varrick?” and there was just enough suggestion in Mako’s words to say all that he couldn’t, though why he couldn’t seem to get anything else out, he didn’t know.

Things were always easy with (Y/n); their smiles were soft and infectious, their tactics in getting him to open up were effortless and effective, and falling in love with them had been the most simple and uncomplicated thing in this world. It should have been with such ease that Mako told them that it was them that got him into the theater and their corny comments that made him burn inside, like a thousand dying comets that took the form of shooting stars.

But for some reason, he was stuck.

Unsurprising, really, Mako had never really had luck when it came to love and even friendship. There was always something complicating things; there were always two sides of him, fighting the other for reasons even he couldn’t fathom. Eventually, one of them would lose. Eventually, something would give. 

But until that eventuality…

“I suppose I am quite the comedian. Should I write a screenplay?” (Y/n) was speaking, but something in their demeanor was different - a little stunned - like they hadn’t considered something before and it was only now dawning on them, slowly, but comfortably. Easy. “It would have to be a sequel to Nuktuk, of course. Maybe I can introduce the grumpy, mysterious fire-bender who he’s now forced to share a quest with?”

(Y/n) nudged him in the shoulder, already rolling their eyes at their own idea. Mako looked down, suddenly interested in picking the perfect piece of popcorn. “Yeah. If you’re making it, why not?”

(Y/n) snorted and turned back to the film.

two;

Taking the steps to his apartment two at a time, Mako fished for his keys in the pocket of his pants. Walking the beat had the potential to be more trouble than it was worth, and often Mako found himself at the gym at the end of the day, taking out his frustration the way he used to - pro-bending. Well, not so much pro-bending, anymore, seeing as they disbanded the Fire Ferrets, and dissolved the team, but it was the same training, nonetheless, and Mako had been a pro-bender so long that oftentimes, nothing felt more comfortable than the gym.

As he walked down the hall to his door - second on the right, Bolin had insisted - Mako could hear the sounds of laughter and the beeping of the oven. Despite himself, he smiled, breathing in deeply as he fiddled with the lock and opened the door.

Inside the tiny apartment, (Y/n) and Bolin were working side by side, leaning over the oven as they looked at the baked goods that lay within. The counters were a mess of cluttered ingredients and mismatched bake wear, Pabu had tracked flour across the carpet, and by every measure it was chaotic, but Mako simply leaned against the doorframe, speaking just loud enough to be heard. “Stress baking, again? Y’know, I’m really starting to regret giving you a key.”

"This was all Bolin, actually.” (Y/n) pulled the baking sheet out of the oven and set it down before turning to Mako with their usual countenance. “He told me to come over - he bought a set of mixing bowls and everything.”

“He didn’t buy more counter space?”

“Hey!” Bolin called incredulously through a mouth full of baked goods. Pabu scuttled beneath him, eating the crumbs that fell to the floor. “Counters wouldn’t fit.”

“It’s alright Bo,” (Y/n) nudged his arm with their shoulder, turning back to the task at hand. They used an old spatula to take their masterpiece off of the pan, and Bolin took two from them. 

“You have to try this batch, Mako, (Y/n)’s gotten really good at their green tea cookies.”

“Oh?”

Mako shut the door behind him and walked over to the couch. (Y/n) met him halfway with their signature, light green cookie, Mako took it with an appreciative smile. “The secret is in the matcha. I wasn’t putting in enough before, so they didn’t taste right.”

Mako broke off a bit of the cookie, making sure to get a bit that had a white chocolate chip in it, and savored the taste. (Y/n) was watching him with one of their expectant smiles, and he nodded his head, the bittersweet flavor still lingering in his mouth. “These are your best yet.”

“High praise, coming from you.” And there was an edge of sarcasm to their voice, but their eyes were bright. Mako just looked at them for a moment, really looked at them in all of their casual beauty. (Y/n) had moved into his life so early on and so slowly that Mako didn’t know what life would be like without their casual teasing and easy grins.

And, of course, their random (but not unwelcome) bouts of stress baking.

Mako must have been staring a bit too long, because (Y/n) raised a playful eyebrow, and not too long after, Bolin broke the silence. “Uh, Pabu and I have to go, and uh... y’know, do adult stuff, with uh....”

“With Korra?” (Y/n) supplied amusedly, turning to Bolin, who was stuffing a napkin with cookies hurriedly. 

“Yeah! Y’know, Avatar stuff...” Bolin shrugged, slipping out the door, only to open it up again and grab his shoes before shoving off again.

(Y/n) scoffed and Mako sighed, calling after him. “Real smooth, Bo!” 

A muffled response called out to them, and (Y/n) laughed, walking back over to the kitchen area, where they started to put together another batch of cookies, measuring the sugar with their hands and putting it into a bowl with butter. “I’m surprised you haven’t been kicked out from noise complaints.”

Yeah, well Bolin charmed our neighbors into liking us too much to see us go.”

“His charm does go far, doesn’t it?” Mako watched and (Y/n) moved through his apartment with ease, pulling spoons out of the drawers and cleaning the dishes as they went. Their practiced movements had the surety and preciseness of someone who lived there, and the thought was enough to make Mako’s throat dry.

“So,” Mako cleared his throat and walked over to (Y/n) passing them the egg they were reaching for. “you measure everything with your hands, and yet you’re constantly insisting that baking is a science. How does that work?”

“It’s all in the weight and look of it - a full cup is a far cry from a fourth.” (Y/n) mixed the ingredients together, their brow set in concentration, “Or, at least, that’s what my mom used to say. What I will tell you—” they looked up at Mako rather suddenly, that intensity still alight within them “—is that it’s in how it feels.”

“So the weight of it.”

“Yes... but it’s more than that.” (Y/n) looked at him with their sharp eyes, as though trying to judge something. “Go wash your hands,” and they jerked their head to the side, “I’ll show you.”

Mako didn’t even hesitate to do as they said, and even though Bolin had left, he could hear his voice - a surprised “what...?” - nagging the back of his mind. It was easy to shrug off. It was (Y/n). Everything was easy when it came to them.

“Alright,” (Y/n) said, with a hint of childish excitement, as Mako slung the towel he had used to dry his hands over his shoulder. “Give me your hands.”

Their touch tickled and their fingers - dry and powdery from the flour - grazed over his, opening his palms with a gentle sort of care.

“Here is one cup or so.” (Y/n) grabbed a handful of flour, transferred it to their other hand, and skimmed some off the top before placing it in his. “Yeah, you can feel the weight, and you can see how much there is, but you have to kind of trust that what you're feeling is right, because it’s not always going to feel the same, right? When you’re tired or you’ve been baking all day, things feel different, even though they’re the same.”

“All this for flour?”

“For each cup of flour. We need two and a half.”

“I can see why Bolin asks you to do the baking.” (Y/n) chuckled and guided his hands to the mixing bowl, where Mako let the flour slip out of his fingertips like really fine sand. “But I can tell that you feel it...” the last bit of flour fell out of his hands, but Mako let his hands hover near (Y/n)’s for just a moment longer, “and that’s good enough.”

They smiled, and it has all the serenity and beauty of dawn. “I’ll make a baker of you, yet.” They added more flour to the bowl and started mixing, their gaze flicking up to Mako. “One of these days you’re going to understand the feeling of it.”

“I...” and part of Mako wanted to say that he already did, that his feelings were about the only thing he understood when it came to moments like these, but the words got caught in his throat, and he found himself unable to get them out. “I think we’ll have to do a lot more baking, then.”

three;

Mako ran, the ground beneath his feet steady and his breathing exact. The beauty of Republic City Park surrounded him and in the early morning, when the air was just nippy enough to need a jacket, there were few people to be found. The usual groups of people practicing tai chi or playing Pai Sho weren’t out yet, and the sun was just peaking over the horizon. 

Morning runs often gave Mako a sense of clarity - there was very little he could focus on when in fast, forward motion, and everything complicated fell away. It was just him, the ground, and the fire in his veins. 

Mako slowed to a jog, and when he found an empty park bench, he sat down, wiping the sweat off of his brow. The shadows were just starting to creep away, losing to the brilliance of the sun and hiding in each recess and tiny alcove. The duck pond in front of him was warming to a crystal-like blue. Mako breathed out and tipped his head back, letting the stillness wash over him, his thoughts slowly catching up with him.

“Mako?”

And at first, he thought it was just his feelings for (Y/n) meeting up with him once more, but then he heard the steady pounding of the pavement and there they were jogging toward him, ushering in the morning with a comfortable pace.

“Heading into work later than usual?” They stopped by the bench and Mako slid over so they’d have room to sit.

“No, Beifong told me to take a day off. I usually do paperwork today, but she handed it off to someone else.”

(Y/n) hummed in acknowledgement. “So you’re joining Asami and me for our run, then?”

"Huh?”

“Asami and I usually go on a run, at this time. We meet here.”

“Asami told me that I should take a run since I wasn’t going into work today.”

Both of them scoffed, relaxing deeper into the metal bench. For a moment they just sat there, taking in the moment, and letting the world dawn on them, a beautiful mixture of colors - a painting slowly completing itself. Eventually, (Y/n) turned to Mako, an eyebrow raised in jest. “Do you reckon they think they’re being slick?”

“Probably - and it’ll only get worse once they get Korra on board.”

“Who’s to say they haven’t already?” The two chuckled, shaking their heads at the efforts of their friends, and (Y/n) knocked their knees together, leaning in a little closer. “It’s alright, I like spending time with you.”

“You’re gonna hate me once we finish this run, though.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to buy me some tea, afterwards.” (Y/n) stood up, stretching their arms and letting out a yawn. “To make it up to me, of course.”

Mako stifled a smile and stood, making a show of his weary sigh. “Alright” —(Y/n) rolled their eyes at him— “You drive a hard bargain.”

They started off at a slow jog, and every minute or so Mako upped the intensity until they were sprinting across Republic City Park, occasionally dodging the wayward soul taking a morning stroll. The world blurred around them, the lush foliage turning into swaths of green with the occasional pinprick of color - purple or yellow, green or blue. As they slowed down, the world became more defined, and when they came to a walk, (Y/n) pulled ahead and turned around so they could walk backwards, facing Mako with a breathless grin.

“You owe me at least a muffin to go along with that tea, after what you just pulled. I almost ran into a woman walking her toddler! Could you imagine what would have happened, had I hit her?”

Mako laughed, still coming down from his high, and (Y/n) grinned at the sound - dazzling and so bright, it put the sun to shame. “Let’s get you out of the park, then, before you start running down Pai Sho players.” 

The two fell into step beside each other, taking the path out of the park and into the busy streets. Already, Republic City was booming with life, and the two were rather quick to slip into the quiet tea shop that was just around the corner. Inside, the cafe was fairly empty, with slow music playing from the speakers. (Y/n) closed their eyes and breathed in the smell of freshly-baked muffins, and Mako was quick to look away when they caught him staring.

(Y/n) walked towards the case that held all of the baked goods, trying to read the different types they had displayed. “This is way better than trying to throw something together at my apartment.”

Mako pulled his attention away from the menu board, where he had been searching for the right type of tea. “Your apartment? You mean you actually have a place to go, other than mine?” 

“You gave me the key.”

“For emergencies.”

(Y/n) scoffed. “Well, ‘emergencies’ is in clear need of a mutual definition.”

The two ordered, and Mako paid, despite (Y/n) saying they had the money, and when their order was ready, they took a seat in the corner, next to a window that overlooked a busy intersection. (Y/n) insisted they split the muffin and gave half to Mako, and after settling into their more calm atmosphere, (Y/n) turned to Mako.

“So, what are you going to do for the rest of your day off?” (Y/n) took a sip of their tea and fixed Mako with one of those stares - the kind that saw through everything else, and somehow got down to his core. “I can’t imagine this is what you had planned.”

“Uh… I don’t know. I figured I’d go home and work on finding a lead to a case or something.”

“Even though Beifong told you to take the day off?”

“Well, I’m not at the station…” Mako trailed off, suddenly finding great interest in the rim of his cup.

“And you’re not going to work from home, either.” (Y/n) scoffed exaggeratedly, and though Mako was the most incorrigible person they’d ever met. Although, in their defense, he probably was. “Not on my watch.”

“So what, you’re going to find something for me to do all day?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

Mako watched as (Y/n) sat back in the booth, a triumphant yet challenging smile on their face, and he felt the disbelief in his chest melt into something softer. It was there, again, that urge to say something both incredibly brave and terribly stupid; that desire to put all of his feelings into words and express them more truly than anything else.

“Alright,” Mako swallowed and allowed himself a small smile. “If that’s what it takes.

✧ *:･ﾟ

one;

Just when Mako had admitted to (Y/n) that he was an avid reader, he couldn’t remember, but at some point, they had found out, and ever since, the two spent their lazy weekends sprawled out on his sky blue sofa, books in hand. This time, (Y/n) had come earlier than usual, and by midday, they had already finished their novel - a fast-paced murder mystery with just a bit of a redemption arc for one of the main leads. They had talked about (Y/n)’s book while walking down to the market to get the necessary fixings for dinner, and when they came back to Mako’s tiny apartment, he passed them one of his favorites to read - a historical fiction that combined elements of notable legends and recorded history to make an interesting thriller with plenty of easy-to-digest drama. 

When (Y/n) took it from him, they took one look at the summary and raised an eyebrow.  “This is one of your favorites?” Mako had tried to push down his embarrassment, stuttering out some kind of response, but had just smiled. “It’s not a bad thing, just surprising. I’m sure I’ll love it.”

And they did. For the next hour and a half, the two sat in Mako’s apartment in relative silence, reading separate novels and making the occasional exclamation of shock, betrayal, joy, and surprise. Mako had looked over at (Y/n) occasionally, trying to judge where they were in the book, and whether they were enjoying it just as much as he had, the first time.

At some point in the day, the sun filtering through the window matured into a deeper, golden shade, turning the afternoon into early evening. Mako, who had been thoroughly engrossed in his novel for the better part of the day, stood up from his couch and stretched when he noticed the change in light. Letting out a sigh, he made his way over to the kitchen area. As he started to make dinner for��the both of them, Mako missed the way that (Y/n) turned to look at him from their place on the couch, a lopsided grin on their face. They still lay on the turquoise material, sitting upside down with their feet in the air, book in hand and the red couch cushion resting on their stomach, watching as Mako turned on the stove with a click of propane and a bit of fire bending. 

It wasn't long before the apartment was full of the comforting smell of Mako's cooking, and soon (Y/n) found it impossible to focus on the page before them. They opted to right themself instead and watch Mako as he finished up, adding the finishing touches to the meal before splitting what lay in the pan into two different bowls. 

He handed a bowl to (Y/n) as he settled onto the couch, both of them moving to sit cross-legged, their knees touching. (Y/n) savored the flavor of Mako's signature dish, and he gestured to the book beside them. 

"How're you liking it so far?"

"The book? It's great. Perfectly paced, in my opinion, although I wouldn't mind for a little bit more world-building. The time period is so interesting and they could lean into it a little more."

Mako nodded, satisfied with the smile on their face and the eagerness in their tone. "I figured you'd like it. There's a lot happening, but the characters are good enough to carry the story."

"That's a raving review, coming from you." (Y/n) laughed, the sound falling from their lips effortlessly. "And I can see why it's your favorite. You like a good redemption arc, don't you?"

"It's an interesting enough idea."

"A rather sweet one, too. Are you sure you're not a romantic at heart?"

Mako scoffed in response, but even so, he could feel his cheeks burning up, the nagging voice in his head (the one that told him to just confess already, or do something equally as rash) getting louder from conviction. "I think that's you."

"Oh definitely, but there's always room for one more," (Y/n) mumbled through a mouth full of noodles. "And judging by your taste in books, I'd say you already are."

"There's not even a romantic subplot!"

"The main character literally took lightning to the face for his best friend, and then proceeded to say that he’d do it all again, if it meant they could stay together. Are you telling me there isn't something there?"

“You said yourself that they’re friends!”

“C’mon, Mako,” (Y/n) deadpanned, setting aside their dinner so that they could use their hands to punctuate their speech. There was a fire in their eyes, and something restless in the way they moved - like there was something important they were trying to say. “Friendship is clearly just an excuse for them.”

“An excuse?” Mako felt his throat dry. Suddenly, he was acutely aware of their proximity, and the little space that still existed between them - like they were almost touching, and yet oceans apart. 

(Y/n)’s hands fidgeted in their lap. “Yeah, like… An easy out when you’re too afraid to go for it...or when you think you’re not enough.” Part of Mako wanted to look away, but (Y/n)’s eyes had caught his gaze too fully and the other part of him battled to stay. For the longest moment, he couldn’t move. “But they love each other - you can see it.”

There was a battle waging war inside Mako; each side fighting the other for dominance, and only one coming out on top. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost like a deep sigh. “Yeah, they love each other.”

(Y/n) smiled, their mouth moving with just the slightest tremble, and part of Mako wondered what had disrupted the ease with which they did everything, but another part of him already knew. Mako reached out and cupped their cheek, the feeling of their skin against his flooding him with courage he didn’t know he had.

“And I love you, (Y/n).” 

