#visit montenegro

[escapetololaland]

Crno Jezero, Zabljak | Montenegro | 2022

[scolo-evil-centipede]

Oj, svijetla majska zoro

[bujorulgalben]

Um. [Sputtering. Thinking very hard about this.] Where. Where would be your favorite place to go on a date, Ana?

@sivisoko

[ /with a quirk of one eyebrow and an intent, thoughtful gaze, anica can almost see the steam stream from slavko's ears in how hard he's thinking. with a small smile and a smaller chime of a laugh, she takes his hands; circling her thumbs around his knuckles. ] Well! What a question... oh, but do not worry. I would not be one to just blurt out, oh, something like Côte d'Azur. Venezia... hah! Why not! Nu, I would not do that to your poor heart. Goodness me.

But indeed, where. I would hardly ever say to finding some sweet and secluded a little closer to home- [ /a lightbulb clicks in anica's head and she squeezes his hands. ] I just thought! We should go to Nera Gorge-Beușnița. It is only a couple of hours' drive from Timișoara, and you would only need to hop over the Danube - it is right by the border! And- and oh, iubi, the forests and waterfalls are beautiful. Legends will say that couples who drink from it will find eternal love.

So! There is an idea! Or...or! I believe that the Budva Riviera would be a much better choice. It has been far too long since you took me out there, and I am sure that Jana would not mind the intrusion too much! We could find somewhere to hide away, somewhere for just the two of us. I would like to see it again. [ /her voice softens: ] I would really like that.

[imjustthisawesome]

Dubrovnik!

Earlier this year, I began contemplating my holiday destination and quickly considered Croatia. However, I found myself torn between Split and Dubrovnik for some time. Ultimately, I chose Dubrovnik, not only for its stunning beauty but also for the opportunity to explore nearby countries. Additionally, the fact that Dubrovnik served as the filming location for King’s Landing in Game of Thrones…

[rasarit-of-my-life]

:,3

[astrobiscuits]

Astro obs part 9

🐌 The planets in your 12th house indicate your sleeping style:

Sun in 12th house - their sleep schedule is extremely messed up; for them, daylight hours = nighttime hours and vice versa, so they have trouble being themselves during the day; their true self comes out at night

Moon in 12th house - goes to sleep very late; full moons have a special effect on these people; their intuition is more clear at night; as kids, they probably slept a lot with their mother

Mercury in 12th house - loves texting/calling people late at night; they might journal their thoughts before sleep because they overthink a lot and it helps to clear their mind or maybe they just like to relax by reading a book at night

Venus in 12th house - cares a lot about getting their "beauty sleep"; sleeps with sleep masks on, buys expensive bed lingerie, skincare night routine might be very important; loves sleeping in general lmao

Mars in 12th house - enjoys working out before going to sleep, can go to sleep angry because they tend to get into conflict more at night than during the day

I have Uranus in 12th house and i can be both a light sleeper or a heavy sleeper, depending on where i am. For example, when i'm traveling, during the first night i wake up several times, but from the second night on i sleep like a baby lmao. Another thing would be that i can't sleep in a quiet car but i don't have any problem sleeping during a thunderstorm

🐌 Mars in fire signs (Aries, Leo, Sag) and Mars in 3rd house individuals love riding motorbikess

🐌 While Mars in 9th house peeps would probably love to go on a world tour on their motorbike. The sign ruling their 9th house represents the countries they would love to visit (i'm aware that some of these can only be visited by plane, take it with a grain of salt): 

♈ in 9th house: Ireland, Poland, Japan, Zimbabwe

♉ in 9th house: Cuba, Paraguay, South Africa, East Timor

♊ in 9th house: Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Iceland, Montenegro

♋ in 9th house: Canada, USA, Bahamas, Argentina, Slovenia, Madagascar

♌ in 9th house: Hawaii, France, Italy, The Netherlands, India, South Korea, Peru, Bolivia

♍ in 9th house: Switzerland, Mexico, Brazil, Chile, Vietnam

♎ in 9th house: Belgium, Portugal, China, Equatorial Guinea, Lesotho

♏ in 9th house: Panama, Spain, Turkey, Arab countries (Saudi Arabia, UAE), Palestine, Lebanon

♐ in 9th house: Finland, Lithuania, Romania, Tanzania, Thailand

♑ in 9th house: UK, Germany, Czech Republic, Australia, Camerun

♒ in 9th house: Greece, New Zealand, Philippines, Singapore, Sri Lanka

♓ in 9th house: Morocco, Tunisia, Egypt, Mauritius, Saint Lucia

🐌 I have a feeling Pisces Suns like to spend their time in a garage lmao. Mostly because their opposing sign, Virgo, would hate to spend time in a garage due to how dirty it can get.

🐌As a 7th house Sun who's been in love for almost a year now (haha, are we surprised, ofcours not; i'm not even in a relationship with him but ugh we're so perfect for each other), i realised that Sun in 7th house people tend to behave differently with their partner when they're in a healthy relationship vs when they're in a toxic one

Sun in 7th house in:

♈ Aries in a healthy relationship: empowers their partner, knows how to balance me time vs us time in a healthy manner, encourages their partner to take safe risks

♈ Aries in an unhealthy relationship: impulsive, impatient, selfish, dismisses their partner's feelings, often controlled by rage, prone to abusing their partner

♉ Taurus in a healthy relationship: veryyy generous (their love language is gift giving), accommodating to their partner's wants and needs, cooks for their partner

♉ Taurus in an unhealthy relationship: stubborn af, hard to please, focused more on the material gain from their partner rather than the love they share

♊ Gemini in a healthy relationship: curious, always lightens the mood of their partner by cracking up tons of jokes or telling them funny stories, knows that communication is key to everything so they're not afraid to discuss serious topics, teaches their partner a lot of random stuff

♊ Gemini in an unhealthy relationship: superficial, doesn't have a problem moving on from their partner to another person in a matter of seconds, if they're still in school/college, then they prioritize studying over their partner

♋ Cancer in a healthy relationship: nurturing, knows how to balance babying their partner vs being babied by their partner, emotionally vulnerable, feels safe enough to present their partner to their family early on in the relationship

♋ Cancer in a unhealthy relationship: if they don't trust their partner, they tend to become emotionally closed off to hide their deep sadness; defensive, but if their partner attackes them, then they'll hide, worries excessively, avoids presenting their partner to their family

♌ Leo in a healthy relationship: treats their partner like the king/queen they are, keeps their ego in check so it doesn't interfere with the relationship, if they've got artistic talents (music, acting, art etc.), they'll show their love for their partner by performing in front of them

♌ Leo in an unhealthy relationship: egocentric, shows off their partner/relationship too much out of pride, often feels entitled in the relationship and wants to be put on a pedestal by their partner

♍ Virgo in a healthy relationship: selfless to a healthy degree, remembers every lil detail from every casual conversations with their partner just to please them, remembers every important date and plans ahead for it, takes care of their partner when they're sick

♍ Virgo in a unhealthy relationship: critical, overfixates on past hurts and mistakes that their partner made in the relationship (often times their partner doesn't even remember those things because they're usually not that serious), loves their pets more than their partner

♎ Libra in a healthy relationship: romantic, charismatic, truly values their partner and the relationship with them, acts fair in the relationship, teaches their partner lovingly about the importance of honesty, truth and a healthy give and take dynamic in a relationship

♎ Libra in an unhealthy relationship: doesn't prioritize the relationship; instead, they flirt with others despite being in a relationship, emotionally detached, cold and calculated in their current relationship

♏ Scorpio in a healthy relationship: loyal, loves their partner deeply and intensely, but without suffocating them, keeps their partner's secrets like they're a locked safe box with no public access

♏ Scorpio in an unhealthy relationship: obsessive, manipulative, seeks to dominate their partner, displays stalkish behaviour in the relationship, liar

♐ Sagittarius in a healthy relationship: exposes their partner to various cultures, belief systems and philosophies to expand their mind and form their own opinion on certain topics, loves freely but is still able to maintain a long-term relationship, improves their partner's mood, usually brings an element of surprise and excitement to the relationship

♐ Sagittarius in an unhealthy relationship: travels in order to avoid dealing with their partner, parties a bit too much, doesn't take the relationship seriously

♑ Capricorn in a healthy relationship: loves their partner in a mature, serious and secure manner, doesn't shy away from improving their partner's social status and/or career if they can, discusses plans for the future (getting married, having kids, adopting pets, buying a house) with their partner early on in the relationship, they make time for their partner, despite the fact that they're busy most of the time

♑ Capricorn in an unhealthy relationship: displays no emotions or physical affection in the relationship, has a hard time communicating their thoughts with their partner, settles in a relationship for the wrong reasons (money/kids/safety/"i'm getting old and i need to have my life established"), prioritizes work/career over their partner

♒ Aquarius in a healthy relationship: flexible, makes their partner's dreams and aspirations come true (whether they're related to the relationship or not), has got a very open-minded attitude towards their partner's opinions, lifestyle and identity, takes the time to become friends firsts with their future partner because they value a relationship built on solid foundation (often times their partner is also their best friend), knows how to balance couple time vs time with friends

♒ Aquarius in an unhealthy relationship: displays wishy-washy behaviour, emotionally detached, prioritizes their friends over their partner, seeks online validation from strangers and acquaintances to fulfill their needs

♓ Pisces in a healthy relationship: sensitive to their partner's emotions, knows how to balance wearing their heart on their sleeve vs hiding their emotions in unfavourable circumstances, always honest with their partner

♓ Pisces in an unhealthy relationship: prone to drown their relationship problems and sorrows in alcohol, drugs and meds for mental health issues, runs away from problems instead of dealing with them with their partner, displays dishonesty to a fault, prone to self-sabotage

[lovecla]

IF YOU LOVE ME, LET ME KNOW | jack hughes.

epilogue:

how soph got her inspiration to write ‘juno’

<last chapter>

➴ warnings: smut (unprotected sex, breeding kink, cock warming, aftercare, creampie, p in v, slightly degradation.), mentions of dad!jack and mom!reader, mentions of ovulation, domestic soph and jack.

➴ word count: 2.9k

➴ author’s note: inspired by ‘juno’ by queen sabrina and also by the videos of jack with kids on my fyp. i am sorry for being a whore but also, not really. enjoy! ♡

BEING a mom wasn’t something that you thought you wanted.

You’d always say that, ever since you were a little girl, when your sisters talked about how they wanted to marry a nice guy and have two point five kids— all girls— and name them after Disney princesses. You’d just stare at them weirdly and go back to pretend you were doing some interview for The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.

And Jack shared the same opinion— you knew that he wanted kids but it wasn’t a priority on his list. He never really mentioned them, not like Quinn, who was always talking about how he wanted to be a great father, just like Jim is.

But the thing is, you never really cared about being a mom, or making Jack a father for that matter, until you saw how Jack acted around kids.

First, it’d been with your nieces, Aurora and Jasmine. Back in 2023, you’d invited your mom, your stepdad, your sisters and their families to spend the New Years with you and Jack’s family. It was a huge mess, the house was packed with people but you were so happy to watch your favorite people— the Hughes and the Montenegro— get along with each other that the lack of space wasn’t an issue at all.

Then, you introduced your nieces to Jack.

“My babies,” you smiled, picking the four-year-old up, noticing how big she’d gotten since the last time you saw her. “This is Auntie’s boyfriend, his name’s Jack. Can you say hi?”

Aurora looked at Jack with big, bright eyes, and you could tell she was enchanted with his warm smile and blue eyes.

Jasmine stood behind your legs, the seven-year-old also staring at him with curious eyes.

“Hi, uncle Jack,” Jasmine whispered, holding your leg tighter. You gasped, not expecting her to call Jack ‘uncle’ so soon. He also looked surprised, but just for a second, before he went down on one knee and offered the little girl his hand.

“Hey, honey,” he replied back, shaking hands with the seven-year-old. “Nice to meet you and your sister.”

Aurora was looking down, the pacifier in her mouth moving around, until she finally decided Jack was worthy of her attention, moving her body towards the floor, signaling that she wanted to be down there with him.

You chuckled, sitting on the floor with them, watching as Aurora crawled her way to Jack’s lap, offering him her Maleficent plush she carried around everywhere.

“Oh, you want me to hold this?” He asked, voice gentle and funny. He picked her up and held the toy with his other hand, still smiling. “Thank you, Imma keep it safe. Jasmine, you wanna share your toys with me too?”

Jasmine ended up rambling about how she was too big for toys and that now she was only interested in singing like her auntie, which made you laugh and confess that you played with Barbies until you were twelve.

Jasmine and Aurora absolutely loved Jack. And you could see that he loved them right back, with how much attention he gave them, playing with them the entire night and answering all of their— mostly Jasmine’s— noisy questions. And when you were sitting on the couch, talking with Ellen and your mom, you watched with heart eyes as he leaned against the wall, talking to Quinn and Luke while holding a sleeping Aurora in his arms, gently rocking her back and forth, while covering her with her blanket.

After that night, you started noticing how he acted around kids. Either when he went to hospitals to visit the sick children who rooted for the Devils, or when he went with you to your concerts and interacted with the few kids there.

The way he picked them up, answered their questions, held their hands— it definitely did something to you. Not only to your brain, but to your entire body. You could always be sneaky and blame your ovulation for being a whore, but truth be said: the idea of Jack getting you pregnant was hot, even if it wasn’t something you wanted right now.

You were sitting on Quinn’s couch, watching as Jack held one of his cousins in his arms and talked to a man who was probably one of his uncles.

He looked so fucking good. His hair was a bit shorter, and he was getting bigger now, probably due to the fact that he spent too much time at the gym with Luke.

