#twelve miles from the border

[iamquiantrelle]

BLOOD OATH (chapter 10) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @lostennyc @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main @peaceiswonderful @scorpiobleue @deeziee @krystiana @maximofflove @palefacestudentlove @justagirlwho-believes13 @fadedintime @theoriginalgirll

# wc: long af...

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist

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Lewis had always been a man who controlled his environment—every variable calculated, every contingency planned for, every outcome anticipated. It was how he'd survived twelve years in a world where most operators barely lasted five. It was how he'd built an empire from nothing while others with family connections and inherited power had fallen.

But standing in the sprawling pool house of Salvatore Ricci's estate, watching snow flurries dance against the darkening November sky, Lewis was acutely aware of how many variables now lay beyond his control.

The call had come three days after Naomi and Miles had been close to identifying exactly who was feeding information to Suarez; Salvatore's demand interrupted their progress—his daughter was to return to New York immediately. There was no negotiation, no discussion, just a father's edict delivered with the absolute certainty of a man accustomed to universal compliance.

"My daughter returns home where she belongs," Salvatore had said, his voice carrying that particular blend of paternal concern and barely veiled threat that had built his reputation across three decades. "My territory, my protection. This is not a request, Hamilton."

Lewis had wanted to refuse. Every tactical instinct screamed that moving you across international borders while an active threat remained unidentified was a risk not worth taking. But Paolo had privately confirmed what Lewis had already suspected—Salvatore's "request" carried implications far beyond simple family reunion. It was a test of Lewis's understanding of power dynamics in their new alliance, a measuring of whether the British operator appreciated the delicate balance between respect and independence.

"Careful, my friend," Paolo had warned. "This is not just about her safety. It's about hierarchies that predate your involvement."

So here they were, installed in the pool house of the Ricci estate—a "compromise" that Salvatore had presented as generous accommodation of Lewis's desire for operational independence while keeping you under the umbrella of Ricci family protection. The pool house itself was larger than most luxury apartments, equipped with every comfort and convenience, including private security systems that Lewis had personally enhanced upon arrival.

The French doors leading to the hot tub steamed slightly in the cold air, the contrast between the heated water and November chill creating a ghostly veil that seemed appropriate for your current situation—existing between worlds, neither fully in Ricci territory nor fully independent of it.

"You've been staring at those trees for twenty minutes," your voice came from behind him, pulling Lewis from his thoughts. "I'm starting to think you're trying to burn holes through them with your mind."

Lewis turned, taking in the sight of you wrapped in one of his sweaters that hung nearly to your knees, a mug of something steaming held between your hands. The simple domesticity of the image created an unfamiliar tightness in his chest—a reaction he'd been trying to control with limited success since Scotland.

"Just checking the sightlines," he replied with a half-smile. "Your father's security team has cameras pointing at us from at least three spots in those bare trees."

You moved to stand beside him at the window, casually bumping your shoulder against his arm. "Ah, classic Ricci trust issues in their natural habitat. He doesn't spy because he thinks we're up to anything. He just can't stand not knowing everything."

"Smart man," Lewis said, allowing his hand to rest lightly on your lower back. "Information is survival."

"Says the guy who has Miles sweeping for bugs twice a day," you countered with a laugh. "I've seen him crawling under furniture with those weird little devices."

Lewis didn't deny it. "That's different—"

"I know, I know. It's not personal distrust, it's professional necessity," you finished, your eyes crinkling with amusement. "I've heard that one before."

Something about your easy teasing made it increasingly difficult for Lewis to maintain the careful distance he'd built his reputation on. Every day, the strategic arrangement that had defined your marriage's beginning felt more distant, replaced by something he wasn't yet prepared to name.

"Miles is coming after dinner," he said, shifting to more practical matters. "He's got some leads on which member of my security team has been talking to Suarez."

"How's he liking the servant quarters?" you asked, curling up on the plush couch with your legs tucked beneath you. "I'm sure it's quite the downgrade from your usual accommodations."

Lewis smiled despite himself. "He texted me this morning saying, 'Mate, these "servant quarters" are nicer than anywhere I've ever lived, and your father-in-law stocks the good whiskey.'"

Your laugh warmed something in Lewis that had been cold for longer than he cared to admit. "Papa probably doesn't know what to make of him."

"Few people do," Lewis agreed, finally moving from the window to join you on the couch, though he left a small gap between you. "People underestimate what's behind that charm."

"Like they do with you," you said, studying his face. "Except you use that whole stoic, controlled thing instead of charm."

The observation was accurate in a way that still occasionally caught him off guard. You had a knack for seeing past his carefully constructed walls.

"Different approaches to the same goal," he acknowledged. "Miles learned to put people at ease while getting what he needs. I learned to plan for every scenario."

"You rarely ever talk about your military days," you said, curious but careful.

Lewis considered how much to share. His military career was something he rarely discussed, not out of secrecy but from habit of keeping parts of his life separate. But something about you had been breaking down those barriers.

"Special operations," he said finally. "Miles and I were in Afghanistan, sometimes places we officially weren't supposed to be."

"And unofficially?" you prompted, trying to sound casual but clearly interested.

"We handled situations when diplomacy failed," Lewis said simply. "Miles gathered intelligence from people. I planned how to use it."

"That explains a lot," you said thoughtfully. "About both of you."

Lewis raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"Miles is so good with people because that's how he survived. Reading what makes them tick." You took a sip from your mug before continuing. "And you plan for absolutely everything because that's how you kept people alive. Control as a survival thing."

The insight was uncomfortably accurate. Few people had ever connected those dots about his past and present.

"We were good at it," Lewis said simply. "Until we weren't."

"What happened?" you asked, your voice gentle.

Lewis rarely discussed Kabul. The mission that had ended his military career was a wound that had scarred over but never fully healed. Yet something about the moment made the story easier to tell.

"Operation went wrong in Kabul," he said evenly. "Bad intelligence. We were sent to extract a high-value target who was supposedly willing to give us information, but it was a setup."

You remained quiet, giving him space to continue.

"We lost three men in the first five minutes. Miles noticed something off about a supposedly 'friendly' checkpoint. His instincts saved who was left, but we still had to fight our way out across fourteen kilometers of hostile territory."

The memories were still vivid—the smell of dust and blood, the sound of gunfire echoing through narrow streets.

"Miles took a bullet to the shoulder. I took three in the leg," Lewis continued, his hand unconsciously moving to his thigh where the scars remained. "Medical discharge for both of us. The operation was classified, erased from the records, and we were told to find new careers."

"Told?" you repeated, catching the euphemism.

"We could either keep quiet and take a payout, or face charges for things that officially never happened," Lewis clarified. "The government needed deniability. We needed to disappear."

"So you built new lives," you concluded. "Miles with his charm, you with your planning. Same skills, different world."

"Yes," Lewis acknowledged. "Though in many ways, our current world is more honest about its brutality."

You moved closer, eliminating the gap between you on the couch. "Thank you," you said simply. "For telling me."

Lewis found himself taking your hand, a gesture that felt increasingly natural despite his usual aversion to casual contact. "Not a story I share often."

"I know," you replied, your fingers lacing with his. "That's why it matters that you did."

The implication hung between you—the growing trust, the boundaries falling, the strategic arrangement evolving into something neither of you had anticipated.

The moment was interrupted by Lewis's phone buzzing with a text from Miles: Heading over in 30. Found something in those financial trails. Also, your father-in-law invited me to Sophia's birthday dinner tomorrow. Should I be worried?

Lewis showed you the message, watching your expression shift to amused concern.

"Poor Miles," you laughed. "Sophia's going to eat him alive. She's been changing her birthday plans every day since we got here."

"How's she handling the scaled-down celebration?" Lewis asked, genuinely curious about your sister's adjustment to the security constraints.

Your expression softened with affection. "Better than I expected, honestly. Finding out there might be international crime lords after the family has actually toned down her dramatics. She's settled for a small gathering at the house instead of the club event she'd been planning forever."

"Eighteen is a big deal," Lewis observed. "Even with everything else going on."

"In the Ricci family, it's practically sacred," you confirmed. "The formal 'you're an adult now' moment, though Sophia's been acting like she's grown since she was about twelve. I'm glad we made it back for her birthday, even if the reasons are... complicated."

The mention of your return to New York brought Lewis's attention back to the tactical situation. Salvatore's demand had coincided with intelligence suggesting Suarez's surveillance of your movements had intensified, with the added complication of still not knowing exactly which member of Lewis's security team had been compromised.

"Any word on when your father plans to move on De Garza?" Lewis asked, shifting to operational concerns.

Your expression grew more serious. "Paolo says he's gathering final evidence. Wants everything in place first. You know how Papa works—big dramatic justice moment for maximum impact."

Lewis did indeed understand. Salvatore Ricci's approach to betrayal was almost ritualistic—carefully staged confrontations that served as warnings to anyone else considering similar disloyalty. Different from Lewis's own preference for quick, clinical elimination of threats, but effective in its own way.

"Your father has asked me to be there when it happens," Lewis noted, still uncertain about the implications. "Unusual for him to include outsiders in family business."

"You're not an outsider anymore," you said simply. "Not to him. Asking you to be part of De Garza's judgment is his way of acknowledging where you stand."

Lewis considered this. "As your husband."

"As family," you corrected. "Which in my world means more than just paperwork. He's bringing you into the inner circle."

The observation aligned with Lewis's own assessment, though hearing it directly brought the implications into sharper focus. Accepting Salvatore's invitation meant acknowledging certain traditional power dynamics that Lewis had always avoided—family loyalty above strategic advantage, ritual above efficiency, tradition above innovation.

Yet he recognized the necessity. New York was Ricci territory, and certain concessions to Salvatore's methods were both tactically sound and strategically advantageous for the longer-term alliance.

"I'll be there when he's ready," Lewis decided. "But I'm going to handle Suarez and our leak my own way."

"That's fair," you agreed. "Papa respects clear boundaries when you're upfront about them. It's when things are fuzzy that he can't deal."

The conversation shifted to more immediate concerns as you both prepared for Miles's arrival, but Lewis found his thoughts returning to the evolving dynamics of your relationship—both with him and within your family structure.

The woman who had entered his life as a strategic alliance was proving far more complex and compelling than any arrangement could have anticipated. The careful distance Lewis had maintained throughout his professional life was eroding in ways that both concerned and intrigued him. Each day brought new variables beyond his control, yet he found himself increasingly unwilling to restore the boundaries that would reinstate that control.

It was... unsettling. And strangely exhilarating.

Snow kept falling outside. The bare trees were now covered in white, shining under the security lights around the property. Winter had arrived in New York, bringing familiar patterns and possibility for new beginnings.

Miles arrived right on time, his natural charm making the tactical intelligence briefing feel almost casual as the three of you settled in the pool house's living area.

"Financial traces definitely lead back to Petrov's network," Miles confirmed, spreading documents across the coffee table. "He's using shell companies to pay someone in our security division. The pattern matches his usual methods. He's actually being less careful than normal, which suggests he wants us to know it's him."

"Aleksei Petrov doesn't get sloppy," Lewis noted, studying the transaction records carefully. "If we can see his involvement, it's because he wants us to."

"The question is why," you added, leaning forward to examine the papers. "What's the gain from letting us know he's working with Suarez?"

"Gets in our heads," Miles suggested. "Makes us divide our attention between finding the mole and watching for him."

Lewis nodded. "Classic diversion. Create multiple threats at once, stretch our resources, then exploit the weaknesses."

"Have we narrowed down who's selling us out?" you asked Miles while casually leaning against Lewis's shoulder.

"Down to three possibilities," Miles confirmed. "All had access to the compromised protocols, all showing weird money movements in the last six months."

"Names?" Lewis asked, mentally reviewing potential connections.

"Davis, Hernandez, and Cruz," Miles replied, sliding personnel files across the table. "All cleared when you hired them, all clean until recently, all positioned to access the systems when the breaches happened."

Lewis studied the files, calculating possibilities with practiced precision. "Cruz worked Lagos operations before London. Possible connection to Suarez's Nigerian distributors."

"Already checking that angle," Miles confirmed. "Hernandez has been hiding some health issues—big medical debts that magically disappeared three months ago."

"And Davis?" you prompted, picking up the third file.

"Former military intelligence, perfect record," Miles said with a hint of personal connection. "Served in our region, different unit. Honorable discharge after getting hurt. No obvious weak spots, but had access to everything that was compromised."

Lewis considered each possibility methodically. "We need proof before we move. Keep watching all three, but focus resources on Hernandez. Medical debts are the most obvious pressure point."

"Already on it," Miles assured him. "Naomi's team is tracking their communications in real time. We should know for sure within forty-eight hours."

The tactical discussion continued as plans formed and contingencies were established, the three of you working with the easy cooperation that came from shared understanding of both threats and objectives. By the time Miles departed back to the main house, a clear path forward had emerged despite the complications of operating from Ricci territory rather than Lewis's own secured locations.

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Later that night, as snow continued to fall outside, Lewis found himself drawn to the hot tub on the pool house's private deck. The steam rising from the heated water created an otherworldly effect against the darkened sky, the snow melting instantly as it touched the surface. A strange counterpoint of elements that somehow seemed appropriate to his current circumstances.

He had just settled into the water, the heat easing the persistent ache in his leg where old bullet wounds protested against the winter chill, when he heard the sliding door open behind him.

"Room for one more?" you asked, wrapped in a robe against the cold air.

Lewis felt that now-familiar tightening in his chest at the sight of you—hair in its natural curly state and in a low bun, face free of makeup, eyes reflecting the soft lighting from the pool house behind you. A version of yourself few ever saw.

"Always," he replied simply, watching as you slipped the robe from your shoulders to reveal a black barely-there bikini. The sight sent heat through him that had nothing to do with the water's temperature.

You slid into the water across from him, sighing as the warmth enveloped you. "I forgot how brutal New York winters can be," you said, sinking deeper until the water reached your shoulders. "Scotland was cold, but this hits different."

"Damp cold versus dry cold," Lewis observed. "Different physiological response."

Your laugh echoed in the night air. "Only you would analyze the scientific properties of being cold."

"Habit," Lewis acknowledged with a small smile. "Hard to turn off."

"I've noticed," you replied, but your tone was affectionate rather than critical. "Though you're getting better at it. The Lewis Hamilton I met in London would never be sitting in a hot tub talking about the weather."

The assessment was accurate. Since Scotland—since you—certain rigid patterns that had defined his existence for years had begun shifting in subtle but significant ways. The control that had been both his greatest strength and his most impenetrable barrier was... evolving.

"Different situations call for different approaches," he said simply.

You moved through the water toward him, settling beside him rather than maintaining the distance across the tub. "Is that what I am? A different situation?"

The question cut to the heart of what was developing between you—the strategic arrangement that had begun your relationship now transformed into something neither of you had named but both increasingly acknowledged in small actions and quiet moments.

"You're..." Lewis paused, searching for the right words. "More complicated than that."

"Complicated," you repeated with a smile. "Not exactly what every girl dreams of hearing."

"But accurate," Lewis replied, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your skin. "What started as strategic has become... personal in ways I hadn't expected."

"The great Lewis Hamilton, faced with something he didn't plan for," you teased, though something serious lingered in your eyes. "How do you even cope?"

"I'm adapting," he admitted, finding honesty easier in the steam-wrapped privacy of the moment. "And finding unexpected value in the surprise."

Your expression softened. "Value, huh? At least I've been upgraded from 'complicated' to 'valuable.'"

Lewis found himself smiling—another change you had gradually worked in him. "Always precise with language."

"Some precision is overrated," you suggested, moving closer until your thigh pressed against his beneath the water. "Sometimes it's better to... improvise."

The implication hung between you, heavy with meaning beyond the words themselves. The careful distance Lewis had maintained throughout his professional life—the control that had defined his reputation and ensured his survival—becoming increasingly difficult to justify when faced with the growing connection between you.

"Improvisation has its merits," he acknowledged, his hand finding yours beneath the water, fingers intertwining with natural ease.

You studied him for a moment, your perception cutting through his careful composure as it increasingly tended to do. "You've been pulling back since we got to New York."

The observation caught him off guard—another demonstration of how effectively you'd learned to read him despite his lifetime of practiced control.

"Not pulling back," Lewis clarified after a moment's thought. "Reevaluating. Being on your father's territory changes things."

"This isn't about my father," you said with quiet certainty. "This is about you being afraid of what's happening between us."

The directness of the assessment was uncomfortable precisely because it contained elements of truth Lewis wasn't yet prepared to fully examine. The connection developing between you had progressed far beyond strategic alliance into territory he had carefully avoided throughout his professional life—genuine attachment with its accompanying vulnerabilities.

"I wouldn't call it fear," he said finally. "Caution, maybe. In our world, personal attachment creates potential weaknesses."

"Or strengths," you countered, squeezing his hand beneath the water. "Have you considered that?"

The concept wasn't entirely foreign to Lewis's strategic thinking—alliances had always been part of his operational approach. But this was different. This was personal in ways that defied tactical calculation, emotional in dimensions he had deliberately avoided since leaving military service.

"It complicates things," he said, the admission costing him more than it should have.

"The best things usually do," you replied, your free hand coming up to rest against his cheek. "But that doesn't mean they're not worth it."

The touch of your palm against his face, warm from the heated water, broke something in Lewis's carefully maintained control. His arm slid around your waist, drawing you closer against him as his mouth found yours in a kiss that carried nothing of strategic calculation and everything of genuine desire.

You responded immediately, your body molding against his as the kiss deepened, your hands sliding into his braids as his tightened at your waist. The steam from the hot tub enveloped you both, creating a world apart from tactical considerations and operational necessities, a space where only this connection mattered.

When Lewis finally pulled back, both of you breathing harder, his forehead rested against yours. "We should go inside," he said, his voice rougher than usual. "It's getting cold."

The practical suggestion carried deeper implication, and you studied his face carefully. "Are you sure? You've been keeping some distance since we got here."

"Some battles aren't worth fighting," Lewis admitted, his hand coming up to touch your face with careful tenderness. "Even for me."

Your smile in response was warm and knowing. "Finally something we completely agree on."

Inside the pool house, the warmth enveloped you both as water droplets fell to the floor. Lewis reached for towels, handing one to you with practiced efficiency that couldn't quite mask the heat in his gaze. The memory of Scotland—of that night when his careful control had finally broken completely—flooded back unbidden, sending heat through you that had nothing to do with the hot tub.

"You're thinking about Scotland," Lewis observed, his perception as acute as ever despite his own evident distraction.

"How can you tell?" you asked, though the warmth in your cheeks probably answered the question.

Lewis's smile held dangerous promise. "Your expression. The same one you had that night in the library when I—"

"Yes," you interrupted, the heat intensifying at the reminder. "That night."

His eyes darkened slightly, pupils dilating in a way that suggested his mind had gone to the same memory. "You've been... restless since we arrived in New York."

"Restless is one word for it," you agreed, moving closer despite the towel still wrapped around your shoulders. "Sexually frustrated might be more accurate."

"Patience has never been your strong suit," Lewis replied, though his tone suggested he was reminding himself as much as you.

"Not a Ricci family trait," you countered, deliberately closing the distance between you until your body pressed against his. "Besides, if I remember correctly, you didn't mind my impatience in Scotland."

Lewis's hands settled at your waist, neither pulling you closer nor pushing you away—suspended in that careful control that both frustrated and fascinated you. "Scotland was different."

"Different how?" you challenged, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath damp skin. "We're still the same people."

"We're on your father's property," Lewis pointed out, though his voice had roughened slightly as your fingers traced patterns against his skin. "With his security team watching every move."

"We're in the pool house," you reminded him, leaning up to press a deliberate kiss to the side of his neck, just below his jaw where you'd learned he was particularly sensitive. "Which you've personally checked for cameras twice today."

A small sound escaped him—barely audible but deeply satisfying given his usual iron control. "You're being difficult again."

"Bratty, you mean?" you suggested with a smile against his skin, your teeth grazing gently along his collarbone. "We both know what happened last time I was bratty."

Lewis's hands tightened at your waist, a flash of something dangerous and thrilling passing through his eyes. "Is that what you're trying to provoke?"

"Obviously," you replied, holding his gaze with deliberate challenge as you stretched up to capture his mouth again, your teeth catching his lower lip in a gentle bite that drew another of those quiet sounds from him. "Is it working?"

"This is your father's house," Lewis said again, though the protest sounded weaker as your hands continued their exploration of his chest.

"We're in the pool house," you repeated, pressing kisses along his jaw between words. "A very private, very secure pool house."

Lewis's control was visibly fraying, his breathing less even, his hands less steady at your waist. "You're playing a dangerous game."

The warning, spoken in that low tone that never failed to send heat spiraling through you, nearly broke your own composure. "I did warn you," you murmured against his lips, "that I'd never take no for an answer."

"Such a brat," Lewis replied, something dark and promising entering his voice as his hand slid up to tangle in your hair, tugging gently but firmly to tilt your face up to his. "Always pushing limits."

"Only yours," you assured him, your breath catching at the deliberate control in his grip—firm enough to direct but never to hurt, exactly the way he'd held you in Scotland while his mouth...

The thought was interrupted as Lewis finally broke, his mouth claiming yours with an intensity that made your knees weak. Gone was the careful restraint, replaced by focused desire as he backed you slowly against the wall, his body pressing yours in a way that left no doubt about how effectively your provocation had worked.

"You win," he murmured against your lips, your towel falling open in the process. He paused only to glance down at the sight of you: bikini bottoms still clinging to your hips, top snug across your chest, the towel forgotten at your feet. His hand slid lower, tracing a path that promised to recreate exactly what had happened in Scotland. "For now."

Your smile was pure triumph before it dissolved into gasps as Lewis proceeded to demonstrate that his tactical precision extended to far more interesting applications than mere security operations.

"You look like sin," he said, his voice rough as his hands traced the bare lines of your waist. "And you act worse."

You grinned, breathless. "And yet, here you are."

Lewis slid one thigh between your legs, spreading them gently, pinning you without needing to say a word. You gasped when he shifted just slightly, the pressure of his thigh against your center making your knees wobble.

"You know what I should do?" he whispered, leaning in to kiss the curve of your neck. "I should leave you like this. Wet and wanting. Learning a lesson."

"Or," you offered, rolling your hips the tiniest bit, "you could just admit you need me just as bad."

He laughed once, low and dangerous, before pulling back just enough to look down. His palm pressed flat against your stomach, slowly sliding lower, dipping beneath the waistband of your bikini bottoms.

But he didn’t go far. Just let his fingers rest there. Warm. Possessive. Teasing.

"You're soaked." His voice was quiet now, like he was marveling at it. "All this for me?"

You couldn’t answer. Not properly. Not when he dipped his fingers inside, slow and deliberate, sliding them through your folds like he had all the time in the world.

"Keep your eyes on me," he said.

You did. You had to.

He pulled his fingers free after only a few strokes and held them up in front of your face—slick, glistening, undeniable.

"Open."

You obeyed.

He slid his fingers into your mouth, slow, watching every movement as you sucked them clean.

"Good girl," he praised, his voice dropping an octave. "You're going to behave now?"

You nodded.

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Words."

"Yes," you whispered, dazed and aching. "Yes, Lewis."

A wicked smile curved his lips as he stepped even closer, his hard length pressing against your belly, straining through his swim trunks.

"Eyes on me," Lewis said, voice low but razor-sharp, dragging your gaze back to his as his fingers hooked the ties of your bikini bottoms and tugged them free. The air hit your skin, cool in contrast to the burn in his stare.

Fingers brushing deliberately slow over your thighs, the dip of your waist, before he undid the knot at your back, letting your top fall between you. His hands never left your body—just shifted upward, thumbs grazing the underside of your breasts before his mouth replaced them, warm and commanding.

He licked, kissed, and sucked at your nipples until they peaked under his tongue, until your breath turned to soft whimpers. Then lower. His mouth traced a path down your stomach, slow and wet, leaving glistening trails along your brown skin that made your legs tremble.

But just as you thought he’d keep going, give you what your body was aching for, Lewis stopped.

He rose to his full height, the heat between you stretched taut. You pouted without thinking, your lips pressing together in visible disappointment.

He chuckled darkly, rubbing a thumb across your lower lip as he stepped back, nodding toward the floor. "Let’s put that smart mouth to use."

Heat rushed through you. You knelt slowly, spreading the towel out beneath you for cushion, eyes never leaving his.

"Good girl," he murmured, stroking your cheek with a knuckle. Then came the next instruction, smooth and clear: "Untie my shorts."

Your fingers worked the drawstring, slow, trembling slightly with anticipation as you tugged his trunks down just enough. Your breath caught at the sight of him—hard, thick, heavy in your hand.

"Open your mouth for me."

You obeyed instantly, lips parting.

But instead of giving you what you craved, he hovered the tip just above your lips, skimming it across with maddening control. He cooed at the sight of you, eyes dark with amusement and arousal. "Look how pretty you are like this," he said, low and fond and wrecking you. "Lips all soft and parted, waiting so sweet."

Your thighs pressed together for relief, and still he didn’t relent. Just held himself there, letting the heat between you build.

You were dying for him. But at the same time, you were savoring every second—every inch of dominance he poured into this moment, the power he held even while baring himself.

"Still so impatient," he murmured, brushing the head of his cock gently along your bottom lip. "And so desperate. You don’t like when I make you wait, do you?"

You hummed softly, the sound vibrating with want and frustration.

And then, finally, he allowed you a taste.

You wrapped your lips around him, slow and reverent, letting him slide in just enough to savor the weight and warmth of him. A groan slipped from his throat, low and strained, his hand coming to rest gently at the back of your head.

"That’s it," Lewis breathed. "Nice and slow. Let me feel that pretty mouth."

He rocked forward, guiding the pace. His voice didn’t falter—he kept talking, kept praising, kept controlling. "You look so good like this," he whispered, hips shifting as he started to thrust gently, deeply. "Moaning like that… fuck, you feel perfect."

You moaned again, overwhelmed in the best way—his rhythm, his voice, his hands in your hair.

And all the while, his control never slipped. You were completely undone, and he hadn’t even fucked you yet.

Your moans vibrated around him, sending a deep shudder through his body, but Lewis didn’t lose focus. His grip in your hair tightened—not harsh, just firm enough to remind you who was guiding this.

"That’s it," he murmured. "Just like that, baby."

You hollowed your cheeks, taking more of him, reveling in the way he breathed out a curse under his breath, jaw tense. The slow grind of his hips made your eyes flutter shut.

"Don’t close your eyes."

The command was soft but sharp. You blinked up at him immediately.

He looked down at you, eyes dark with something primal, but also proud. "There she is," he said. "You wanted to act grown, didn’t you?"

You nodded as best as you could with him in your mouth, a muffled sound of agreement rising in your throat. You were soaking wet, your thighs slick and clenched with nothing but air and need between them.

Lewis exhaled sharply, then slowly pulled out of your mouth, a line of spit connecting you to him. You pouted again, lips swollen and shiny, chest rising and falling.

And he just smiled. That smug, devastating smile.

"Fuck," he whispered, thumb swiping the corner of your mouth. "You look wrecked already."

Your hand instinctively reached for him, but he caught your wrist, shaking his head. "Uh uh," he warned, pulling you gently to your feet. "You don’t get to decide what happens next."

You continued to kneel before him, naked, glistening, panting—and he didn’t touch you. Didn’t kiss you. Just let his gaze roam down your body, slow and hungry.

"You’re dying for it," he said softly, brushing his fingers along your breasts. "But you still haven’t earned it."

The protest caught in your throat, lips parting, but he leaned in close—breath brushing your ear as he spoke.

"I want you to remember this ache," he said, voice like silk wrapped around steel. "I want it so deep in your bones you dream about it."

You whimpered, thighs pressing together again out of instinct.

"And when I finally fuck you,” Lewis whispered, hands grazing your neck, "you’ll know you earned every second of it."

You were trembling. Every nerve lit up. And yet all he did was kiss your shoulder, slow and deliberate, before pulling you up, grabbing the towel and wrapping it back around your body like you hadn’t just had his dick down your throat.

"C’mon,” he said, eyes twinkling with that infuriating, perfect control. "Let’s get ready for bed." He smirked when he saw your mouth agape in surprise. "Don’t look at me like that, babygirl. You wanted to play. I’m just teaching you the rules."

***********************************************

The next day, Salvatore Ricci was ready to move against De Garza, and Lewis's presence was expected at the dock warehouse in Newark where the confrontation would take place.

"Traditional location," you explained as Lewis prepared for the meeting, checking his weapon with practiced efficiency. "Papa believes certain things should be handled on the docks. Old-school symbolism."

Lewis understood without requiring elaboration. The docks represented the historical foundations of the Ricci family's power—the entry point of their influence in America, the place where Salvatore's father had first established the connections that would eventually build their empire.

"Will you be there?" he asked, though he already suspected the answer.

You shook your head. "Family business, but women aren't included in this particular tradition. Mama will take Sophia and Maria shopping for birthday preparations while I join them as cover, and the men will handle the... business."

The gender division was another old-world approach that Lewis had deliberately avoided in his own organization, but he recognized the deep roots such traditions held in families like the Riccis.

"I'll tell you what happens," he promised.

Your expression carried concern despite your understanding of what was happening. "This is important to Papa—having you there. It's his way of saying you're family, not just an ally."

"I get what it means," Lewis assured you, his hand coming up to brush your cheek in what had become a habitual gesture between you. "And I'll respect the tradition."

The drive to Newark was conducted in silence, Lewis seated beside Salvatore in the back of a bulletproof SUV while Paolo drove and two additional security vehicles flanked them front and back. Tradition dictated certain appearances be maintained, but practical security ensured those appearances didn't create unnecessary risks.

Salvatore himself was exactly as Lewis remembered from their initial meetings—immaculately dressed in a tailored suit despite the grim business ahead, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly groomed, his hands adorned with the heavy gold rings that signified his position. A man who had built an empire through both brutal efficiency and meticulous attention to the appearances of power.

"My daughter seems... content," Salvatore observed after miles of silence, his eyes fixed on the road ahead rather than on Lewis. "Despite the circumstances that brought her home."

"She's remarkably adaptable," Lewis replied, recognizing both the observation and the implied question beneath it.

Salvatore nodded slightly. "A family trait. Though she has always been the most... independent of my children. Never easily directed, even as a young girl."

The assessment carried both pride and frustration—a father's complex relationship with a daughter whose capabilities matched his own while existing within the constraints of traditional family structures.

"Independence is a valuable quality to have," Lewis noted, careful to acknowledge the trait without directly challenging the traditional values Salvatore clearly held.

"Perhaps," Salvatore conceded, finally turning to study Lewis directly. "But she seems to have found focus under your guidance."

The suggestion that Lewis had somehow "directed" your independence would have amused you greatly, Lewis suspected. But he recognized the framework within which Salvatore understood the world—patriarchal structures where the appearance of male guidance was necessary regardless of practical reality.

"We've developed an effective partnership," Lewis said diplomatically, the truth of the statement extending far beyond the strategic alliance that had initially defined your marriage.

Something in Salvatore's expression suggested he understood more than Lewis had explicitly stated. "Partnership," he repeated, a hint of something like approval in his voice. "An interesting choice of words for a marriage."

"An accurate one," Lewis replied simply.

Salvatore studied him for a moment longer before nodding once, as if confirming a private assessment. "Tonight you will stand with me as De Garza faces the consequences of betrayal," he said, shifting back to the immediate business at hand. "This is a family matter, not a business arrangement. You understand the difference?"

"I do," Lewis confirmed, recognizing the significance of the distinction in Salvatore's world. Family matters were handled with ritual and tradition, while business arrangements followed more practical considerations of profit and loss.

"Good," Salvatore said with finality. "De Garza will understand too, before the end."

The warehouse appeared on the horizon—an unassuming structure among dozens like it along the dockyard, its exterior giving no indication of the scene prepared within. Three additional vehicles were already parked outside, Salvatore's most trusted captains having arrived earlier to secure the location and prepare for their boss's arrival.

Inside, the space had been arranged with deliberate theatrical effect—a single chair positioned under bright lights in the center of the open floor, surrounded by shadows where Salvatore's men stood in silent attention. De Garza himself was already secured to the chair, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled, evidence of rough handling visible in the bruises marking his face.

Lewis followed Salvatore into the space, positioning himself slightly behind the older man's right shoulder—the traditional place for a trusted lieutenant in such proceedings. Paolo moved to the left, completing the tableau of authority facing the betrayer.

De Garza's eyes widened slightly at Lewis's presence, clearly not having anticipated the British operator's inclusion in what would traditionally be internal family business. The recognition seemed to intensify his growing desperation as Salvatore approached with unhurried deliberation.