“About time you confessed to me.” (Y/n)’s eyes sparkled in jest before they surged forward, kissing Mako and igniting the fire in his chest. All he could think about was them and the way they blissfully invaded all of his senses, how soft their lips were, and how strong their hands were, as they wrapped around him, pulling him nearer. When they broke apart, (Y/n) rested their forehead on his. 

Then they said it, their voice a whisper that sent him tumbling over the edge, their breath fanning against his cheek.

“I love you, too.”

Mako kissed them again, craving the feeling of their lips against his, chasing after the way they made him feel - like every moment had led to this, like every battle had been worth the struggle. Time seemed to stop, and for a moment, it was as though there was no gravity, and the only thing anchoring Mako to this world was (Y/n), and their touch.

“Like I said,” (Y/n) was smiling when he pulled away, and their gaze made it easy to come back down to earth. “You’re a romantic at heart.”

Mako chuckled and (Y/n) laughed with him, the sound filling the tiny apartment with something undefined but utterly perfect. 

“Alright, so maybe I am.” Mako relented, tipping his head back. “But an epic romance doesn’t happen within that book, if that’s what you're after.”

“Well, maybe we’ll have to write a sequel of our own."

-- taglist: message me if you want to be added to a taglist!

[writeblrfantasy]

here it is!

my pride and joy, the piece that has completely hijacked my brain and my life for the past 24 hours. this is the prologue, some might say, to TDOSA, featuring the vibes of an endless, sunny summer, the sense of floating through time and space, and a lot of lesbian yearning and projection, i present: the summer of seret ashling.

cw implied sex, blood

word count around 6300

one time tags of interest @ashen-crest @ettawritesnstudies

tdosa taglist (lmk to be added/removed) magic-is-something-we-create @hysteriwah @imjustalonesomewriteblr @a-forgotten-dusk @bronwennjames @metanoiamorii

Lysandra Fleming’s summer begins like this: a lonely night in Briar Bar, sipping a warm mug of cherry syrup. Not because she is cold—the heat in Vashiri Valley does not begin with summer, nor does it end there. Cherry syrup is vile and bitter and sweet at the same time, made worse warm, but the smooth way it goes down reminds her of childhood, the strange days when she actually liked this stuff.

Not home. She has not had a home since she was a child, when the supposed charm of the palace still worked on her. What were once silky ribbons in her hair became the invisible chains and rules of her parents, tying her down.

Lysandra, you can’t do this, it will reflect badly on us, or Lysandra, you can’t speak to that person, can’t smile at them, can’t see them, don’t you know what they did ten years ago? Don’t you know who their parents are? Vashiri Valley is struggling for power enough without you mucking it up.

Lysandra stopped smiling altogether.

Now, she comes to Briar Bar to be left alone with her cherry syrup, to melt into the crowd, to be normal, for once. Instead, others smile at her the way her parents always encouraged she smile, fake, polite enough, with an ulterior gleam in their eye. So many eyes watch her in want, but she does not feel seen at all by any of them.

The room’s quiet conversation dims and dissolves into whispers, prompting Lysandra to glance over at the reason. The reason is facing away from Lysandra, wearing a tall black hat and a black suit that nearly blends into the darkness of the walls, if not for the white shirt the woman is wearing underneath.

Lysandra didn’t see her come in, and all eyes turn to the tall, dark stranger, wondering the same thing. Her companions across the room point her in Lysandra’s direction, who braces for another meaningless smile, another delighted to meet you, Highness.

The woman turns, and Lysandra sees brown skin, black hair falling in long, loose curls, a subtle, close mouthed smile that draws her attention instantly. Brown eyes meet Lysandra’s green.

“Seret Ashling, my princess.” Seret Ashling leans down, never breaking eye contact, and kisses the top of Lysandra’s hand, holding her fingers delicately, but not like she’s glass. She treats Lysandra like she knows, instantly, her boundaries, how far she can safely push, what Lysandra can take—which is a lot more than most people guess.

Already, Lysandra likes her.

Lysandra is not her princess. She knows the name of every person in this valley, and she knows she’s never even seen Seret before. Even the name is foreign to her. Seh-reht.

That makes it all the better.

She moves her stool a little farther from the empty one beside her, raising an eyebrow in an invitation Seret accepts, removing her hat and tucking it under her arm to smoothly mount the stool. Seret sits with a straight back but ankles curled around the legs of the stool, adding enough humanity to her presence to make Lysandra smile.

She does not prop her elbow on the table, she does not order anything, but she does stare at Lysandra like she’s the most interesting person in the room. Lysandra can tell, somehow, that this gaze is genuine, not hastily crafted and practiced to impress her.

She offers to buy Lysandra another mug of cherry syrup, and Lysandra lets her.

***

Everywhere Lysandra goes, Seret seems to find her. She’s the talk of the valley, enrapturing them with her tall, dark, handsome aura, her small smile, the way the sun shines off her hair.

Finally Seret takes the leap and asks her out to places in Vashiri City Lysandra has been a thousand times, but somehow Seret’s presence paints color to her world again instead of the dull greens and golds the valley has become.

Their connection is instant, from Briar Bar to the lane of potion shops to the muffled awe in Seret’s face when she sees the Academy. At some point, Seret takes Lysandra’s hand, and they stroll through the town like they are not a princess and the new obsession of Vashiri Valley.

Everyone has been asking Seret about herself, where she’s from, what family she has, but she slips out of answering like a snake from a trap. Her smile is quite persuasive. Lysandra doesn’t even try to pry the answer out of her, though she might be the one person to succeed. Seret still looks at her every time like she’s the sun and the moon and the stars.

Lysandra’s heart thrums with nerves every hour before their dates, afraid of messing things up and driving Seret away, but the moment Seret enters the room, her heart calms. Seret gives her a warm hug that envelopes her whole soul, tells her she missed her dearly, and Lysandra wonders why she was ever worried. Seret seems impossible to offend.

“I am going to buy you a gift,” Seret announces on one of their dates in town, in a tone which makes it clear this is non-negotiable. Lysandra only nods. Seret pauses between two shops, one being the most popular jewelry store in the city with a line out the door, the one across the street being an adorable but little known competitor.

Lysandra waits for Seret to get in line for the popular jewelry store, but instead the woman lingers in front of the door of the other shop before opening it. “Don’t peek,” she says with a little smile, shutting the door and triggering the little bell. Lysandra stands there gawking like a fool until Seret emerges ten minutes later holding a little square box.

When Lysandra opens it with trembling hands, she finds a little heart shaped necklace, gold with a silver center on a golden chain. The gold probably isn’t real, probably just paint, but the pink paper wrapping the necklace and the little thank you card inside the box make her smile when the shop across the street wouldn’t.

The plain red and blue shelves in the windows of the other shop, where her family’s jeweler gets his jewels, have nothing on the soft pinks, greens, and browns of the cheap shop owned by twins. They keep flowers in their windows, pink carnations, and prices written in loopy court script.

“Do you like it?” Seret asks nervously, and Lysandra realizes she hasn’t said a word.

“I love it. Thank you.” She offers it up to Seret to clasp around her neck. Seret’s warm fingertips brush the back of her neck, and shivers run down Lysandra’s spine. This is special, her heart keeps telling her, like she doesn’t already know. This is different.

“How did you know?” Lysandra asks.

“Know what?”

“That I’d like this better than the shop across the street.”

“You’re a princess, you’re used to expensive jewelry, and you’ve publicly and loudly denounced royal life. Also, I’d rather give my money to them, seems like they actually need it. Don’t you agree?”

Lysandra has to take a deep breath to keep from blurting out something stupid. “Yes. I agree.”

Their first kiss a day later is a ray of light and a shadow of darkness, colliding and exploding in a glorious show of white and black, settling as ashes and debris into serene, calm gray. They are not the sun and moon. Lysandra is too sharp to be the sun, Seret too dim to be the moon.

It is the death of something. The birth. Lysandra can’t define what.

***

When Lysandra asks, Seret says she came to Vashiri Valley to visit and experience its delights, after which she meets Lysandra’s eyes and kisses her hands.

Lysandra hangs around the city apartment Seret rents. It’s close to Wynn’s cabin where she sleeps. She hasn’t slept in the palace in months. The layers of security and scrutiny she has to pass to enter are not worth the temporary comfort of a soft bed and her favorite meals.

She’s sleeping beside Seret before long, unable to bear being apart from her for that long, wondering how she behaves during such a precious time. Seret’s arms are even warmer around her under cool sheets, and in the morning, Seret brings her coffee before disappearing behind a white door.

She reappears in a cloud of steam, smelling like sweet flowers and honeysuckle. Lysandra gets to kiss her good morning and wonder how she got so lucky.

They’re invited to plays, the nights at the bars for amateur bards, the travelling witches who perform at the amphitheater. Lysandra has been to every event in this valley at least once, usually at the request of her family, but Seret loves going. Like the city and the shops and the Academy, experiencing Seret’s joy secondhand is intoxicating.

Everywhere they go, every table they sit at, whether it’s the theater or the bar or a café for a simple breakfast, people are fawning over Seret. The entire valley is enamored with Lysandra’s new lover.

Seret seems to find it amusing, the way they pat her arm and show a comical amount of interest in everything she has to say, just waiting for an opportunity to ask questions that they must know will go unanswered.

Lysandra sits quietly, burning from the way Seret entertains them, smiles at them in her private way. She wants Seret all to herself. She’s used to sharing things with the public, she’s had to share herself her whole life, but Seret is different. Lysandra doesn’t care if it’s selfish, Seret is hers.

When everyone finally seems like they’ve gotten their fill of Vashiri’s new inhabitant, Lysandra takes her to the edge of the forest and the dead tall grass fields beside it. She gets to watch the exact moment Seret falls in love.

Seret has never grinned, never raised her voice louder than a murmur, but her hitch of breath and the way she reaches for Lysandra’s hand is all she needs. Pride blooms in Lysandra’s chest at the realization she’s learned Seret’s little tells like that.

“It’s just a field,” she laughs. She’s laughing more, now, thanks to Seret. Stoic, cynical, unpleasant Princess Lysandra, laughing. This is why she hasn’t let Arlin near Seret yet, she’d never hear the end of it.

“No, it’s not,” Seret breathes, radiating darkness and mystery in a way that is curious, enticing, instead of harmful. Lysandra just wants to follow her into the shadows where no others can see them, hurt them, touch them. “Can’t you see?”

Lysandra strains her neck, but it’s not the fact that Seret is taller than her that’s the problem. “No.”

Seret pulls her along and begins running instead of answering. Lysandra yelps in surprise and stumbles along, staring enviously at Seret’s long legs—long legs, long arms, long face, long fingers, everything about Seret is long. She sweeps Lysandra up in her arms and spins her around, feet in the air, Seret’s strong arms keeping her up.

Seret is grinning for the first time, showing perfect white teeth, her joy the only reason Lysandra doesn’t scream in shock. She trusts Seret utterly, she realizes in a paralyzing moment of clarity, the sun warming her back, the wind blowing through her hair. Seret has never given her a reason not to.

“What’s the matter with you?” Lysandra asks, though she can’t keep the joy out of her own voice. Seret is infectious. Anything she feels reflects on Lysandra.

“We had fields exactly like this in the city where I grew up. I can’t believe I haven’t seen these yet.” She finally sets Lysandra down and immediately kisses her, as has become a habit the last week. Lysandra gives in, gives over entirely.

She has twisted and forced a key into the lock of her heart, but now, she hands the broken key to Seret and wishes her lucky trying to fit it in the rusty, damaged old lock. Lysandra knows she’ll unlock it fast, her eyebrows pinched and frowning in concentration, long fingers working quickly.

She doesn’t tell her that, of course.

Even then, Lysandra knew.

***

They find a cabin at the edge of the fields and the forest which they quickly move into, abandoning Arlin and the boys and Lysandra's family and Vashiri Valley for themselves. Lysandra has no remorse.

Seret shows her how to live in darkness, in quiet, in peace. They prepare coffee in the mornings before the sun floods the fields with light, arms brushing and using only using their sleepy voices when they need to, not wanting to disturb the holy peace of the morning.

They bathe in the evenings indoors where the fading sun doesn’t reach, sitting close in a tub of river water that Lysandra heats.

They spend all day laying on their backs in the fields, one of them lying on the other while someone’s hair is stroked and someone speaks over the wind.

When the afternoon heat turns the sunlight from pleasantly warm to scorching, they move to the shade of the big oak tree near their cabin to eat.

The shadows are their friends in this haven, where no one and nothing else exists but them. Seret trusts them like they trust each other, content to close her eyes and lay her head back against the trunk when she’s done eating.

Lysandra loves the warmth of the sun, but she hates the harsh white spotlight of her family, the prickly rules tying her down, the sense that she can’t ever escape their restraining eyes. She can hide in the darkness from Seret. They’ll never catch her.

Lysandra has never been so invincible, light enough to be picked up on a cloud every time the wind blows. Seret is the only magical thing she’s met that doesn’t have a drop of magic within her.

Seret is ineffable. Unknowable. Larger than life. Lysandra can never hope to understand her fully, but she can try, she can watch and observe, attempt to learn the inner workings of Seret’s mind.

“Seret?” Lysandra asks one afternoon just like every other, where the peace and warmth of their retreat cannot be broken. “Where are you from?”

It is the first time she has asked. She holds her breath, waiting for Seret’s answer, which takes a long time to come. Seret chews on her lip, her expression as guarded as always, until she finally smiles. “Wherever you want me to be from. North, south, east, west, I’ve visited them all. Pick one and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Lysandra’s chest opens to swallow an ache of emptiness. “Maybe later.” It’s not what she wanted, and they both know it. Lysandra inches mere breaths away from Seret’s side, but it won’t go unnoticed. She thought Seret might actually tell her. She rubs the small gold heart between her fingers and sighs.

“Hey,” Seret says, turning Lysandra’s chin towards her. “It’s not because I don’t trust you, because I do. I trust you more than I’ve trusted anyone, more than you know.”

“Then why won’t you tell me?” Need, embarrassing and whiny, sneaks into Lysandra’s voice, but she ignores it. She’s entitled to this answer, at least.

“I don’t want to shatter your world.” Seret sighs and shifts to take Lysandra’s hands in both of hers. “I am from the south. I ran away from home at a young age to travel because my upbringing was hell, and I’ve never stopped since.”

Lysandra breathes out.

“None of that changes how I feel about you,” Seret continues, pleading, the most passionate Lysandra has ever heard her. “I have never met anyone like you, even with everywhere I’ve been. I do not want anyone but you.”

No one has ever said anything like that to Lysandra, and hearing it now gives her pause. The way Seret’s eyes burn on her skin with their dark intensity is exquisite. Lysandra will never get used to it. She does not want to.

“I would not want this with anyone else.” It does not mean the same thing, but Seret smiles, close mouthed, anyway. At times like this, Seret’s secretive nature makes Lysandra’s blood boil, unvoiced screams rise in her throat. She has given so much of herself already, why can Lysandra not know of her past, her family, her ugliest emotions?

She never wants Seret to treat her like glass. The first day they met, Seret got it right. Lysandra can’t bear the thought that Seret is any less perfect than she thinks, that would shatter her, not knowledge of the world beyond the valley.

Lysandra has gotten all she will today. She is content to sigh deeply and lay her head on Seret’s arm. Seret will stroke Lysandra’s hair, and the wind will ruffle her own, and Lysandra’s urge to push it back will fight the warmth settling into her bones. They are fine. They will be fine. Nothing more.

***

On lucky occasions, Seret shares stories of her travels from who knows when, who knows where. She has been everywhere, she said, and Lysandra believes her. She asks about the north, the far east, the west, and Seret’s homeland, the south.

The south could mean any number of things. Lysandra has never been out of Vashiri Valley, and her family have always been vague about what lies beyond their mountains, but Seret describes an actual ocean, the cold water wrapping around her ankles, the hot sand burning her feet.

She takes Lysandra to a desert in her mind, great, sprawling cities, icy lakes and snowy mountains to the north. To the east, she says, more ocean with great brown ships. Lysandra doesn’t care if she’s lying.

She lays in the grass on her side and lets the wind blow her skirts while she travels the world in her mind. Seret closes her eyes and traces mountains, rivers, canyons on her spine, unconsciously pointing in those directions. Lysandra’s breath catches in her throat.

Seret opens her eyes briefly to ask, “Am I boring you?”

Never. You couldn’t if you tried.

Lysandra shakes her head. Seret’s slow, easy smile returns, and the warm fingers on the skin revealed by her backless dress whisk her away to a thousand new worlds so big she can’t even imagine them.

***

“Does it ever bother you that I’m a princess?”

Seret smiles. “That isn’t something that would bother most people in my position.”

“I’d disagree. As the lover of a princess, you have no privacy, there’s expectations, rules you have to follow, harassment…I suppose a better word would be faze. You met and introduced yourself and spoke to me as if I were normal.”

“I called you my princess. the day we met.”

At Lysandra’s withering look, Seret chuckles. “Who said you aren’t normal? You didn’t have any control over what family you were born into. I would still feel the same if you hadn’t rejected your family and your role, if you were princess first and person second. It would be a bit harder to get to you, though, in that stronghold. To me, in that bar, you were just the prettiest girl in the nicest dress with the most captivating eyes. They told me you were a princess—so what? I love you anyway.”

