#avenue of sins

[b-afterhours]

AOS Neon: Sinner's Paradise (oneshot)

SUMMARY: ‘90s. It’s the aftermath. Jaded, Bill and Alma navigate their new lives as they try to drag themselves out of the dark debacherous trenches they had once ensnared themselves in. It’s easy to forget their evils when a silver lining introduces itself into their lives but can they create a less hedonistic life that would be just as satisfying?

WARNINGS: adult content, mature readers only.

Author's Note: one of two oneshots to fill in some gaps before we saw their ending. Enjoy! sidenote: currently updating the masterlist to this full series but most are already linked at this time!

March 1995

A little over a month before their late April wedding, the family was in the office of their Seattle home during the evening. Bill sat on the armrest of the brown leather couch, looking over one of Alma’s event planners, one of many planners she owned. Alma stood before a large paper calendar hung on the wall, chewing on the end of a marker in thought. She had accidentally booked a show during the week they’d be in Vegas. Both the shop and the club would be closed to the public so that friends and family could join them.

Using his pinky finger as a guide, he read through what she had jotted down in the planner and paused at a specific date block.

“Put them here,” he stood up, grabbed the marker Alma held, and scribbled them on a date. “Second act. We’ll ask them to cut a song or two. Headliner will just go on a little later.”

“Yeah, okay.” Alma agreed, pushing her large-frame glasses up the bridge of her nose. 

“Better to reschedule than cancel.” He softly massaged the nape of her neck with his free hand, but only briefly. With the same hand, he quickly flipped to May, making sure she hadn’t scheduled anything over their honeymoon on the Amalfi Coast, but she color-blocked the row with a red marker. 

Alma noticed Bill checking the time on the big vintage wall clock. He had a phone meeting with Bianca. They often spoke on the phone, but twice a week they talked business. 

“Thanks for helping me.” She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. “Tell Bianca I said hi.” 

He pulled her in and grabbed her ass while kissing her again with more passion. They would be making love later, hoping to get pregnant. They started in December, just as she had promised him. So far, they haven’t been successful. They weren’t trying to stress so much about it and rather enjoy themselves. Yet, there was still a little nagging, disappointed voice in the back of their consciousness. Wondering why creating Echo, though not planned, just seemed to happen so easily. Without even a thought, no less.

Alma gently pushed him away, with a lustful, knowing twinkle in her gaze. “Echo,” she turned to her. “Are you done working over there?” 

Echo had been sitting at the head of the large office desk, scribbling on loose sheets of paper, mimicking her parents at work.

“Almost.” She said, making them chuckle.

“Oh, c’mon on, E’. Let’s get ready for bed. Say nighties to Daddy. And I’ll meet you later, Daddy.” she said with a cheeky wink.

Echo slid out of the big office chair, stumbling a bit, but ran into her father's embrace, and off they went, leaving him to his second job on the other coast. 

The phone call lasted nearly an hour; half of it only pertaining to Trigger Finger, until they began speaking about their personal affairs. 

“The street the record shop sits on is having a spring block party. All the other businesses put stuff out on the sidewalks. It’s basically a little festival.” 

“What are you doing? Live music, I guess?”

“Yeah.” He said adjusting a crooked frame on the opposite wall from the desk. 

While sitting at the desk, he had been staring at it for a while and finally decided to straighten it out. Alma had created the gallery wall in the office using frames and wall decor she’d found at yard sales, thrift stores, or things within the boxes she shipped from Strathburg. Amid the ceramic jackalope head, small framed prints, and mirrors, there were personal effects included in the montage as well. A few concert photos and some artistic shots Alma had taken of Echo were on display. 

One photo showed Bill and Alma as teens; Bill leaned against a post with one foot flat against it, a cigarette between his fingers, while Alma stood in front of him. In the photo, their heads were turned toward the camera. Bill had a slight scowl on his face, while Alma wore a sweet smile. Despite the fact that the photographer had obviously called for their attention, neither could remember who had taken the photo. They were at a football game, though they never sat on the bleachers to watch, but rather hung out behind them with others who also came just to have something to do on a Friday night. Nearby was the rosary Alma's father, Antonio, had given her, filled with some of her sibling's ashes. She hadn’t known what to do with it for a while until Ulyssa, with her crafty ways, suggested displaying it inside a shadowbox.

“But we have this narrow alleyway that separates us from the main set of buildings,” he continued, walking past an antique armoire that housed Alma’s cameras behind glass cabinet doors. He took a seat at the desk once the frame was no longer a bother. “We hired a muralist to paint an image of Echo on the wall. This gel print in neon pink and yellow that Alma made for me a few years ago for Valentine’s.” 

“Oh, yes! I’ve seen that on the mantel at the penthouse during Thanksgiving.” 

“Yeah! I brought it back this way. It’s the last thing we're doing to the building. Once we had the marquee up in front of the entrance, I kinda found more to do.” He chuckled. 

“That looks fantastic! I saw the photo of you and Alma in front of it in that local magazine she mailed to me. Offbeat?

“Oh, the grand reopening article.” He leaned back in his seat.

“You said like two things in it, but I enjoyed what Alma said. About community building and such. She’s pretty natural with that.” 

“Well, she’s more familiar with the guy who wrote it, so.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” She playfully dismissed. “So. Are you ready to get married next month?” 

“Are you ready for Vegas?” 

“Abso-fucking-lutely!” She exclaimed. “I’m betting my luck as soon as I land. I’m shopping for my outfits later this week! I’m gonna be sparkling like a damn disco ball honey.” She laughed. “Lorenzo is excited with him being twenty-one and all, but of course, Giancarlo has been fussing because he’s not eighteen yet.” 

Bill chuckled. “Yeah, I know. When I told him the wedding date, he asked if I could wait another year until he was.” 

“He did not!” Bianca said, appalled, that her son would even ask such a thing. “That boy, I swear!” 

“Ah, he’s just saying what any kid his age would say.” 

“Still! As if you two haven’t waited long enough. I’m glad it has been a short engagement, even.” 

“Ah, yeah. Me too. I’m happy Alma suggested Vegas.” He said, scribbling on a sheet of paper Echo had been scribbling on herself. However, he did notice some kind of attempt to spell her name. 

“Might as well just do the drive-thru marriage there. I heard they do that too!” She laughed. 

“Quick question, do you know what kind of dress Alma picked out?” He softly muttered so that his voice wouldn’t carry out the office.

“Why in the hell do you think I’d tell you that?” She laughed.

There was a tone on the phone indicating he had another call. He glanced at the clock; it was too late to receive calls at his home at this hour unless he was expecting them. 

“Uhm, I have another call coming in, B’.”

“Okay. I gotta go back down to the floor.” She said as she was in the club loft speaking to him. “Send my hello to Alma, honey. I’ll talk to you later.” 

“Later.” He said quickly, putting the pen down and hitting the blinking call-waiting button. “Hello?”

“Hey, uh, it’s Gustaf.” 

“What’s up? Someone needs bail money.” He joked, but there was no laughter on the other end. The silence felt unusually unsettling. “W-what is it?” 

“Uhm…” He sighed. “I know, you couldn’t give a fuck, but you should know. Dad’s gone.” 

Bill sat stunned, and the way his heart sank conflicted with his true feelings. After having a short moment to process, all he could muster out was, “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

He could feel himself becoming angry, making him sick to his stomach. “What the hell do you want me to say? He’s, he’s been—” He paused. What he wanted to say was that he’d been dead to him the day he left Strathburg.

“Yeah, okay. I understand. I know he was awful, but—”

“There is no, but.” 

“Yeah, okay. Shit,” he loudly exhaled. “I’m sorry, brother. We left you behind a lot; you were too little to deal with that alone. After mom, he changed.” 

Emotion overwhelmed Bill suddenly as tears fought to escape his eyes. “Yeah, well. That’s that, right? C-could I call you later?” 

“Sure. Sure, yeah.” 

The frame he fixed had gone crooked again, and Bill didn’t know how long he had been blankly staring at it. He hated the feelings of grief that were running through him over his abusive father. He couldn’t give a shit, yet the loss felt great. He was now an orphan in the world, and as much as that felt isolating it just felt—strange. Getting up from his seat, he poured himself a glass of whiskey from the bar cart, and then something possessed him to grab the shoebox of photos Gustaf had given him on his very last visit to his hometown. Which he had never opened since receiving it.

From the closet he took the items back to the desk, he took a big swig of the drink and then ripped the top off as if something would jump out of it. Inside, little cheap toys were accompanying the photos. Green toy soldiers, marbles, and jacks. He examined some of the cooler glass marbles at first and then set those aside. Picking up the handful of old photos, he flicked through a series of him as a little boy. He couldn’t recall his childhood well, but the feelings he was experiencing indicated that these were times before it all got so bad. 

It was one particular photo he reached that pained him. It twisted his stomach. Staring back at him was a little confused boy with a hollow look in his eyes. A little boy he knew was internally screaming for help. He sat back in his chair to collect himself for a moment and then laid that photo face down. He continued. Some of him and his older brothers were photographed on an orange couch with their mother. He may have been around four. Then one of him and his mother in a happy embrace. Those photos gave him great comfort; they felt like a warm hug. Maybe that’s what compelled him to look through the box. Not to reconcile with the death of his father, but because he wished he had his mother’s comfort.

He reached a few photos in which his father was in, but he just felt numb. Having his own child, he just couldn’t comprehend the abuse he had experienced. It never made sense then, and it especially didn’t make sense now. There were times he tried to understand. Until he realized he was just rationalizing his abuse into justification. Where there was none.

The last time he spoke to his father was on the phone a month after he found out he had a child of his own. He was drunk and alone, still hurt by the reveal, but he was also scared. Scared that he’d be just as bad, that it would bring out a monster in him that had risen within his father. Even drunk, he came to his senses, reminding himself and promising to whatever God existed out there that he would never be that. He shouted at him, telling him that he got it all without him. That he made something of himself. That he’d lay down dead before he ever put his daughter through what he had experienced. 

All his father said on the phone was a condescending, “Good for you, son.” 

“Fuck you!” He screamed, slamming the phone down before tossing the whole unit across the room. 

Alma spritzed herself with a soft, sweet vanilla marshmallow perfume before she began tiptoeing down the hallway in a skimpy baby doll négligée. She peered in, hoping to surprise him, but was taken aback. He sat at the desk with his shoulders bobbing and his head in his hands, crying. Everything hit him simultaneously: sadness, anger, relief, and even some happiness. However, he just couldn't deal with his conflicting emotions any other way. The last tears he would ever shed for that man.

“Bill?” Alma said softly, concerned.

“Fuck.” He choked out, pressing his palms into his eyes.

She quickly approached him, and he wrapped his arms around her while burying his face into her side like a child would. She could feel his tears seeping through the thin fabric of her négligée. Not daring to say a word, she rubbed his back to settle him while thinking the worst. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs to their full capacity, and slowly exhaled. 

“I need a smoke.” He sniffled, sitting back and searching for his pack in a desk drawer. 

Alma watched him, red-eyed and flush-faced, lighting it inside the office. A forbidden act, but Alma wouldn’t dare to reprimand him for it. He stood up and began heading out to the balcony. 

“I’ll wait for you,” she said, unsure of what he wanted of her. 

“Come.” He walked back, taking her hand. “I want you with me.” 

Anxiously picking at the hem of her négligée, Alma sat on a cushioned outdoor chair, while he stood leaning on the balcony railing, looking out toward the woods. He was muttering curse words under his breath while he puffed away. 

“Fucking son of a bitch.” He snarled, flicking his cigarette away as opposed to using the designated glass ashtray. 

“What…” she bit her lip when his head snapped in her direction. As if he remembered she was there all along. “Uhm.” 

He closed his eyes and did his best to soften his demeanor. She was sitting there looking pretty in the sheer black négligée, which he could see the hi-cut panties through. The vibe was all wrong, though. She just looked at him, deeply concerned. 

“He,” pausing, he put his hands on his hips and looked out at the yard again. “My dad’s dead.” He announced it flatly, without looking at her. 

“Oh my god,” she softly gasped. She didn’t have any good thoughts or sentiments for the man, but she knew Bill hated him with all of his guts. Rightfully so. In all honesty, she pictured him popping a bottle of champagne at the news of his passing. However, she knew there were more nuances to his complicated feelings all around. 

“Yeah.” He nodded.

“What, uhm, what can I do?”

“Nothing,” he sighed. “It’s just,” he said, spinning his pointer finger by the side of his head. “I just can’t fucking believe it. I want to be happy, and a part of me is, but… I don’t know.” 

“Yeah,” she stood up and wrapped her arms around him, and he relaxed as much as he could into it. “I love you.” 

“It’s done.” He said, repeating the same sentiment he uttered about Craig when he lay lifeless before them. 

“It’s done, babe. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you ever had to go through that.” 

They held each other silently for a while before Alma led him back inside so they could relax and just put this moment behind them for good. 

Bill watched the skirt of the négligée swish across her bottom, reminding him of where the night was supposed to lead before that epic damper of a call he received. To her surprise, he spun Alma around and pulled her close. She had suspected they’d just go to bed, not wanting to push anything more on him tonight.

“Fuck, you look sexy in this.” He picked her up effortlessly onto his waist. 

“Do you still want to?” She asked, inspecting his eyes with a hand on his cheek. There was a deep sadness she wished she could take away.

“I do. I need you.”

…

Sinner’s Paradise

The following month, they landed in Sin City. Alma ran around the entire penthouse suite, her laughter echoing as she leaped onto the main bed. It was big and round, covered with a purple crushed velvet duvet with an abundance of similar-colored silk pillows. With a gleeful smile, she noticed the ceiling above the bed was mirrored, her image staring right back at her. After checking the loft space out, Bill descended the curved steps to join her.

“Hurry up!” Alma urged, taking her top off and baring her breasts. 

He laughed with delight, taking his off while making his way to join her. 

Later, they waited around the sitting area impatiently, freshly showered and wearing hotel robes. Alma had taken another pregnancy test, and they were waiting for the results. They had taken one before traveling, which results were negative. This one was only precautionary. She wanted to have some fun while in the desert city but needed to know just how much fun in case. Though she hoped for a miracle, she also hoped this would be her last hurrah before the sober nine months came.

“I’ll check it,” Bill patted her thigh before sitting up. It had to be more than enough time now.

He quickly flipped the test around that lay face down on the bathroom counter. He sighed, disappointed. Negative. He tossed the test in the trash; he would just tell her. When he exited the bathroom, she knew immediately by the look on his face.

“No?” 

“No.” 

“But we–we knew it would be, you know.” 

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Let’s open that champagne now.” 

They arrived in Las Vegas ahead of their guests, who were scheduled to trickle into town the following day. Echo would join them with Yolani and Ulyssa at noon, and though it was hard to leave their daughter behind, they trusted their chosen chaperones. Having two caregivers eased some of their nerves, even for Bill, who had always struggled with leaving her behind in the past. However, he took comfort in knowing that Alma was with her, so this time was different. Soon, they would be separated for much longer on another continent during their honeymoon, so they had to accustom themselves to her absence. 

They did a bit of sightseeing, walking the Fremont strip from end to end in the desert heat, then took a taxi back to the hotel to get ready for their dinner reservations. Bill watched, amused, as Alma hung dresses and other items she had brought into the closet of a spare bedroom. They were all pretty skimpy.

“You do remember your dad is coming too, right? Do you have anything—normal?” 

Alma turned to him and cracked a smile. "Yeah, yeah. Imagine if he saw me in this, though?" she chuckled, holding a corset top against her torso before hanging it up. "Or this," she added, pulling out the white bachelorette two-piece party dress. The tight skirt was made of sheer layers of fabric.

“I think he’d be upset with you and me. But are you wearing a bra with that?” He furrowed his brows. 

She flashed him a look of annoyance. “Bill. No.” 

“I don’t care how you wear it, but… I’m not going to be with you. It’s Vegas, Alma.” 

“What are you trying to say? That I’ll look like an escort?” He didn’t answer; instead, he continued tying the thin laces of his dress shoes. “Give me a break. I’m wearing the Versace Bondage dress you gifted me tonight. What the hell do you think people will think of you walking around with me in it?” 

He flashed his cheeky, dimple smile at her. “That I’m the luckiest man in the world.” 

Alma blushed, but then rolled her eyes when he chuckled smugly, knowing she expected him to give a more unsavory smart-ass reply.

After dinner, they found themselves on the casino floor of their hotel. Bill strolled her around, showing off how stunning she looked before they settled at the slot machines. He handed a fifty-dollar bill to a waitress, who left them drinks as they tried to hit big on a promising machine. Alma sat in his lap in a very relaxed manner, his hand resting between her thighs while he smoked a cigarillo. Together, they watched as the hundred-dollar bet in the machine slowly increased in small increments.

“Quit nickel and dime’ing it,” he said. “Just hit it.” He slapped the max bet button and met her annoyed glance. Suddenly, the machine began flashing lights and sounding out; they had won ten free spins. “See!” He kissed her shoulder.

They watched the machine spin for them, and it hit several times, bumping their overall total to closer to five hundred dollars. Alma hit the cash-out button and then took a big swig of her drink before standing up. 

“Let's go to the lounge now! I’ll buy!” 

They found themselves in a lounge bar, The Daisy, which had an art deco speakeasy atmosphere. They were there for a while, drinking and enjoying each other's company while a live jazz band played. It was a rarity they were ever really completely alone, and they found it quite nice. They discussed their honeymoon destination while a novelty dry ice drink fogged and bubbled before them. Excited about finally utilizing their money for a relaxing trip for once.

“You know it’ll be so much prettier than the pictures in the travel brochure. I’m excited about all the pasta.” And she really meant that, tired of the salads and carb’ restriction these past months. “We’re going to gain like 10 pounds.” She giggled. 

“I want to take a boat around. I saw that they rent them out there.” Alma side-eyed him playfully. “I wouldn’t go out so far we couldn’t see the shore. I don’t want to be that responsible.”

When they stood up from the round booth they had occupied, the liquor smacked them. Being experts, they composed themselves enough and went on to their scheduled nighttime limo ride to see the city and all its neon lights and glittering bulbs on the strip. It was lit up like a debaucherous, adult arcade slash circus.

Bill took photos of Alma, seated in the back of the limo with her smooth legs out, holding a glass of champagne. He passed his sunglasses to her to wear on the end of her button nose for the next few snapshots. The drinks kept flowing in the limo, and their behavior loosened even more. They made out, forgetting the city for a while. Then, as more champagne was being poured, Alma found herself out of the sunroof and then suddenly ducked back in when she felt him bury his head between her thighs. The action caused her to fall back on a seat, giggling with him. She playfully chastised him before going back through the sunroof and made room for him to squeeze through with her. Once he joined her, they kissed while the desert air blew their hair back, and then they cheered elated out to the packed pedestrian-filled strip, and they—being just as drunk—cheered back. 

The next morning, they struggled to wake up. The events after the limo, it was a bit of a blur, but there was evidence that they had gone back to the lounge to drink, as there was an ornate goblet in their room. Obviously, Alma had walked out with it, effectively stealing it. 

Bill was lying bare in bed beside Alma, while she only wore a pair of panties. They weren’t certain if they had sex, but there was an implication that they had attempted to at the very least. Bill’s lips were a bit sore as if Alma bit them while making out, which told them that’s all they did before passing out. There was no way he could have gotten it up with the hangover he was feeling. He wasn’t a hero; after a certain amount of drinks, it simply wasn’t going to happen.

“Shit,” Alma groaned, still feeling a lingering buzz. 

“What time is it?” Bill muttered into his pillow.

“I don’t know. Nine?” She said, stumbling her way to the bathroom. “Shit!” When she had pulled her panties down, they were spotted with blood.

“You okay?” He muttered from the bed, and when she told him she was, he closed his eyes.

She showered quickly, returned to his bedside in a robe, and began dialing Bianca. She was bringing her wedding dress from New York, but she also had tricks to combat an unwanted period. She and all the dancers usually had something up their sleeves when their time of the month became inconvenient for work. Luckily, she caught her just before she left for the airport. 

Bianca quickly listed the things she’d need. “Ibuprofen first. And if it starts for real, take vitamin C. That’ll kill it quicker. Uhm, and you know,” she said, hushed since her sons were close in wait. “You could use sponges.” But her sons overheard and shared a look of disgust. 

Alma’s face shared the same expression, miles away. “Ew, I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about my dress and dealing with this shit on top of that.” 

“Worried about what?” Bill muttered as he lay there with his eyes closed, half listening. 

“Ah, yeah. I understand. It’s gorgeous, by the way. The tailoring is perfect! I’ll take real good care of it while we travel.” 

“I’m worried it won’t fit. I haven’t tried it on since February.” 

“It will, honey. Don’t worry. I’ll see you soon!” 

“Okay. Safe travels.” 

“Worried about what?” Bill reiterated. 

“I started my period.” 

“For fuck's sake!” He grumbled.

If he hadn’t had his forearm draped across his eyes to block the searing sun shining through the decorative curtains, he’d have seen that she flipped him off. Instead, she pinched his nipple, and he sucked in air between his barred teeth while he rubbed the soreness away. 

He begrudgingly rose from the bed and sat on the edge with the sheet across his lap, scratching his head. He watched Alma dialing on the phone and put the receiver to her ear. 

“Go shower; you’ll feel better.” 