"Antonio," Salvatore said, his voice carrying that particular quality of disappointed authority that transcended mere anger. "Twenty years in my service. Twenty years of trust, of opportunity, of family connection. And yet here we are."

De Garza's expression shifted between fear and defiance, the calculation of a man seeking any possible avenue of escape. "Salvatore, there's been a misunderstanding. Whatever you've been told—"

"Silence," Salvatore interrupted, the single word carrying absolute command. "The time for your words has passed. Now is the time for you to listen."

The room fell into complete stillness as Salvatore circled De Garza's chair, his movements carrying the weight of ritual performance rather than mere interrogation. This was justice as theatre, designed to communicate messages far beyond the immediate punishment of a single betrayer.

"I took you into my home," Salvatore continued, his voice deceptively conversational despite the underlying steel. "Gave you a place at my table. Trusted you with my business, my family, my legacy. Treated you like a son when your own father was too weak to raise you."

De Garza's eyes darted around the room, seeking any ally or escape route, finding neither as Salvatore's men watched impassively from the shadows.

"You sat beside me at my daughter's confirmation. Stood as godfather to my nephew. Represented my interests in meetings where only family would normally be present." Salvatore's words fell like carefully placed blows, each one highlighting the depth of the betrayal. "And yet you sold information to Suarez. Endangered my daughter. Compromised operations that feed the families of a hundred loyal men."

"It wasn't like that," De Garza protested, desperation evident in his voice. "Suarez had leverage. He threatened my sister's family in Miami. I had no choice!"

Salvatore stopped his circling, standing directly before De Garza with cold assessment. "There is always choice, Antonio. You could have come to me. I would have protected your sister, punished Suarez for his presumption, preserved your honor."

The truth of this was evident even to Lewis, who understood enough of Salvatore's code to recognize that family loyalty would have superseded business considerations had De Garza sought help rather than betraying trust.

"Instead," Salvatore continued, "you chose cowardice over loyalty. Betrayal over family. And now you face the consequences of that choice."

De Garza's composure finally broke entirely, fear overtaking calculation as the full reality of his situation became undeniable. "Please, Salvatore," he begged, tears streaming down his face. "For the sake of our history, for the memory of me taking care of your father—"

"Do not speak of my father," Salvatore interrupted, cold fury replacing the disappointed authority in his voice. "His name does not belong in the mouth of a traitor. He taught me that loyalty to family is sacred above all things. That betrayal of that sacred trust demands the highest price."

Salvatore turned slightly, his eyes finding Lewis with deliberate significance. "Family protects its own," he said, the statement carrying layers of meaning beyond its surface simplicity. "And punishes those who threaten what is protected."

With smooth precision, Salvatore withdrew a pistol from inside his jacket—an older model, beautifully maintained, clearly carrying symbolic as well as practical significance. "This gun belonged to my father," he explained, his voice carrying that conversational quality that made the moment more chilling than any theatrical rage could have achieved. "He used it to establish our place in this country when others would have denied us opportunity. A tradition of protection that has sustained our family for generations."

De Garza sobbed openly now, all pretense of dignity abandoned as Salvatore approached and pressed the weapon into Lewis's hand with deliberate ceremony.

"Now my son will take care of the trash," Salvatore said, the designation carrying unmistakable significance to everyone present. Not son-in-law, not ally, not partner—but son, with all the familial recognition such terminology carried in Salvatore's world.

Lewis accepted the weapon with appropriate gravity, understanding both the practical task assigned and the symbolic acceptance being offered. This was not merely execution of a betrayer but formal acknowledgment of his place within the Ricci family structure—a position earned through marriage to Salvatore's daughter but solidified through demonstrated loyalty to family interests.

De Garza's pleas increased in desperate intensity as Lewis stepped forward, the weight of the pistol in his hand significant in more ways than one. The man's eyes were wide with terror, tears streaming down his face as he begged for mercy that tradition dictated would not be granted.

"Please, please, I have children, a family—I'll disappear, you'll never hear from me again—"

Lewis maintained his composure, his expression betraying nothing of his thoughts as he raised the pistol with steady precision. This moment was about more than simple elimination of a threat—it was ritual acceptance of a place within a structure that operated on traditions far older than his own organization. Strategic respect for Salvatore's methods while in Salvatore's territory.

"Antonio De Garza," Lewis said, his voice calm despite the gravity of the moment, "your betrayal endangered my wife and her family. That alone would warrant this response."

His finger settled on the trigger, eyes locked with De Garza's in a final moment of acknowledgment—not personal hatred but necessary conclusion to actions that had violated the most fundamental trust.

The shot echoed through the warehouse, followed by absolute silence as De Garza's body slumped in the chair, the bullet having entered precisely through the center of his forehead. No hesitation, no unnecessary drama, just the efficient finality that characterized Lewis's approach to all operations.

Lewis lowered the weapon, turning to offer it back to Salvatore with appropriate respect. The older man studied him for a moment before shaking his head slightly.

"Keep it," Salvatore said, his voice carrying genuine approval. "It's a classic. A family heirloom that should stay with family."

The significance of the gesture wasn't lost on anyone present—the symbolic transfer of both weapon and trust from father to accepted son-in-law marking a transformation in Lewis's status within the Ricci hierarchy.

"Thank you, Mr. Ricci," Lewis replied, acknowledging both the gift and its deeper meaning with appropriate gravity.

Salvatore's expression shifted into something almost warm, a smile briefly transforming his usually severe features. "Call me Sal," he said, placing a hand on Lewis's shoulder. "You're family now."

The drive back to the estate was conducted in different silence than the journey out—not tense anticipation but satisfied completion, the ritual of justice having been performed according to tradition with appropriate participation from all parties. Lewis found himself reflecting on the evolution of his position since first entering the orbit of the Ricci family, from strategic ally to accepted member with all the obligations and protections such status entailed.

It was not a transformation he had anticipated when arranging the marriage that had brought him into Salvatore's world. Yet here he was, a British operator with his own empire and methods, now carrying a symbolic family weapon and acknowledged as son rather than merely business partner.

You were waiting in the pool house when he returned, your expression a mixture of concern and curiosity as Lewis entered. You'd clearly been watching for his arrival, positioned near the window with clear view of the driveway, though you'd made no move to approach the main house where Salvatore would be returning to his regular routines as if nothing unusual had occurred.

"So it's done?" you asked, your voice quiet as you studied his face.

"Yes," Lewis confirmed, removing his jacket and carefully placing Salvatore's pistol on the side table. Your eyes widened at the sight of the weapon, immediately recognizing it.

"He gave you Nonno's gun," you said, surprise evident in your voice. "I've never seen him let anyone even touch it."

"A gesture of acceptance," Lewis acknowledged, moving toward you with natural grace. "Though I think you knew something like this might happen."

Your smile was knowing but warm. "Papa doesn't do anything without thinking ten steps ahead, especially with his symbols and traditions. Asking you to be there for De Garza wasn't just about punishing a rat."

"Family politics," Lewis noted with a hint of dry humor. "Another kind of strategic game."

"Look at you, starting to get how the Riccis operate," you repliedl. "How are you feeling about all this?"

The question was careful but genuine—concern for how he was processing both the execution and his deeper integration into your family's world. Lewis took a moment before responding, wanting to be honest rather than just saying what might sound right.

"It needed to be done," he said finally. "De Garza had to go, and doing it your father's way made sense there. Not how I'd normally handle it, but it worked. Though we're definitely beyond what either of us thought we were signing up for with this marriage."

Something in your expression softened. "Beyond what we planned, sure," you agreed, fingers lacing with his. "But in a bad way?"

The question had a vulnerability beneath its casual tone—wondering if he was truly willing to accept not just you but your entire complicated family with all its traditions and expectations. Lewis heard the real question behind your words, and found himself wanting to answer honestly.

"Not bad," he assured you, his free hand coming up to touch your face in a gesture that had become natural since Scotland. "Just...different territory than I'm used to navigating."

You laughed, warm and genuine. "Only you could make joining a family sound like adjusting a battle plan."

"Old habits," Lewis acknowledged with a hint of a smile that appeared more often around you lately. "But I'm learning to be flexible."

"Flexible," you repeated, your eyes sparkling with amusement. "Wow, such sweet talk. I'm swooning."

"I'm being precise," Lewis replied, the teasing lighter than it would have been weeks ago. "It's another—"

"—of your things," you finished, grinning. "Yeah, I've got your user manual pretty much memorized by now."

This easy back-and-forth still surprised Lewis sometimes—how comfortable you'd become with each other since Scotland. How he'd gradually let down walls he'd maintained for years and actually found himself enjoying it.

"Your sister's birthday dinner is tomorrow," Lewis said, changing the subject but keeping hold of your hand. "Your dad made it clear everyone's expected to show."

"Sophia would literally murder anyone who tried to skip," you confirmed with a nod. "Especially since she had to cancel her big club plans because of all this security stuff. The family dinner is the centerpiece of her entire existence. Mama's been on the phone with caterers all day."

"Miles seems pretty worried about his invitation," Lewis observed, remembering how his friend had looked almost panicked when mentioning it.

You laughed with obvious delight. "Oh, he should be! Sophia's been grilling Papa about him non-stop since he got here—like, very specific questions about his background, his military service, where he trained. She's always been obsessed with spy stories and now there's a real former operative under our roof."

"Miles has handled worse," Lewis said, though he didn't sound convinced. Even in the short time they'd been here, Lewis had witnessed Sophia Ricci's legendary determination when she wanted information.

"Has he though?" you said with a mischievous grin. "We're talking about my baby sister on her 18th birthday with a new mystery to solve. Papa might protect his business associates from international criminals, but I'm not sure even he can protect Miles from Sophia when she decides she wants answers. She's like a bloodhound once she gets curious about something—she won't stop until she knows every detail of his entire career."

You both shifted to planning for tomorrow's party, but Lewis found himself struck by how strange his life had become—here he was discussing birthday parties instead of security protocols and operational risks. Sometimes the contrast with his former existence was so stark it gave him mental whiplash.

But there was something valuable in this new reality—what had started as a strategic marriage was turning into something real. You were becoming a true partner, not just an alliance on paper. And somehow, he was becoming part of something bigger than his own carefully built empire.

Family, it turned out, was just one more area where you were changing him in ways neither of you could have predicted when you signed those marriage papers. And for the first time in his life, Lewis was okay with not being in complete control of where things were heading—as long as you were by his side.

The morning after De Garza's execution dawned bright and crisp, the snow from the previous days having given way to clear skies that cast brilliant sunlight across the white-blanketed grounds of the Ricci estate. Lewis had risen early as was his habit, completing a security check of the pool house perimeter before you'd even stirred from sleep.

By the time you both made your way to the main house for what you'd described as "traditional birthday breakfast," Lewis had already received three updates from Naomi confirming her arrival with the requested item, a detailed analysis of Hernandez's communications from the previous week, and notification that Miles had survived the night without further journalistic interrogation from Sophia.

Nothing in Lewis's extensive tactical training or operational experience, however, had prepared him for the scene that greeted you both when you entered the Ricci family's private dining room.

Salvatore Ricci—the man who less than twelve hours ago had orchestrated a rat's execution with the cold precision of a general—sat at the head of the table wearing dark silk pajamas and a fluffy pink feather boa draped around his neck. The family patriarch's severe expression remained largely intact, creating a surreal contrast with the frivolous accessory.

Flanking him were Maria and Gabriella, both similarly attired in matching pink silk pajamas and identical feather boas. An elaborate spread that resembled a high-end tea party more than breakfast covered the table—tiered trays of pastries, decorative bowls of fruit, champagne flutes filled with what appeared to be mimosas, and multiple silver tea services.

At the opposite end from Salvatore sat Francesca, elegant even in casual morning attire, a subtle pink scarf around her neck her only concession to the theme. Her Jamaican-American heritage was evident in her warm complexion and the slight lilt that still colored her speech despite decades in New York. She maintained an air of amused tolerance for the proceedings, clearly the steadying influence that prevented the celebration from descending into complete chaos.

And in the center of it all was Sophia, perched in her chair with the confident entitlement of someone who knew this entire production was in her honor. She wore a glittering plastic tiara with "Birthday Girl" spelled out in rhinestones, her pajamas matching her sisters' but with additional embellishments that marked her as the day's honoree.

Lewis paused almost imperceptibly at the threshold, his expression betraying nothing of his internal recalibration. You squeezed his hand briefly, leaning close to whisper, "Papa's a hard-ass every other day of the year, but birthdays make him soft. It's the one day we can get away with almost anything. Just go with it."

Before Lewis could respond, Sophia spotted you both and squealed with delight. "Finally! Everyone's here!" She bounced in her seat with unrestrained enthusiasm. "Birthday breakfast can officially begin!"

"You're late," Salvatore observed, though without the edge that typically accompanied his critiques. The feather boa somehow failed to diminish his authority.

"Sorry, Papa," you replied, moving to kiss his cheek before taking your seat. "We were up late reviewing security protocols for today."

The excuse wasn't entirely untrue—Lewis had indeed spent part of the night analyzing potential vulnerabilities in the estate's defenses given the influx of extended family expected for the evening's formal dinner. The fact that this analysis had been conducted between more intimate activities was a detail best left unmentioned.

Lewis took the seat beside you with practiced composure, nodding respectfully to Salvatore. "Good morning, sir."

"Sal," your father corrected, the single syllable carrying the weight of yesterday's shared experience at the warehouse. "And good morning. Coffee?"

Before Lewis could respond, Gabriella leaned forward with a mischievous grin. "Oh my God, what happened to your neck?" she asked, her question directed at you with deliberate innocence.

You instinctively reached up, your fingers brushing against what you suddenly remembered were several distinctive marks just below your collar—evidence of last night's activities that your hastily selected sweater had failed to conceal.

Maria feigned shock. "Are those bruises? Should we be concerned?"

Heat flooded your face as Lewis maintained his usual impassive expression beside you, though you caught the slight tightening of his jaw that suggested he was not as unaffected as he appeared.

"Girls," Francesca admonished lightly, her dark hands elegant as she gestured dismissively, eyes dancing with amusement despite her maternal tone. "Leave your sister alone. It's Sophia's day."

"Oh, I don't mind sharing the spotlight for this," Sophia chimed in, her curiosity now fully focused on the situation. "I have so many questions."

Salvatore cleared his throat, the sound immediately commanding attention despite the absurdity of the feather boa. "Leave your brother alone," he said, his gaze shifting meaningfully to Lewis.

The designation—brother rather than brother-in-law—hung in the air for a moment before Maria seized on it with delighted precision.

"Ooh, he's our brother now," she said, her teasing directed at both you and Lewis. "Papa has spoken."

"I always wanted a brother," Gabriella added with exaggerated wistfulness. "Someone to intimidate my boyfriends and teach me how to play poker."

"I'm quite capable of both those things," you pointed out dryly.

"Yes, but now we have a real brother," Maria countered, raising her mimosa in Lewis's direction. "Welcome to the family chaos, brother dear."

Miles, who had been silently observing this exchange from his position near the window—clearly having been invited but choosing to maintain a safe distance from the family dynamics—caught Lewis's eye and leaned over to murmur, "This could be your future if you two have a daughter someday. Pink feather boas and tiaras."

Lewis nearly choked on the espresso that had appeared before him, recovered with his usual efficiency, and replied in an equally low voice, "Let's focus on eliminating Suarez and our mole before considering further familial expansions."

Miles grinned. "Tactical priorities. Got it."

Meanwhile, Sophia had shifted her attention fully to Lewis, her expression transitioning to the purposeful look you'd warned him about. "Well, brother," she said, emphasizing the title with clear enjoyment, "did you get me a present?"

"Sophia!" Francesca and Salvatore exclaimed in unison, parental disapproval momentarily uniting them despite their distinctly different approaches to family management.

Lewis, however, appeared entirely unruffled by the direct question. "Of course," he replied with calm assurance. "I was planning to present it at dinner, as is traditional."

Sophia's eyes narrowed slightly, assessing this new obstacle with the strategic acumen she'd inherited from her father. "I want it now," she declared, a statement rather than a request.

You caught Lewis's eye and silently mouthed, "I warned you," your expression a mixture of amusement and resignation.

Lewis studied Sophia for a moment, recognizing in her the same determined focus he'd observed in you on numerous occasions—the Ricci trait of absolute certainty that one's desires were reasonable and should be accommodated.

"It isn't properly wrapped," he said finally, a token resistance that both of you knew was merely procedural.

"I don't care," Sophia responded immediately, her attention now entirely fixed on this new objective.

Lewis nodded once, rising from his seat with the smooth precision that characterized all his movements. "I'll get it. Naomi delivered it earlier this morning."

As he left the dining room, Maria turned to you with undisguised curiosity. "What did he get her? And when did he have time to shop with everything going on?"

"He has people for that," you replied with a small smile, not bothering to hide your pride in Lewis's efficiency. "And I'm not telling. You'll see in a minute."

Lewis returned shortly, carrying a distinctive orange Hermès bag that prompted an immediate reaction from all three sisters.

"Shut the fuck up! No way!" Sophia squealed, leaping from her chair with all pretense of sophisticated adulthood abandoned. She bounced up and down, hands making grabby motions toward the package, her reaction pure, unfiltered eighteen-year-old excitement.

Lewis, ever in control, held the bag slightly away from her reach. "Sit down, please," he instructed calmly. "It's heavy."

The effect was immediate and somewhat comical—Sophia dropped back into her seat with surprising obedience, hands now folded in her lap in a parody of patience that barely contained her vibrating excitement.

Lewis placed the box carefully in front of her, stepping back with the cautious respect of someone who understood he was witnessing a sacred ritual. Sophia attacked the packaging with focused intensity, tearing through the careful wrapping to reveal the distinctive shape of a Birkin bag in a deep, rich green that complemented her coloring perfectly.

Her scream of delight could likely be heard beyond the estate's iron gates where your father's men patrolled. "OH MY GOD!" She lifted the bag reverently, turning it to examine every angle. "IT’S PERFECT! JUST THE ONE I WANTED!!"

"Your sister mentioned this was the one you picked out," Lewis replied with characteristic understatement that failed to acknowledge the weeks of constant texts and threats from Sophia.

"Holy shit," Maria breathed, leaning forward for a better look. "That's not just any Birkin. That's the limited forest green with gold hardware. There were only fifty made."

Gabriella whistled low. "Brother has excellent taste," she observed, her teasing tone now tempered with genuine respect.

"He does," you confirmed, squeezing Lewis's hand when he returned to his seat beside you.

Even Salvatore appeared impressed, though he masked it with a gruff, "I hope you didn't spend too much. She's only eighteen."

"It's an investment piece," Lewis replied smoothly, meeting your father's gaze with calm assurance. "And a suitable acknowledgment of a significant milestone."

Sophia finally tore her attention from the bag long enough to launch herself around the table and practically tackle Lewis with a hug that clearly caught him off-guard. His momentary stiffness gave way to an awkward but genuine pat on her back, his expression reflecting the unique challenge of navigating physical affection from someone who wasn't you.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Sophia exclaimed, squeezing him once more before releasing him. "You're officially my favorite brother now."

"I'm your only brother," Lewis pointed out with unexpected dry humor.

"Even better," Sophia replied instantly. "No competition."

The breakfast continued with the chaotic energy that seemed to characterize Ricci family gatherings, conversation flowing freely between serious topics like security arrangements for the incoming relatives and frivolous debates about whether Sophia's new Birkin required its own Instagram account.

Lewis observed it all with his usual analytical attention, cataloging the family dynamics and adjusting his understanding of the Ricci hierarchy with each new interaction. You watched him watching them, noting how he was gradually relaxing into the boisterous atmosphere despite its stark contrast to his own carefully controlled existence.

At one point, Francesca appeared at his side while you were engaged in heated debate with Maria about something entirely inconsequential. Your mother leaned down slightly, her voice pitched for Lewis's ears alone.

"Thank you for yesterday," she said simply, her gaze steady and knowing. "Salvatore told me what happened. What you did."

Lewis met her eyes with quiet acknowledgment. "It was necessary."

"Yes," she agreed, surprising him with her directness. "But more importantly, it was loyal. That matters more to this family than you might yet understand."

Before Lewis could respond, she straightened and moved on, rejoining the general conversation with seamless grace. But the brief exchange added another layer to Lewis's evolving understanding of the complex family structure he had married into—a system where violence and tenderness, business and family, tradition and adaptation all existed in precarious balance.

You caught his eye across the pink-festooned table, raising an eyebrow in silent question. Lewis gave you the smallest of smiles in response—a private communication that needed no words. In this moment, surreal as it was with feather boas and birthday tiaras, Lewis Hamilton was finding his place in a world far different from the one he had built for himself, yet somehow increasingly comfortable despite its chaos.

*********************************************

By seven o'clock, the Ricci estate had transformed from morning's intimate family breakfast into a full-scale celebration. The main house glowed with strategically placed lighting, security personnel blended seamlessly with catering staff, and the steady arrival of black SUVs and luxury cars announced the gathering of extended family from across the tri-state area.

You'd changed into a deep burgundy gown that complemented the gold cross at your throat, while Lewis had opted for an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that somehow made him look both approachable and dangerous—a combination you'd noticed worked particularly well with your family. The unspoken message: respect me, but don't fear me unless you give me reason to.

"Ready for the real interrogation?" you asked Lewis as you both stood at the window of the pool house, watching another vehicle pass through the security checkpoint. "Morning was just the warm-up. Wait until my great-aunt Lucia gets hold of you."

"I've survived professional interrogation techniques," Lewis replied, though there was the faintest hint of apprehension in his usually confident tone. "How bad could an elderly Italian woman be?"

You laughed, the sound genuine with just an edge of warning. "Nonna Lucia made two FBI agents cry during a raid in '92. And they weren't even asking her questions—she just decided they looked too smug."

Lewis raised an eyebrow, the subtle gesture speaking volumes. "Noted."

The walk to the main house felt like crossing a demilitarized zone—the calm before inevitable conflict. It was strange how much had changed since you'd made this same walk months ago, back when your marriage was still fresh and purely strategic. Back when Lewis had been Mr. Hamilton to you, a business partner rather than the man whose bed you now shared willingly.

You'd barely made it through the door when the first ambush occurred.

"There she is! With the Englishman!" Your cousin Vinny's voice boomed across the foyer. At thirty, he still possessed the subtlety of a freight train and the confidence of a man who'd never faced consequences for his volume level.

He approached with the characteristic Ricci swagger—designer suit, too much cologne, and a smile that had charmed countless women before they recognized the red flags. Behind him trailed your other cousin Gia and Vinny’s younger brother Carmine, all wearing expressions of barely contained curiosity.

"Vinny," you greeted with a measured smile, accepting his enthusiastic kiss on each cheek. "Gia, Carmine. You all remember Lewis."

"How could we forget?" Gia said, her eyes moving over Lewis with unabashed appraisal. At twenty-six, she'd already been married and divorced twice, each time emerging with better real estate and jewelry. "The mysterious Englishman your father arranged for you. Though you two seem much more... comfortable together than at the wedding."

Lewis stepped forward, extending his hand with the perfect balance of respect and self-assurance. "Good to see you all again. Happy to be here for Sophia's celebration."

What happened next surprised you. After the polite but distant greeting you'd have expected from him, Lewis's hand settled possessively at the small of your back, drawing you subtly closer to his side.

Carmine, just twenty and already working his way up in your father's business, shook Lewis's hand with a grip that was trying too hard to assert dominance. "Yeah, you too, 'bout time my cousin isn't flying solo to these things."

The subtle dig wasn't lost on Lewis, whose expression remained pleasantly neutral even as his fingers pressed slightly firmer against your back. The casual intimacy of his touch and the deliberate "us" in his response registered immediately with your cousins, whose glances at each other spoke volumes. The arranged marriage they'd all whispered about obviously had evolved into something else entirely.

"Well, you're practically one of us now," Vinny declared, slapping Lewis on the shoulder with fraternal presumption. "Especially after that thing with De Garza. Word travels."

Before Lewis could respond to this blatant fishing for details, a commanding voice cut through the foyer.

"Is that my niece finally coming to greet me? Or do I need to wait all night while you gossip in the hallway?"

Nonna Lucia sat enthroned in the main sitting room, a tiny but formidable figure draped in black silk and gold jewelry that announced both mourning and prosperity—the perfect combination for a woman who had been the family matriarch since your grandmother's passing five years ago. At eighty-seven, her mind remained razor-sharp, her tongue sharper still.

"Nonna," you said warmly, crossing to kiss her papery cheek. "You look beautiful."

"Flatterer," she dismissed, though pleased. Her dark eyes, sunken but alert, shifted immediately to Lewis. "And you. The husband who keeps my fiore away from her family."

"Not by choice, Mrs. Ricci," Lewis replied smoothly, approaching to take her extended hand. Instead of simply shaking it, he bent slightly to brush his lips against her knuckles—a gesture of old-world respect that clearly caught her off guard in the best possible way.

"Hmph," she sniffed, though the ghost of a smile tugged at her mouth. "At least he has manners. Better than the others Salvatore was considering. That Sicilian—" she made the sign of the cross dramatically, "—may the saints preserve us from such men. Like looking at a shark with a bad tailor."

You bit back a frown, remembering your own similar assessment when your father had first presented Lorenzo Bianchi as a potential husband.

"Come, sit," Nonna commanded, patting the sofa beside her. "I want to look at you both properly. Together. The light in here is better."

You recognized the examination for what it was—not just curiosity about Lewis, but assessment of your relationship. Nonna Lucia had negotiated three of her own daughters' arranged marriages, and her approval could shift family opinion more effectively than even your father's declarations.

As you sat beside Lewis, he surprised you by casually taking your hand, his thumb stroking absently across your knuckles in a gesture too natural to be calculated. The simple touch shouldn't have affected you after everything you'd shared, yet warmth bloomed in your chest at the public claim it staked.

"Now," Nonna declared, leaning forward to study you both like specimens. "You are good together. The coloring—his darkness, your warm tones. Very complementary. Your children will be beautiful."

"Nonna!" you protested, heat rising to your cheeks despite your usual composure. "We're not—it's too soon to—"

"Nonsense," she waved dismissively. "I was married at twenty, first baby at twenty-one. And that was an arranged match too! Your great-uncle and I didn't even meet until our wedding day. At least you two had time to get acquainted first."

Lewis, rather than appearing uncomfortable with this direct discussion of your potential reproductive timeline, seemed almost amused. "We're taking things one step at a time, Mrs. Ricci. But I appreciate your vote of confidence in our genetics."

His response—polite but gently deflecting—surprised you. Even more surprising was his arm sliding around your shoulders, drawing you slightly closer in a gesture that felt both protective and possessive.

Nonna nodded approvingly. "Smart man. Patience is important. But not too much patience, eh? I'm not getting younger, and great-great-nieces and nephews would be nice before I meet the Madonna."

"You'll outlive us all, Nonna," you deflected with practiced ease, though your mind was spinning at Lewis's unexpected public display of affection. This was more than your arrangement had ever called for, more than necessary for appearances with family who already knew yours was a strategic match.

Before Nonna could continue her reproductive interrogation, your cousins returned with drinks and renewed determination to extract information.

"So," Gia began, settling across from you with feline grace, "Sophia mentioned you two were staying in the pool house instead of the main guest suite. Very... private."

The implication hung in the air, reinforced by her knowing smirk. You'd forgotten how quickly information traveled through the family network, and how little remained truly private.

"The pool house offers certain security advantages," Lewis replied smoothly, his arm still comfortable around your shoulders. "Separate perimeter, controlled access points."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Carmine snickered, earning an elbow from Vinny that did nothing to diminish his grin. "Security advantages?"

"Some of us prefer discretion, Carmine," you replied coolly, though the marks still visible on your neck somewhat undermined your dignity.

"Speaking of discretion," Vinny leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "word is you and the Englishman here have gotten a lot... closer lately."

You stiffened slightly, wondering exactly how much detail had spread through the family grapevine. Lewis's hand squeezed your shoulder gently, a subtle reminder of his presence.

"The best arrangements evolve naturally," Lewis offered, his tone giving away nothing while confirming everything.

The deliberate ambiguity in his response made Gia laugh delightedly. "Oh, I bet it has. Remember when you were telling us how much you dreaded this whole arranged marriage thing? Funny how things change."

"Life is full of surprises," you replied with sweet venom, years of practice at these family dynamics keeping your composure intact despite your rising embarrassment.

Nonna Lucia cackled, clearly enjoying the exchange. "Let them be, vultures. When you all find someone who looks at you the way this one looks at her, then you can talk—arranged or not."

The observation startled you, your eyes darting to Lewis to find him already watching you with an expression that made your breath catch—something intense and genuine that transcended any performance for your family's benefit. Something that hadn't been there in those early days when your marriage was still just a business transaction between families.

Gia, undeterred by Nonna's scolding, slid closer on the pretext of refilling your wine glass. "So," she whispered, just loud enough for you to hear, "is it true what they say about Englishmen? All that proper exterior hiding something much more... interesting? Because those marks on your neck tell quite a story. Not bad for an arranged match."

You opened your mouth to deliver what would undoubtedly have been a scathing response when Lewis suddenly rose, extending his hand to you with impeccable timing.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked, nodding toward the adjacent room where music had begun playing and several couples already moved across the floor.

The rescue was so perfectly executed that you immediately placed your hand in his, allowing him to pull you smoothly to your feet.

"If you'll excuse us," Lewis said to your family with that subtle charm that somehow managed to be both polite and dismissive. "I promised my wife at least one dance before her sister monopolizes the evening."

"Go, go," Nonna waved you off with obvious approval. "Young people should dance. Builds passion. Even in arranged marriages."

Lewis led you toward the music, his hand warm against yours, leaving your cousins to their speculation and Nonna to her evident satisfaction with your match. The moment you were out of earshot, you exhaled with relief.

"Thanks for the save," you said as his arm circled your waist, pulling you into a proper dance hold that felt surprisingly natural. "My family is..."

"Exactly what I expected," Lewis finished, that hint of a smile you'd been seeing more often since Scotland appearing at the corner of his mouth. "Bold, protective, and determined to know everything about us."

"They never quit," you agreed, finding your rhythm with him easily as you moved across the floor. The way your bodies synced felt nothing like the stiff, formal dance you'd shared at your wedding reception, when you'd been practically strangers bound by contracts and family alliances. "But you handled them better than I thought you would."

Lewis guided you through a smooth turn, his movements precise but relaxed. "Necessary adaptation."

"Is that all this is?" you asked, suddenly very aware of his hand pressed firmly against your lower back, how naturally your body followed his lead. "Just adapting to the situation? Part of our deal?"

Something flickered across his face – a moment of unguarded emotion that vanished almost instantly, but not before you caught it. "Not just that," he said quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Some arrangements turn into something more than what was on paper."

The weight of his words hung between you, full of implications neither of you had openly discussed despite how much had changed since Scotland. This wasn't the strategic partnership you'd agreed to anymore, or even just convenient physical comfort. It had become something neither of you had anticipated when you'd signed those marriage documents in your father's study.

"My cousins think we actually fell for each other," you said, trying to sound casual despite the way your heart picked up speed.

"Your cousins might be smarter than they look," Lewis replied, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. "Though that's not saying much."

Before you could process what felt dangerously close to a confession, the music changed and suddenly Sophia was beside you, looking radiant in her birthday dress with the Birkin bag still proudly displayed on her arm despite how out of place it was with evening wear.

"There you are!" she exclaimed, practically bouncing with excitement. "Papa's ready for the toast! I need you both front and center right now. Family photo time!"

Lewis kept his hand at your back as Sophia dragged you both toward the main dining room where your father stood waiting with champagne. Whatever vulnerable moment you'd been sharing had passed, but something had definitively shifted between you – another step away from your arranged beginning toward something neither of you had planned.

As everyone gathered around Sophia, Lewis stayed close beside you, his presence no longer that of the outsider who'd walked into your father's study as the fourth suitor. He'd somehow found his place within the chaos of Ricci family dynamics, marked most clearly by the pistol that now resided in your pool house. When your father's fingers closed around his champagne glass, Lewis's fingers laced with yours, the simple touch communicating what neither of you had found the words to say.

Salvatore's commanding presence drew immediate silence from the gathered family members and associates. He stood at the head of the room, elegant in his tailored suit, looking every inch the powerful man who had built an empire through calculated decisions – including the strategic marriage that had brought Lewis into your life.