Lysandra’s cheeks burn hot, and she chokes on saliva. The wind picks up, and she feels like she’s falling. How can Seret just say things like that and expect Lysandra not to explode and melt into the sun? “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Seret smiles again. “I’m not looking to get anywhere. I’m not like those people at the bar when we met. I’m not trying to be like anyone. I’m not not trying to be like anyone. I’m not looking to impress you, honestly. I’m just being honest.”

Lysandra’s breath catches in her throat like a branch stuck in a river, unfazed by the powerful oncoming waves.

Seret is clearly not looking to hear it back, but Lysandra gathers all her courage and quietly says, “I love you, too. I--”

She shies away from Seret’s intense gaze, burning on the back of her neck. “I’m not good at, uh. Saying things like this. Like you. But I want you to know that you’ve changed my life. I don’t know how to thank you for all that you’ve done for me, given me. This place is nothing short of perfect. Every minute we’ve spent together has been nothing short of perfect. I’m sorry I haven’t given you anything back.”

“My dear, you are quite mistaken. You’ve given me the ultimate gift: yourself. The opportunity to know your heart, your mind. You’ve let me in when I can tell you have trouble doing so.”

She kisses the back of Lysandra’s hand, looking up at her through her eyelashes, as she often does. It still makes Lysandra’s entire being heat like the sun itself came down to lay its rays gently onto her, powerful but careful with her.

“You are my entire world,” says Seret, the sun. “The most precious creature in all the places I’ve visited, all the creatures in this valley alone.”

Lysandra smiles. “You haven’t met Wynn Scylla’s dragonlings.”

Deflect. Defend. Dismiss. Seret sees through it.

Lysandra lays their lips together, hoping to convey without the painful process of words said aloud just how much Seret makes her hurt. Seret makes her burn and ache in the best of ways, like a satisfying stretch after waking up from a stiff nap.

Seret challenges her to face things she loves shying away from, things like the swelling of her heart which she hasn’t felt in years. Seret is terrifying, all consuming, but Lysandra can’t imagine a world without her. Much of her allure comes from her mystery, however infuriating her secrecy is.

Hours later, when they’re full and sated from dinner, after they wash the dishes side by side at the river and after they’ve bathed in the tub in the house, Lysandra hears a faint hum, high and low, continuous, lulling and soft. She turns her head and discovers it’s Seret, humming to herself as she drapes the wet towels out to dry. “What’s that you’re humming?”

Seret pauses her sweet melody. “Hm? Oh, just some music from the east. If I had the proper instruments, I would play the tune.”

Lysandra chokes on air. “You can play music, too?”

Seret smiles. “I can do many things.”

“Oh?” Lysandra doesn’t know where her sudden burst of courage comes from. Perhaps she’s the one looking to get somewhere. She raises an eyebrow and crooks a finger, hoping a low tone will convey her point. “Come here and show me.”

Seret is quiet, face blank. Lysandra wonders, belatedly, if she does in fact have unknown boundaries.

When Seret desperately searches her eyes for consent, Lysandra realizes it was shock and not disgust that rendered her speechless. “You mean—” Seret asks, hoarse, never breaking eye contact. Lysandra shivers. She had that effect on her?

“Yes.”

They stare at each other for a long, silent moment, Seret’s hungry gaze fixed on Lysandra’s pale shoulders, the towel wrapped around her middle. Then they’re both moving at once, mouths moving in the same pattern of Seret’s melody, a symphony of hearts beating in time.

If Lysandra is Seret’s world, Seret is the center of Lysandra’s.

***

At long last, Lysandra’s family gets wind of Seret. Lysandra doesn’t want to know how. Maybe Wynn and Petrus spread it around by accident—she loves those boys, but they couldn’t keep a secret if they tried. Maybe it was Arlin, who Lysandra finally let meet Seret.

All she does know is that her family is demanding to meet their middle princess’s lover, which means they’ll clarify if they’re allowed to be together or not.

“I’m sorry,” Lysandra whimpers, on the edge of tears in Seret’s arms. “I don’t want them to touch us with a ten foot stick, but if we don’t go, they’ll send someone out here to find us and disrupt our world. I’m so sorry.” Something about her family interfering in her and Seret’s affairs makes Lysandra boil like nothing else.

“It’s okay, my princess,” Seret murmurs into her hair, cupping the back of her head, rocking them back and forth. “We’ll go, I’ll tell them what they want to know, we’ll come right back here. It will only be a few hours. Their opinion won’t change how I feel about you, but I’ll do whatever you feel is best.” The sorrow in Seret’s tone implies too much.

Lysandra pulls back. “Don’t you ever think I’d leave you for my family. Right now, I’m thinking much the opposite.”

Seret purses her lips. “What objection would they have to me? The whole valley seems to like me, why wouldn’t they?”

“You’re not a noble, you don’t have a title, you have nothing to offer them, you won’t even tell anyone where you’re from, and you’re the lover of their middle child.”

Her voice is bitter, matching her heart. Seret’s arms tighten protectively around her. Lysandra switches from bitterness to anger to guilt in a second. How dare her family do this to them? What makes them think they have this right?

They control Vashiri Valley, but Lysandra can’t remember the last time they appeared in public, and their power is distant at best.

They control Vashiri Valley, but they can’t control her.

“No matter what they say,” Lysandra says into Seret’s chest, “I am never leaving you. You’ll have to pry me away. Whatever polite, diplomatic accusations or insults they throw at you, ignore them. You don’t have to tell anyone, especially them, about yourself. You’re with me because I love you, and that’s all we care about. Okay?”

“I’m not sure I’m the one who needs reassuring, Lysandra.”

“Shut up. I’ll be fine.” She pulls back from warmth to wipe her eyes, hot shame from crying coating her face, but Seret pulls her back in.

“There’s no shame here,” she whispers, kissing Lysandra’s temple. “Comforting you is my pleasure, though I wish you didn’t have a reason to cry. Everything’s going to be okay, my princess.”

Lysandra breathes.

She wears the gown she wore when she and Seret met, soft pink with a low neckline, tiered ruffles reaching down to her ankles, frilly short sleeves. Maybe familiarity will give her some comfort, whether that’s Seret’s hand on her thigh or this dress pinching her arm.

Seret wears the same black slacks, white shirt, and black jacket she always wears, thoroughly combs her hair, but leaves the hat at home.

At the dinner, she is perfect. she speaks only when spoken to, sits with that straight, enviable posture, praises the food like it’s the substance of heaven itself, the best she’s ever had.

She’s gracious, thankful, answers every question they ask. If she had a title, Lysandra knows her family would be simply begging them to marry.

Things start out pleasant, her family treating Seret with the polite, arm’s length attitude Lysandra expected. Finally, the dreaded question comes.

“So, Seret,” Lysandra’s mother asks, folding her hands, “where are you from?”

Lysandra clutches her necklace, the one Seret gave her, and prays. Please don’t let them be the first ones you tell. They don’t deserve that.

Seret smiles. “This soup is delicious, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, thank you, you’ve said so already.” Her mother is reaching the end of her patience—Lysandra has been on the other end of that short patience dozens of times. Her blue feathered hat and perfect red lips cover up a much nastier woman. “Please tell us about where you live.”

“Well, Lysandra and I have been living next to the forest all summer. The fields there are positively peaceful, you should visit them sometime.” She pauses to let horror sink into the hearts of luxury groomed royals. Lysandra bites down on a smile. “But I am technically still renting an apartment in the city.”

“Where you came from,” Lysandra’s father adds, sharp, on the end of his patience as well. Lysandra wonders how much Seret prepared for this. Seret is smart, she must’ve known she couldn’t wiggle her way out of the question with her usual tricks. “Maybe who your parents are.”

Seret appears to consider the question. “I’d rather not say,” she says, stirring her drink with her spoon. Silence falls onto the room. Lysandra holds her breath.

Her mother nods her head tightly. “Very well. In that case, we’re going to have to insist you stop seeing our daughter.”

Seret bows her head in humble acceptance, but Lysandra stands up, every fiber of her being filling with inexplicable rage. She told herself she wouldn’t display a reaction, she would just accept the denial and then ignore it, like Seret will, but hearing it so frankly from her mother’s lips is different from imagining it.

“You don’t have the right to tell me who I can and can’t see just because you feel like it,” she spits. “I’m an adult. I haven’t lived here full time or done the duties you ask of me for years. You should disown me. Save yourselves the trouble of dealing with me any longer.”

Seret’s hand lands firmly on her knee as if to say no, don’t. Lysandra captures her hand and holds it above the table for the whole family to see.

“You’re the one who chose to come here,” Lysandra’s mother says.

“Yes, because I knew you’d hound us if we didn’t.” Lysandra can feel her chest being ripped open from the top down. Seret’s fingers squeezing hers is the only thing tethering her to herself. She pulls tightly on Seret’s fingers, who takes the hint and stands. They walk out without another word, without a glance back.

When they get back to the cabin, Lysandra sinks onto the couch in their living room face first, and immediately begins to cry. The seconds it takes for the door to click and Seret’s boots to march across the wood are far too long, until warm arms wrap around Lysandra’s back and Seret buries her nose in the back of her hair. “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs, which only makes Lysandra sob harder.

“I don’t know why it still matters. I knew this was exactly what they’d say. I didn’t want it to affect me. I want to move on from them.”

Seret stays quiet, just letting Lysandra exist and holding her through it. They don’t speak about it again.

Things are different after that. The fields and the cabin have been tainted with mere mention of the royal family’s presence. The spell has been broken.

The wind comes less, the sun seems to burn in a way it didn’t before. Lysandra doesn’t treasure dawn and dusk the way she used to, and baths are just baths. The only thing that hasn’t lost its magic is Seret, as kind and loving as always.

A week later, Seret begins taking trips into the city to gather everything from her apartment and bring it to the cabin, everything of Lysandra’s from Wynn’s cottage.

No matter how many times Lysandra offers to help, Seret insists she’s fine, she doesn’t want Lysandra to come into the city and get hounded and harassed by the usual people dying to meet the princess.

Arlin and the others come to visit a few times to keep her company while Seret’s gone, to speak about the upcoming Academy year, their last year, to learn the place Lysandra disappeared to the entire summer.

She’s happy to see them, happy for the company, but her heart never stops aching for Seret, wondering what she’s doing. Arlin and the boys stay for dinner well after Seret’s back, so she’s never given a moment alone to think.

This continues for a month.

Arlin and the boys become as intimately familiar with the cabin, the fields, the river, and the forest as Lysandra was with Wynn’s cottage on the forest’s other side.

Lysandra flies toward the end of summer in a haze, perpetually afraid to break the peace, shatter the dream, feel the cold seep into her bones once more. She has grown so used to the wind in her hair, the sun on her skin, the safety of Seret’s arms and her soothing voice.

Seret is never too loud, never jarring. Seret seems to float on the wind; sometimes her mind is lost to Lysandra as she stares into the sky at nothing.

Seret is—

Seret is many things. Nothing at all. Everything all at once.

Ineffable.

On what Seret says will be her last day of moving, she kisses Lysandra’s cheek and says, “I’ll be back,” like always. Lysandra thinks that’s rather silly—of course she’ll be back, that’s a given—but it’s sweet.

Arlin and the boys won’t be over since they have to collect their books for school in two weeks and otherwise prepare. Lysandra spends the day in the river, letting the water suck all the thoughts from her head.

By the evening, as Lysandra waits on the porch with dinner ready, Seret is still not back.

She probably got held up with the loading carts she’s been using, Lysandra tells herself as she gathers her shawl, puts on a dress fit for the town’s eyes, and begins the long walk there. She stopped to have dinner, or something. Maybe she met Wynn’s dragonlings at last.

Seret would’ve run back here herself to tell Lysandra she wouldn’t be back until later because of the dragonlings, or she would’ve sent a magical letter, or something. Seret has told her over and over how much she hates to see Lysandra in pain, and how she’ll never, ever be the cause of even the slightest worry.

Dread sits heavily in Lysandra’s chest.

The area near the school is in chaos, looking for her. No one she meets will tell her what’s going on, why they refuse to meet her eyes, why they offer faint smiles in place of explanations.

When Lysandra is shown the rooms in the Academy Seret broke into, the bizarre circles drawn on the floor in chalk, the thick books lying open, the blood splattered all over the floor, and finally, Seret’s body lying on the floor with her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes closed, Lysandra falls to her knees and doesn’t get up.

Her entire being is shattered with a force she didn’t know existed, with waves of invisible pain too strong for this realm. Everything feels empty and quiet, but not quiet in the serene way of Seret’s.

She screams, and it rips her open. It rips every part of good out of her and replaces her with numb, muffled, faint feeling. Later the waves of pain will come back, the longing for Seret’s warm arms to wrap around her and make everything all better, but now, she’s able to look at the body with only thin trails of tears streaming down her face.

Seret’s white shirt is soaked through with a circle of bright red blood. The whole scene is almost unreal. If not for the blood and the cold feel of her hand, Lysandra’s Seret Ashling looks the same. Her hair is neatly arranged, her face free of the splattered blood.

Death is too simple a word for what happens to Seret.

She is gone, says a voice, Seret’s voice, her smiling face haunting Lysandra behind her closed eyes. The ghost of Seret’s fingers cup her jaw, stroke her cheekbones, brush soft lips over her forehead, push her spectacles up.

I love you, my princess, Lysandra hears when she touches her ear to the floor, soaking the front of her dress with her blood, such a cruel reminder of Seret’s humanity. She was brutally, unfortunately, unbelievably human. She may have reached beyond this realm to grab a fist of love for Lysandra, a greater capacity than any human could hold, but that couldn’t save her from her own humanity.

I’ll be back. Seret’s last words to her.

She wasn’t just going into town to move.

Lysandra clutches the necklace Seret gave her and squeezes until it hurts. It fits easily in her palm, hangs right over her heart. The death of Seret Ashling is going to hit Vashiri Valley like the rare storms, unforgiving and violent, bringing destruction that takes years to recover from.

Lysandra squeezes the necklace, closes her eyes, and breathes slowly, steadily. The storm will wipe her out faster and harder than anyone else, but she’s the one who has to control it singlehandedly, and that will be about as easy as trying to capture an actual storm from the ground.

She won’t survive this, but she’s known for months that if anything ever happened to Seret, she never would. She can only submit to the darkness—the bad kind, this time—awaiting her, return to reality behind this door.

[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.  

[yolkyeomie]

Crescendo | Kang Yeosang

summary — The beating of a heart is like a crescendo, screaming louder and louder in one's chest until it's reached maximum capacity, and you’re about ready to burst.

word count — 8.6k words

pairing — yeosang x female!reader

genre —violinist + college au, band au there if you look around a little bit, fluff with like a hint of angst in the later parts

disclaimer — SORRY THIS IS SO SHORT,,, this is more of prologue than anything tbh. also I have almost zero knowledge on college and violins so if this is horrible I’m so sorry. also typos. lots of typos.

part I | part II | part III

I.

There was just something about summer that you liked so much. You just couldn't exactly put your finger on what.

Maybe you liked the sunny days that it would bring? The giant ball of light in the sky beaming down at full power onto every human in sight. It would illuminate the world with a golden glow, bringing out the more natural and earthy colors hidden from the other seasons. The heat would call for unplanned trips to the cool waters and hot sand of the beaches or a quickly made dash to the nearest frozen ice cream shop. Perhaps it was because there was no more school, no more time needed to spend on slaving away for hours at a desk just to not retain any knowledge given.

Or maybe you liked it because it was the time you’d see children the happiest. Every time you biked along the sidewalk to and from your home you’d come across a playground almost always filled to the brim with the joyous sounds of laughter. Children scattered around the playgrounds like little ants to a picnic, grabbing whatever they found the most intriguing for the day. Some would be swinging, some would be sliding, some would even be chasing each other around without any of the equipment catching their attention at all.

However, there was a possibility that you enjoyed the summertime because of the theater your town held. It wasn't very big compared to the ones that could be found in the big cities of your country, but it was nice nonetheless.

There were white walls lined with a fake golden trim along the floors, bright lights nearly blinding one as they walked inside of the theater for the first time. There was a slightly smaller stage than normal, not too tiny but definitely smaller than you’d seen in the more famous theaters. The seats weren't in their traditional curved angles either. They were in neat straight rows leading all the way to the back of the theater where the volunteer tech crew would operate behind the scenes.

There were white walls lined with a fake golden trim along the floors, bright lights nearly blinding one as they walked inside of the theater for the first time. There was a slightly smaller stage than normal, not too tiny but definitely smaller than you’d seen in the more famous theaters. The seats weren't in their traditional curved angles either. They were in neat straight rows leading all the way to the back of the theater where the volunteer tech crew would operate behind the scenes.

Every year your high school would hold recitals for their students in that theater. They would use these performances as a way to showcase their students' growing talents in the art of music or to spotlight their shyer students who never had gotten a chance to show everyone what they were made of. You weren’t in any sort of music group nor did you know how to play any instruments, so you never participated. But you did show up to every recital you could.

When you were in tour first year the only reason you had attended the performance was because your English teacher had promised to raise their overall grade for the year if they did. You were a decent student, overall you had average grades but wasn't the most outstanding person in your class. A few extra points to curve your grades were always appreciated so you had planned on attending the performance.