He studied her for a moment, sure he had upset her by misspeaking, but she seemed too preoccupied with the phone to react. She was worried about Echo and had called down to the front desk to check if any messages had come in while they were knocked out. There were two, both from just over an hour ago. One was from Yolani, informing her that they were at the gate, waiting to board, and the other was from her father, letting her know he'd arrived at his layover in Denver. They would converge in proximal time to the city.

Bill and Alma cuddled on the couch, watching the local news in the sunken sitting room, trying to nurse a hangover and get rid of a period. They were dressed, waiting around for their daughter, when Alma suggested that maybe they could wait in the lobby. Bill understood she was anxious, as was he, but he suggested that they wait there instead. Give their three-year-old a little independence and put some real trust in their friends, who so kindly took on caring and traveling with her.

There was a knock on the door, and Bill was the first one up to answer. He had been concealing his own anxiousness. As soon as he opened the door, Echo darted past his legs and straight into her mother's expectant arms. 

“Hey, baby!” Alma hugged her daughter tightly, while Bill thanked Yolani and Ulyssa as they came inside. “Was she good? You can be honest.”

Yolani lightly laughed. “Of course, she was good! We did some coloring sheets, and she took a nap.” 

“For real?” Bill asked because she seemed to hate sleeping on a plane. 

“Yeah!” Ulyssa co-signed. “She even got herself comfortable and everything. This room is nice!” She said, scanning the large suite. 

“Would you two like to take a look around?” Bill asked.

“Uhm, well, we kind of want to put our things up,” Yolani said, pointing at their luggage with her thumb by the door behind them. 

“Yeah, go ahead,” he said, walking them out and grabbing the luggage they had packed for Echo at home. 

“We’re probably going to check the strip out right after, so…” Ulyssa said while turning to her friend.

Alma smiled. “Yeah, have fun!” 

They left, but they could hear the sisters giddily laughing as they jogged down the corridor to their room a few floors down, which Bill had paid for. 

Soon, Alma’s father arrived with his wife Connie, and they all went to have lunch. Alma, of course, dressed appropriately in his presence, but he noticed both of them wore dark-tinted sunglasses and were drinking down their glasses of water washing down their greasy burgers. Antonio was looking at his granddaughter between them, eating fries with ketchup, which she licked off before eating, but was happy to see that she wore the basket earrings he had gifted. He learned they had taken her to get them pierced at a parlor after hours. A professional Ulyssa knew agreed to do it for a favor—free entry to any show she pleased. 

Antonio and Connie would care for Echo while his daughter and Bill enjoyed their respective bachelor and bachelorette parties that evening. After lunch, the elders were very much looking forward to relaxing a little and hitting the slots before duty. 

They wrapped up lunch and began walking back to the hotel room wing. Alma walked ahead, speaking amiably in Spanish with Connie, pointing at slot machines that seemed lucky. Bill held onto Echo and kept pace with Antonio as he walked with his cane. 

“What are you doing tonight?” Antonio asked, trying to create some small talk with his son-in-law. 

“For real?” Bill peered down at him. “Well, we're going to a luchador wrestling match and hitting up a high roller casino afterward. Then both our parties will converge to hang out.” 

“Lucha libre, huh? Hmm, I saw a few of those a long time ago in South Texas.” 

“Yeah? It’ll be my first time. I was hoping there would be a real boxing match to catch, but no.” 

“Your gentleman friends didn’t want to go to a gentlemen's club?” He ticked a bushy salt and pepper brow at him.

Bill cracked a smile. “Nah, it’s a bit redundant, don’t you think?” 

Antonio chuckled. “I suppose. Uhm,” he cleared his throat. “I heard about your—” 

“Oh yeah,” Bill interjected quickly, not wanting to hear any condolences for his father. “It’s fine. Thanks.” 

“Right. I get it. Uh, my father wasn’t good to me either.” He revealed, much to Bill’s surprise. “But, uhm, you know you’re marrying my daughter, so in that sense… for what it’s worth, right?” 

Bill nodded appreciatively, understanding what Antonio was trying to convey. He could tell Antonio was putting his pride aside to let him know that he saw him as a son and accepted him. However, in Bill’s cynical mind, he couldn’t help but wonder if the old man was simply settling. Perhaps Antonio, aware of his mortality, recognized that Bill was the only family Alma would have left.

…

Bianca arrived after, as well as others who were going to rooms and relaxing before joining in on the late-night festivities. Bill answered the door for her, and she told him to close his eyes, even if the dress was concealed in a white garment bag. Though he did notice there wasn’t much heft to it. Eventually, he was unceremoniously kicked out of the room, which he didn’t mind; he’d just find where Theo was.

Alma was before Bianca in two pieces of layered shapewear, while she carefully helped her step into the white dress. Echo was sitting on the bed, curiously watching on. After adjusting how the dress lay on her body, Bianca slowly zipped a short zipper at the hip. Alma sighed in relief that the dress fit perfectly.

“Oh my god! It looks better than the last fitting you had!” Bianca beamed. “And with the veil! You’re gonna look like a dream, baby!”

“Thank fuck. I literally just had the biggest burger I’ve ever had in my life for lunch. But fuck was it nice to eat that burger,” she giggled 

Bianca laughed. “Bill mentioned on the phone that you’d be out in the sauna twice a day.” 

“Not that much.” It was an exaggeration, but she was in it often, as well as running the treadmill in the evenings in their small gym in the basement. She tried working out with Bill, but after two days of it, she quit and stuck to the regime she created for herself. He wasn’t a great workout partner, as their fitness goals were completely different. 

“What do you think, Echo? Is it pretty?” Alma asked, turning toward her.

She gasped, placing her hand over her mouth dramatically. “Pretty Mama!” She giggled bashfully. 

“You love it?” 

“I love it!” She squealed. 

“You could wear this with just one shapewear, Alma,” Bianca said, pulling out the train to smooth out the fabric. “The alteration they made to it snatches you just right.”

Bianca carefully helped Alma out of the dress now that her worries had vanished. Alma took her on a little tour of the penthouse until they plopped down on the couch together after making themselves a cocktail. 

Bianca took a large sip of her drink and let out a loud, satisfied sigh. “You doing better since you called me?” 

“Eh, it’s a lighter flow. So that's something.” 

“Why…” she paused to sit up a little. “You know you don’t have to take the placebos in the birth control pack, right?” 

Alma rolled her eyes as she stated the obvious. “Yeah, B’. I know.” She looked at her daughter, guiding a hot-wheel truck along the marble floor. “We’re trying to have another baby.” She said it in a hushed tone. 

Bianca’s eyes widened. “Oh my god! That’s so great, Alma!” 

“It hasn’t happened, obviously. And not the month before or the month before that one.” She said hopelessly, crossing her arms.

“Don’t stress—don’t stress!” She gestured with her palm out. “It’ll happen. Since when, the beginning of the year?” 

“Since December.” 

“Christ.” Bianca rolled her eyes and slouched down on the cushion again. “Give yourself some grace, honey.” 

“Yeah, but you don’t see how disappointed Bill looks every time the tests come out negative. He’s so good at concealing his emotions, but never then?! He looks like someone kicked his fucking dog!” 

Bianca laughed. “That man is fucking ridiculous sometimes. He wants to mope when he’s getting unlimited pussy?” Alma laughed then. “Don’t worry about him, either, babe. Just keep doing what you do. Keep your legs up for a while after, or something, but it’ll happen.” She rubbed Alma’s shoulder. “Now. I gotta get ready for tonight, and so do you!” 

…

When Bill returned, he clapped his hands together and announced that everyone should take a nap. He and Alma were still combating their hangover from last night, and they had to go and do it all again. They took some Pepto-Bismol, an OTC pain reliever, and while lying in bed, he was trying to ask Echo what Alma’s wedding dress looked like. 

“Tell him it’s a secret,” Alma said, tapping the side of her pointer finger to her lips. 

“It’s secwet!” She snickered. 

“But we’re not supposed to have secrets, E’,” he said, kissing her cheek, before wrapping his arms around her tightly. “Is it at least white? 

Echo looked up at her mother while resting her head comfortably on her father's chest, her hazel eyes seeking permission to spill. “Mhmm and pretty!” she said, sharing all she was allowed to reveal.

After their much-needed nap, Bill was dressed in a black Prada button-down he layered a blazer over and was helping Echo put on her shoes. He was taking her down to Antonio’s room to save Alma from doing so in the outfit she was currently wearing. It was skimpy, and the chiffon fabric revealed the cheeky white panties underneath, but he appreciated that the top—while thin—was at least opaque. Alma was slipping on her heels, which featured fluffy feather details on the toe straps.

“I’ll see you later,” he said, leaning down to kiss her. His hand ran across her thigh and reached around to grip her butt cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” And then she said goodbye to her daughter, who was in his arms. “I’ll see you later.” 

“Remember,” he peered down at her before slipping on his sunglasses. “What happens in Vegas—” 

“Stays in Vegas—yeah, yeah,” she chuckled.

“Watch out with who you talk to tonight!” He playfully warned before closing the door.

“Watch out, mommy!” Echo parroted.

…

Alma’s bachelorette party found themselves in a high-rise VIP section above the dance floor of a large warehouse-style dance club. Lights of all kinds flashed and swept around them. They were sitting down, taking a break from the dance floor, and having more drinks served by smartly dressed personal waiters.

Bianca returned from the bathrooms with Queenie, both of them sniffing and rubbing their noses. Alma glanced at them knowingly. She knew what they went to do, but didn’t like how she wasn’t privy. She wondered about Bill then until Ulyssa nudged her excitedly when the DJ dropped a good hit. She tapped glasses with her, which created a domino effect of tapping glasses, and the women cheered excitedly. 

The drinks were flowing so heavily that Yolani was finally convinced to hit the dance floor by Ash. Yolani typically liked to dance, but the floor was so packed with mashed bodies that it was a bit daunting. Ulyssa excitedly followed suit, bringing Jennifer along. Which left Alma with Bianca and Queenie in their section. 

“So?” Alma turned to them knowingly.

Bianca rolled her eyes. “It’s Vegas, babe.”

“Yes. But why leave me out? And where did it come from?” 

Queenie scratched her head uncomfortably and sat back, sipping on her drink, to let Bianca explain and distance herself from potential drama. 

“That fucker.” Bianca muttered, shaking her head. This wasn’t her responsibility; it should have been the man she was set to marry who explained. “We didn’t mean to leave you out on purpose! Bill and I know the owner of one of the strip clubs here. It's a courtesy for people like him and me to check in.”

“Yeah. Like Atlantic City.” Alma said knowing Bill has had to call in there before. Alma always felt it to be a bit dramatic; it felt like politics that should belong in cartoonish mob movies only. 

“Exactly. Anyway, we’re good with the guy. And well, he knows Bill is here to get married, and so he threw in some party favors. Theo picked up.” 

Alma consumed the rest of her drink and picked up another she had in wait. 

“Well,” she sighed. “I don’t know why Bill didn’t say anything to me?” 

“Maybe… he forgot?” Queenie shrugged. 

“Really?” Alma tilted her head doubtfully. “Fuck it. Pass me the bag, I’m going to the bathroom.” 

Alma stepped out of that stall with more vigor and liveliness than she’s had in such a long time. A very long time. To say she didn’t miss it would be a lie. In fact, there were times out with friends from Seattle where she almost suggested they score somewhere to have an even better time than they were already having, but they just preferred their weed. After all, it was cheaper. Ulyssa, who wasn’t so shy about dabbling, didn’t prefer it, so for years until now she was SOL. 

While Alma danced her way through the dance floor to get back to the VIP section, she encountered her old friend, who had been running late. 

“Carla!” She hollered, waving a hand in the air. “Over here!” 

“Oh my god!” She hollered, carefully running over in her modest heels and embracing her old friend. “This is wild!” She was wide-eyed, scoping the scene as gel-colored lights, doing figure eights, swept across them. 

Alma led her to VIP, where Bianca sat talking to a young guy until she dismissed him when they approached. Carla and Bianca were quickly introduced, and the three sat together, speaking. 

“Yes!” Bianca pointed at Carla with a long red fingernail. “I read that one! Alma’s been slowly getting me to read the novels she does! So damn steamy!” She gushed.

Carla laughed. “Alma used to sneak them to me when we were kids! Growing up, I was kept on such a tight leash, but she showed me a different world. I left for Houston after college and met my husband there! He’s a firefighter, a lieutenant, actually.” 

“Kids?” 

“Yeah, four!” 

“Four!” Bianca exclaimed incredulously. “Those books must have taught you a thing or two!” She teased, making Carla bashfully giggle.

“Aw, that’s all you, though, Carla!” Alma smiled, appreciating her previous sentiment towards her.

“Maybe I was a little inspired. But oh my god, Alma! You’re getting married to Bill! He was so in love with you when we were kids, my god!” She playfully rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out. 

“Was that obvious even then? Why the hell couldn’t I see it?” 

“Because you loved him too much to believe it, probably!” 

“Miss Carla,” Bianca let out an exhausted sigh. “You wouldn’t believe how they were when I first met them.” 

“Oh god,” Alma grumbled. “That’s so long ago.” 

“Let’s just say, thank heavens, that’s over. And cheers to them getting married, finally.”

…

The bachelor party had left the Lucha Libre match and headed up several floors of another casino to play with the high rollers. They were all laughing and recalling the absurd wrestling moves they saw. While Bill didn’t have high expectations, he was glad that it was very entertaining for everyone, even him. 

“That table was supposed to break when he landed on it from the ring, and it didn’t!” Scotty laughed. 

“Did you see how he got thrown off, though?” Darby laughed.

“Honestly, it would have killed me!” Scotty replied, which made Bill laugh. 

The men slightly split while on the casino floor, checking out the playing tables to feel out where they felt lucky. Bill rounded a table and met Darby, who motioned for him to follow.

“Hey, uhm, Jenny and I really appreciate the wedding gift from you and Alma. It was incredibly generous. I wanted to give you this myself.” He reached into the inner pocket of his blazer and produced crisp five hundred dollar bills.

“No, no,” Bill said, pushing his hand away. “I mean, thanks, of course, but I can’t take that.” Not only would he not accept it, but he and Alma had explicitly stated on the wedding invitations that gifts were not expected of their guests and that their presence alone was more than enough.

“Dude, it’s no big deal, really. It’s for you.”

“I know, but—it doesn’t feel right taking it, Darb’. I’m your boss. Don’t give your fucking boss money; that’s bullshit.” Darby stood there perplexed for a moment, but he did have a point. Why pay the guy who’s paying him? “I appreciate it. I really do.”

“Right, right.” Darby nodded. “Jenny is going to wonder why I still have it, though.”

“Gamble it.” He raised his brows.

A devious grin spread across his face. “Shit. Yeah, over there,” he nodded his head toward a roulette table.

Theo’s path converged with theirs as they approached the roulette table, where Darby bet all the money.

“Bet on black,” said Bill. 

“Always,” said Theo. 

They watched the ball spin rapidly until it began losing momentum. They anxiously watched the ball in the roulette bump and stutter as it circled the wheel. Indelicately, it landed on black, twenty-four. 

“NO shit!” Darby exclaimed. 

“Is that what you chose?” Theo said in disbelief. 

“Actually, you know, I wouldn’t mind accepting your gift after all.” Bill laughed, patting his shoulder. 

Bill split off again and found his friend Scotty at a blackjack table, coolly smoking a cigarette and checking cards under his palm. 

“I’m going to hop on the next one,” Bill said, sipping on a glass of whiskey he acquired. 

“Hell yeah,” he said, tucking a lock of hair that escaped the tousled slick back style he was sporting back behind his ear. “The table’s hot, brother.” 

…

At the nightclub, the bachelorette party was on the dance floor together. Alma danced behind Ulyssa as a buffer because too many random men kept trying to dance with her, which she didn’t appreciate. Alma experienced the same, but she could handle it better than her friend. Either by dancing away or just looking at them like they were crazy. 

The crowd of bodies swayed them a bit, and they were now underneath the high-rise DJ booth. The beats were thumping, the bass rattling their bodies, and deafeningly loud, but they were too buzzed or high to care. A few couples over, she spotted Bianca dancing between two guys, and she laughed while spinning out of a stranger's grip on her hips. It was when she noticed she was dancing alone, as Ulyssa and Yolani held each other's hands over their heads and danced together. Looking around, she couldn’t spot anyone else from her party, but it was also difficult to tell with the gyrating crowd and electric lights. She swayed her body through a group of people wielding glow sticks and decided maybe it was time for a break. Dancing through the crowd, she had to squeeze through, making less than savory contact with others. It was just unavoidable. She felt a hand on her hip, which she brushed away and continued.

A loud puff sounded from the synthetic fog cannons, which made people pause long enough for her to gain some more paces closer to the VIP booth. Again, she felt a hand on her hip and felt it travel up her waist, seemingly trying to snake high enough to touch her breast. She pulled it away until she felt another hand take a full greedy grab of her ass cheek. Her brows furrowed at the complete audacity. 

“Hey!” She quickly whipped her head back. “Chill the fuck out!” She yelled loudly.

Bill stood there mischievously grinning as he peered down at her. She wasn’t expecting to see him until later. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her under the bouncing green laser lights. They swayed together for a moment to the beat of the music, with his hands rubbing on her bottom. When she turned to lead their way off the dance floor, he held onto her waist to remain flush to feel her bottom bump and rub against his crotch. The DJ switched tracks to a remix of Love My Way by The Psychedelic Furs and Bill followed the sways of her hips as she danced them off the floor. 

He closed his eyes and a memory came to mind of Alma in a bare-wall New York City apartment they lived in. Wearing a tight tank top and panties with slouchy socks, and a cigarette between her fingers, dancing to the same song in front of the record player. Just enjoying the melody and the moment while he watched contently. 

“What are you doing here?” She asked as they ascended the stairs to the VIP booth. 

“Where the fuck did you get this cowboy hat?” He asked, plucking it off her head and placing it on his.

Quickly, he ordered drinks and sat down next to Alma, admiring her frosty white eyeshadow under the club lights. Now that he wasn’t standing, she took the opportunity to take the hat back while throwing her legs over his lap. 

“Where’d you get that?” He asked again, rubbing his nose. 

“Some old cowboy.” 

“Let me see it again.” He motioned for it. He checked inside the hat for the brand, noticing how well-crafted it was. “Alma…” he peered at her knowingly. “Did you steal this?” He laughed. 

She laughed, taking it back to put it on her head like a crown. “Who said I stole it?” 

“That’s fucking expensive!” He laughed harder. 

“What are you doing here?” She asked again once they settled their laughter a bit.

“Ah, well—some of us weren’t doing too hot, so we bailed.” He winked, taking their drinks from a waiter. 

“How much?” 

“Hmm?” He hummed, sipping his whiskey. 

“How much did you lose?” 

He tutted with offense. “I won some. Started losing it, so I had to call it.” 

“Sure,” Alma smirked. 

He reached over to touch the bridal sash, emblazoned with cursive text on it that said, Bride To Be. The bachelorette party bestowed it upon her before they took the night. He smiled just before kissing her fruity cocktail-tasting lips. 

The wedding party all trickled back to the VIP booth and unanimously decided that they would head back to the hotel to decompress while enjoying a nightcap together, where they were originally supposed to reconvene. 

“I’ll see you back in the room,” Bill said, wrapping his arms around to lift her off her feet for a kiss. “Don’t steal any more shit!” He laughed. 

The girls left together after gathering their personal effects. Unfortunately, they still had to walk to their limo, which felt like an eternity on sore, raw, blistering feet. 

“Shit,” Carla hissed. “I gotta pee so bad!” 

Alma looked at her friend and told the rest to go on, while she accompanied Carla to the nearest toilet they could find. Bianca had discreetly slipped a baggie into her palm in passing, and off they went.

“Sorry,” Carla said once they entered a bathroom inside a cocktail lounge. “You have so many kids, you can’t hold it anymore! My feet kill too.” 

“Mine too. Are you having fun?” 

“Oh my god! Yeah! I was so excited to come because you’ve always known how to have fun!” She laughed while entering a stall, while Alma took the next available a few stalls down. 

While given the opportunity, she took a few bumps mounted inside an acrylic French almond nail on her pinky, snorting them between toilet flushes. Initially, she lightly groaned at the sting of it before it turned into a moan of satisfaction when she felt its effect. They left the bathroom, trying to hustle out the establishment before they were badgered by bartenders. Only paying customers could use the bathrooms, but Alma lied, saying they would order once they got out.

Alma gently pulled Carla’s hand, urging her to pick up the pace. An older, well-dressed gentleman held the door open for a brunette with chunky highlights, letting her through before stepping aside to let the two women exit. Alma squinted in recognition, unsure at first, until the woman, who had been smiling brightly, suddenly turned her head towards Alma. Her expression fell, replaced by a look of absolute disgust and contempt.

“You’re fucking kidding me?!”

“Fuck!” Alma said with wide eyes full of disbelief as her blood ran cold. 

“Oh yeah,” Blondie, who was no longer blonde, nodded her head. “Bet you thought you’d never see me again, did you, you fucking cunt!?” 

“Hey!” Carla said, appalled. “What’s your problem?” 

“It’s okay, Carla,” Alma said, putting her hand up to back her away.

“Oh, Carla,” Blondie mocked with a pout. “Do you know how much of a fucking bitch your friend is?” She glanced at the bridal sash she was wearing with a look of disgust. “You’re marrying him, aren't you? Aww, he finally chose you.” she mocked. “Jesus fucking Christ.” She sneered, her disdain palpable. 