"Twenty-five years ago," Salvatore began, his voice effortlessly carrying through the space, "I welcomed my first daughter into this world. Eighteen years ago today, I welcomed my youngest. Each arrival changed our family in ways I could not have anticipated. Each daughter brought different gifts, different challenges, different joys."

His gaze moved to Sophia, genuine paternal affection softening his usually commanding presence. "Sophia, from your first breath, you have been a force of nature. Determined, passionate, impossible to ignore or direct against your will." Appreciative laughter rippled through the guests who knew your sister well. "You remind me daily of your grandmother—a woman who knew her own mind and refused to be anything less than exactly who she was meant to be."

Sophia beamed with pleasure at the comparison to your beloved grandmother, whose strength had helped build the Ricci empire alongside your grandfather.

"Eighteen years marks traditional entry to adulthood," Salvatore continued, his tone shifting to acknowledge the milestone's significance. "Though in truth, you have carried yourself with the confidence and clarity of purpose of someone far beyond your years for as long as I can remember."

You felt Lewis's silent attention beside you, watching your father with the careful assessment that was second nature to him. But there was something else there too – a growing understanding of the complex family he'd married into. Not just the business side he'd initially negotiated with, but the deep bonds and traditions that sustained it across generations.

"To Sophia Ricci," your father concluded, raising his glass higher. "May your determination serve you well, may your passion bring you joy, and may you always know that behind you stands a family that will support and protect you through whatever path you choose."

"To Sophia," everyone echoed, raising their glasses in unified celebration.

As tradition dictated, Sophia rose to acknowledge the toast, her expression momentarily serious despite her usual vivacity. "Thank you, Papa," she said, her voice carrying the emotion the moment deserved. "And thank you all for being here tonight, especially given the... adjusted circumstances."

The delicate reference to the security concerns that had necessitated scaling back her original plans was handled with surprising maturity. For all her youth and apparent impulsiveness, Sophia demonstrated the family's innate understanding of appropriate public presentation.

"I've been looking forward to this birthday since I was little," Sophia continued, her natural confidence evident as she addressed the gathering. "Not because of parties or presents, though those are excellent bonuses—" appreciative laughter rippled through the room "—but because in our family, eighteen means being truly included. Being trusted with the full reality of who we are and what we do."

Her gaze found your father briefly, something passing between them that transcended words. "I've waited a long time to be fully part of this family's legacy. To contribute, not just benefit. To protect, not just be protected."

You felt Lewis's hand tighten slightly around yours, a subtle recognition of the weight her words carried in your world. Unlike many outsiders who married into families like yours, he understood completely what Sophia was really saying – she was officially being welcomed into the family business, trusted with secrets and responsibilities that had been shielded from her until now.

"So tonight," Sophia continued with a bright smile that somewhat masked the significance of her words, "I not only celebrate turning eighteen, but also officially joining the family business. Thank you all for being here to mark this milestone with me."

She raised her glass in a gesture that mirrored your father's. "To family—by blood, by marriage, and by choice. Our greatest strength and most sacred responsibility."

The formal dinner transitioned to more relaxed celebration as tables were cleared to create space for dancing, a small orchestra positioned at one end of the room beginning a selection of music that bridged generational preferences. Salvatore led Francesca to the floor for the traditional first dance, their movements together demonstrating decades of partnership both in dancing and in life.

"They still love each other," you remarked, watching your parents with quiet admiration. "Through everything, all the complications of this life—they've never lost that connection."

Lewis studied the couple with analytical interest, noting the easy synchronicity of their movements, the way your father's usually commanding presence softened in your mother's company. "It's rare," he acknowledged. "Especially in our world."

"But not impossible," you added, your fingers still intertwined with his.

The comment hung between you, weighted with implications neither of you had fully addressed despite the evolving reality of your relationship. Other couples joined your parents, the formal space filling with movement and conversation as the celebration shifted into its next phase. As you scanned the room, you caught sight of Sophia cornering Miles by the bar, notepad in hand and expression intensely focused as she fired questions at him.

"Should we help him?" Lewis asked, genuine concern for his friend evident beneath his usual composure.

"Absolutely not," you replied with sisterly mischief. "She's been dying to talk to someone with his background. He's the perfect subject with that mysterious military past. Besides, it's good for him."

Lewis raised an eyebrow. "Good for him?"

"Miles relies too much on that charm of his. Sophia won't fall for it – she'll just keep pressing until she gets real answers. He needs the practice dealing with someone who isn't immediately charmed by that whole routine he does."

Your assessment of both Miles and your sister drew another of those rare almost-smiles from Lewis. "Tactical weakness identified," he observed dryly.

You laughed, the sound drawing glances from nearby family members who were still adjusting to seeing you so at ease with the man they'd originally viewed as just another of your father's business arrangements.

As the evening progressed, you found yourselves circulating through the gathering, accepting congratulations from family members who'd heard about Lewis's recent "promotion" to family status after the De Garza situation. The news had traveled quickly through the Ricci network – Salvatore giving Lewis his father's gun, calling him "son" rather than son-in-law, bringing him into inner family business that went beyond the original alliance parameters.

At one point, your father appeared at Lewis's side, two glasses of his special reserve whiskey in hand. You excused yourself to let them speak privately, but watched from across the room as they stood in quiet conversation, their body language telling its own story. Your father no longer maintained the careful distance of a business partner; there was respect there, and a growing trust that went beyond strategic necessity.

"They look good together, don't they?" your mother said, appearing beside you with her usual quiet grace. "Your father needed someone like him – young enough to adapt to changing times but experienced enough to understand our world."

"Is that why he chose Lewis from the others?" you asked, curious about your mother's perspective on the arrangement that had changed your life.

She smiled knowingly. "Partly. But I think he also saw something in the way Lewis looked at you during that first meeting. Something different from how the others looked at you."

"Different how?"

"The others saw what they wanted from you. Lewis saw who you actually were." Her dark eyes, so like your own, studied your face carefully. "And now you see him too, not just the arrangement."

"Lewis! It's your turn to get in the photos!" she demanded, waving imperiously. "Family picture time, and you're not escaping!"

You watch him tense slightly – these domestic rituals still pushed him out of his comfort zone despite how far he'd come since your wedding. But to your surprise, he nodded and moved toward the gathering without hesitation, his hand finding yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

As your sister organized everyone into position, you watched Lewis navigate this new territory with the same precision he brought to everything. The family photographer directed you all into position, with Sophia centered as the birthday girl and the rest of the family arranged around her. Lewis stood beside you, tall and composed, no longer the outsider cautiously maintaining strategic distance. When his arm slid around your waist, the gesture felt both protective and possessive in a way that had nothing to do with your original agreement.

"Perfect!" the photographer declared after several shots. "Beautiful family portrait."

Family. The word hung in the air between you and Lewis as the group dispersed back to the celebration. Not business partners, not strategic allies, but family – with all the complicated obligations and unexpected connections that entailed.

"You're officially one of us now," you said lightly as you moved away from the photography setup. "No escape possible. The Riccis have claimed you."

That ghost of a smile appeared again, transforming his severe features momentarily. "I'm discovering there are worse fates," he replied, his eyes holding yours with unexpected warmth. "Some arrangements have unexpected benefits."

As the party continued around you, that simple statement settled somewhere deep in your chest. What had begun as your father's strategic decision, a business arrangement between families, had evolved into something neither of you had anticipated. Something that felt increasingly like a choice rather than an obligation.

..........tbd

[fernpetals]

Fate: First Meeting

Masterlist

Yandere Constantine x Reader

Warning: Angst, confusing timeline and events, mentions of pregnancy and birth, mentions of newborn child, mentions of haunting and implied supernatural elements.

Credit to the original owner of the GIF

Unedited Piece

Constantine does believe in fate. Begrudgingly, he has to admit its existence and power, just as he has to acknowledge and bow to the higher realms. 

He is just a human after all. He has something special in him, but that’s it. In this vast universe, it hardly matters. He floats on like a speck of dust—disillusioned among the oblivious souls.

So when he sees you, he knows it is fate. He has seen you in his dreams for years before actually meeting you. 

You first appeared in a fever dream when he had just crossed twenty-five. It was only a night-long, but it felt like years. He dreamt of a life with you. He dreamt that he met you, went out with you, and married you. He dreamt of a baby girl, too, the face blurred, but he felt so happy and complete that it brought tears of joy to his eyes. 

He dreamt that he returned to his home with you and his baby girl—the nursery he had been working on was ready, waiting to welcome the new member of the family. In his dream, he watched you walk into the nursery while he busied himself with putting away the stuff he had been carrying.

And then, he noticed the clock. Something just did not feel right. It was odd, Constantine simply couldn���t pinpoint it until he noticed that it was running backwards. The minute hand had shifted from eleven to ten, not twelve. He could not take his eyes off. The clock kept ticking backwards, and then, the pendulum rang. And he woke up.

When Constantine woke up that morning, he was disoriented, confused, scared, even, but as the realisation of what happened dawned upon him, the devastation that followed had followed him through his years.

It took away pieces that he knew he would never find again, and he was convinced he would never love again the way he loved you, someone who didn’t even exist.

But as it turns out, you do exist. As you stand in front of him– not as a dream, a memory or a wisp of imagination, but in flash and blood– after you open the door to invite him and his friend in.

They had received an urgent call regarding a haunting in an age-old farmhouse, built in the seventeenth century.

“Is that the clock?” Father Hennesey asks, eyeing a looming vintage clock. 

Constantine says nothing, still trying to get a grip on things. Still reeling from his initial shock of seeing you.

You, who do not seem to recognise him.

Your house is nothing like in the dream. It is a farmhouse standing on the border of a sprawling woodland, miles away from the nearest town but only a short distance from the nearest village that seems to be wrapped in a similar isolation as this place.

He eyes the clock, clearly heavy and old—very old but functioning perfectly. The oscillating pendulum fills him with a cold dread that melts into an intense intrigue the next moment, when he recovers.

It is the same clock that broke him from his dream.

****

[nomie-11]

Chapter 18 - The Scrutiny of a Sorrengail

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Flying for short distances, for Genevieve, is enjoyable. The feeling of the wind in her hair and the bite of the air is a comforting feeling. Flight maneuvers—if she's flying alone or with Xaden—are even more enjoyable. 

The dips and dives that come with combat formations are a rush of adrenaline that never fails to send Genevieve into a state of exhilaration. The weightlessness, the sharp turns, and the roar of the wind in her ears make her feel alive in ways that nothing else can. It’s the closest she comes to forgetting everything. 

But flying for long distances is a brutal reminder for everything going wrong for Genevieve. 

The six hour flight for their prize for winning the Squad Battles might just kill her. The weeklong tour of the most out of the way outpost ever known to man would be fine, but the flight there and back would be the death of her. 

“I’m pretty sure I’m dying.” Nadine bends over, bracing her hands on her knees. 

“I feel that.” Violet says, every vertebra in her spine screaming as she stretches, and that hands that were freezing from flight only moments ago begin to sweat in her gloves. 

Genevieve cracks her neck, trying to shake off the tension that’s settled into her bones from the extended flight. Her body aches in ways that are almost too familiar—the bite of cold in her extremities, the stiffness in her muscles, the gnawing exhaustion that feels like it’s leeching away her strength. The cold settles deep, despite being early april, reminding her of the toll her last burnout took, leaving her vulnerable in ways she hates to admit. 

“You’re not dying,” she says to Nadine, though her voice lacks the usual bite. “But if you were, I’d say it’s a fitting prize for us winning Squad Battle.” 

Nadine shoots her a half-hearted glare before turning to stretch out her back. Violet isn’t faring much better, Liam holds her hands as if he can channel his own body warmth into hers. 

Gods, Genevieve groans. I miss Xaden. 

“Welcome, cadets,” the commander says with a professional smile, interrupting Genevieve’s brooding. He folds his arms across the chest of his lightweight leathers, and he has the gaunt, tired rider look that any rider gets when they’ve been stationed at the border for too long. “I’m sure you’d all like to get settled and into something a little more appropriate for the climate. Then we’ll show you around Montserrat.” 

Genevieve huffs, shifting her weight from one sore leg to another. It definitely is hotter here than it is at Basgiath, but she’s sure she’s not the only one still reeling from the cold winds above. 

Rhiannon inhales sharply from beside her, her gaze sweeping over the mountains. 

“You all right?” Violet asks, and Genevieve nods, her eyes asking Rhiannon the same question. 

She nods as well. “Later.” 

Later arrives in twelve minutes, where a still slightly cold Genevieve and a two very hot Rhiannon and Violet sit in the triple-occupancy barrack rooms. They’re sparsely furnished, only three beds, three wardrobes, and a single desk sit in the room. 

Rhiannon is quiet the entire time they make their way through the bathing chamber, washing off the ride, and alarmingly silent as they dress in their summer leathers. It may only be April in Montserrat, but it feels like June. 

“Are you going to tell us what’s up?” Genevieve asks, stowing her pack beneath the bed before making sure all of her daggers are safely sheathed at her hips and thighs. 

Rhiannon’s hands tremble with what looks like nervous energy as she straps her swords to her back. “Do you know where we are?” 

Violet mentally brings up a map. “We’re about two hundred miles from the coast–”

“My village is less than an hour away on foot.” Her eyes flicker between Genevieve and Violet with an unspoken plea,the emotion swirling in their dark-brown depths clogs Violet’s throat, and Genevieve’s eyes are solid with resolve. 

“Ok, so we’re going.” Genevieve said firmly, her eyes meeting Violet’s with a strong gaze. 

Violet blinks once, surprise evident on her features.

“What?” Genevieve asks, her own surprise at the soft disagreement now painted on her features. “You’re telling me that if you had a happy family, safe and waiting for you, an hour away, you wouldn’t go?” 

“Ok,” She says, quickly agreeing. “Don’t tell anyone,” she whispers, even though it's just the three of them in the tiny room. “We have six days to figure it out and we will.” 

“Let’s go, Second Squad!” Dain’s voice booms through the door, and the girls filter out, joining the others and Major Quade as they get a tour of the outpost. 

The fortress itself is just four massive walls, filled with barracks and various chambers, turrets on each corner and a large, arched entrance that boasts a spiked portcullis that looks like it might fall at any second. On one end of the courtyard, there’s a stable with a blacksmith and armory for their company of infantry, and on the other is the dining hall. 

“As you can see,” Major Quade tells them as they stand in the middle of the muddy courtyard. “We’re built for siege. In the event of an attack, we can feed and house everyone for an adequate amount of time.” 

Ridoc mouths something at Violet that Genevieve misses, but she doesn’t miss the death glare Dain shoots at Violet afterwards. Awkward…

“As one of the eastern outposts, we have a full twelve riders stationed here. Three are out on patrol now, three wait, standing by in case they’re needed, and the other six are in various stages of rest,” Quade continues. The distinct roar of a dragon echoes off the stone walls. “That should be one of our patrols returning now,” Quade says, smiling like he wants the cadets to believe him, but can’t find the energy. 

“So,” he says, clapping his hands together. “We’ll get you riders fed and put to bed, and then we’ll work on who you’ll be shadowing while you’re here.” 

“Will we get to participate in any active scenarios?” Heaton asks, practically vibrating with excitement. 

“Absolutely not!” Devera snaps. 

“If you see combat, then I’ve failed as this being the safest place on the border to send you,” Quade answers. “But you get bonus points for enthusiasm. Third-year?” Heaton nods. 

Quade turns slightly, and smiles at the three indistinct figures in rider black as they walk under the portcullis. “There they are now. Why don’t you three come and meet—”

“Violet?” 

Genevieve freezes, she knows that voice. 

In an instant, Violet is no longer beside her, but running full force at the familiar girl, who sweeps Violet up and hugs her like she’s never before. 

“Mira,” Violet whispers, burying her face against her shoulder, and her eyes burn as she rests her hand on top of Violet’s braid as if committing every detail of her sister into her mind. 

Mira pulls back just long enough to look Violet over, as if she’s checking for damage. “You’re all right.” She nods, her teeth digging into her bottom lip. “You’re all right, aren’t you?”

Violet nods, and it’s true, she is alright. But just because she’s alive doesn’t mean she’s the same person Mira had left at the base of the turret. They both know it. 

“Yeah,” she whispers, pulling back Violet into another hug. “You’re all right, Violet. You’re all right.”

“Are you?” Violet says, jerking back to study her. “Gods, Mira.” 

“I’m fine,” she promises, then grins. “You didn’t die!”

Irrational, giddy laughter bubbles up from Violet. “I didn’t die, you’re not an only child!”

“Sorrengails are weird,” Genevieve states, drawing a bemused look from Liam who stands next to her, arms crossed over his chest. 

“You have no idea,” Dain says in response, his lips curved into a small smile that makes Genevieve want to hurl. 

“Shut up, Aetos!” Mira barks, throwing her arm over Violet’s shoulder. “Catch me up on everything, Violet.” 

—--------------------------------------

It’s early evening two days later, just after dinner, when Violet, Genevieve and Rhiannon sneak out of their first-story window and drop to the ground. Mira’s out on patrol, and Genevieve knows this is their only chance. 

“We’re on our way.” Genevieve calls out to Tairn, giving him a warning. 

“Don’t get caught,” He warns in response. 

“That’s the plan.” the three girls sneak along the battlement wall, turning the corner toward the field—

Genevieve runs so hard right into Mira that she bounces backwards. 

“Shit!” Rhiannon hisses as she catches her. 

“Of course you would be sneaking out,” Mira says, her voice pointed at Genevieve. “When I saw you with Violet I knew you were a bad influence on her,” then she turned to Violet. “You should be staying away from people like her. You know better.”

“Me?” Genevieve asked, her jaw nearly on the ground. “You’re the one who stuck an innocent nineteen year old girl into a dungeon! You were the last face I saw!”

Mira’s face freezes, her eyes narrowing as she stares at Genevieve. “I had no choice. You were a prisoner of war, Genevieve.” 

Genevieve’s jaw tightens, anger flaring in her chest, but Violet steps between them, her voice low. “Mira, this isn’t the time. We’re just—”

“Just sneaking out,” Mira cuts her off, eyes still locked on genevieve. “And dragging my sister along for whatever you’re planning. What is it, revenge? A mission? Are you planning to kill Violet while you’re off in the villages?” 

“If I wanted to kill your sister I would have done it ages ago,” Genevieve bites, her pulse quickening at the accusation, her jaw clenching so hard it aches. “I don’t know if you heard, but I basically taught your sister how to fight and I protected her in situations I could’ve stayed far away from. But because I don’t care about family names, unlike you, I saw Violet for who she was past being a Sorrengail and protected her.”

Mira’s eyes flash, her lips pressing into a tight line. “Don’t you dare act like you’re doing her some favor. You’re still the daughter of a traitor. You’ve always had your own motives.” 

“I was a kid!” Genevieve snaps, fists clenched at her sides, her entire body trembling with the effort to hold back as vines creep up her legs. “I didn’t choose this! I didn’t choose any of it!”

The tension between them is thick, and Violet shifts uneasily, her eyes darting between the two women as if trying to diffuse the situation. 

“Mira, please,” Violet pleads, stepping closer to her sister. “We’re not doing anything dangerous. Rhiannon just wants to check on her family. That’s all.” 

Mira doesn’t seem convinced. Her gaze hardens as she turns back to Genevieve, her voice as cold as the wind that had chilled Genevieve to the bone earlier. “And what do you get out of it, Hale? You always have an angle.” 

Genevieve’s heart pounds, fury and frustration swirling inside of her. She meets Mira’s gaze without flinching. “Maybe I just want to help someone. Ever think of that? You don’t know me.” 

There’s a flicker in Mira’s eyes, something that could be doubt, or maybe regret. It’s brief, and then she hardens again. 

“I don’t trust you,” Mira says flatly. 

“And I don’t care,” Genevieve shoots back. “I’m not doing this to prove anything to you, Sorrengail. I’m doing it for Rhiannon, and for her family. Because some of us still care about things like that.” 

“I’m coming with you.” 

“Fuck me!” Genevieve exclaimed to Tairn, exasperatedly. 

“Isn’t that what the wingleader is for?” He chuffs in response, laughing at her. 

Mira cast a sidewards glare at Genevieve. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll make you regret it for the rest of your natural life.” 

“She means it,” Violet whispers. 

“I believe it,” Rhiannon responds. 

“You’re here two days and already breaking the rules,” Mira mutters. “Come this way, it’s quicker to cut down this path.” 

An hour later, Mira and Violet are stretched out on the cushioned benches that flank both sides of Rhiannon’s sister Reagan’s house, watching Rhiannon rock her nephew by the fireplace, lost in conversation with her sister as he parents and brother-in-law look on from the nearby couch. 

Genevieve sits alone on a chair, her body tense with what looks like… awkwardness. Violet has to stifle a laugh, and Mira knows that watching them reunite is worth everything. 

Genevieve feels the warmth of the fire on her skin, but it does little to thaw the icy knot in her chest. Watching Rhiannon cradle her nephew stirs a deep, aching void she hasn’t allowed herself to dwell on in years. The joy on Rhiannon’s face, the way her sister embraces her with such ease and love—it reminds Genevieve of everything she’s lost, everything she can never get back. 

Even Violet is sitting with her sister, laughing about something with her as if they were never separated. Genevieve is alone. 

Her mind drifts to her mother. She could almost hear her voice, soft and comforting as she tucked Genevieve into bed on the cold winter nights in the mountains of Aretia. She used to hum lullabies when she thought Genevieve was asleep, a melody she’d give anything to hear again. A melody she hasn’t heard since the rebellion ended in flames, and her mother disappeared into the darkness. 

And Quinn. Bright, caring Quinn who used to hold little Genevieve’s hand as they ran through the fields of flowers and forests, laughing as the wind whipped through their hair. She had said nothing would happen to her, that she would always be there. But she was gone, her death haunting Genevieve’s mind like a plague. 

Her grandmother, though… everywhere Genevieve turned she saw her watching. The woman who raised her when her mother left and her father died. The one who knew every story, every song. Genevieve remembers the clear feeling of her strong hands braiding her hair, or rubbing in burn cream when her pale skin suffered the bite of the sun. But the sight of her face was slowly but surely disappearing from Genevieve's mind. 

A lump rises in her throat, her chest tightening as she blinks back tears. More than anything, she wishes that she could be back with them again. Back in her grandma’s manor, feeling her mother’s embrace, hearing her sister’s laugh, smelling her grandmother’s floral perfume. But that world is gone, buried beneath rubble and blood. 

Suddenly, Rhiannon is right in front of her. 

“Do you want to hold him?” 

Genevieve looks up, startled. Rhiannon is standing there with her nephew nestled securely in her arms, his tiny face soft and peaceful. For a moment, Genevieve’s heart stutters in her chest, the innocent warmth radiating from the baby pulling at the carefully constructed walls she built over the years. She opens her mouth, but no words come out. 

“I don’t know if I should,” She finally manages, her voice hoarse, almost unfamiliar. 

Rhiannon’s eyes soften, as if she can see right through Genevieve’s hesitance. “It’s okay. You’re in control now, you won’t break him.” She steps closer, her tone gentle but insistent.

Genevieve swallows hard, feeling everything crumble beneath her as her hands hover awkwardly in front of her before she relents, nodding slightly. 

Rhiannon carefully transfers the sleeping baby into Genevieve’s arms, guiding her hands into position. The little bundle is light but warm, and the weight of him against her chest feels foreign, almost unreal. Genevieve stares down at the tiny face, the soft rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps, fully trusting that Genevieve will do no harm. 

Everything fades. All she can see is the fragile life cradled in her arms. Something shifts inside her, a flicker of something long buried, something she thought was gone. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Train’s voice booms in a familiar manner. “I’m too young to be a grandfather.” 

Genevieve snorts, glancing at the baby in her arms and then shaking her head ever so slightly at Tairn’s comment. “Always so dramatic. I don’t even want kids,” she responds, but the humor fades quickly, replaced by the sudden rush of emotions that holding the child has stirred in her. 

“Genevieve?” Rhiannon’s voice brings her back to the present. “Are you alright?” 

Genevieve forces a nod, though her throat feels tight. She’s not alright. This moment—the warmth, the innocence, the tenderness—it’s all too much and not enough at the same time. She misses her family, but above all, being apart from Xaden for three days now has started to be painful over her dragon’s bond. 

She can feel all the tension Tairn is carrying, being apart from Sgaeyl has been hard on him. She misses Xaden, too. 

Rhiannon notices the shift in Genevieve’s expression, the fleeting vulnerability she rarely allows herself to show. “You can hand him back if you want,” Rhiannon offers, her voice understanding. 

Geneiveve quickly nods, handing the baby back to Rhiannon. 

Her thoughts drift again—back to Xaden. The bond between the two of them had been growing steadily stronger with every intimate moment they shared, every word they exchanged, and the bond between their dragons was infinitely stronger. Being apart from him now, even for just a few days, was harder than she anticipated. 

“I need some air,” She muttered, quickly exciting the house past Mira and Violet, who looked on in confusion. 

The cool night air hits Genevieve’s face as she steps outside, leaning heavily against the rough wooden door. The warmth of the fireplace and the emotions swirling inside had been too much. She couldn’t breathe in there. 

A shiver runs down her spine. Scanning the dimly lit fields beyond the house, her heart skips a beat. Of course he’s come to find her. There, in the shadows by the edge of the tree line, stands a figure. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair nearly falling into his eyes. Xaden. 

He strides forward, closing the space between them in long, purposeful steps. His presence is magnetic, pulling her closer even before he reaches her. When he does, the air around them seems to shift, growing heavier with the unsaid. 

“Xaden,” she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper. The knot in her chest has loosened just from the sight of him. 

He doesn’t speak, not at first. Instead, he reaches out, his hand slipping around her wrist, pulling her toward him in one smooth motion until she’s pressed against him, her head resting against his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath her ear, a grounding rhythm, that calms the raging storm inside her. 

“I missed you,” he finally says, his voice low and rough, as if the separation had been just as hard on him. She can’t find the words to explain how much she missed him, how the past few days without him had left her feeling raw and unsteady. So, instead of speaking, she leans up and kisses him, soft at first, then deeper, pouring all the emotions she couldn’t voice into the kiss. 

He responds immediately, his hands tightening around her waist, pulling her even closer. The intensity of their bond flares between them, the connection humming with the energy of their dragons, of the unspoken feelings they both kept buried. 

When they finally part, both breathing heavily, Xaden’s eyes darken. “Three days. We couldn’t make three days,” he mutters, his voice laced with frustration and need. 

Genevieve sighs faintly, her fingers brushing his jaw. “No,” she agrees, her voice soft. “We can’t.”

They stand there for a moment longer, wrapped up in each other, the world fading into the background. 

“Mira’s going to be so pissed,” Genevieve says softly, her voice lighter than before now that she’s back in his arms. 

“I don’t care.” 

Neither does she, as she pulls him down again, kissing him deeper and deeper against the darkness. 

—----------------------------------------

Genevieve was right. Mira was not happy to find her little sister’s best friend, who happened to be the daughter of a disgraced traitor, kissing the son of the man who killed her older brother. Nor was she happy to have him on base with her, but that was not Genevieve’s issue. 

“So all we do is wait for something to happen?” Ridoc asks as the group all sit around a table that runs the length of the briefing room. He’s leaning back in his chair and putting his boots on the end of the table, and Genevieve can practically see the fire in Mira’s eyes as she watches. 

“Yes,” Mira says from the head of the table, then flicks her wrist and sends Ridoc flying backwards. “And keep your feet off the table.” 

One of the Montserrat riders laughs, changing the markers on the large map that consumes the only stone wall in the curved, windowed room. They all sit in this room, in the highest turret in the outpost, offering unmatched views of the Esben mountain range around them. 

Second Squad plus Xaden was split into two groups for the day. Rhiannon, Sawyer, Cianna, Nadine, and Heaton spent the morning with Devera in this room, studying the previous battles at the outpost, and are now out on patrol. 

Dain, Ridoc, Liam, Quinn, Emery, Violet, and Genevieve spent the morning on a two-hour flight around the surrounding area, with one extra tagalong—Xaden. He’s been the worst kind of distraction since arriving last night. Dain won’t stop glaring, Mira keeps watch on his every move. 

All Genevieve wants is one moment of peace with this man before he’s ripped away from her again. But Mira doesn’t trust her yet, so every second she spends awake, Mira spends watching her, and once Xaden joins them, her eyes are split between the two of them. The two traitors. 

“Whatever Violet said to get Mira off of Liam’s ass she needs to say about me next.” Genevieve huffed, glancing over at Liam, who was holding Violet’s hand comfortably. Then she glanced at her own hand and then at Xaden’s hand, before bringing her’s into her lap. She was not ready to be public like that. 

“Consider this your Battle Brief,” Mira continues, side-eyeing Ridoc as he scrambles back into his chair. “This morning was about a quarter of the patrol we’d normally fly, so regularly we’d just be getting back about now and reporting our findings to the commander. But for the sake of killing time, since we’re in this room as the reaction flight for this afternoon, let’s pretend we’d come across a newly fortified enemy outpost crossing our border” —she turns to the map and pins a small crimson flag near one of the peaks about two miles from the Cygnisen borderline— “here.” 

“We’re supposed to pretend it just popped up overnight?” Emery asks, openly skeptical. 

“For the sake of argument, third-year.” Mira narrows her eyes on him, and he sits up a little straighter. 

“What would our objective be?” Mira glances around the table, noticeably skipping Xaden and glaring at Genevieve. Last night, she’d taken one look at the rebellion relic on his arm and walked by without saying a word. And she hadn’t spoken to Genevieve since she left Rhiannon’s house in a flurry. “Aetos?” 

Dain startles from where he was glowering across the table at Xaden and turns to face the map. “What type of fortifications are there? Are we talking about a haphazard wooden structure? Or something more substantial?” 

“Like they had time to build a fortress overnight,” Ridoc mutters. “It has to be wooden, right?” 

“You are all so fucking literal,” Genevieve groans, rubbing her thumbs on her temples. This has all been headache inducing. “Just say that they occupied a keep that’s already established. Stone and all.” 

“Thank you, Hale,” Mira says, although it sounds physically painful for the name and the gratitude to be leaving her lips in the same sentence. 

“But the civilians didn’t call for help?” Quinn asks, scratching her pointed chin. “Protocol calls for a distress signal this far into the mountains. They should have lit their distress beacon, alerting patrolling riders, at which time the dragons on patrol would have told all available dragons in the area. Every rider in this room would have mounted first as the reaction force and the others would have been woken from their rests, allowing the riders to prevent the loss of the keep in the first place.” 

Mira scoffs and braces her hands on the end of the table, staring them all down. “Everything you’re taught at Basgiath is theory. You analyze past attacks and learn those very… theoretical combat maneuvers. But things don’t always go to plan, so why don’t we talk about the things that can go sideways, so you’ll know what to do when they do, as opposed to arguing that the keep shouldn’t have fallen?”

Quinn shifts uncomfortably in her seat. 

“How many of you have been called out as third-years?” Mira stands straight, arms folding over her black leathers. 

Emery and Xaden raise their hands, though Xaden’s is barely a gesture. Dain looks like his head is about to explode. 

“That’s not true. We’re never called into service until graduation.” 

Xaden presses his lips in a tight line and nods, giving Dain a sarcastic thumbs up. 

“Yeah, all right.” Emery laughs. “Just wait until next year. I can’t count how many times we’re the ones sitting in these very rooms in the midland forts because their riders have been called to the front for an emergency.” 

The color drains from Dain’s face. 

“Now that’s settled.” Mira reaches under the table and pulls out a set of models, putting a six-inch stone keep in the center of the table. “Catch.” One by one she tosses painted wooden models of dragons at the group, keeping one for herself. “Pretend the other riders don’t exist, and we’re the only squad available to take back that keep. Think of the power in this room. Think of what each individual rider brings to the table and how you’d use those powers in unison to conquer your objective.” 

“But they don’t teach that to first-years,” Liam says slowly from beside Violet, his thumb tracing patterns on the back of her hand. 

Mira glances at the whirls of magic on his wrist, but to Liam’s credit, he doesn’t tug his sleeve down. It’s hard for Genevieve to remember that their third-years are the first riders who will serve with the children of the leaders of the Tyrrish Uprising—an uprising that could have left borders defenseless. Everyone in the room has become accustomed to Liam, Imogen, Genevieve… even Xaden. But those in active service have never flown with anyone marked by a rebellion relic. 

Mira’s glare is hard, but it’s interrupted by Violet clearing her throat and shooting a look at her older sister. Her eyes widen ever so slightly at the clear warning on Violet’s face to back off, and she directs her attention back to Liam. 