You had tried to grab a couple of friends to go with you, but all of them coward out when they got the chance. Some would say they were too busy, some would outright tell you they didn't want to sit through a performance they had no interest in. So you ended up simply going with your family, more begrudged than you originally were for the recital.

You had sat through choir members and members of the school's small orchestra and band repeating nearly the same song over and over again. Each song had a different tune, maybe a different style depending on how much creative liberty the singer or player gave themselves. One song was sung a bit louder than the others, another song was played by a small thrown together orchestra than simply a soloist, but they were all the same.

It was boring, and you were growing tired of listening to the same thing constantly. The only thing willing you to stay in your seat the entire time with the arm crushing strength of your mother and your need to get extra points on your grades for the year.

Near the end of the recital was when you had gotten hooked. Your family had finally decided they were going to pack it up for the night, her father had to work early in the morning and you were going to be thrown over towards your grandparents for summer. Just before you could have risen out of your chair to leave behind your parents, you heard it. A different melody than the ones that have been rocking your brain that night.

There was a boy walking on the stage, probably no taller than you was at the time. He was tiny for a first year boy, probably one of the shortest in his class as well. His hair was like a fluffy brown bunny's tail, bouncing and tousling itself around with every step he took. There was a string instrument in his hands, from what you could see was a red-tinged wood violin. You couldn't quite see the expression on his face either though, due to the distance you were from the theater stage.

You hadn't even realized you were holding your breath until he plucked one of the strings, letting the note resonate through the theater and bounce off the walls and into their ears. He had played a note, on a different key from the other performers. He was playing a song that his fellow violinists hadn't picked. He was different.

The sound was like a siren's song that grabbed the audience's attention and placed it to the stage. His melody started out soft and somber, almost as if the violin itself was conveying its unspoken emotions. The violinist was trying to use those emotions his instrument lent him to serenade the tears in the audience's eyes to fall and hit the ground simultaneously, creating their own beat to his song.

After a moment of enticing the audience to his performance, he sped up his pace. His quiet song suddenly grew in size until it overpowered every other sound in the room. He strummed each string with a quickness you didn't even believe was possible, his bow striking each note like it was powerful enough to create an earthquake. In a sense, it was like he and the violin had become one being, his string instrument becoming an extension of his arm as he played.

The audience whispered in wonder and amazement of the boy's talents, unable to take their eyes away from his figure. It was an enchanting sound so you couldn't blame them. The violinist had brought you into a world completely different from reality, where every object and plant in sight was made out of his musical chords.

How does a boy, barely over the age of fifteen, have this much power in his hands? You would be cursing yourself if you didn't grant him the title of prodigy right then and there.

Unfortunately for you, you couldn't listen to the rest of his alluring song. Your family had dragged you out of the theater to finally retreat to their humble abode for the night. After that night you had declared to yourself that you’d find the violinist who played that song, whether you had to search all summer for him or dig around your school for him. You’d attend every recital and every performance your school's small orchestra had just to get him to play for you again.

However, you lucked out each time you tried. Your school's orchestra didn't allow students outside of their instrumentalists into the classrooms. The violinist boy was too short for you to find in a crowd at their performances either. You even tried to find someone who might be close to him, but no one seemed to step up to the plate. This went on for the rest of your high school years. The only time you could see him where those days after the school year had ended, listening to him play those high energy tunes and somber melodies for his recital before he disappeared from existence once more.

That was, until now.

Plus you made a little bit of money on the side as well, and who didn't like money? Sure most of it was going to your tuition for college but there were times where you liked to splurged on your own interests every once and awhile.

"You seem tired," a feminine voice commented, making you turn around to face her. It was a girl, around your age, walking towards you, her long sleeves rolled up against her arms to mirror the way her shorts looked. She sat down on the pavement next to you, handing you a water bottle ice cold to the touch. "I would be too if I rode around in this crazy heat. I'm surprised you haven't melted at the mere light of the sun yet."

"I almost did," you responded, taking the water from her hands gratefully. "Today was unreasonably hot... I felt like I was sitting right in the middle of hell. And the fact that my bike is made out of metal, too? It's a miracle I didn't get third degree burns or something."

The girl went quiet for a moment, her brow furrowing in thought before speaking again. "You know I can always do it for you? The delivering stuff. It's my family's business anyway, I should be helping them out, not relying on you to do all of the hard work for me."

"Are you serious?" you questioned, suppressing the unusually strong urge to laugh. "You can't even ride a bike or skate. Nor do you have a car either, it'll take you hours to get from one house to the next. And I like the money I earn from doing this for you, I can't get a job anywhere else so this is just perfect for me."

"But still!" She complained, a pouting donning her lips as you screwed open the bottle cap. "I feel bad seeing you bike along in this hot ass weather for my family! I gotta do something to give you... at least a little relief."

You laughed at her desperation, placing the water by your side to face her fully. "The relief you can give me is not playing your cello so loud in the morning. You play wonderfully, trust me, but it's so loud and I'm so tired." you clarified, reminiscing on every time she'd walk up to her house with the sound of a cello's notes wavering through the air.

The girl wasn't in their school's orchestra, she had picked up on the instrument as a hobby. She didn't have a desire to play it in a school setting or professionally no matter how much everyone would suggest otherwise. Yet she suddenly began to really start practicing more often when her next door neighbor had moved in two years ago. You remembered exactly how frustrated the girl was when she discovered that he played guitar at maximum volume in the middle of the night without any regard for anyone else.

To counteract his annoying behavior, she'd open up all the windows in her house and began to play her cello as loud as she physically could in the morning times. It became a war of the instrumentalists after that and neither of them seemed like they were going to stop any time soon.

"Oh you know I can't do that," She responded, glaring at the house to their left where the guitarist resided. "He'll take it as me surrendering to him. I don't even want to think about what he'll do in the middle of the night once I stop. Probably bass boost his guitar so that it's even louder than normal! Oh god, I won't ever get any sleep if he does that."

You found it funny really. The two had never even met each other face to face. "Right... and we don't want that happening do we?" The girl shook her head vigorously in response to your words, taking your sarcasm very seriously. "I still think you can at least tone it down a little bit... this is our last year, in a few months we'll be dragged off into a bigger city to attend colleges and universities for another four or more years. Are you really going to be playing your cello first thing in the morning in your dormitory?"

"Well..." the girl pauses, taking your words into consideration. "No... I won't really need to since I'm not bringing it with me."

"Exactly!" You exclaimed, clapping your hands together and giving the girl a mocking smile. "Now I think you should at least go over to that boy's house and settle this raging war before you move onto better things. Make amends with him, he might even become a new friend of yours for the future. If not, you're not gonna see him again. There's a very high possibility that he's not going to the same college as you, or that he might not be going to college at all!"

She rolled her eyes at your suggestion, forcing herself off of the ground reluctantly. "Fine. I'll go make amends with him or whatever. But I'll only do it if you give up on the violinist boy from the recitals."

You stiffened at the mention of your high school goal, your very unsuccessful goal of finding him and making him play a song for you. "It's like you said, this is our last year here as teenagers. You've been trying to find him longer than I've been waging this musical war on my neighbor. It's about time to lay to rest, you. Seriously, it's more painful to watch than those terribly edited movies from my parents' watch for the "nostalgia"."

"Ouch there was no need to stoop that low," you mumbled, making the girl laugh in turn. "But I guess you're right. I've failed at finding him for this long, I might as well just give up now."

The girl nodded before patting your shoulders in reassurance. "If you really want to hear someone play music so bad for you, you can always ask me. I know a cello sounds nothing like a tiny violin but I can always try?"

"Actually that doesn't sound like a bad idea," you mumbled after a moment of thinking.

"Perfect!" The girl hummed, nearly jumping with excitement to show off her talents and pleasing your several years long urge to have someone play for you. "Usually I only play for my family but I'm very willing to show off what I've been working on. There's this one song I've using to annoy the guitarist boy in the morning and—"

"Go," you reminded her, your smile growing wider at her friend geeking out about her work. "Go get your cello and actually play it for me."

She nodded at your words, skipping on her feet as if she was as light as a feather towards her house. You knew it would be a bit of a struggle in moving her instrument from her room to the outdoors but if the girl was willingly and happily doing it, she had no reason to stop her.

It was a little funny though, how much you were surrounded by people who were gifted and talented in the form of music. Your school's orchestra knew you because of how you’d always try and snatch a peek into their classroom and attended their performances. Your closest friend was a cellist, but only played for hobby and the boy next door was a guitarist. All these connections started happening because a boy you had been chasing after for four years was a violinist.

You'd think you’d pick up some sort of instrument to attract them to you, and trust and believe you tried. You attempted to start playing many instruments after that summer night in your first year. Guitar, flute, piano, trumpet, you even tried to learn the violin yourself. You just weren't musical gifted, you didn't have the patience nor the ears to learn any sort of instrument that passed your way. The best you could do was play a sad tune on the kazoo or laugh into a harmonica.

It's even funnier when other’s learn that your mother used to sing and play the piano while your father played the clarinet when they were in high school. Go ahead and laugh, you knew you were a musical disappointment. Music was practically flowing strong in your blood and you sucked at it. Don't even get started on dancing either, it was a frightening sight to see. Those who could live to tell the tale never told the tale to anyone.

A melody began to float through the air once your friend disappeared into her house, catching you off guard. It wasn't the sound of an electric guitar, shocking the hair and making your skin prickle with its overbearing and booming sound. It was soft and sweet, vibrating through the air as if it was playing with the wind that blew by every few minutes. You could immediately identify the instrument as a violin, it's slightly strained notes from the bow connecting with the strings were all too familiar to you.

You turned towards the guitarist's house where the song was the loudest. To your knowledge, the boy didn't play any other instrument than the guitar. Yet the violin's sweet yet sorrowful song was coming from his house. Without even thinking you rose off the ground, following the song's notes like it was your guide. You had heard the door of your friend's house open again, signaling that the girl had successfully brought her cello from her room to the front of her house. Unfortunately for her, you were walking a little faster than she could drag her cello case.

"Y/N?" The girl called, trying to catch your attention. "Y/N, where are you going?"

You stood in front of the guitarist boy's house, right before where the balcony was hanging. The door to the balcony was ajar, letting the cool afternoon air into the room and releasing the melody of the violin out. "Is that the guitarist boy's room?" you called out to her friend, not taking your eyes off of the balcony. Just as you spoke the violin came to a screeching stop as if the mere sound of your voice was disrupting the flow of its song.

"No," the girl responded after abandoning her cello and running to your side. She pointed to the other side of the house where the window's blinds were closed yet light still shined through them. "His room is right across from mine, I should know I get the brunt of the blow every time he strums his stupid guitar."

Your voices dropped into pure silence when you saw something moving in their direction from the balcony. The door to the outside area slowly screeched open as the figure on the other side pulled on its door handle, stepping onto the wood floor of the balcony and letting the floorboards creak under their weight. Your eyes widened at the sight of a red-tinged violin, it's body scratched from its long term usage and its color dull from the lighting the setting sun had given them.

A boy stepped into view after the violin, the brown hair bouncing on his head like a bunny's tail. His resting face looked like you were staring at a statue, unable to catch any hint of movement in most of his features unless he blinked his eyes every few seconds. Right beside his eyes was some sort of mark, more of a rosy color than the rest of rather pale skin. He must not leave his house that much. After a few moments of silence, he leaned over the balcony's hand railing and spoke, "What do you want?"

The girl beside you glanced between the boy and you frantically, trying to piece two and two together. "you... is that the—"

"I want," you yelled up to him, interrupting your friend's question to respond to the boy above them. A smile began to play on your lips as you spoke, excitement festering up in your chest. You had found him. You had found the violinist from your first year. "I want you to play for me one of your best songs yet."

II.

There was just something about mornings you hated, no matter the day of the week. They'd always leave you more exhausted than you were the night before, whether you had gone to sleep late or not.

Maybe it's because of the dorm room you stayed in, assigned the room the moment you had gotten accepted into your university. It wasn't tiny, but it was definitely much smaller than your room at home. Your belongings barely had enough legroom with your roommate's whole entire area taking up more than half of the room. Despite being rather clean, to an extent, and cool during the day it was also incredibly hot at night.

A few months back the air conditioning unit for the floor you lived on broke down due to age. The university had reassured the students that they'd be looking into the broken unit and the technicians would be coming in and out of the building to fix it. However, they were rather slow with the process. Instead of just moving toward the third floor where the problem had started, they were moving from room to room on each floor the building had.

Apparently, they were just going to fix the problem in one go, however one go suddenly turned into a few days. A few days turned into a few weeks. And a few weeks turned into two months.

Thankfully they were on the edge of the summer season, the crisp breeze of the autumn air in October beginning to blow throughout the city. However that breeze simply abandoned them every time the night fell, the hallways and the common room being filled to the brim with students trying to escape the blazing heat. One would think it would be much cooler around the nighttime, so did they.

You weren't the heaviest of sleepers either, which meant you'd wake up at even the slightest vibration of a phone. One could only imagine your reaction when your alarm clock suddenly blared its ear piercing wake up call. The irritating buzzing of the built on alarm would always shock you out of bed like a cat. Yet even when you knew you were wide awake, you constantly struggled to force yourself up and out of your room. If time would allow it, you would lay in your very warm and comfortable spot in the bed for at least an hour or more.

What's even worse for you was that your dormitory was co-ed, which meant that next door to you was a group of boys who were sharing a room for the school year. They were loud, constantly moving around in the middle of the night, and screaming at random times of the day which usually ended up being the time that you used to study. There were always noise complaints about those students. No one on their floor, or the floor above and below, like them that much. Yet they never seemed to tone down the problem, they made them worse with every noise complaint that was filled to their resident assistance.

Every time they'd get a noise complaint, they'd go and find someone else who was just a little too loud one day and pin the blame on them. It was a way to show that everyone in the building made a commotion and that they shouldn't be the only ones punished for it. You didn't really care about what they were doing until you had suddenly become a target one day.

"I'm sorry, what?" you questioned them, leaning up against the door frame with your arms crossed. In front of you stood the two boys that lived in the dorm next to you, nearly towering over you like the buildings in the city thanks to the monstrous amount of height. They appeared to be up to no good when they had randomly shown up, and you were absolutely right.

"Are you the one who has been playing that music for the past three days? What was it... classical music?" He asked, tugging at his hair as he spoke. He glanced towards his roommate for confirmation, who nodded his head vigorously in response to his question. "Are you a music major or something? Maybe in the orchestra? If not it's been blasting really loudly lately and my roommate here has a majority of his classes at eight am. Right, Jaehyun?"

The boy didn't seem like he was on board with being used as an excuse at first, raising his eyebrow and staring at his roommate in confusion before turning to you. "Right, I have to get up so early for all my classes. I'd really appreciate it if you keep the violins and cymbals and triangles to like a minimum so that it doesn't bother me anymore."

"If not we'll take it to the RA," His roommate quickly added to put their threat in full effect. "And we'll file a noise complaint for disturbing us."

You scoffed at the thought, wanting to slam the door closed and forget about their petty revenge. "Aren't you the same duo that got a noise complaint filed to them last week because of an extremely loud yet unidentifiable thud..." you began before turning on your heels and correcting yourself. "Oh, my apologies. I meant boom, extremely loud yet unidentifiable boom that came from the laundry room. Only for one of the students on the lower floors to go down there and find that one of the washers and dryers had literally malfunctioned and exploded?"

"Listen," One of the boys tried to interject, his ears burning bright red as you kept talking. "That's not... listen, we—"

"Didn't they go on the security cameras to find out who had done the damage? Because a washer and dryer going suddenly haywire on its own is extremely worrisome and dangerous for the students who may have been around during that time. And weren't you two—"

"Classical music is such an amazing genre of music!" The roommate interrupted, yelling over your voice in a panic. There was a pained smile on his face as he hooked an arm around the other boy, punching his arm to follow along as he spoke. "I mean, it has such a clean and light texture to it, simplistic but a great melody nonetheless! God, it gives me nostalgia for a time I wasn't even alive in! Isn't that right, Jaehyun?"

"Oh," the boy spoke, his eyes darting in between his roommate and you. Slowly a smile began to grow on his face to mask his growing embarrassment as he gestured towards the other boy. "Of... of course! Johnny has such nice music taste! So you know when he says a genre is really good it really means something. Seriously love classical music, man. Lulls me right to sleep!"

Needless to say, they choose to not bother you as much as they used to. The strange and loud noises that would echo through the dormitory walls had gotten significantly lower since that day. They didn't stop completely yet but it was enough for you to keep your peace of mind before waking up every day.

Your mornings had gotten relatively calmer after that incident as well. Both of those boys were usually out of the dormitory by the time you were awake to attend classes or work, so you didn't run into them much during the week. You'd have calm enough mornings to where you didn't feel the need to nearly pass out on a car or bus ride to your campus and almost miss your stop. It felt like a dream come true when you would hop out of whatever vehicle you were in and would be right on time before your classes even started.