You were trying to continue the conversation with Ellen, answering her questions about your music and fans, but it was extremely hard. Jack being only a few feet away from you didn’t help, at all.

“Are you feeling okay, Soph dear?” Ellen put her hands on your knees, squeezing them slightly.

You turned your head back and smiled, deciding to tell her a half-truth. “Just a little tired and jet lagged, that’s all. Don’t worry, ma’am.”

She laughed, as she always did whenever you called her that.

“Do you want to take a nap in Quinny's room? He won’t mind.”

You felt bad because now your mother-in-law thought you weren’t feeling well but the full truth was you were just very much horny and wanting her son to fuck you.

“There’s no need for that, I’ll just wait until Jackie is ready to head back,” you nodded, looking at Jack again, who was now trying to put the baby to sleep— and failing miserably, since all the kid wanted was to remove his cap from his head.

“I’m going to talk to Jack so you both go home, okay?” She replied and before you could even stop her, she got up and walked towards Jack.

You watched as she picked the baby out of Jack’s hand and said something to him, while pointing back at you. Jack turned his head to the side and looked right back at you, and you could see that he was starting to get worried.

He nodded at something that she said, and quickly kissed her on the cheek, walking back at you.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted, holding your hand and gently pulling you closer. “Mom said you weren’t feeling well. Why didn’t you tell me, Soph?”

“I’m fine, I just—” what would you even say? Hey, I’m horny and I need you to fuck me? “Hum. I can wait until you’re ready to go.”

“Nah, let’s go now.”

You barely recall the time between saying goodbye to everyone, getting in the car and heading back to Jack’s place. You spent the entire time trying to stop the wetness between your thighs and praying that it wouldn’t stain Jack’s car seat, squirming around.

“What’s the matter with you, baby?” He chuckled, placing his hand on your thigh, squeezing it lightly.

You didn’t answer, just tried to keep your mind in pink unicorns and old grandmas. No horny thoughts allowed until you were both at home.

Which, thankfully, didn’t take long. Jake parked inside of his garage, and you got out of the car like your ass was on fire.

“Sophia!” You heard him yell at you, before you opened the front door with your keys.

You didn’t make it too far, he grabbed you by your waist when you were making your way to his bedroom. “Soph, what is wrong with you today, baby?”

You whined, not sure of what to say. “Jack?”

“Yeah, baby?”

You stand on the tip of your toes and kiss him, your tongue fighting for space inside his mouth. He kissed you back just as ferociously, his grip on your waist becoming harder.

“‘Want you to knock me up,” you mumbled against his lips, watching as his blue eyes stared down at you, full of lust. “N-not really, but… please?”

He smirked. “You wanted to leave my brother’s house because you wanted me to knock you up?”

Well, when he put it like that…

“What a fucking slut, baby,” Jack whispered, gripping your ass with his right hand. “Just because you wanted me to make you carry my children?”

“Jack.” You moaned, holding onto his hoodie for dear life.

“You want me to make you a mommy, Soph?” Instead of letting you answer, he kissed you again, picking you up and walking with you, without breaking the kiss.

He managed to get you both in his room, and placed you on his bed, quickly taking his clothes off— the hoodie, the jeans, the shirt and then the boxers. His dick stood there hard and thick, the tip so red it was almost purple, leaking pre-cum.

You actually moaned just with the sight of it. The need of Jack’s cock inside of you, in and out, putting you in the right place, made you sweat.

You took off your own hoodie and your own shirt, thanking God for the past-you who chose not to wear a bra that day. Your nipples were hard and sensitive, just like they always are during ovulation week, that just the cold breeze inside the bedroom made you shiver.

You removed your jeans and stared at your situation, feeling disgusting and extremely horny at the same time— your panties were so wet that they were completely see through now, the thin layer of fabric doing nothing to cover your pussy.

“Jack,” you moaned again, feeling frustrated. “‘Need you.”

“I can see that, baby,” he smirked, towering your body with his. “I’ll take care of you, mhm?”

You nodded, kissing him one more time because you couldn’t get enough of his lips.

He removed your panties and threw them somewhere, the sound of something wet crushing against the floor filling up the room, making you cringe. Ovulation sucks.

He broke the kiss, moving on to your tits, sucking and biting and groping them, which didn’t help with the problem between your legs.

Jack finally let go, positioning himself so that he could be inside you in a quick, swift move. You moaned, feeling finally full and satisfied.

“Fuck, Soph, you’re so fucking wet, baby,” he breathed in your ear as he pounded inside you, as if you couldn’t hear the pornographic sounds whenever he sank deeper inside you. “All of this just because you wanted my kids? You could’ve just asked, uh, y’know?”

You wanted to reply so bad, tell him that it was just your post-period brain being absurd and crazy, but you had already reached that place inside your head you craved so much, the silence, the calmness— every thought being shoved inside a drawer and the only thing on your head was how Jack reached deep inside you, and how you could feel him in your belly, and how much you loved him and how you wanted to be the mother of his children so badly.

The saltiness of your tears inside your mouth made you realize that you were fully crying, as you often did whenever Jack took you to the right place. All you wanted to do was let him take care of you, and hand your life to him on a silver platter.

“Does it feel good, baby?” He sucked on your right nipple, fucking you so hard the mattress was moving. “Knowing that you’re gonna be a mommy? Carry my children and have my last name?”

You nodded even though you wanted to speak, but your tongue felt glued to the roof of your mouth and your mind was busy conjuring images of Jack holding babies who looked like the perfect mix between the two of you, and being the greatest dad ever and you wanted that so, so much.

“Can’t even speak, fuck, baby,” He mocked you, rubbing your clit furiously, making you scream and try to close your thighs— no success, since Jack’s body made it impossible. “None of that, Soph.”

You knew you probably looked like a mess; hair tangled, face wet with tears and probably spit too, tits marked and with his handprints on them, but it didn’t matter. All you wanted was JackJackJack.

You came with an obnoxiously loud scream, legs trembling and eyes rolled to the back of your head, while Jack still rubbed your sensitive, swollen clit and slammed his cock inside you.

You clutched the sheets like your life depended on it, head going side to side, eyes closed the entire time, until you felt the familiar sensation of Jack’s come deep inside you.

“Good God, Soph,” Jack sounded out of breath. “Fuck.”

You still didn’t feel ready to speak, the tears still rolling down your face, so you just waited until he moved around, laying down and bringing you with him, his dick softening inside of you, something he knew you liked to have after sex.

He kissed your forehead and put the duvet on top of both of you, as you slowly came back to life, listening to his heartbeat and counting your own breaths.

“I love you,” you mumbled, wanting nothing more than a nap.

He chuckled, before kissing your forehead again. “I love you too. D’you think we’re going to be parents now?” He joked, and you smacked his chest, lightly.

“Don’t be silly.”

He just hummed, deciding to leave you alone (for now) and removing himself from you instead. You winced, feeling his cum coming out of you, as you clenched around nothing.

Jack then picked you up, and walked with you to the bathroom, making sure that you peed before showering. He left the bathroom for no more than a minute, just to give you some privacy— he knew that even after all this time, you were still embarrassed to pee in front of him— and came back with your favorite pajamas: cotton panties and an old NJ Devils shirt.

You smiled, seeing his name and number plastered on the back of the shirt, remembering the night you first met, and how pissy he was because you were wearing Nico’s jersey.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

“Ready, baby?” He asked, blue eyes staring so deep into your soul that you had no option but to agree with everything he said.

He gently held your hand, guiding you until you were standing inside the big shower stall, the warm water untying all the knots in your body.

You leaned against his body, both of you under the water now, humming as he cleaned you, with your favorite vanilla scented body wash— which he secretly loved more than you.

His hands work slowly and gently, spreading the soap on all of your body, and you just stand there, accepting it and hiding your face as you feel his fingers entering you again, removing his release.

You should be used to it by now but it was still a foreign feeling, being so well taken care of sometimes still scared you, but Jack was nothing but patient.

You watched as he cleaned his own body, not using even half of the gentleness he used with you, which made you smile. If you weren’t so tired, you’d offer your help, but right now all you wanted was to sleep beside him.

He turned the water off and got out of the shower first, wrapping a towel around his hips. He smiled at you and picked up another towel, drying your body with it.

He didn’t wash your hair so no need for hair dryers, thankfully, so you just slipped into your custom made pajamas and waited until he got himself dressed as well— a Calvin Klein underwear— before you both washed your teeth and got out of the bathroom.

You sat on the bed, trying your hardest not to smile, not wanting to look crazy. But you were happy. So, so happy, you were probably writing about this later.

“Here, pretty,” he handed you a bottle of water, already opened. “Drink this for me and we're ready to go to sleep.”

You thanked him softly before practically chugging the water bottle and placing it on your nightstand.

Jack smiled and gave you a peck, before sliding into the bed with you, pulling you close, as he always did. He wasn’t much of a snuggle guy, but he knew how much you liked them, so he just followed the lead.

After a few minutes in silence, you turned around so you could face those sapphire eyes you loved so dearly. “I am on birth control,” you whispered, feeling a little bit embarrassed. “Just so you know.”

He smiled, chuckling. “I know that, baby. I was just giving you something you needed.”

You nodded, not sure if you should feel content or not. Did that mean Jack doesn’t want you to be the mom of his kids? Your post-sex brain shouted yes.

He must have sensed that something was going on inside of your brain, because he wasn’t smiling anymore.

“For the record, I do want to have babies with you,” he said, as if he couldn’t believe you thought otherwise. “Just maybe not now? I’m still twenty-three and you’re almost twenty-five.”

“‘S fine,” you mumbled, hiding your face on his chest. “I know that. I was just being horny.”

You heard his breathy laugh and his chest moving according to the sound. “Yeah. I know that too, baby,”

The jet-lag and the tiredness of the day hit you like a trunk, and you were out not even five minutes later, nestled inside the heavy duvet and Jack’s arms.

“I love you, Soph,” Jack’s whisper was the last thing you heard, making a tired smile appear on your lips.

“‘Love you more.”

| LATER |

liked by dawson1417, _quinnhughes, zendaya and 3,972,082 others

sophiamontenegro 'juno' music video is out now!

starring our nhl stars, _quinnhughes, jackhughes and lhughes_06, my beautiful best friend morgan.grace and my loving niece aurora!

i love all of u and i'm so thankful for all the love you guys have given 'make me yours' so far!!! xx tell me ur favorite positions ;)

View all 13,091 comments

morgan.grace I LOVE YOU

user1 she wrote this during ovulation week bc ain’t no way

lhughes_06 😌

user4 when she sang “god bless your dad’s genetics” and the camera showed quinn jack and luke sitting on the couch I DIED. LIKE HELL YES

user2 idk about you guys but i found it sooo cute when she said “one of me is cute but two though?” and showed a baby who looked just like her 🥹🥹🥹🥹 i need sophia to be a mom right now

nicohischier 😮😮😮

trevorzegras why didn’t u call me, I’m a great actor

sophiamontenegro trevorzegras dwayne get out my fucking comment section. go do something man

user12 my favourite part was when she said “i showed my friends, then we high fived” and it was her and grace stalking jack’s instagram 💀💀

user7 i giggled so hard when she sat on jack’s lap and sang “i’m so fucking horny” and he SMIRKED. HELP 💜

jackhughes you know my favorite one

| the end |

[dolicekiss]

Heyyyy,

could you write a one-shot, where fem reader is James Bond‘s niece and has accidentaly met her uncle in the city, kept following him and this is how she ends up in the casino? Bond realizes this pretty quickly, but can‘t save her from an intrigued Le Chiffre, who kidnaps her. (With Smut?)

Casino & Cash

PAIRING: Le Chiffre x Bond's niece!Female reader

CONTENT WARNING: kidnapping, dubcon, drugging, threatening, unprotected sex, age gap (reader is twenty, Le Chiffre is thirty five), hair pulling, bratty reader, choking, sadistic behavior, mention of blood, praise kink, degrading kink, forced oral (female receiving), forced fucking, knife play.

SYNOPSIS: The last person you expected to crash into was your uncle, in Montenegro, on his own vacation. You were warned to stay away from Bond, as the man was on a dangerous mission but because of your young curiosity, you found yourself following your uncle's trail. It didn't end well because when you entered the Casino, you not only caught your uncle's attention but a specific banker’s too; Le Chiffre.

You hadn't expected to find your own uncle at a store in Montenegro, shoppin for a tuxedo, especially when your own mother had warned you to stay as far as you could from him and his line of work.

Never were your whys and whats answered, only subtle orders left for you to follow.

You were stubborn. Wanted to know more about him, about what he did, just what did he do that was beyond your understanding.

“Listen to me—”

You interrupted him. “I will not. You always ignore us and never even visit us anymore. Mom keeps saying to let you be but we're family, are we not?”

You didn't like just how easily your uncle had abandoned you. Just for the sake of his all secretive, dangerous occupation. It didn't sit right with you. Everyday, your mother would miss her brother and hope that someday he'd visit but James Bond had his own plans, to save the world and rid it of terrorist organizations.

Bond let out a grunt of frustration. As if preparing himself for a game of tough poker wasn't already energy draining, he now had to deal with your stubbornness. “You don't understand. You're only a child, I do not wish you to even have knowledge about all this."

“A child?!” You exclaimed, clearly offended that he'd even thought of you as one. “I am twenty, an adult. You wouldn't know though. Last time you visited, I was only eighteen.”

You recalled back to his short visit. Only entering through the doors of your apartment, discussing a few words with your mother and then leaving after dropping a bar of chocolate on the wooden desk in front of you which he'd claimed was a souvenir brought from Japan.

A bar of chocolate — for an eighteen year old.

It pissed you off just how avoidant your own uncle was.