“They might not teach you this battle strategy as first-years because you’re all too busy trying to stay on your dragons. You had your first taste of strategy during Squad Battle, and we are approaching May, which means War Games start soon, right?”

“Two weeks,” Dain answers. 

“Good timing then. You’ll need all the experience you get if you’re planning on surviving.” She holds Violet haze for half a breath. “This kind of thinking will give your whole wing an advantage, since I guarantee your wingleader is already assessing every rider for their own abilities.”

Xaden flips his dragon model in his hands but remains silent. He hasn’t spoken a single word to Mira since he’s arrived. 

“So let’s do this. Who’s in command?” She glances around the table. “And let’s pretend I don’t have three years of seniority over even the highest ranked of you.”

“Then I’m in command,” Dain answers confidently, straightening his back as if an improved posture gives the illusion of power. 

“Our wingleader is here,” Liam argues, pointing at Xaden. “I’d say that puts him in command.”

“We can pretend I’m not here, for the sake of the exercise,” Xaden sets his model dragon on the table and leans back in his chair, draping his arm across the back of Genevieve's, eliciting a glare from Mira. “Give Aetos here the position we all know he craves.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Genevieve whispers, nudging him. 

“You have even seen me start to be a dick.” 

Genevieve freezes, her head immediately swiveling to face him. That was his voice… in her head. 

He turns, the golden flecks dancing in his eyes. She can hear him laughing in her mind, his lips tilted up into a small smirk. 

“You’re staring. It’s going to get awkward in about 30 seconds if you don’t stop.”

Her gaze snaps forward. 

“How?” She hisses. 

“The same way you talk to Sgaeyl and I talk to Tairn. We both knew we could feel something in each other's mind, I just had to test if we could actually talk. Though I’m starting to wish I tried it sooner, the look on your face is priceless.” He winks and turns back to the table. 

“You’re the wingleader.” Every word out of Dain’s mouth is agonizing, spoken through gritted teeth. 

“I’m not even supposed to be here,” Xaden shrugs. “But if it makes you feel better, for the purpose of war games, you’d be getting your orders from your section leader, Garrick Tavis, which he’d get from me. You’ll be carrying out your maneuvers as a squad for the good of the wing. Just pretend I’m another member of your squad and use me as you wish, Aetos.” Xaden folds his arms over his chest. 

“So what have you heard through this… extension of our dragons’ bond?” she whispered harshly. 

“Why are you even here?” Dain challenges. “No offense, sir, but we weren’t exactly expecting senior leadership on this trip.” 

“You’re more than aware that Sgaeyl and Tairn are mated.” 

“Three days!?” Dain fires back, leaning in. “You couldn’t make it three days?” 

“Lay off it, Aetos,” Genevieve barks. “Just because you can’t keep Violet underneath your thumb anymore doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me. Or Xaden. It has nothing to do with him, that’s up to Tairn and Sgaeyl.” 

“I’ve heard just how much you miss me when I’m gone,” Xaden says, his timing impeccable. 

“Of course you rush to defend him.” Dain hurls a glare at Genevieve. “I know I’m not wrong when I say that General Sorrengail gave you orders to watch him and report suspicious activity, not fall in love with him.” 

“How do you know about that!?” Genevieve’s mind is reeling. She only told Xaden about her mission, maybe she mentioned once to Violet in passing. Oh my gods, Violet! Genevieve’s eyes could cut through metal as she stared so hard at the silver-haired girl, that Violet could swear she was looking right at her soul. 

“Great job remaining professional, Aetos.” Xaden scratches the relic on his neck, and Genevieve knows damn well that stupid mark doesn’t itch. “Really shows those leadership qualities to their best advantage.” 

“I’m going to kill you,” Genevieve sneers, her fiery gaze not leaving Violet’s, but the words are obviously pointed towards Dain. 

One of the riders down the table whistles low. “Do you boys just want to whip it out and measure? It would be faster.” 

Liam smothers a laugh, but his shoulders shake. 

“Enough!” Mira slams her hand on the table. 

“Oh, come on, Sorrengail,” the rider down the table whines with a wide smile. Both Mira and Violet look his way with sharp eyes. “I mean… the older Sorrengail. This is the best entertainment we’ve had in ages.”

Violet shakes her head, and looks around the table. “Mira has the ability to extend the shield if the wards are down, so the first thing I would do is send her to scout the area with Teine. We need to know if we’re dealing with infantry or gryphon riders.” 

“Good.” Mira moves her dragons closer to the castle. “Now let’s assume that there are gryphons.” 

“You want to do your job?” Genevieve says, a sickeningly sweet smile on her face. “I mean, how you can forget you’re the squad leader is beyond me.” 

His hands clenched around the dragon he holds as he rips his gaze from Genevieve. “Quinn, can you astral project from the back of your dragon?” 

“Yes,” She answers. 

“Then I would have you project into the fortress to check for signs of weakness,” Dain orders. “And then have you report back. Same with Liam. We’d use your farsightedness to see if you can locate where the gryphon riders are and if there are any traps.” 

“Good. The weaknesses are the wooden gate,” Mira notes as Quinn and Liam move their dragons into position, “And the Navarrian citizens they have captive in the dungeons.” 

“So much for blasting the whole place,” Ridoc says. 

“You’re an air welder, right?” Dain asks Emery. “So you can shape your dragon’s flames, lead them through the occupied parts of the keep without killing civilians.” 

“Yes,” Emery answers. “But I’d have to be in the keep.” 

“Then we’ll get you into the keep.” Genevieve says firmly. “My signet works the best when I’m on the ground-”

Dain cuts her off. 

“You want him to go in on foot and leave his dragon?” 

“Why do you think we get all that hand-to-hand training? Or are you going to leave all those innocent people to die?” Mira flicks her wrist and Emery's dragon goes flying out of his hand and into hers. She puts it in the center of the keep. “The real question is, how do you get close enough without getting you killed, since I’m guessing the others will be busy fighting off the gryphons that launch once the fireworks start.” 

Genevieve sits back, rolling her eyes. 

“What’s your signet, Aetos?” Quinn asks. 

“Above your pay grade,” Dain answers, glancing around the table and skipping over Xaden, then making the rounds again, finally sighing. “Any ideas?”

“Sure.” Violet picks up both Genevieve’s and Xaden’s dragons and shoves them toward the keep. The figurines hover above the structure, a testament to Violet’s superior ability to use her lesser magic in the absence of a signet. “You stop ignoring that you have two of the most powerful signets at your disposal, and ask the Shadow Wielder to black out the area so no one sees you land, and send her, a Life Weaver” —Violet’s eyes lock on Genevieve— “to take out the threat from the inside out.” 

“She’s not wrong,” Mira agrees, but her words are clipped. 

“You can cover all that?” Dain begrudgingly looks at Xaden. 

“Are you seriously asking me that?” Xaden retorts. 

“Just wasn’t sure you could cover an area that—” 

Xaden lifts a hand a few inches above the table, and shadows pour from underneath their seats, filling the room and turning dark as midnight in a blink. Genevieve’s heart jumps as her sight goes black, gripping her dagger tighter.

“Relax. It’s just me.” A ghost of a touch skims her cheek. “Want to put some vines up just to scare him?” 

“I’m good, thanks,” Genevieve whispers, this is the first real time she’s been in his signet, and holy shit, it’s terrifying. 

“Fuck me,” someone says. 

“I can surround this entire outpost, but I think that might freak some people out,” Xaden says, and the shadows disappear, racing back under the table. Genevieve takes a deep breath, noting that everyone at the table, beside Emery and Imogen, who have no doubt seen that trick before, are slightly green. 

Even Mira, who’s staring down at Xaden like he just took an attempt at her life. 

“I hope you didn’t get any idea while we were in the dark there,” Xaden teases, and just like that, whatever fear Genevieve was harboring disappears into the air around her. He laughs, and she grits her teeth. 

“Get him out of my head,” She throws at Tairn. 

“You’ll get used to it,” He responds, not bothering to give her directions on how to reply. 

“Is this normal with all mated pairs and their riders?”

“For some. It’s a great advantage in battle.” 

“Well, it’s a pain in my ass right now.” She internally groans. Right now, she misses when he was far away and not in her head, listening to her every thought and concern. She thinks a lot, and it's nauseating to think he was listening to everything. 

“Then shield him out the same way you do me—or start talking back,” Tairn grumbles. “You have the power to be a pain in the ass, too. You already are one to me.” 

“And how exactly am I supposed to talk back at him?” She gives Xaden a heavy dose of side-eye, but he’s engrossed in the ongoing battle they’ve waged against an imaginary keep. 

“Figure out which pathway into your mind is his. You only have two, narrow down which one is mine and which one is his.” 

Oh joy. That should be easy. 

The hypothetical operations are concluded, each of them using their powers to the best of their abilities, everyone except Violet. But when it’s time to take out the gryphons in air, Violet knows that she and Astrape trump everyone except Genevieve and Tairn. 

“Good job,” Mira says, glancing at her pocket watch. “Aetos, Riorson, and Sorrengail, I want to see you in the hallway. The rest of you are dismissed.”

The rest of the squad rises, chairs scraping the stone floor as they file out of the room. Genevieve stays seated for a moment, her eyes narrowing as she watches Xaden, Dain, and Violet file out of the door behind Mira. 

“Come on, Genevieve.” Liam’s voice snaps her out of her reverie, and she looks up to see him standing behind her, an easy smile on his face. “Let’s get out of here.” 

Genevieve stands, brushing her hands on her pants. “Yeah, I’m coming.” But as she walks out the room, and brushes past Xaden, he gives her arm a light squeeze. 

He tries to be reassuring, but there is too much on her mind. Too many things that apparently, he can hear too. 

——————————————-

“There’s a drift of gryphons headed this way!” Tairn bellows, not even minutes after she’s gotten back to her triple dorm in Montserrat. It’s evident that the other riders have gotten the alert too, because as Genevieve runs back to the battle plan room, the others are there too. 

“You have to go!” Mira says to Violet, pulling her into a hug. 

“We can help!” Violet argues, but she’s being held so tight.

“You can’t. And if Astrape is using her power to keep you seated, then she’s diminished as well. You have to go. Get out of here. If you love me, Violet, you’ll go so I don’t have to worry about you, too.” She releases her, looking to Xaden as the squad pours out of the door above, thundering by as they run down the steps. “Get them out of here!”

”Let’s go!” Dain shouts. “Now!” 

“Lieutenant Sorrengail,” Xaden addresses firmly, practically snarling at Mira. “Even if you don’t trust me, I’m the best weapon you have,” 

“If what you say is true, then you’re also the best weapon Genevieve has, and gods only know what Genevieve might do if Violet gets hurt. As much as I don’t trust either of you, you’ve kept her alive this far and you need to keep her alive now. The other half of the squad will be here in moments, we have time. Go.” Mira’s eyes shift to Genevieve. “Violet will follow you if you go.” 

Xaden grumbles, grabbing Genevieve by the wrist and motioning for Liam to do the same to Violet. He’s practically tossed her up on his shoulder, as Violet struggles against his grip.

“No!” She fights, but there’s no point, Liam outmatches her by so much. “Mira! What if you get hurt? Astrape’s speed could be the only thing that saves you. Tairn’s speed could save you! At least let us stay!” 

She looks over her shoulder at the doorway, but there’s steel in her expression. “You want me to trust you, Hale? Get her the fuck out of here and find a way for her to keep her seat. We both know she’s dead if she doesn’t.”

“Mira!” She screams, clawing at Liam’s arms, but he’s already halfway down the stairs with an arm clamped around her waist as if she weighs less than the swords on his backs. “I love you!” 

“Liam, let us go grab our packs. She can’t run while I watch.” Genevieve says, following quickly in step behind Xaden’s long strides. It takes only minutes for Genevieve and Violet to grab their bags and Rhiannon’s since they’ve never unpacked, cramming their cloaks into the empty space. Once they return to the hallway, Xaden and Liam are there waiting, and their packs are suspiciously empty. 

Genevieve doesn’t even want to think about what they’re leaving behind in order to get them out safely. 

Violet doesn’t even bother looking at them, marching for the door, but Genevieve grabs her elbow and spins her around. “Nope. We can’t leave the fortress walls. We’re going up.” Liam grabs her waist and all but hauls her to the nearest turret. “We’re climbing.” 

“This is bullshit!” Violet yells at Genevieve, uncaring that the other members of the squad also climbing the turret can hear. “Astrape could help them!”

“Violet, your sister is right. You have to make it out, so we’re going. Please just climb.” 

“Dain,” Violet says, realizing he’s right in front of them. 

He turns around and takes Rhiannon’s pack, slinging it over his own. “I don’t like Genevieve all that much, but she’s right. It’s not just you we have to get out, Violet. Think of every other first-year.” The plea in his eyes shuts Violet’s mouth. “Are you going to sentence an entire untrained squad to death? Because I’ll make it. Dianna, Emery, and Heaton will, too. And we all fucking know Riorson will. But what about Rhiannon? Ridoc? Sawyer? Genevieve? Do you want her death on your hands?” He asks, his words choppy as they race to the open door. 

They burst onto the roof as Emery mounts his dragon, who is precariously perched on the thinner-than-quadrant wall. Violet pales, and Genevieve knows that she will never be able to mount Astrape at this angle. 

“Ridoc and Quinn are already in the air,” Liam tells them as Emery launches skyward, where Cath, Astrape, and Deigh hover, their winds beating the air. 

“Violet can’t mount at this angle!” Genevieve whispers harshly to Liam. “Get her up on that dragon!”

He nods, pulling Violet in towards her, his hand cupping his head as he gives her a quick kiss, before lifting her up for Astrape to grab. She’s fighting the whole way up. The rest of the squad is in the air and safe. Genevieve can fight. But they won’t let her. 

Liam goes to mount next, crumbling the masonry with the force of Deigh’s landing, and Liam takes off down the narrow walkway toward the large Red Daggertail. 

“You next, Aetos,” Xaden barks, and Dain flicks his eyes to Geneveive.

“Gene-” He starts to argue. 

“That’s an order.” There’s no room for argument here in that tone, and Geneveive knows it, especially when Cath takes Deigh’s place on the wall. Dain looks like he might fight, but ultimately he nods, turning to Xaden. 

“Get Genevieve in the air as soon as Tairn arrives.” He says firmly. 

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Xaden says, his words firm. “Now get on your dragons so I can get her on hers.” 

Immediately, he turns and runs up Cath’s leg, mounting so easily that Genevieve is almost jealous. 

“Where are you?” Genevieve calls out to Tairn, seeing the empty skies above her. 

“Almost there. I was doing what could be done.” 

“Let me stay and fight,” Genevieve says to Xaden, desperation evident in her every word. 

Xaden turns sharply at her words, his eyes dark and stormy, stepping closer until Genevieve can feel the heat radiating from him. “You can’t stay,” he growls, his voice thick with frustration and something deeper— something raw that he’s been holding back. 

“I’m not running away,” She snaps, her fists clenched tight at her sides, fighting against the pull in her chest, the one that keeps dragging her back to him. 

“Damn it, Gen!” He grabs her shoulders, the force of his grip sending a jolt through her. His face is so close now that she can see the tension in his jaw, a battle raging in his eyes. “If you stay, you might die. And I can’t—” He cuts himself off, the unspoken words hanging between them. 

Genevieve freezes, her breath catching in her throat. She’s fought her entire life. Fought for survival, for vengeance, for a reason to keep going. But this—this feeling tearing through her, the one he’s igniting—it’s different. She’s never let herself feel it before. It’s terrifying. 

“I’m not leaving you,” she whispers, the words slipping out unbidden, her voice breaking with emotions she can barely hold back. 

Xaden’s expression shifts, the anger in his eyes softening for just a moment, replaced by something fierce, something vulnerable. He steps closer, and before she can say anything else, his lips crash against hers, hard and desperate. The kiss is searing, full of everything he’s never said, everything they’ve both been holding back. It’s a demand, a plea, and a promise all at once. 

Genevieve’s hands fly to his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket as she kisses him back with the same intensity, her heart pounding wildly. She can feel the tension in his body, the barely controlled restraint in the way he pulls her closer, as if he’s afraid to let her go. Her entire world narrows to this moment, to the feel of him, the taste of him, the way he’s pouring every emotion into this one kiss. 

It’s like he’s trying to memorize her, to burn the memory of her into his soul. And she feels it too—that same desperate need to stay with him, to fight beside him, no matter the danger.

But even through the heat of the kiss, there’s something else. Something that trembles beneath the passion: fear. Not just hers—his. She can feel it in the way he holds her so tightly, in the way his breath hitches as he pulls away, just barely, their foreheads still pressed together. His hands remains on her, fingers digging into her shoulders like he’s fighting himself, fighting the urge to tell her to stay. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low, so quiet she almost doesn't hear it over the rush of wind and the distant roar of dragons. His forehead is still pressed against hers, his breath coming fast, the admission barely escaping him.

Her heart twists painfully at his words. Xaden—the leader, the warrior, the one who’s always in control—is admitting something she never thought she’d hear. The weight of it crashes into her, and for a moment, all she wants to do is throw caution to the wind and stay. To fight by his side, consequences be damned. 

But they both know the truth. If she stays, she’ll only put everyone else at risk. Including him. 

His lips brush hers again, softer this time, lingering for a heartbeat longer than before, as if he’s reluctant to let her go. “But you have to,” he whispers, his hands slide down her arms, reluctantly releasing her, but not before he presses one last kiss against her forehead. 

Genevieve bites her lip, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill over. She hates it—hates that she has to leave him behind. But she knows, deep down, that if she doesn’t go, she’ll only make things worse. 

Tairn’s presence thundered into her mind, a surge of power. “I’m here,” the dragon rumbles, his wings beating the air as he descends towards them. 

Xaden steps back, his jaw clenched, watching her with an intensity that makes her chest ache. “Go,” he says, his voice hoarse, filled with an emotion he won’t let himself fully show. 

With one last, longing look, Genevieve turns and runs toward Tairn, her heart breaking with every step. As she vaults onto the dragon’s back, she glances over her shoulder, locking eyes with Xaden one final time. 

She doesn’t need words to know what he’s thinking—what he’s feeling. It’s written all over his face, in the way his hands are still clenched at his sides, in the way he watches her as though he’s afraid this will be the last time, even though they both know he will survive. 

And as Tairn takes to the skies, lifting her higher and higher into the air, Genevieve swears she can still feel the imprint of his lips on hers, the weight of his unspoken words settling deep in her chest.

She doesn’t want to leave him. But she has to survive—for both of them.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hey everyone! whats up? I'm unbelievably excited for the next chapter-omg. This chapter was chill, but I don't think it was particularly empty, you know?

i actually am very excited for chapters like 23, 24, 25 to be published because thats when more about quinn and genevieve's backstory gets revealed and its been so much fun to write.

also i have an extreme obession with kit connor in romeo + juliet, truly the only man i've ever been attracted to (thats a blatant lie-sorry to my ex boyfriends if you ever read this)

anyways, thats it! let me know if you liked it, and if you did leave a like, comment or kudo! see you all on saturday!

-------

taglist: @awkardnerd , @hannraumari , @minjix

[casuallivi]

Continuation to II. Brown Eyes (check part I for warnings)

III. A Trespasser

In the open backyard behind The Winged Fairy stood a woman completing a wire with freshly washed clothes. The last line was filled essencialy with white undergarments, all the ones before displaying an array of colorful dresses and skirts filling the wires with vivid patterns and colors. Beyond the clothes, cream sheets and bedding swayed gently under the upcoming summer breeze, peppering the air with a fresh floral scent.

Built with dark and sturdy fireoak, The Winged Fairy stood proudly in an open field only twelve miles away from the great port city o Valosa, Day Court's biggest exporter of sardine. Golden ribbons of mid-day sunlight caught the timber frame illuminating the two store inn that most of the time seemed to be a black dot on the greenery.

Humming a quiet tune, Elain wrung the last tiny pink dress, making sure to secure it with two clothespin before drying her hands in the apron fastened around her waist. Her faded brown dress was much darker on the front from manipulating wet clothes, a quiet relieve for her flushed skin. A flock of birds chirped loudly while crossing the sky, and she shaded her to look at them, smiling expectantly at the strong rays of sun finally peeking out from behind the dispersing rain clouds.

Her eyes dipped to the inn standing tall and silent to her right, hungry for new patrons to filled the inside. She couldn't wait to get back to work. Adriata would soon start the preparations for Summer Solstice, and Elain was excited with the prospect of receiving a good flux of passersby from the port cities and villages on their way to either work in or enjoy the splendid celebration.

Maybe even we can watch it, a dangerous spark whispered inside of her.

Elain looked at the two little girls playing a couple feet from her, running after each other with wood sticks, wind swaying errant black curls that had escape from their braids. She imagine how happy her daughters would be attending the festival, how they would love to chose new vibrant fabric to transform into dresses and matching shoes, how their starry eyes would shine at the sight of acrobats, and the fireworks, and the different types of foods and faes. Elain laughed at herself.

I took thirty years of carefully curreted routine and undisturbed borders for her to trust herself and sunny to venture further than the outskirts of the village and visite the nearest town. There was no way she would suddenly grow courageous enough to visit another Court just to peek at their celebration, let alone expose her daughter to the dangers of it.

No. Elain would do much beter staying where she was safe. Protected. Where the villagers no longer pegged her magic for odd, questioning her behaviours, her lack of pointy ears or her daughters who never aged no matter how many years passed. Twins little girs who nature had sent to her when Elain needed the most and insisted in staying perfectly frozen in the age of 5, kindred spirits abuse by former fosters who found theirs souls in need of a mother just as Elain found herself in need of children. Besides, she liked her village. Felt like she belonged now. No different than any other fae neighbouring her borders.

"Mornin'."

An involuntary curse left her lips at the sudden greeting, an unfamiliar male stading close.

"You scared me," she said softly.

"Noticed."

Elain apraised him from head to toe, cataloging he was two heads taller than her, dark eyes and dark hair cropped close to his skull in a classical military style, a high colar black uniform covering his marble ski, leaving only the hands, head exposed. She took one step behind at the sight of the purple insignia of Night Court shinning on the right side of his chest. A Night Court soldier had never crossed her protective borders without her knowledge and consent before. No one did.

No one was supossed to.

“Can I help you?”

"I'm looking for the owner." He jerked his chin towards the inn.

"You found her."

She collected the empty laundry basket at her feet, giving herself time to recover and not appear nervous. The male paused, absently stroking the pummel of the sword strapped to his side. Now he was the one appraising her.

"I guess you'll have to do, then." He shrugged at last. “I searching for a male. Illyrian."

Her blood chilled, but Elain pretended all was well as she plastered a regretful expression, clapping her hands together.

"Oh dear, was your friend supossed to meet you here? I'm sorry, but I don't have any patrons at the moment. He must have continued on the Eros road straight to the village."

The male ran his tongue across his teeth before spitting on the space between them.

"The blood traitor is no friend of mine." He bluntly eyed the open space around them, his attention lingering on the small barn on their far left. He cocked his head to the side. “What’s in there?

“The usual.”

“The usual?” The male eyed her with suspicious. “And what is the usual?”

Elain shrugged.

“It's a barn. You'll see horses, chickens, goats, storage crops. The usual.”

"Mind if I check?"

He didn't wait for a response, sidestepping Elain and walking in direction of the barn. She hurried after him, his ridiculously long stride making her jog.

"Excuse me, what are you doing?"

"The male I'm looking for was gravely injured. If he is any clever at all, he'll be laying dead somewhere and all I'll have to do is drag his disgracefull body back. If he is dumb enough to have tried and staying alive a place with the usual would be as good hidding as any." He stopped in front of the door. “You don’t mind if I take a look, do you?”

Elain didn't even had time to protest before he was kicked the door out of the hinges. She covered her eyes as plywood flew everywhere, exploding under the strengh of his boot.

"Godess. You are not aloud to do this!" She yelled at him.

"Says who?" he questioned already inside, kicking the mounts of hay out of the way.

"Says me! The owner!"

He paied her no mind, continuing his check out, lazily checking all the 6 bays. Sunny whined as the male passed by him, standing on his back legs. The soldier stopped, inhaling hard.

"Whose horse is this?"

"Mine. I wouldn't stand to close if I was you. Sunny doesn't like males." The urgency in her voice had nothing to do with him the barn. Elain knew he would not find anything here.

It had been a while since she last strengthened her protective borders, which would justify this male trespassing then without a single warning. The hidden room in the second floor of The Winged Fairy was a different story. For almost a month now Elain had been casting the concealing spells which vanish the room from any wondering eyes, the meticulously painted scarlet sigils covering every inch of the door frames making sure the occupant could not be found.

“Do you have permission to be here? Our day court High Lord isn’t lenient with trespassers.”

The soldier ignores her.

“I want to see yours papers.” She demands.

The soldier ignores her, continuing to check every nook and cranny until he's left unsatisfied for finding nothing. Not a body. Not a speck of blood. Not a scent to be tracked. There's nothing there. Finally he turns to Elain, his gaze fixing beyond her, on the outside of the barn.

"Yours?"

She looks back to see Nuala and Cerridwen lingering near the broken door frame, their curious eyes darting between Elain and the stranger. She swallows.

"Yes."

"Twins. How rare."

The male makes his way back to the entrance, Elain rushing in front of him to take both girls in her arms, stepping aside to stay as far from him as possible.

"I want to see you papers." She repeats firmly, all politeness gone.

“Just you and the father, then?”

"Just us. No father." She corrects. "Papers."

“A female running an inn by herself. How odd."

Elain watch as his eyes roam the length of her body, the foul smell of evil intent burning her nostril. He steps closer to her and she steps back. The male scoffs, reaching inside his breast pocket to pull an array of carelessly folded papers, the pristine insignia of the Day High Lord shining brightly in gold in some of them. Lord Helion had permitted this particular bastard’s entrance in his lands himself.

He throws the papers at her feet.

“Relax, little sheep. Your High Lord and mine have a mutual agreement. I have permission to search the land, and that includes your shabby inn, so go ahead and stay out of my way as I do it, unless you want to see how sharp this end is.” He tapped his sword.

With the girls weighting heavily but secure in her arms, Elain stood still watching the male march to the backdoor of the inn. She caged her fear in a tight ball and hide well in the confines of her chest. Her sigils will hold just fine, she told herself.

They had too.

[elaratyrell]

Misery {Annie Wilkes! Aemond Targaryen x Author! Reader}

*All images found on Pinterest*

Warnings: Dark! Aemond, stalking, language, mentions of murder Smut- oral (fem receiving), fingering (fem receiving), female orgasm

*Divider from Firefly Graphics*

Synopsis: You find yourself near death after being the victim of a car accident in a snow storm while working on the latest instalment in your bestselling Misery series. The man who found you, your self declared number one fan, seems innocent enough, but his dark past, and even darker intentions, soon become clear

With a sigh of slight relief, you placed the final page on top of the pile beside you, tying a rubber band around it and placing it in a blue leather case.

Another book finished to hopefully join the others on the bestsellers list.

You had written twelve other books, to be exact, and had now finished your first completed draft for the thirteenth.

The cursed number.

The unlucky number.

The number of misfortune.

But for you it was a blessing.

For years you had dedicated your life to the running series of books centred around a character called Misery. You'd published your first book at eighteen, becoming the new face of the romance genre. And as you had grown up, your books had matured as well, becoming darker, bordering on the thriller genre as well as still centering on the romantic aspect. It was a bold move, but seemed to pay off, as it had made you even more popular than before.

Yet, after dedicating your life to one character for an entire decade now, you knew you had to move on, take another path in a new series you were going to write. You knew some of your fans would be disappointed that this would be the last entry in the Misery series, but it had to be done.

It felt like a relief to you, that you could finally move on with your life. And you felt as though it were almost a weight being lifted off your shoulders as finished your usual celebration of a single cigarette and champagne. You rose to your feet to take the manuscript to your car with the rest of your belongings, departing from a small log cabin called Winterfell Lodge you always rented out when working on your latest novel. It was always calming to get some time away from the chaos of the city.

You pulled your coat around you tighter, the snow flurry thickening around you as you loaded your bags into the trunk of your car. Usually, you wouldn't drive in weather like this, especially as it seemed as though a snow storm was fast approaching, but you needed to get back to the city as fast as possible.

Quickly shooting your agent a message to let you know you had finished the initial draft and were on your way to get back to the city, you started the car and drove away from Winterfell Lodge.

You squinted slightly as the snowfall grew thicker still, trying to see the curve in the road as the wipers speed couldn't keep up with the snow that was now covering the road. You slowed your speed, maintaining control of your car, humming along to the song playing on the radio.

Maybe you should have waited for tomorrow.

It was already late in the afternoon, and the clouds darkened the sky.

You turned on your car's headlights, a small sign reading 'Curved road, next thirteen miles'.

You hit the curve no problem, turning the wheel with perfect control, keeping a steady speed as you continued turning the wheel, but suddenly one of the wheels skidded, followed by another as the car span erratically out of control.

And all you remembered was the car spinning of the road, followed by it slamming into a tree, doing a one hundred and eighty degree flip, landing on it's hood.

And then as you fell into the darkness, you heard the harsh sound of the radio static and the howling winds, and felt the blood trickling down the side of your face.

Followed by nothing. Only darkness.

When you awoke, you felt numb.

You skin was paler, and clammy with a feverish sweat that sent a slight tremble through you. You couldn't lift any of your limbs. They felt weighted down. You didn't even want to try and lift your head.

"You're awake."

The voice was male. It sounded calm, well spoken. Soothing, almost.

Approaching footsteps to your bedside soon brought the owner of the voice into your vision.

He looked around your age, maybe two or three years younger, around twenty five or six, perhaps. He had long silver hair tied half up, a strong jaw and a tall, well defined figure. One of his eyes was a vivid blue, like a sapphire, the other a cloudy white, a long scar running from his brow down to his cheek. Resting on the bridge of his nose was a pair of black rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a dark blue sweater, the white collar of his shirt peaking up above its neckline, and a pair of black trousers.

Your saviour was very handsome, indeed.

"W-where... where a-am-"

"Shush," He interrupted you, placing the back of his cool hand against your forehead, frowning slightly at the heat radiating on your skin from the fever. "We're just between Storm's End and Winterfell. You've been here two days. I was concerned that you were not going to pull through. I'm thankful to say that I think you will recover. You'll be okay. Thank the gods you'll be okay." He shot you a slightly relieved smile. "Oh, how foolish of me. My name is Aemond Targaryen, and I'm your-"

"Number one fan?" You murmured, your eyes fluttering closed from a split second before opening again to see him shooting you a rather bashful smile, his cheeks dusted with pink.

"That- that's right," He murmured. "I-I am also a doctor, fortunately enough." He added, gesturing to where you were connected to a drip before outstretching his hand and opening his palm to reveal two pills. "You need to take these for the pain," He said softly, lifting your head slightly to bring the pills to your lips and swallow them, his fingertips lingering slightly against your lips.

Aemond propped up the pillows slightly, resting your head back down. Giving you a better view of your room, you noted you appeared to be in a rather old cottage or farmhouse. Your room was rather charming; wood panelled walls, a large fireplace opposite the bed. From the window, you saw a view of the mountains.

"Shouldn't I be in hospital?" You mumbled.

"The blizzard was too strong. I didn't want to risk trying to get you there. I couldn't even call, the phone lines are down and I don't own a mobile, I'm afraid. I doubt you could even get signal out here with the weather like this."

"Thank you for saving me," You murmured, you eyes aching with fatigue.

"You are more than welcome. Now, you should get some rest. You nearly lost your life." He replied, stepping back. "I'll be back to check on your when your meds run out," Was the last thing he said before leaving the room, shutting the door behind him.

Your fever past after a few days in Aemond's care, but you were still incredibly weak. But Aemond promised you that things would get better.

"It's not going to hurt forever, I promise you."

"Will I be able to walk?" You asked.

"Of course. And your arm will be fine, too. Your shoulder was rather badly dislocated, but I managed to pop it back in there. But I must say, I am rather proud of what I managed to do with your legs, especially considering what I had around the house. In fact I don't think there's a doctor in the whole of Westeros that could do a better job."

And with a flourish of blankets, he made your legs visible to you for the first time.

From the knees down, you believed you resembled a mummy. Steel rods that seemed to be remains of aluminium crutches were used as splints with taping circled around them. From the knees up, your thighs were swollen and horribly bruised.