"Y/N!" A feminine voice screamed, catching you off guard when an arm suddenly slung around your neck. You clutched onto the bag hanging off your shoulder as you nearly tumbled to the ground at the sudden addition of weight, bringing the other girl down with you as you struggled to comprehend what was going on. They got a few stares from the other students who were arriving and leaving the campus but no one said a word to them. Thankfully everyone practiced the art of minding their business. "You'll never guess what I got!"

"Do I want to guess?" You questioned, shoving the girl's arm off of you so you could regain your balance. Once you were stable enough to stand up, you turned around to see who had stumbled into your path. The girl's eyes were wide with innocence and excitement as she stood in front of you, fidgeting in place as she tried to contain herself. Most of the energy she'd originally be exerting into jumping up and down was focused into the beaming and bright smile she couldn't wipe off of her face even if she tried. "Do I have to guess?"

"Yes, you have to," She demanded, holding her hands behind her back to hide whatever got her spirits high. The girl must have ordered some sort of object online again and simply couldn't wait till after your classes to show you. "It's so worth it, I promise! Just... just guess!"

A sigh escaped your mouth as you straighten your posture, reading deep into the girl's expression to try and figure out what it was. "I'm going to guess—"

"Two front row seats to our school's very own band performance!" The girl nearly squealed, shoving two flimsy pieces of paper in your face. You took a few steps back in order to align your sight with the tickets, taking them out of the girl's hands to inspect.  Both tickets were for general admission, their names printed on it with the date they were expected to attend the performance. "Aren't you excited? I literally fought tooth and claw to get these before they sold out, and you know these sell out fast!"

"Band? Like the guys who play trumpets and bass drums during school games?" You questioned, glancing up from the tickets to face your friend. The tickets didn't have exactly who was performing written down on it, simply stating that it was a live music event. "Why would you go watch them play? I thought you were more of a... pop genre person?"

The girl rolled her eyes at your response, snatching the tickets from your hands and placing them back into your pockets. "No, not the band. Who goes out of their way to specifically watch our band team play?" She hissed. "I mean like rock bands. You know, the type of people who play the drums and guitars in one big band and perform on stage with a lead singer and everything. That type of band."

"My point with you being a pop genre person still stands," you mumbled in response.

"Yes I do like pop music, I understand that," The girl clarified. "But we're going to see Aurora. Our school's very own rock band! Do you seriously not know who they are? I know you listen to classical and orchestral music and all, but I thought you were at least in the loop with Aurora!"

You scoffed as you began to walk forward, shoving your hands into your pockets and you spoke. "Just because I don't listen to the popular music right now doesn't mean I'm out of the loop! I'll have you know that I am a very big fan of idol groups. I even participated in those farewell events when groups’ oldest members start enlisting in the military."

"Idol groups have absolutely nothing to do with Aurora and you know it," your friend grumbled. "Do you seriously not know who Aurora is? At all? Have I seriously been friends with a hermit crab this whole time?"

"Fine then," you shrugged. "Go ahead, tell me about this Aurora band since you're so obsessed and knowledgeable about this group I've never heard of."

Aurora is a much bigger thing than you had imagined. From your friend's knowledge, it was a group of boys who had gathered around the beginning of the year together, all of them having several different traits and personalities that simply meshed together all too well. They had created the band, Aurora, for fun at first as they were all instrumentalists with different crafts. They had started busking in order to make money as a side job and quickly grew in popularity with the audiences they performed to.

Their university had caught wind of their musical abilities and had asked them to perform during the annual club fairs to help attract more students. After that, they seemed to have skyrocketed in popularity within the college campus. Jung Wooyoung, the group's bassist, Song Mingi, the group's lead guitarist, Choi San, the group's drummer, and Jeong Yunho, the group's lead singer, had become some of the most well-known people on campus.

Everyone seemed to know them and wanted to listen to their music, which is why your friend was so excited to be getting front row tickets to their next performance. You thought it was funny though, Wooyoung was the guitarist boy that lived next door to the girl. 

"The past is in the past!" She exclaimed, throwing up her hands as the two entered the university's building. The indoors wasn't very crowded, all the students attending were spread throughout the area either taking a break before their classes began or nearly booking it straight up the stairs in fear of being late. "Sure I wanted to murder him with my cello beforehand, but it's okay because we put our differences aside like you said we should have. And it's good that we did because we ended up going to the same university."

"So..." you began, thinking for a few moments before turning towards your friend. "Does this mean he's your favorite member? I mean you've got the background and chemistry for a nice little love story don't you think?"

"Oh absolutely not," she immediately responded. "We may have made up that summer but I have not spoken to him since. Plus my favorite member is their drummer so if anything I'd like to start a love story with him. Do you think I should plan out of my outfit for the music event? What if I actually start a love story with him like in those tv shows my parents used to watch? We catch each other's eyes during the performance and before we're about to leave I get asked backstage to meet him in person!"

You visibly cringed at your friend's fantasizing, putting four feet of space in between the two of you. "Gross. Go to class before you contaminant me with your fantasies."

"Oh shut up." She rolled her eyes, stopping in her tracks so that you were forced to wait for her. "Everyone likes to fantasize about their love life every once and awhile. It's natural to want something grander than reality to happen to you."

"You are the most cliche woman I have ever met," you mumbled, glancing over your shoulder to look at the girl. "You just told me you want to make eye contact with him and immediately fall in love just like that! Have a fun time dreaming about that while you stand in a crowd full of people in your general direction."

"You're so mean to me!" She yelled, causing everyone in the vicinity to turn and stare at the sudden commotion. "You're just mad that the violinist boy from freshman year refused to play music for you even when you got on your knees! And you were looking for him your entire high school career!"

You sprinted towards the girl at full speed, clamping your hands over her mouth to silence her. She screamed into your hands as you dragged her away from the public eye and muffled her voice. "Heejin, are you out of your mind?" You growled, looking behind you to see if anyone had heard her. "I thought we had both agreed to pretend like that never happened?"

The girl pried your hands away from her mouth and smiled innocently up at you. "We did promise. I just never forgot."

You shoved the girl towards where her lecture hall was located, a frustrated frown growing on your face as a pinkish flush began to creep across your face. "Go to your stupid business math class. Go before I chase you all the way there!" you threatened through gritted teeth. Her friend laughed at the girl's response, skipping like a child to her class for the day.

You really did get rejected that day, it was too ingrained in your brain to forget. The boy had stood on the balcony staring down at the two with a bored and uninterested expression in his eyes, tilting his head like a dog's when you screamed your demands up at him. Honestly, you didn't know exactly what you were expecting. Did you really think that he was just going to pick up his violin and start playing whatever tune he knew just because you asked him to? You didn't even say please!

You had spent a good ten minutes arguing with the boy about how you had been searching for him for years just to make him play at least ten seconds of a song for you. Each time you'd explain your situation to him, he'd immediately give you a dry response of why he kept declining you. He didn't even say it politely! He stared at you straight in the eyes and told you," I don't want to play for you because you aren't worth it."

You swore if you could jump high enough, you would have bounced onto the balcony and strangled him for his rude behavior. It was truly a sight for sore eyes watching an angry and frustrated high school senior scream up at an innocent looking but totally uninterested boy on the balcony. The argument was always almost completely one-sided as well, which made it slightly embarrassing to watch from the sidelines.

You had forced your friend to promise you that she'd either forget the whole incident or pretend like it never happened. Either one was good with you since your friend was known to tell everyone's stories when you weren't paying attention. She had gone this far without saying anything so the urge to talk about it must have been truly bubbling up inside of her. It's been a few months since the incident occurred and the memory is still fresh in your minds.

"God, I'm never gonna live down that stupid incident am I?" you grumbled, practically stomping towards your end destination. "Just when I thought maybe I was finally growing past it, she has to go and bring it back up again. Doesn't she know I'm still healing from that embarrassment? It took a toll on pride and this is how she helps mend the wound? By opening up again?"

You stopped in place when a melody began to waver in the air, following along the cold breeze of the university's air condition. The music notes hopped from breeze to breeze as it traveled through your ears to the next. The sound continuously grabbed your attention as each note was struck no matter how many times you turned to keep walking. It was hitting you like a rock to the head as your brain immediately identified the music maker to a violin.

You slowly turned around to see a few students peering through a crack in some double doors, staring intently on what was on the other side. "They're at it again," one of the older students spoke, holding the door open for his friends to look through. "They're much earlier this time than usual, we'll only catch a little bit of the performance. Do you think something important is happening?"

"You think they're competing for first chair again?" One of the younger students asked, glancing up towards the boy who had spoken beforehand. He shrugged in response to their question, but he seemed to agree for the most part. "Whatever it is, I bet Hong is about to take the first chair again. He's always the first chair. No one can beat that boy when it comes to the violin."

"Kang is always right behind him though, don't forget that," another voice reminded, trying to get a better view of the inside. "Both of them are musical prodigies, and the conductor has always been fond of Kang's playing style. I think he'll get first chair this time."

You couldn't help but let curiosity take over, standing just a few feet away from the group of friends and trying to peer through the small windows of the door. It was rather dark near the entrance to the room, but farther back was lit up by lights that illuminated the wood floor stage where two performers stood. The doors seemed to have led towards an auditorium from the looks of it. You couldn't exactly see their faces from how far away you were, but you could make out a little bit of what was actually going on.

A boy stood in the middle of the stage, the music coming directly from him as he strummed the violin with his bow, grace and elegance oozing off of him. He seemed rather focused on playing his violin precisely, not missing a single note in the song as he allowed the rich and melodic song to ring through their ears. The opened door seemed to amplify his sound even more, ringing within your brain as if it was trying to engraved its sound into her ears. Hearing a violinist play in person was truly much different from hearing it through speakers.

In a chair behind the violinist sat another figure, holding what seemed to be a violin as well in his hands. You assumed that it was the competition who had played their song earlier before you had arrived on campus. His shoulders seemed to tense as the violinist held his final note, a plaintive sound echoing through the auditorium as he held his form to leave an everlasting effect on his listeners.

The students in front of you held their breath as he finished, staring intently at where you assumed the conductor was sitting for his reaction. There was a moment of silence after the note finally fizzled into nothingness, no longer bouncing off of the walls after finding a home in the audience's ears.

"It's Park," the younger student spoke, standing up from where they originally crouched down. "Park is the first chair once again. Honestly, was I expecting a change? No, not really. He's just that talented."

"I was really rooting for Kang this time," the other student spoke, huffing as they crossed their arms in disappointment. "I wonder what he did to not get picked again this time. Usually, Kang performs wonderfully but we weren't early enough to catch his turn."

"Whatever it is," the older student added, shutting the door to the auditorium and shrugging his shoulders. "I'm sure Kang will get over it. I mean that's always next time! But I guess I say that every time this happens..."

When the trio had disappeared from sight, you couldn't help but open the door to the auditorium and peek inside. You had been walking past this exact area how many times and you didn't even notice an event like this happening? Your either extremely stupid or completely oblivious, there's no in between.

You pulled on the heavy auditorium doors, peering in the room to take a look for yourself. The room was chilly, much colder than the breezes nature had been giving you so far. It was like you had stepped straight into the freezer, feeling the need to rub your arms for warm to make sure you didn't suddenly die from the cold. "How long has this place been here? I could have sworn this was an administration office or a classroom... literally anything but an auditorium..." you mumbled to mumbled, your eyes drifting towards the stage.

Only one violinist was at the stage, his instrument dangling in his hands as he sat in silence. The other violinist and conductor were nowhere to be seen, abandoning him to be alone with his thoughts. He must have been the one who wasn't picked by their conductor for first chair, reveling in his defeat by his peer. "Is it that serious?" you mumbled, going to close the door before you zoomed to your class, only just a few minutes late.

Though you saw the violinist rise from his seat in the corner of your eye, approaching the edge of the stage to leave the room. Of course, being the generally nice person you were, you pushed the door back open, holding it open for the violinist to pass through. "Hey, are you about to— Woah! Woah, woah, woah, don't do that!" You yelled at him.

The violinist had raised his instrument high above the ground, a bored and uninterested look in his eyes as he debated on whether he was going to let the violin drop from the height it was at and scar it. It definitely wasn't going to shatter and break, but an ugly dent would be achieved through the notion. Your yelling seemed to stop him in his tracks, preventing him from possibly making the worst decision in his life.

"Don't violins cost a lot of money?" You nagged, forgetting about the door you were holding open and marching towards him. "I know you might be frustrated over whatever just happened but is it really worth breaking your instrument? You should be satisfied with the fact that you even got the chance to be chosen as an option for, what was it, first chair? Whatever it is, I think breaking your violin might be a really bad..." you trailed off as you got closer, slowing down your pace as you got closer to the stage

The violinist stared at you through his long blonde bangs, his eyes gleaming in the dingy and dim stage lights. Despite the horrible lighting it seemed to illuminate him as if he was some sort of statue on display, every curve and sharp corner of his face being highlighted just perfectly. His impassive expression refused to let you in on any sort of emotion or thought in his head, locking you out with every chain known to man. His eyes glanced over you, reading you like an open book before he finally spoke. "Why... do you care?"

Your eyes dropped from his face to his violin, taking note of the bored expression and the red tinged violin in his hands. It seemed like it had been used frequently, it's the color worn from age and usage with scratches scattered throughout the instrument's body. "Oh...," you trailed, dropping your hands to your side in defeat.

How long had he been here? Hiding right under your nose in what seemed to be plain sight. How long were you going to go without realizing the violinist from your freshman year was attending the same university as you? "It's you again."

The boy titled his head curiously, a moment of silence expanding over them like a blanket. You felt like you were going to twitch and squirm under his gaze, the eerie silence of the auditorium and his almost blank stare making the atmosphere uncomfortable for you. All you could think about was the one sided argument you two had; how you had embarrassed yourself in front of your whole neighborhood just because you wanted him to play a song for you. The amount of humiliation that was crashing over you like angry waves could have washed you right of the auditorium if it wanted to.

The violinist crouched down on the stage to look down on you, resting his head on his hands as he began to speak. “Do I... know you?”

“Do you know me?” You repeated, disbelief prevalent in your tone of voice. “Did you really just ask that? Of course you know me! Remember from this summer? Just a few months back?”

The boy nodded his head as you spoke, absorbing all the information you were telling him and letting it process in his brain. He closed his eyes as he began to form his final thoughts, leaning back on his heels before opening them again and staring at you. “Ah... I remember now. You were Wooyoung’s fling for a couple weeks... right?”

“What?” You exclaimed, a rosy pink tint spreading across your face as you spoke. You’ve never even spoken to the guitarist boy when he lived near you, nevertheless have a fling with him. The mere thought of doing something so... dangerous like that made your skin crawl. “No... I don’t... listen, are you serious? You don’t remember who am I at all? Not a thing about me seems to trigger some sort of memory in you?”

“Not to be rude,” he responded, lifting himself out of his crouched position and beginning to walk across the stage to the stairs positioned at the side. “But you don’t look like the most memorable type. I mean if I don’t remember you are, would anyone else be able to?”

His blunt honestly was like a knife to the chest, only he was repeatedly sinking the weapon into your already open wound. Had he always been this straightforward with people? Of course he was, that’s why you never got him to play a song for you. You didn’t even know whether or not you liked the fact that he didn’t recognize who you were because he had formatted his words. You’d much rather be remembered for something embarrassing you did than be forgettable as a whole.

Though by the time you had clocked back into reality, a snarky and rude comment ready to hit the bullseye on the back of his head, he was gone. There was no sign of violinist boy anywhere in the room, as if he has quiet literally disappeared into thin air. “I should have just let him smash his violin to pieces,” you rumbled, now not only late to class but also filled with bitter rage that wasn’t even reciprocated.

[kalaluchi]

chapter 04: Best Friends

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When Marinette was a kid, she’d once heard someone say that having a boyfriend is just like having a best friend, but with added perks.

And while she couldn’t relate with the statement (at the moment), she could see that, in a similar sense, there was a fine line between things you do with someone because they’re your best friend and you’re just that close; and things you do with someone because you like them and want to get closer… and them showing the same interest in doing those things miiight mean they could like you, too.

Marinette was beginning to think she’d been using this fine line as a jump rope these past few weeks.

In theory, she should have no problem doing best-friend-stuff.

Chatting till early in the morning? Daily routine for her and Alya, especially when the latter got her hands on the latest scoop.

Video calls while doing homework? Marinette forgot what it was like to work without the face of her best friend, her face mirroring Marinette’s own tiredness.

Movie nights with the full package: face masks, popcorn, and 5 different types of candy? Every Saturday, starting at 9pm sharp.

But for some reason, when it came to doing those things with Adrien Agreste, she would just… freeze up and start overthinking every little thing. She has no idea why.

(Absolutely a lie. She knows exactly why.)

She was not one to deny her obvious crush on the blond-haired boy. Most times, her day is made by just one smile sent her way. But other times, when she’s actually able to hold a conversation with him (over chat, of course; she could never not stutter if it were face-to-face), it feels… normal. The talks are casual, like they’ve known each other forever. The butterflies in her stomach are quieter than usual, and she can say, with absolute certainty, that the famous model feels nothing special for the simple baker’s daughter, because Marinette Dupain-Cheng and Adrien Agreste are destined to be the best of friends and nothing more. (Sadly, in her opinion.)