“Just because I don't visit often doesn't mean I don't keep an eye on my family.” You shook your head at that, staring at him with a pout like some petulant child. Your father had abandoned you when you were only a little girl and when James stepped in to take care of you, your attachment to him grew.

So when he too took off under the name of his dangerous work, you made it your mission to confront the man.

But the last thing you expected was to see him here. Strolling through the mall, coursing through the tuxedos hanging from the metal rod in a luxurious store. Your mother missed him but her reaction was not as extreme as yours.

Before you could utter out another remark of disappointment, your uncle dismissed you by answering a phone call. Then he left, just like that. He once again didn't bother to look back and you suppressed the urge to stomp your foot on the marbled floor in the middle of the mall.

But you weren't gonna sit idle.

So you got to it.

Following him — like a snake slithering after its prey and tracking down its every moment. Subtle or not. Pursuing him lead you to Casino Royale. It took you days to land yourself a place at the Casino Royale, all the opulence and wealth you possessed came in help. Coming from the Bond family, you had access to all the ancestral wealth as well as the money James Bond earned through his work.

Casino Royal was beautiful and glimmering in pure opulence, the type of place you usually avoided as you were not fond of rich scums that looked down upon everyone else and considered the lives of middle class and lower nothing but futile.

Draped in black satin, you made your entrance inside the casino. Quick to grasp the attention of multiple gazes but you focused only on your uncle, capturing his blue eyes.

Found you.

You sent him a short smug grin. Like you'd win, you had found him. Tracked him down no matter how hard he tried to conceal his tracks and not be found but he had forgotten that at the end of the day, you too were his niece and carried his intelligence.

Without knowing what you were stepping into, you moved across the room. In your naivety, you'd laid yourself bare to the lion that possessed the front seat. Le Chiffre watched you move with such grace, your hips almost dislocating with how blissfully you walked over to the table.

To you, you'd won this game of cat and mouse. Unbeknownst to the real danger that your uncle so desperately tried to protect you against. He did everything in his power to keep you concealed but your foolishness and stubbornness had lead you to step right in the lion’s den.

As you stood behind your uncle, you wrapped your arm around his broad shoulders. Everyone watched, but Le Chiffre analyzed the scene unfold before him. Finger tapping against his temple, the sight of you nearly making him lose focus on the game. He was more curious though — a craving to unwrap the mystery that you were.

You were not an agent.

If you were, he would have known.

When your face came next to Bond’s, the gears in his head turned. He tilted his head, stare running over the both of you in scrutiny before his brain snapped.

You were no damn agent.

Nor were you an accomplice.

He registered the similarities between the two of you. You beared a striking resemblance to the man you stood next to, the lips and nose nearly giving away your relationship to him. You were a relative and Le Chiffre’s mind already was coming up with ideas and ways to use you as leverage against his nemesis.

“See, I told you. You can't always escape me, dear uncle.” You whispered in his ear, a small giggle escaping you.

Completely oblivious to the man with the scarred eye who stared at you with heightened curiosity in his one, dark eye. The other still holding some remnants of human emotions.

Le Chiffre also noticed the nervousness that decorated Bond’s face. It was obvious he was sweating at your presence in the Casino, not fond of it at all. Your naivety was going to get you in danger, as he saw how the men in the room eyed you like you were some new piece of meat.

Bond was an egoistic man.

He didn't care about risking a few lives if it meant saving millions others. Sacrificing a few people was a game of chess for him but you.

You were family.

He couldn't possibly risk you.

Especially knowing his sister would unleash hell about you.

The man was in a fucking dilemma. He didn't know what to do, but right now progressing with the game was his ultimate goal and aim so he did. Brushing your small hands off his shoulders.

“Just leave and don't come back here.” He whispered, and you looked at him. His blue eyes held no sarcasm or hesitance. He was serious and the look he gave you caused a chill to dance up your arms.

With a pout of reluctance, you made another grave mistake by ignoring his order and walking away to the bar. Le Chiffre’s gaze followed you and when you plopped down on the velvety chair, you accidentally made eye contact with him.

Appalled at how attractive he was, despite the minor flaw of a scarred eye. His gaze drank you up, every drop of you. From the revealed ankles of yours to the slit in your dress. He found it irritating it that he couldn't peek further into the recess of your inner thighs, the gap closed as you'd tossed your leg over the other.

You were quite young. He could see that too and something primal rose up in his throat which he drowned down with a glass of cognac.

Bond knew things were going to go haywire, especially with the way you'd captured Le Chiffre’s attention. It was good as he could win the game of poker with you distracting him but he couldn't possibly allow himself to include you in all this. Knowing that once you're in, there's no way out. No way to escape the clouds of danger looming above your head.

Everytime Le Chiffre went in with his money, he stole glances from you. Following how your stained lips met the rim of the glass of martini — his own throat beginning to become parched. You weren't oblivious to his gaze but the aura that levitated off the man like a dark cloud of death was a warning enough to not give him any attention.

You only focused on your uncle, Bond’s sparkling blues finding you. Continuing to play the game but also worrying about you and how he'd face his sister if she were to find out her daughter was involved in James’ life threatening games.

You had both the men all over the place.

One with your beauty, other with your blood.

Three glasses of martinis and a reapplied lipstick later, the game had come to an end. It was your uncle who emerged as the winner and you couldn't control your joy. Immediately embracing him in a hug and smiling at him. All the people in the Casino watching you, curious to what your relationship with James Bond was.

“Uncle, you won.”

Le Chiffre heard that.

Oh he did and a small subtle grin passed when he did.

You had to be his niece. You couldn't be his sister, nor wife nor daughter. The man was an agent for god’s sake, he couldn't risk to harbor his own relationships. You had to be someone else's. Le Chiffre’s anger subsided because he had found the right leverage against James Bond.

“Don't call me that.” He said through gritted teeth — shaking his head in disappointment. You blinked your eyes, dumbfounded.

Le Chiffre left the room, after stealing a glance from you. Already making plans to kidnap you and bring you to his knees, use you into James handing over all the money.

Bond had lead you outside to the parking lot, angry and frustrated. You couldn't understand the depth of the situation. You were only cheering for him but you weren't aware that by referring to him as your uncle, you'd stepped into the spotlight of danger and macabre. He pushed you inside the car and slammed the door shut, slipping inside the driver's seat.

“If you're told over and over again to stay the fuck away from me, why won't you listen?” You watched with a blurring vision as he slammed both his hands down on the posh steering wheel of the car. Your body flinched at such an aggressive reaction, succumbing to the leather of the seat you were.

You tried to excuse your behavior. “Uncle, I only wanted to spend time with you—”

“Fuck spending time with me. You're a target now, they'll do anything to get their hands on you.” James was a fucking mess. Perspired forehead and trembling hands, he started the car and began driving. There was only one single thing on his mind, to get you to the airport as fast as he could.

There wasn't even enough time to contact MI6 and call for emergency transportation for you. Le Chiffre had found out and you were not a human anymore — only blackmail material. A threat to both MI6 and James Bond.

The car drive was reckless, tears falling profusely down your cheeks. You couldn't understand what was happening but you were sure that something shady, something past your normal life was going on here. James drove like his life depended on it but then a blast roared through the darkness of the night.

Cutting the silence crisply in between, as the car came to a screeching halt. Its engine roaring out into the void the sky had become. You had no time to register the situation as the car door was slammed open, from both sides, and you two were pulled out. The strange faces moved aside and there emerged a familiar face, the man with the scarred eye.

He scared you.

Just by existing.

Your uncle was knocked over and pushed on his knees by one of the guards while another held you tightly against him. You couldn't give in, not that easily. Turning to the man who held you, you bared your teeth and bit down on his arm. His scream was cut short as he slapped you across the face, sending you straight into the grass by the road.

“She's resilient.” Le Chiffre commented, impressed by your act of rebellion. You were surrounded by guns, by dangerous people but you had the fucking nerve to harm one of his men.

That was attractive.

“Let her go.” Bond gasped out, the side of his head bleeding from the rough handling of Le Chiffre’s men. “Take me, but release her. She's of no use to you.”

Le Chiffre tilted his head. He walked over to where you were, kneeled down on the floor with a gun to your head. You accumulated the spit mixed with blood in your mouth and spat it to the side, glaring up at him through your thick lashes. The man fucking relished in how seemingly daring you were. He was going to enjoy you more than torturing James for his money.

He saw a challenge before him.

Le Chiffre reached for your chin, holding it tightly in his palm. Examining your face for any bruises and other than a busted lip, he found nothing of serious cause. “She's of no use? She's of all the use I need right now.”

Your uncle let out profanities of disagreement at the idea of you getting involved with the disgusting world of these men. He didn't like it — he hated it. He'd kept you seperate from him all these years because you were innocent. Innocent like the people he'd taken up this job to save.

“Fuck you, cunt.” You swore at Le Chiffre, glaring at him. That act of resilience only made you more attractive and he had to claim you.

He released your chin and smirked. “Drug them.”

That was all his guard dogs needed. Punctured with a syringe in your neck, you tried to hold onto your uncle before the void could consume you but you failed.

— ♡ —

You'd regained consciousness, expecting to be chained in some dark basement. But you were in a bedroom, as your hazy vision registered your surroundings. It was a serene room — sleek and modern. Too boring and dull for your taste.

After the cloud of fog dissipated from your brain, you finally scanned your surroundings in depth. You were on a bed, comfortable and soft and the room had a table in the corner then a balcony. You tried to get up but couldn't, feeling weak in the knees and thighs for some reason.

Your forehead was sweaty and your cunt throbbed. All while laying in an air conditioned room. It was quite weird to be feeling this hot and intense when the room was cold and the temperature was low.

You tried to writhe out of the restraints put on your wrist, but it didn't budge. The rope scraping against your skin and bruising it in the process. A soft whimper left you when you squeezed your thighs. Just what the fuck was happening to you? Brain fogging up and sweat oozing out of all your pores, you tried to scream out but couldn't due to a parched throat.

Then the door opened.

You were so occupied with your own messed up situation, you didn't even look up at who had entered the room.

Le Chiffre stared at you, as you squirmed like some worm on the bed. Back arching off once in awhile, lips letting out little huffs and brows furrowed in frustration. He knew what was happening to you, he was the cause of it afterall.

“Feel any indifferent?”

Your head shot up at his voice.

You hated the man already. He'd kidnapped you and your uncle, hurt you both yet — yet he appeared so fucking attractive. There was something terribly wrong with you because all your mind thought about inching closer to the man and getting fucked by him.

He was like an oasis and you were a thirsty woman.

“W-What did you do to me?” You managed to stutter out, squeezing your legs together in an attempt to satiate the hunger of your moist cunt.

You hated how needy you were acting, especially for such an evil man. This was completely against your own morals yet you couldn't help but crave his cock right inside you, to calm down the throbbing of your soaked cunt.

He smiled. “Just a little drug, to make you more pliant.”

Pliant? For what?

You blinked a little. Cheeks flushed and strands sticking fo your forehead. “You fucking asshole. Let me go now.”

Le Chiffre grinned and nodded his head, leaving you completely shocked. He came closer to you, reaching over to untie the knots on your wrist and releasing you. His actions left you puzzled, your blurred gaze looking at him.

“Go.” He said. “Try stepping out this door and you'll get yourself fucked by most of my men here.”

You flinched at his words, not even having enough energy to step out the bed. Le Chiffre ran his finger over your arm, sliding it up and you leaned more into his touch. Desperately trying to get more, to settle the ache in your body.

Le Chiffre chuckled, seeing how desperate you were.

“P-Please. I don't feel good.” You had tears streaming down your face as you reached for his chest, running your fingers all over the expanse of it. You knew deep in your heart that to ache for him like this was wrong, to want him like this was horrible but your body wanted to succumb to this need. This crave and desire.

To you, Le Chiffre appeared ten times more alluring than he did before.

He stood before you, one hand in his pocket as he stared at you. “Yeah? Do you feel hot, mon chéri?”

You nodded your head, getting on your knees on the bed as your hands yearned to touch more of him. Flying up to his nape, freshly done nails grazing over the skin hidden beneath his collar. You stared at him, unbridled need controlling each and every molecule and tissue in your body.

“Want me to fuck you, hm? Tell me, do you want to cum on the cock of the man who has your uncle captive?” You stalled for a moment, not wanting to answer that. Guilt and wanton warring inside you. Your own uncle was somewhere, probably getting tortured and here you were with a saturated cunt aching to be fucked.

By the same man who'd taken you and your uncle captive.

You didn't want to answer.

Fingernails digging into his skin out of complete hatred, your gaze darkened and Le Chiffre only scoffed. You were touching him but also hurting him — a sweet mix which he found delightful. He grabbed both your hands, pinning your wrists down leaving you in need.

“Tell me.”

You shook your head.

He snickered. “Then suffer.”

Before he could sit up and leave, you grabbed him by his face and pressed your lips against his. The kiss was haste and messy, your lips hungrily colliding with his, tongue trying to pry open his mouth. Le Chiffre’s hand went up to your hair as he grabbed it — bunching it in his fist and tugging on the locks.

He tried to push you off him but the way you were kissing him like a starved, mad woman, it made his wall crumble apart.

You whimpered, pushing your body up against his. Trying to feel him, to rub your body all over his. Le Chiffre knew the drug had taken its affect on you but he didn't know you'd be this desperate. Hungrily sucking on his tongue and slurping up his saliva, like you needed him.

He could feel his spit mixed with yours smearing all over his mouth.

When he pulled away, he found you looking back at him with the most vulnerable and submissive look ever. Pants tightening at the mere sight of you looking this messed up, Le Chiffre felt his restraint slip away as he tossed you on the bed.