Upon seeing your slightly horrified expression, Aemond hastily added. "It is not nearly as bad as it looks considering the severity of your injuries. You have a compound fracture of the tibia in both legs, and the fibula in the left leg is fractured too. I could hear the bones moving, so it's best for your legs to remain immobile. And as soon as the roads open, I'll take you to a hospital. In the meantime, you've got a lot of recovering to do, and I consider it an honour that you'll do it in my home." He gave you a kind smile, once again leaving you to get some more rest until he had to administer your next round of painkillers.

And soon enough Aemond's visits to your room became more frequent and for longer periods of time. He didn't just stay to gave you your meds, but also to reassure you that the sweeling to your cheek would go down, and how you were still beautiful, and how much he adored your books.

"It was quite a miracle that you found me," You said one evening after Aemond had fed you your dinner. He let out a small, slightly nervous chuckle in response, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Actually, it wasn't a miracle at all. I... as I... in a way... I was following you."

"Fo-following me?" You stammered out.

"Well it isn't exactly a secret that you were staying at Winterfell Lodge, you know, considering that I am your number one fan, but some nights I found myself driving there, sitting outside and just looking at the light in your cabin, knowing you were most likely creating another Misery masterpiece. I'd try to imagine what the world's greatest writer was creating." He replied, his voice light and airy, as though it was the most simple explanation.

"Can you say that last part again? I didn't quite hear..." You murmured, trying to brush off the fact he practically stalked you. Aemond just shot you a small smile in response.

"The world's greatest writer." He repeated before continuing. "Anyway, the other afternoon, when I was on my way home, there you were leaving the lodge. I must say I was curious as to why an intelligent woman such as yourself would go for a drive with a storm such as that approaching."

"I... didn't know there was going to be a storm like that..."

"Well, luckily I did," He replied. "And, it was lucky for me too. Because you're alive, and now you can write more incredible books. I've read absolutely everything you've written. I enjoyed your three standalone novels at the start of your career immensely, but the Misery series... I must say that they are my absolute favourite. I-I know them all by heart, all twelve of them. I love them, they helped me through my darkest times... through any obstacle I've faced in my life, I've managed to find solace with Misery.

You couldn't helped but feel touched by the way he spoke so fondly of your work, how he constantly sang your praises whenever he got the chance. The man was socially awkward it seemed, and perhaps rather shy at times, but he was still surprisingly charming.

"You're too kind..."

"And you're too brilliant," He replied. "You must be to create such a wonderful character like Misery." As he spoke, he traced a finger down your cheek. The swelling was gone, and the bruise was fading. He cleared his throat, hastily pulling his hand away and rising to your feet. "I'll um... just wash these dishes up." He said, seeming rather embarrassed all of a sudden. "I'm sure the road will be open soon, which means the phone lines will be back up in no time. But until they are, I'll kept trying so you can phone your agent."

He stopped when he reached the doorway, turning away from you, his hand hovering over the door knob.

"Is there something wrong?"

"Oh goodness no. I-I was just wondering if I could ask you a favour."

"I'm sure it's the least I could do after you've shown me such kindness." You replied, mustering a small smile that made his expression brighten.

"It's just that I noticed in your case there was a new manuscript..." He trailed off, hesitating slightly.

"You want to read it?"

"If it's not too much trouble. I do not mean to intrude."

"I usually only let three people read my new work this early," You replied, making his smile drop slightly. "And that's my editor, my agent... and the person who was kind enough to save me from dying in a car wreck."

"I... thank you," Aemond smiled. "You have no clue as to the gift you've given me and the gratitude I feel to you."

You shot him a smile, but that soon changed into a grimace as you winced from the pain.

Aemond glanced at his watch, hastily placing your empty plate on the bedside table before reaching into his pocket for the painkillers.

"It's like clockwork, the way your pain returns," He murmured, pressing a glass of water to your lips to help you swallow the pills. "The pain will subside soon. It will be okay," He sighed, placing his hand over yours as your expression twisted in discomfort.

"What's the title of your newly finished book?" He asked, trying to take your mind away from the pain.

"I'm not sure yet," You murmured. "I usually come up with the title after the final draft is finished. Perhaps after you read it, you'll have an idea or two."

Aemond's expression brightened again. "I will do my best not to let you down."

Days past, and soon enough Aemond could move you from the bed to a wheelchair. Your arm was healing nicely, as were your legs, despite there still being some time until the latter were properly healed. Aemond never failed to update your over his progress of the manuscript.

"I read chapter one, it was one of your best introductions to a Misery novel I have ever read..."

"Page twenty, I've reached. It's incredible how you can engage with the reader so quickly in the novel..."

"Page thirty, I had to force myself to put it down..."

It wasn't until one day when he came in with your lunch that something seemed a little... off, about Aemond.

"I know I'm only forty pages into the book..." He began in his usual tone. "But... oh I cannot criticise someone like you-"

"It's fine," You replied. "I can take it. Believe me, if I can deal with the critics, I'm sure I can handle whatever my number one fan has to say."

Aemond softly exhaled, keeping his gaze fixed on where he was cutting up your lunch. "It's just..."

"Just what?"

"It is brilliantly written," Aemond admitted. "Although everything you write is brilliant. But... the swearing..."

You raised an eyebrow.

"The... swearing...?"

"Yes, the swearing. There, I said it!"

"It bothers you?"

"It is inappropriate. It has no nobility," He protested, sawing through the food on your plate.

"It is appropriate for the setting and background of the character speaking-"

Aemond stilled, his hands stopping from cutting your food for you. His head lifted to meet your gaze, his expression uncharacteristically cold.

"No. It isn't," He replied firmly, resuming to cutting your food, his gaze still focused on you. "What do you think people say when they go into the grocery shop in town. Give me a carton of those effing eggs and five slices of that bitchly roast chicken?"

You couldn't help but smile at his refrain from using the profanities, but it faltered as the cutting becoming more and more erratic.

"...And in the bank, do I tell Mr Lannister, here's one big bastard of a cheque, give me some of your darn money?"

You let out a nervous chuckle at his rants, but soon enough your ears were greeted by the grating sound of metal against china. He looked down, slamming the plate down on bedside table.

"There! See? Now see what you have made me do! These were my mother's plates! What she left me when she passed! And now, it's all scratched!"

His chest heaved as he closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down. When they reopened, his good eye was full of shame and embarrassment.

"Oh... I'm so sorry... sometimes I can get so worked up I... oh, can you ever forgive me? Here..." He pressed your pills to your lips before picking up the plate, shooting you a rather overly sweet smile.

"I hope you can forgive me. Oh, Y/N... how I adore you. I mean... your mind. Your creativity... that is all I meant."

Several days passed, and Aemond's previous disposition had returned. He didn't lecture you over the choice of language used in the book, but still seemed disapproving nonetheless. He still cooked and fed you your meals, brushed your teeth, gave you your pills, praised you every waking moment he was with you. The phones were still apparently out, but he had assured you it was only a matter of time before they were up and running again. He had even managed to convince you to autograph his limited edition copy of your first Misery novel, promising to cherish it for the rest of his days.

He still gave you regular updates on reading your manuscript. At page 185, he expressed his sadness at being over halfway through. At page 300, he branded it better than perfect, that it was divine. He said it was more beautiful than any tapestry adorning the Red Keep. He had then introduced you to his pet snake, Vhagar, and his cat called... Misery.

And you had found out more about him.

How he had graduated top of his class from medical school, and how his peers and his family were constantly consumed with jealousy from his success. How they would attempt to belittle and mock him for his eye, and how in his lowest moment, his fiancée, Alys, had left him, but you had saved him with releasing your newest Misery novel some weeks later.

He had told you about the neglect from his father, his older brother's alcoholism and his mother's untimely death. He stiffened when he mentioned his eye, but you quickly changed the conversation and didn't bring it up again, not wanting to upset him by bringing up possible past trauma. And you had listened to him, consoled him over the misfortunes of his past, and he had expressed his gratitude in return.

And then he had left you to rest while he returned to finish the manuscript, which he had entitled Misery's Child.

The slam of your bedroom door awoke you from your doze, your eyes fluttering open to reveal Aemond staring down at you, his face ashen and jaw clenched.

He must have finished the book, it seemed.

"You... she cannot be dead," He murmured. "Misery cannot be dead!" He then exclaimed, voice rising. "How... how could you do this to me?"

"Women in that age... it was tragically common for them to die in childbirth, Aemond. I'm sure you know that. But you know, she will still be alive in... in spirit..."

"I do not want her spirit! I WANT HER! AND YOU MURDERED HER!" He yelled.

"I... I didn't kill her..."

"THEN WHO DID?"

"Nobody she... she passed away and..."

"She passed awa- she passed away?! No, Y/N, you did it. You killed her. You murdered my Misery."

He picked up the chair by your beside where he usually sat with you with ease despite it's weight, rising it in the air as if to strike it down on you before turning and throwing it against the wall. It shattered immediately upon impact, breaking into pieces on the floor.

"I... I thought you were good," He murmured, tone suddenly soft. "But you're not good. You're just a dirty, untrustworthy woman. I don't... I don't think I should be near you for a while..."

He walked to the door, and stopped to turn back to you.

"And don't even think about anybody coming for you. Not the doctors, your agent, your editor... I won't call them. I haven't called them and I never will. Nobody knows you're even here. And you better hope nothing ever happens to me... because if it does... you'll die."

After the click in the lock of your door, followed by the slamming of the front door and the revving of Aemond's car as it pulls away from the house, you let out the breath you didn't know you had been holding.

You were slightly shaken from Aemond's outburst, but tried to focus on what needed to be done, shifting to the other side of your bed and reaching out with your arm. It had come out of it's sling several days ago, and was now bandaged in a cast. You managed to grasp ahold of the armrest and pull it towards the best, shifting your body closer to the edge of the bed. Your legs screamed in agony as you manoeuvred yourself onto the wheelchair, but you persisted nonetheless, managing to sit down in the chair and wheel yourself towards the door. Reaching into your hair, you pulled out a hairpin Aemond had leant you, pushing it into the keyhole and soon enough hearing a click. Turning the knob, you pulled open the door and wheeled yourself out of the room, looking down the flight of stairs that blocked your way.

Letting out a deep sigh, you gripped the banister with one hand as you slowly steered yourself to the edge of the staircase.

"What have I got to lose?" You murmured, before wheeling the chair down the stairs.

The chair turned on its side as it crashed down the last step, but you managed to hoist yourself up again. You immediately tried grabbing a phone, but it turned out to be fake. You then discovered the windows bolted shut and both of the front and back doors having a second lock at the top, which you couldn't reach due to not being strong enough to stand just yet.

You wheeled yourself back into the living room, looking at the photographs placed on the drawers against the wall. There was Aemond as a young boy standing with his siblings and mother, his eye unharmed. Another showed him graduating medical school, a proud smile on his face. The third was him with his mother. And the fourth... was you.

He truly wasn't lying when he said he was your biggest fan.

Between the two photographs was a crystal dragon ornament, and beneath that was an emerald scrap book. You lifted the ornament carefully and grabbed the book, opened it.

The beginning seemed fairly normal. More photographs of his childhood and teen years. The was a photograph of him at what seemed to be a formal event with a women you only assumed was Alys. She was dressed in dark green, matching Aemond's tie, and you were sure she was very pretty, but you couldn't see her face due to the black ink scribbled over it, almost cutting through the photo. The next page was work related. More photographs and newspaper clippings of his medical success.

But turning the page was a different story entirely.

The first page contained a page of the newspaper, what seemed to be it's headline emblazoned in large capital letters.

'Doctor Aemond Targaryen arrested for the murder of nephew Lucerys Velaryon'

'Doctor Aemond Targaryen was arrested this morning, accused of the murder of his nephew, Lucerys Velaryon. Targaryen, 20, pleaded not guilty to the death of Velaryon, 16, under the accusation he had simply acted in self defence after his nephew attacked him with a knife and caused the disfigurement of his left eye'

And it only got worse as you read the following pages.

'Targaryen trial postponed until December 10.'

Accompanying the headlines were photographs of him standing in front of the courthouse with his lawyer, Larys Strong, a stony expression on his face.

'Targaryen declared innocent by jury, claims he was a victim of a malicious attack.'

'Shamed doctor Aemond Targaryen resigns from King's Landing hospice.'

You slammed the book shut, a sick feeling brewing in your stomach as you hastily placed the book in it's position with the ornament on top.

Wheeling yourself to the stairs, you gripped the banister and you pulled yourself up the stairs. Your arms ached, the muscle burning and sweat beading on your forehead as you persisted, refusing to let go and crash back down to the bottom again.

In time, you reached the top of the stairs, moving the wheelchair as quickly as you could, taking the pin out and moving towards the bed, when a slam of a car door stopped you in your tracks.

Aemond was back.

You knew he would enquire about the now unlocked door, but you could just pass it off by saying you urgently needed to use the bathroom. You also knew that you didn't have enough time to haul yourself back into bed, and so you did what you could, and threw yourself out of the chair and onto the floor, pushing the wheelchair away from you slightly as the front door opened, the rustling of paper bags being put on the table before the creaking of the stairs. There was a slight falter before he twisted the knob and pushed the door open.

He knew it was unlocked.

"What happened?" He asked, voice laced with concern as he hurried over to you, lifting you into his arms and shushing your cry of pain as he placed you down in bed atop the covers. His glasses had been taken off, the brilliant blue of his good eye burning into you.

"I needed the bathroom, but I couldn't get back into bed I... I lost my balance and fell on the floor..." You lied, hoping that you managed to convince him that your story was true.

"You needed to use the bathroom?" He asked, receiving a nod from you in response.

"And you managed to get yourself on and off the toilet alright?"

Another nod.

He slowly nodded in response, and you let out a small sigh of relief, visibly relaxing at him seemingly believing your story.

"And... you managed to get down the stairs and into the living room without hurting yourself after picking your bedroom door lock?" He added, his tone still soft.

A little too soft.

"Aemond... I never..."

"And you managed to somehow drag yourself back upstairs into your room?"

"I... I don't..."

"The dragon ornament on top of my photograph album," He replied. "It was pointing the wrong way."

You opened your mouth to speak, but found yourself at a loss for words, you mouth dry and your blood running cold.

"It's okay," He murmured, running his thumb over your lower lip. "I shouldn't have scared you. I know I did. I frightened you, hm? Well for that I apologise. I will refrain from repeating that behaviour in the future." He added, leaning forward slightly. "You are so incredibly important to me, Y/N. I'm sure you know that. You saw the photograph downstairs..."

You tried to speak again but he quickly shushed you, the finger resting on your lip tracing down your jaw, your neck, across your collarbone. His pupil had dilated, his breath quickening slightly as his hand moved down to your chest, covered by one of his shirts he had given you, framing your body in a pale blue.

"You do not need to speak Y/N," He whispered, leaning closer still, one hand placed the other side of you, caging you against him. "You will only waste your energy..."

As he pressed his lips to yours, you knew you couldn't fight back. You were weaker with him even without your injuries, and with his erratic behaviour, and what you had discovered downstairs...

And so you let him deepen the kiss. You let him part your lips with his tongue. You let his hand wander down from fondling your breast to your waist, pulling the shorts you had on down to your knees.

You let him ever so gently part your legs, pressing a line of kisses along your upper thigh, and then pay the same attention to the other, his lips tracing your flesh that had been swollen with bruises the week before.

Did you even know how long you had been here?

Staring up at the same ceiling, being enclosed in those same four walls day after day had merged the days together.

And if you asked Aemond, would he tell you the truth?

You couldn't trust him, but you needed to stay alive. And if you had any hope of getting out of here alive, you needed to stay on his good side.

And so there you were, legs spread as Aemond lowered himself between them, his moans vibrating against you at your taste, his tongue circling your clit and sending a jolt of pleasure through you that was both pain and pleasure as your legs twitched slightly, a hand tangling in his silver locks.

You resented the way your legs squeezed around his head as he thrust two fingers into you, murmuring against you about how wet with want you were for him. Your body was betraying you, but you couldn't stop the way he was making you feel such pleasure. The mere curling of his fingers against your sweet spot, or the flick of his tongue against your swollen clit caused a string of breathy moans to leave you, and soon you found yourself coming undone. He drew his fingers out of you, replacing them with his tongue as he eagerly lapped at your release.

He sat back, lips glinting with your release. He reached forward, fingers parting your lips so you could taste yourself on him. He let out a satisfactory groan as you sucked on his fingers, allowing them to linger on your lips as he pulled away.

Pressing his lips to yours, he pulled your underwear and shorts back up to rest on your hips.

"I would love to go further with you, but I'll have to wait until you're back to your full strength. It may take some time... but I think I can manage with having your addictive taste on my tongue until I can truly claim you as mine. You'd like that, hm?"

"I..." You let out a deep breath. This man was unhinged. He'd break your ankles with a sledgehammer before letting you leave. You knew that your best chance to survive this, was to play along. Allow Aemond to believe that you were beginning to reciprocate his affections for long enough so he could let down his walls and nurse you back to health so you could escape.

"I would like that..." You murmured, looking away to feign embarrassment.

"It is nothing to be ashamed of, my darling Y/N." Aemond replied, looking at you with such fondness, you wouldn't have believed he was a murderer. He paused for a moment. "This may not be the best time, but I have a surprise for you. In the other guest room."

"Oh... okay..."

"If you want to wait another day, as disappointing as that would be-"

"No, I can see it now," You hastily replied as to not flair that nasty temper up again. He smiled warmly in response, stepping towards you as you reached for the wheelchair, but he instead lifted you into your arms bridal style, walking you away from the chair and towards the bedroom door. Instinctively, you wrapped an arm around the back of his neck, your head resting against his shoulder.

He pushed open the door with his foot, giving you another overly sweet smile as he proudly declared "It's your new studio. I set it up last night. I just needed to get the typewriter and paper, which are downstairs."

"But... w-why..."

"You need a place to work, after all," He interrupted you, placing you down on the desk chair. "All writers need a place to work."

"B-but... what would I write?" You asked.

Aemond smirked at you, walking over to where a trashcan sat in the far corner of the room. The clang as it landed on the floor echoed around the room as he dropped it at your feet, your manuscript discarded in it.

"You want me... to burn my book?" You looked up at him in disbelief.

"I know this may be difficult to you," Aemond nodded, reaching into his back pocket and bringing out a box of matches.

"I... I can't..."

"Yes. You can," Aemond's voice was firm. "You can do this. Do it. Now."

Your hands began to tremble as he pressed the matchbox into them, pouring lighter fluid into the trashcan.

"I know this is the only copy," He continued. "You always only write one copy at first. When you were eighteen, you wrote your first book and you didn't make a single copy. Because you didn't think anybody would take it seriously. But they did. And you kept that tradition because it's a superstition to you, and you don't want to make a copy in fear of it being rejected. I'm trying to help you can't you see that?" His voice was steadily rising as his agitation grew, making the tremble in your hands worsen.

"I just want to help you. Why won't you let me help-"

As he spoke, you hastily lit one of the matches and threw it in the trashcan, the manuscript exploding into flame.

And as Aemond lovingly kissed your forehead, murmuring how proud he was of you for being so strong, all you could do was stare at the flames consuming your work, your own masterpiece.

"Now you can go back to doing what you're great at," Aemond murmured, a hand resting on your shoulder. "You can write a new novel, your greatest achievement ever... Misery's return."

He knelt down by you, a finger hooking beneath your chin, turning your head to meet his gaze. "I know you didn't mean it when you killed her. And now you can make it right. You can even write it in my honour, as a thanks for saving your life and nursing you back to health." He leaned forward so his breath was tickling your ear, his hand now resting on your thigh. "Although there are also other ways you can repay that debt to me."

"And you... you expect me to write something up just like that?" You asked.

"I expect nothing less than a masterpiece from you," He replied reassuringly, pressing another kiss to you, this time on the cheek. "I have the upmost faith in you my darling... I know you won't let me down... and if you do... we'll just have to start again. And again. And again... you won't try to escape, will you?"

"O-of course not. I... wouldn't dream of it."

Aemond hummed in approval. "I know you won't," He whispered, kissing you on the lips before standing up. "No one will come for you. If they do... I won't let them take you. If they try to take you from you, or if you do try to leave..." He said, opening a storage closet and reached inside, brandishing a sledgehammer. "There are other ways of keeping you here... with me... forever..."

Masterlist

[knight-elkwarden]

Prehistoric Anorri are believed to have been either a sister species to, or a subspecies of Imarri. Unfortunately, due to the Anorri's ancestral homelands currently being under miles of ice, evidence for or against this theory is virtually non existent.

Modern Anorri are one of three species with recognized personhood in Har Fang, and are often considered the most powerful of the three. Despite their vast morphological differences, all of the Anorri tribes are considered members of the same species. Due to their bodies naturally being saturated with shapeshifting magic, they can vary greatly on an individual level and shifting one's form is culturally considered a form of self expression. Body plans remain fairly constant within a single tribe, although coloration, ornaments and antler shapes are incredibly varied, even among closely related individuals.

The five tribes pictured here are the ones that interact the most with human nations, and thus the ones we have the most knowledge of. Others exist, but due to sparse information, and them refusing contact with us, they are omitted from this document.

(More lore, as well as individual images under the cut!)

According the both the Glacierwardens and the mythology of other tribes, Anorri used to have a prosperous kingdom in the north divided in twelve provinces, each home to a tribe. It's crash brought about the end of the first age, triggered by the ice wall rapidly advancing.

It is said that nine of the ancient tribes fled the kingdom then. Two fled east, two west, none of them were ever seen or heard from again. Five fled south, three of them weren't fast enough, and got caught under the ice wall, including what would today become the Glacierwardens. The remaining two made it to Har Fang, where the ice wall wouldn't reach them. All current Anorri tribes (except the Glacierwardens) are descended from these two ancient tribes.

While much of this story cannot be directly proven, what is known is that the ice wall has been slowly retreating back north since at least the third age. There are both historical records and geological evidence that it used to reach to the northern border of Edorae, and the petrified Glacierwarden tribe was indeed found around the Sheer Sea, which would have been under the ice wall before it retreated to its current location.

The Birchtenders are a rather isolationist tribe living in the mountain range that divides the east and west of Harfang. Their current matriarch is Kenerros.

They are most known by us humans for their historic aggression on the kingdom of Edorae, back when the Birchtenders frequented the plains at the base of the mountains. Thankfully relations have improved since Kenerros became matriarch, and the two groups currently have a truce. As long as Edorae stays off the mountains and Birchtenders stay off the plains.

Cliffrunners are some of the smallest Anorri, but also the most agile in the air. They make their homes in the Floating Jungle and often frequent the Musoneese rainforest below. They are currently ruled by matriarch Vanah.

They live above one of the few stable sources of flow crystals in Har Fang, and are fiercely possessive of it. Thankfully for us, they have a trade pact with Musonee, giving us nearly unlimited number of flow crystals.

They are curious by nature, and have a deep appreciation of art. They maintain our exclusive flow crystal agreement as long as we provide them with art, craftsman goods and articles on a wide range of topics.

No dragon species so far encountered has scales. The Firescale tribe are the only known exception, and it is from this unusual quality that they get their name. They live in the arid, volcanic and semi-desert region of Nyr. Their current matriarch is Malikehvrah.

There is not a lot of information about the Firescales. What is known is that they maintain vast cave networks under Nyr where they mine and process gemstones and metals for trade with other Anorri tribes and occasionally us humans.

They are generally friendly to humans, and a few individuals are known to accompany travelers and caravans that pass through Nyr. When prompted about it, these individuals claim that they simply enjoy the company and perspectives of outsiders.

Tidecallers are known for their close association with the Silver Isles's residents, as well as their stunning colors and features. More than other Anorri, Tidecallers treat shapeshifting like an art, and as such are some of the most varied when it comes to a single tribe. Alimeruu is their current matriarch.

They are close allies to the Silver Islanders, and some islands even have populations of both humans and Anorri living together, but most Tidecallers live underwater in coral reef caves. They readily trade with the islanders to receive land resources in exchange for underwater resources humans can't easily get to.

Glacierwardens are technically the oldest tribe, though they were frozen in a form of petrification stasis for a long time. Their "revival" by the Northernese people marks the start of the fourth age and for this, the Glacierwardens have vowed to help and protect the kingdom of the Northernese. Their matriarch is Sheer.

These Anorri are large and imposing, but seem to emit an air of sadness about them. Their petrification was rushed and imperfect, resulting in losing most of their memories of the past. According to them, they mourn the loss of their culture, the loss of family and friends that they cannot even remember the faces of.

Quite a few of them have taken to selectively breeding and altering herds of wildlife, trading the resulting domesticated creatures between themselves and occasionally to humans and other tribes.

[thetempleofthemasaigoddess]

When you touch me, I am where love is born

Young!Mihawk x reader.

This fic is part of the Beast in Black series.

*****

The man is attractive, if you like the burly type, with rough features and a full beard - which you occasionally do, even though you are slightly put off by the fact that your would-be victim, a former pirate who is now working solo as a robber, has killed twelve people, all of them but one defenseless civilians and including four children, to steal their valuables. Your grandfather, who put your first gun in your hand when you were only nine and taught you to use it, and a number of other firearms, to perfection, told you emotions are often a shooter's worst enemy, a cause of confusion and inaccuracy and worst of all hesitation, especially when the target you are shooting at has a weapon of their own; still, in your heart you feel satisfaction, even joy, and not guilt, at the thought that you will rid the world of this lowlife and protect his future potential victims.

Your target has no permanent residence and is notoriously proficient at putting pursuers off his tracks, but you were able to track down an accomplice of his who, for a small price, told you he would be in a certain island, on a particular day.

He is, and you are as well, having reached the island yesterday by ferry under the guise of a normal, innocuous tourist eager to enjoy the island's luxurious beaches and night-life. The truth couldn't be more different, and as you check for the twelfth time your gun is loaded and ready to shoot, you order yourself to keep your cool and stop your heart from beating twice as fast as normal. Yes, this is your first assignment as a mercenary; yes, you are still very young, and a woman, which would lead many of your fellow killers for hire to look down on you and doubt your ability; yes, you have never killed anyone before, which could make you hesitate once you will have to actually pull the trigger, not at a clay pigeon or another target prepared by your grandfather for your training, but at a living, real person.

But you can do it. You want to do it, because you have trained so much and so long for this, and that man does deserve to pay for what he has done, and you want to prove, to the world and more importantly to yourself, what you are worth, how strong and clever and resilient you are, beyond the family you were born in and the role you will take on one day. Your grandfather, an excellent gunslinger who had been a mercenary himself in his youth, expects you to put to good use everything he taught you and succeed, and your mother, while naturally worried for your safety, raised no objections and allowed you to begin a career as a killer for hire, knowing you felt the need to put yourself to the test beyond the comfortable, tranquil borders of your island. They both count on you, and you'd rather eat glass than disappoint them… and yourself, the harshest, least forgiving judge of all.

Also, if I don't kill that guy, he will probably kill me. That's also something I should keep in mind.

Having kept watch on the old barn, in the middle of the countryside, your target had spent the night in, you have seen him leave soon after dawn, the long sword he used to kill most of his victims as usual by his side, and set out towards an uninhabited corner of the island. You followed closely, careful not to lose him and, at the same time, not to be spotted, and three miles later you saw him reach an old abandoned mine; there is no sign of life for miles all around, which makes you suspect that, more than preparing an heist in a bank or a shop, or to attack an unsuspecting traveller to rob and then kill them, the man is meeting with an accomplice to organize an hit, or perhaps he has chosen the mine as his new hideout, to lay low for a while.

But all things being equal, the reason that has brought him here doesn't really matter; he might be looking for a safe place to store his stamp collection, or planning to transform the place in an ice cream shop for all you care. The only thing that counts is that you will kill him today, provide justice for all the people he has murdered, and begin making a name for yourself as a mercenary. You don't care about the bounty money, that you plan to donate to the less affluent families of your island (after, perhaps, you have treated yourself to a good dinner) and even becoming famous as a killer for hire is a side issue; you only want to do what is right, and prove yourself you are more than a privileged young woman, born with a silver spoon in her mouth and destined to a life of tranquility and power.

Even if it means risking your life.

Your target has reached the entrance of the mine, securely boarded up and surmounted by a large KEEP OUT sign; he walks back and forth, clearly nervous as he smokes a cigarette, fingering the hilt of his sword. Hidden in a small ramshackle building, perhaps the old foreman's office, no more than ten paces away, you look at him through a crack in the door, kneeling on the dirty floor; your heart is pounding, a feeling of tightness constricting your stomach, the hand grasping your gun (a good, reliable and lethal model; not the derringer you will one day receive as a gift from your father and that you will treasure for the rest of your days, but still perfectly up to the task) sweating. Despite all the time and effort you dedicated to prepare for this moment, you are a nervous wreck, which is not completely a bad thing, since the last thing you should do is underestimate the danger you are in. Your target is still alone, busy smoking and apparently unaware of your presence, but any moment you waste could be the one he decides to leave, or he is joined by someone else; after all he does look as if he is waiting for someone. You can't hesitate any longer.

You stand slowly, grimacing at the pain in your knees, retrieve a second gun from the bag you have left on the floor, to use should the first one jam, and slide it in the holster hanging from your waist; you have chosen comfortable clothing, for obvious reason, and soft-soled boots, that allow you to walk as noiselessly as possible… and, in turn, to make it harder for your target to hear you approach.

The man has turned his back to the shack, busy lighting another cigarette after the one he has just put out under his foot; it's your moment, you decide, and you waste no time in slipping out of the splintered door and take one step, and then another, towards him.

Years and even decades later, as the list of your victims grows longer and you get used to the tension and the danger your job entails, you will still remember this moment as clear and vivid as if it had taken place yesterday, down to the smallest detail. The glowing yellow-red of the sun barely raised above the horizon; the natural vegetation rustling in the gentle wind; the russet colour of the unsown earth under your feet; the expectant, charged silence broken only by the distant call of a carrion crow. You are only partially aware of your actions, your instinct and training taking over, as you take a third step, which brings you at maybe six from your target - more than close enough for a clean shot. Your gun is aimed, your finger already brushing against the trigger. You are about to talk, but the man, still turned the other way, anticipates you.

"I was waiting for you." he says, tense but calm, and the shock is almost enough to make the gun slip from your hand; you have been very careful to remain hidden, making sure he had no idea you were keeping a close eye on him, and you were absolutely sure you had succeeded, and would easily sneak up on your target. Apparently the truth is different… or at least so it seems for a moment, before the man finally turns, sees you, and goggles.

"What the… who the hell are you?!"

"I…"

"Where is Mihawk?" he insists, which is a question you have no answer for, but that at the same time is enough to dispel your doubts: he had no idea you were coming, and was actually waiting for someone else - perhaps an ally or an accomplice.

It takes your target half a second to notice the gun you are aiming at him. "What the…?!" he exclaims, letting his second cigarette fall to the floor and grabbing his sword.

It is already a full second to late.

"Jack 'The Tiger' Vespertine." you begin, mimicking the formal tone you heard your mother use so many times; you will decide to do away with the declaration of intents by your third assignment, like virtually all World Government-sanctioned mercenaries and killers for hire do, especially when the target is already aware of the danger they are in and armed, but since this is your first time you deem appropriate to follow the rules to the letter "You have been found guilty of twelve counts of murder…"

Vespertine's sword is drawn with a movement too fast for your eyes to follow, but thank all the Gods you are fast as well, and ready; a battle-cry fills the air, and half a second later, when the man has barely had the time to raise his blade above his head, your finger pulls the trigger, and the bullet explodes out of the gun's barrel, opening a hole in the middle of his forehead.

Vespertine is not an heavy man, but the thud of his body hitting the ground is deafening, the ground shaking under your feet. He doesn't move, and for a full minute you don't either; you stare at the body in front of you, your gun still pointed at him even though you know he is most likely already dead, as you push his sword away with your boot. You can't see his face, since he has fallen on his belly, so, for safety's sake, you shoot him again, in the back; the man doesn't move, which is proof enough for you.

Somewhere in the distance, the carrion crow cries again, a sound vaguely similar to an acid laugh; you glance all around you, making sure you are still alone and no one witnessed your actions, and then cautiously crouch down, using your free hand to turn the body on his back and look at it -at him- in the face.

This moment is the reason why you decided to do it like this. Up close, looking at him in the face and making sure he saw you and, within reason, knew you were going to kill him, instead of finding a safer way, hidden among the shrubs or from a moving vehicle or even at the third floor of a building, so that your target would have no way to know what was going to happen, and to defend himself. You had to let him know; not because you owed him (he was a killer, scum like that was entitled to nothing) but because you needed it.