“Blondie—”

“Shut the fuck up! Hope you two both rot in hell!” She spat on the ground between them and took the gentleman’s arm, who was just as shocked and confused about her sudden outburst. “Tell Bill—that small cock motherfucker—that he can go fuck himself!” 

Alma stood there, biting her tongue so hard she could taste blood. She was seething with the urge to yell at her back, but at the same time, it felt deserved. What could she say to a woman she had presumed dead for years now? That was all she could deduce, considering she was an accomplice to her boyfriend Craig's murder. While there was faint relief in knowing she was still breathing, the fact that she was responsible for Blondie’s life as an escort in Vegas left a bitter taste. She was a cunt, once upon a time. 

“Alma, what the hell was that?” Carla asked when they swiftly exited the lounge.

“Uhm,” she thickly swallowed the acrid cocaine drip. “It’s nothing, Carla.” She sighed. 

“Did Bill date her or something? She’s nuts!” 

Alma’s eyes cut at her friend. “Yeah…” she rolled her eyes. “They sorta dated.” She wanted to spit on the ground herself, stating that. “She’s always been fucking crazy.” 

“Well, it’s nothing, right?” she asked, noticing her friend's discomfort.

“This was a long time ago.” 

“Mm, okay. I just can’t believe she called you the C-word, I could never.” Carla shook her head in disbelief. 

“Cunt?” Alma giggled incredulously. “Could this stay between us? If-if Bianca hears about this, she’ll personally kick her ass so…” 

“Oh yeah. Yeah, I won’t say a word. Not even to Bill, I’m your friend first.” 

“Ah, thanks.” Alma smiled, putting an arm around her friend's shoulders. “But don’t worry, I’ll tell him myself.” 

…

In the suite, the men were all bantering, sipping on glasses of whiskey. Bill lit a cigarette and comfortably slouched on the couch while he watched Darby take a key bump from a baggie covered in red puckered lip prints. 

“Next?” He asked, holding the bag and a key out to him.

“Nah, I’m okay, for now.” He glanced at the hotel door, anxiously waiting for his fiancée and wondering if she and the girls would come like they said they would. “Remember to put it up before the girls get here.” 

“Oh, I will.” Darby raised his brows. “Jenny’s not into this shit.” He chuckled.

The girls all arrived at the penthouse suite shortly, kicking their heels off sore feet by the door, and went on to the ensuite bar, where Queenie began to pour shots of tequila. Alma lagged behind a bit, and Bill noticed how she was dragging her feet to join them. 

“Everything alright?” He peered down at her. 

“I need to talk to you.” She whispered, peering up at him with a serious look on her face. 

Fuck, he thought. He licked his lips, rubbing his palms on the sides of his trousers as he looked at everyone preoccupied and chatting at their nightcap party. 

He took a deep breath. “Okay, come.” He nudged his head towards the spare room, where they could close the door and have some privacy. She tossed the cowboy hat off on the bed rather harshly, which didn’t ease him for what was to come. He gently closed the door behind him and prepared himself. “Okay. I should have told you.” 

“What?” 

“I mean, I kind of tried with the—what happens in Vegas bullshit, you know. But I should have been more upfront.” 

Alma rolled her eyes. “I don’t give a fuck about the coke.” 

“Oh?” He said, taken aback. “So?” 

“I saw Blondie.” He stood before her with an incomprehensible expression. “Veronica.” 

“Yeah! Yeah, I know who you’re talking about, A’. But what the fuck?!” he said in disbelief. “I thought—well, I mean no, I guess that makes sense…” he pensively rubbed his forehead with his fingers.

“They trafficked her…” She said he had told her his theories on what could have happened to her during a late night hanging out in their private sitting room. They were the cause of her disappearance, but they didn’t know what depraved act the Russo's committed to make that happen. 

Bill frowned. “Mhmm. But Alma, we couldn’t have known that. Don’t take that shit to heart, love. At-At least she is not, you know.” He uncomfortably scratched his head, looking away in thought. 

While he used the word “we,” it was really Alma who had asked him to get rid of her. She wasn’t well at the time—they were both strung out on coke and whatever else they could get their hands on. However, he did listen to her, so he wasn’t completely without fault. What happened with Craig was definitive, but they always silently wondered if that wasn’t their only body. 

“Right, sure.” She frowned. 

“Fuck. Did she say anything to you? Did Bianca see her?” 

“No. Just Carla. But uhm, she wasn’t happy to see me, obviously. You can imagine what she said.” 

“What did she say?” He placed his hands on his hips, demanding to know.

“You’ll just get pissed off.” 

“Just tell me.” 

Alma sighed, rolling her eyes. “She said that you can go fuck yourself,” Bill dismissively shrugged at the insult. “And that we can both rot in hell.” She recounted matter of fact. “That you had a small dick.” 

“That fucking liar!” he scoffed.

“And called me a cunt!” 

“What the fuck? She called you a—that?!” His nostrils flared, getting angry like she knew he would. 

“Well, Bill, I mean, could you blame her?” She shrugged. 

“Yes.” 

“That’s not the point. But yeah. Just wanted you to know.” 

“Are you okay?” He asked carefully. “I mean, that sucks that you ran into her.”  

“Yeah…” She rubbed her forehead, feeling her irritation rising. “What a fucking bitch! A cunt!” Finally, she let out the frustration she’d been holding in. “She of all people has to show up during my bachelorette party? And that’s your fucking mess! Not mine!” She inhaled deeply, then began giggling incredulously. “Okay. Yeah. I’m better now.”

“You didn’t say shit to her when you saw her?” He tilted his head with surprise. Alma shook her head. “Well. A first for everything, then.” He rubbed his nose and sniffled. 

“You should have told me about the situation,” she said now, referencing how he acquired cocaine. 

“Yeah… but that’s technically my mess,” he lightly joked. “I figured if Bianca kinda brought it around you instead of me then…” 

“You thought I’d get mad?” 

“I don’t know—Yeah, a little. I wasn’t sure. I guess I should have said something.” The cocaine was causing him to ramble.

“Just this time. It stays in Vegas, right?” 

“Yeah! Of course. You’ve done some?” Alma nodded. “Want to do some more?” 

He cut two fat lines on the sink counter in the adjoining bathroom, while she quickly changed her tampon on the toilet nearby. He passed her a rolled one hundred dollar bill and held her curled hair back for her to snort half a line in one nostril and the last half in the other. Bill repeated the action and picked up residue on the pad of his middle finger to rub on his gums. They could feel their hearts thumping in their chests and relished in the hit of pure energy coursing through them. 

“God damn,” Alma gasped, pinching her nose.

With two fingers under her chin, he tilted her head back, checking to see if she had any visible residue on her button nose. Suddenly, his knee pushed between hers, locking her in place against the sink counter when their lips met. While they made out, Alma could feel her lips and tongue going numb in some places. He kissed down her salty neck, and she watched him do so while peering in the mirror behind her. It had been years since they had done this together, and they’d be fooling themselves by denying how much they liked it. Not to mention how sexy it made them feel. 

They settled themselves as best they could from their sudden impassioned impulsivity. When they emerged from the room to join the party, they didn’t bother to apologize or explain why they stowed away. No one dared even to ask; they just continued as if their presence hadn’t been missed at all. 

While floating around the party, Alma ran into different conversations. One was between Ulyssa and Scotty when she was replenishing her mixed drink. Ulyssa had earned her degree, but her career field pivoted. She was working for a small label searching for talent. A job she enjoyed because she was able to travel to a lot of popular music hubs in the nation. Up until a few weeks ago, she was in Atlanta.

“Yeah, a guy from your label came to us,” Scotty said. The band he managed was recently signed, so he was still on a high note from the success of it. “But you know, Atlantic seemed like the way to go.” 

“More money,” Ulyssa lightly giggled. 

“Oh!” He raised his brows. “Callin’ us sellouts?” 

“I mean,” she shrugged playfully. “I’m just kidding, I get it! That’s fucking awesome!” 

“Hey!?” Ash suddenly exclaimed. “Where the fuck is Matt?” 

Darby’s head peered down from the loft. “Fucker missed his flight!” He laughed. 

Ash facepalmed at the news. “Not surprising.”

Bill had always wondered if Ash and Matt had something going on, but as he got to know them, it became clear that their relationship was strictly platonic—they behaved more like siblings. Matt was really everyone's dopey little brother. Darby came down the stairs with Jenny on his arm.

“He’ll be here sometime tomorrow,” Darby informed. “He’ll miss breakfast, though. But uhm, I’m taking Jenny to bed, but I’ll be back.” He winked. 

“I think…” Carla spoke up where she sat next to Alma on the couch. “I’ll head out too. I gotta find my husband; he’s been on the slots too long for my liking.” She lightly giggled. “It was good to see you, Billy.” She leaned forward to say as he sat on the other side of her friend. He smiled appreciatively at her until Scotty butted in. 

“It was good to see you too, Carla.” He winked while chewing on a toothpick and leaning forward on a table. 

“You know,” she pointed at him. “I remember you.” 

“You do?” He straightened up, intrigued. 

“Yeah. Still obnoxious.” She teased.

“You sure about leaving? I’d like it if you stayed and talked to me like that some more.” 

Bill pinched the bridge and tried to stifle his laughter. “Shut up—she’s married, dude. Goodnight, Carla.” He said with a nod.

“Oh shit. I’m sorry I didn’t know,” Scotty said apologetically to her. “I’m a dog, but not that kind of dog.” 

“Whatever,” Carla playfully rolled her eyes. “I’ll see you at breakfast,” she winked. 

She kissed Alma goodbye on the cheek and joined Darby and Jenny who offered to walk her out. They weren’t the first to leave, though. Yolani had already excused herself after two drinks. Bill and Alma barely caught her goodbye as they left the room. Yolani wasn’t one for long parties. If it were up to her, she would have gone to her room right after the nightclub. As a nurse, she cherished downtime and sleep.

Alma remained seated next to Bill in the sunken living area. Since the squares left, they felt more free to openly chop lines on a coffee table photobook about desert flora. Bianca took on the task of dividing lines neatly and evenly.

“Where the hell did you say they went?” Bianca asked Bill as he sipped his drink. 

“I don’t know.” 

“They went to the match with us and then said they were going to walk the strip,” Scotty spoke up for his friend.

“Hmm.” She was worried about her sons. “There is not much for Gian to do, though.” She wondered out loud. 

Bill and Scotty shared a knowing look and smirked while Bianca was occupied. Gian showed them his fake ID. They guffawed loudly when the fake claimed that this Brooklyn boy was from the cornfields of Iowa and that he was twenty-five. He didn’t look like a teen boy very much anymore, but he didn’t look twenty-five at all. Giancarlo claimed his mustache helped him look older, but the men laughed again because it wasn’t all too impressive. 

“Ah, we’re just messing, G’.” Bill digressed when he saw his young friend's face fall. 

“We believe in you tonight, buddy!” Scotty said, patting him on the shoulder. 

Typically, Bill would report Giancarlo’s indiscretions to Bianca on principle, but he was a young man now. Mommy didn’t need to know everything. 

“They said they’d meet back here, so,” Bill gestured to her, working the lines on the book. 

“I’m done, punk!” She said to his impatience before doing a line and passing the book around. 

She chopped up lines for everyone there, but only Ulyssa declined. However, she did consider it when Theo unknowingly passed the book to her. While they were chatting, a heavy rap on the door made every one pause. 

“I’ll check it out,” Theo said, straightening his back and broadening his shoulders. 

Bill quickly palmed the coke bag and the rolled-up bill lying on the coffee table. Darby walked in; he changed out of his button-down into a plain white tee. 

“Christ!” he exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at them. “You should see the paranoid look in your eyes right now!” 

They all laughed and continued on with the party. Heavily chatting and laughing, with some light karaoke between Ulyssa and Ash. Queenie poured heavier drinks, and Alma cut more lines with a cigarette pressed between her lips. Theo requested a ballad to sing, which surprised the friends who knew him well, as he was fairly introverted and reserved. When he began singing in a smooth baritone, it gave everyone pause, captivated by how effortlessly he nailed every note of the song. When he finished, he was met with their shocked, silent stares. 

“Sheesh, if it was bad, just say that.” He dismissively swatted a hand at them. 

“Theodore!” Bianca exclaimed. 

“Where the fuck did that come from?” Bill said in disbelief. 

“Okay, okay,” Theo bashfully rebuffed. “Once upon a time… I used to be a choir boy.” He shrugged.

“That was incredible!” Ulyssa said, clapping her hands, which prompted the party to follow suit, as it was more than well deserved.

When the boys inevitably arrived, "Shimmy Shimmy Ya" by Ol’ Dirty Bastard was playing on the stereo, and it felt as though they had missed out on something based on how everyone was acting. Their safe arrival, however, only marked the end of the party. People began to trickle out one by one. Bianca and the boys were the last to leave, and Alma's eyes grew heavy, having gone without any substances to keep her going. 

After seeing Bianca and her boys out, Bill stumbled his way to bed. Scotty kept pointing out the “fuck mirror” above the bed, laughing to himself every time. Bill disrobed down to his boxer briefs as he made his way there. His shirt had been half unbuttoned through the night when undoing the rest before tossing it toward the living area. When it landed, he heard a faint whine from the direction it had fallen, prompting him to turn his head. He didn’t notice anything at first, but after taking a few more steps, he saw a foot with metallic blue painted toenails peeking out from behind the couch.

“The fuck?” He said, slowly approaching, and there lay Ulyssa, passed out with his shirt concealing half her face between couches. 

She was breathing fine, but he nudged her foot with his in case, and she recoiled from his touch. 

“What?” Alma muttered against her pillow when she heard him lightly laughing. 

“‘Lyssa is fucking passed out over here,” he said, scratching his lower belly. 

“I thought she left?” She asked, sitting up. 

To have better access, he began pushing the couch away from her. “Well, she has a twin who left way before,” he stated sarcastically. “If she did some blow, she wouldn’t be like this right now.” This was true; she was going drink for drink with people so high they weren’t feeling the effects of it. 

“That’s how I want to be right now.” 

She watched as Bill pulled her by the ankles, but he paused when he noticed her skirt riding up too far, revealing the bottom end of a red dragon tail tattoo on the side of her thigh. He could only assume the rest of the image continued up the side of her torso. Instead, he pulled her up by the wrists, sitting her up slightly to wrap an arm around her, and lifted her into his arms, carrying her to the spare room to lay her down for the night. When he returned to bed, Bill checked the digital clock before lying down—4:12 AM. He groaned, shaking his head before nuzzling it into Alma’s chest, only covered by a shirt.

…

When they woke up, just barely in time, their heads were pounding, and the after-party anxiety began to set in. Alma shuffled to the spare room to check on Ulyssa, but the bed was empty. All that remained was a note saying she’d meet them at breakfast. 

They sluggishly made it to their reservation, where Antonio and Connie were already sipping coffee, with Echo sitting between them in a bubbly mood scribbling on a paper children's menu with a waxy purple crayon. When she spotted her parents, she let out a joyful screech. While they were delighted to see her, the sound was piercing, ricocheting in their skulls.

“Just you two?” Antonio smirked, setting his mug down.

“Uhm, probably,” Alma adjusted her sunglasses on her stuffy nose and then sighed. “How was Echo?” 

“Good.” He said, looking down at her with a smile on his face. “She really likes to dance, doesn’t she?” He said recalling her having him rewind to some needle drop on a children’s movie to listen to over and over. “And your party?”

The couple before him looked so visibly miserable; it was amusing to him, but also he thought they could at least sit up a little. When the waitress poured them a cup of coffee, they both took a sip of the black water without a care for it scorching their tongues. 

“Fun.” Alma nodded; she wasn’t up for many words. 

“Too much fun. Uhm,” he cleared his raspy throat as he scratched his stubbly neck. “I think we’re getting too old to recover like we used to,” Bill chuckled, but there wasn’t any energy behind it. 

Soon the party came to join, but they all looked lethargic at the table. All, except Bianca, dressed with a face of sleek makeup and high hair that would survive a hurricane. This was Antonio’s first time meeting any of them. Finally, faces to names he had only ever heard on the phone before him as they all greeted him respectfully before taking a seat. They had a gaggle of interesting-looking friends, to say the least. 

“I am so sorry,” Ulyssa put a hand to her mouth, embarrassed after everyone put their orders in. “That’s like the second time you’ve had to carry me.” 

“The third,” Bill said, holding three digits up. 

“What?”

“Our housewarming party.” 

“I thought I just passed out in the den by myself.” She was horrified. 

“No. It’s fine. It happens.” He shrugged. 

Yolani cut in to say how much she enjoyed their shared hotel room all by herself last night and thanked him and Alma again for it. People were cross-talking while they enjoyed their food, which was helping everyone soothe their hangovers. 

“I heard you two had a baby?” Bianca asked the Darbys. They had known each other for a long time, but it was nice to finally meet and speak in person, especially with Darby himself.

“Yeah!” Jenny said happily. “She’s seven months now.” 

“It’s our first trip without her. I kind of wish we brought her, but she’s too little, I think. Family is taking care of her and our cat, Garbo.” He chuckled. 

“What’s her name?” 

“Zowie,” Darby and Jennifer said together. 

“So precious!” 

“Thanks,” Darby said before taking a sip of his coffee. “Your sons, uh, are very polite! Bill talks about Giancarlo every now and again. We’re excited for him to come later in the summer to work with us.” 

"Oh, trust me, he’s excited too. Do me a favor. Give him the bullshit grunt work so he doesn’t start getting ideas about moving to Seattle, would you?” She winked.

Echo slid from her seat, under the table, stepping over people's feet to crawl into her father’s lap. He was in the middle of eating his omelet, but he paused to help her up. 

“Hi, GiGi!” Echo lightly snickered at Giancarlo.

“Hi, Miss Echo.” He lightly waved from across the table. 

Bill glanced over towards Bianca, who was now speaking amiably with Antonio and making him chuckle bashfully. “What did you do last night?” 

“Uhm,” he peered over at his preoccupied mother cautiously. “Walked around some. Got into a club,” he whispered with a smirk. “It was fun. Lots of cute girls here,” he said with flushed cheeks.

“Don’t forget to tell Mr. Skarsgård that you yaked in a bush before we came back to the hotel, though.” Lorenzo teasingly nudged his little brother, which he sneered at him before the embarrassment settled in.

“Don’t mix your drinks, you know. Uhm, after we wrap up here, could you stick around? Alma and I wanted to talk to you.” 

“Sure,” Gian nodded. “Of course.” He said with certainty. 

“Okay, cool.” His attention shifted to Echo, who was picking at his omelet, and offered him a bite. He ate from her hand before kissing the top of her head.

…

Alma was holding her daughter as she discussed the plans for the day with her father. She intended to go to the spa to relax and recharge before the big day ahead. The ladies were also invited to join if they wished. Otherwise, it was a free day for everyone to enjoy as they pleased.

“She’s staying with Yolani tonight after our dinner,” she informed her father of Echo’s arrangement. 

“Well, Connie and I will have her while you’re at the spa. We can watch her then too.” 

“Apá, go do something fun for yourself.” 

“That’s fun for me,” he argued. 

Meanwhile, Bill finished smoking a cigarette, stomped it out, and fist-bumped Darby and Scotty before dismissing himself while they discussed gathering a group later to shop the promenade. 

Bill walked through the casino and spotted Giancarlo sitting on a bench by the lounge, sipping on orange juice from a foam to-go cup. He tiredly exhaled loudly, taking a seat next to him. 

“So, pretty girls, huh?” He asked, peering over his sunglasses while slumping in his seat.

Gian lightly laughed. “Yeah! Older too.” 

Bill laughed. “Well, no shit! So what? Blondes? Brunettes? Redheads?”

“I don’t think I’m in a position to be so picky. But—Brunettes.” 

“Good choice.” Bill nodded, resting his finger-laced hands over his waist.

“I got a number last night.”

“Did you?” Bill raised an eyebrow at him. Gian rolled up his shirt sleeve to reveal smudged ink-written digits on his flexed bicep. “Jesus Christ!” Bill laughed. “Well… you’ll have to wait a year to call her, though.”

“Whatever!” Gian laughed.

Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder, causing him to turn his head, only to hear a pleasant, girlish laugh coming from the opposite direction. Alma had faked him out, and he fell for it.

“Did you ask him?” she inquired, looking down at Bill, who was beginning to sit up.

“I was waiting on you,” he replied, wrapping his arm around her waist. “Alma and I wanted to ask if you’d be our ring bearer.”

Gian looked at them with surprise. “For real?” 

“Yeah for real!” Alma giggled. “So would you?” 

“Yeah!” He brightly grinned. “Of course, Miss Alma.” He stood up to hug her, thanking her. While in wait, he was worried that they were going to tell him that his visit to Seattle would no longer be happening. 

“It was always going to be you,” she said, squeezing his hand appreciatively. It still felt strange that she now had to look up at him. Whenever Bill spoke about him, she still pictured a little boy that he no longer was.

“We just wanted to ask you in person.” Bill stood up from his seat. 

“Thank you, Bill,” he put his hand out to shake, but Bill pulled his hand so that they could embrace instead. 

…

“Bianca is quite funny,” Antonio said with a chuckle. “She called me, babe, at breakfast. I don’t think Connie liked that too much.” 

Alma lightly giggled. “That’s just how she talks. Babe, sweetie, honey. I think it rubbed off on Bill a little. If I ever hear him say ‘cosette’, he’s gone too far.”

“Mm. And the guy with the panther tattoo on his neck?” 

“Darby?” 