“Please,” you moaned, parting your legs like some common whore. “use me—ruin me, please.”

Le Chiffre had enough. He didn't waste time, ripping the dress to shreds and tossing its littered pieces everywhere. Cold hands groping you everywhere, acting like numbing gel to your fiery skin. He rid you of your panties too, prying your thighs open and exposing your sweet cunt to him.

The man brought his head down to your thighs, nuzzling it between them. His hands gripping each thigh tightly, fingers dipping into the flesh. “Look at your little hole clenching around nothing but air. How fucking embarrassing and disgusting.”

You responded with a whine, both hands dropping down to grab onto his neatly done hair.

He blowed air on your clit, watching it twitch and he chuckled. You were fucking pathetic and small and weak. All at his mercy and right now he could do whatever he wished to do with you. Humiliate you, hurt you, ruin you, fuck you. Just a doll for him to play with.

In a moment of regained control of your morals, you started to punch at his shoulders to move him away from you. Torn between the desperate chase for pleasure and the despair that awaited you at the end of this debauchery.

Le Chiffre didn't like how you still fought off the effects of the drug.

Releasing your thigh, he grasped both your wrists in a tight hold and pressed them over your stomach. “Enough. Don't fight it unless you want me to call in every guard outside so they can see you like this.”

Your act of defiance fell apart.

He ran his wet tongue over the slit of your cunt and your breath hitched, body twitching and back rising from the mattress. Striking you across your thigh, he pushed it up and bent your knee. Exposing more of your cunt to him. “Stay still.”

“C-Can’t. Feels too good.” You whimpered out, wrists struggling in his hold. You wished to be free, to kick and throw your hands everywhere. A pathetic mess of hopelessness and sin you were, sprawled across the bed for him to unfurl.

He chuckled against your cunt, before closing his lips around your clit. He sucked on it with vigor as you felt his sharp teeth nearly prickle the sensitive bud. Due to the drug, your body's sensitivity and senses had heightened, twitching in his hold everytime he touched you in the slightest.

You stared at him and in return he did the same, his scarred eye only fueling the ache in your abdomen. He was truly a beautiful man, the most attractive man you'd ever seen but his deeds were as ugly as his insides. There he laid before your very legs, using his skilled tongue to pull you into a deeper abyss.

Le Chiffre unwrapped his lips around your clit as his tongue made its way past your wet folds, plunging inside your hole. Tears rolled down your face as you attempted to free yourself from the restraint his hand was around your wrists.

“Wanna hold your hair, please. Just wanna hold it.” You were a sputtering mess and the man found you quite innocent in that very moment but he knew you were also a brat who'd given him a hard time. “You want to hold my hair, hm? You pathetic little whore. Want to hold my hair as I eat your little cunt while my men torture your uncle downstairs?”

Intaking a sharp breath, you didn't know what to do. As if his actions weren't already disgraceful, his words made you feel sick too. You whimpered for him, a simple plea to be freed and Le Chiffre grinned, slowly retracting his hands. The second he did, your fingers found themselves entangled between his dark silky locks. His intimidating eyes swallowing you whole as he continued his ministrations.

You could feel yourself near.

Stomach flipping and twisting into crazy knots, thighs suffering from convulsions. He only admired the view before him — a beauty with flushed, rosette cheeks and perspired forehead staring back at him. He ate you out like there was no tomorrow, a night that was his last. His saliva with a mix of your arousal falling down his chin.

“You taste so good, doll. Fucking delicious against my tongue.” He grunted, fucking you with his rigid tongue.

And you soon reached your own end, back arching off the bed and a high pitched scream tearing through your chest. Your throat parched and dry from all the sounds you'd made. Le Chiffre watched you as you became more of a mess underneath him, your arousal coating his tongue.

He licked you up like a dog, panting and melting in the taste your little body had to offer. Hands holding you down against the bed, he took in the sight of your eyes meeting the back of your skull and your body falling apart.

And when you'd came down from your blissful high, you found the ache in your pussy to only grow more intense. In need of something, something that only Le Chiffre could offer you.

In a few seconds, the man had hastily stripped himself naked. When your blitzed gaze fell lower and you grasped the sheer size of his cock — it dismayed you. In an attempt to run from him, you tried to slid off the soft mattress but Le Chiffre was quick to grasp your legs, tugging you closer to him. Until he was settled between your thighs, both hands holding your knees apart.

“Getting kidnapped and the idea of torture doesn't scare you but the size of my cock does? How fucking ironic.” Le Chiffre chuckled, firmly locking you in place.

He brought his hand upto your mouth. “Spit.”

You shook your head, stubborn. Torn between the ache of your cunt and the guilt about your uncle, you fought an inner battle inside you. Your body craved him but your mind reminded you just who he was, what he'd done to you and your uncle.

Just how evil he was.

He let out a groan of frustration, his fingers entangling in your dark locks as he gripped on the roots. “Fucking spit.”

You whimpered at the harsh tug and gathered saliva in your mouth, before spitting a glob out on his open palm. Le Chiffre hummed in satisfaction and ran the wet palm over his cock, lubricating it. You stared at him with hooded eyes as rubbed his fat cockhead against your clit — before entering you in one, harsh thrust.

A loud high pitched moan tore through you, the painful stretch surging your body forward.

He told hold of one thigh and hiked it up, bending your knee to angle his cock deeper inside you. The position gave him access to more depth of your gummy tight walls and the man growled, loving the feeling how you'd clamped down on him.

Walls clinging to him in desperate. Cunt trying to suck his cock, to consume him whole. Tears emerged on your waterline, tear ducts nearly expoding as Le Chiffre allowed you to grow used to his size. His delicious girth stretched you out like no other as your hips writhed underneath him.

He pushed until he had completely pressed his pelvis against yours. Becoming one with you.

“One might think you're a virgin from how fucking tight you are.” He grunted, staring down at you. Once neatly done hair now a mess, few strands slipping through the grasp of gel and hovering over his wet sweaty forehead.

Le Chiffre started to snap his hips against yours, holding you down as he took you against your will. Your perpetual cries and struggles loud and reverberating through the corners of the luxurious room. You tried to hit him — hands messily attempting to deliver a few smacks to his bare chest.

So he grabbed both your wrists and forcefully slammed them down, restraining you against the mattress. His one perfect eye holding all the anger and frustration that he soon was going to take out on you.

“Even the drug can't take the bratty behavior out of you.” Le Chiffre groaned, sliding in and out if you. “Your little pussy is soaked and throbbing for me but you still want to show off your morals.”

You sniffled at his words and he watched as a lone tear slid down. You looked so sinful and the man was not going to release you anytime sooner. He had big plans for you, especially now that he'd figured you were related to his nemesis.

Poor girl caught up in their evil games.

“I-I hate you.” You said, through broken moans and ragged breaths. Le Chiffre genuinely found it amusing when you'd expressed your hatred for him. It only added fuel to his desire, his thrusts going more vigorous as he stepped his foot up on the bed.

Both his hands flew to your throat — circling around to cut off your air supply. Your fists banged over his chest, at his arms and wrists but you were extremely pathetic against the man. Grip tightening with each second, he admired the way your face slowly turned almost a pale hue of blue. Back arching off the bed and body struggling.

Then he released you.

Just when your lungs had swelled up in dire need of oxygen, veins going numb.

“Wish I could kill you.” Le Chiffre moaned, hands still decorating your throat in bruises as the brute force of his strokes hit your sensitive spot. Feeling his thick cockhead repeatedly slam into your gspot and everytime he did, your body jerked. “But you're so much more useful like this. Killing you would be a waste of a good cunt.”

You loathed the way he spoke to you like you were some whore.

Face drenched in sweat and tears, your stomach heated up with a feeling that you deeply tried to suppress. Le Chiffre felt you grip his cock like a vice, realizing that you were hear. As was he.

His animalistic like thrusts continued delivering into you, and you sobbed whenever a vein of his cock throbbed inside you. It was all too vivid and raw. You could feel things that you were sure you wouldn't under a normal setting. The drug he'd used had heightened your senses and you hated just how good Le Chiffre was making you feel.

His hand unwrapped your throat, slipping between your legs to run over your swollen little bud. Your thighs twitched as he pounded into you, all while forcefully pulling an orgasm out of you.

Soon you came all over him — body twitching and trembling. He'd fucked your orgasm out of you, watching as you made a mess everywhere. Creaming all over his cock and the sight made him spill too, coating your walls with his thick seed. Your eyes rolled back and your lips shuddered, falling agape.

“Yeah there it is. Little cunt is so fucking tight, so very fucking tight.” He rode out his own release, with endless grunts and growls of pleasure. It only acted as an addition to your need for him.

He looked so attractive.

While he sinned inside you.

Le Chiffre grunted, fucking his cum back into you and by this point you were too far gone into oblivion. You allowed it to happen, frail body a victim of dehydration and the dehumanizing act done by Le Chiffre was too overwhelming so you didn't register it. Blocked it away and went numb.

He stared down at you, hand slowly reaching for your face. You flinched, expecting something rough or a hit even but instead came a gentle stroke from his thumb over your soaked cheek. “You're absolutely gorgeous, especially like this.” He licked the tear he collected on his thumb, before pulling out of you and dropping besides you.

Your breathing was torn, gradually becoming even with time. You turned away from him, not caring about anything anymore. You'd missed your uncle, and such a simple relationship lead to this. If you'd known, you would've always steered clear of James Bond and the people around him.

In a way, you deemed it to be your fault too.

“You didn't know, did you?”

Le Chiffre’s deep voice broke the silence, as a strong arm was tossed over you from behind.

You knew what he was referring to. Of course you didn't know your uncle was involved in some shady shit like this. If they had told you, if your mother had just been clear about all this, none of the monstrosities you faced tonight would've happened.

“Innocents often lose their lives amidst wars caused by others.” If you didn't know how cruel the man was, you would've assumed for a split second that these were words of reassurance but these were mere taunts — to remind you that he'd captured you.

You were leverage now.

For him.

[vestaignis]

Мост Джурджевича (Đurđevića Tara) — автомобильный арочный мост, который соединяет два берега каньона реки Тара и одно из самых красивых туристических мест Черногории.

С моста открываются потрясающие виды на самый глубокий каньон в Европе и окрестные горы. Мост Джурджевича это уникальное инженерное сооружение, которое считается одной из самых посещаемых достопримечательностей Черногории. Длина моста — 365 м, высота — 172 м. Конструкция состоит из 5 арок, самая протяженная из которых 116 м.

Мост строился 1938–1940 годах, когда Черногория еще являлась частью Королевства Югославии. Главный архитектор моста — профессор Мият Троянович. Общее же руководство строительством осуществлял главный инженер Исаак Руссо. На момент постройки мост был крупнейшим бетонным арочным мостом в Европе. По нему могли двигаться и транспортные средства, и пешеходы. Современное название Мост Джурджевича происходит от имени владельца фермы, расположенной возле моста.

По мосту можно проехать на автомобиле, но лучше до или после моста сделать остановку и прогуляться по нему пешком в обе стороны, чтобы полюбоваться видами на каньон реки Тара, горами, покрытыми густым лесом и устройством самого моста. Отдельной пешеходной зоны на мосту нет, ходят прямо по дороге.

The Djurdjevic Bridge (Đurđevića Tara) is a road arch bridge that connects the two banks of the Tara River Canyon and one of the most beautiful tourist destinations in Montenegro.

The bridge offers stunning views of the deepest canyon in Europe and the surrounding mountains. The Djurdjevic Bridge is a unique engineering structure, which is considered one of the most visited attractions in Montenegro. The length of the bridge is 365 m, the height is 172 m. The structure consists of 5 arches, the longest of which is 116 m.

The bridge was built in 1938-1940, when Montenegro was still part of the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. The chief architect of the bridge is Professor Mijat Trojanovic. The general management of the construction was carried out by chief engineer Isaac Russo. At the time of its construction, the bridge was the largest concrete arch bridge in Europe. Both vehicles and pedestrians could move along it. The modern name of the Djurdjevic Bridge comes from the name of the owner of the farm located near the bridge.

You can drive across the bridge by car, but it is better to stop before or after the bridge and walk along it on foot in both directions to admire the views of the Tara River canyon, the mountains covered with dense forest and the structure of the bridge itself. There is no separate pedestrian area on the bridge, people walk directly along the road.

Источник:/t.me/roundtravel;/blog.sitngo.me/dostoprimechatelnosti/most-dzhurdzhevicha/#:~:text=Чем%20интересен%20мост%20 Джурджевича%20через%20реку%20Тара&text=Главный%20архитектор%20моста%20—%20профессор%20Мият,двигаться% 20 транспортные%20средства%20и%20пешеходы, //monteguide. com/ru/most-dzhurdzhevicha-tara/, /mymontenegro.org/ attractions/chernogoriya-most-dzhurzhevicha-kanon-reki-tara.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Nik dares to dream.

CW: none, a little suggestive at the end.

Price and Nik sit in Price's bunk in their boxers. It's a compromise; Nik's managed to get Price out of his office with only a single folder of paperwork and a half-chewed biro. Just one more form, Nik. It'll keep me ahead tomorrow.

It's a delicate operation, prying John Price out of his office and his clothes. To hang Captain Price on the coat hook for the night, to let John stretch his legs. Slowly, slowly.

Nik sits patiently at John's back, nosing the soft hairs at the base of his neck, savouring the awful cologne he insists on wearing while on base. He needed a better one, really, and Nik had spent half an hour in a 'John Lewis' pawing over scents a week or so ago. A very flowery woman had overwhelmed him with smelly strips of cardboard and jargon he didn't recognise, so that had been mission failed. He did consider asking Farah or Iskra for help, but... Eh, Nik could tolerate the musky shit.