"There is nothing wrong with aiming from a distance, and shooting at someone who doesn't expect it, at least if you're a mercenary and chasing a certain sort of people; in a fair duel, or when the person you are shooting at deserves to know what is going to happen to them, different rules apply." your grandfather told you one day, as you walked together in the fortress' gardens, at the end of yet another training session; he was an honourable man, your grandfather, but he was also smart and pragmatic, and he knew honour was something a person could not always afford to care for, and that when you didn't leave someone else to pay for your actions there was nothing wrong with running away to fight another day "We are not swordfighters; we don't duel for supremacy, for a grandiose title or so that everyone in the world knows our name. The gun is a weapon; if you want to kill someone, use it and it will do its work. It's not your friend, or a talisman that endows you with some arcane power; it is a tool that you need to learn to use, otherwise you will be the one getting hurt. It is a bloody business, a raw and practical one, devoid of heroics and ethics, but it can protect you and help you make your way in the world. It all depends on you. Just..."

"Just?"

Your grandfather had stopped, contemplating the rose bushes your mother tended to personally, and that ran all around a tiny plot of grass, where your family had enjoyed so many outdoor breakfasts.

"What I'm trying to say is that using firearms, especially for a deadly purpose like you mean to, is something you mustn't take lightly." he continued as he looked at you; he loved you dearly, but in that moment there was sternness in him, as if he were warning you against a terrible danger, or a grave crime you were about to commit. You liked it; he was the first person to treat you like an adult, years before you could even vaguely call yourself that "It... goes to your head; the power to kill with a simple press of your finger can make even the most rational and moderate person feel all-powerful. And the risk of forgetting it is people you are shooting at and killing, not clay pigeons or game to serve at dinner, is high."

You looked at him; he was probably the person you loved the most in the world behind your mother, and he was wiser than even her. You trusted him completely, and you knew he only wanted what was best for you; had he said bathing every day in olive oil would make you immortal, you would have believed him.

"And you think this could happen to me?" you asked, afraid of hearing his answer; evening was approaching, flames of red and purple painting the darkening sky above your heads "I... I don't want it to, grandfather; I only want to kill bad people, like you did. I don't want to become bad myself."

Suddenly he smiled, as he took your hand in his like he did when you were still so young you needed to be guided as you walked. "I have faith in you, (name); I know there is no kinder girl in all the four seas, and I am sure you will one day rule over our island with justice and mercy." he told you "But if you really want to become a gunslinger... you have to promise me something: when you kill a man, you have to look at him in the eyes; not necessarily before, as I told you, but at least after. Take responsibility for what you have done, and face the consequence of your actions. Especially the first time."

A sudden gust of wind passed over you; the evening was warm, but you suddenly felt chilled.

"Promise me, (name)."

"I promise, grandfather. I will do as you said."

And you do, contemplating the body of the man in front of you, now truly alone in that isolated corner of the world. You feel no guilt; rather, you are proud of yourself, and you know your grandfather will be as well, when you'll call home to reassure him and your mother you are all right. You have proved yourself, punished a vicious murderer, and given justice to his victims. All in all, a good day... even though you do feel a bit upset, even if you couldn't exactly say why.

You can't tear your eyes away from Vespertine -or rather, from his mortal remains- even longer than what your grandfather would deem necessary. The bullet you have killed him with went right through his cranium, but the hole it created is no bigger than a bean at the centre of his forehead, and his face is still perfectly recognizable... which is good, since you wouldn't be able to collect the bounty if you can't prove you killed the right man. You saw another body once, an inexperienced guard on your island, who had shot himself in the face with his service pistol as he cleaned it, and the bullet had completely erased his features, so much that even his parents couldn't formally recognize him...

Vespertine's old bounty poster, from the time he was still part of his old pirate crew, is folded in the inside pocket of your jacket; you take it out, open it, observe it carefully comparing the man in the picture with the one lying on the ground in front of you, and finally sigh, relieved. You had already checked it for the third time twenty minutes ago, as you waited for the right moment in the foreman's office, to make sure you had actually found the right man and were not about to kill an innocent who simply resembled him, but this is obviously the first time you can examine him up close and yes, this is undoubtedly Vespertine himself. You killed him... but your work is not over yet.

Still, you can't stop looking at him. His eyes, of the same colour of your mother's, are still open, a single drop of blood that slid down from the wound leaving a tiny blood trail along the side of his nose. He had had time to realize you were attempting to kill him, but his expression betrays neither fear, nor rage, nor the pain he must have felt as he died; rather, he seems... surprised, as if he really hadn't expected to see you, to be attacked, and that that quiet, still morning would be the last of his life.

I'm doing it, grandfather, you think; you will make sure to tell him in person once you're back home, to let him know you haven't forgotten what he had taught you, but for now, mentally addressing him is the best you can do. Just like you told me to. And now I know what you meant; I feel exactly as you thought I would. I killed him; and all it took was pulling a trigger. He wasn't a good man, and he deserved this and even more. But still... But still...

It is sudden and violent, like a punch (or a bullet) to the stomach; the bounty poster falls from your fingers, and you fall to your knees, your legs unable to support you. Your head swims; your heart beats fast enough to hurt; cold sweat covers your back, your arms, your whole body...

A disgusting sound (bleeeaarrggghh) escapes your lips, followed by everything you had eaten in the last twelve hours.

*****

You start feeling a little better fifteen minutes later, and thank all the Gods you have water and paper towels in your bag, which allows you to clean yourself at least a little bit.

After a brief rest, you get to work, retrieving other tools from your bag: a knife, a sturdy sack, the sort you use to store grain or flour, and a tinderbox. You bit your lip, ordering yourself not to feel sick again, as you cut Vespertine's head, sawing through skin and tendons and bone and separating it from his body; consequently, you put it in the sack. Collecting wood takes you only a few minutes, since the countryside abounds with fallen branches and twigs; lighting a fire is equally easy, since you have been taught to use flint and steel since you were a little girl. Dragging your victim's body over the (still unlit) pyre is the hardest part, since he must be twice as heavy as you, but in the end you succeed, and soon Vespertine's remains are burning and then reduced to ashes, leaving no trace of his passing that an eventual friend or ally could trace back to you. Unsure of what to do with it, you finally bury the man's sword near the entrance of the mine, digging with your bare hands since you don't have a shovel at hand and making sure it cannot be found.

You then place the sack containing your victim's head in your bag; the idea of carrying that thing around is more than a little disgusting, but doing the same with the entire body would be much more tiring, and your grandfather said it will be more than enough to claim the bounty, since a severed head is clear proof of a person's death.

Soon after, you set off. You haven't lowered your guard yet, in case Vespertine hadn't come alone or had friends and allies nearby, not to mention that watching your back will now have to become the norm, but you feel relieved you have completed your task, and you can't wait to reward yourself with a good meal, cash the bounty and return home to tell your mother and grandfather about your first success as a mercenary.

You have started whistling a popular song of your island, the warmth of the blooming day kissing your skin, when suddenly you are not alone on the road anymore; a tall man is walking purposefully towards you, and towards the mine... a man with a large sword hanging from his belt.

Shit. Vespertine did say he was expecting someone, and while you cannot be sure this guy is (was) a friend of your victim and would want to avenge his death, the best, safest thing you can do is to get away as quickly as you can, before he realizes what has happened and that you must be responsible for it. Is it cowardly? Perhaps - no, it surely is, and your grandfather did tell you the honourable man is very often the dead man as well, and you are a mercenary, not a warrior, you are not bound by a code of conduct and it would be very stupid to risk your life when you have nothing to gain from it, but...

But...

"Excuse me." you call to the man who has by now walked five or six steps behind you, turning to look at him and thinking back to your brief conversation with Vespertine "Is your name... Mihawk?"

The man turns, clearly surprised to hear a stranger mention his name. He is very tall, slim but strong, dark-haired, practically but elegantly dressed.

"Do I know you?" he asks after a moment he has spent observing you.

"No, but perhaps we have a mutual acquaintance. Did you know Jack "The Tiger" Vespertine? Were you meant to meet him today?"

You grimace, realizing you have used the past tense when this man -Mihawk- still has no idea Vespertine is dead. This is probably the stupidest, most dangerous thing you have ever done, a leap in the dark, because your gun is still charged and nothing would stop you from at least trying to kill your second swordsman of the day, but you could simply keep walking, and he would have no way to know what has happened, since there is no trace of Vespertine's remains and by the time Mihawk may suspect he had been killed, you would be long gone.

Still. Something in your heart tells you you are doing the right thing, because you are not a coward, and because this man will not prove to be a danger for you. You don't know why, but you are sure.

"Is he a friend of yours?"

Mihawk brings his arms to his chest; he is still staring, and there is something in his gaze that makes you squirm - in his gaze, or perhaps in his eyes, which are of a very unusual colour...

"Why should I tell you?" he asks in the end.

"No reason, actually." you admit "It's just... well, I hope you were not close friends, or related, because he is dead."

Silence. You tense, ready for whatever his reaction will be, but the man lets his arms fall to his sides, without touching his sword - a good blade, he will tell you in time, but still largely inferior to Yoru, that will not come into his possession for a few years still.

"You killed him?"

"I did. Less than an hour ago, at the mine he was waiting for you at."

"Are you a pirate?"

No, just the daughter of one, you are for a moment about to answer, before quickly stopping yourself. You have been sworn to silence regarding the identity of your father, for the safety of your family and your own, and you have never been tempted to break that promise until now. What is happening to you?, you wonder, feeling strangely numbed all of a sudden, why do you instinctively feel able, or even eager, to share your secrets with a man you had never met before...?

(You will understand it; in time. And you will be happy of it.)

"No; I'm a mercenary working for the World Government." you answer in the end, trying to pull yourself together; it is technically not the truth, at least until you cash your first bounty, but the Marines do have a number of killers for hire on call, and who knows, perhaps one day you will be part of that selected circle... "Vespertine left a long list of victims behind him, there is a bounty on his head."

"I see."

You wait for him to elaborate, to express rage or regret or joy at the news of Vespertine's death, but Mihawk is clearly not the loquacious sort, because he keeps his emotions for himself, and "Thanks for telling me." he simply says.

"No problem. Why was he waiting for you?" you ask again, cocking your head; you have no idea of how dangerous he is, even now that he is little more than a boy, but even if you knew, you wouldn't be deterred. You are curious... and fascinated, somehow, by this stern and hermetic young man.

Mihawk looks at you, clearly disapproving of your curiosity, but in the end he sighs, and finally gives you the explanation you wanted. "We were meant to duel, Vespertine and I. He had challenged me a month ago, and we were meant to meet this morning at the mine. I... am running late, unfortunately, because the ship I took to reach this island clashed against a larger one and for a while it seemed it would go under."

"Oh, that's... scary."

He shrugs, clearly unconcerned. "I would have managed, I am a capable swimmer. I was just afraid Vespertine thought I had decided not to meet him because I was afraid."

"He... was a capable swordsman?" you ask again, still eager to learn more; the only bladed weapon you have ever handled is the knife you use at the table and, now, the larger one you took with you from home to separate your victim's head from his body, but you have always been fascinated by the world of the swordfighters, bound by a strict code of behaviour, who often have to prove themselves before a more experienced fighter accepts to train them and among whom most serious duels end with the death of one of the two opponents. For them, the weapon is not a tool, of defense and offense; it is... an art. A cult, almost.

"Above average, from what I saw, which is not saying much. But he had challenged me, and refusing would have been a stain upon my honour."

Just like you expected. "I see. Well." you add, suddenly embarrassed "I'm sorry I took your opponent away from you."

Mihawk shrugs, marginally more inclined to chat. "If he let you kill him, it means he wasn't a worthy opponent." he reasons; he has no facial hair, but his sideburns are long and neatly trimmed, and while already tall he's still a few inches away from his full stature "I should thank you for saving me a futile effort."

You cock your head, an eyebrow raised. "Are you saying I am less capable a markswoman than you are a swordsman?" you inquire; you don't care if Mihawk will propose to see for yourselves and challenge you, forgotten is the guilt you felt for ruining his morning. Who the hell this smart-ass thinks he is, especially considering you must be the same age? You don't care how actually powerful he is, you wouldn't even care if he were the world's strongest swordsman, no one can insult you and get away with it "Is it because I am a woman? Or because I use a gun and not a sword?"

"No, I..."

"I'll have you know I've been trained by one of the most capable former mercenaries of the four seas, and that Vespertine didn't even have the time to attack me before I put a bullet through his head."

"I'm sure you are more than capable." Mihawk says, clearly aiming to pacify you but, fortunately, without sounding patronizing "Forgive me; I meant no disrespect."

He seems sincere - he is, he will confess to you years later, and deeply embarrassed for the gaffe he just made; it is rare for him to admit he had erred... but, he will confide you with the shadow of a smile, he is happy those words didn't make you hate him, then and in the years to come. Because of this you decide to forgive him, and

"If you want we can split the bounty." you propose, feeling generous; you intended to donate the money to someone who needed it on your island, but you can take another assignment soon "Or, you know, there is Verspertine's sword, I can tell you where I buried it..."

Mihawk shakes his head. "I can only take another swordsman's blade if I am the one who bested them; in any case, I doubt a man like Vespertine owned a blade I could be interested in." he points out "And I don't need compensation; you killed him, you deserve to keep the money. Well, I... I suppose I should go back."

"Right..."

Silently, you both set off once more, walking side by side along the only path towards the nearest village. You are still on edge, both happy for your first success and shaken by the fact that you have, after all, just killed a man, but soon you find yourself focusing on something else... namely, on the young man walking next to you. He is undoubtedly handsome, but it's something else that piques your curiosity... a depth, and complexity, unusual for one so young, and that you can perceive behind his apparently impassible façade.

"So." you begin conversationally after a while; you have almost a mile to walk to the village, and maybe chatting will make you reach your destination faster "Are you any good with that sword?"

Mihawk grunts, the tiniest hint of amusement in his voice. "I like to think I am more than good."

"Really? Are you famous?"

"I am... becoming famous. This is why Vespertine wanted to duel me."

"And you think you would have beaten him?"

"I know I would have."

He speaks matter-of-factly, as if describing an undeniable truth and without the slightest hint of arrogance or overconfidence; you usually appreciate humility, and you have no way to know whether he is as good as he thinks he is, but you like the self-assurance he carries himself with.

"So this is what you do? Go around, duel other swordsmen so that you make a name for yourself as a powerful fighter?"

"I do." Mihawk easily acknowledges "When I'm not too busy fighting the Marines and looking for a loot or another."

"You're a pirate."

"I am. A wanted one, in case you were thinking of claiming my bounty as well."

You smile, aware you are both involved in a game whose rules are still undecided. "Is that a challenge?" you inquire, and Mihawk shrugs, looking straight in front of him.

"If you want to consider it as such."

"I see. Luckily for you, I intend to cash Vespertine's bounty before looking for another assignment, so I will not challenge you today."

"Luckily for me..."

Silence falls between you, an unexpectedly companionable one considering you have known each other only for a few minutes. As you glance sideways at Mihawk, you can't help noticing his eyes, yellow like the ones of a hawk; you have never seen anything of the sort, but there is beauty in his gaze.

"What about you?" Mihawk asks "What has brought you to become a mercenary?"

"Are you surprised?"

"Women are a minority in the trade, those as young as you even more so. You are wearing clothes of good quality, which means you are probably not doing it for the money. Am I right?"

"You are."

Mihawk grins. "As I thought. So what? Are you following in a relative's footsteps? Or were you simply bored?"

"Both things, in a sense." you admit, walking leisurely along the mud-smeared path; the fact that a virtual stranger is able to read you so easily should upset you, but it doesn't, maybe because you can perceive Mihawk poses no danger to you, or maybe not "I... simply needed to test myself. Growing up, I never had to worry about money, or fear for my safety; I'm not saying I was spoiled, or that I spend my days idling without duties and responsibilities, but I feared letting things go like they were meant to, I would become indolent, content with what I had but unable to aim higher. I never needed to prove I was strong, and clever, and capable of taking care of myself; but I wanted to make sure I was anyway."

You are not sure your reasoning makes sense, especially to someone who barely knows you, but Mihawk nods in understanding - in approval, even. "That was brave of you. And clever."

"I just wanted to do what I thought was right."

Twenty minutes of sporadic but pleasant conversation later, you have reached the village, actually little more than a handful of houses and little shops and a tiny harbour, connected by a regular ferry service to a larger island from where you can easily catch another boat to return home. Perhaps, you reflect, you should think about buying a small ship of your own; experienced sailors are not lacking on your island, and you could ask someone to teach you...

"You want to join me for a meal?" you propose as you walk past a tavern; you know you and Mihawk are destined to part soon anyway and will probably never meet again, but he is the most interesting person you have met in a long while, and you like talking to him "After all it's breakfast time..."

Mihawk hesitates for a moment, taken aback by your offer. "I'd... like that." he answers, and you could swear that surprises him as well "But I need to depart soon."

"I see. Well..."

You are both standing in the village's tiny, almost empty square. This is good-bye, then, you're about to say, but impulsively you step closer to the man in front of you, who tenses. "What...?"

"Your eyes." you murmur without realizing. You were right, they are yellow, their gaze piercing and deep, intense albeit not necessarily cruel "They are... beautiful."

"... you think?"

"Of course; I had never seen anyone with eyes like yours! They make you look like a bird of prey. Like an hawk."

Something in your words makes the man in front of you smile; he is flattered, and still not as good at hiding his emotions as he will be in twenty years. "I've been told that before."

"Is it hereditary? Do you have a particularly sharp vision or...?"

"I... don't think so; no one I have ever met has them, and I see normally."

"Amazing..."

Silence again; you face each other, both still so young, full of dreams and ambition, unaware of what the future has in store for you - individually and not. Neither has any idea you will meet again, and how your relationship will change and grow, but in that moment, both of you are sure, a sort of quiet, clear certitude: you will remember that brief encounter forever.

In the end Mihawk takes a step back, both literally and metaphorically. "I should go." he softly points out nodding in the direction of the village's harbour "So... good-bye."

"Good-bye, Mihawk." you answer, intimately saddened for reasons you can't fully explain even to yourself; it is not like you to get attached to people you barely know, but there is something interesting in this young swordsman, something special, and you wouldn't mind having the time to discover exactly what...

A nod, the hint of a smile, and he's walking away. You look at his retreating figure for a minute, his dark hair gently swaying in the breeze, his hand elegantly resting on the hilt of his sword.

"Maybe one day we'll meet again." you call out to him, making Mihawk turn "Maybe I'll be asked to bring you in to the Marines."

He smiles; once again, amused, but not patronizing. "I look forward to it." he answers, raising an hand in farewell "What is your name?"

"It's (name). Lady (name)."

"I'll be seeing you then, lady (name)."

A minute later he has disappeared, hidden by the buildings across the square. You smile to yourself; something tells you Mihawk is destined to make a name for himself, as a pirate and even more as a swordsman, and you can only hope that, by your next meeting, you will have done the same.

Still, that could take years, and in the meantime you have a couple of more pressing matters to attend to: breakfast, since your stomach has started growling, and calling both your family, to let her know you're all right, and the Marines.

You decide to take care of that first, to get it over with. You glance once more at the tavern, hoping the coffee they offer is better than the one you drank on the ferry, retrieve your transponder snail from a side pocket of your bag, and dial the number you had learnt by heart before setting off from home. You could technically cash Vespertine's bounty in any Marine base of the world, but you decided to do it at their HQ, especially since it's your first time; you hope it will be easier to get noticed, and make a name for yourself as a capable mercenary.

"Good morning. Who do I have to talk to in order to claim a bounty? Vice-Admiral Garp? Yes, put me through to him, please..."

[districtfourmermaid]

Do you have specific locations in mind when you write about Panem? For example, is 12 in a particular part of Appalachia for you, etc? I can't tell from Katharsis (which, don't worry about that, because trust me, it says way more about my geography skills than your writing skills lol) so I was curious!

Ahoy, sweet reader!!! Thank you so much for asking this, because it touches on something I have been thinking about more this year. And bear with me, I'm gonna go off a minute, and it will veer more towards Four.

First, let's look at the movie!official map.

Something that has always bothered me about this is the size and proximity of the Districts. There are some, particularly Nine, Ten, and Eleven, that we can infer or were described as taking up more land. For their industries, they must. However, it is noted that most Districts' populations and economic centers are concentrated in singular towns. In those geographically larger Districts, workers may be shuttled between home and work sites, but there is a limit to how far that can stretch. Two is noted to be the odd one out with its multiple villages. So, given that we know the Districts do not actually take up this kind of space, that there are miles and miles of wilds between their borders, it is really just a display of potential ranges.

I always imagined Twelve in the northern Appalachians, a little east of this map, since I wasn't accounting for as much sea level rise. I like having Thirteen further north, nearer old Canada, to incorporate a wider range of North America, and a Twelve in the northern part of the mountains lets us have that without them being too far for the commutes in Mockingjay. In Ch. 16, I said Buttercup "trekked hundreds of miles," and to get that, I mapped West Virginia to New York. Not super precise. When she gathers herbs in Ch. 9, I did double check their current ranges and preferred growing habitats to try to be accurate. Northern creep explained by climate change. Coming up, they will eat some wild boar. Feral swine are a big nuisance in the south, and they can get up to the range depicted for Twelve. May even spread further with such a decrease in urban environments, but I'm not a terrestrial biologist. Here, the range for Twelve is smaller than the other Districts, and I don't have a more specific headcanon aside from being biased for the bit closer to Pennsylvania.

Now, being a Chicago gal, I do appreciate its inclusion at the tip of District 6. It's where the transcontinental railroad connected and has historically been the intersection of many a terrestrial trade route--and big about trains--thanks to the Great Lakes! To me, Six is there, and they still use old railway paths and the lakes for moving things, even if there isn't much in the direction the lakes lead anymore. No idea why Three would be there; I used to headcanon that as somewhere in California like Silicon Valley or wherever those people moved after it was eaten by the sea. Three should be closer to Five, which is very appropriately placed where solar panels will get a lot of action.

So, about District 4. When I first read the books, if I thought about seafood in the US, I thought about Bubba from Forrest Gump and all the glorious ways he enjoyed shrimp. This led my first thought about District 4 to the Gulf of Mexico. Later, the West coast grew on me, but Southern Four will always have a place in my heart. And that connects to my next point. Let's talk about Aquaculture!

This figure represents world-wide industry and our current environment, so we must take it with a grain of salt to extrapolate to Panem. That said, I do believe that Four does a combination of wild capture and aquaculture. Wild fisheries could be completely depleted for all we know! Aquaculture is the way of sustainability, and I can go on about that for hours. BUT do you know what the top-cultured aquatic species in the US is today? Catfish!

This map is shows the profit of catfish and other freshwater species like bass and tilapia in the South. If we roll with Four being on the West coast, then I will always put it in the northern part of that. Note the shade of Washington. That's salmon and trout! Salmonids and other prized seafood species are cold water animals! They also do a fair amount of salmonid aquaculture in Idaho. I do not buy a Californian District 4. Not with the way the waters are warming. There is so much salmonid aquaculture up that coast into Canada, too! And the "Yellow Death" that Four's trout hatchery scientists make a new vaccine for in Katharsis Ch. 11 is a Flavobacterium sp.

Anyway, thanks for asking!!!

[devilboydogman]

OH GOD ANOTHER BRAIN WORM FOR THIS CROSSOVER LORD HELP ME-

“Diane,” said the younger agent from the driver’s seat, “11:30 A.M., February 24th. Entering the town of Twin Peaks. It’s five miles south of the Canadian border, twelve miles east of the state line.”

Will kept his head leaned agianst the passenger seat window as he listened to Dale speak into his recorder, even as his skull vibrated agsainst the glass with the movement of the car down the road.

“I’ve never seen so many trees in my life!” Dale dropped the suave-agent tone for just a moment to be proclaim his fascination for nature, and Will had to smile a little bit at the innocent sort of wonder in his voice.

Will listened as the professional tone returned and Dale began detailing their trip to his secretary. Will preferred to write the notes he sent back to the bureau, but he knew well of Dale Cooper’s M.O., the way he used that mini cassette recorder as both a note dictation medium and as a security blanket of sorts, expressing thoughts and feelings that often had little-to nothing to do with cases to Diane Evans simply because he felt comforted in doing so. “...Remind me to tell you how much that was ...Lunch was, uh, ham sandwich on wheat, a cup of coffee, and a slice of cherry pie, for me. Agent Graham had turkey on rye and a coffee. Damn good food.”

“It was pretty average, Ms. Evans,” Will chimed in aloud, fondly rolling his eyes.

“Well, you didn’t have the pie, Will!” Dale shot back, earnestly, then continued with the details of where and who they were to meet when they arrived. Will hoped that the sheriff who shared a name wiht the 33rd President of the United States would be cooperative.

Will sat up and straightened his tie slightly as they rolled into the town, knowing they’d shortly be coming upon their destination of Calhoun Memorial Hospital to meet with the Sheriff. Bureau dress codes were a pain and a half to Will, but he usually got away with leaving his top button undone, his suit jacket unbuttoned, and his tie a bit loose. It simply felt too constricing otherwise. The damn trench coat made him feel like he should be smoking a cigar in a grizzly detective noir film. He had the five o’clock shadow and tired eyes to complete the look, anyway.

The uniform made Dale, on the other hand, look like an overenthusiastic kid taking dress-up way too seriously. Will knew that hair style of his had to feel like hell, the amount of gel he used.

[eternal-haunt]

Yesterday afternoon set in misty and cold. I had half a mind to spend it by my study fire, instead of wading through heath and mud to Wuthering Heights. On coming up from dinner, however, (N.B.—I dine between twelve and one o’clock; the housekeeper, a matronly lady, taken as a fixture along with the house, could not, or would not, comprehend my request that I might be served at five)—on mounting the stairs with this lazy intention, and stepping into the room, I saw a servant-girl on her knees surrounded by brushes and coal-scuttles, and raising an infernal dust as she extinguished the flames with heaps of cinders. This spectacle drove me back immediately; I took my hat, and, after a four-miles’ walk, arrived at Heathcliff’s garden-gate just in time to escape the first feathery flakes of a snow-shower.

On that bleak hill-top the earth was hard with a black frost, and the air made me shiver through every limb. Being unable to remove the chain, I jumped over, and, running up the flagged causeway bordered with straggling gooseberry-bushes, knocked vainly for admittance, till my knuckles tingled and the dogs howled.

‘Wretched inmates!’ I ejaculated, mentally, ‘you deserve perpetual isolation from your species for your churlish inhospitality. At least, I would not keep my doors barred in the day-time. I don’t care—I will get in!’ So resolved, I grasped the latch and shook it vehemently. Vinegar-faced Joseph projected his head from a round window of the barn.

‘What are ye for?’ he shouted. ‘T’ maister’s down i’ t’ fowld. Go round by th’ end o’ t’ laith, if ye went to spake to him.’

‘Is there nobody inside to open the door?’ I hallooed, responsively.

‘There’s nobbut t’ missis; and shoo’ll not oppen ’t an ye mak’ yer flaysome dins till neeght.’

‘Why? Cannot you tell her whom I am, eh, Joseph?’

‘Nor-ne me! I’ll hae no hend wi’t,’ muttered the head, vanishing.

The snow began to drive thickly. I seized the handle to essay another trial; when a young man without coat, and shouldering a pitchfork, appeared in the yard behind. He hailed me to follow him, and, after marching through a wash-house, and a paved area containing a coal-shed, pump, and pigeon-cot, we at length arrived in the huge, warm, cheerful apartment where I was formerly received. It glowed delightfully in the radiance of an immense fire, compounded of coal, peat, and wood; and near the table, laid for a plentiful evening meal, I was pleased to observe the ‘missis’, an individual whose existence I had never previously suspected. I bowed and waited, thinking she would bid me take a seat. She looked at me, leaning back in her chair, and remained motionless and mute.

‘Rough weather!’ I remarked. ‘I’m afraid, Mrs. Heathcliff, the door must bear the consequence of your servants’ leisure attendance: I had hard work to make them hear me.’

She never opened her mouth. I stared—she stared also: at any rate, she kept her eyes on me in a cool, regardless manner, exceedingly embarrassing and disagreeable.

‘Sit down,’ said the young man, gruffly. ‘He’ll be in soon.’

I obeyed; and hemmed, and called the villain Juno, who deigned, at this second interview, to move the extreme tip of her tail, in token of owning my acquaintance.

‘A beautiful animal!’ I commenced again. ‘Do you intend parting with the little ones, madam?’

‘They are not mine,’ said the amiable hostess, more repellingly than Heathcliff himself could have replied.

‘Ah, your favourites are among these?’ I continued, turning to an obscure cushion full of something like cats.

‘A strange choice of favourites!’ she observed scornfully.

Unluckily, it was a heap of dead rabbits. I hemmed once more, and drew closer to the hearth, repeating my comment on the wildness of the evening.

‘You should not have come out,’ she said, rising and reaching from the chimney-piece two of the painted canisters.

Her position before was sheltered from the light; now, I had a distinct view of her whole figure and countenance. She was slender, and apparently scarcely past girlhood: an admirable form, and the most exquisite little face that I have ever had the pleasure of beholding; small features, very fair; flaxen ringlets, or rather golden, hanging loose on her delicate neck; and eyes, had they been agreeable in expression, that would have been irresistible: fortunately for my susceptible heart, the only sentiment they evinced hovered between scorn and a kind of desperation, singularly unnatural to be detected there. The canisters were almost out of her reach; I made a motion to aid her; she turned upon me as a miser might turn if any one attempted to assist him in counting his gold.

‘I don’t want your help,’ she snapped; ‘I can get them for myself.’

‘I beg your pardon!’ I hastened to reply.

‘Were you asked to tea?’ she demanded, tying an apron over her neat black frock, and standing with a spoonful of the leaf poised over the pot.

‘I shall be glad to have a cup,’ I answered.

‘Were you asked?’ she repeated.

‘No,’ I said, half smiling. ‘You are the proper person to ask me.’

She flung the tea back, spoon and all, and resumed her chair in a pet; her forehead corrugated, and her red under-lip pushed out, like a child’s ready to cry.

Meanwhile, the young man had slung on to his person a decidedly shabby upper garment, and, erecting himself before the blaze, looked down on me from the corner of his eyes, for all the world as if there were some mortal feud unavenged between us. I began to doubt whether he were a servant or not: his dress and speech were both rude, entirely devoid of the superiority observable in Mr. and Mrs. Heathcliff; his thick brown curls were rough and uncultivated, his whiskers encroached bearishly over his cheeks, and his hands were embrowned like those of a common labourer: still his bearing was free, almost haughty, and he showed none of a domestic’s assiduity in attending on the lady of the house. In the absence of clear proofs of his condition, I deemed it best to abstain from noticing his curious conduct; and, five minutes afterwards, the entrance of Heathcliff relieved me, in some measure, from my uncomfortable state.

‘You see, sir, I am come, according to promise!’ I exclaimed, assuming the cheerful; ‘and I fear I shall be weather-bound for half an hour, if you can afford me shelter during that space.’

‘Half an hour?’ he said, shaking the white flakes from his clothes; ‘I wonder you should select the thick of a snow-storm to ramble about in. Do you know that you run a risk of being lost in the marshes? People familiar with these moors often miss their road on such evenings; and I can tell you there is no chance of a change at present.’

‘Perhaps I can get a guide among your lads, and he might stay at the Grange till morning—could you spare me one?’

‘No, I could not.’

‘Oh, indeed! Well, then, I must trust to my own sagacity.’

‘Umph!’

‘Are you going to mak’ the tea?’ demanded he of the shabby coat, shifting his ferocious gaze from me to the young lady.

‘Is he to have any?’ she asked, appealing to Heathcliff.

‘Get it ready, will you?’ was the answer, uttered so savagely that I started. The tone in which the words were said revealed a genuine bad nature. I no longer felt inclined to call Heathcliff a capital fellow. When the preparations were finished, he invited me with ‘Now, sir, bring forward your chair.’ And we all, including the rustic youth, drew round the table: an austere silence prevailing while we discussed our meal.

I thought, if I had caused the cloud, it was my duty to make an effort to dispel it. They could not every day sit so grim and taciturn; and it was impossible, however ill-tempered they might be, that the universal scowl they wore was their everyday countenance.

‘It is strange,’ I began, in the interval of swallowing one cup of tea and receiving another ‘it is strange how custom can mould our tastes and ideas: many could not imagine the existence of happiness in a life of such complete exile from the world as you spend, Mr. Heathcliff; yet, I’ll venture to say, that, surrounded by your family, and with your amiable lady as the presiding genius over your home and heart—’

‘My amiable lady!’ he interrupted, with an almost diabolical sneer on his face. ‘Where is she—my amiable lady?’