And then. He goes and surprises her with a, “Hey, are you free Friday night? I was wondering if you wanted to go to the movie theater with me. They’re playing reruns of episodes from that show we were talking about the other week.”

Marinette collapsed on her bed with a groan. She checked the clock on her wall: 6:19pm. She’s supposed to meet Adrien in front of the bakery in a little over half an hour, but she still has no idea what to wear. Curse that beautiful, gorgeous boy. He never told her what the occasion was. Should she wear something casual, like a nice sweater and jeans? Something more dressy, like a cute skirt and flats? She gasps to herself. He doesn’t expect her to be fancy and show up in a cocktail dress and heels, right? He’s a model after all, that might be what he’s used too… what if it’s something even fancier than that-- how can she pull together an outfit like that at the drop of a hat--

You’re spiraling, she chided herself. She was tempted to call her best friend, but she knew what the brunette would say.

“Obviously, dress to impress! The knee-length dress you bought for my birthday party, I can lend you pearl earrings and a necklace, a little bit of lip gloss, and a purse to match. Pair it with flats so you don't look too eager.”

Marinette laughed quietly, imagining Alya giving that whole spiel.

Maybe she could just text Adrien to ask what he’s wearing.

The thought of him replying, “Just a shirt and jeans. This is just a chill movie-with-a-friend date after all. Why, did you think it meant anything more?” was enough to make her chicken out (even though he’d never actually say that), so she decided to just wear a shirt, skirt, sneakers, and the cardigan he made for her.

If he asks, I can just say I always dress like this going out with my friends!

This was going to be a disaster.

.

.

.

“Oh. Wow. You look.” Adrien cleared his throat. “You look very nice, Marinette.”

At 7:05pm, she found him standing outside their bakery, as discussed. She waved shyly as she pulled the door shut, trying to ignore the not-so-subtle spying her parents were trying to from behind the bakery’s counter.

“You look quite nice yourself,” she managed to say. Even though her brain wanted to scream how beautiful he looked in his black polo and jeans. (At least she’d been right to dress half-dressy half-casual.)

“Shall we?” he said jokingly, holding out his arm expectantly. She laughed nervously, and looped her arm through his after a pause..

Best friends definitely link arms as they walk to the theater...right?

“Hm, it’s a little chilly, isn’t it?” she said as they made their way down the street. In truth, though, her cheeks were burning from the close contact.

“Yeah, good thing you wore a cardigan. Should we get popcorn?”

“For sure. Butter at the bottom, in the middle, and on top is the way to go.”

“No way! Cheese is totally better. Whoever thought of putting it on popcorn was brie-lliant.”

Marinette groaned. “That was even cornier than popcorn,” she complained.

“Well, I’m no Swiss master,” Adrien quipped, “sorry if my jokes are full of holes. Is it enough to make you feel bleu?”

There it is again, Marinette thought, as the friendly banter continued until they were in their seats. While she found his puns unusually endearing, the butterflies were quiet and her heart wasn't racing like she’d thought it would be.

Annoyingly, they came right back as she sat back, studying his profile while the show’s theme song played in the background.

Miraculous, the luckiest!

Her heart gave a little squeeze as he mouthed the words, bouncing in his seat excitedly, all his attention on the big screen.

Damn, he’s so cute. The thought flew through her head before she could stop it, and that was when she knew for sure.

The power of love, always so strong!

What started out as a little crush had leveled up into something waaay more, though it was too early -- far too early -- to call it love.

After the reruns, they decided to grab ice cream and sit at one of the park benches before heading back.

“What did you think of that last episode?” Adrien asked, licking the mint gelato on a cone.

Marinette looked down at her own strawberry-flavored one. “I think… the main characters were too dumb. I mean, they just… fit so well, you know? Why prolong getting together?” She grinned at him and pointed the cone in his direction. “The ending made up for it though. They were so berry cute in that last scene.”

Adrien was unable to respond for a second, shocked that Marinette had made a pun.

(She thought she could see a blush starting to form, too, but she told herself it was just the lighting of the park.)

He recovered in a heartbeat, though. “You’re right. They were definitely mint to be.”

“Okay, that was probably the corniest one this entire night,” she giggled, playfully rolling her eyes. (It was actually cute and surprisingly funny, though, and she had to bite her lip to suppress a smile.)

Adrien held a hand to his heart. “I’m offended! That wasn’t very cool of you.”

Marinette frowned, though she knew he was joking. She opened her mouth to protest but the sound of his laugh stopped her. Her retort died in her throat as her heart did a little skip.

There was a pause as she felt the blush spread across her cheeks. It was long enough for Adrien to turn to her, an eyebrow raised, silently wondering about the sudden silence.

For half a second, Marinette considered saying something crazy.

‘You’re cute’? ‘I love how your eyes sparkle when you laugh’?

“Sorry for dissing your pun,” she muttered lamely instead, turning away.

He chuckled lightly and stood. “Let’s head back,” he suggested, smiling.

She simply nodded, thinking of a million things she wants to say.

They made their way back to the bakery silently, breathing in the night air, gazing up at the stars. Once back at her door, Marinette faced Adrien and stuck her hand out for a friendly shake. “Thank you for tonight,” she said, back to her awkward self somewhat.

He smiled, remembering how their second meeting went something like this. He took her hand, but instead of shaking it, he chose to press a kiss to the back of it. “Thank you for tonight,” he echoed. “I had a lot of fun.” He waved, and walked to his car.

He turned back for a final wave, and then entered the back. The car pulled away, leaving Marinette all alone in front of the bakery, still reeling from the kiss.

Marinette wanted to scream. The fine line she’d been jump roping with was now blurred together completely, and she wasn’t sure the butterflies in her stomach would ever go away.

And surprisingly, she found that she was completely okay with that.

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[nctzendreamz]

off the table — lee taeyong

genre: angst w/ hints of fluff.

warnings: language, mentions of drug abuse, and mental illness.

featuring: nct members + chan and felix from stray kids.

authors note: taeyong was perfect for this in my head. also, thank you ariana grande.

is love completely off the table?

will I ever love the same way again? will I ever love somebody like the way I did you?

it had been almost a year. almost a year since he had heard your laugh. you know, the one only he was capable of getting out of you. it was gentle, yet so vibrant that it could color even the most plain and unpleasant rooms. he had seen you do it a million times, but his favorite work of art of yours was the one you did on his heart.

obviously, he couldn’t see what the inside of him looked like. but he could feel it. before he met you, he was certain everything was pitch black. to be specific, the darkest shade of the night sky one could possible fathom. so much pain resided in him. some he brought to himself, some he did nothing to earn. regardless, it was there, and as anybody with demons did, he found coping methods.

that’s how he met you, actually. holed up a strip club he had no business being in. one, because there was no one here he truly wanted. he would never admit it outloud, but the thought of love warmed him. not much, but it did. more than silly one night stands that have soul ties no one wanted to keep.

you were clearly out of place in the building filled with the scent of marijuana and flashing lights, although it did perfectly consume your complexion in the most beautiful way. he observed you for what felt like hours, just admiring you. he had no idea he would want to do this for the rest of his life.

it didn’t take much liquid courage for him to approach you. he could sense your fear when his slender fingers touched your exposed shoulder. for some reason though, the minute your eyes locked it was as if you were looking at someone you had known for a million lifetimes. or maybe that was just Taeyong’s point of view. maybe, everything was all an illusion. meeting you. falling in love with you. you falling in love with him.

“it’s been awhile.” a voice snaps Taeyong out of his deep thinking. the minute his concentration breaks does his surroundings suddenly blast into the center of his cortex. the volume increases. he is in the real world again. he isn’t high, yet.

“yeah.” is all he can spit out. all of the different coversations he could hear take place all of a sudden was making him extremely frustrated and unable to form coherent thoughts. or maybe he wanted it that way so he wouldn’t have to think about you.

you loved coming here. he hated coming here. but he loved you, and your favorite thing to say to him was, “when you love someone, you do things you hate. just like me sitting and watching you smoke for hours without stopping.”

he never realized how much you hated his distractions.

the here, was a restaurant that resembled a sports bar back where you are from. the food was less Korean and more greasy chicken tenders. and you really admired their honey mustard. it was kind of ridiculous how much you loved this place. it was always crowded. the smell was odd - a mixture of people who can’t seem to do anything but drink beer and yell, and foreigners who hated living in Korea. this was the only taste of home they got, so they took advantage of it.

did you feel that way too?

he doesn’t know. and he doesn’t want to think about it. some soccer game was on. people were cheering. he was just waiting on his to-go order.

“how have you been?” the familiar woman asks behind the counter. she was definitely in her mid-50’s. he assumed. she always would be here when Taeyong was dragged along, and she was always nice. who wouldn’t be with all the money you gave to this place.

“i’ve been fine.”

taeyong feels a little cheery conversating with another human. if it wasn’t his dealer, there wasn’t anything to say if he was being quite honest. his relationship with his family died out a long time ago. the only person that he could talk to was himself. the guys who were constantly down in the basement at his dealer were cool, but they never really got him. they thought he was weird, violent. only you cared enough to see how sweet he was. to paint him.

“good to hear. you tell your lover that i miss them!”

his heart, still colored from the mention of you, breaks. it had broken many times from your presence on this earth being acknowledged. everytime his chest would explode into his stomach.

he couldn’t say anything.

he simply walks out the place, not caring about manners. he just wants to go home. he doesn’t even like these fucking chicken tenders, but he’s going to go home and eat them. in your honor.

“excuse me.” a voice exclaims as he finally makes it outside.

once again, words don’t leave his mouth. the woman was probably lost. he truthfully didn’t care. he didn’t care about anything anymore.

“sorry,” she begins. her hair is almost a white color. it’s clearly dyed, but she might have been naturally a darker shade of blonde since the coloring seemed too perfect. “i just...i’ve been watching you - wait, that sounds incredible creepy—“

no one could compare to you, but she reminded him of you. you always did this when you were nervous, or had a severe lack of sleep. you would say things you considered to be silly. fumble with your words. and you would always ruin it more by acknowledging it.

but he was never irritated. he thought it was the cutest thing in the entire world. you were the cutest thing in the entire world.

even now, he’s okay. maybe because he was reminded of you, he can appreciate the art.

“you’re really cute.” she finally spits out.

he couldn’t respond, for the third time today.

why was this so hard? it has almost been a fucking year. a year without you. a year without touching you.

yet, no one could ever compare. not the blonde woman standing in front of him. not the sky. not the stupid bar. even his drugs seemed lackluster to the high you gave him whenever you told him you loved him.

he walks away. he needs something. something to make him unable to think for the rest of the night.

never thought you’d be so damn hard to replace. i swear I don’t mean to be this way, if I can’t have you? is love completely off the table?

“y/n? you there?” you feel vibrations from snapping on your face from the man sitting beside you. he snapped three times, to be exact.

“yeah! yes.” you quickly correct, adjusting your posture along with it.

“i know you appreciate the arts, but that painting is nothing to stare at.”

the painting chan was referring to, seemed plain to a simple eye. it simply, was a black square. but you saw worlds in it. you saw him.

“you know christopher,” you cooed, giving his slim cheek a quick sqeeze before continuing, “just because something seems boring to the naked eye, doesn’t mean it actually is. sometimes, a simple work of art such as that lame black square can hold a thousand meanings.”

he smile is radiant. honestly, the neon colored walls in the movie theater couldn’t compare to it no matter how hard it tried. lately, you had been trying to predict what he would say when you tried to be somewhat of substance around him. you were truthfully scared of boring him.

maybe you saw yourself in the black square as well.

“you really find it interesting, love?”

his accent - God his accent. it had an effect on you that truthfully wasn’t healthy, but even so you always felt guilty when your heart would papilate as it touched your eardrums. but why? you were single. you were moving on.

you can’t even look at him anymore, so you settle on the painting once more. now that you think about it, it was kind of scary that it was in a movie theater. maybe chan was on to something - what was its purpose? to simply cause you pain? to make you think about things and people you could no longer have? a person who is the worst possible thing for your growth, but the best food for your pitiful, lonely soul?

“never mind, you’re right.” you stand promptly, suddenly wanting to get as far away from the evil on the wall. it didn’t matter how chilly it was outside.

“woah.” chan chases after you. you’re too quick though. you’ve practically swam through the crowd to escape into fresh air. what is wrong with you?

it doesn’t take long for you to find yourself at his car. his pride and joy by the way, in which he never let anyone else ride in yet. he had been saving for so long to get it. you didn’t know the model, all you knew was that it made loud noises when he wanted it to. the car was originally white, but the two of you agreed that it was the worse possible color for a car, so he got a paint job and now it was as black as a dark hole.

the stars are beaming, and it’s odd. you used to love nights like this. you preferred the day time, but it was something about a light in the dark, such as the moon that pulled you in. it always destroyed you in the end though.

“what did I do?” his voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

“huh?” you wizzle in confusion, not understanding why he believed he had done anything but gave you a peaceful night not lost in your thoughts.

his eyes tell you everything you need to know before his mouth does. he isn’t questioning your ever changing emotions and happiness to hear satisfaction from your mouth - to boost his ego. he truly feels as if he’s ruined any chance he’s had with you simply from being himself. even so, as he waits for you to answer he’s taking his bomber jacket off for you to wear. he was sweet like that.

“chris, you are always perfect. why would you think anything different?” you say as you put the jacket on.

he’s holding back a smile, but you can tell it’s more so from your proper word choice, and not what you said.

“you trying to sound English?”

“no.” you giggle, pushing his shoulder lightly. “I’m just trying to communicate with you.”

“then tell the truth.” he prompts, taking a step closer to you.

“can I lean on the car?”

“yes.” he laughs in a low tone. “you can lean on the car.”

“okay.”

“okay.”

silence is filling the air, and it’s making you sick even though it shouldn’t be.

“y/n.” he finally speaks. you decide you have the balls to look at him even though it feels so wrong. the stars - they’re sparkling right into his eyes and you know you are the dumbest idiot on earth.

why can’t you just choose him?

the question is repeating over and over in your head, but no answer comes. well, no answer you want to hear comes. this should’ve been easy money. the perfect guy, with a good family and solid morals is madly in love with you. he’s still here, even when you barely give him anything to work with, and you’re thinking about others who were nothing close to that no matter how they made you feel.

“my confession ruined everything, didn’t it?”

it was about two months ago that chan confessed his love for you. you laughed a bit, as it made no sense. the two of you had been in the same circle for awhile, and you had been notified of his appreciation for you long ago, but he had seen you break. he watched you go from happy soul to broken and he still liked you? in what world?

you enjoyed his company. that’s why you began to hang out with him practically everyday - doing whatever you two wanted. most of the time you two just watched movies, or played silly board games. but sometimes you would go shopping, or he would play you his music he worked on. you could tell he lacked confidence on what he could become, but you knew he had the potential to be so great.

his confession was short and sweet. and the way he approached you, you could tell he was somewhat confident that you would feel the same. you did feel the same, but you also still had feelings for others. when you declined his request to take things to the next level, he didn’t get upset. or at the least he didn’t show it.

he promised the two of you would move at your pace. and that was all you needed to hear to know that maybe one day, when you got yourself together, the two of you could be something.

chan always protected you. you never felt endangered, or unsafe when you were with him. to you, he was sweet, to others he was still sweet, but he knew when to be stern.

“no. i promise.” is all you answer. “it’s cold.” here you go again trying to change the subject. this wasn’t like you.

he promptly unlocks the door to his car, opening it for you as well. it isn’t long before he’s on the drivers side turning on the car so you could feel some heat on your body.

“i won’t bring it up anymore.” he sighs.

“no chris. you bring it up everytime you feel it. i like you, okay? i do. i know I’ve never said it out loud before, but I do. i just...i don’t know what I’m doing right now. there are some things I have to get over you know?”

you can tell the amount of words you used - probably the most you had spoken to him in months shocked him, and made him feel extremely guilty. you know he didn’t want you to feel like he was trying to pressure you. all he wanted to have was something. something that made him feel as special as he knew you had made others feel in the past.

“y/n I’m a fucking idiot. God, don’t listen to me. you are perfect okay? we are working at your pace and we always will. i - fuck.” his face goes directly in his hands.

it’s cute - the way he cares about his every move around you so deeply. you remember what it felt like to feel like that. it was the most nerve wracking, yet butterfly giving thing to experience when around someone you admired so much.

“chris...” you whisper, removing his face from his palms. he had the softest hands ever. “hey, don’t beat yourself up okay? i know what you want and I know you have nothing but the purest intentions. if I didn’t feel that way I wouldn’t want to spend everyday with you okay? whatever you think this is, it is. i promise.”

“okay.” he sighs the biggest breath of relief you had heard in a long time. “okay. i know what we need.” he offers. your hand lingered on his, and he decided it would be best to hold yours as the opportunity presented itself. it’s nice - the warmness. yet, it feels incredibly wrong.

you truly didn’t mean to be this way. you would do anything to not be this way.

“let’s go cop something from felix. hm?”

what chan was reffering to was the good ole’ mean green, weed. you smoked a lot more in the past than you did now, but you were still no angel. especially tonight did getting high sound like the best decision you could have made.