John's hair is scruffy and Nik knows he only has about a day to enjoy it before John goes and gets it cut back into regulation tidiness. Soap has a nickname for it; short, back and slap? Or was it... short, slap and twat? Back and... hmm, Nik can't remember.

But he does know he prefers John like this.

Ruffled, unkempt, just as he looks when they're off grid; rough stubble, scruffy hair, sweat and gun oil, his blue eyes bright, wild. Alive. So confident, lethal, and... Hmm, now what did Ghost call it? Ballsy.

"Da."

"Hm?" John doesn't look up from his paperwork, chewed pen scratching away.

"Ahh, sorry. I was... hmm, mechta. To have dreams that are awake."

"Hm," John huffs softly, shoulders lifting in a half shrug, "a daydream."

"Daydream," Nik repeats, resting his nose against the back of John's neck. He decides he doesn't mind the bad cologne, or the loss of the scruffy hair; he can't have John naked and warm against him when they're in the field. Of course, Nik would be lying if he said he hadn't fantasised about sex in his helicopter. Maybe, one day...

Nik moves over to John's shoulders and spends some time admiring another favourite thing. Something he can only enjoy in these moments when the world is locked out, and danger is a million miles away.

The freckles.

When he'd been a boy, his grandmother had likened them to kisses from angels, and Nik quite liked the idea that some were watching over John when he couldn't be, leaving their footprints on his skin beneath his Kevlar vest. He shifts closer, runs the backs of his fingers down John's spine to settle his hand at his waist, and noses those freckles with a contented hum.

He imagines John in the sun, perhaps on a beach in Croatia or Montenegro. Nik's always liked that part of the world; it lacked the touristy aftertaste of the coastal towns in the Mediterranean, and maintained some of its unique character. They could take a boat out to the sunken wrecks in search of ancient pottery and glass, swim in the Adriatic with the reef sharks and turtles, visit the museum full of maritime weaponry and stories of pirates, and each day John's skin would sprout more freckles for Nik to kiss.

He kisses them now. Languid, lingering. His thumbs stroke in circles, and Nik closes his eyes with the taste of John's skin in his mouth. They would drink good beer, smoke good cigars, sit together at the end of the pier in Dubrovnik perhaps and watch the lights twinkle on the surface of the ocean, John's hair would be ruffled and soft with sun and sea salt. He'd laugh, relaxed and unbothered, no paperwork. Half cut, they would stagger back to their hotel, and Nik would--

"Nik."

Nik blinks. He can see the side of John's face where he's turned to look over his shoulder. There's a hand over his at John's waist, goosebumps over John's shoulders and down his biceps. The biro sits forgotten on the manilla folder.

"Da."

"You were holdin' tight. Want to tell me about these daydreams?"

Nik feels his ears warm, and perhaps his sheepish response gives John the wrong idea. "One day they might not be dreams. I will keep them as a surprise."

"You dirty bastard..."

"They were not dirty! Eh, not all of them."

"Don't believe you, mate. Too much filth for you to even tell me about. Shocking."

"Chtob u tebya hui vo lbu vyros, Price! Your mind is in the gutter."

Nik grabs John around the middle and pulls him back into a tight embrace. He tries to gain the upper hand with a grapple, but John takes up the challenge and they tussle for some minutes, giggling and guffawing like schoolboys. The folder and pen scatter onto the floor, along with the blankets and a pillow.

Nik gains the upper hand through sheer bulk, and because he's not afraid to play dirty and grab at John's underarms, making him bunch up and wriggle in surrender. Still far too honourable in the bedroom. They settle into a kiss, Nik's arm curled beneath John's head to keep it tucked close, one of John's legs trapped in his. He slides a hand down the curve of John's body and into his boxers.

The first gasps are always the sweetest; John's always so surprised by pleasure, sometimes tries to cling onto the gruff, abrasive masculinity he uses as a shield from the world, but Nik knows how to handle him, how to coax him open. His body relaxes, his legs spread and he buries his hand in Nik's hair, chasing kisses and touches like a man starved.

One day, Nik promises himself, he will have John like this every night and in the morning he will not have to rebuild his walls again. One day. Hm. A man can dream.

[gabrielleragusi]

2024 Velaris Advent Calendar

I had the pleasure of collaborating with Gadget4entertainment on their 2024 Velaris Advent Calendar, officially licensed by author Sarah J. Maas! I illustrated the entire packaging, inside and out.

The main illustration features Velaris, the City of Starlight.

I'd just visited Positano before the shop contacted me for the project, so the memories of some corners of the town were still fresh in my mind. The house on the left was inspired by a hotel built on a curving uphill road, for example, and the houses on the right were vaguely inspired by all those hotels and restaurants you can see from above (at level, you might not notice them, but when you're directly above and you peer down through the trees, you'll go, "Oh, there's a nice, expensive hotel down there!").

The town divided by the river was inspired by the fjords of Kotor, Montenegro, which I visited last year (Kotor is absolutely beautiful, and the food was great to my Italian palate).

It felt wonderful to pour all of my emotions and memories into this piece. I think this might be my 'ultimate' version of Velaris. I don't see myself painting it differently in the future.

Then, we have the cases (house-shaped boxes) containing the single items.

When I first started working on the project, I only thought of drawing something inspired by a combination of gothic and Persian architecture. But then, fortunately, I had this idea to base each house on the Archeron sisters, and that gave me the chance to really get creative and explore different elements, styles of architecture and colours.

Sadly I only recently realised that the back of the house and the left side don't fit together seamlessly because I drew the house from left to right without keeping the wraparound box in mind - so that's totally my fault, and I hope it's not too noticeable!

I also hope these mockups don't look too bad. I used the free transform tool in PS instead of 3D, so the perspective might be a little off.

I truly enjoyed working on this calendar. I rarely get to design packaging or even work with an Italian company, so this project was a breath of fresh air!

Instagram  - ArtStation - Website - Inprnt - Etsy - Threads

[escapetololaland]

Kotor | Montenegro | 2022

[dyns33]

Flufftober 2024 - 26 Vaas Montenegro

"… No."

"Why not, nena ?"

"Just no."

The memory of the previous year still haunted the entire camp, who dreaded the approach of Halloween and what Vaas had prepared to have fun with his pirates this time.

Even if Y/N had almost begged him not to do anything, before trying to convince him with kisses, then ordering him with threats, but it was obvious that their leader had really enjoyed seeing them scared, and spending a few days on the couch would not be enough to make him change his mind.

For several weeks, he had disappeared deep into the jungle, asking not to be disturbed. No one was crazy enough to disobey but the noises and crazy laughter that echoed between the trees were not very reassuring.

Y/N was probably the least nervous, because despite his obvious madness accompanied by mood swings, Vaas cared too much about her to hurt her. That wouldn't stop him from finding it amusing to play pranks on her that he deemed innocent and harmless.

The problem was his very personal definition of "innocent" and "harmless".

The pride was visible on his face when he presented his creation to her. He had once again been very inspired by Hollywood movies, and with all the abandoned buildings on the island, he hadn't had to sweat much to create his own house of horror.

"The giant mouse would be super jealous if he saw this. I could sell him the concept for his crappy park, but I don't like him, I'll cut off his head and put it in the decor."

"Are you talking about Mickey ? You know he doesn't really exist, right ?"

"Of course I know, nena. He only comes out during parades. So, do you want to visit ?"

"Once again, no."

"But whyyyyy ?" he groaned, jumping up and down like a disappointed child.

He was kind enough not to force her, unlike his pirates who had the choice between a bullet in the leg and living "the best experience of their entire futile existence". Many chose the bullet in the leg, until it was obvious that they would then be forced to crawl into the house to see the macabre spectacle no matter what.

And hearing the screams, it was better to be able to run.

It was impossible to know what exactly was going on inside, because either the pirates were so traumatized by the attraction that they didn't speak for days, or they were so afraid of Vaas that they kept it a secret.

In an attempt to convince her to go in, the pirate leader had suggested to Y/N that they go together.

"They'll be less aggressive if I'm here. Or more aggressive ? I don't really know."

"Who are 'they' ?"

"I don't know anymore. They must not remember either with all the drugs I made them take. Shall we go now ?"

"… You promise me that we really won't risk anything ?"

"Hermosa. I will never let anything happen to you. I will protect you, like a superhero. Like Captain Phillips."

"I think you are mixing up several movies, but I will take a big risk and trust you." Y/N sighed.

"I admire this proof of immense love that also clearly indicates a mental problem. Come on nena !"

In the end, Y/N saw almost nothing of the attraction, so scared that she spent the entire time in his arms, her face against his neck, while he oscillated between laughing, murmuring comfort and barking at his creatures who were getting too close.

He apologized when they were outside. He didn't think she would be so scared, when she wasn't afraid of him at all. He was much more terrifying than that.

To do things right, he went to get flowers and forced his pirates to find candies, chocolates, all the best sweet things on the island to please her.

He chose a not too scary movie to watch together, even if he considered that Cats wasn't so bad, singing all the songs.

With a huge smile anyway, he agreed to stay with her all night because she was still too scared to sleep, and he would be there in case of nightmares. Y/N wondered if that wasn't his goal all along.

But his plan having worked too well, Vaas felt a little bad seeing her still panicked the next day, continuing to pamper her until she felt better. Maybe she made the most of it by pretending for almost a month, but if he realized it, he didn't complain.

[janeofcakes]

One Night in Palermo: Chapter 1

Hi, Everyone! I haven't done this in ages and I hope you'll all jump on board again for another story. It's 18 months after Sherlock jumped from Bart's and he's busily taking down Moriarty's web. He's also pining and worried for John, who thinks he's dead. Sherlock's trying to make his way to the Moran, the web's center, when another assassin comes on the scene. Find out what happens!

----------

One year to the day Sherlock leapt off Bart’s, his best friend watching in horror, found him creeping into a dank warehouse in the middle of Belgrade, Serbia. The dead detective had been all over the country in the last year, as well as those sharing its borders. Hungary and Romania, Bulgaria, North Macedonia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Montenegro; all extensively traveled in the name of destroying Moriarty’s web of terrorists and murderers. He had just come through Kosovo from an assignment in Albania and tomorrow would take him to yet another location.

James Morairty may have died on the roof of Bart’s one year ago, but his criminal organization remained intact and Sherlock could not rest until Greg Lestrade, John Watson, and the beloved Martha Hudson were safe. Then maybe he could return to his old life of London and 221B and cases and John. Sherlock missed John most of all and had not been dead long before realizing the true extent of his feelings for his flatmate. Every moment not chasing down Moriarty’s criminals was spent wondering about John and what he was doing, or how he was doing. Worse yet, he dreamt of his flatmate as well, and they were becoming increasingly explicit in nature.

Sherlock gave a slight shake of his head to clear it. This was certainly not the time to go down that route of thinking. Mycroft’s intelligence indicated ten men in this building, making Sherlock’s full attention to the matter at hand imperative. The year’s assignments marked the longest period of time the detective had ever worked with his brother and there was at least another year to go before it would end. Remarkably, it had not been utterly intolerable as Sherlock had expected. Mycroft understood how Sherlock’s mind worked and gave him only the relevant information for each assignment. They met over virtual calls on a secured platform after each assignment was finished to discuss the next. Sherlock had needed serious medical attention on only two occasions and was immediately taken to a secret facility possessing everything required to address his injuries. The same short, blonde doctor cared for him each time, no doubt hand-selected by Mycroft to ensure Sherlock’s cooperation. The elder Holmes even made an appearance in both situations to make sure his baby brother was all right. He did not make himself tiresome either, much to Sherlock’s surprise, despite spending quite a lot of time by the detective’s side the second time around.

Sherlock had been caught during his last visit to Serbia. His captors quickly determined the usefulness of keeping him alive, but had no compunction with torturing him for the six weeks before his rescue. Mycroft even deigned to perform the extraction himself, he and his team infiltrating the base and killing every man in the bunker before carrying Sherlock out. It was at least a week before the detective could hold his eyes open for more than a few blurry moments at a time. When his senses and powers of deduction had returned, Sherlock was certain Mycroft had not left his side once. Oddly, the two brothers had grown closer as they worked together, but neither spoke of nor acknowledged it. 

Having found no one in the warehouse thus far, Sherlock proceeded down a long hallway that led to a large meeting room. Intelligence supplied by Mycroft’s spies had shown it was where the ten men spent most of their time. A door at the left side of the room opened into an office used by a man named Markovič, the indisputable leader of this terrorist cell. He had worked closely with Moriarty on more than one occasion and murdered countless people around the world.

Two other doors entered the meeting room; one that opened to a hallway of small rooms wherein the men slept and the one Sherlock was steadily approaching. The ideal situation for Sherlock was finding all ten men in the meeting room. Slightly less ideal, was Markovič in his office and the other men in the meeting room. Some of them having a kip in their individual rooms was the least ideal, but this time of night typically saw them all together planning the events of the following day. Regardless, Sherlock was prepared for any eventuality, or so he thought.

Sherlock slowed his step as he approached the room’s half-open door, rendering his footfalls completely silent. While each of the ten men was a very skilled killer, all were also dim-witted. Even Markovič, though intelligent, was no more than slightly above average. Sherlock knew his appearance would be surprising, but once the first few shots were fired, he would have to act quickly to avoid retaliation. A scant few feet from the door, Sherlock angled his body for the best view of its occupants and what he saw boggled his mind.

Eight men lay sprawled on the floor, face down on the table, or slumped back in chairs. All of them were covered with blood still oozing from pin-point bullet holes in chests, throats, or heads. None of these men had a chance to do more than consider reaching for their own weapons before they dropped. Sherlock analyzed the scene and deduced the events as they had happened while he moved through the room to Markovič’s office.