“Yes, he dresses like I did in the 60s. He’s nice and your friend with the short hair too.” 

“Ulyssa.” 

“Mhmm. She’s Echo’s godmother?” 

“She is. And your friend Bianca, too.” She lightly joked. 

“Echo has two?”

“Yeah. She, uh, Ulyssa was there when Echo was born, but since Bianca and Bill are close, we just agreed that they would both be the godmother. Two is better, no?”

“I think so,” he lightly smiled. “So, you ready for tomorrow?” Antonio asked his daughter, who was shaking dabs of hot sauce into her shrimp cocktail. 

They were at a Mexican restaurant off the strip together. Alma was about seventy-five percent back to normal; a good night's rest was needed to get to one hundred percent. After lunch, she and Bill enjoyed a couple’s massage before splitting up to separate spa areas, each enjoying some time to themselves. Bianca, Ulyssa, and Yolani joined Alma at the spa, and they chatted a bit before eventually falling silent. Everyone wanted a chance to decompress and unwind, undisturbed.

She smiled. “Are you?” 

“Mhmm. I’m happy you invited me,” he joked, taking a sip of his beer.

“Really? You might have a point, though.” 

“Oh?” He raised his brows. 

“Bill brought up eloping in New Orleans at first. But uhm, I know you walking me down an aisle one day was something important to you.”

Antonio appreciated her thoughtfulness. “But Vegas, mija?” 

“You know, we like to have fun,” she smirked. “Entertainment work has been our life, so it’s nice to be on the other end. I book and attend shows constantly. But—I know you’re aware of what Bill does for work in New York.” Antonio paused and put his flauta down before he could take a bite. “You didn’t think Bill would tell me he told you?” She tilted her head, amused.

“If you knew, why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Why didn’t you say anything? I’ll be honest, he didn’t tell me that he did for a few months.” 

“Well, I wanted you to tell me yourself. But also, that’s between you two. He’s going to be your husband tomorrow, but you have a daughter together. You bought a house together. You work together.” 

“We’re basically married already.” She stated for him. 

“Yes. So of course you have to listen to him. You do what he does.” 

Alma put her fork down, looking displeased. “Apá, yeah, I listen, but that’s because he listens to me too. We respect each other. It’s not like the old ways.” 

“No.” He sighed. “You two have never been with the old ways, anyway.” He digressed. “He takes care of you. Because of Echo, it helped me see him differently than what I thought of him.” He admitted. “He takes care of both of you. That’s all I wanted for you because I’m old. I don’t know how long—” 

“Oh god,” Alma looked away. “You’re going to be an old, old man. I don’t like it when you talk like that. Bill’s dad passed, and I just think about,” she lowered her gaze, shaking the thought of her own father’s inevitable passing out of her head. 

“Okay, okay. I shouldn’t be talking like that after something like that has happened. Doesn’t matter who the man was.” 

“I get sad for him. For Bill. It’s just complicated for him, you know.” She mournfully sighed. “He’ll be okay, though.” 

Antonio just listened; it was rare for her to share anything about Bill this way with him. She usually only spoke with clear facts whenever he had questions about him. They both did this—preserving and protecting each other by sharing just enough but not too much with anyone inquiring about them when the other wasn’t present.

“Uhm,” he cleared his throat. “Are his brothers coming for the wedding?” 

“Yeah,” she nodded. “He’s probably with them now having dinner. They’re actually both doing pretty well right now. Well, despite, you know.” 

“Mhmm. That’s good.”

Alma popped a shrimp in her mouth. “Gustaf got a better job, and Alex kind of cut his bullshit. He’s been with his lady now for like eight months! That’s a miracle.” She laughed. “They have two kids together. The oldest boy is eleven, and the youngest is seven. So they’ve known each other for a long time.” 

“But they’ve never been together before now?” Antonio took a sip of his beer, trying to understand. 

“No,” she laughed. “Only been together for however long it takes him to make two kids.” 

“Alma!” Antonio scoffed, surprised she’d make a dirty joke in front of him. 

“Sorry,” she said bashfully, loudly biting onto a tortilla chip. 

… 

In a nice steakhouse, the brothers sat together in a booth. The place was dim, but a pendant light above their table forced the tall men to slouch a bit in their seats so they could talk without the fixture obscuring the top halves of their faces. They kept the conversation light, sharing funny life anecdotes. Bill became a topic of discussion, and he mostly talked about the record shop, as it was the focus of his work these days.

“Well, I wasn’t there because if I was, it would have been a different story,” he said. “But the band was trying to set the fucking drum kit on fire.”

“Some gimmick,” Gustaf said, following along. 

“Gimmick my ass! The whole place would have burned down! Security kicked them out, and Alma called every venue in Seattle and warned them.” 

“Ooooh, blacklisted,” Alex said. 

“Yeah. They can play in fucking Tacoma,” he laughed. “There’s always something though, some bad, some not so bad, some bad but kinda funny. Between the shop and the club, but that's what it is, so.” 

Alex checked his wristwatch and scratched his head with pursed lips. Bill and Gustaf shared a curious look. 

“You have somewhere to be?” Bill asked. 

“Jodie wants me to call her and the boys before they go to bed, their time.” 

“Oh.” Hearing his brother speak like that was strange. He was so serious about it, too, like he really gave a shit for once. 

“Or is she making sure you’re not doing what you’re not supposed to be doing?” Gustaf quipped. 

“Don’t you think Lorna might want a call from you too?” Alex narrowed his eyes at his brother.

Gustaf wagged a disapproving finger at his brother. “Yeah, sure. She can put Tate on the phone so he can say hi to you.” 

Bill deeply inhaled, rolling his eyes under closed lids. “I thought you two were over this?” He said, glancing between both of them and becoming aware they were just being terribly petty because they could. 

They both digressed and apologized to their little brother to keep the peace. 

“But actually, I do have to call Lorna.” 

“Right now?” Bill clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Call them when we’re done. I’ll get on the phone and vouch for you two. If they don’t believe me, Alma will.”

“You’re lucky your girl doesn’t get jealous!” Alex said, taking a bite of his steak. 

“Eh, she does sometimes. But she doesn’t keep me on fucking leash like your ladies do.” 

His brothers both scoffed, clearly offended, but it was true. Jodie had her reasons for expecting a call, but Lorna was just as paranoid because of Alex, whose behavior had created a complex that strained her relationship with his brother, Gustaf, at times.

“So, I don’t give a fuck but,” Bill took a deep breath. “Where did you put him?” He asked once dinner had wound down.

Gustaf scratched his head. “His ashes are in a box, you know. I just—I just put him up in the attic. So–” 

“Hmm,” Bill nodded, satisfied with that. “That’s all.”

“He was tough as balls,” Alex said. “I think, uh, he’s a source for a lot of our issues, honestly. Women issues,” he pointed at himself. “Alcohol issues,” he pointed at Gustaf. “And,” he pointed at Bill. “I don’t know. Cryptic douchebag issues.”

“Shut up,” he rolled his eyes. 

“I’ll take that more than women's issues.” 

“I think we’ve all had issues with women,” Bill said honestly. “But that’s on account of us literally being motherless fucks.” 

“Well, that’s certainly a way to put it,” said Gustaf, facetiously. 

“Even with tomorrow’s wife?” asked Alex.

“Mhmm.” Bill nodded with puckered lips. “Let’s just say she put up with a lot from me.” 

“Well, I hear that. Congrats, brother,” Alex raised his beer glass. 

“Congrats,” Gustaf said, raising his glass of water. “You got a good one, brother.” 

 …

Alma was alone in the penthouse suite, lying in bed with a thriller novel for a change. Carla had handed it to her in passing after she left the spa; it was part of their two-woman book club. Echo was with her grandfather, and at his insistence, Alma didn’t mind. He didn’t see Echo often, so it was best that she stayed another night with him and Connie. Before being left alone, Ulyssa had been with her, watching a rerun of The Real World on MTV and chatting a bit. 

“So he’s not coming?” Ulyssa asked, a bit anxious over seeing Gregory. They hadn’t worked out and with her new career, she called it quits, not wanting to be in a long-distance partnership when things had already been wavering. Instead, they agreed to remain friends, but she could tell he wasn’t so keen on the idea. 

“Nope. He did RSVP, but when he came to drop off some posters last week, he told Bill he wouldn’t be able to make it.” She said, biting into a juicy chocolate-covered strawberry. They were sharing a platter of them that had been gifted by Theo.

“He's so damn flakey!” 

Alma lightly chuckled. “He still asks about you. But I heard through Darby that he’s dating a girl at the print shop he works at…” She looked over at Ulyssa carefully, she looked a little hurt but at least it didn’t come off as devastated.

“Well,” Ulyssa tutted. “He should quit trying to call me then!” 

The telephone on the nightstand rang, and she laid her book down to crawl to the other side of the big round bed to answer. 

“You up?”

Alma smiled. “Booty calling me?” 

Bill laughed. “Hey, uh, I forgot my toothbrush.” 

She rolled her eyes. “You did that on purpose,” she giggled. 

“I swear I didn’t!”

They had agreed to spend the night before their wedding apart. Bill arranged to stay in his brother Gustaf’s double bedroom. Although not particularly traditional, they chose to see each other for the first time at the altar. However, it made Bill terribly nervous. As the day approached, the more his emotions played with him. Seeing Alma in her bridal gown for the first time in front of everyone, he wasn’t sure how he would react, and he didn’t want to show his emotions in front of so many people.

“Just go in the spare room and close the door. I’ll be in and out.” 

Bill was rummaging around the room while she waited for him to leave. It suddenly felt kind of silly to spend the night separately. There was a light rap on the door, causing Alma to turn to it while sitting on the spare bed. 

“I got it.” His voice was slightly muffled speaking from the other side of the closed door. 

“Okay.” She stood up, approached the door, and had to stop herself from turning the handle. “Goodnight.”

She laid her hand flat against the door, and it felt as though she could sense his energy through the wood. 

“Kind of wild, huh?” He spoke after a pause. “We’re getting married.” He heard Alma’s light giggle from the other side of the door. “Are you ready?” 

“Are you?” She quipped back. 

“Yeah,” he smiled. 

“Yeah, me too. Who knew we’d be here after meeting in shitty detention?” 

“Mhmm. It’s not the first time I noticed you, though. It was just the first opportunity I had to talk to you without your bitchy little friends around.” He heard Alma laugh a bit louder. “We had that class together. Your hair was long, and then one day you walked in, and it was hacked off.” 

“That was terrible.” She grimaced, remembering how bad of a job she did. 

“I was shocked. It was so, so long. I wanted to ask why you did that, but I was too shy.” He chuckled, recalling how long it was and how she would gather it to one side to give her neck some air while picking at split ends. “Also, I wasn’t too sure if you were like your friends, either. You’re not, by the way.” 

“You were new, so I noticed you the first week of school. But I would have noticed you regardless because you were also so much taller than everyone, even when you walked with a slouch. I dressed like such a nerd back then, and you looked so cool.”

Bill turned and pressed his broad shoulders against the door before sliding down to take a seat on the floor. Alma could sense his movements and did the same. 

“I guess I was a little cool.” He playfully bragged. “Uhm, we haven’t really had any time to ourselves since we got here. But, um, yesterday? When you ran into—you know. Are you sure you’re okay? I hate that—that happened.” 

“I guess?” She scratched her head uncomfortably. “She… I feel bad.” 

“Well, if you didn’t, there’d be something wrong with you.” 

“Thinking of her still makes me angry.” She admitted as she could feel herself becoming irritated. 

Bill picked at the inner seam of his joggers, feeling a bit uncomfortable himself. “Mm. I was an asshole. I should have never used her to push you away like I did. It was shitty. I wonder… how we even had an open relationship.” 

“We could hardly do that right.” Alma quipped.

“It literally pisses me off even thinking of doing that now.” He shook his head to shake the thought of it. “You’re mine.” 

Alma smiled. “I am.” 

“And also, sorry for being an asshole because your period started. Didn’t mean to—” 

“Eh, it’s whatever.” She sighed. “I love Echo. Maybe—well, I mean, I’m an only child?” 

Bill frowned and crossed his arms, uncomfortable with what she seemed to imply—that they would only have one child. He didn’t like that she was accepting defeat so quickly. He could be a little better about his reactions, he thought, it wasn’t helping her optimism. His disappointment didn’t lie with her but rather with himself. 

“But did you like being one?” He asked rhetorically because he knew of the deep loneliness she experienced because of it. 

“No.” She answered after a long pause.

“Well then… there’s your answer.” He chewed on his lip for a moment and begrudgingly stood up to go. “I love you.” He pressed his forehead against the door. 

“You’re leaving already?” She said, standing up herself. 

“Well, it’s kinda late. Don’t you need to get up super early?” 

“Yeah…” she lamented. “Do you still think it’ll be fun?” 

He raised a brow, confused over what she was asking. “Do I still think—what?” 

“Sex.” 

He tilted his head, still perplexed, as his brows pulled together. “Sex?” 

“Yeah. Do you still think it’ll be as good as having sex in sin?” 

A smirk crept across his face when he heard the door unlock. They hadn’t been intimate since they arrived, having been so busy with friends or family, or being drunk or too hungover and everything in between. 

“Are you inviting me in?” He asked, wanting to be certain despite his hand on the handle already.

“Bill. If you don’t open the fucking door.” 

She jumped back when the door immediately flew open, and before she knew it, he was tackling her into the soft bed, making her yelp before she giggled with elation. 

…

The Wedding Day

Bianca was meeting Alma that morning, bringing the bridal dress with her. Her hair was in large rollers, and she wore a baby pink velour tracksuit with matching furry slippers. Alma had given her a spare key to the room the night before, but Bianca still knocked—several times. After a loud sigh, she fished the key out of her bra and opened the door to let herself in.

“Alma? Wake up, babe!” She announced when she entered. 

Rounding the corner, she could see Alma lying on her side in the large round bed with her bare back facing her. She paused. Something didn’t feel right, which caused her to look more closely. 

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” She groaned as she quickly turned around. 

She noticed Bill on the other side of Alma, lying on his stomach with his bare ass to the world. He stirred and turned his head, and his eyes went wide, seeing Bianca in the room. 

“Shit!”

“Huh?” Alma woke up looking at him bleary-eyed. 

“I’ll wait outside. My god!” She said disgusted, stomping away. 

“Oh my god!” Alma exclaimed in horror, having been caught because they overslept. “Damn it!” 

“She’ll be okay,” Bill chuckled as he got up to search for his discarded clothes. He kissed her goodbye just before she stepped into the shower. “I’ll see you later.” 

She smiled, feeling butterflies in her belly suddenly taking flight. “I love you.” 

Bill met Bianca in the hallway, where she was waiting impatiently. She shook her head, disapproving of the smug smirk on his face.

“Sorry.” 

“You weren’t supposed to be in there.” She raised her brow. 

“No. But,” he shrugged. “What’d you see? My ass?” He laughed. 

“It’s not funny!” She laughed. “Your ass probably gave me the evil eye, for all I know! Evil—Evil ass!” They both cracked up. “Okay, okay. You go get ready, honey.” 

“Alright,” he said, looking at the garment bag in her hands. 

“I’m not going to show you,” she said, shooing him away before he could think to ask. 

…

Chewing on a piece of nicotine gum, Bill sat on the spare bed he was meant to sleep in, half-dressed. He wore long black socks, a stark white dress shirt, and white boxer briefs. His perfectly pressed trousers still hung in the closet where he had left them. He was concerned about putting them on too soon and wrinkling them.

“Yeah. I think it sounds alright.” Gustaf said, handing back a sheet of notebook paper. 

“Alright?” 

“Well, it’s not me you’re writing to, is it? It’s good!” He assured. “From the heart.” 

Bill just nodded and nervously folded the paper closed. Gustaf noticed his little brother sighing deeply while he checked the time and watched him rise from his seat to his soft leather toiletry bag for a comb and some hair products.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Gustaf asked while digging in his duffle bag for a pair of long black socks. 

“Hmm?”

“Being in love?” He turned to his anxious brother with a smirk before sitting on the edge of his bed.

Bill resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead side-eyeing his brother skeptically. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to get at. His brother was married, but not to a woman Bill thought one would want to fall in love with—especially knowing she’d been with their oldest brother. However, Bill wasn’t much better, considering he slept with his hippie girlfriend. Still, Gustaf was married, and there was something he knew that Bill would only understand in a matter of hours.

“Well—of course.” He muttered. 

“You don’t have to play so cool all the time.” He lightly teased. “If you want to be like that, then your letter will make you look lame then!”

“Yeah, yeah.” He groaned as his nerves bubbled up. 

… 

Echo had finally joined her mother while she was having her makeup done by a professional. Alma was sitting in a chair wearing a black fluffy robe and chatting with her father, who had brought lattes for everyone from the café in the lobby. All the while, a photographer was capturing the preparations. Their lens was focused on Bianca, who was helping by curling the little girl’s hair. Echo kept turning her head to watch her mother’s transformation, causing Bianca to pull the hot tool away several times to avoid burning her.

“Let’s turn the chair, yeah?” Bianca suggested, poking her button nose. “So you can watch your mommy turn into a princess just like you?” 

Echo smiled bashfully. “Mama! Mama!” She said once she was facing her. 

“Yeah, baby?” Alma peeked over at her, creaking one eye open. 

“Can I? Have some?” She asked while the makeup artist bounced a power brush on Alma’s face. 

“Oh, here we go,” Antonio lightly chuckled. 

Alma and the makeup artist exchanged a wink before she picked up an unused makeup brush and approached the little girl. The women in the room gasped in awe as the soft brush swept across her cheeks, and she naturally blushed at all the praise.

“I’m going to check on Connie and get ready, mija,” Antonio told his daughter as he got up from the couch with the help of his cane, letting out a low achy groan. “You look pretty,” he said, kissing the top of his grown daughter’s head. “You hardly need it, though,” he added, pointing at the makeup kit beside her. “Here, for you,” he said, pulling a thin, square box from his tan bomber jacket. 

Alma opened the box to reveal a pair of diamond earrings with teardrop pearls dangling elegantly. She was speechless—they were beautiful—but conflicted. Her father had already insisted on paying for both her wedding dress and Echo’s, and now he had spent even more on these earrings. It felt like too much, and she wasn’t sure how to express her mixed emotions.

“Don’t mention it,” Antonio said, easily reading his daughter's thoughts from her expression. “Just say you like them.” 

Alma gave him a small appreciative smile. “They’re gorgeous.” She stood up to hug him tightly. 

Before leaving, he gave his daughter another box that housed two small button pearl earrings for Echo to wear, just as pretty.

“Bye-bye, Bwello,” Echo said, doing her best to pronounce “Abuelo,” as she waved at him.

“No, see you later, mija!” he told her with a wink. "Bye" felt too definitive of a farewell for him.

“See later!” She giggled. 

“Later, Mistah Lucio,” Bianca winked at him, causing him to discreetly raise an abashed brow at his daughter, who responded with a smirk.

Ulyssa arrived shortly, still half-done herself, with her short mod haircut perfectly texturized, but she needed to deliver the Juliet cap she had made for Echo to go with her outfit. Alma’s hair was being sprayed with hairspray when she entered. It was slicked from the middle part into a low, sleek, intricate bun. The stylist was working on laying down the baby hairs in their natural growth pattern, creating soft leave-out curls by Alma's temples.

“Oh my god, Alma!” Ulyssa said with a hand to her mouth. “You’re getting married, bitch!” She laughed. “You look so gorgeous!”

Alma bashfully laughed. “Thanks, ‘Lys.” 

“And you too, pretty girlie!” She pointed at Echo. 

“Look my blush!” She said excitedly as she touched her cheeks. 

“I love it! I’ve brought you something,” Ulyssa said, presenting the lace cap. “Do you like it? Your Aunt Bianca will help you with it.” She handed it over, as Bianca was already working on pinning Echo’s hair. Alma reminded Echo to say thank you to Aunt Ulyssa, which she did.

Ulyssa spotted the wedding dress hung high in waiting. “It’s so pretty, Alma!” She complimented.

“I’m about to put it on. Do you want to stay to see?” 

“Oh, I want to, but I have to finish getting ready. I’ll see how it’s meant to be seen—next to Bill.” She winked. 

“Right, right,” Alma blushed. “Later.”

…

Bill was adjusting his suit in the full-length mirror, stepping back to assess it while shaking his arms out. He then pulled the sleeves of his button-down shirt to add silver love knot cufflinks. A light knock on the door prompted Gustaf to rise and answer, while Bill nervously nitpicked his suit.

“Oh! Hi, I’m Bianca.” She greeted him. 

“Papa!” Echo said happily.

Bill quickly turned and saw his daughter running toward him with her arms outstretched, giddily. She was wearing white stockings and a white dress. A bright smile spread across Bill’s face as he caught her and lifted her into his arms.

“You’re beautiful, baby! Look at you,” he lightly tickled her side, kissing her cheek. “You missed me?”

Echo laughed. “A little.” 

“A little? You’re so honest sometimes it hurts,” he lightly laughed. “You had fun with your grandpa then?” 

Echo nodded; she did indeed; he hardly had rules. “So handsome, Papa!” She said, placing her hands on his high cheeks. 

“You think?”

Bianca stood back to give them space while Gustaf dismissed himself to look for Alex, whom he suspected was wasting time on casino slots below. Bill turned his head, remembering that there was another presence with them. 

“This is the best you’ve ever looked!” Bianca lightly teased. “No, really honey, you look so nice in white!” She said, taking note of the suit jacket he wore. 