‘Mrs. Heathcliff, your wife, I mean.’

‘Well, yes—oh, you would intimate that her spirit has taken the post of ministering angel, and guards the fortunes of Wuthering Heights, even when her body is gone. Is that it?’

Perceiving myself in a blunder, I attempted to correct it. I might have seen there was too great a disparity between the ages of the parties to make it likely that they were man and wife. One was about forty: a period of mental vigour at which men seldom cherish the delusion of being married for love by girls: that dream is reserved for the solace of our declining years. The other did not look seventeen.

Then it flashed on me— ‘The clown at my elbow, who is drinking his tea out of a basin and eating his broad with unwashed hands, may be her husband: Heathcliff junior, of course. Here is the consequence of being buried alive: she has thrown herself away upon that boor from sheer ignorance that better individuals existed! A sad pity—I must beware how I cause her to regret her choice.’ The last reflection may seem conceited; it was not. My neighbour struck me as bordering on repulsive; I knew, through experience, that I was tolerably attractive.

‘Mrs. Heathcliff is my daughter-in-law,’ said Heathcliff, corroborating my surmise. He turned, as he spoke, a peculiar look in her direction: a look of hatred; unless he has a most perverse set of facial muscles that will not, like those of other people, interpret the language of his soul.

‘Ah, certainly—I see now: you are the favoured possessor of the beneficent fairy,’ I remarked, turning to my neighbour.

This was worse than before: the youth grew crimson, and clenched his fist, with every appearance of a meditated assault. But he seemed to recollect himself presently, and smothered the storm in a brutal curse, muttered on my behalf: which, however, I took care not to notice.

‘Unhappy in your conjectures, sir,’ observed my host; ‘we neither of us have the privilege of owning your good fairy; her mate is dead. I said she was my daughter-in-law: therefore, she must have married my son.’

‘And this young man is—’

‘Not my son, assuredly.’

Heathcliff smiled again, as if it were rather too bold a jest to attribute the paternity of that bear to him.

‘My name is Hareton Earnshaw,’ growled the other; ‘and I’d counsel you to respect it!’

‘I’ve shown no disrespect,’ was my reply, laughing internally at the dignity with which he announced himself.

He fixed his eye on me longer than I cared to return the stare, for fear I might be tempted either to box his ears or render my hilarity audible. I began to feel unmistakably out of place in that pleasant family circle. The dismal spiritual atmosphere overcame, and more than neutralised, the glowing physical comforts round me; and I resolved to be cautious how I ventured under those rafters a third time.

The business of eating being concluded, and no one uttering a word of sociable conversation, I approached a window to examine the weather. A sorrowful sight I saw: dark night coming down prematurely, and sky and hills mingled in one bitter whirl of wind and suffocating snow.

‘I don’t think it possible for me to get home now without a guide,’ I could not help exclaiming. ‘The roads will be buried already; and, if they were bare, I could scarcely distinguish a foot in advance.’

‘Hareton, drive those dozen sheep into the barn porch. They’ll be covered if left in the fold all night: and put a plank before them,’ said Heathcliff.

‘How must I do?’ I continued, with rising irritation.

There was no reply to my question; and on looking round I saw only Joseph bringing in a pail of porridge for the dogs, and Mrs. Heathcliff leaning over the fire, diverting herself with burning a bundle of matches which had fallen from the chimney-piece as she restored the tea-canister to its place. The former, when he had deposited his burden, took a critical survey of the room, and in cracked tones grated out ‘Aw wonder how yah can faishion to stand thear i’ idleness un war, when all on ’ems goan out! Bud yah’re a nowt, and it’s no use talking—yah’ll niver mend o’yer ill ways, but goa raight to t’ divil, like yer mother afore ye!’

I imagined, for a moment, that this piece of eloquence was addressed to me; and, sufficiently enraged, stepped towards the aged rascal with an intention of kicking him out of the door. Mrs. Heathcliff, however, checked me by her answer.

‘You scandalous old hypocrite!’ she replied. ‘Are you not afraid of being carried away bodily, whenever you mention the devil’s name? I warn you to refrain from provoking me, or I’ll ask your abduction as a special favour! Stop! look here, Joseph,’ she continued, taking a long, dark book from a shelf; ‘I’ll show you how far I’ve progressed in the Black Art: I shall soon be competent to make a clear house of it. The red cow didn’t die by chance; and your rheumatism can hardly be reckoned among providential visitations!’

‘Oh, wicked, wicked!’ gasped the elder; ‘may the Lord deliver us from evil!’

‘No, reprobate! you are a castaway—be off, or I’ll hurt you seriously! I’ll have you all modelled in wax and clay! and the first who passes the limits I fix shall—I’ll not say what he shall be done to—but, you’ll see! Go, I’m looking at you!’

The little witch put a mock malignity into her beautiful eyes, and Joseph, trembling with sincere horror, hurried out, praying, and ejaculating ‘wicked’ as he went. I thought her conduct must be prompted by a species of dreary fun; and, now that we were alone, I endeavoured to interest her in my distress.

‘Mrs. Heathcliff,’ I said earnestly, ‘you must excuse me for troubling you. I presume, because, with that face, I’m sure you cannot help being good-hearted. Do point out some landmarks by which I may know my way home: I have no more idea how to get there than you would have how to get to London!’

‘Take the road you came,’ she answered, ensconcing herself in a chair, with a candle, and the long book open before her. ‘It is brief advice, but as sound as I can give.’

‘Then, if you hear of me being discovered dead in a bog or a pit full of snow, your conscience won’t whisper that it is partly your fault?’

‘How so? I cannot escort you. They wouldn’t let me go to the end of the garden wall.’

‘You! I should be sorry to ask you to cross the threshold, for my convenience, on such a night,’ I cried. ‘I want you to tell me my way, not to show it: or else to persuade Mr. Heathcliff to give me a guide.’

‘Who? There is himself, Earnshaw, Zillah, Joseph and I. Which would you have?’

‘Are there no boys at the farm?’

‘No; those are all.’

‘Then, it follows that I am compelled to stay.’

‘That you may settle with your host. I have nothing to do with it.’

‘I hope it will be a lesson to you to make no more rash journeys on these hills,’ cried Heathcliff’s stern voice from the kitchen entrance. ‘As to staying here, I don’t keep accommodations for visitors: you must share a bed with Hareton or Joseph, if you do.’

‘I can sleep on a chair in this room,’ I replied.

‘No, no! A stranger is a stranger, be he rich or poor: it will not suit me to permit any one the range of the place while I am off guard!’ said the unmannerly wretch.

With this insult my patience was at an end. I uttered an expression of disgust, and pushed past him into the yard, running against Earnshaw in my haste. It was so dark that I could not see the means of exit; and, as I wandered round, I heard another specimen of their civil behaviour amongst each other. At first the young man appeared about to befriend me.

‘I’ll go with him as far as the park,’ he said.

‘You’ll go with him to hell!’ exclaimed his master, or whatever relation he bore. ‘And who is to look after the horses, eh?’

‘A man’s life is of more consequence than one evening’s neglect of the horses: somebody must go,’ murmured Mrs. Heathcliff, more kindly than I expected.

‘Not at your command!’ retorted Hareton. ‘If you set store on him, you’d better be quiet.’

‘Then I hope his ghost will haunt you; and I hope Mr. Heathcliff will never get another tenant till the Grange is a ruin,’ she answered, sharply.

‘Hearken, hearken, shoo’s cursing on ’em!’ muttered Joseph, towards whom I had been steering.

He sat within earshot, milking the cows by the light of a lantern, which I seized unceremoniously, and, calling out that I would send it back on the morrow, rushed to the nearest postern.

‘Maister, maister, he’s staling t’ lanthern!’ shouted the ancient, pursuing my retreat. ‘Hey, Gnasher! Hey, dog! Hey Wolf, holld him, holld him!’

On opening the little door, two hairy monsters flew at my throat, bearing me down, and extinguishing the light; while a mingled guffaw from Heathcliff and Hareton put the copestone on my rage and humiliation. Fortunately, the beasts seemed more bent on stretching their paws, and yawning, and flourishing their tails, than devouring me alive; but they would suffer no resurrection, and I was forced to lie till their malignant masters pleased to deliver me: then, hatless and trembling with wrath, I ordered the miscreants to let me out—on their peril to keep me one minute longer—with several incoherent threats of retaliation that, in their indefinite depth of virulency, smacked of King Lear.

The vehemence of my agitation brought on a copious bleeding at the nose, and still Heathcliff laughed, and still I scolded. I don’t know what would have concluded the scene, had there not been one person at hand rather more rational than myself, and more benevolent than my entertainer. This was Zillah, the stout housewife; who at length issued forth to inquire into the nature of the uproar. She thought that some of them had been laying violent hands on me; and, not daring to attack her master, she turned her vocal artillery against the younger scoundrel.

‘Well, Mr. Earnshaw,’ she cried, ‘I wonder what you’ll have agait next? Are we going to murder folk on our very door-stones? I see this house will never do for me—look at t’ poor lad, he’s fair choking! Wisht, wisht; you mun’n’t go on so. Come in, and I’ll cure that: there now, hold ye still.’

With these words she suddenly splashed a pint of icy water down my neck, and pulled me into the kitchen. Mr. Heathcliff followed, his accidental merriment expiring quickly in his habitual moroseness.

I was sick exceedingly, and dizzy, and faint; and thus compelled perforce to accept lodgings under his roof. He told Zillah to give me a glass of brandy, and then passed on to the inner room; while she condoled with me on my sorry predicament, and having obeyed his orders, whereby I was somewhat revived, ushered me to bed.

...

I am speechless.

Are you truly able to send an entire chapter in a single message like this? What is this tomfoolery?

[hayffiebird]

Taste of Strawberries, chap. 45

Hayffie Post-Mockingjay (Canon divergence) Multi-chapter, Rated M SUMMARY: Four years have passed since the end of the war when Effie becomes a fixture in Haymitch’s life once again. An old friendship is rekindled. Will it lead to something more? Meanwhile, Panem has entered a new era. The rebellion’s over, the borders are open but in the shadows, anger and mistrust are smoldering. Something which will affect Haymitch and Effie’s life in a way they never saw coming. READ MORE

Chapter 45, Take me drunk, I'm home

He staggered through the rain, wetter than a shot of whiskey dropped into a mug of beer. Nothing but thick black clouds above.

No moon. No stars. You couldn't see anything but the path right in front of you. Nothing to guide your way but the distant lights of the district.

The duffel bag was lost. Probably in a ditch somewhere. Soaked and vile. Like its owner. Or maybe he just tossed the thing in some corner of the train, after he’d finished the last bottle. He couldn't recall.

Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore. Now that Effie and the kids were gone.

Where were they now? Which district? Did she manage to get them to sleep on time or was she still on rocking duty? Exhausted. Alone. While the train added mile after mile between them.

Once his family had gotten onboard back in Eleven, he was supposed to just sit back and wait. Bags packed. Ticket in hand, until his own train pulled into the station.

But he didn't. Walking up and down that misty platform. The smell of damp concrete. Distant rumbling. The unforgiving sky, overrun by storm clouds as dark as the soul of president Snow.

He couldn't stand 5 minutes of it. Hell, not even one.

If he was going to wait, might as well do it on a bar stool.

One of the local pubs was just around the corner. Chaff told him as much. Back when they were passing a bottle between themselves, he described the way in detail. The shops. The landmarks. Which road to turn and when.

“We’ll go there someday”, he said, the last time they ever spoke to each other. “Bring the little lady. If we survive this blasted war, drinks are on me.”

The bell above the door gave a merry tinkle when Haymitch pushed inside, 10 minutes later.

Just like Twelve, he thought. The one Sae and Ripper put up at the Hob made the exact same noise.

In the end, he didn’t mount a bar stool. Place was far from empty, despite the bad weather. Or maybe because of it. He couldn’t sit and wonder which ones of them mourned Chaff. Or – worse – if no one was even left besides Pearl, still alive to do so.

“A bottle of wine please”, he said and set the duffel bag on the counter. “Red. Whatever looks good. Or better yet, make it two. And the amber one over there.” He gestured to the rows by the mirror. “No need for a glass.”

The barkeep recognized him. One glance told him as much. But then again, who didn’t?

Must be Bernard, he thought. Unless the owner of this place had changed since the end of the war. Lean fellow. Same skin tone as Chaff, but his hair was grayer by the temples.

At least he didn't tell him to get the fuck out of his pub. The man simply reached for the desired bottles and set them on the counter, one by one.

“Will I have my work cut out for me later?” Bernard’s voice – if it was Bernard – was neither merry nor hostile. Just practical. Matter-of-factly.

“No”, Haymitch said. “I'm not staying. Not for long.” He got out his wallet, handed over the last of the ruffled bills. “Keep the change. Can you remind me I need to leave in an hour?” He glanced at the wall clock. “Hour-fifteen minutes? There's a train I gotta catch. Can't miss it.”

“Sure.”

Bag clunky and heavy, clinking with bottles, he found his way out into the beer garden. Dumped himself by the first available bench. The moist which had collected in vast continents on the painted wood, instantly soaked through his underwear.

More of the stuff trickled inside the collar of his shirt. Tepid as a cup of tea, forgotten on the mantelpiece. Summer rain, the kind that made you sweat even more.

Whatever. Here he was alone. The leafy trees growing around him offered some shelter but still: No one dumb enough to loiter out here today.

He unzipped the bag. Twisted the top of the first bottle he encountered. Didn't even hesitate before he had the first sip.

What for? Effs and the kids weren’t here. Amy. Ian. God only knew when he’d hold them in his arms again. No. He couldn't think of one good reason why he should board his train stone-cold sober.

Just don't get too deep in your cups, you ass, he warned himself before the second mouthful. Or else they won't allow you on.

He had to go home. Couldn't – wouldn’t – embarrass June and Annabel in front of their friends and neighbors. He'd been enough of a pest whilst under their roof.

Talk about wearing out you're welcome.

Half a bottle. Then the train.

And so he drank. Watched by no one but a ruffled mockingjay hiding in the trees and the occasional pair of eyes through a window.

His recollections thereafter were hazy. Nothing but bits and pieces – the passage of time.

Birds like black confetti, high in the sky. A lone dog barking. The splatter of water through a downpipe. The aftertaste of wine. Fruity and sour.

But the barkeep must have kept his promise because hours later, in the dead of night, the mentor of District 12 staggered out onto his own soil once again. Tanked to the gills. Again.

Home.

Shoulders sagging, rain dripping down his hair, his hands, his eyelashes, he hardly ever looked up. No need. He could walk this way blindfolded.

The ground felt soggy, slippery under his clumsy feet.

Different district. Same downpour. He swore it followed him from place to place. Taunting him.

Not that he didn’t deserve it.

He staggered through puddles as deep as his ankles. Didn’t bother to swerve off his path much. Only mindful of people’s windows. Their vegetable gardens.

Last thing he wanted was to ruin someone’s future dinner or frighten the kids in their beds with the sound of his squelching boots.

Lights were on in maybe one in ten houses. The Goat Man, who had a history of insomnia. Delly Cartwright’s youngest cousin who couldn’t sleep without a night light. Bristel and her husband. Naked and tangled in bed perhaps?

Most were dark though. Doors bolted shut against the night.

Not all of them. Up ahead, he saw the open window. Just slightly ajar to let the air in, on a warm night like this.

Someone was awake. Golden light spilled through the curtains of the living room. As he approached, he could just make out the soft rattle of cutleries against china over the pattering rain. A cup of tea perhaps. Or maybe a bowl of soup.

Half-blinded he rubbed his eyes, his soaked face. A pointless attempt. More than a little round under his feet he made a slack fist and knocked. Once. Twice. Or, in his state, it was more like pounding.

Eyes downcast, the first thing he noticed when she opened the door was her house slippers. Woolly and soft in a quiet pink color. A birthday gift from Hazelle.

Hand against the handle, she wore the same simple robes her mother wore before her. His gaze lingered on the small baby blue flowers around the hemline and the hems of her wrists.

Effie’s work. She stitched them onto the fabric, back during that summer she spent with them after her overdose.

Peeta loved the details and Nella loved the very texture of the little leaves and blossoms. Used to follow them with the tip of her finger.

Forget-me-nots.

Throat choked up, his dull, blood-shot eyes finally met her gray ones.

Seam gray. Like the eyes of his mother. His brother. His son and daughter.

Sae gave a quiet smile. As if expecting him.

“You better come in”, she said. “Before you catch your death out here.”

Haymitch’s face crinkled up like a worn tissue. He couldn’t help it. Couldn’t hide it. Not from her. The tears he’d carried within, for hours and hours – just below the surface – finally welled up.

All at once.

His old babysitter spoke nothing further. Water soaked through her slippers, but she paid it no mind. Just stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

He tried to speak. Tell her how sorry he was about the hour, the fact that he was drunk, that he didn’t know where else to go – but no words came out. Only sobs.

The old woman held him. Her small frame so frail and yet so strong. She caressed the back of his head, just like when he was a toddler, speaking soft, soothing words in his ear.

And Haymitch clung to her. Like a child to its mama, while raindrops tinked against the sphere-shaped porch light.

[slitherinfest]

Slither In Fest Masterlist!

A big round of applause and a heartfelt thanks to all the awesome people who have joined us for this year's fest! It's been an absolute delight to see each and every one of your entries.

Once again, special thanks to @dividawrites for letting us reuse her banner art.

Thank you all for appreciating Bottom Tom | Voldemort with us! We hope to see you all again next year.

Please see below the cut for a masterlist of all works!

A Total Absence of Light by @crowcrowcrowthing E | Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort | 7,535 words | Complete

My name is Tom Riddle, and I am the Boy Who Lived. Something happened to turn Harry Potter into the Dark Lord, and I will do whatever it takes to learn his secrets. I don’t care that he killed my parents. I don't care that he stole my childhood. All I want is to earn the right to call myself his apprentice.

chiaroscuro by @cindle-writes E | Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | 7,213 words | Complete

Immortal children are illegal. Harry makes one anyway.

Flinch by @applesbasketcaseart E | Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort | 5,082 words | Complete

"Tom, I want you to meet my friend, Harry Potter." There's something a bit odd about Mr. Potter.

Freedom from those Pages by @azuredreammira E | Tom Riddle/Voldemort | 9,417 words | WIP

It started out as a deal, selling his body in exchange for freedom. But Tom Riddle quickly became Voldemort’s advisor and lover, ensuring that the one who had created him years ago did not go insane.

He'd Love To See Inside by TrinisetteArcobaleno E | Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort | 5,631 words | Complete

Lord Voldemort has an important event to go to tonight. He obviously decides to wear his best suit. Harry Potter, a child that Voldemort took in after killing his parents, presented as an alpha the same day of the event.

In Perfect Unity by @i-dream-of-libraries E | Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort | 9,052 words | Complete

Harry has just begun his work as the only Priest in a small town when a man comes to confessional one night and traps Harry in the booth with him.

Invincible by @itsevanffs E | Tom Riddle | Voldemort/Tom Riddle | Voldemort | 2,296 words | Complete

Tom walks in on purpose. He’s heard the warnings of the townsfolk some miles away from the border. They warn him against entering, against lingering, against taking an interest, but he is Tom Marvolo Riddle. He is in his prime, forever frozen that way, and he will conquer the world.

Like Calls To Like by TrinisetteArcobaleno E | Tom Riddle/Tom Riddle Sr. | 4,856 words | Complete

Tom Marvolo Riddle’s father found him before he had ever known about Hogwarts. Unbeknownst to Tom Jr., his father planned to visit him tonight.

multiplicity by @duplicitywrites E | Harry Potter/Tom Riddle/Harry Potter | 7,780 words | WIP

At the age of twelve, Tom is well on his way to having all of Hogwarts wrapped around his clever, crooked finger. Others are beneath him, unworthy of his regard—but for Professor Evans, Tom is willing to make an exception. When transfer student Harry Potter arrives mid-November, Tom is inclined to dismiss the older boy as another arrogant Pureblood who will treat him with disdain. Only, Harry isn’t like the others. Not at all.

Never Meet Your Heroes by @ujiin E | Salazar Slytherin/Tom Riddle | Voldemort | 6,960 words | WIP

Tom is in a little bit of a predicament. "Did you need anything else, Slytherin?" Tom manages to say without a single hitch or stutter, even though it feels so incredibly wrong to address a literal founder of Hogwarts this way.

Pitch Black by @kagariasuha E | Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Horcrux/Harry Potter | 2,403 words | Complete

The proximity of Horcruxes can influence anyone - especially Harry.

Tight Quarters by @maraudersaffair E | Abraxas Malfoy/Tom Riddle | 2,488 words | Complete

High off casting dark magic, Tom and Abraxas sneak into a cupboard and have some fun.

Wind Tunnels by @mrmxlemons E | Tom Riddle | Voldemort/Ron Weasley | 10,433 words | WIP

The locket holds Ron closer than anyone else has. He doesn't want to let it go.

[usafphantom2]

Russian cruise missile violated Polish airspace

Fernando Valduga By Fernando Valduga 12/30/2023 - 12:15 in Military, War Zones

On December 29, a cruise missile launched by the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation violated Polish airspace during a target attack in Ukraine.

The incident occurred at 7:12 a.m. local time, near the Poland-Ukraine border. According to the Polish Armed Forces, the missile re-entered Ukrainian territory after approximately three minutes in Poland's airspace.

Map showing the place where the Russian cruise missile would have entered Polish airspace on December 29. (BBC infographic)

In the X, the Operational Command of the Polish Armed Forces said that the object entered through the Ukrainian side of the border and was observed by the country's air defense system, penetrating about 24 miles into Polish airspace and disappearing after less than three minutes. He also stated that air defense troops were mobilized to identify and find the object.

The flight trajectory of the missile was continuously monitored by Polish and Allied radar systems. Polish air defense systems were in readiness and F-16C/D fighters were sent to patrol the area where the missile crossed Polish airspace.

In addition, to verify the radar data, ground forces, air forces and territorial defense troops were mobilized to track the trajectory of the missile on the ground.

President Andrzej Duda called an emergency meeting on security; NATO Secretary General Jens Stoltenberg released a statement on X saying he talked to Duda about the “missile incident” and said that NATO remains vigilant and monitoring the situation “as the facts are established.”

This incident was part of a major Russian attack involving twelve Tu-95MS Bear-H bombers, each launching Kh-55/Kh-555/Kh-101 cruise missiles, along with Tu-22M3 Backfire-C bombers that launched eight Kh-22/Kh-32 supersonic cruise missiles. More than 90 cruise missiles were used in the attack, with most allegedly intercepted by Ukrainian air defenses.

The Ukrainian Ministry of Defense noted that the combined Russian attack used more than 90 cruise missiles of the types mentioned, 36 Shahed-136 attack drones, S-300/400 anti-aircraft missiles in ground attack mode. In addition, five MiG-31K Foxhound fighters each launched a single Kinzhal ballistic missile launched from the air.

Ukrainian authorities said that at least 144 people were injured and that many others probably remained buried under the rubble.

According to the spokesman of the Ukrainian Air Force, Yurii Ihnat, Russia “apparently launched everything it had” against targets throughout Ukraine. Surprisingly, the attack did not seem to involve any Kalibr cruise missiles launched by ships or submarines, with long-range Russian bombers bearing the weight of the operation.

Tags: Military AviationWar Zones - Russia/Ukraine

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Fernando Valduga

Fernando Valduga

Aviation photographer and pilot since 1992, he has participated in several events and air operations, such as Cruzex, AirVenture, Dayton Airshow and FIDAE. He has works published in specialized aviation magazines in Brazil and abroad. He uses Canon equipment during his photographic work in the world of aviation.

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[weirdestbooks]

The River (Wattpad | Ao3)

requested by @grandmaash98

“I can’t believe you, NJ! After all of your fucking complaining about how York steals land from you and the whole fucking fight over the reclaimed land in Ellis Island, you decide to steal land from me in the same way!” Delaware yelled at his brother, who looked to be a mixture of confused and nervous.

“How do you even know the specifics of me and York’s fights?” He asked, most likely trying to avoid the question.

“One, don’t avoid the question. Two, you and York are free entertainment for the rest of us,” Delaware said. New Jersey looked annoyed but didn’t protest.

“Our border is in the middle of the river, except for the Twelve Mile Circle, where our border is at the shoreline. I’m not stealing land. Your territory is just water. I am, however, gaining more land for myself because I need it. You don’t need that little bit of water. Learn to share with your siblings,” New Jersey said.

“Oh fuck you, NJ. It doesn’t matter whether or not I need it. What matters is that you are ignoring my borders! After all your bitching about Yorkie, I figured I would never have to worry about that from you, but seriously? What the hell, man? All of my neighbors have tried to steal land from me.” Delaware said, throwing up his arms in exasperation.

“Well, unlike Penny and Mary, I’m not trying to annex you, so at least that’s something.” New Jersey said. Delaware crossed his arms and turned to leave.

“I’m getting Dad!” He yelled as he began to walk out of the room

“You’re gonna fucking tattle? What are you, five?” Delaware heard New Jersey snark from behind him.

“You rather me break your nose?” Delaware snapped, whirling around. New Jersey’s eyes widened, and he held his hands, shaking his head.

“Dad, it is then.” He said.

—————

“It’s the 21st century. I thought we’d be over having border conflicts by now.” Their father said with a sigh.

“At least our first response was to take it to court, and now we fight each other over it. No one has pulled out weapons!” Delaware chimed in, hoping to lower his dad’s annoyance and make him more willing to support Delaware.

“Not yet, at least. But I’m at least going to get ready for a fight.” New Jersey added. Their father sighed deeply, once that seemed very resigned.

“Thank you, NJ. That’s going to do wonders for resolving this situation peacefully,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Yeah, I know it really will,” New Jersey said cheerily, either oblivious to their father’s sarcasm or just ignoring it. It was probably the second one, although New Jersey would deny it. Their father sighed and put a hand on his forehead.

“Please just take it to court and leave me out of it.” He said.

“You aren’t going to be able to stay out of it because one of us is inevitably going to do something really stupid that’s going to force you to get involved. And just know—New Jersey started it and is going to start the fighting most likely, so I’m innocent, and you should side with me!” Delaware said, saying the last part quickly. New Jersey’s head shot up, and he glared at Delaware. His ears flattening against his head, he bared his teeth.

Their father just looked annoyed again.

“New Jersey, please don't attack your brother in any way. Just take this to court, and both of you show up,” he said before walking out.

“Yeah, Delly, make sure you show up in court.” New Jersey said. Delaware snorted.

“Please. You’re the one acting like New York did. If anything, you’re going to neglect to show up to court,” he said. New Jersey took a step forward, hooves clicking against the ground.

“Don’t compare me to the egotistical chicken!” he said, and Delaware looked at him offended.

“Hey, now, that’s an insult to chickens,” Delaware said. New Jersey paused and nodded.

“Okay, yeah, fair enough. I’m sorry, chickens. But fuck you, Delaware, you aren’t going to steal that land that I legally reclaimed.” New Jersey said. Red-hot anger ran through Delaware’s body at that.

“YOU RECLAIMED IT IN MY RIVER!” Delaware yelled at him.

“We share it!” New Jersey said with an eye roll.

“MY SECTION THOUGH!” Delaware continued.

“Actually you own up to the shoreline. I just helped it grow a little.” New Jersey said with a smug grin.

“I’m going to destroy you in court.” Delaware hissed out with a glare as he flicked his tail before turning away.

“You can try!” New Jersey called from behind Delaware, making him wish he was allowed to punch New Jersey’s stupid face.

It would be good therapy.

[hassanatforusmk]

“The Gaza Strip is in a humanitarian disaster, a man-made crisis resulting from Israeli policy. The lives of nearly two million people are at stake.” - Btselem report 2017

In 2015, the UN warned that without changes, Gaza would become “unlivable” by 2020. Since then, Israel has tightened its policies, and Gaza has been already unliveable for the following points:

The blockade of Gaza, separating it from the West Bank, has been ongoing since the 1990s. It restricts travel, imports, exports, and more, pushing Gaza into an economic recession and dependency on aid.

Gaza's economy has collapsed, with high unemployment and food insecurity. Infrastructure and public services were already deteriorating, with contaminated water, power cuts, and healthcare shortages.

Till Aug 2023, the Israeli occupation continued to raze farm land, demolish residential structures and industrial facilities, and seize buildings inside the strip.

Also, deliberate herbicide spraying and land destruction have further harmed Gaza's agricultural sector.

The healthcare crisis in Gaza was a severe and ongoing humanitarian issue.

The Israeli blockade, three devastating wars, has meant that the availability of medical services is seriously inadequate to meet the health needs of the two million Gazans.

Gaza's "no-go" zones near the border create a buffer zone and have always been a continuous threat to the lives of those who live and work there.

Israel's control over Gaza extends to its airspace and territorial waters, which it has maintained since occupying Gaza in 1967. This control has significant implications for Gaza's residents.

Israel's control of Gaza's airspace enables it to monitor activities on the ground, interfere with radio and TV broadcasts, and launch airstrikes at will.

The Oslo Agreements allowed Palestinians to build an airport, and accordingly, Gaza Airport opened in 1998, but then it was closed by Israel in 2000 and has remained closed since then.

In 2001, the Israeli Air Force bombed the airport's runways, and it was later used as an Israeli military base. Israel committed to discussing reopening the airport, but no progress has been made on this front.

Israel's control of Gaza's territorial waters is another aspect of the crisis. While there's no physical barrier along Gaza's coast, residents need Israeli permits to access the sea, with restrictions on how far they can go from shores.

In the Interim Agreement, Israel agreed to allow fishing boats from Gaza up to twenty miles from the coast, but in practice, the limit has often been set at twelve miles and then it was reduced later to only 3 miles!

The promise of a seaport in Gaza has remained unfulfilled. Despite initial infrastructure work, the project was halted, and Israel agreed in 2005 to cooperate in its establishment. But surprisingly, no progress has been made !

The situation in Gaza is dire, while Israel formally withdrew its settlers and military from the Gaza Strip in 2005,in

In practice, Gaza remains under Israeli occupation.

Hamas wasn't the only resistance group that defended Palestinian rights against the occupiers. The resistance started since the very beginning when Israel was declared as a state in 1948.

The "Fedaeyon" had started it all as a resistance,and Hamas still continues their legacy.

Resistance by all means,violent and nonviolent, is essential,and spreading awareness is a must to stop the atrocities committed against the Palestinians for years.

Colonization is a crime against humanity, and colonized people have the right to resist by any means necessary.

Vietnam's 9-year fight for freedom against France shows that resistance is never futile,even when faced with a much more powerful enemy. Calling similar movements "terrorism"is a conspiracy to silence legitimate dissent and perpetuate oppression.

And if people were submissive to colonization they will face the same destiny as the Native Americans, who were colonized and forced onto reservations, where their culture was suppressed and their children were forbidden to speak their own language.

So ask yourself: If you were Palestinian, would you see Hamas as a "terrorist" group or a "resistance" movement defending your right to live while the world has already turned a blind eye?

The disheartening reality that the security council fails to agree on a ceasefire appears much like what Franklin once said as "Demkcracy is like two wolves and a lamb voting on what's for lunch," revealing the fragility of humanity & democracy as the moral compass quivers.

Israel has been playing the US and the Western media and public like a fiddle for decades. They've mastered the language that resonates with Americans.

All that Israel wants is for the US to destroy another Arab nation on Israel's behalf & cause more destabilization.

[hibewriter]

Eyes to Welcome You Home

Masterlist   Read it on AO3

Shadow & Bone | Darklina | 7.3K | E 

Tags: Age Gap | Dry Humping | Car Sex | Stair Sex | Coach x Player Relationship

Logically, Ravka is just like any other country. Within its borders citizens in its largest cities mull about, going to and fro from jobs of a different caliber than the citizens of the countryside. Its roads are an intertwining bramble dictated by terrain and populace, a web when laid out on paper — all seemingly combining to a point at the country capital of Os Alta.  

But the most important roads, the major ones that nearly every citizen found themselves on at one point or another, were the two cross-country highways. Like all major roads in Ravka, country-Way 270 and Country-Way 40 intersect at the heart of Ravka in a spiraling complex of ten lanes and confusing exits. 

Most preferred CW-40, outside of the city at least. Once its lanes died down into a manageable system of three that traveled from the very highest point at the Fjerdian border to the very southernmost point of Shu Han. Few people minded the small airport along its route, for the traffic was rarely overbearing. 