The door was also ajar. Sherlock pushed it open slowly, already knowing what he would find. Markovič was sat at his desk, leaning back unnaturally in the chair. His eyes were wide open and unseeing as they stared blankly at the ceiling. A hole was perfectly placed in his forehead, creating an isosceles triangle with his eyes. Blood stained his face where it ran down his nose and cheeks, over his throat to soak his shirt. Significant spatter and gray matter decorated the wall behind him in a sickly red glow.

Without delay, Sherlock went to the third door in the meeting room to check bedrooms for the final missing man. Finding him was not difficult. The first door in the hall was the only one open, so Sherlock let himself in cautiously. He found the man on the floor in a pool of blood, bedsheets twisted around one leg, and a pistol held loosely in one hand. He had obviously been only halfway out of bed when the door was kicked open and fired one shot quickly, the evidence of which marred the door frame next to Sherlock’s left shoulder. The intruder had not done more than twitch his head slightly to the side before expertly placing a bullet in the man’s forehead and watching him drop.

*****

Hours later, Sherlock sat at a desk in a safe house across the border in Hungary. He had changed into jeans and a plain t-shirt in dark green. His eyes were fixed on the screen of a laptop as he waited for his brother to accept the call. When the connection was made, it was Anthea’s face that appeared instead of Mycroft’s.

“Sherlock,” she greeted him. She looked tired. Perhaps the last year had weighed heavily on her shoulders as well. “He wasn’t expecting you for another hour.”

“Nor was I,” Sherlock replied dryly. “The assignment did not go as anticipated.”

“But you’re alright? It’s done?” Anthea asked with a touch of concern in her voice. The two of them had become far better acquainted over the course of Sherlock’s assignments and now had a certain rapport.

“Unconditionally,” Sherlock answered and watched as the subtle creases at the corners of her eyes smoothed away, only for them to return when he asked, “how is John?”

Anthea opened her mouth to reply, but Mycroft entered the room before she said a word. He moved to the screen swiftly and sat, studying Sherlock’s face. He was wearing his usual three-piece suit minus the jacket, and his sleeves were rolled up. A haggard expression dominated his features, but a sense of overall relief washed over them at seeing Sherlock in one piece. Mycroft let the indifference that hid whatever modicum of emotion he had slide into place and sat ramrod straight, his typical persona fully recovered.

“You were able to complete the mission,” Mycroft said with only the hint of a question in his tone.

“In a matter of speaking, yes,” Sherlock replied vaguely.

Mycroft cocked an elegant brow and leaned in.

“What do you mean?” He asked with keen interest.

“I found the bodies of all ten men upon entering the warehouse,” Sherlock said simply.

“An opposing faction?” Mycroft speculated, sounding unconvinced.

“No,” Sherlock said flatly, “it was precise and clean. None of the torture and delay seen between these enemies. A single man walked in quietly, just as I did, and murdered them all with one shot each.

“He killed all eight men as he moved through the room, three before they could rise from the table. Markovič was in his office and posed no challenge to dispatch. The last was in a bedroom.”

Mycroft had narrowed his eyes while Sherlock spoke, considering each word carefully. When the detective finished, his brother raised his gaze to regard him in silent contemplation.

“The work of an assassin where there should only be one,” Mycroft muttered.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed, “and it had occurred within the hour.”

Mycroft caught Sherlock’s eye and considered him carefully. 

“Sherlock,” his tone took on a condescending characteristic that always made the younger roll his eyes, “while the situation is unusual, it is not out of the realm of possibility.”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock began, but Mycroft cut him off quickly.

“You have a mission that cannot be delayed by a… mystery, no matter how intriguing,” Mycroft said snidely. “Need I remind you of its particular importance to you, brother mine?”

Sherlock closed his mouth with a snap and pressed his lips into a thin line. Closer though they may be, Sherlock hated his brother for consistently adopting this air of superiority at a perceived weakness.

“Fine,” Sherlock spat, “but you will find out who it was. If I’m known to this assassin, I want to know his every movement. I will not tolerate interference.”

“Of course, Sherlock,” Mycroft assured him smugly. “I will use every resource at my disposal.”

****

As confident as Mycroft had been, his channels found out nothing about the assassin in the coming weeks. No one was able to determine where the man came from or where he got his information. One thing became abundantly clear, however. He also seemed to be dismantling Moriarty’s criminal organization one piece at a time. 

Sherlock completed two assignments over three weeks before encountering the assassin again. The circumstances were much the same as the first time. The target called Romania home and spent most of his time terrorizing every community within a fifty mile radius. He had assisted Moriarty several times over the last decade and had often welcomed the man into his home. If James Moriarty ever had anything even vaguely approaching a friend in his adult life, it would be this man.

Sherlock watched silently from the shadows as his target entered a small room and closed the door, leaving his guard outside in the dimly lit hall. They were inside a massage parlor not far from the man’s home. He spent four nights a week in this place, making rather dubious visits to a certain masseuse. Fortunately for Sherlock, the man’s guard made similar visits to the owner of the shop. 

A quiet whistle echoed through the hall twenty minutes after Sherlock’s target entered the masseuse’s room. He watched as the guard looked right, then left, and then disappeared down the hall. Sherlock waited another five minutes to be sure the guard would not return before moving silently toward the door his target had entered. He stood next to it for a moment, his back to the wall, already knowing it was unlocked. He had spent the last seven days watching his target and tracking his movements. Sherlock knew every habit and routine in the man’s life, right down to leaving the door unlocked while he got a massage and a blow job so he could exit quickly if one of his enemies interrupted. 

All Sherlock needed to do was open the door and pull the trigger. He had become quite a good markman over the last year and his gun was equipped with a silencer. He wouldn’t miss and no one would hear a thing. The only thing that made him hesitate was the masseuse. He had not yet decided what to do about her. He could kill her along with the target to prevent anyone being alerted by her screams, which were certain to follow her lover’s untimely demise. He could find some quick way to render her unconscious while she and the target were distracted. He could simply shoot his target and run, risking a successful escape. Sherlock was likely to be tortured if caught, a situation he could not afford. He scowled, the words ‘a bit not good’ echoing through his mind. The only option was knocking out the masseuse and hoping no one noticed him before he did it.

Sherlock looked up and down the hall, just as the guard had, and then moved to face the door. He twisted the knob silently with his left hand and pushed it open. The scene before him was nothing like he expected. Instead of finding the two of them fucking on the massage table, the woman was lying on the floor, unconscious and fully clothed. The target was clearly dead on the table, a bullet hole in his temple. Spatter decorated the wall next to the table and Sherlock could hear the quiet drip of blood as it fell from the headrest to the floor. Curious, he entered the room and squatted cautiously next to the woman. He might have risked touching her to find a pulse, but could see it clearly enough on her neck. The assassin had left her alive.

Sherlock’s gaze darted around the room until it came to rest on a small window near the top of the back wall, the only outside wall in the room. It opened on a hinge, a glass pane that lifted up and it was ajar. Several telltale scuffs left by opening and closing it marred the bottom of the pane. The assassin’s entrance and exit point.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stood. The guard would not return for another ten minutes, but the detective could not afford to be seen by anyone. He walked swiftly out the door and closed it behind him, looking up and down the hall again. Seeing no one, but hearing faint footsteps, he crept into the shadows to wait. Sherlock heard a faraway door open and the footsteps fade away slowly. After a few minutes of silence, he left the building and made his way to the next safe house.

A few hours later and a good two hundred miles away from the massage parlor, Sherlock stood in front of a laptop set in the small bedroom of a cozy flat. He had just relayed an account of the evening’s events to his elder brother and moved on to deductions made about the assassin. Mycroft’s less-than-enthusiastic response was quickly grating on Sherlock’s nerves.

“He has a conscience,” Sherlock argued vehemently. “He could have simply killed the woman, but chose not to.”

His brother’s unimpressed face looked back at him from the laptop screen, thoroughly unconvinced. Sherlock wished, just for a moment, that they were in the same room so he could grab Mycroft’s lapels and shake him.

“Very informative, brother mine, but I fail to see how it will help to find this mysterious assassin,” Mycroft intoned dismissively, glancing at his perfectly manicured nails.

“Finding him, no, but it goes a long way in determining what kind of man he is,” Sherlock sneered. “He is not a heartless killer and that tells us quite a bit.”

“Oh, very well,” Mycroft conceded impatiently. “He may not immediately put a bullet in your head should you meet, but will introduce himself first.”

Sherlock sighed loudly and rolled his eyes.

“I will take care of him,” Mycroft continued sternly and it rankled Sherlock. The tone was the same used to scold him as a child. “You concentrate on your assignments and put an end to this dreadful business so you can return to your precious doctor.”

“How is John?” Sherlock found himself saying. It wasn’t what he meant to say, but Mycroft’s words squeezed his chest so completely that saying anything else would have stopped his heart entirely. He hadn’t even been thinking about John and was blindsided by the rush of sentiment, though he tried to keep that hidden. Mycroft, for his part, looked very disconcerted at the slip. His frustration had gotten the better of him, something that happened far more often than he would like to admit since he and Sherlock began “this dreadful business”.

“Sherlock,” he said with a long suffering sigh.

“Don’t patronize me, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped. “Just tell me what I want to know.”

“He is…unaltered,” Mycroft replied carefully.

“Unaltered?” Sherlock repeated through clenched teeth.

“I said unwell the last time you asked,” Mycroft straightened his spine and looked down his nose at his brother. “You have not returned to Baker Street. Do you imagine he is any different?”

Sherlock glared at his brother, blood boiling, but said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He knew his brother wanted to infuriate him. It was a distraction. Mycroft did not want to answer questions about John. It was nothing unusual, but affected Sherlock differently this time. Sherlock suddenly felt exhausted and homesick. Every bit of energy left his body. He was sick for John and if his brother didn’t want to talk about John, Sherlock had no desire to pry. He was not prepared to hear that the doctor had teetered ever closer to a crumbling precipice that might give way at any time. 

“Fuck off, Mycroft,” Sherlock snarled. He shut the laptop forcefully just as his brother closed his eyes in disdain at the vulgar choice of words.

Sherlock paced furiously. He was restless and frustrated and frightened out of his mind. Dozens of storylines played out in his mind as he took each step. The most disturbing thought ended with John’s broken body on the pavement at Bart’s, the same place they had both been just over a year ago, and it made Sherlock’s heart stutter in his chest. He gasped at the pain and stumbled into the loo to be sick. He splashed water on his face once he could stand again without retching and tried to calm himself, but his chest only felt tighter. He buried his head in his hands and prayed to whatever deity would listen that John Watson be alright.

When Sherlock raised his head again, his movements were stilted and his face remote. He cleaned his teeth and changed into pajamas mechanically, getting into bed and turning out the lights. Staring into the darkness, he parted his lips and breathed slowly. If he didn’t let his thoughts out of his mind, didn’t give them life, his brain and heart would surely burst from his body.

“Wait for me, John,” he whispered into the darkness. “Please.” 

****

The next time Sherlock ran into the assassin, the circumstances were quite different. It was three assignments from the last and in Montenegro. The target had not been difficult to finish, but her brother had spotted Sherlock as he made his escape and set off after him. They ran through the compound, ducking this way and that. Every corner the detective turned should have put more distance between the two, but the man behind only grew closer. Sherlock was getting tired and he knew it. On impulse, he ducked into a stairwell and barely tripped as he flew down the steps. He quickly pushed open the heavy wooden door he found there and hurried into an open courtyard full of towering shrubs and fountains. The moon shone brightly, dazzling stars surrounding it, lighting a path of escape. Unfortunately, the man following Sherlock was too close not to make a move for him.

The man dove for the detective and caught him around the waist with his arms. They went down hard, but Sherlock rolled swiftly and struck out at his attacker. They exchanged a few blows before strong hands wrapped around the detective’s throat. Without hesitation, he slid his own arms in-between his attacker’s and wrenched them outward. The other man’s elbows bent, giving Sherlock the leverage to pull his hands away and ram their foreheads together.

At first, only the other man was dazed, so Sherlock shoved him to the side and hopped to his feet. However, the after-effects caught up with him after one or two steps. Suddenly, his head swam and his sense of balance failed completely. Tumbling to his knees, Sherlock tried desperately not to fall any further. He gasped for breath and felt incredibly hot, but resisted the urge to tear the mask from his face. He preferred assignments that did not require a mask, ones where he could maintain a safe distance from targets and their associates. On this particular occasion, his passage through the compound could find him face to face with anyone and he could not be recognized.

Sherlock took a few deep breaths until his vision began to clear. Getting to his feet, he glanced around to check that his attacker had not similarly recovered. He saw nothing as rough hands grabbed his right arm and twisted it behind his back. A cold knife blade touched his throat before he could make any move to free himself. He was trapped. His mind raced, analyzing his options and discarding them; all the while, the blade pressed into his throat, breaking the skin ever so slightly. He nearly jolted at the sound of hoarse laughter in his ear.

“You thought you would get away?” The man holding Sherlock steady chuckled loudly. He pulled the blade more tightly and the detective winced. “You killed my sister, you son of a bitch.”

A gasp filled Sherlock’s lungs, but not for fear of his life as his attacker assumed. It was what he saw in the dark window in one of the tall buildings that lined the courtyard. A sight Sherlock never would have seen, if not for a glint of metal in the moonlight. As soon as he saw that flash of light, his eyes made out the figure of a man with a gun. Standing in the tall window was the assassin, covered in black from head to toe. His face and hair were covered with the usual balaclava. Any other details were lost to the darkness of his clothes and surroundings. His gun was aimed and ready, if the location of the reflection Sherlock had seen was anything to go by.