“Yeah? It feels a little hard to get used to,” he said, gently sitting Echo on the bed. “Do I look like a butler?” 

“No,” Bianca shook her head as she laughed. “No tie?” 

“I have one, should I put it on? I did at first but–”

“No, no,” she interrupted before he went on an anxious tangent. “Wear it how you want to. Trust me, you look great. I wouldn’t lie; you know me. Uhm, Alma wants to see you.” 

Bill licked his lips, nervously smoothing his slicked hair down. “Right now? Is–is everything okay?” 

“Yeah! You already saw her this morning. What’s stopping you?” 

He put a hand on his hip. “She’s not like, changing her mind or something?” 

“Don’t be silly, Billy!” She laughed. 

“Alright. Uhm, are you going back to your room?” 

“After I leave Echo with her grandpa. Why?” 

He reached into his pocket and handed her the wedding bands. “Just hold on to these for Gian. Alma’s band is her mother’s, so it can’t be lost.”

"Got it, don’t worry. I’ll give it to him at the chapel, then.” 

She examined the precious metals in her palm. Alma’s gold band was engraved with simple, delicate florals, while Bill’s softly hammered platinum ring was thick and much heavier. He watched as she tucked the rings inside her bra and then patted her chest.

“Really?”

“It’s the safest place they could be,” she winked. “Now go.”  

… 

The door to the suite creaked open slowly and ominously, making Alma’s heart race as she waited for Bill to step in. Although she wished he would come through the door with the same eagerness he had shown when he opened the bedroom door last night, she knew he was nervous and anxious. However, she was too. So instead of revealing herself at the altar, she decided they could have this private moment together one last time before they wed.

Bill took a hesitant step into the room, his heart thumping hard against his chest as he rounded the corner. He peeked briefly before straightening his back as he took a deep breath before proceeding. She stood by the window, her back facing toward him—her bare back. The dress was sleek, with no frills or fluff, chic and elegant against her curves. The square neckline was held up by thin straps, and the smooth white fabric hugged her bodice before it cascaded down. A high slit exposed one of her smooth legs as the rest of the fabric lay in a long train behind her. All of this underneath a veil compassing her, just as long.

She turned her head to meet his gaze, and he suddenly stepped back, clutching his chest, completely enamored. She was breathtaking. Alma thought the same of him, looking dapper, tall, and clean in his white suit jacket and slicked hair. 

Their eyes finally met after scanning each other up and down in stunned awe. Big smiles were on both their faces before they began giggling uncontrollably. Completely tickled that soon they were to be husband and wife. That this was really true. 

“You look so fucking beautiful,” he said, lightly touching the fabric of the veil that kissed her shoulder. 

“You look so handsome!” She slipped her hand under the veil, noticing he was having trouble figuring out where to place his hand, and gently held it. “Is it what you imagined?”

He looked her up and down again. “It’s better than what I imagined, honestly.” He chuckled. “So much better. I want to kiss you.” He looked at her plump lips, tastefully covered in soft nude pink lipstick. 

“Not yet.” She said in a hushed tone. She wanted him to remove the veil for the first time at the altar. 

He nodded. “Let’s go, then. I don’t want to wait any longer.”

…

Their ceremony at the chapel was straightforward and prompt. There wasn’t an Elvis impersonator—though the absurdity would have cost extra—but a smartly dressed minister officiated. They chose not to have a bridal or groom party, as deciding whom to include was too difficult. Only three people had specific roles in the ceremony: Antonio, who walked Alma down the aisle; Giancarlo, who delivered the wedding bands; and Echo, who scattered white rose petals along the walkway. Despite running out of petals halfway through, she completed the task and even took the liberty to bow before everyone, earning amused snickers from the guests with her charming gesture.

So they stood before their guests and family. Some friends, like Marcy, Marco, Julia, Simion, and Marina, had arrived early in the morning, as well as Lewis and his wife Helen, both nicely tanned. All guests had been asked to wear black to the ceremony, as explicitly stated on the black wedding invitations they issued. For Bill and Alma, it was rare to deviate from their usual preference for dark colors, especially white. This time, they took the opportunity to stand out in a sea of onyx.

They repeated the stereotypical vows after the minister as they exchanged rings. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part… 

The minister announced their official bond and quickly stepped aside, allowing the couple to kiss as husband and wife. Bill lifted the veil from Alma’s face, taking in her beauty fully for the first time. He smiled brightly at her—so stunning—and gently cupped her face in his hands, kissing her deeply. His arms wrapped around her body, pulling her closer, while she hooked an arm around his broad shoulders. He turned and dipped her, their lips remained connected—a move they had practiced at home and executed flawlessly. 

After signing the marriage certificate, they began giggling again, still in disbelief. As if they were just a part of some elaborate delusional prank. But it was real and now official. 

Many pictures were taken at the end of the ceremony outside the chapel steps, including shots with family, friends, individuals, and the minister. As they were finishing up the last few photos, their car arrived to take them to the venue—a Tuscan-inspired tavern restaurant that, while a charming eatery by day, was available for private events.

They made their way to Bill’s dream car—a 1965 Mustang Fastback coupe, all black with chrome details. It looked as though it had driven straight off the magazine page he’d pinned to the thin walls of his childhood home, right next to a photo of Raquel Welch in a bikini. The driver stepped out, clad in a clean mechanic’s shirt, which struck Bill as unusual attire for a chauffeur. Alma glanced up at him, biting back a smirk.

“Congrats,” the driver said, handing Bill the keys to the vehicle. “And congrats on getting married.” 

“What?” He looked down at Alma with surprise. “What the fuck?” 

Alma laughed, delighted by his astonished reaction. Happy that he was genuinely shocked. She took his hand, guiding him to the car so that they could get inside it. Bill admired the black leather interior and its intricate details with wide-eyed appreciation, looking like a child lost in wonder. It was even better in person than the mediocre photos Alma received in the mail.

“Do you like it? It’s my wedding gift to you.” 

“Are you for real? How?” 

“My old house money.” Her childhood home was bulldozed, and now a parking lot took over the space for the strip mall. As if it never existed. 

“Right, but–” 

“Darby. I asked for his help to find this.” She explained. Darby knew old cars and where to help with the search and knew what was fair. “We were able to call around and found this in Reno. And it’ll be shipped to Seattle.”

“Holy shit…” he said, sitting back in his seat in disbelief. “It’s mine. For real?” 

“For real!” She laughed. 

He reached over to kiss her deeply again. This time it was a bit more sexually charged. Making out in the Mustang he now owned. In his dream car with his dream girl. They broke apart, but their foreheads remain linked. 

“I want to eat your pussy so fucking bad right now.” He said, pecking her lips while she giggled. “Right here, I don’t give a fuck. You’re my wife now.” 

“Let’s take it for a ride first and… see where we end up.” She winked.

…

After their reception dinner in the intimate, candlelit venue with stone walls, they had a bouquet toss on the outdoor patio, which Ulyssa ended up catching, making Bill laugh. Afterward, some of the men from the party joined Bill outside, wanting a tour of the Mustang. Bill took a puff of his cigarette and thanked Darby for helping Alma. 

“Yeah, man anytime.” He said, lighting his cigarette. “I’ll admit I was getting nervous, thinking I wouldn’t find anything through my connections. We’ve been searching since, uh, October,” he said with uncertainty. “Yeah! October. It looks damn good.” He said, fist-bumping his boss. “That weekend I asked off in February, I was in Reno test-driving it”

“Hey, brother, could I get one?” Scotty said, straightening up after peering into the car through the rolled-down window. “The ‘Stang is sick, by the way.” 

“I’m gonna see what the old boss is up to,” Darby said, dismissing himself.

Standing at the altar in the chapel, Bill scanned the guests and noticed Scotty sporting a black eye. He gave his friend a curious look, pointing at his own eye in silent question. Scotty, seated in one of the pews, simply signaled with a gesture that he'd explain later. 

“Care to explain now?” He asked, passing him a cigarette. 

“Let me light this, and I will,” Scotty said, pulling out a matchbook from his back pocket—a wedding favor with Bill and Alma’s names around an anatomical heart and the wedding date underneath. After taking a deep drag and exhaling the smoke, he continued, “Someone punched me.”

“Yeah, no fucking shit!”

“I didn’t start it, man. I was out with everyone on the strip but Ash and I–” 

Bill plucked his cigarette from his lips. “You and Ash?” He raised a brow at him.

“It’s nothing like that. She’s cute, but I got something going on with Kiara. That’s another thing completely. Anyway, we got separated, so we were weaving around the crowds to try to catch up, and she bumped into some Texas-sized asshole! Like bulls ride him kinda shit, right?” He animatedly gestured. “And well, he got real agro about it, and I-I’m not going to repeat what he said,” he shook his head, taking another deep drag, still pissed.

What the man uttered was reprehensible, but coming from a hick town, it wasn’t the first time he’d heard ugly words about someone’s color, unfortunately. He’d fought about it as a young punk then and continued into his young adulthood confronting skinheads at underground shows. With his daughter being half-black, he didn’t hesitate to push the man back harshly when he heard those remarks directed at Ash.

“It’s not something that should be coming out of anyone’s fucking mouth.” He spit on the ground with disgust. “But yeah, Ash tried to pull me back, and in doing so—I got clocked. Didn’t mean to look like shit at your wedding, man. Sorry.”

“Nah, fuck that guy. You get him a few times at least?” Bill asked, stomping his cigarette out. 

“Yeah, dude. I kicked him in the chest, and we ran off,” he laughed. 

“And what’s going on with Kiara? You two got back together?” 

Scotty took a deep breath, looking a bit put out. “Well, no.” He scratched his neck, clearly debating whether he wanted to share. “You know, I hear it’s rude to announce stuff at other people’s weddings, so—”

“You’re not announcing shit. You’re just talking to me.” 

“Well, then, Kiara is pregnant. It’s mine before you think to ask.” 

Bill raised his hands defensively. “Get out of my head.”

“Shithead,” he said playfully, stomping his cigarette out. “Yeah… we’re having a boy.” 

“Oh! So this isn’t a new thing?” 

“No, she’s almost 6 months pregnant, yeah. She didn’t want to tell me, though. She just threw the 12-week ultrasound picture at me one day. Can you believe that shit?” 

“Kinda,” he quickly muttered. “You nervous?” Bill genuinely asked. 

“Fuck yeah,” he sighed. “I don’t think—well, you know, we have a kid, but it’s been seven years since then. But when I saw the ultrasound picture, I physically felt my dick shrink! I don’t think there’ll be a time when I’m not wanting to shit a brick.” 

They began making their way back inside, like the others who had gone before them. “Yeah, I guess, I get that.” 

“You know, being guys, we don’t know what that’s like. Your girl is pregnant, and there’s not much you can do but watch. Then sometimes, when she’s having a rough day, you, like, feel guilty for doing that to them.” He glanced at his friend, who seemed visibly uncomfortable. “Ah, damn, man. I shouldn’t be unloading all this on you, not right after you just got married.” He patted his friend's shoulder. 

 “I’m just—just listening.” Bill scratched his jaw.

“Alright. Well, what’s next, the garter toss?” 

“Hell no.” Bill laughed. “I don’t want any of you guys with that shit.” 

…

Bill stayed back to take in the memorial table Alma had arranged with their wedding planner. It was beautifully decorated with ornate frames, bouquets, and twinkling lights. Among the framed photos was one of Alma’s mother as a young woman, standing before a rose garden. Another featured his own mother, her long hippie hair cascading around her shoulders, wearing round-frame sunglasses, and leaning against a car with a cigarette between her fingers. The last was a portrait of Myrna from her vaudeville days.

He turned his head at Alma’s loud guffaw, which cut through the music playing at a mellow volume. She was by the back patio, sharing a cigarette with his brothers. It looked like Alex had managed to get a laugh out of her. Bill scanned the room, taking in their eclectic mix of friends and family. His eyes settled on Echo, on her tiptoes and poking a finger into the wedding cake for a taste before darting across the room with a white bunny stuffed animal clutched under her arm to fist bump Matt.

“Is that Miss Myrna?” A voice said from behind him. It was Giancarlo, coming back from the bathroom. 

“Uh, yeah.” Bill nodded. 

“Wow. She was pretty.” He was a little boy then but remembered how she applied blue shadow to her wrinkly lids and red rouge to her jowly cheeks in a clownlike fashion. “I remember she made me and Lorenzo call her Mama.” 

Bill laughed. “Yeah. She made me call her that too. Funny lady, huh.” 

“Very. And this,” he pointed. “Your mother?” Bill nodded in reply. “She was a hippy!” 

“Yeah, kinda.” He scratched his ear uncomfortably. 

Gian glanced over at Bill and recognized he was maybe being a bother. “Uhm, I heard Alma was waiting on you. For the dance?” 

“Oh?”

“You dance?” Gian playfully teased. 

“I might surprise you. I just kinda get shy,” he admitted to him. “I don’t like to do it in front of everyone. At least sober.” 

“Oh right! The second Christmas dinner you ever came to!” Gian pointed out, recalling the memory of Bill, wine-drunk, dancing with his very Italian family. 

“That’s not a great point of reference.” He grimaced. 

Before the dance began, Bill discovered that guests had the opportunity to make toasts, with one stipulation—they had to wear the cowboy hat Alma had stolen. In reality, the couple mostly got roasted, and Alma cringed at times, especially knowing her father was in the audience hearing things she’d never admit to him. Despite the playful jabs, each speech ended on a favorable note. The wedding planner crouched beside the couple, who were sitting so close that Alma was nearly in his lap. The planner checked in to confirm their chosen song for their dance and then hurried off to inform the DJ.

“Uhm,” Bill sat up. “One sec’ before you do,” Bill said after the planner. Alma glanced at him curiously. She worried that maybe he was too nervous to do it at all. “I just want to say something,” he said, rubbing Alma’s thigh under the table reassuringly before he stood up. 

Straightening his back, he cleared his throat, prompting the room to fall silent. Echo, sitting between Yolani and Ulyssa, waved at him, and Scotty raised his cowboy hat, playfully suggesting he wear it. Bill shook his head with an amused smirk, then crossed his wrists in front of him and took a deep breath. He didn’t need the note he had written, tucked away in the inner pocket of his suit jacket—he remembered every word by heart.

He had opened his mouth to speak, but the planner had quickly come over to give him a mic. He took it and suddenly felt awkward. The room wasn’t so big that his voice wouldn’t carry well, but now he was stuck with it. 

“Uhm, okay.” He licked his lips. “Hey, everyone. Thank you for being here with us tonight. I just wanted to take an opportunity to speak some words to my wife,” he glanced down and smiled at her. 

She looked nervous, having no idea what he was about to say in his speech. She felt a pang of regret for not writing one herself. When they discussed their vows, they opted for simplicity, agreeing that they had already expressed everything they needed to say to each other. 

“Um, growing up, I didn’t know where or even who I’d be,” he began. “I never really had the best outlook for myself. I didn’t dream. I just was focused on surviving. I wasn’t dealt a promising hand. When I met Alma, it changed me in a way I just could not accept at the time. I didn’t see myself in the best light then, nor did I think I deserved to be in the presence of her light.” 

He felt Alma take his hand that hung by his side, and by that small comforting gesture, his rapidly beating heart settled. “But being around her showed me how I could be different. That dreams were real and didn’t have to remain dreams. And that those dreams could also become so much more.” He paused for a beat, feeling he might have said the word “dreams” too many times. “She made me feel good about myself; she made me feel like a man. She would come into my life every time I needed her most. And when she wasn’t, I would search for her in any way I could—a letter, a note, a bobby pin left behind, the scent of amber and vanilla, the melodies of songs I associated with her, and through my words to anyone who would listen to me talk about her.” He cleared his throat, feeling a lump form as he had gone a little off-script. “Uhm, it has taken us some time to get here; we’re both stubborn to a fault. As everyone in their speeches pointed out, which frankly just sounded like whiny bitching.” He said, earning a chuckle from everyone. “But I’m glad it’s finally come. I can’t believe how I could be so lucky. If today means that my luck has run out, that’s fine because it means everything was worth it in the end.”

He turned his gaze directly to Alma. Her eyes were glassy, clearly struggling to hold back tears. “Alma,” he said, his voice soft but full of conviction. “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.” They shared a deep understanding, gazing. To everyone, it might have sounded like the sappy words of a husband in love, but to them, it was profoundly true. “I love you. You’ve given me more of everything you are, than most could do in a lifetime. You’ve shown me who I could be, and you inspire me to always be better. Until my last breath, my love.” 

“Hear, hear!” His brother Alex could be heard over the applause. 

Alma rapidly blinked, her lip quivering as she fought back tears. Bill squeezed her hand before guiding her to her feet to share a kiss. She was shocked he would be so brave to express what he had in front of others. Given his aversion to having people pry into his life, it meant a great deal to her that he would open up so candidly. By revealing a side of himself he usually reserved for her alone, Bill allowed their guests a glimpse of the man she had fallen in love with. Vulnerability didn’t come easy to him, but that he let the wall fall showed just how much of a man he truly was. 

With his hand behind his back holding hers, Bill guided Alma to the outdoor patio. The DJ cued the music perfectly as it began right as they situated themselves. Choosing a song for their first dance had been a long and frustrating process. The task had begun to irritate them, but they ultimately settled on a song. However, Bill would listen to it and just didn’t think it was right. Secretly, he kept searching.

He was home with Echo, who he had just put to bed for the night, while Alma was busy supervising a neofolk show at the record shop. At the top of the mezzanine, he pulled a few records from the shelf at random. After discarding a few due to their genres being ill-fitting, he was left with two. He listened to the first record, but was unsatisfied with any of the songs, while he had been flicking through some self-therapy book Alma checked out of the library. 

He laid it down exactly how she had it on a side table in the den and went to change records. Bored through half of the record, he made space to do push-ups while the TV played the nightly news on mute. As he transitioned to sit-ups, he noticed the needle nearing the center of the record. A soft melody of guitar notes and a tambourine began to sound from the speakers when he got up to take the record off. He paused, listening to the lyrics. Although the song had a slower tempo, the lyrics were just right.

Alma came home that night as he was watching a movie. He paused the film and listened as she entered through the side door leading from the breezeway. She sighed loudly, kicking off her Doc Martens and dropping her tote on the bench in the mudroom. She made her way toward the den, to take the secret private room to the bedroom for a shorter trip. 

“Oh,” she said, shaking out her sweaty hair from the tight ponytail she had it in. 

Hey,” he greeted after she leaned down to kiss him while he lounged on the sectional.

“I’ll be right back. I’m going to take a quick shower.” 

“Wait.” He said, catching her hand before she walked off. “I found the song we’re going to dance to at the reception.” 

“I thought we already picked one?” 

“No. It’s good; don't get me wrong, but it’s not it,” he said, getting up to play the record he left on the turntable.

She saw the cover for it right by. Just a yellow pop art banana on a white background. The Velvet Underground and Nico. It was an old record from her collection that she had shipped from Strathburg. Seeing where he had placed the needle, she knew the exact song that would play before it touched the grooves. I’ll Be Your Mirror. 

[lovesodeepandwideandwell]

Once again I prove victorious (in my own head) (in the battle of whether I should do different work than I have been doing)

[calder]

Released in 2010, Obsidian Entertainment's Fallout: New Vegas actively concerns itself with the realities of gay existence, and is widely recognized as a noteworthy work of queer science fiction. New Vegas extensively examines social attitudes towards homosexuality among the game's major factions, and primarily conveys this lore through gay and bisexual characters describing their own experiences. It also allowed the player to mechanically set the Courier's sexual orientation. By taking both available perks, the player character can be bisexual. By choosing neither, the player can opt out of seeing flirtatious dialogue options.

Uniquely, Fallout: New Vegas explores homosexuality in the context of wasteland societies, and touches upon related issues. The core theme of New Vegas is that the desire to recreate the past is driven by irrational nostalgia, and any endeavor to manifest past glory is dangerous and doomed. The social issue of homophobia is used as a demonstrative example. The resurrection of corporate and military power structures presents new avenues for Old World problems such as institutional homophobia to reemerge. One of the many issues that divide the New California Republic and Caesar's Legion is the latter's open persecution of gay people. The NCR is described as tolerant and even accepting of same-sex relationships, though acceptance tends to fall off the further one moves away from the developed, urbanized core of New California. In recent years, the Republic's rapid economic transformation has led to an unforeseen erosion of the humanitarian ideals which it was founded to serve. In practice, to recreate America was to take on its shortcomings and its sins. As subsistence scavenging has dried up, the people of the NCR increasingly turn to wage labor, entrepreneurial venture, or military enlistment to keep their families fed. Meanwhile, their government enacts morally corrosive imperialism (narrative verbiage), their dominion expanding indefinitely as their infrastructure crumbles from within. This has led to a profit-based imperial monoculture which must conquer, consume, and coerce to perpetuate. As personal politics and service labor grow in importance, people find themselves more inclined to present as "normal" in the interest of financial stability and political expedience. A loading screen visualizes this culture of artificial social normalcy: the portrait of President Aradesh on the NCR 5$ bill neglects to depict his unibrow, earring, and facial scarification, overall portraying the once-chieftain so cleanly-cut as to be unrecognizable at first glance. He also appears to be wearing a collared shirt or suit as opposed to the robe he wore in Fallout.