Yet, on CW-270, which stretched from the port coast to the intersecting border of Ravka, Fjerda, and Shu Han, many found themselves in a hate-hate relationship with the long stretches of construction, passing fields and fields of farmland only to transition into worn buildings of an industrial era long gone. But, should one decide to take the cross-country road trip, they might find interest in the passing exits of small towns. Isolated stretches of road that seemed to have slipped into an ethereal space, lone streetlights, and cracked asphalt that stretched to the very depths of darkness themselves. 

It’s on one such road, two hundred and eighty-four miles away from the coastline, just before the final exit before the border crossing, was a foster home. Normally, one would not find a foster home on the edge of Ravka’s civilized society to be significant. One casually does not pay mind to the small town of Ketterdam, just twenty miles from CW-270. The old industrial buildings were covered in decades of salt and wind, brick weathered dull but still standing out vibrantly from the paneled homes and patched roofing across the town. Even less than minding the small town, people minded the downtrodden foster children. All of them were forgotten the second they were deposited on Ana Kuya’s doorstep, government checks were often “misdelivered” for months at a time. 

But that didn’t stop the house from bringing a vibrancy often lost in the grey skies of Ketterdam. 

“Malyen, get OUT .” A voice, high and sure rang through the crumbling four square. The chipped painting probably suffered from lead and other toxic materials that lined the walls, and cramped hallways with boxes full of various belongings. And currently banging on the home’s lone bathroom door, was a girl of five foot four, jet black hair swishing like silk down her back as her entire body moved with her fist. 

“MALYEN, I SWEAR TO GOD IF WE’RE LATE DROPPING OFF ROSE I WILL BREAK YOUR ARM!” She swore, continuing her pounding as a girl, no older than twelve with blonde pigtails destroyed by sleep, peeked her head out of the door across the hall.

“Linka? I need your help with my hair.” The dark-haired girl, Alina Starkov, spun abruptly, eyes wide as she regarded her foster sibling.  

“Of course, Rosie, why don’t you go ahead and get your bookbag together and I’ll grab your brush from the bathroom." She watched carefully as the girl rolled her eyes and slipped back into the room. As soon as the door softly clicked shut she spun on her heel, fire returning to her eyes as she accessed the door. 

‘Malyen, you have to the count of thr–”

The door swung open, and she was suddenly face to face with her foster brother. Had it been years ago, and she was still idyllic with her little crushes based on physical appearance, and that alone, she might have been given pause at the shirtless boy in front of her. His build was bulky as muscles strained under his skin from years of football practice and eating more than his fair share during dinner as Ana Kuya looked the other way. But instead of being charmed by his lopsided grin, she pushed her way past him, furiously turning the water to begin brushing her teeth. 

"Morning to you too, Alina." 

She fixed her eyes to glare, not responding as she rushed. He merely chuckled, seemingly amused by her frustration. She wasn't sure what was so funny. They had fifteen minutes to get dressed, eat, and load into the car – least Rose, Alina, and Malyen get detention for being late. And none of them could afford that right now.  

"Jush hurreh up Mal." She groaned around the brush in her mouth, trying not to rush through her process too much. This was her last year, she forced herself to remember. The last few months of struggling through mornings like this. 

"Relax, Lina," he sighed, heavy feet padding down the hallway. "I'm driving today remember? Ana gave me the car for the weekend!"  

She cursed, spitting the sudsy paste into the sink with fever, barely taking a second to rinse before she, too, was in the hallway. 

“What?! I need it to get to work! And practice!” She yelled, ire building as she heard the deep laugh from the boys' door. Ana was taking Charles to daycare already, their caretaker often gone before dawn. How she found a caretaker to take the boy before the sun rose she'll never know. 

"Too bad! Use a cab!" 

She scowled, sure that steam would rush from her ears if the shockingly violent cartoons were accurate. But instead, her face just grew red. Splotches of anger dotting otherwise flawless skin, fist coiled by her sides. She didn't have the money right now. Not after –

"Linka, my hair!" 

A lump swallow in her throat, closed eyes as she rushed through her calming. One, two, three –

"LINKA,"

"One minute, Rosie!" 

It was going to be a long day. 

She was right, of course. She sat through mind-numbing class after mind-numbing class. Notes were taken with a drying glitter pen – lines and loops not fully connecting but it didn't really matter. There was a good chance she would not remember a lecture about the industrial revolution in Ravka. What did it matter, when all it left in its wake was a crumbling building in Ketterdam where she listened to Mr. Botkin spew historical talking points from the country curriculum? Half the information needed was to be parsed on the single laptop Ana brought home when it was clear that the textbook – first written nearly a hundred years prior – would not do. 

And if in the margins, where she should take specific notes on figureheads and notable politicians whose influence died with them, she doodled pictures of dark eyes that welcomed her home every night then…that was her prerogative. 

Besides, as the hands on the old clock above the door ticked slowly towards two-thirty, she grew more and more restless. Even the bolt from the building to the gym, nearly a mile away, could not quell her anticipatory movements. Her pen tapped restlessly, her foot moving even faster as she lost the plot of whatever her professor said. 

Ring .

Foot met the pavement faster than her teacher could scream after her. The bell doesn't excuse you , would not work. Not today. Not as she sprinted out of the two-story building, cracked sneakers hitting concrete, then asphalt, not even sparing a glance at the parking lot. Malyen and his friends probably didn't even stay after lunch, the old 4Runner long gone from its designated space. 

One mile. Ten minutes. Part of her wished she'd taken cardio more seriously, her down days could've been spent on a treadmill (if Matthais was the one working desk at the town’s only planet fitness) or around the school's track. Even if there were cracks in the rubber walkway, sprouting leaves, and grass that the caretakers weren't paid enough to attempt to remove. 

It was good, the necessity to move fast. She couldn't feel the wind, scraping through her thin jacket. December air at the base of the mountain, nearly single digits, and yet her windbreaker was her only source of warmth. The cutting edge of air as she attempted to avoid lateness. If she were late he would notice. 

You didn't want him to notice your deficiency. 

Her lungs felt like she'd been stabbed, the sudden exertion with no stretching (another thing he'd yell at her for, but the circumstances made it unavoidable). But she persisted, ignoring the weight of her backpack and gym bag slapping against her spine with each hurried step.

2:47 . 

She attempted to slip in, unnoticed as she sprinted to the locker room. Thirteen minutes. Her limbs were a flurry of motion, clothes discarded for her practice leotard, (hand washed every night you didn’t want to waste too much water using the washing machine). Hands and feet powdered with a quickness that couldn't achieve proper usage, wrapped so quickly after she was sure there was probably a step she missed.  

She refused to be embarrassed, however. Not as she slipped into the main practice area, her legs perhaps moving faster than normal to get to her stretching corner. She ignored the pointed looks from the redhead, normally so sweet, already in the middle of her stretches. Steadfastly pretended she couldn't hear the dark-haired girl, normally not-so-sweet, muttering about her timing. She could do this. Pretend everything was fine and it wasn't a million-dollar race to even get here. No matter if she was three minutes late. 

"Starkov." 

She winced, closing her eyes as she leaned into a split. He noticed. He always notices. Aleksander Morozov may have been an army captain, or a general, with his precision. The way he demanded perfection, and if you couldn't give it to him…well then what use were you? 

"Yes, Coach?" She tried to feign confusion, slowly opening her eyes to see the man himself. Dark pools stared impassively into her eyes. Unimpressed. More likely disappointed. Not welcoming as she dreamed of them.

"Is the posted time for practice not in your email?" His voice, neutral in tone, still carried an edge to it. He could be laughing, speaking about his greatest joy, and she would still believe him seconds from brandishing a knife to stab her with. Maybe flay her and eat her. 

"It is in my email, coach." 

"Then do you simply not respect the time and sanctity of this gym?" 

"I do, coach. I'm sorry. It won't happen again." 

His arms crossed, the black t-shirt straining against his biceps as he regarded her. She wished she could tell what he was thinking. What he wanted. 

"Thirty laps after stretching. You'll work the floor today." 

"But it's–" 

"Bar is for people who show up on time, Starkov." 

Silence. She could feel the eyes on her, other athletes waiting to see what she'd do. But seconds passed, her form unmoving as she looked into those eyes. She needed to practice the bar. It was her worst event, and she needed damn near perfection if she wanted to –

It didn't matter. She swallowed her fury, finally tearing her gaze away from stern eyes and leaning into her stretch. When has she ever been able to say no to him anyway?  

"Of course, Coach." 

Her legs ached. Thirty laps had crossed into thirty-five because five of those laps were walked, Starkov. Go again. Her floor routine was in shambles. Simple tumbles had fallen flat, final landings nearly causing her to roll her ankle. 

It was two hours of failure. Two hours of his eyes on her. She felt them hovering on her – as if the other students didn’t need assistance. He didn't have to say a word. Nothing since she began but she fucking knew. The disappointment was evident when carved into stone, its edges sharper and more biting the more it sets. By the end, her mouth tasted like copper. Her breath came out in pants as she glanced at the clock. 

Maybe if she could go one more time, fix her double axle… Her eyes tracked the empty mat, ignoring her fellow athletes leaving the space as she tried to figure out what was wrong with her. 

"Practice is over, Starkov."  No dice. She sighed, dropping her hands from her hips in an act of defeat. It was no use begging for more time. Time she didn't have before she had to leave. She was already cutting it close. 

"I'm leaving, Coach. I get it." She muttered, not sparing him a glance as she slowly turned and made her way to the lockers. I wouldn't want to keep the disappointment in here either.  

She was slower this time, peeling her leotard off in a daze. Her brow furrowed as she thought of every mistake. Sprung too early on the salto, fucked up the twists, and made it seem like a salto. Constantly fucked up the landing, her balance was practically nonexistent. 

Her thoughts followed her in a haze as she jogged the next three miles to the city grocery. 

Technically, the city had an ordinance on minors working. No teenager in Ketterdam was supposed to work past eleven-thirty, nor lift more than sixty percent of body weight in a work environment, and there were mandatory fifteen-minute breaks per four hours worked. But, working at Brekker Grocery had its…well advantage isn’t quite the word. But it did tend to help you skirt around the ordinances of the city. No official paychecks meant no logged hours, which meant that she could work as late as the store was open (until one in the morning, every night of the week except Sunday when they closed at midnight). It was the only flexible job in town. The only place that would hire her. 

"Hey Kaz," she muttered as she strolled inside, past the only other cashier in the store. At least he didn’t have a choice. The son of the owner typically gets dragged into these things, whether they want to or not. 

“Hey! My dad’s out of town so it’s just me and you tonight.” She had a feeling, not seeing the rusted pickup Mr. Brekker normally drove to the store outside. But, she merely sighed, switching into the red half-apron that was probably older than her. It’s not like she could turn around now. 

“So what, did you not go to class today?” Friendly conversation. She could do that. 

“Don’t need class when you got street smarts.”

She rolled her eyes, a huff escaping her lips as she walked away from him. Kaz was two years older than her, yet they were in the same grade. She didn’t want to chalk it up to days like this, where Mr. Brekker would disappear and force his youngest to take over. But when it was a constant, something she barely had to ask about, well. It made sense.  

Shelves needed to be stocked, and she needed to spend the next…seven hours pretending she was busy. To be fair, she wasn’t certain she was necessary after ten, but who could say no to more cash at the end of the night? 

Maybe, if she didn’t open her mouth so much, she would’ve been correct about a slow night. Then she wouldn’t be dealing with a sudden influx of students, out well past their curfews, barging into the store with less than an hour to closing. Where she was forced to stand at the register while Kaz “counted” the closed registers. She didn’t know what exactly he got up to back there. Just knew that her drawer was short once, and after screaming at him for nearly an hour that night, it was never short again. Mr. Breaker wouldn’t fire his son, not for simply skimming what was technically his profits. But he would fire the little foster kid from down the road. 

And maybe she needed the job. Maybe she still did. Or maybe it was pride, mixed in her fury. 

Either way, the kids in the store gave no reprieve to her night. The sun was long gone, and she could see the sky, opening like a flower in spring. Slowly, then all at once, white powder fell cautiously from above, as if afraid to touch the ground. Deep inhales, then a sigh as she watches it begin to accumulate. Her sneakers had a hole in the sole, something she’d meant to fix this morning before she was so late. Something that would bite her in the ass as she walked back. Ice would seep into her feet, the socks would grow wet, and she’d have to be careful about falling on the ice. 

Little things in life provided much relief besides the approach of black grippy shoes, manager’s keys swinging from side to side accompanied by the carefree whistle of someone who lived two minutes from the storefront where they worked. A sound she was all too familiar with, eyeing the lone clock above the entryway. Only one-twenty-three in the morning. Maybe she’d get home before three. 

“Alright, sunshine. Get out of here.” She was out of her apron before Kaz finished his sentence, ignoring the shake of his head as she nearly sprinted to get her bag. She could go to sleep, she could rest…

If only. Exiting the grocery store was a nightmare. While the snow fell around her, silent and bright on the dimly lit street, the wind raged. Drastic and powerful, her light jacket was little more than a sheet, wet and soaking mere seconds after stepping foot outside. She held her arms close, hoping beyond hope that her body would provide the barest warmth against the elements.

She walked along the main road for just a few minutes, the street lamps illuminating her path, though as she continued her march south, toward her home and shared bed, She found herself taking more and more steps between each light. Shadows seemed to follow her, clinging to her form with each crunch of her shoe. 

The alley, her shortcut behind the town's only bar, was already layered with the week's trash, topped with fresh snow that did little to mask the smell. Her shirt, pulled up and over her nose, was not much better. But soon enough, the hazy blues and reds of The Fold's neon signs reflected off the fallen snow. A welcome sight as she stepped onto the frosted sidewalk.

"Starkov." 

She froze, turning to face the bar awning. Or more importantly, the man standing underneath it. He hadn't changed since practice, the same black joggers and t-shirt adorning his body. But his voice was just as sharp, like a predator approaching prey.

Briefly, she wondered how he could stand to stand outside, the bar door firmly shut behind him. But the lit cigarette dangled precariously out his mouth, soft smoke floating like a stream past his face, and it occurred to her that maybe he was in a rush to get outside when he stepped out. 

"Coach, I didn't see you there."

He stared at her, dark eyes roaming her underdressed form, the same bags, and jacket from practice on her back.

"You should be more observant," he said, pulling the cigarette from his mouth. " It's dangerous to be out so late."

"Yeah, well, not much of a choice these days," she shot back. She startled at her tone, eyes growing wide as she recognized the annoyance slipping into her words. She clasped her lips shut. Practice tomorrow would likely be torture, should he find himself in a bad mood. Silence stretched between them, encompassed by the air whipping around them.

She shivered, clutching herself tighter as she turned her head to look down the street. Just a few more miles until she was home. Her ears were on fire, reddened by the wind. Her hands tucked precariously into her armpits – a small shield from the growing storm. 

“Where are you going?” His voice finally broke, cutting through the wind like a sheet of paper. She sniffed, turning to look back at him. 

“Home,” her legs shifted, dancing from setting her weight on one side to the other. Maintain the blood flow, and warm yourself. It was only a few more miles. “Hopefully. Mal has the car and he went out of town. So I was walking. It might be colder than I anticipated earlier.” She paused, eyeing his patient face. It was almost expectant, how he looked at her to explain why she would be out so late, on a Friday, in the middle of a storm. 

She bit her tongue, turning her head towards the darkness once more. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, I should go.”

“Stay right there,” he sounded so sure, dropping his cigarette and stomping it out. The bar door opened in a burst, a flash of movement and suddenly it was like he never even stepped inside. A heavy jacket and keys in hand as he approached her. His hand was warm around her arm, slowly taking her toward a black truck, one she hadn’t noticed before. 

“I can walk you don’t have to leave your night,” she protested as he led her to the passenger side. She couldn’t see the face he made, the exasperated look as he opened the door. 

“Get in the car, Alina.” 

She scrambled into the seat, barely registering the door slam before the driver’s side was opened, the truck rumbling to life at the press of a button. She wanted to huff, but the heavy jacket was placed over her arms, her coach leaning over and pulling the seatbelt across her lap. She tried not to inhale him, the smoke – while fresh – took a backseat to the woodsy undertones of his body wash, still evident even after a long day in Ketterdam. 

She watched as he straightened, turning the heat up before jumping out of the car again. The snow, piled on the windshield, slowly disappeared – brushed away with precision. A well-practiced movement, years of living in the mountain town honing skills she’d yet to master. It was almost calming, watching him prep the truck for movement, her body warming to the heat flowing into the cabin. The jacket provided a weight, a smell, that had her sinking into the cool leather of the seat. 

“Do you need to tell Ana where you are?” His voice rang as he climbed back in, shaking flakes of snow off of his hands. She shook her head leaning back. 

“Rosie is staying the weekend with a friend, so Ana doesn’t really care where I am.” 

She felt him tense, the way most people do when they figure it out. She was just a second pair of hands to raise the kids, not a kid in her own home. She sighed, eyeing him carefully. 

“It’s okay. Like I don’t mind it.” She tried to explain, tried to push away those feelings. She knew what it was, the pity, the confusion. Not knowing what to do when a teenager tells you that nobody cares. “It gives me a lot of freedom, ya know. Can’t get into much trouble when you’re always busy, right?” 

She tried to laugh, but it was met with a furrow of his brow. And it was like he was looking right through her. Right through her words and into the insecurities she shoved deep down. As if he suddenly pieced the jigsaw together, even though he’d been on the edges of it for years. She’d just never let him close enough to see all the pieces. 

“Do you do this often?” 

“Do what often?”

“Walk home in the middle of the night.” 

She could tell he was itching to ask something else. Anything else really. Something more personal, more accusatory of neglect, or how life was unfair. As if she didn’t already know that. As if being the only shu girl (in a town that, despite its proximity, did not seem to care for those over the border) didn’t already teach her this. But she just shrugged, noncommital as she looked out the window at the snow falling again. 

She tried to feign indifference as the truck jolted, pulling out of the parking spot to go into the road. Braving elements she was ill-equipped to do on her own. Ignored the rumbling in her tummy as street lights began to change, the soft rumbling of the truck cabin caused her eyes to close, if only for a minute. 

“Yes, I’d like to order a deluxe chicken sandwich meal and a ten-piece nugget meal.”

“And what will that be to drink?”

She blinked her bleary eyes awake, surprised at their sudden side adventure. The sleep shook from her bones as she cast him a curious glance. The light from the restaurant illuminated the lines on his face. Sharp edges fell into shadow as he leaned against his car door, speaking to the poor drive-through attendant. 

What would it be like to touch the beard on his face?

She didn’t have much brain power, not as he pulled around, money exchanged for food placed on her lap. Drinks were placed in the cup holder. It wasn’t until he pulled into an empty space that she spoke. 

“I thought you were taking me home?” 

“I am,” he replied, pulling his sandwich from the bag. She looked at him curiously as he began rifling through their food, sauces laid between them as he began to eat. 

“You didn’t have to get me anything.” 

He swallowed his bite, turning to look at her with a skeptical brow raised. 

“Oh, and when’s the last time you ate?” 

She opened and closed her mouth, several times, before finally giving up. Honestly, it hadn’t been since she scarfed down that English muffin the morning before, in the sprint to school. Her cafeteria balance didn’t have enough for food this afternoon, and she couldn’t go off campus for anything. Unless she wanted to get stuck walking during lunch too.  

Attention turned to the bag, and she tried not to immediately scarf down the hot fries and chicken nuggets. Eating in silence next to the man as he seemed intent on ignoring her growing uneasiness. 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” She asked suddenly – after her last nugget was gone and she began placing trash back into the bag within which it came. He shrugged, taking a sip of his drink before slipping his own trash into the bag alongside hers. 

“I’m not a monster.”

“You’re not nice either.” 

At this, he laughed. Shrugging a bit before looking away from her, out the window at the continued snowfall. For a moment she wondered if he’d taken her to the fast food outside of town, an extra ten minutes away from everything else. It was closer to the highway, it stayed open later. Did he really just get this food because he was hungry? Did he feel bad?

“Demanding precision and dedication from someone with your skillset rarely correlate into niceness, Alina.”

“You called me Alina.” 

He turned back to her, dark eyes boring into her own. Part of them made her want to shrink away, a growing darkness that could not only be attributed to the night filling his irises. But the other part of her, a part she rarely wanted to indulge in, was drawn to it. Wanted to explore, and see just why his eyes seemed to both push and invite her in. 

“That’s your name.”

“You call me Starkov.”

“Professional context. This isn’t a professional situation.”

She blinked, mind numb at the thought. Non-professional. They weren’t friends. They rarely saw each other outside of the gym. She never thought he'd even want to see her in a non-professional manner. 

"Of course, I do," Oh. She must've spoken out loud. "But I am your coach, that would be inappropriate." 

She scoffed, shoving the last of her fries into her mouth before collecting their trash. Ignoring his amused brow as she unbuckled her seatbelt, switching positions with the trash. They'd been close before. His hands as they adjusted her legs, her arms. Holding her steady before a bar routine, catching her occasionally if she needed it. 

But there was something about this – sitting close proximity in a car, fluorescent lights traded for the dim haze of his car radio. 

"So because you're my coach we can't be friends?" 

"No."

His voice gave no room for leeway. He was resolutely not looking at her, hands firmly in his lap as his eyes gazed into the darkness. She almost felt stricken, as if he'd hit her. Her face framed red as she felt the sting of rejection for something she hadn't even allowed herself to fully want until five minutes ago. Suddenly she wanted to hide – from him, from the snow-capped shadows that encased the car. A lump formed in her throat, a pit the size of her fist blocking her throat as her eyes began to sting with unshed tears.

"Why?" she begged. He shifted as if to lean away from her. As if to leave. Her hand flew out before she could stop herself, grasping his bicep. "I'm eighteen. I can decide who I can and can't be friends with." 

He sighed, weighed by whatever plagued his thoughts. His eyes closed as he took a sobering inhale.  

"You're only eighteen," he began, the tone of a father chastising a child that didn't understand just why you couldn't have ice cream for dinner. But she didn't want a father. She didn't want to be treated like a kid.

"Yes, I'm eighteen. I can make decisions for myself."

"That's not what the world thinks, Alina."

She bristled, shifting with ease. Fitting herself in the space between the steering wheel and his chest. His entire body tensed, unwilling to move a single millimeter. Her breath ghosted his nose. His eyes remained clenched. She wanted to smack him and force him to look at her if he was so intent on being a professional. If he was turning her away he better have the audacity to look her in the eye. 

"The greatest of champions are not made because of society's expectations, but in spite of them." She stared at his face after she spoke those words. Eyebrows furrowed as he waged war within himself. Her hand came up without thinking, fingers drifting over the crease of his nose. She wanted to bask in the hitch of his breathing, the slight drop of his shoulders as he let her touch him.  His hands twitched, indecisive, before her lightly grasped her hips. 

"You deserve normal friends," his voice whispered as he shifted her further away. She almost pressed against the horn of the car before her free hand flew to rest on his chest. 

"You're –"

"A thirty-five-year-old and an eighteen-year-old are not a normal friendship, Alina." His eyes opened, dark and obsidian as the night. There was an urgency in them. A pleading for her to understand what he was saying. "One of them always wants more than the other."

The pit in her throat returned, double in size as she stared back. She couldn't look away – drawn into his gaze and unable to look away. It was like how his mere presence drew all the attention in the room, but the room was just her. 

"Do you think…" she choked on her words, blinking finally as she shifted in his lap. Trying to get right in the middle of wrong.  "That you're the only one who wants more?" 

His eyes closed again, and he leaned forward as he groaned. A pained exhale as he tried to maintain the rigid composure he had with her. For too long , she thought. Her hands rested on his forearms, eyes staring at the grey leather of the truck wall as his head landed on her chest. 

For a moment, she was just there. Feeling his warmth seeping into her bones as he breathed. And it felt right – his hands on her hips, his breath on her chest. The tickle of his hair under her chin. And it was with sudden clarity, like a lightning strike, that she felt her resolve solidify. That she knew what she wanted. What she needed from him. 

"Take me home, Aleksander." She felt him stiffen again, tension evident in him as he attempted to regain composure. Her hand flew to his hair, a soothing thread of her fingers on his scalp. "Your home. I want – please take me to your home." 

She didn't move from his lap as he sat back. Instead, she allowed herself to follow his movement, tucking her head into the crook of his neck and shifting her hips closer to his. She relished the slow rumble of the truck, its shaky movements as it backed out of the parking space. Each foot shook the cab as he tried to carefully drive with a girl on his lap in the middle of a snowstorm. 

But she didn't mind. Each bump and rumble brought her hips closer to his. Hardness pressed against her center with each movement. She bit her lip, clutching his shoulders as he navigated the streets (he did choose the fast food in town after all), but that could not stop the small whimpers she left with each rock of her hips. She barely noticed when they pulled into his driveway. Her hips still moved on their own accord, her whimpers no longer hindered as she mouthed at his neck. 

In a flash his hands were back on her, increasing the pressure as he brought her hips down harder. His head flew back, giving her more access as she began to pant. She was encased in the smell of him, woodsy smoke, and a basic soap. Each roll of her hips was a push towards a cliff, the coil inside her tightening with each roll. But it was the sound of him, the low groan in her ear as she moved that sent her over the edge. A small cry left her as she did. The flood of relief filled her body as she clung to him, thighs shaking.  

She panted, eyes lidded as she came down. Each limb seemed to come back to her separately. Her toes unclenched, and her fingers slowly released the fabric of his shirt. Each breath renewed her resolve. 

"A-Alina," he breathed. He was still hard beneath her, clutching her as if he was afraid she'd run away. "Text Ana you're spending the night somewhere safe." 

How he had the wherewithal to think of that she'll never know. And it was obvious that Ana wouldn’t care. But she did as she was told, slowly peeling herself away from his shoulder. She raised her hips slightly, reaching in her pocket for the phone she had for emergencies only. 

I'm safe, Coach took me in when he saw me walking in the storm. I'll be home when the roads are clear. 

She hissed when he turned the truck off, cabin lights blinding her. But he shifted her off his lap, opened the door, and climbed out. When he turned he offered her his hand, and she blushed as her eyes traveled past it, a noticeable bulge and a small spot of wetness staining his pants where her hips were. She wondered if she had the same stain on her jeans. 

He had her in his arms before she could blink, snapping her out of her haze. She barely absorbed the home, another two-story four square. It was better kept than Ana's, even in the dark. Floorboards that didn't creek under the weight of both of them as he carried her – legs wrapped tight around his waist – through the front door. 

Her feet were set on solid wood, a brief moment of clarity through the fog as he turned to close the door. A solid click of a lock. And then, his lips were on hers. 

Soft, demanding. If she thought she was consumed by him before, this must be what it meant to be devoured. Hands, rough and calloused, cradled her face. His thumb was against her cheek, pulling her closer as if he couldn't get enough. His fervor, all-consuming and suffocating ignites her own. Her hands tangle into the hair at the base of his neck. Her chest pressed to his. 

Their bodies moved as if possessed. Hands everywhere as they moved, lips only parting for seconds as shirts flew off with the wind. Legs moved on their own accord, strong arms pushing against furniture from his entire life – blindly leading her to the stairs.  But as her ankles hit the first step she fell back, their kiss breaking as she lay on the carpet runner. His eyes were somehow depthless as he gazed at her, eyebrow cocked as she bit her swollen lips.

"We can go upstairs," he offered. She shook her head no, her hands drifting to the front zipper of her sports bra. His eyes tracked the movement like a hawk, an almost audible gulp forming in his throat. 

"T–The living room?" Again she shook her head, her chest bared to him as he knelt. Finally, he was to feel the tightness in his chest, the same twisting feeling she felt in his presence. Breathless and needy as she unbuttoned her jeans. 

"No," she nearly whispered. "Here." 

His hands shoved hers aside, kneeling in front of her as he pulled at the fabric at her hips. Her jeans and panties disappeared in a flash. He was between her legs in a flash, the edge of the step holding her cunt to his eye level. 

"Such a pretty cunt," he murmured, leaning forward. She blushed, raising her hands to her face before he looked up. He placed a kiss on her stomach, eyes fluttering as he began to kiss down. "Don't hide from me, malyshka . I've waited long enough for you." 

She could barely get a whimper out before he licked a broad stripe down her cunt. 

It was hard to believe, as he feasted hungrily over her. She hadn't known that she could feel sparks fly in her. That her entire body would arch off the staircase as he seemed on a mission for his tongue to find every nerve in her clit. There was no feasible way for her to contain the sounds she was making, even if she wanted to.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, tugging and pulling as a finger suddenly filled her. She felt stretched wide. Far more than she could attempt herself during muffled nights, attempting not to wake her sleeping foster sister as she fantasized about eyes darker than the shadows that held her. 

And he took his time, working her into a frenzy as he slowly thrust that finger inside her. His tongue continued blatant teasing, almost torture as he pushed her closer and closer to the edge with each stripe. It was overwhelming, a plethora of senses coming together to wind her higher and higher with each passing stroke. She was hardly coherent when she broke, half sobs and moans flowing freely from her mouth as she thanked saints she no longer believed in for his tongue. 

He barely let up. His fingers, before one was suddenly two, stretched her already overstimulated cunt as he rose to kiss her. 

The salty tang of his mouth on hers, the juices from her that coated his lips, tasted like ambrosia as his pants met hers – discarded to the wayside as she felt a hardness against her side. Thick and hard as his fingers worked to bring her to that edge again. 

"Please Sasha," she whimpered between breaths, hands uselessly clutching at his sides. His fingers found that spot, pressing against her front wall as she shook, ripping a moan from her. He made to pull away, earning him a whine and a pawing at his sides like a kitten when you try to take away their favorite toy. 

"Gotta be safe, malyshka ," he murmured, attempting to get up again but she just pulled him back.

"Uh uh," she whined, adjusting so he fell right between her legs. His cock brushed against her oversensitive clit, eliciting a moan from both of them. "Wanna feel you. Is just been you… please, Sasha." 

He groaned, a soft nod as he used one of his hands to notch himself at her entrance. Her nails dug into his sides as he began to press inside, his cock larger than his fingers prepared here for. She whimpered as he pressed in an inch, only to pull back and press in another. Each time carving a space for himself. Each press split her apart so that she could be molded just for him. 

Soon their hips met, an ache scratched as he practically laid on top of her. Chest to chest, nose to nose, he didn't look away from her as he slowly pulled away, only to thrust back into the hilt again. Her breath knocked out of her throat, each thrust removing the air from her lungs and placing it in his as their bodies became one,

"Fuck," he muttered, revenant as he looked down, a bulge in her lower stomach looking suspiciously like the cock inside her. " You take me so well, so good for me. Always so perfect. " 

Each stroke hit something inside her. A stroke to flame, a second wave ( or was it the third? Fourth?) threatening to crash as his hips drove hers into the stains beneath them. There would be marks in the morning. Bruises around reddened skin, signs of how well he filled her. Signs of how little she cared about the pain when the pleasure crescendoed to the clouds. To the home of the saints.

He kisses her, mad and fervently as his pace begins to falter. Hips slam against hips, mouths at war to see who could taste who the most. He snakes a hand, switching all his weight to a side, down her torso to meet her clit, causing her to cry out.

"One more, Alina," he panted into her lips. " One more for me." 

She was never good at denying him. She'd been following his instruction for nearly four years. And he was always right. Just a few more and her toes curl, lips parted in a silent cry as her body falls apart. The pleasure overwhelms her, turns her brain to static as all she thinks of is him.  

"Fuck, so tight," he groaned, forehead falling to rest on the stair at her head. "All mine, my Aina ." It became a chant. His Alina. Over and over until he buries himself to the base, pressing into her so hard she wondered if she’d feel the phantom of his hips long after they separated. But the thought gets washed away with the tide of warmth that fills her cunt as he fills her more than she thought possible. 

Ana doesn't notice her absence for the three days Alina spends in Aleksander's bed. Nor does she notice that Alina no longer spends long nights walking home from the grocers. The woman has no time to, and another foster child was sent to her home during the winter break. A boy this time. And Alina would've helped care for the youngling, had she not been planning her departure. 

Less than a hundred and fifty-two days and she would shake off the town of Ketterdam. She would wash away the rust and dust of the city, Os Alta in her sights with a fresh diploma printed in her hands. This time she wouldn't be the only one dreaming of her own gym, a child to hold and eyes dark as the night to welcome her home. She would pack all her belongings in a new duffle bag, purchased as a reward for her acceptance to the Ravkan Olympic team. The bag would get tossed into the back of a black pickup truck, and she wouldn't think about the city again.