Sherlock stood very still, not even listening to the rants and threats from the man holding a knife to his throat. One way or another, Sherlock was going to die tonight. If the idiot behind him didn’t do it soon, he would be robbed of the pleasure by the assassin, who would certainly shoot them both. Sherlock could get away from only one of them, not both. He kept his eyes on the assassin as time ticked by and wondered why he hadn’t pulled the trigger twice already. The man couldn’t be weighing his options. It was simple: Aim and fire.

Just as Sherlock thought the word “fire”, a bright flash of light appeared from the assassin’s weapon and Sherlock felt a whoosh of air on his cheek. He expected pain or instant oblivion and got neither. The air around him was suddenly quiet and his mind registered his attacker’s hands going lax. The knife tumbled to the brick floor as the man leaned heavily against the detective’s back. Going down slowly, Sherlock maneuvered the man onto his back and looked at his face. There, between his unseeing eyes, was a perfectly placed bullet hole.

Sherlock’s head shot up to the window to see the assassin, but the man was gone. The pane held nothing but darkness. Without a second thought, the detective gathered himself and stood. It wouldn’t be long before his target’s body was discovered and the compound filled with people who would be happy to kill him. He crept through the courtyard and silently made his way out, encountering no one as he went.

Hours later, ensconced in one of Mycroft’s safe houses, Sherlock booted up the waiting laptop and entered his credentials. His mind was awash with deductions and questions and theories. If nothing else, the evening confirmed the standing deduction that the assassin had a strong moral compass. Quite a bit of additional data had been revealed as well, but Sherlock had not yet sorted through it. He needed to spend some time in his mind palace, arranging the pieces.

The laptop screen caught his eye when his brother’s face came into view. Sherlock had hoped to speak with Anthea first, but had no such luck. He leaned forward and placed his hands on either side of the keyboard, a posture he often adopted when speaking to his brother.

“The assassin was there,” Sherlock stated without preamble. “I beat him to the mark, but he was there.”

“And you know this because?” Mycroft asked with an arched brow.

“I had a knife to my throat and he shot the man holding it,” Sherlock replied without hesitation.

Mycroft’s eyes widened and he leaned in closer to his own laptop.

“He saw you?” He probed with an edge to his voice.

“Not as such. I was wearing a mask. My whole head was covered,” Sherlock answered evenly. “There was nothing to give me away. I was merely a man in distress.”

He could see his brother relax a fraction and then noticed that his eyes were locked on the small bandage Sherlock had fitted to his own neck. The detective furrowed his brow and shook his head dismissively.

“It’s fine,” he told Mycroft in a dull tone. “Superficial. I’ll be able to go without the bandage in the morning.”

“Good,” Mycroft approved, looking more at ease. “That is to say, I am glad you are safe. I must admit, however, I am somewhat troubled by the assassin’s actions. Surely killing you both would have been more to his advantage.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock replied with satisfaction. “It would’ve been easier as well; hitting my attacker with pinpoint accuracy to ensure his demise before he cut my throat requires much more skill than shooting us both. It proves my point.”

“That the assassin has a conscience,” Mycroft supplied in a long-suffering tone. He sighed. “Sherlock, you are a romantic.”

“I most certainly am not!” Sherlock objected, his good mood quashed in the blink of an eye. “I have merely analyzed the data and reached the logical conclusion, as I have in countless other situations.”

He glared at his brother, who returned the look with a smug smile on his face. Sherlock didn’t feel the need to continue the conversation because his pig-headed brother would not relent. He never had before and would not start now. Growing weary of him, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Tell me about the next assignment,” he demanded, wanting nothing more than to move the call along so he could retreat to his mind palace.

“Yes, of course. Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Mycroft smirked and began debriefing Sherlock on the next target, The detective both listened and imagined how best to have revenge upon his return to London.

****

The following assignment was easily completed in as much as it was finished before Sherlock even arrived. Four days after Montenegro, the detective stealthily entered a caravan dealership that was closed for the day. His target and a small band of men in his employ had taken refuge there, believing no one would find them. After entering the dealership, Sherlock followed music lilting through the air until he reached an extra-long caravan, knowing what he would find before reaching it. While the music played loudly, the absence of all other noise led him to one inevitable conclusion: The assassin had been faster this time.

Five of the six men Sherlock expected lay dead in the caravan’s central room. It occupied more or less the entire vehicle, housing a kitchenette along one side, a narrow couch and table on the other. Two seats and the steering column filled the front of the room, windscreen before them. A small loo cut into the back of the room with closets opposite. In between the two was a narrow hallway that led to a bedroom. Judging by the positions of the men and the angles of the bullets that killed them, the assassin had come from the hallway. He must have climbed in a bedroom window and used the element of surprise.

Sherlock moved cautiously into the bedroom, expecting to find the body of the sixth man, but the room was empty. It was also a mess. A lengthy struggle had clearly taken place in the cramped room and Sherlock could read it all in the broken and overturned furniture. The upper hand had shifted a few times throughout the fight. A stray shot was fired once, twice, and then Sherlock’s eyes came to rest on a piece of bloody glass lying on the floor near a cabinet on the far side of the room. He went to it in three long strides. It was part of a broken mirror that had been affixed to the wall above a waist-height cabinet. One of the two men had grabbed hold of it and stabbed the other, but which was which? Sherlock’s eyes tracked their movements through drips and smears of blood. The injured man eventually broke free and tumbled out the room’s only open window. The other man must have followed because the caravan door would have been left open had he used it.

Gun still at the ready, Sherlock hurried out the door and around to the back of the caravan. He walked silently along the trail of blood and shoe prints. More and more of the sticky, red substance stained the concrete as he went. There wasn’t enough to indicate that the injured man was bleeding out, but was still a troubling amount. Sherlock quickened his pace, anxious to learn which man was injured. He found himself hoping it was not the assassin. It made little sense, but he felt some odd camaraderie with the man. They did seem to have the same goal and were inextricably linked by it.

Sherlock wove his way through the parking lot, around one caravan and another, until he turned a corner and stopped dead. Twenty feet ahead of him, next to a chain link fence, was the body of a man. He was on his back and was obviously dead. Sherlock’s throat went dry and he quickened his pace. He and the assassin had narrowly missed one another for almost three months. They didn’t know the other’s identity and hadn’t even been in the same room together, but had come to expect one another. At least, Sherlock had. He supposed the same might not be true of the assassin, but he liked to think it was, especially after Montenegro. The man had blatantly made the decision not only to save, but also spare Sherlock’s life and the resulting sentiment had softened his heart toward the man. The detective would have considered these feelings a weakness in the past. Now, he saw it in a completely different light. The assassin gave him something familiar to look for, to count on. He couldn’t have John or home, but could at least have something, though it paled in comparison. 

Sherlock was jogging by the time he reached the dead man. He couldn’t see his head properly until he stood right next to him. Once he did, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. The man before him was not wearing a mask of any kind, nor was there one near the body. Instead, he matched the description of one of the six men Sherlock was sent to kill. The assassin had escaped. 

Relief quickly turned to trepidation, however, as he got a better look at the dead man. He had no stab wounds on his body and looked to have been killed by blunt-force trauma. Sherlock’s eyes darted around the scene, picking out a heavy metal bar and more blood. He followed a trail of it with his eyes for a short distance. It led to, and passed through, an old opening in the chain link fence. Something had weakened the links and broken through long ago. The assassin must have used it to sneak inside or he would not have known to use it as an escape. Sherlock looked as far beyond the fence as he could see, but saw no body and no large pools of blood. It seemed the assassin had escaped, indeed. But how far had he gotten and how badly was he injured?

When he recounted the night’s events later for Mycroft, Sherlock left out the possible extent of the assassin’s injuries and hid his concern for the man. He knew precious little about the man. It made no sense for Sherlock to feel at all connected to him and yet, here he was. He couldn’t stop himself from viewing the connection as a separate but united force against what was left of Moriarty. As such, not knowing the assassin’s fate unsettled Sherlock in a way he couldn’t explain and he hoped their paths would cross again soon.

****

The next assignment was long and tedious. Sherlock spent nearly three weeks just garnering enough trust through various acts of theft and bullying as assigned by the target’s second in command to even be told the target’s location. He then spent another six days planning out how to neutralize successfully. His frustration grew day by day at having to waste an entire month on this one target, lengthening his time away from John. John, who he knew was struggling. His last few conversations with Anthea were vague at best, but informative enough to know that John’s grief had renewed. 

The knowledge slowed Sherlock’s progress with the assignment and he knew it. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He would rather know at least something about John and be distracted than know nothing at all. He dreamt of his friend every night again; comforting him and assuring John he would be home again. He awoke each morning with renewed vigor at having spent the time with John, even if only in his mind. Part of him hoped dreams did the same for John, but they more likely only discouraged him. Sherlock had the advantage of knowing they would meet again, whereas he was dead in John’s world. Sherlock tried to ignore the regret and guilt that ate at him for it.

Motivated by the desire to end his exile and return home to John, Sherlock lost his patience and brought the assignment to an abrupt end. While in the target’s bunker for a debriefing, Sherlock broke into his office and waited. Nearly two hours later, the man and his second opened the door. Sherlock greeted them politely with one bullet each and left as fast as he could. 

His work done, after the agonizingly long month, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to move on to the next assignment. He grimaced as he logged onto the secure server he and Mycroft used to communicate, knowing his brother would berate him for his slowness. Maybe Sherlock would get lucky and Anthea would debrief him. He hoped as he pushed enter and waited, then sighed when Mycroft’s smug face came into view.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock murmured in greeting, saying nothing else. Mycroft more than made up for it.

“Good evening, Sherlock. I am glad to see you have finally finished your assignment. I was beginning to think that your target had persuaded you to stay on,” Mycroft’s snide words pushed Sherlock over the edge. The last thread tethering his frustration over the assignment snapped and he nearly swept the laptop off the table.

“Fuck off, Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted. “You know this is not how I wanted it to go. Just tell me about the next assignment and go back to your cake. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your greatest pleasure.”

“Sherlock, has it really come to this?” Mycroft began with an epic eye roll.

“You started it!” Sherlock interrupted. “Just tell me what I want to know.”

“In due time, brother mine,” Mycroft dismissed Sherlock’s anger out of course, “I have come into some information about your mythical assassin.”

“Oh, yes, perfect. Just what I want to know,” Sherlock snarked back, crossing his arms. “Tell me, Mycroft, how many assignments has he completed while I’ve been stuck on just one?”

“On the contrary,” Mycroft said blandly. “It seems both of you have succeeded in doing nothing. I have no indication he has made any movements during the last forty-two days.”

It was then that Sherlock remembered the trail of blood he had followed so long ago and the strange sense of loneliness he had felt. He had mentioned neither to Mycroft after that assignment.

“He was injured,” Sherlock stated almost without thinking, “in that caravan dealership in Skopje. I followed a trail of blood. He must need time to recover.”

“You failed to mention that in the debriefing,” Mycroft answered, his tone rife with skepticism.

“It was not relevant,” Sherlock replied haughtily.

“Wasn’t it?” Mycroft speculated. “Hm. I wonder.”

“Is there a point to this, Mycroft?” Sherlock snapped, growing tired of the conversation. His brother had a certain knack for analyzing his motives at the most inconvenient times.

“Could it have been a more serious injury, brother mine?” Mycroft continued calmly, unfazed by his baby brother’s outburst. “We have no evidence of him at all in the time between today and that night. Could he have been neutralized?”

“Neutral- he’s not our enemy, Mycroft,” Sherlock countered. “He saved my life.”

“Because doing so suited his purpose,” Mycroft supplied, condescension slipping into his tone. “You are very obviously on a path similar to his own. Why would he want that assistance to end?”

Mycroft was right. It was only logical for the assassin to keep Sherlock alive so the man didn’t have to hit every target himself. The detective had allowed sentiment to color his views of the assassin and if Mycroft didn’t know before, he certainly did now. Damn him.

“No,” Sherlock gave a slight shake of his head after a moment of thought, “there wasn’t enough blood for the injury to have been life-threatening. He will appear again. Just give him time.”

Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line and took a deep breath through his nose. He had more to say, but obviously debated on whether to do it now or save it. Sherlock knew Mycroft had chosen not to wait the moment his lips parted.

“You will have to deal with him one day,” Mycroft said carefully. “The time will come when you are no longer useful to him.”

Sherlock fought not to roll his eyes. As if he hadn’t considered that particular inevitability already.

“I will handle that when the time comes, not before,” Sherlock said flatly.

****

As if on cue, Sherlock found his next target in a private train compartment with a bullet in his head. They were on a train in Hungary. The man’s two most trusted associates were at his side, also shot dead. The assassin was back. 

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth curled as he stood in the compartment’s doorway. He gave a subtle salute to the scene, closed the door, and casually walked back to his own compartment. As he went, he was filled with a sense of satisfaction and hope. With his own efforts coupled with those of the assassin, his timetable would change for the better and he could return home to John earlier than expected. Mycroft may have been right about an eventual confrontation between Sherlock and the assassin, but until then they would each enjoy the other’s usefulness without question.

****

Another handful of assignments came and went, Sherlock and the assassin working in tandem, but never encountering one another. Shortly after leaving another scene in which the assassin beat him to the mark, Sherlock calculated their joint progress once again and found that their current rate would see him back in London a full four months early. He was delighted.

A particularly successful month for both of them resulted in another revision of the time required. They had shaved off a few more weeks, much to Sherlock’s satisfaction. That was how, at eighteen months post-Fall, Sherlock found himself in Palermo, Sicily with only two targets remaining before he could return home to London and his life.