“yes please.” you say without hesitation, leaning back in the seat. your left hand is still in chan’s right, and you don’t plan on letting go. felix’s house isn’t that far from here, so you know your pleasure will be coming sooner or later. chan starts the car and begins the journey. usually, the two of you drive with music on, but tonight the silence was what the both of you wanted.

secretly though, chan snuck his AirPod into his left ear. he loved music, but he could tell you weren’t in the mood. and he didn’t mind that. he would do anything for you. the lyrics resonated with his with his soul so much that he felt it ache, even though he felt he had no right.

i’ll wait for you

even if I always feel like I’ll be number two

to someone you can’t hold anymore

taeyong can’t even recall how long he had been pent up here, high as hell. intoxicated as fuck. the chicken tender meal he brought had been long gone, but not from his mouth. the junkies smelt food, and took food like the animals they claimed to be.

this all sucked so bad. he hated being here. but he couldn’t move.

it was so loud in here. the boys he knew - johnny, mark, and jaehyun were all present. they seemed to be the leaders of the basement and they also seemed to be functioning quite well considering how high they also were. taeyong couldn’t fathom or make out what their conversation were, but he assumed it was about girls. he caught, “they’re supposed to be here any minute now.” from jaehyun’s lip. he seemed to be the strongest ladies man. all taeyong knew, was that he wanted no parts of the drug induced orgy he knew was going to take place. he also knew if he didn’t leave, they didn’t care. they were going to give a show regardless.

“taeyong!” johnny yells, bringing him back to focus. johnny was always very intimidating. he wore a smile when he got what he wanted, but if he spoke to you and you didn’t listen, he quickly got upset. maybe he was different when he was sober, but that was never.

“what’s up.” taeyong answers dryly, still not looking at him.

“you know,” johnny sits down in the dirty floor right beside him. “you’ve never been fun, but you were more fun before than you are now.”

“i went through this phase.” mark interrupts, taking the seat on taeyong’s opposite side. “what is it? mommy issues? a girl? or a boy? if you get spicy like that.” he chuckles. he coughs right after.

“how about everything. except the last part.” taeyong whispers.

“oh...you have it rough. was your mom a druggie too?”

“no - well, I don’t know. i met her like once when I was younger. she told me ‘i did it for your good’ and left.”

“so you were in a foster home? or did you get adopted?”

“foster home. neglected, so now I’m like this.” he chuckles. he’s laughing, but in reality to admit these things out loud hurt, even though he was sure the other boys had similar or worse stories.

“and the girl?” mark asks. he had began to roll up another blunt in the midst of taeyong’s life story. maybe it was too much for him. or maybe he was just an addict.

“i cheated. and i was mean. she was the best thing ever though. she got me clean.”

“for what? a day?” johnny laughs outloud.

“well, not clean clean.” he explains. “but off the hard stuck like coke, and lsd and shit. we both smoked weed. and I smoked cigs.”

“ew!” the two of them exclaim. “cigs?”

“so you’re telling me that the two of you do every drug under the sun, but cigarettes are where you draw the line?”

“duh!”

“have you seen all the commercials? with the person with the hole in their throat sounding like the old shriveled lady from spongebob going ‘chocolate!’ we don’t want that!”

“cigarettes aren’t the only thing that can cause that, you know?”

“whatever.” johnny shivers as if he had just gotten the worse news ever. “so this girl wasn’t a druggie? why did she even like you?”

“i don’t know. still to this day I don’t know. but she did. and she tried everything to make me happy. it just felt too good to be true, so I ruined it.”

“damn bro.” mark sighs, taking a deep puff of his blunt. “i thought people only did stupid shit like that in the movies or tv shows.”

“hey hey now, markie.” a voice speaks out of the corner. “be nice to our new friend.”

it’s jaehyun. funny enough, jaehyun tried to get at you once long before you met taeyong, but you had no interest in him once you found out his issues. then again, while he was attracted to you, he didn’t want you to love him. he just wanted to corrupt you.

“our boy is broken hearted. seems to me like he just needs some fun.”

“relax, jae.” johnny explains. “he’s not there yet. let him fall for us on his time.”

“what are you on right now?” jaehyun inspects.

“just a couple of blunts.”

“so just a starter?”

“hyung...” mark sighs.

“okay okay. fine. but when the heartbreak starts to kick in more, i got something that’ll change your life. you just let me know.”

“he will.” johnny and mark say once again in unison.

“boys!” a voice yells. it makes everyone stand up minus taeyong, as he had no idea who it was. he can hear feet coming down the steps. there’s a boy with blonde hair. the same boy who let him in. he was a new face, but clearly an important one from the way even jaehyun was waiting for his comment.

“hi felix!” everyone begins to repeat after eachother.

his voice is deep as he speaks, and his accent is thick. his face itself may have not been scary, but the way he carried himself was.

“clean up this fucking mess. i know you can’t do anything about the shitty couches, but make an attempt. i got some good people coming over and I need quiet. when I bring them down here to show them the product, i need everyone on their best behavior.”

“what exactly does that mean?” taeyong speaks. maybe he shouldn’t have, because everyone is looking at him as if he just called the president a bitch to his face or something.

“you’re new here.” felix explains as he finishes his strut down the stairs. he can be seen more clearly now, and his outfit reminds taeyong of someone you knew. he couldn’t remember his name, but it was chan or something. “well, new to me.”

“and?”

“and...” felix crouches to his level. “im the boss. and all of you do what I say. my brother ran this like a crackhouse. i want us to make some real money, therefore you all will be getting cleaned up. there will be people coming in and out, looking at what we have, so try not to act like the druggie you are. thanks.”

“yes sir.” taeyong says, although he has no intentions of respecting this felix cat.

the doorbell rings promptly. the house wasn’t so big that they wouldn’t be able to hear. clearly this felix had plans to change that, but for now he had to settle.

“that’ll be them. look like friends so they won’t be scared. they’re not like us. or, what you will be.”

with that he leaves. everyone is silent as they want to know who exactly is this person. they all expected some rich man with a million connections to be at the door. they hear one voice - an accent is present. he’s laughing, and they hear the sound of them dapping up.

“friend.” the voice says. they must have not seen each other in a long while. “what’s up? how have you been?”

“oh, I’ve never been better.” felix says. “and y/n.”

the sound of your name makes taeyong’s heart stop in his chest. what the? how could you of all people be here? you hated drugs. this was clearly a trap house. this is where taeyong would go to get everything you wanted, but you always refused to go with him. what male had you here?

jaehyun is smiling as he recognizes your name too. taeyong can’t notice though as he is genuinely about to have a panic attack.

“come downstairs will you? since chan told me it was a special occasion, I decided I’d let you two take a look.”

“felix...are you running a trap house?” you joke, not realizing how true your words were.

“not at all, sweets.” he relaxes you. “i just have good shit from my brother that needs to be sold. this is our little secret though.”

“we know.” chan answers for you. “snitches get stitches.”

“and end up in ditches.” felix finishes. “there are people down here, but they’re just chilling. don’t be scared.”

the three of you make your way down to the basement. jaehyun is the first face you recognize. you feel sick, but he didn’t phase you that much.

the black haired boy though, sandwiched between two other guys, makes your trip and fall on the disgusting floor.

it’s him. it’s really him.

why? all you wanted to do was have fun. all you wanted to do was forget him.

you can see in his eyes does he want to explode. but this was his fault. this was all his fault.

to be continued...

[novelconcepts]

Greetings Novel. I was wondering, would you ever consider writing a vampire and/or werewolf Damie version? There’s already such a strong emotional connection whenever those stories are told, and I think you would just enhance that because you have such a knack for relaying Dani and Jamie’s thoughts and feelings. Anyway, just an idea because I love those tales and you’re absolutely one of my favorite authors. 😊

It’s the quiet she likes best, she thinks. The quiet, the dark, the simplicity. No one asks anything of her anymore. No one makes demands. She belongs to no one at all these days, for the first time since she can remember.

Except the Lady. She’ll always belong to her. 

But there’s a give to these things as well as a take, and Dani Clayton sometimes thinks it’s worth it. Worth it, not to have to sit at dinner parties and elegant balls. Worth it, not to have to titter and engage in small talk. Worth it, not to have to wear the ring.

Worth it, to leave him behind. 

And if it’s all shadow, all lonely, all deep-rooted ache she can never seem to soothe, that’s fine enough. She belongs to no one. No one except the Lady, and the Lady asks so little of her. Only to carry the curse--the disease--the hunger. Only to feed the shade coiled around the remnants of her old self. Only to wake. To walk. To drink. 

It’s dramatic, she thinks, but a little theater never hurt anyone. She makes sure of that much. It’s sustainable, so long as she keeps walking, walking, walking in the quiet. The dark. The simplicity.

It’s sustainable, until she reaches the village.

***

The pub is nearly empty. Too late, or too cold, or too poor an economic situation for carousing to be the game--Dani doesn’t much care which is the real reason. She likes the emptiness of the tables, chairs pushed patiently into place, every surface as clean as it is old. She likes the warm lighting, the oak bar, the smooth wooden floorboards under her boots. 

The mirror, she does not care for, turning her head swiftly away so as not to see the void where a young woman ought to stand. This part, she has never grown used to. This part, even after carrying the Lady--the Lady’s curse, more like, to hunger and need and wallow in lonely anger--for decades. She barely remembers, now, what that woman looks like. Blonde hair. Pale skin. Paler now than it had been in life, but only by so much--her mother had held such strong opinions as to what women should do with their time, and lounging in the sun had never been part of the pageant. Polite society, Danielle, has no use for a lady like that. 

Like what? she’d always wondered, never quite daring to ask. Adventurous? Athletic? Interesting?

No matter. The past is long, long dead--deader even than she could imagine back then, dreaming of being someone else. Someone free. All of them are gone now: her mother, with her antiquated ideas; her mother’s friends, who peered down their noses at Dani and smiled without heart; even Edmund. Even him. 

Long dead, now. Old age, or unrepentant illness, or freak accident--she doesn’t know. She wasn't there. 

The woman she was is dead, too, Danielle Clayton buried in a grave she’d only hauled herself back out of the next night. The Lady had whispered in her ear, granted unexpected strength, unexpected fury. Danielle went in. Dani came back out again. No one ever needs to remember. 

And no one ever has. She’s been walking for--fifty years, now? More, maybe. The date on the newspaper crumpled on one table reads June 24, 1987. More than fifty years gone in a blink, and Dani is still here. Washed clean, maybe, of all the bits that had once made up a patient, kind, hopeful young teacher. But here all the same. 

She settles at the table, drawing a book from her bag. The night is still young, the hunger not yet pricking at her patience. It’s good to start smooth, start simple, to remind the Lady that the curse might have its needs, but it is Dani who is still in control. Dani, who, despite making a decision unwary of its consequences so long ago, has managed to hang on this long.

Still here. Still walking. Still--

“Get you something?”

Her head snaps up, her body primed to run. An old instinct. As if anyone could touch her without consent now.

The woman watching her looks curious, but only faintly so, as if by old habit. Her hair is tied off her face with a bandana, her sleeves cuffed at the elbows. There is a loveliness about her Dani has always fostered a weakness for--a loveliness that matches, in a less primal way, that of the Lady who had come to her in that dream so long ago. Walk with me. Walk with me, and you’ll never be alone again. 

She shakes her head, smiles. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Right,” says the woman slowly. “Only, this isn’t a library. Don’t order something, Tom’ll have me throw you out.”

She speaks like she doesn’t much care one way or another, but Dani has been around long enough to read between the lines of a person. The words are callous, but the inflection is specific--the emphasis placed not on throw you out as a threat, but Tom’ll have me. An apology before an offense. The woman glances toward the window, aware of the wind battering the glass, her expression calmly letting Dani know I’d rather not have to. 

“I’ll have whatever’s your favorite,” Dani says. Eyebrows raise, the woman’s head tilting. 

“Mine?”

“Sure.” Dani smiles, reaches across, touches the woman’s hand lightly where it rests on the table. It’s easier, influencing human minds through touch. She doesn’t like doing it at all, if she can help it--there’s a film over the idea, a nasty oily sense of wrong--but sometimes it can’t be helped. People who look at her the way this woman is looking tend to become a problem.

People who smile at her the way this woman is beginning to smile, lips quirking up at the corners like she doesn’t quite mean to, tend to become a danger to themselves and others. 

Mostly themselves.

The woman disappears briefly behind the bar; Dani, aware of the mirror, doesn’t watch her go. Her eyes remain on her book, her fingers tracing mindless sigils into the table until a glass is set gently down before her. A thin amber ale of some kind--Dani feels no curiosity, no interest at all. She smiles. 

“Thank you.”

“Sure,” the woman says. Hesitates, as though wanting to say more. Shakes her head. The fog--the sense of forget Dani brings in her wake--is already sinking its claws into this woman, already wiping Dani away. Good. It’s best when they don’t see her, don’t take an interest, don’t remember when she’s gone.

Especially women who smile like this one. 

She leaves the drink untouched, putting away two chapters in easy silence. Money, she drops on the table. No one looks up as she strides back out into the dark. 

Tonight’s meal will be found elsewhere.

***

The story should end here, she knows--a person like Dani is only still here because she’s long-since learned the art of keep moving. The Lady commands it. The Lady is impatient to walk. 

The hunger, pushing in along her ribs, pulsing under her wrists, is impatient for more. 

She ought to leave the little village be. There’s not much here to begin with, and it’s dangerous to feed in places where one single thread can be followed to each house in turn. Dani’s careful not to hurt where she doesn’t have to, not to kill ever--a little time, a little tender care, is all it takes to prevent it. She hasn’t left a body behind in almost thirty years. There’s really no excuse for making a kill where one could simply leave a vacant few minutes of memory, she thinks. 

Not that humans recognize the kindness for what it is. Not that she can blame them for their fear. She was afraid once, too--waiting, always, for the Lady to become Beast, for her to rise up over Dani’s good sense and turn her into something hateful. Dying, for Dani, hadn’t been the hard part. The idea of becoming something she isn’t...

But it’s been years and years, and she is still here. Still Dani. Lonely, and quiet, and living the simplest life she can manage, given the circumstances.

And back at this same pub again.

Shouldn’t, she thinks--knows, though she’s pushing the door open and striding back to that same table again. Out comes the book. Her eyes remain resolutely clear of the bar, of the mirror, of any patrons who might give her trouble. 

“Back again?”

The woman, this time in a t-shirt, her curls loose around her face. Same woman. Same smile. Same problem. 

Dani really knows better. 

“Noticed you didn’t touch the ale,” the woman points out, leaning her hip against the table. There’s a quiet confidence to the way she holds herself, a constrained line of motion that says she’s in no hurry. Dani watches her, smiling a little, and thinks, Shouldn’t be here. 

“No, I,” she begins to reply. Her smile fades to a frown. “Wait. Noticed.”

“Yeah,” the woman says. “And you overpaid. Drinks much pricier in America, then?”

Dani wouldn’t know. Dani hasn’t set foot in America since the sixties. 

“I guess,” she says, still puzzled. This woman shouldn’t be speaking of last night as though it was--well. Only last night. This woman shouldn’t remember Dani at all. The Lady’s influence generally makes certain of that. 

All these years, it’s never failed her. 

That is the idea.

“Something darker tonight, maybe?” the woman goes on, watching Dani with shrewd eyes. “A stout?”

“Okay,” Dani agrees, knowing full well she won’t touch it when the drink comes, and finding herself quite unable to say no. Quite unable to do what she should, which is to slip out before the woman can return to this table and smile at her again.

Try harder, she tells herself, when the glass is standing proudly beside her book, laid face-down on the table. Try harder to do it. Because, the thing is, if this woman remembers her--if this woman keeps remembering her--she’s bound to find herself on the other side of a beheading. A torch. A particularly sharp slat of wood. 

Her hand brushes the woman’s again, her fingers tingling. The skin is soft, the nails short; when she turns the woman’s hand over in her own, she finds callouses on the pads of her fingers. 

“Bold,” the woman says, amused--but there’s a flare of something more in her eyes, matching her smile too well. Dani swallows. Presses forward with her own mind, gently caressing the woman’s intentions. Forget me, she wills. I was never here. 

“Enjoy,” the woman says, the clear focus in her eyes drifting to hazy confusion. 

Dani watches her go, her chest tight with an unfamiliar sensation--something like hunger, and yet...

No one, she thinks, has ever remembered her when she’d wanted them to forget. No one since the Lady’s curse. Even Edmund, who had dreamed of a big wedding, a big house, a big family since they were children, had forgotten her, in the end. Easily. She’d willed it, and walked away, and he had forgotten she’d ever climbed out of that grave. 

This woman, whose name is not Dani’s to know, whose life is not Dani’s to touch, remembered. 

Even as she’s leaving, even as she’s slipping out into the dark to find someone to dull the Lady’s hunger, Dani knows she’ll be back again. A terrible idea. A terrible test of the universe’s machinations. And yet.

She can’t erase the curiosity, bent behind a shop with a young woman’s wrist pulsing warm against her lips. She can’t erase the way the woman had smiled at her with knowing amusement, as her teeth sharpen and the Lady takes what she needs. She can’t forget, as copper runs sweet across her tongue, and the girl sitting on the pavement heaves a languid sigh beneath her. 

It’s an awful idea. Truly, the worst. 