In the Legion, Caesar has mandated that every legionnaire take a wife and produce children, citing high infant mortality rates and the constant need for soldiers, and going as far as instituting child quotas. He treats human beings as a resource to be exploited for war. Ostensibly in this aim homosexuality has been declared a capital offense punishable by death. Historically, routine demonstrations of violence towards women and gay people are a deliberate feature of fascist societies, the only logical cultural conclusion of a government devoted entirely to war and control. In Forlorn Hope letter 9, an NCR soldier wrote wrote the following to his boyfriend:

Dearest Andrew, Writing this seems pretty morbid, but tomorrow we march into the no man's land between our camp and Nelson, which is crawling with Legion. The Major insisted I write this damn "if you get this, I'm dead" letter so here it is. What a crock. I have the luck of the devil and your love on my side, so I'll be home soon. Keep the porch light on for me. We'll party in New Vegas when I get back. I love you. —Devin

Devin believed he would prevail over the Legion because his love would keep him safe. He was found dying or dead on the battlefield, the letter was found on his body. In a post-release patch, the injured soldiers were removed from the battlefield for performance reasons, and never re-implemented. Driven largely in reaction to the Legion's hyper-masculine posturing and misogyny, rumors persist across the Mojave that gay male relationships are not only common within the Legion, but condoned. These rumors are repeated commonly in NCR society. A closeted NCR Major mentions that the Legion is "a little more... forgiving" about close male "friendships," speaking in a hushed tone to avoid suspicion. At the same outpost, the player can encounter Cass, a bisexual civilian woman. She may flirt with a male Courier, who may imply they are gay, prompting her to imply gay men are more common in the Legion. Even as gay men fight and die in the name of love under his command, NCR General Oliver may remark to Courier Six at the Second Battle of Hoover Dam: "If you think after all that's happened, I'm going to grab my ankles and take it like the Legion..."

This writing pertains to institutionalized homophobia which manifests in practice though power structures and social interactions without being written into law. Simply put, in his derogatory remark, the general expresses to his army that military surrender is gay, much like their gay enemy. From the brevity and bluntness of this remark, it's clear that this sentiment is already well understood among his ranks. Logically, to project strength in the eyes of such a leader, one might also project homophobia by scrutinizing and harassing one's peers and subordinates. In this atmosphere, the expression of homophobia is not only normalized, but materially incentivized. For the ambitious, it becomes a tool, and a way of casting shame upon rivals. For the closeted, homophobia becomes a survival tactic, hoping to throw scrutiny off oneself. This is why Major Knight is immediately frightened when a male Courier flirts with him. He is so profoundly alienated that he romanticizes life as a gay man under the Legion. The Legion punish homosexuality with death, and yet Knight characterizes them as more "forgiving" than the NCR. Through these apparently disparate events, the audience can trace how a distorted perception of gay people emerges among insecure men in a military environment, and subsequently becomes ingrained in the corresponding civilian culture. At the 188 Trading Post, a lesbian from the Brotherhood of Steel named Veronica also wryly remarks that she believes legionaries have gay sex about as often as straight sex. She also notes that this only applies to men, as women have no rights whatsoever in Legion society. In this aside, she conveys a pre-existing frustration with lesbophobic social norms. Veronica also mentions that the people of her bunker would rather she remain on the surface. The Mojave Brotherhood of Steel has no official policy prohibiting homosexuality, but an implicit attitude among its dominant members that their limited numbers require everyone to have children to avoid extinction. Numerically, this may seem logical on the surface, given their reluctance to recruit outsiders. However, given their tiny population, this is an ineffective countermeasure, as they do not have nearly enough members to maintain genetic diversity for more than a few generations. This approach is not universally supported by all family units within the Brotherhood, but every individual is ultimately at the mercy of the elder. Veronica was in a lesbian relationship, but they were quietly separated by Elder Elijah, due to the dominant culture of enforcing heterosexual pairing among their population.

Caesar's law has not ended homosexuality within his domain. Despite the obvious risks, some legionaries have continued to pursue relationships behind closed doors, especially given their access to slaves. So long as members complete their societal obligations and fulfill the child quotas, they are able to pursue romance with other men in secret. Homosexual relationships in the faction are noted as being relatively equal compared to the average Legion husband and wife, in a "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" sort of open secret policy. Gay legionaries must always make sure to keep their activities hidden. A centurion was once almost caught fraternizing with the teenage boy he had chosen to tend his tent. Despite previous "romantic" intentions, he quickly resolved to dispose of the slave to dispel suspicion. Had they been caught together, the centurion would have been charged with homosexuality and sentenced to death. This story is only known because the enslaved young man, Jimmy, managed to escape execution. Further illustrating the cruelty intrinsic to Legion governance, it's stated that homosexuality was the crime, and not the rape of a young slave; in fact, it seems Jimmy was forced to contribute to the child quota despite being a gay teenager, and the experience left him traumatized. He has resolved to never have sex with another woman, as the very notion triggers memories which fill him with disgust, and (in his own words) makes him feel like a slave all over again. The Strip is indifferent to gay people, viewing them as another opportunity to make caps. Both the Gomorrah and the Atomic Wrangler are interested in maximizing profits, and their prostitution services cater to clients regardless of their orientation. The openly gay Jimmy works at nearby Casa Madrid, but there is some tension among his peers due to his co-worker Maude's blatant homophobia. She supposes he's "okay, for one of those," and if propositioned by a female Courier, Maude will direct them to Sweetie for such "perverted" services. Pretty Sarah must regularly intervene to keep the peace among her staff.

The Followers of the Apocalypse, well-read punks who seek to embody healing through anarchistic values, are not concerned with gender. Most are openly and casually sexually active. Upon meeting Courier Six, Arcade Gannon offhandedly makes his gayness known, unprompted. The audience must face the fact that Arcade's apprehension of the Legion is far from abstract; under Legion law, he would be put to death. One possible ending gives further insight into Caesar's hypocrisy: should the player sell Arcade into slavery and leave Caesar alive, he will keep Arcade as a personal physician and philosophical advisor. They intellectually spar at length, and Caesar grows singularly fond of him. Accordingly, Arcade imitates the historic suicide of Cato the Younger by disemboweling himself. The Legion's remaining medics attempted to save his life, but none were Arcade's equal. Caesar understood his doctor's final gesture of contempt, and mourned him for months.

New Vegas ventures further into themes of healing from the trauma of sexual violence, from the perspective of a lesbian character. Corporal Betsy, an NCR sharpshooter, is a rape survivor, and suffers with PTSD from the incident. Her unprocessed trauma has manifested as a maladaptive tendency to aggressively and explicitly proposition the women she encounters, in an effort to reassert a sense of control. This defensive hypersexual impulse has negatively impacted her ability to connect with other women. A male superior officer notes that her behavior is inappropriate for anyone of her stature, but abstains from disciplining her out of sincere concern for her mental health. The Courier can help her begin to recognize these problems, and convince her to seek treatment from Doctor Usanagi at the New Vegas medical clinic, which proves helpful to her as she processes and heals from her trauma.

In Old World Blues, the Think Tank are five floating brains in jars who express themselves by waving robotic arms bearing screens depicting facial features. Before the War, they were federal scientists who committed crimes against humanity in the name of weapons development. Each is stuck in some sort of neuro-bionic feedback loop which prevents them from moving forward with their projects, mentally binding them to their central laboratory. Walking through their homes at Higgs Village, it's clear each was deeply neurotic before they were transformed into floating brains. Now without bodies, they attempt to maintain the illusion that they are exempt from sexuality as purely mental beings, but each displays obvious interest in the human form. They have codified this shaming with the term "formography." Most of the men are obsessively defensive over their complete disinterest in penises, which they talk about constantly. However, the shameless Dr. Dala shows overwhelming interest in observing and recording any and all human functions. Already androgynous in her pre-War life, Dala has taken to self-identifying as a "gender neutral entity" (though she is not known to use they/them pronouns). Regardless of the Courier's gender, they may coquettishly scratch themselves, clear their throat, and stretch in front of Dala until her biomed gel decoagulates. Dr. 8 also responds positively to graphic masturbation advice from Couriers of either gender. The X-8 research facility is ostensibly a massive immersive shrine to Doctor Borous's hatred of Richie "Ball-Lover" Marcus, a long-dead child who bullied Borous centuries ago. He also clings to his resentment of one Betsy Bright, who refused to attend a dance with him, supposedly so she could "go smoke with RICHIE MARCUS." Clearly arrested in development, Borous has literally built a temple to the fantasy of torturing his adolescent romantic rival and feeding him to dogs. His frozen, static characterization of the jock Richie Marcus as a "pinko-commie" who "likes balls" reflects the shallowness, pettiness, and overall misanthropy underlying his patriotic identity. It remains apparent throughout Old World Blues that the Think Tank are all chronically sexually repressed, which is inseparable from the values of the violent and judgmental pre-War culture which created them. With time and isolation, this ingrained repression has manifested as various intense and deranged psychosexual behaviors, including rage-fueled homophobia, voyeurism, and the obsessive performance of puritanical pretense.

____

“Although I’ve been out for a very long time, I made a conscious effort to be out with relation to this project, as I wanted to be visible as a lesbian in the game industry. New Vegas itself is, I think, one of (if not the) best games out there in how we treat homosexuality – and all of that is very intentional.”

“If my work on FNV, if my being out has helped even one gay person, then I have succeeded.” — Tess “Obsidian’s Gay Cowgirl” Treadwell

____

written (with help from other editors) for fallout.fandom.com/wiki/LGBT_representation_in_the_Fallout_series criticism welcome

[st4rfckerz]

Church Mouse | Priest!Anakin Skywalker x reader

word count: 4.0k

warnings: MDNI 18+, blasphemy, age gap (reader is in her 20s), mild manipulation, infedelity, pet names, dubcon, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, virginity loss, rushed ending dead dove do not eat

summary: After confessing your sins to the priest, he encourages you to talk to him privately.

The sun shone brightly outside the church windows, casting warm rays across the peaceful town square. Birds sang melodiously in trees lining the peaceful avenue leading to the church building. Inside, candles flickered gently, casting warm light on the ornate wooden pews filled with devoted parishioners.

Many attendees wore their finest clothes as they listened intently to Father Anakin's sermons, occasionally whispering prayers under their breath or reaching for their rosaries. The scent of incense mixed pleasantly with perfume and cologne wafting through the air.

"Today's lesson is about finding solace in our faith during difficult times, we have all faced trials and tribulations throughout life, but remember that God is always with us, guiding us through these dark moments," he paused dramatically, letting the words sink in before adding. "Just like how I am here for you all, If anyone needs guidance or support outside of church hours, please don't hesitate to visit me personally."

The crowd applauded politely, some even raising their hands in praise.

Anakin stood tall and proud in front of his congregation, his hands resting gracefully atop each other in prayer position. "But first, let us pray," he began solemnly. Everyone followed suit, kneeling on their knees, and bowing their heads in unison. He led them in a heartfelt prayer asking for strength and guidance throughout the week ahead. Your eyes were closed tightly as you prayed fervently, the beads of you rosary clicking softly in rhythm with each breath you took.

The prayer ends and you raise your head. Anakin's warm eyes met yours briefly before returning his gaze to the congregation. "Remember, my dear friends, if you ever need someone to turn to in times of trouble or doubt, I am here for you. Now, let us proceed with the sermon." He said softly yet firmly.

Anakin's sermon lasted well beyond the usual hour mark, his words resonating deeply within you. He talked about sin and repentance, forgiveness and redemption. Each sentence seemed tailored specifically for you, hitting hard at places you didn't even know existed. His voice was mesmerizing, lulling you into a trance-like state where all you could think about was him.

After thanking everyone for attending church today, Anakin announced that confessionals would remain open for anyone who needed to speak with him privately. He urged those waiting outside the confessional booths to enter one by one. People started lining up outside the confessional booths, waiting patiently for their turn to unburden themselves.

You hesitated briefly, unsure whether you should go or not.

Finally, mustering up courage, you walked slowly towards the nearest booth, taking deep breaths to calm yourself.

You couldn't help but notice how many women seemed particularly entranced by Father Anakin; they hung onto his every word during sermons and lingered longer than necessary after Mass ended. Some even approached him directly after services, seeking personal guidance or counsel.

When it was finally your turn, you nervously stepped inside the dimly lit booth. The thick wooden panel separated you from him, giving you some semblance of privacy. You hoped no one could hear what you were about to say.

"Forgive me Father for I have sinned." You begin timidly.

You could hear his soothing voice responding softly, "What is it my child? Remember, here you can speak freely without fear of judgment." His deep baritone reverberated through the wooden walls, making your knees tremble slightly.

Unsure of how to begin, you struggled to find the right words. Your voice trembled slightly as you managed to spit out the confession that had been weighing heavily on your mind for days now.

"I had an encounter with a boy and it was wrong," You explain. "He touched me Father." The admission felt like a heavy stone being lifted off your chest, but also brought forth a wave of guilt and shame.

Your heart raced faster than ever before, and you could feel sweat forming on your palms as they clutched tightly onto the confession railing.

Anakin's eyes narrowed slightly, a slight frown creeping onto his otherwise serene face.

His warmth radiated off him like a furnace, making you feel as if you were melting in his presence. "And did you enjoy it?" he asked bluntly, his tone laced with curiosity rather than judgment.

Slightly taken aback you respond meekly, "No sir."

After a brief pause, he continued, his tone becoming more commanding. "Meet me in my office once everyone has left." With that cryptic statement, you hear his door open, signaling the end of confession time. After gathering yourself, you cautiously left the booth and returned to the previously vacant pew.

As everyone else left the almost empty church, you sat in silence and waited. The sun casted a warm, golden light through the stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the pews surrounding you. It was only you and a woman only a few years your senior. The woman's eyes lingered on Anakin hungrily as she waited for him to acknowledge her presence

The woman, dressed in a somewhat modest dress and heels, stood in front of Anakin. They engaged in conversation for several minutes, their voices low enough that you couldn't make out what they were discussing. Anakin gave you a small nod towards the hallway leading to his office, indicating you should wait outside while he finished up with the other woman. Reluctantly, you stepped into the empty hallway, trying to calm your racing heartbeat. Every step felt like walking on eggshells, and every sound echoed loudly in your ears. Finally, after what seemed like forever, you reach his office.

With haste, you slip inside and shut the door. You sat nervously in the chair, trying to compose yourself as you waited for Anakin to finish his conversation with the woman. The office itself was tastefully decorated, featuring a large wooden desk with numerous religious trinkets and pictures of Jesus Christ adorning the walls. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with volumes on religion, philosophy, and psychology. A large cross hung prominently above his desk, casting eerie shadows across the room.

The door creaked open, and Anakin stepped inside, closing and locking it behind him. His long legs striding confidently towards you as you remain sitting in your chair. Reaching out, he gently caressed your cheek with his warm palm, his fingers brushing against your jawline. His touch sent electric shockwaves through your body, making it hard for you to focus on anything but him.

"Did you enjoy today's sermon little lamb?" He asks softly.

"Yes Father," You managed to croak out, your voice cracking slightly. "It was very moving."

Anakin walks over to his desk and sits down across from you, his presence nearly overpowering as he leaned forward in his chair. His large frame loomed over you, making you feel small and insignificant yet simultaneously drawn to him.

"I noticed how attentive you've been during my sermons," he admitted with a slight smirk. "It's quite flattering, actually." You couldn't help but blush at his candid admission, feeling a strange mixture of embarrassment and excitement wash over you.

"Now, tell me more about this encounter you mentioned during confession," he said calmly, leaning forward slightly. His presence was suffocating yet strangely comforting, making it difficult for you to form coherent sentences. "What exactly happened between you and this boy?"

"W-well the other day me and this boy were studying together, and then he kissed me." you admitted sheepishly.

"Is that all he did?" Anakin pressed, his eyes boring into yours. His question caught you off guard, and you hesitated before answering truthfully.

"No sir, when we kissed he put his fingers...inside me." Your face flushed even brighter at your confession, and you felt heat rising in your chest. Anakin's expression remained unchanged, but you could feel the heat emanating from him intensifying.

"Was it consensual?" he asked bluntly, his eyes boring into yours.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure how to respond. On one hand, you knew what you had done was wrong, but another part of you couldn't deny the thrill and excitement it brought you

"Yes Father," you whispered softly, barely audible above the ticking clock on his desk. You hung your head low in shame, tears threatening to spill over at the thought of betraying your faith. "But I didn't...you know." Anakin's brow furrowed slightly, his eyes searching yours intently. He raised an eyebrow, his gaze intensifying. Anakin paused for a moment, considering his next words carefully.

"You didn't have an orgasm." He stated bluntly, his tone devoid of judgment. You shake your head quickly, too embarrassed to speak again.

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk, his forearms resting on his knees. His icy blue eyes bore into yours, searching for some hidden truth that you refused to admit. "It's natural for a young woman like yourself to be curious about her body and sexuality," he said matter-of-factly. "But remember, these desires must be channeled appropriately. God created us with these urges, but we must learn to control them."

Anakin rose from his chair, towering over you as he extended a hand towards his own seat. "Please, sit," he commanded softly, his voice carrying an underlying command that left no room for refusal. You hesitantly stood up and walked tentatively towards him, your heart racing wildly in anticipation of what was to come.

Anakin stood behind you as you sat in his big, leather chair. He opened a large, leather-bound Bible on the desk, flipping through the pages until he found a particular passage. "Read this passage aloud for me," he commanded softly, his hands resting lightly on the arms of the chair. "I believe it might resonate with you." You cleared your throat and began to read the passage about self control, giving it your best effort despite the heavy breathing behind you.

"2 Peter 1:4 Through these he has given us his very great and precious promises, so that through them you may participate in the divine nature, having escaped the corruption in the world caused by evil desires." You read quietly. Anakin listened intently as you read the passage, his fingers lightly tracing circles on your nape and down your spine. With each touch, your brain became foggier, making it difficult for you to concentrate on the words written centuries ago.

"That's beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and husky. Anakin leaned forward, his breath hot against your ear. "Do you understand what these words mean?" he whispers.

"Yes Father." You reply quietly. Anakin's fingers traced lower, brushing against your cleavage through your top. "Good girl," he praised, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Now, I want you to close your eyes and imagine that these words are being spoken directly to you by God Himself."

He leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. "Imagine that He's telling you, 'My child, I love you unconditionally. You are mine, and no one else can ever take that away from you.' Do you feel it spreading throughout your body?" A surge of warmth washed over you like a tidal wave. It started at your feet and spread upwards, engulfing every inch of your body. You shivered in delight as goosebumps formed on your skin.

Anakin flipped the Bible page to another passage, his fingers brushing against yours lightly as he did so. "Now, read this one aloud for me, 1 Thessalonians 4:3-5" he commanded softly, his warm breath tickling your earlobe.

You obediently did as he commanded, trying hard not to focus on the growing arousal between your legs. You clear your throat and speak again.

"For this is the will of God, your sanctification: that you abstain from sexual immorality; that each one of you know how to control his own body in holiness and honor, not in the passion of lust like the Gentiles who do not know God."

As you read the passage, Anakin's lips traced slow, gentle kisses along your neck, his breath hot against your skin. Each touch ignited a fire within you, making it increasingly difficult to focus on the words written on the page. Anakin's lips reached your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin.

"You're still pure, aren't you?" he asked softly, nipping lightly at your earlobe. "No one has ever claimed you like this before?" His hand reaches down and slides underneath your skirt, brushing his knuckles against your wet, cotton panties.

"Yes." you managed to choke out, your voice cracking with desire. Your body arched into his touch, begging for more. You bit your bottom lip hard, trying to suppress the moan escaping your throat as he continued to tease and torment you. You felt your resolve crumble beneath his relentless assault on your senses. His words had substance, they seemed so full of meaning. You were mesmerized.

Anakin groaned lowly, his voice low and husky. "I knew there was something special about you, my church mouse," he whispered in your ear, his breath warm and intoxicating. Anakin's hand moved to the edge of your panties, his warm fingers pulling them to the side. His thumb teased your throbbing clit, circling around it slowly. "You weren't this wet when that boy touched you, were you?" he purred, his voice filled with satisfaction.

"N-no Father, I wasn't." you moan softly, unable to contain the growing need building inside of you. Anakin's fingers plunge into your aching cunt, moving in and out of your tight entrance slowly at first, his thumb still circling your sensitive nub. His breathing grew heavier, matching the rapid pace of your own as he continued to explore your most sacred parts.

"That's my girl," he praised, his voice laced with lust. "Feel how much you need me?"

You nodded vigorously, unable to form coherent words as his touch escalated. Each curl of his fingers inside your drooling cunt heightened your arousal, making it nearly impossible for you to concentrate on anything else. His touch was unlike anything you'd ever experienced before—it was both rough and tender, possessive yet caring. The combination of his power and gentleness left you feeling both terrified and exhilarated at the same time.

Soon your body tensed up, and you could feel your orgasm building rapidly. Anakin pulled his fingers out of your core just as you reached the brink of ecstasy, leaving you hanging on the edge of orgasm.

"No, why'd you stop?" you whine softly as you turn around to face him. You pouted, your lower lip quivering in frustration as he denied you the release you so desperately craved.

A smirk played at the corners of his lips. "Not yet, little lamb." he teased, his voice laced with power and control. Anakin stood up straight again, his erection straining against his pants. He pulled your chair back slightly, creating enough room for him to stand in front of you. His large frame loomed over you as he placed a hand on your cheek, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

Anakin's eyes bore into yours, searching for any signs of hesitation or deceit. "Do you pray every night?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

You nodded earnestly, unable to hide the truth from him. "Yes, Father. I pray every night before bed." Anakin knelt down in front of you, his broad shoulders framing your body. His hands moved to rest on your knees, his thumbs rubbing slow circles over your skin.