------

I know it was a long one, but I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you so much for reading and for all your support! I've missed you all so much! Tune in next week for chapter 2 and remember, keep your stick on the ice. We're all in this together.

Love, Jane

[dakaneeee]

SANDZAK HEADCANOND

HEY CHAT GET PREPARED FOR SANDŽAK HEADCANONS OR MORE SO JUST CANONS BECAUSE I MADE HER UP LOL

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

1. Her human name is Emina Avdić. Avdić is just a common name from the area, though Emina was shamelessly stolen off of Šantić’s poem of the same name.

2. Relationship wise she is in the same spot as Srpska, which means everyone sort of finds her annoying except one person, but even then it’s a love hate relationship, that other person being Enis. She does love him but he might find her as a bit of a bother, I don’t think Herze would mind her much though.

3. Speaking of Enis, she’s more conservative and more religious than he is (tho that’s not a hard thing to beat, he’s basically secular)

4. She does look up to him, probably as a kind of islamic father figure (because uncle Turkey doesn’t care about her anymore) but i think she realized he isn’t as serious as she is about this whole Islam thing

5. She kind of dislikes everyone around her quietly, like they all know about it but she isn’t screaming it out as most of them are.

6. She shows that hate in little actions, or just by being straight up unpleasant

7. I have yet to decide wether she lives with Montenegro or Serbia? I guess both, maybe she just switches around if the other gets too annoying to deal with. Im edging to just say Serbia because then she’d be the opposite of Srpska but we’ll see

8. Typically they both make her do chores around the house, Monte especially, because it’s “a woman’s job to do so”, Vuk cares less.

9. Sometimes she does visit the BiH household though, she probably prefers staying there rather than with Serbia or Montenegro but I don’t think they let her go often

10. She might get along with Kosovo, fuck they might be related because of the Albanians that came to Sandžak in the past

11. Taller (~175 cm?)

12. Long legs and slim figure, typical beauty standard especially because she’s blonde

13. She wears converse, it’s all she ever wears in modern day LOL

14. She always has her white headscarf on, it’s like her distinguishing feature

15. Tho in general she typically wears lighter clothes, possibly with red accents.

16. Heterosexual most definitely

17. She doesn’t get laid anyways she’s too proper for that

18. Her and Srpska are around the same age (so I guess similar to Kosovo and Vojvodina in physical age as well?), they both appeared at the start of the Ottoman period

19. she was just quickly adopted by Turkey and kept safe like that

20. During this time period she was mostly shielded by him, though in the 1800s she met Ilija for the first time after he was islamized fully and most likely became a janissary. To keep it simple they dated and were smitten with each other

21. It’s true that janissaries actually couldn’t get married or well… date, though at this time the janissaries did start breaking the rules and rebelling against the sultan, so it could personify that

22. They fell apart after he ran off to start his own uprisings, she just felt betrayed

23. To this day she reminds me of all the glory he lost, so they basically hate each other now 💔

24. Tho, „Emina” by Šantić was also probably Srpska talking about her

25. She’s the reason he became an incel

26. She has a silver ibrik (same one mentioned in the poem haha) which she uses to beat people with when it’s full of water, mostly Montenegro and Serbia.

27. Chronically offline, she doesn’t know what a tik tok is

28. She loves reconnecting with nature whenever she’s upset

29. In fact she wants to live by herself, but she’s too poor to afford anything so she’s stuck with the two idiots for now

30. She likes gardening i feel

31. She appreciates ethnic music over anything else, buttttttt I think she’d also like Zabranjeno Pušenje

32. She prefers being outside, not in the city way but in the villager way

33. Not shy, just aggressively introverted, in the meaning that she pushes people she doesn’t know well away, in the literal sense probably

34. She plays sudoku :DDDDDDDD

35. Very clever and probably kicks ass at chess also

36. Fluent in Bosnian and Turkish, probably knows some albanian, arabic a teeeenyyyy tiny bit also

I might expand on her relations with the others furthermore, especially srpska cause i didn’t give their lovestory justice

Good night chat

[mariacallous]

As multiple crises flare, and as her Sept. 10 debate with former U.S. President Donald Trump approaches, Vice President Kamala Harris needs to anticipate a potential swipe over the Biden administration’s Balkans record. The former president has proudly cited his own record in the region, and Trump’s former Balkans special envoy, Richard Grenell, has trolled Harris on her alleged ignorance of the region. And the truth is that the situation across the Balkans, with barely an exception, has only worsened on U.S. President Joe Biden’s watch.

At a deeper level, confronting Biden’s struggles in the Balkans can help Harris to urgently refine her own foreign-policy convictions. The essential international task for any president is to wield U.S. power to advance U.S. interests.

The Biden administration’s inability to do so in the Balkans—where the West holds strategic leverage—offers a bracing, universal lesson. Discarding Biden’s core democratic principles, his State Department has “cozied up”—to use Harris’s term—to an autocrat, Serbian President Aleksandar Vucic. Just like Trump, Biden officials have failed to grasp the unavoidable price of cutting deals with a strongman: weakness.

Emboldened by U.S. supplication, Vucic has openly revived the Greater Serbian nationalist project that led Yugoslavia to war three decades ago. Now he has applied that philosophy to his relations with Bosnia and Herzegovina, Kosovo, and Montenegro. Both directly and indirectly, Serbia has consistently undermined each country’s sovereignty, functionality, and Euro-Atlantic aspirations.

An armed Serbian plot hatched last September in the northern Kosovo town of Banjska—near where U.S. troops are deployed—sought to divide the country by force. This brazen violation of Belgrade’s peace terms with NATO could only have been executed with support from Serbian officials, none of whom have been held to account.

A U.S. administration that regularly slaps sanctions around the region has barely managed to sanction any Serbian officials. Snubbing Washington, Vucic installed two of the few U.S.-sanctioned figures in the newest Serbian government. One of them—Deputy Prime Minister Aleksandar Vulin, a notorious former intelligence chief and Kremlin acolyte, —met with Russian President Vladimir Putin again on Sept. 4, declaring that “Serbia is Russia’s ally” and adding that “under Aleksandar Vucic’s leadership, Serbia would never join NATO, nor would it impose sanctions on the Russian Federation.”

Vucic’s allies and rivals alike see the disparity in the U.S. posture toward Belgrade and act accordingly. In a visit to Sarajevo in late August, CIA Director William Burns confronted the “worrying secessionist rhetoric and actions” of Milorad Dodik, the pro-Russian president and government of Bosnia and Herzegovina’s Serb entity. For much of its tenure, the Biden administration has vainly appealed to Vucic to restrain Dodik, ignoring their shared interest in Bosnia’s demise.

In June, Vucic hosted Dodik and other nationalists in Belgrade at the openly irredentist “All Serbian Assembly.” In July, the pro-Serbian speaker of the Montenegro Parliament Andrea Mandic, orchestrated a resolution calculated to anger Croatia, an Adriatic neighbor that had fully reconciled with its onetime enemy. Executed at Serbian behest, the resolution instantly casts a shadow over Montenegro’s path to the European Union by inviting obstacles from Zagreb, which is an EU member. Like Putin, Vucic is threatened by the EU aspirations of a smaller, supposedly artificial neighbor, Montenegro, which Belgrade seeks to subjugate.

The most serious deterioration is in Kosovo, where Prime Minister Albin Kurti has infuriated Western diplomats with a series of provocative moves in the Serb-predominant north of the country. Determined to finally assert Kosovo’s sovereignty over legacy Serbian institutions, Kurti’s unilateral actions risk undoing his country’s internationally designed constitution, which guarantees a secure place for minority Serbs.

Already deflated after the Banjska fiasco, Kosovo Serbs are near the point of giving up on life in Kosovo—a result that will play into Serbian and Russian designs to undermine the Western, multiethnic order in the region.

Despite U.S. and EU sanctions, Kurti has continued his “instrumentalization” of Kosovo’s police in the north after the disastrous decision by Belgrade loyalists to march Serbs out of the Kosovo police force and other institutions in November 2022. As Grenell has noted, sharp U.S. State Department condemnations of Kurti’s actions have fallen on deaf ears.

Grenell and Biden officials are both missing the point. Kurti continues his irresponsible populism for one, counterintuitive reason: defiance of the U.S. resonates with the most pro-U.S. public in the world, Kosovar Albanians. Citizens of Kosovo, as well as many in North Macedonia and Montenegro, see Kurti as the only figure standing up to Belgrade, which has suffered no penalty for its acts or omissions that led to violent confrontation with NATO peacekeepers.

Mounting U.S. and European fury at Kurti—astride mounting U.S., French, and German investment in Serbia—only exacerbates the problem. Galvanized by Washington’s transactional leadership, French President Emmanuel Macron visited Belgrade at the end of August, sealing the sale of French fighter jets and signing an array of agreements, including in nuclear energy. German Chancellor Olaf Scholz arrived to fanfare in July, overseeing the signing of an EU-Serbian agreement on critical raw materials that will advance the long-stalled mining of lithium in Serbia’s Jadar Valley.

Channeling Washington, Paris insists that the arms package—which comes on top of a yearslong, disturbing weapons acquisition spree by Belgrade—will “anchor Serbia in the West.”

To the contrary, a decade of Serbian foot-dragging on EU reform has proved that Aleksandar Vucic’s ruling party is anchored in autocratic exploitation, strengthening anti-democratic rule at home, and weakening democratic neighbors in Belgrade’s own neighborhood. With his position increasingly secure, Vucic bluntly told Macron during their recent meeting that “joining the Western sanctions [on Russia] is not an option.”

Against this phlegmatic backdrop, the U.S.-backed, EU-led dialogue between Serbia and Kosovo is moribund. Neither Vucic nor Kurti will move forward with the unsigned normalization “accord” that Washington and Brussels insist both sides accepted last year. Eliminating any ambiguity, former Serbian Prime Minister Ana Brnabic formally notified Brussels in December 2023 that Belgrade does not consider the U.S.-EU-mediated accord to be legally binding.

The full-scale invasion of Ukraine that Putin launched in February 2022 handed Washington another golden opportunity to challenge Vucic’s duplicitous so-called balance between Serbia’s phony EU candidacy and his real friendships with the autocrats in Moscow, Beijing, and Budapest. Overwhelmed by this seismic geopolitical event, Belgrade was terrified that Washington, along with leading European capitals, would finally call Vucic’s bluff, demanding the same fidelity to the EU position on the invasion that Serbia’s fellow candidates to the bloc had shown.

Instead, the U.S. Embassy in Belgrade immediately lauded Serbia’s half-measures. By May 2022, with his confidence restored, Vucic had signed an in-your-face, three-year gas deal with Putin. In September 2022, Vucic embarrassed U.S. National Security Advisor Jake Sullivan and Under-Secretary of State Victoria Nuland at the United Nations, engineering the high-profile signing of a foreign-policy pact with Russia shortly after meeting the two senior U.S. officials.

The next month, Serbia signed an agreement with Hungary to build a pipeline to deliver Russian oil to Serbia, breaking Vucic’s energy commitments to Biden just as he had done to Trump. And in November, Russian state-controlled TV network Russia Today announced that it would launch its website in Serbia, in direct defiance of EU sanctions.

After initially calling for Belgrade to impose sanctions on Russia, U.S. Ambassador to Serbia Christopher Hill has now pronounced the U.S. government “pleased with the growing forms of cooperation between Serbia and Ukraine.”

No one in Washington should be pleased with the shortsighted, unambitious, and unnecessary trade of democratic values for autocratic disorder. Had Vucic finally been confronted with the need to give up his charade, Belgrade may have voluntarily spread Serbian military munitions to the Ukrainian battlefield without spreading Russian political ammunition throughout the region.

The proof: to this day, the Kremlin has inflicted no price on Belgrade for arming Moscow’s mortal enemy in Kyiv—not even verbal condemnation. Putin’s biggest potential threat to Vucic— ceasing Moscow’s ritual opposition to Kosovo’s membership in the U.N.—would be self-defeating. The Russian president dreams of trading Kosovo for Crimea and other Ukrainian territory in a deal at the U.N. Security Council that is sanctioned by Washington.

In short, Putin has limited options in the Balkans—which means that so does Vucic.

Free from either Russian or Western pressure, Vucic has millions of reasons to continue the highly lucrative, low-risk cash flow from arms sales that go to Ukraine. Indeed, the entire premise that Belgrade needs to be weaned from its traditional friendship with Moscow is flawed. Vucic’s alignment is ideological and voluntary, as proven by his enthusiastic alignment with non-Slavic autocrats in Beijing and Budapest. It was no coincidence that on his May European tour, Chinese President Xi Jin Ping spent most of his time in Hungary and Serbia. Flouting EU policy on Iran, Belgrade last week vowed to “expand bilateral relations” with Tehran, the strategic partner of both Beijing and Moscow. Domestically, the Serbian government enjoys near total dominance of the media narrative in the country (and sizable, poisonous influence in the wider region.)

Similarly, Belgrade’s oft-cited support for pro-Ukraine declarations and U.N. General Assembly resolutions over the war have little do with solidarity with Ukraine and everything to do with advancing Serbia’s regional agenda. As senior officials, including Vucic, have admitted, Kosovo—not Ukraine—is the reason for Belgrade’s steadfast, vocal support for Ukraine’s sovereignty and territorial integrity.

If she wants to become the U.S. president, Harris needs to understand now the peril of discarding core values just because standing up to autocrats seems like too much work. “A Europe that is whole, free, and at peace” is a stated U.S. strategic objective, not a slogan. Leaving the Balkans as a deteriorating mess is a strategic victory for the United States’ adversaries.