She has to know.

***

“Starting to think you don’t actually drink.”

The woman actually sits this time, sprawling into the chair across from Dani as though belonging there all along. Dani bites down on a smile.

“Why else would I come to a place like this?”

“The company?” the woman suggests, and though her tone is idle, her smile scorches. Dani shakes her head, laughing. 

She can’t remember the last time she laughed. 

“I’m not supposed to be here,” she confides. The woman raises her eyebrows. 

“Where are you supposed to be?”

Alone, Dani thinks. Forgotten, Dani thinks. That was the deal, Dani thinks, the price of a young woman’s freedom. Wake. Walk. Feed. There has never needed to be anything else. 

“Not here,” she settles on saying--a truth without teeth. The woman nods slowly, leaning across the table, her hand sliding over pocked wood to brush Dani’s wrist. 

“Doesn’t seem to be stopping you. Twice is an accident. Three is a habit.”

She isn’t wrong. Two people in this village bear Dani’s mark now, the inner slope of their wrists stained with new scars they won’t be able to explain. She’ll have to drink from a third tonight, and the odds of getting out unscathed--even with the fog clearing her from their minds the minute she walks away--shrink yet again. This isn’t a good idea. 

But this woman, impossibly, illogically, remembers her. Forgot, maybe, briefly--in the time it took Dani to pay and leave--and then the memory just...sprang back into place. Dani has made mistakes with women before, has let their smiles grace her heart in ways she was never meant to allow, but it’s never resulted in this. 

“I’m Jamie,” the woman says, and Dani almost recoils--almost says, Don’t tell me that, don’t put that on me, you’re not supposed to remember--but I won’t be able to forget. 

“Dani,” she says instead, and feels the Lady pulse deep in the place she’s always imagined her soul to rest. The Lady, a curse--a gift--a structure around which she’s built her second chance at life. The Lady, who looks upon Jamie now and sends a powerful swell of hunger up through Dani’s bones. 

Take her. Take her. She wants it, look at her. 

Jamie does, Dani senses, want something. Something that has no need for Dani’s influence, no requirement for Dani pulling the strings. Jamie wants something from her--something honest, something human--and the very idea of it spikes fresh terror like she hasn’t felt in decades.

“This is a bad idea,” she says in a low voice. “It’s dangerous.”

Jamie, fingers tracing Dani’s palm, searching out her lifeline, shrugs. “Always is. Doesn’t mean it isn’t worth it.”

***

There’s a place upstairs, a little flat. Jamie leads the way as though she’s done this a hundred times, taking Dani’s hand with an almost nonchalant gesture. 

“If you let me in,” Dani says, “this gets so much more complicated.”

“I’ll take the chance,” Jamie says. She should be laughing as she says it, a flirtatious bit of banter designed to delight, but she isn’t. She’s looking at Dani, her free hand turning the key, like she already understands. 

“I’m not,” Dani says. Stops. Sighs. “I’m not what you’re--what you think I--”

“Start here,” Jamie says, and pushes open the door. An invitation without words, one Dani can’t resist leaning into. She hasn’t let herself accept an invitation like this in so long. 

Take her, the Lady breathes. Take her, bring her to me. Dani squeezes her hands into fists, the familiar rage of hunger grinding against this new, too-human variant. Jamie is closing the door, kicking off her shoes, smiling. 

The smile is what really breaks her. The smile, which is a little teasing, a little tempting, but mostly just real. 

She’s kissing Jamie before she can stop herself, and even as she’s doing it, there is something too warm about it. Something too good about the way Jamie catches her, hands digging into Dani’s hair, lips parting when Dani brushes against her with the tip of her tongue. For all the skin she’s tasted, all the times she’s kissed and licked and bitten, this is different. This is--

This has no path. No road to follow to the end. No lie baked into the heart of it. Every woman she’s ever led into the dark, every time she’s ever drank deep and pulled back before the Lady can win back control, seems to fall away in comparison to how desperately she’s kissing Jamie. This person she barely knows. This woman who slips a hand around her hip like an anchor. This woman whose kiss is confident, who is smiling into her, who leans back breathlessly and says, “You’re sure about this?”

“Don’t ask me that,” Dani breathes, kissing her again. Jamie makes a soft groaning sound, tilting her head away. 

“Why not?”

“Because,” Dani says, unable to stop herself from kissing around every word, “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Shouldn’t, or don’t want to be?” Jamie is backing her against the wall, and Dani can hear her heartbeat, can’t seem to erase the dizzy scent of life pouring off of her in waves. Blood, yes, thrumming beneath her skin, but also breath, and desire, and something giddy and nameless that can only be joy. 

Such a human thing, joy. Why, then, does Dani feel it pressing in on her, too?

“Hey.” Jamie has stopped kissing her, is simply holding her face gently between her hands. Her thumbs have found Dani’s cheekbones, are pressing so lightly, Dani closes her eyes to keep from crumbling. 

“Hey.”

“If you really don’t feel good about this, we don’t have to. We can, I dunno. Talk. Or not. Whatever you want.”

Dani breathes slowly, all the little measures of human in a body that is not. She likes breathing, she’s found. Likes willing her heart to beat. Likes feeling warm, likes feeling as though any sunrise might be welcome, someday. Someday, when all of this fades. 

Like it ever can. Like the Lady would ever allow it. That wasn’t the deal.

“There are things,” she says hollowly, “you don’t know.”

“All the things,” Jamie agrees comfortably. “Everything except your name and what you don’t like to drink.”

Despite herself, Dani laughs again. She leans forward until her forehead presses Jamie’s, until Jamie’s breath coasting lightly across her lips is the only thing she can feel. 

The only thing outside of the beating, raging, desperate hunger.

“You wouldn’t believe me,” she says. “I--sometimes even I think I’m crazy.” And, really, might she be? Might this all be some delusion, some shattering of sense that has led her to believe there will be no woman waiting for her in the mirror? Or, worse, a delusion leading her to believe she is here--that she is still Dani, despite it all?

“Tell me anyway,” Jamie says, and Dani kisses her again. Kisses the edges of her lips, the curve of her jaw, the length of her neck. Kisses the place where the pulse beats like fists against a casket lid, her lips parting, her tongue flat against the salt of Jamie’s skin. She hears Jamie draw a sharp breath, one hand tight in her hair, hears Jamie say, “Yes” in a tone Dani has to fight to deny.

She doesn’t mean it. She can’t mean it. She doesn’t know. 

And Dani, though the Lady roars with that unrelenting need, can’t take. Not like this. Not here. This woman remembers her. This woman will remember tomorrow, even if Dani slips out of her bed, even if Dani never shows her face again. She’ll remember. It will, somehow, unfairly, haunt the rest of her life. 

“It’s a long story,” she says, face still buried in Jamie’s neck. Her hips are twitching against Jamie’s thigh, her hands sliding under Jamie’s shirt. “A long, crazy story.”

“I have time,” Jamie says. Dani lifts her head. Smiles. 

It’s not supposed to be like this. It’s meant to be quiet. Dark. Simple.

Lonely. 

That was the deal.

“The teacher,” she says quietly, closing her eyes as she scrounges for the beginning for the first time in over fifty years, “was, by choice, a solitary young woman...”

Jamie listens.

[lazaefair]

Has anyone done the Disney Princess AU yet

Part 1 - written by me, @poemsingreenink, and @iwritesometimes

poemsingreenink: Like, if anyone has big, soft innocent eyes it's Marwan who I swear to god looks near happy tears in most intense scenes. I at one point during Aladdin in theaters thought "You know Jafar's maybe just not had a great life. He's really having a day here." BECAUSE OF HIS BIG SOFT EYES.

lazaefair: LUCA MARINELLI HIMSELF SAID IT

sarah: HOWWWWW DID HE EVEN GET CAST AS JAFAR LIKE THOSE ARE DISNEY PRINCESS EYES

lazaefair: I...I need somone to draw Joe in a Disney Princess dress

sarah: but WHICH PRINCESS i feel like belle's off the shoulder gold ballgown has promise

lazaefair: Ariel’s pink gown would really drive the point home, though Although you’re right, Belle is a literate, dreamy brunette who loves poetry, so she’s closer as an archetype

sarah: i'll be honest: i was mostly thinking of getting his shoulders nude

lazaefair: Nicky is Ariel. Big blue eyes, otherworldly, utterly uncivilized.

sarah: YES

So imagine: Prince Yusuf, who had a giant statue of himself gifted to him on his birthday, and who hates it because his best friend (and immortal general of the army) Andromache is NEVER GOING TO LET HIM LIVE IT DOWN.

Also imagine: feral merman siren Nicolò who bites off fishheads and communicates through weird clicking noises, when he’s not singing men to their deaths. He’s not one of those useless pretty koi mermaids, no. He’s a motherfucking creature of the deep. Lamp eyes that are used to distract fish prey. Claws and pale fins and an intense stare and fangs.

Now imagine: Prince Yusuf going overboard in the storm that hits his royal yacht. Struggling, swept away, half-drowned and losing hope fast when an unearthly song fills the air, low and sweet and compelling. He’s swimming towards the singing before he realizes it, delirious, until something closes around his ankle and drags him under. The thing under the water kills him quickly.

And then kills him again, when it doesn’t take. After the third killing, Nicolò’s on his way to being well and truly mystified (“Okay, don't panic. They all die eventually, maybe...maybe I’ll just need to do it again?”) and gives up after the fourth and fifth killing. He drags his (attempted) prey to a little sheltered island he knows about, kills it one last time just to make sure, and then watches, resigned, as the flesh heals up and the lungs push water out until it’s coughing its way back to undeniable life.

“You rescued me,” is the first thing Yusuf says to him. “Your song – it is the song of my heart. My soul.”

Nicolò...has no idea what to do with this, coughs awkwardly in reply, and leaves before he can think too hard about the warmth in his chest answering to the warmth in the human’s expressive, grateful eyes.

(He doesn’t tell Yusuf the truth about their bloody first meeting until years later. It’s too goddamn embarrassing, to be perfectly honest.)

Of course he comes back within a day, almost shamefully quickly. Unable to help being fascinated by this gorgeous, well-spoken, kind and generous human who cannot die. He starts bringing things to Yusuf: at first just fish, then interesting-shaped fragments of rock and coral, and then bits of treasure he’s collected over the years, just to hear what new poetic turn of phrase Yusuf will spout on the spot when he’s given something.

“...this is my family crest on this treasure chest, Nicolò. How strange.”

“It is the chest you said your great-great-grandfather lost,” Nicolò says, the words coming out dry and halting from long years of disuse. Watching Yusuf’s hands as he traces the elaborate lines engraved on the lid, now blurred with rust and coral. 

“That’s amazing. Truly. I am at a loss for words,” Yusuf says, smiling.

“No, you aren’t,” Nicolò says, and keeps watching so he can see the moment when the smile turns into a laugh.

Another day, he brings to Yusuf what Booker had told him was called a ‘dinglehopper’ and was what humans used to keep their hair in order, as they did not have the ocean to spread it out like beautiful seaweed in the waves. Yusuf takes it, mouth twitching in a way that makes Nicolò doubt the accuracy of Booker’s explanation. Yet Yusuf does not correct him, but in fact solemnly thanks him before offering the dinglehopper back and asking him to help untangle his riot of curls.

And so it goes. Days pass. Fascination becomes infatuation, turns to desire and then into love, until neither can imagine living without the other, and yet—

Eventually, Nicolò has to give Yusuf up. The prince is too noble and good to just abandon his people indefinitely. And because Nicolò loves him, he goes out and once more lures a ship in with his song, but not to dash it to pieces on jagged rocks this time. He leads them to the island. Watches from a distance as the astonished shouting begins, then back-pounding hugs and joyous celebration as Yusuf boards the ship and sails away. Watches Yusuf turn back more than once to scan the beach, clearly looking for Nicolò, but Nicolò does not follow. Instead, he watches until the ship is lost to his sight and he cannot feel the ship’s current or smell, and then he dives deep and goes to visit Merrick.

Meanwhile, Yusuf arrives back at the capital, where his other best friend, Quỳnh (immortal admiral of the navy) feels terribly guilty about the prince going overboard on his birthday. Which is why she uncharacteristically doesn’t give him shit when he comes back babbling nonsense about mermaids. Or when he spends the next few weeks moping around, writing mermaid poetry and drawing mermaid pictures.

To be fair to him, the particular mermaid he sketches over and over does look pretty striking. Otherworldly and all that. Good cheekbones. Nice pearly scales. “Fucking...giant anglerfish eyes,” Quỳnh mutters while she and Andy look over the latest pile of sketches Yusuf’s left abandoned on a library table. “Our prince has been fucking bewitched by a fucking fish.”

“Mm,” Andy agrees. 

So when Nicolò arrives at the palace one fine summer’s day – naked, his fangs smoothed away to look perfectly human, a giant emerald in one hand and a silver fork in the other – and walking, on legs, it causes a bit of an uproar.

“You still smell like the sea,” Yusuf says hoarsely into Nicolò’s neck, the two of them wrapped around each other as closely as two bodies can be.

“Oh, fuck,” Andy says, lowering her axe. Quỳnh looks more closely at the dirty naked wild man their prince is embracing as if his life depends on it. Angular face. Skin encrusted with salt. Absolutely enormous piercing blue eyes. Naked, did we mention naked.

“Oh, fuck,” Quỳnh says.

“You get them separated,” Andy says. “I’ll go...get them a bath.”

The price Nicolò paid for his new human shape:

His siren song.

His immortality.

What he gets in return:

Yusuf teaching him what a dinglehopper is actually called, and what humans actually use it for.

Yusuf teaching him how to read and write his native tongue, and a few other tongues besides.

Yusuf reading poetry to him or sketching next to him on long lazy afternoons in the gardens.

The immense pleasure of intimidating the fuck out of any remaining would-be suitors for Yusuf’s hand in marriage who are still hanging around the palace for some reason.

“I am Nicolò di Genova,” Nicolò replies to the marquis’s indignant demands – predator’s smile still frightening even without endless rows of needle-sharp teeth. “You have seven days to leave this place forever. Get your affairs in order.”

Friendship with Andy and Quỳnh.

“Holy shit. Did he just—”

“—stab the marquis with a fork, at dinner, in front of the entire court? Yep.”

“...”

“...”

“New best friend.”

“Obviously.”

Yusuf writing poetry about him and to him. Nicolò likes them all. He wouldn't know a good human poem from a bad human poem, but nothing Yusuf touches could be bad, so ergo it's good.

Sightseeing throughout the kingdom with Yusuf’s strong, gentle fingers twined around his.

Yusuf breathing blissful curses into Nicolò’s ear, exactly like he used to do on their island, as they move together on his enormous bed.

Yusuf. Yusuf. Yusuf.

(Booker is also there. He insisted on being turned human, too, and coming along to make sure Nicolò doesn’t totally fuck this up, but he’s really mainly there for the entertainment. And the booze. Andy asks him at one point about losing his immortality. He shrugs. “Look, if we die, we die,” he says, then offers Andy another pour of fine French brandy. The two of them get along famously.)

It’s all going great until one night on the beach, while they’re walking along hand-in-hand under the stars and idly discussing human and merfolk constellations. Someone approaches them, dressed splendidly and moving with arrogant grace. He is also angular, also fair-haired, also possessed of unsettling eyes. And he has Nicolò’s siren song, gently humming from the shell that adorns his neck.

“Merrick,” Nicolò hisses as Yusuf’s eyes grow glazed and blank, and he tightens his hand on Yusuf’s, afraid for the first time. “Our deal—”

“He can’t bear the idea of living forever without you, can he? And so he hasn’t proposed,” Merrick says, smiling cruelly. “You’ve missed your chance. He’s mine.” And he extends his hand out to Yusuf—

Who stirs, suddenly, and turns to Nicolò. “Limpid, or shimmering?” 

“What?”

“Shimmering,” Yusuf decides, peering into Nicolò’s eyes. “Yes. Limpid would be too pretentious, I think.”

And that’s pretty much that – we don’t actually get the plot with Merrick the Sea Witch because Yusuf only has eyes for one weird-looking white guy. Also, his one artistic failing is that he's tone deaf.

They do eventually kill Merrick because true love wins out and we are all about those happy endings, Grimm’s can suck it, etcetera, so Nicolò gets his immortality and his siren song back. He’s also back to being a merman, but Yusuf does not care. “I could paint your beautiful tail for the rest of my life, my love, and still fail to capture the luminous iridescence of you,” he murmurs, stroking said tail with tender fingers. The last person to touch Nicolò’s tail got his hand bitten off. Here and now, Nicolò runs his claws through Yusuf’s hair, clicking deep and happy in his throat.

(“This is weird, right?” Quỳnh asks from where she and Andy are busy scraping evil kraken guts off their armor, a prudent distance down the beach from the lovers. “I’m not the only one who thinks it’s weird?”

Andy says nothing, just offers Quỳnh the rest of her bottle of vodka. This is why Quỳnh loves her so.)

(The wedding is a nightmare, at least according to the palace chef charged with cooking the wedding feast. “What is this, this, abomination? What in heaven’s name have you brought into my kitchen!”

“Tubeworm,” Booker says. “Considered a fine delicacy among our people. Don’t worry about it.”)