"What do you pray for? What do you ask of God?" Anakin asks softly, his eyes searching yours intently.

You glanced down at your lap, unable to meet his piercing gaze. "I ask for strength and guidance, mostly." you mumbled, feeling the heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck.

Anakin's eyes narrowed slightly, studying your reaction. After a moment of silence, he spoke again, his voice low and husky. "Good," His hand moved up your leg, lifting your skirt enough to expose your panty-clad pussy. "I can't help but notice how devoted you are during my sermons," he said, his voice dripping with false concern. "It would be a sin for me not to reward my favorite student.

With one swift motion, he yanked your panties down to your ankles, exposing your slick coated cunt to his hungry eyes. Anakin placed your leg on his shoulder, giving him better access to your now-exposed folds. His warm, wet tongue traced slow circles around your entrance before dipping inside, his tongue flicking against your sensitive spots with expert precision.

"Read again," he commanded, his voice mumbling against your warm flesh. "Proverbs 18:21."

You fumbled with the Bible, your hands shaking slightly as you tried to focus on the words written on its pages.

"The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit."

Anakin hums in approval against your mound, causing a rush of vibrations to flow through your body. You squeezed your eyes shut tightly, trying to block out the overwhelming sensations coursing through you. Your grip tightened on his hair, pulling him closer, your nails scratching lightly against his scalp.

You whimpered, your body tensing up in anticipation of imminent orgasm. "Father, I-I feel it coming again." you managed to choke out between moans.

Anakin's hand moved to your entrance, two fingers slipping inside of you, stretching you wider. "That's it," he said, his voice low and husky. "Let go and let yourself succumb to His will."

A wave of pure ecstasy crashed over you, your entire body convulsed, and a string of lewd moans escaped your lips. Your orgasm was unlike anything you had ever experienced before—more intense, more powerful, and more fulfilling than any previous encounter. It felt as though the heavens themselves were opening up to claim your soul.

Anakin's tongue continued to lap up your juices, his eyes locked on yours as he savored the taste of your arousal. With a smirk, he stood up straight again, towering over you in all his glory. Anakin's eyes were ablaze with desire as he stood over you, his hardened cock straining against his pants.

"We're not quite done yet," he said, his voice low and raspy. "Stand up."

He reached down, undoing his pants and boxers in one swift motion, freeing his thick member from its confines. It stood tall and proud, glistening with pre-cum, its head flushed a deep crimson.

"Bend over," he ordered. Slowly, you stood up and turned around, your back facing him. Anakin's hands gripped your hips, positioning you over the desk. You felt his cock poking against your ass, and a shiver of anticipation ran down your spine.

Anakin's large, calloused hands gripped your firm ass cheeks, squeezing and kneading them roughly. His fingers traced slow circles around your puckered entrance before moving lower, teasing your wet folds. He held his member in his other hand, rubbing the head against your entrance, teasing you mercilessly. "Do you still want this sweet girl?"

You gave a soft, breathy moan of approval, your hips wiggling slightly in anticipation. Anakin's hand connected with your ass cheek, a sharp slap that made you yelp in surprise.

"Speak up."

You cleared your throat, trying to regain composure. "Yes, Father." you finally managed to utter, your voice trembling with need.

"There you go." he coos his voice filled with faux sincerity. "Now, relax and let me take care of you." Anakin's cockhead pushed past your tight entrance, stretching you slowly but surely. A sharp cry escaped your lips as he began to thrust into you with deliberate slowness, his hips rocking back and forth in a rhythmic motion.

Your hands gripped the edge of the desk tightly, nails digging into the wood as he claimed possession of you, filling you completely. After several deep thrusts, the initial pain subsided, replaced by an overwhelming wave of pleasure. Anakin's hands keep hold of your hips, holding you steady as he pounded into you, filling every crevice of your tight passage. Your moans turned into whimpers, becoming more desperate as he picked up speed, his tip kissed your sweet spot with precision.

"Thaaat's it, give yourself to Him, let him cleanse you." he managed to grunt out between gasps for breath.

Your hand slipped off the desk, accidentally knocking over a family photo frame that fell to the floor with a loud crash. Anakin didn't seem to notice or care, his focus entirely on claiming you, taking what he believed was rightfully his.

The tight coil in your stomach began to build up once more, and you knew it wouldn't be long now. You arched your back, your hips moving in sync with his, begging for release. His pace quickened, his breath hot against your neck as he growled out, "Cum for me angel, I know you're close." His words were like a trigger, sending waves of ecstasy through your body.

Anakin groaned, his hips bucking wildly as he felt your worn cunt clamp around him. With a final powerful thrust, he erupted inside you, filling you to the brim with his hot seed. His cock twitched and pulsed, draining every drop of his essence into you.

You collapsed against the desk, panting heavily, your entire body covered in sweat. Anakin leaned forward, his lips brushing against your shoulder. His cock slowly pulled out of your sore cunt, leaving you feeling empty and drained. He stepped back, admiring his work, his cock still semi-erect, dripping with your fluids. He extended a hand to help you steady yourself. Anakin turned to you, his eyes softening slightly. "Are you ok sweetheart?" he asked, concern etched on his features.

You nodded, still trying to catch your breath. " 'm fine," you managed to mutter, your voice hoarse.

"You did so good for me," Anakin panted, his eyes glazed over with fufillment. He helped you pull your panties back up your legs, his fingers brushing against your sensitive folds, causing a shiver to run through you.

Anakin sat back down in his chair, and motioned for you to sit on his lap. "Come here." he smiles. You tentatively approached him with wobbly legs, unsure of what he had in mind. He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you close, so you were sitting sideways on his lap, your legs draped over his thighs. Anakin placed a gentle kiss on the top of your head, his breath tickling your scalp. You remained like this for a moment, both caught in your own thoughts.

Breaking the silence, Anakin spoke softly, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your arm. "I want you to know something angel," he said, his voice low and sincere. "I would never hurt you, physically or otherwise. Our interactions are between us and God's eyes alone." You nodded, still processing everything that had transpired.

"If anyone ever finds out about today, we won't be able to see each other like this again." Anakin's hand tightened slightly, his fingers digging into your skin. "Do you understand me?" he asked, his voice taking on a threatening edge.

You nodded solemnly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I understand Father."

Anakin placed another soft kiss on your head before resting his cheek against your temple, his hand still firmly holding you in place.

"Good girl." he whispered.

Your eyes wander off and you suddenly see a cross hanging on the wall, the sight of it immediately brought an uneasy feeling to you. It felt like it was casting a small ominous and disapproving aura.

Uncertainty and confusion warred inside you, but there was also a strange sense of belonging and connection.

As you stare longer you feel as if it's judging you and looking at you as if it is not happy with what you have been doing.

You remain in his arms, you felt an odd mix of emotions, the sense of euphoria and bliss you felt with Anakin being so tender with you was overshadowed by the feeling of something not being right. You feel a tinge of regret for what you took part in but a part of you wants to do it again.

Maybe next Sunday.

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Fic Titles: Song Edition

Part IV

Two hands longing for each other's warmth - Still, Daughter

I wish everyone knew what's so great about you - This is the last time, The National

You will still haunt me - Tessellate, alt-J

Thought I learned my lesson - me & ur ghost, blackbear

I know my heart would break - Francesca, Hozier

All my lovers were there with me - Pyramid Song, Radiohead

You are the solution - You are the solution, Loving Caliber

Save me once again - Lifesaver, Sunrise Avenue

Mess with us (you messed up) - The girls, Blackpink

Please take me home - I'm a liar, Amy Shark

I can't remember to forget you - Can't remember to forget you, Shakira ft. Rihanna

They own this town - They own this town, Flora Cash

My sweetest downfall - Samson, Regina Spektor

Someday, we'll both be older - Using you, Mars Argo

'Cause I will be the death of you - Breath, Breaking Benjamin

They were lost and never found - Fallen leaves, Billy Talent

So long, my luckless romance - Almost lover, A Fine Frenzy

I'm gonna kiss you like the sun - Every other freckle, alt-J

Like a lonely lover's charm - Get some, Lykke Li

You′re the sweetest I've ever tasted - Dark Side, Blind Channel

I will love you without any strings attached - Two, Sleeping at last

Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down - Everybody wants to rule the world, Tears for Fears

Why do I keep getting attracted? - Case 143, Stray Kids

I will hold you in my arms like a friend - World falls apart, Dash Berlin

Making me come (to my sinful senses) - Using you, Mars Argo

Someone who'll set my heart free - Hope there's someone, Avicii

Dancin' in the dark (in the pale moonlight) - Summertime sadness, Lana del Rey

Pushing past the limit - Hallucinogenics, Matt Maeson

Let's dance the dance that lovers do - Soul mate, Flora Cash

It's the long goodbye that gives us away - Mess her up, Amy Shark

More titles!

[softshuji]

𝟏𝟎:𝟎𝟏 | 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐌𝐀 𝐒𝐇𝐔𝐉𝐈

Title: The Hanma's

Summary: Hanma and you know those intimate moments are few and far between. But you always find a way to make the most of them. Back to masterlist here!

Cw: fem!reader, established relationship, reader and Shuji have kids, some suggestive content, pet names (sweetheart, baby, pretty girl, princess, mama, doll),some mentions of violence, this is kinda self indulgent lol. Reblogs appreciated!

Hanma Shuji has a morning voice like no other. It’s gritty, rough, laced with the aftermath of disuse and sleep, cigarettes and alcohol. It’s gravelly, inflected with the slight slur of fatigue, but it rolls over your body in such a way that makes the heat in your stomach thrum with energy. 

He swears the nights are deliberately shorter when he’s at home.

The mornings arrive too fast and the covers are pulled too quickly and he winces a little when the cold draught slips past the door left ajar and he thinks this is maybe the karma for spending so much time at work and never enough at home.

He pulls the blanket over his head and groans, his head of tousled curls now lopsided and flattened against the soft downy pillow.

Your arms come around him instinctively, your breath warm against the pronounced clavicles, the hollow of his throat flexing when he swallows.

The sleep grit is crusting in the corners of his eyes and he pulls up one hand to rub at them, the other pulling you closer against his chest, secretly relishing in the sigh of contentment he hears when you press a chaste and soft kiss to the dip in his collarbones.

‘Mmh Shuji,’ you say, your voice caught in the confines of fabric and cotton and sleep. The nicotine and alcohol, gunpowder and metal has left a scent on his skin, imprinted into the fine hairs that dance along his navel and you brush a hand along the toned ridge of his stomach, the muscles flexing under your soft touch. 

He loves this part of coming home the most, (among other things). The part where you sigh, his name leaving your parted lips and it sounds like a promise, like a heady rush of adrenaline, and your murmurs against his neck are the food for his daydreams in his absence.

‘Don’t wanna get up.’ A mumble that kisses your cheeks like a breeze, an inked hand snaking its way around the small of your back, past the harsh bruises, purpling spots that are red and pink smudges on your skin left just a few hours before under your loose shirt, past the bite marks that now rub against the swell of his bicep when it comes to rest on your shoulder. 

‘I know, but you gotta. We said we’d take them out, remember?’ Despite this, you make no move to leave, opting to bury your face in the curve of his neck, your lips moving over the telltale marks you’d left of your own, still lightly singing with a pulse of barely perceptible pain. Because Hanma Shuji knows you are as insatiable as he is, that your appetite for each other knows no bounds, that you drown in each other nearly every night, climbing out of the current when you come down from your high only to throw yourself in again. 

‘Mhm, you're giving me orders now Sweetheart?’ And the other inked hand comes to tilt your face to his, a thumb brushing the stray eyelash on your cheek, parted lips forming an O that he thinks is worth dying for. He thinks you are worth dying for, a single avenue of repentance, his single saving grace. 

You frown and tut under your breath, rolling your eyes in mock exaggeration, all faux annoyance and indignation. ‘You promised.’ You poke his side for effect, and it’s pathetic to admit your heart does a tiny leap when he giggles, teeth nipping at the flesh of your ear.

‘I know , I know, ‘m getting up birthday girl.’ And he cracks his eyes open to see you swirling a pattern onto the ink of sin, your eyes lidded and brow pinched as you fight the sleep still threatening to take you under. I love you, painted with your finger onto the same hands that the blood splashes on when he pulls a trigger, crusted under his nails and harder to wash off since the day he had met you. And smiling, always smiling at him, no matter how bad, no matter how many times he knows he breaks your heart. 

'Birthday girl huh?' you say now, a teasing and sleepy grin curling at your lips as you rest your cheek in his upturned band, big palm coming up to brush at your cheek. 

'Mhmm, my Princess's special day isn't it?'

'It is, you got something planned for me?'

'Might do, I guess you'll have to wait and see won't you?' 

You feign a tut under your breath. 'No clues?'

'No, be patient Pretty Girl.' And he brushes his thumb across the apple of your cheek, presses down on your lips till your teeth lightly bite down on it. 

'Mhm please?' You say now, a hand moving to rove over his bare chest, fingers tracing the whirl of fine hairs on his navel before he's catching your wrist between his thumb and forefinger, bringing it up to his mouth to press a kiss to the inside. 

'Behave yourself Sweetheart.' 

You huff playfully and It hits him for the barest of moments, how often he comes close to losing this. How the blood he’s wrought could catch up with him one day, the pile of bodies he has gladly crushed to reach his desires could grab his ankle and pull him down and that would be it. And you would break trying to put yourself together again. Maybe it’s selfish to keep you knowing that, knowing he could be cut from you like a loose end any day now. But, he is insatiable with you, redeemed by the constancy and feel of you when the weight is heavier than usual, when the burden threatens to-

‘Shuji?’ 

‘Mhm?’ His eyes are pulled to yours again, your bare face free of makeup, lips soft and warm and just as inviting as they usually are. 

‘You were lost in thought for a second. Everything okay?’ 

He knows you mean it from the heart, the heart you carry for the both of you, a necessary recompense for the blessing of being his, because a man like Hanma Shuji won’t get far carrying his heart on his sleeve. So you do it for him.

‘Fine Sweetheart,’ he says and tucks it all away, the insecurity, the thoughts, the edge that has softened since knowing you, cut glass that no longer stings or slices when touched. Today is about you, he thinks. His Princess, his Pretty girl, and all the ways he can show you he knows it all- the things you do, the ways you care that he never mentions,  hair swiped back when he bleeds out on the sofa, towels pressed to his forehead as he mumbles in fitful sleep. 

And then it happens.

The door flies open and your head lifts to see your two springy children burst into the room, their curls bouncing as they race across the carpet.

They climb onto your bed, all short limbs and smiles and toothy grins, giggles and onesies and smelling of sleep, and they jump into your arms, tucked safely between you and the man you love the most. He laughs, full and beautiful, laced with the sluggishness of the sleep that’s still threatening to pull him under and pulls all four of you safely to his side.

You look at his hands as he playfully tosses your daughter into the air, her giggles and grins matched by his, and you think of all the blood and grit they’ve seen, all the splashbacks and gunpowder that he’s washed off in grimy bathrooms to come back to you time and time again. The same hands that now hold your children with a gentleness he doesn’t know he’s capable of, hands that hold yours and trace circles along the knuckles. In the safety of these four baby blue walls, with the sunlight pouring in through the slat in the window, falling onto the baby blue carpet, it is almost easy to believe you are just like any other family. 

‘How’s my little man?’ Your Husband says and winks conspiratorially at your son nestled into your side. 

‘Are we still going out today? You promised!’ Your son says, a frown creasing tiny brows that look so much like his Father’s that it knocks the wind from your chest. It’s almost terrifying to see the resemblances sometimes, the dark tousled curls that bounce when they pull their heads through tiny shirts, golden eyes that swirl just shy of copper. Both your twins that is, spitting images of their Father come to life and a sprinkling of you somewhere in the middle. If you were to ask him, he'd say they looked more like you. You and your winning smile and all the light it brings that now lives safely in their tiny hearts. 

‘I don’t know, have you been good for Mama? Both of you? It's her birthday y'know,’ he says and grins when they nod fervently, pleading eyes that turn to you to back their statement, wrapping their tiny arms around you with a whispered 'Happy Birthday Mama,' and It occurs to him, at moments like this, how greedy he has been to ask and want something that he’s spent so long denying to others. To grab at a life, snatch it from death’s hands, and take it for himself. He has a polaroid of the four of you in his wallet somewhere, behind cards and receipts, numbers of mob bosses, gang leaders, other people whose crimes are too heinous to name, and you safely at the back, tucked away for him and him only, as if this simple act is enough to protect you from the spray of bullets and contents of shady clubs.

‘Come on kids, go get changed.’ And your children scurry off, scrambling off the bed to run to their rooms, excitedly chattering, their curls disappearing through the doorway, voices high with laughter.

He flops back onto the bed and reaches absent-mindedly for the glasses thrown haphazardly onto the bedside table the night before, running a hand down his tired face. It never fails to feel foreign to him on days like today. When the sun is at its zenith, the watery bask of its light leaking into the room, and he wonders at what point his priorities changed, what point he started to think of you more often than he wanted to admit, some time in the past when he was younger and sporadic and chaotic. And while it hasn’t left, that zing of boyhood curiosity, wonderment and thirst for drama, he knows some part of him has softened enough to do this, to not flinch from family, to run his hand over the indentation on the soft cotton sheets, an imprint that remembers you as well as he does.

‘Shuji? Baby?’ And again, like a song, your voice pulls him from his reverie.

‘Yeah?’ 

A beat, your hand moving to hold his, to pull it to your heart, where the memory of his name lives, where he has etched it into your ribcage. ‘Thank you, for doing this I mean. For taking the time out for them and me.’

He doesn’t expect it to hurt like this, the sharp and visceral drop of something into his stomach, and he falters, the quirk of his Cheshire cat grin slipping into something more concerned, something more sombre. 

‘I didn’t mean- I mean I know you’re working hard, I’m grateful Shu’ baby- I am,’ you say, and the rambles of all the pent-up frustrations, nights made lonely by his absence, the whir of the refrigerator and the drone of nighttime Tv the only company, tumbles out before you can stop it. ‘But I miss you sometimes, and the kids-they miss you too. We all do.’

You can’t pretend that the calls made between meetings, between surveillance on the road, between drives from one shady establishment to the other are enough to suffice, to sate the need for him and sometimes it’s so clear, so sharp, that the pain of his absence cuts clean across your lungs.

‘I know…I miss you too, Pretty Girl.’ Said against the crown of your head, his lips slightly dry, chapped and still as full of love for you as they always are. He gets it, you know he does. It’s in the way he sends random messages to you in the small hours, when he knows you’re asleep and he’s watching a rat sell them out and he misses you in an urgent way, in a way that feels like an ache in his chest, the punch of it that hurts more than a kick could.

‘Come Home to us every time okay? Not just today, not just on my birthday, but every day,' You say, because it scares you to think otherwise, because you could run your hand over every ridge and bump of him and name every scar, every mark and it’s beginnings, because you could kiss the eyelashes from his cheek, and spend days and hours counting the calluses on his hands and it would still not be enough to bring him home to you every day. 

‘I will, y’know me Doll, I never lose.’ He knows It’s more for you than him. 

‘I mean you got your ass handed to you by Draken when-’

‘Well excuse me,’ he says, all faux annoyance, the grin curling at the edge of his perfect mouth. ‘What happened to you saying you missed me?’

You giggle, hiding against his chest, your hair tickling the collarbones that still betray the memory of your heated moments just a few hours prior.

‘I do! I always do. You’re like… my hero.’

‘That’s a new one, Doll.’

‘Like it?’

‘Mhm, y’know what I like even more?’

‘What?’

‘I like when you moan my name all sweet-’

‘Shuji?!’ And you slap a hand over his mouth, warm breath on your palm and the sound of his laughter muted and muffled as you spare a glance towards the door slightly ajar. 

And he smiles at you, softened, warming as you pull your hand away, pressing a kiss to the wrist he’s grabbed, tender and heartfelt. 

And you fall and tumble into love for him all over again.

A/n: I wouldn't be me without a self indulgent birthday fic for myself and about my darling boy, the apple of my eye, my heart and soul. (It's the 28th in case anyone wants to know ;)) thank you everyone always.

taglist: @reiners-milkbiddies @mxnjiros @prettyiolanthe @sugusshi @snakegentleman @haitaniapologist @lonnie19 @nafarsiti @bejeweled-night-33 @rinnndoll @the-travelling-witch @orchid3a @rottingreveries @qiiuusoup-xo @hoetani @sinfulseashell @welcome-to-the-internet-it-sucks @obitohno @sweet-seishu @burnishedcrown @saintokkotsu @nikokopuffs @sin-and-punishment @haruwuchiyoo @mochimiyaas @bertholdts--butt @theaonlax @blackfire2013 @wotakuhime @severellamahottub @anxious-chick

[anna-the-undertaker]

Hi Anna! I always love to read all of your writing because it's so interesting and amazing! especially "Rebirth" is one of my favorites, I like how you explained the environment and relationships with 7 demons that affected the MCs' bodies and changed their bodies or DNA to survive in the environment they live in. And I LOVE that you brought up Nephilim for your MCs. (I wanted to read about Nephilim for a long time🫠) so what I want to ask is if MCs bodies were fully evolved, with both angel and human blood and a pact with demons, would they have enough power to become a Chimera with a body similar to falin from (Dungeon Meshi) and with such great power, would they be able to maintain their sanity and have full control over their power? *I'm really sorry if my question is too long or some words may be wrong* I would love to see you write about this, but if you're not comfortable, that's okay🥹 I wish you good health, both physically and mentally, and get enough rest❤️

Hi! Thank you so much! I'm so happy you have enjoyed my writing. I am seriously psyched to write for this. As I am sure you noticed, I love science/biology/theoretical topics. Especially when combined with fantastical worlds like in Obey Me. Using the topic of human evolution and the influence a demonic and angelic presence would have on MC is just so much fun. This turned into more of an essay or rather a theoretical explanation so if you would like me to turn this into a fic like Rebirth please let me know :) And I wish all the same to you as well.

In the world of Obey Me!, MC's unique heritage as a descendant of Lilith—a former angel reborn as a human—offers a fascinating avenue to explore the intersection of angelic, human, and demonic biology. By integrating the supernatural and evolutionary principles, we can hypothesize the possibility of MC evolving into a Chimera-like being, similar to Falin from Dungeon Meshi, while considering the implications on their sanity and control over their newfound powers.

The Biological and Supernatural Foundation:

Human Evolution and Supernatural Influence Human evolution is defined by adaptability, which has allowed Homo sapiens to survive and thrive under diverse conditions. When considering MC, we must explore how the blending of human, angelic, and demonic elements could influence this adaptability. The human body, already highly malleable in response to environmental stressors, would be the perfect vessel for such an extraordinary transformation, especially if influenced by supernatural forces.

The key lies in the concept of atavism, where ancestral traits resurface due to dormant genes being reactivated. If we accept that some of Lilith’s angelic qualities were passed down genetically, then MC might possess latent angelic traits that could be triggered by their pact with demons, catalyzing a profound physical and metaphysical evolution.

Angelic and Demonic Biology Angelic biology, in this universe, is marked by purity, resilience, and a high affinity for light-based energies. Angels are beings of order and harmony, with their power fundamentally tied to divine will and cosmic balance. Demons, conversely, embody chaos, power, and a deep connection to darker energies. Their biology is designed for survival in hostile environments, and their power is linked to the seven deadly sins, each representing a fundamental aspect of their existence.

MC’s body, already an amalgamation of human and angelic traits, would undergo radical changes when exposed to demonic energy through their pacts. The combination of demonic chaos and angelic order within a human framework could lead to the emergence of a Chimera-like form—one that is not purely one thing or another but an amalgamation of all three.

The Evolution into a Chimera:

Physical Transformation MC’s transformation into a Chimera-like being would likely involve the activation of latent angelic genes combined with the influence of demonic power. This transformation would resemble a form that balances the traits of all three ancestries. Drawing from Dungeon Meshi’s Falin, whose body integrates features of multiple species, MC might develop a form that is both majestic and terrifying—an angelic aura fused with demonic strength and human adaptability.

The physical manifestation could include angelic wings, demonic horns, and a humanoid frame capable of withstanding extreme conditions. The human body’s adaptability would allow for the integration of these features without rejection, with the newfound form being a harmonious blend rather than a patchwork of mismatched parts.

Supernatural Abilities This new form would grant MC a host of abilities: enhanced strength and speed, unparalleled healing, and the ability to wield both light and dark magic with equal proficiency. The angelic heritage might grant powers of purification and protection, while the demonic influence could bestow abilities of destruction and domination. The human element would serve as the bridge, allowing MC to use their powers with a degree of versatility that neither angels nor demons possess.

The Psychological Implications:

Maintaining Sanity The question of whether MC could maintain their sanity hinges on the psychological stress of embodying such divergent forces. The human psyche, while resilient, is vulnerable to fragmentation when exposed to conflicting influences. Here, the role of MC’s human consciousness becomes crucial. Their connection to Lilith—a being who experienced both angelic and human life—may provide a stabilizing influence, enabling them to reconcile the chaotic nature of their powers.

Control Over Power To control such immense power, MC would need to integrate the disparate parts of their nature into a coherent identity. This might involve a deep psychological struggle, as the angelic and demonic aspects vie for dominance. However, if MC can achieve a balance—accepting both the light and dark within them—they could emerge as a being of unparalleled strength and wisdom. This synthesis of power could lead to a state of transcendence, where MC is no longer bound by the limitations of any single nature but instead exists as a new, hybrid entity with full control over their abilities.

The Role of Lilith’s Legacy:

Lilith’s angelic qualities, passed down through her bloodline, would serve as the foundation for MC’s transformation. Her resilience, compassion, and defiance against divine authority could manifest in MC as an indomitable will, allowing them to harness their powers without losing themselves. The presence of these traits suggests that Lilith’s influence has been subtly shaping MC’s evolution all along, preparing them for this moment of transformation.

If MC's body and mind could not adapt to their new Chimera-like form, the consequences would be catastrophic—both psychologically and physically. The delicate balance between their angelic, human, and demonic traits would unravel, leading to a terrifying descent into madness and a grotesque transformation that could make them a monster far worse than the demons themselves.

Psychological Descent into Madness:

The first sign of MC's inability to adapt would manifest in their psyche. The human mind, even one strengthened by supernatural resilience, is not designed to handle the constant clash of divine order and demonic chaos. The angelic part of MC would seek harmony, while the demonic influence would fuel destructive impulses. Trapped between these opposing forces, MC's consciousness would begin to fracture, leading to severe cognitive dissonance. They would experience horrifying hallucinations, hearing the voices of angels and demons screaming in their head, each demanding dominance.

As the pressure mounts, MC would lose their sense of self. The once clear boundaries between their human emotions, angelic virtues, and demonic urges would blur, leaving them in a state of perpetual confusion and torment. Their mind, overwhelmed by the conflicting energies, would spiral into insanity. Rational thought would give way to primal instincts, and MC would become increasingly erratic, lashing out in uncontrollable fits of rage and despair.

Physical Deterioration and Transformation

The failure to adapt would also trigger a nightmarish transformation in MC's body. The once harmonious blend of angelic, demonic, and human traits would turn into a grotesque amalgamation, as their body tries and fails to reconcile these conflicting energies.

Skin and Flesh MC's skin would begin to tear and split at the seams, unable to contain the volatile mix of divine and infernal energy. The angelic light within them would sear their flesh from the inside, while the demonic darkness would corrode it from without. Their skin would blister and crack, revealing raw, pulsating muscle beneath, with patches of radiant white light and inky blackness fighting for dominance. The resulting form would be a horrifying patchwork of angelic brilliance and demonic decay, neither fully one nor the other.

Limbs and Appendages Their limbs would elongate and contort in unnatural ways, as their body struggles to accommodate the conflicting energies. Angelic wings, meant to be symbols of purity and grace, would become twisted and malformed, with feathers falling out in clumps, leaving behind skeletal remains dripping with blood and ichor. Their hands and feet would morph into grotesque claws, sharp and jagged, as the demonic influence asserts itself. These claws would be capable of rending flesh and bone with terrifying ease, a testament to the destructive power coursing through their veins.

Eyes and Face MC’s eyes would change as well, losing any semblance of humanity. One eye might glow with an ethereal, almost blinding light, while the other would burn with a hellish fire, each representing the warring forces within them. Their gaze would become wild and unfocused, filled with a maddening mix of fear, rage, and despair. Their face, once familiar, would warp into something monstrous, with sharp, predatory features emerging as their demonic nature gains ground. Their mouth might elongate, teeth sharpening into fangs meant for tearing flesh, while their voice would become a distorted, guttural growl.

Becoming a Monster Worse Than Demons

With their mind shattered and their body twisted, MC would no longer be recognizable as the person they once were. The final stage of their transformation would be the loss of all human reasoning and morality. They would become a true abomination, a creature driven only by base instincts—hunger, rage, and a need to destroy. Their angelic and demonic traits would no longer be in conflict but would instead fuel a terrifying synergy, creating a being that is both holy and profane, yet utterly devoid of compassion or mercy.

This Chimera-like creature would surpass even the worst of demons in its monstrosity. Where demons are creatures of sin, motivated by vice, this new form would be a vessel of pure, unrestrained chaos. It would hunt and kill indiscriminately, driven by a need to satisfy the conflicting energies within it. The creature would feed on the life force of others, both to sustain itself and to ease the constant agony of its existence.

The Aftermath

The longer MC remained in this monstrous form, the more their body would deteriorate. The conflicting energies would continue to tear them apart from within, causing their flesh to rot and fall away, only to regenerate in a never-ending cycle of decay and renewal. Their body would become a grotesque shell, a prison for their fractured mind, with nothing left of the person they once were.

In the end, this monstrous being would be an embodiment of despair and suffering, a tragic testament to what happens when the balance between light and dark is lost. A creature of nightmares, worse than any demon, and beyond redemption.

In this state, MC would be feared by angels, demons, and humans alike, a cautionary tale of the dangers inherent in wielding power beyond one’s control.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Nobody's Girl - A Luca Changretta/OC Story.

Okay, okay! I got the message quite clearly that just a few of you are more than a wee bit excited for this, so regardless of the poll results, ya bestie over here is giving you the first chapter. Everybody gather round and meet Emily Jane. She shyly says hi.

Taglist - In the comments, please DM to be added/removed

Words - 4,224

Warnings - Adult content throughout, minors DNI!

Brooklyn, 1923. It was a dangerous place to be in certain areas of the New York borough, where bullets fell like rain and crimson bled plentifully into the gutters. Its misdeeds were becoming famous, the mob swelling like a well-fed beast, prowling the streets unleashed, snarling and hungry. In Brooklyn, the mafia were the kings, whether you, your mother, your cousin or the cops liked it or not.  

It was generally advised that you did not protest.  

Wiseguy compliance was safer than the alternative, and everybody knew it. When they came knocking, offering fistfuls of dollars to store barrels mostly containing contraband beer, gin and whiskey within the warehouses of legitimate businesses, the proprietors knew that you either said yes or you died. That money you were so generously handed would be earned back, though.  

“So look, uh, you gonna be lookin’ after this cargo for us, right? That means there are gonna be certain guys on the street who ain’t gonna be too pleased about you working with us. So, what I’m gonna do is have a few of my guys lookin’ out for ya. Fifty bucks a week and nothin’ happens to your business, or your family.” 

The story was the same for any other business within the radius of their turf, racketeering forced upon you whether you guarded contraband alcohol for them or not.  

It was generally advised that you paid them the fifty bucks.  

Of course, when it came to the families going to war with one another, there was nobody there to protect you, whether you paid into a protection racket or didn't. If the police were called, they generally – and purposefully - arrived too late, the large wedges of cash stuffed into their back pockets by whichever mob crew were buying their compliance ensuring that.

No, when the gunfire erupted and turned the silent streets into a bloodied cacophony, you knew there was only one thing to do.  

It was generally advised that you duck.  

On that particular chilly November night, though, with the threat of snow hanging heavy in the air from the thickened clouds above, one young woman opted not to duck. Instead, she chose to walk right out into the carnage, for it was perhaps the only avenue she could tentatively tread upon in order to save herself from hell.  

The Changretta’s and the Calabrese's had been at war with one another over turf for months, disputes rife over what mob presided over which area, promises of blood come good after negotiations had failed, leading to the shootout between both crews in the dead of night.

Bullets peppered the air, tattooing the buildings and cars along the street, screams and shouts only just about audible over the thrum of heavy machine gun fire, men diving and dying left and right. The sins they fought and died for knew no difference, but somewhere in the madness, these men of bloodthirsty savagery had a line they would not ever cross.  

The Changretta mob scanned the desolate street, high alert agitating their blood, neurons firing rapidly as they watched the area, looking, waiting for movement. The enemy had been thinned to what appeared to be nothing, their bodies littering the ground, but that didn’t mean there weren’t more lying in wait.  

Luca’s unblinking eyes toured the darkness, daring to slowly rise from his concealed place behind the front wing of a shot-out Ford, each step crunching the shattered glass beneath his feet. Nothing. They’d accomplished the extermination mission sufficiently, not a single Calabrese goon left breathing.  

“Boss! On your left!” 

At his right hand’s call, Luca spun, directing his gun at what his eyes picked out through the inky night, a glowing light splitting the dark, his men beginning to fire.  

“Stop, fuckin’ guns down, now!” he bellowed, his cadence rising sharply, way above his usual silky, rumbling drawl. “It’s a girl, you dumb fucks.”  

She seemed to glide over the ground, her feet bare, platinum hair matted and tangled, the white lace of her dress torn and bloodied.  

“What the fuck? Is it a trap, or what?”  

Luca turned to view Enzo with a slight shrug, his hand reaching out to grasp his arm when he raised his gun. “Ah, aspetta, aspetta.” At being told to wait, his right hand once again lowered the machine gun, both Italians watching as the girl continued her walk, her eyes wide and dazed, her face bloody, purple welts marking her features. The closer she got, the more of them Luca noticed, angry and swollen upon her pale skin, the infliction of brutality tarnishing much of her body, a body that buckled as she suddenly fell, collapsing in the middle of the street.  

“Ain’t no trap.” Moving out fully, Luca strode through rivers of blood and bullets, removing his long, wool coat, wrapping it over the barely dressed blonde as he crouched at her side. “Hey, what the fuck happened to you, huh?” He gave her cheek a few gentle slaps, trying to rouse her. “You with me? C’mon, wake up.” This truly wasn’t the time or place for damsels in distress. He had himself and his guys to think of before all else.  

Her eyelids fluttered, blinking rapidly a few times as she came to, curling herself smaller. Her mouth opened, and Luca was sure she said something, but her voice was ghostly, so quiet he was scarcely sure she’d spoken at all.  

“What? I can’t hear you.” He leaned closer, craning his ear, just about able this time to hear her words.  

“There’s a bomb under your car. Twenty seconds.”  

With widened eyes, his head spun round to where his assembled crew waited. “Move! The fuckin’ car is live, move!” Pulling her up off the street and into his arms, he and his men began to run, covering the ground rapidly. They’d gotten a good hundred feet away, yet their eardrums still all but ruptured when the TNT blew, reducing the Buick to an inferno.  

They took cover behind another car, a car Enzo rapidly broke open the door of, cranking the engine into life. “Let’s get the fuck outta here, eh?”  

So, it looked to Emily like she was leaving one set of wiseguys and going with another as the tall, slender man who held her jumped into the back of the car, three other guys piling in, the car shuddering out from its spot and being directed in the opposite direction to the blast.  

“Hey boss,” Dante piped up from the passenger seat, nodding at the blonde. “Who’s the dame?” 

“You know as much as I do.” He was just about to ask her that very question, looking down to see her head lolled over his arm, out cold once more. Whatever the fuck she’d been through, he could gauge it was a lot. Giving him the kind of information she had, though, information that had saved him and his crew from being blasted to smithereens, he wasn’t just about to let he be on her way.  

If she knew about the bomb, then what other information might she have? The firefight had not exterminated all of the Calabrese mob, just a mere handful of foot soldiers.  

Exiting the car on the corner of Third Avenue, Luca strode towards the doors of Bella Vita, the bar turned speakeasy he owned, the doormen nodding to him and swinging the doors open. He took an immediate right, the thumping blare of jazz music and patrons having a fabulous time hurting his still fragile, bomb-blasted ears, another large man employed for security purposes opening the next door he came to.  

It closed with a heavy thud behind him, the wall of noise muted, Luca beginning to climb the stairs that led to his spacious apartment. It had only been home for seven months, since he had the former three dwellings gutted out and fashioned into something more resembling the comfort he was accustomed to. High standing members of the mafia did not reside in shabbiness.  

His former abode, a sprawling townhouse upon the Upper West Side of Manhattan, was now solely home to his ex-wife and three children. For a quicker divorce from the wretched, screaming harpy whom he had once loved very dearly, he considered it a cheap price to part with for the sake of his sanity. Her alimony was also eye watering, but it wasn’t like Luca didn’t rake in serious bank.  

He’d also never deprive Milania, Guiseppe and Alessio of anything. His sons were the apple of his eye, and his daughter, well, she was quintessentially daddy’s little girl. He just wished she had a smidgen less of her mother’s hot-headed temper. Then again, he supposed he deserved every ounce of it, not being a particularly good husband to Filomena.  

Well, it was subjective, really. He provided for her, took her out regularly, bought her an abundance of luxuries from expensive jewellery to beautiful furs, but he did have somewhat of a predisposition for sticking his cock where he most certainly should not have stuck it. Filomena had all but turned a blind eye to his philandering ways, and Luca knew that was why he’d continued to do it, because she'd let him. She didn’t care, it seemed, so why should he?  

Maybe if she’d have been the kind of woman to crack his jaw and tell him in no uncertain terms that he was hers and hers alone, he might have fixed up and adhered to the fidelity he’d promised her, but she never had. It went right over his head that this is what he should have pledged without the threat of violence in the first place.   

The final straw finally drove her into action, though, arriving home earlier than he’d expected one day to find him in bed with two whores, one astride his face and the other riding his cock. There weren’t many women out there who could witness the man they loved in that kind of scenario and still continue to love him. She’d given him nothing but pure, unfiltered hell in the time between, Luca agreeing to all of her demands, just as long as she didn’t touch either his car collection, his speakeasy, or his home in the Catskills.  

Carrying the mystery blonde over to the lounge area of the open plan apartment, he placed her down on the dark, oxblood leather chesterfield, noticing that she’d come round again. “You wanna drink, sweetheart?”  

She nodded, beginning to tremble a little. “Hey, you’re alright. I ain’t gonna do nuthin’ bad to ya.” Emily doubted his sincerity, knowing wiseguys as well as she did. His voice was half salty rumble, half viper’s hiss, but each word was delivered with the kind of hush that made her feel soothed, she had to admit. The quietness of his tone made a nice change from being yelled at. “Whaddya drinkin'?” 

“A water, p-please,” she stuttered, Luca nodding. He’d been offering liquor, but water he could do, too.  

He paused before going to fetch it, crouching before her, studying her wounds a little more closely now she was under the brighter lights within his home. “Those cuts are nasty, doll. Who fuckin’ did this, eh?” He reached for her face, regretting it instantly when she shot across the couch, curling into a ball at the opposite end. “Woah, hey. Like I said, I ain’t gonna hurt ya. I just wanna help you, and for you to tell me what you know about the Calabrese guys. I’m guessin’ you know a whole lot, to know one of ‘em stuck a bomb beneath my car.”  

She trembled, her eyes wide, her silence profound. “I’m gonna get you that water.” He rose to his feet slowly, knowing he had to treat her as if she were an injured fawn, everything slow and steady, save her from becoming furtherly spooked.  

Caring for another, though, was somewhat beyond his usual skill set. Luckily from his own scrapes, he both knew how – and possessed the necessities - to clean up wounds before they became an infected mess, going to the bathroom and pulling out gauze and a bottle of iodine, returning to the kitchen to fetch her requested glass of water.  

He handed it to her, moving to his drinks cabinet then and pouring himself a large measure of whiskey, returning to sit in front of her on the coffee table. “You gonna let me clean you up?”  

She shook her head, spilling several drops of water as she lifted the glass to her lips, downing it in its entirety.  

He nodded, sucking the matchstick he was chewing before removing it. “Alright. You gonna tell me what you know?” 

Again, she shook her head.  

He shrugged, a little agitated, but knowing he had to play his cards carefully. “I got all night, doll. Could start with your name, though, if the rest is too much to ask.”  

She wanted to trust him. Hell, he could have simply dropped her from his grasp and left her there on the street, but he’d taken her with him, back to the safety of his apartment, no less. Of course, though, it was to gain information. Then again, if it was solely that, why was he trying to help her? Men who sought only answers to their questions seldom had the interest to clean wounds. Hell, they usually jammed a gun to your tonsils and told you to spill all as soon as they removed it.  

Who was she to him that he’d care whether her cuts were bathed? Still, it took him a patient wait of just over a half hour until she finally spoke.  

“Emily Jane,” she finally replied, swallowing hard. “Emily Jane Mortensen. Most people just call me Emily, though.”  

He lifted his chin, pointing to her water glass. “You want another in there, Emily?” 

“Please.”  

Well, she had a name, at least. It was as good a start as any. “You know,” he began, long legs extending as he rose to his feet, walking back over to the kitchen area, “the Calabrese’s won’t do shit to you with me around. If that’s why you’re scared to talk, ain’t no mind, doll.” Returning to her, he resumed his seat upon the coffee table, handing over the glass. “Like I said, though. I got all night.”  

Protection. Something she’d longed for, but could she truly trust it? She knew exactly who he was; Luca Changretta, the big boss, the number one apex predator at the top of the mafia hierarchy. It was either the very best, or the absolute worst place that she could have ended up. “Gino Calabrese ordered Joey, his youngest son to have the bomb planted, so that if the firefight didn’t kill you, the blast definitely would.” 

His eyebrows rose a little, chewing the matchstick slowly. “And you know this how? Who are ya, to Gino?” 

Finishing her water, she reached to place it upon the coffee table, Luca taking it from her, resting his forearms back to his thighs as he leaned forward, looking expectant. “Um, nothing to him, but to his son, I – well, I was his card counter. That’s kinda moot now, though, since you and your guys put about sixteen bullets in his chest.”  

His lip curled slightly. “Card counter?”  

“Yeah. I have a real fast brain for math, so technically I can’t ever be beaten in a game of blackjack. I won Joey thousands upon thousands at games all over, from Vegas to Reno. Illegal games, too. Women don’t usually get a seat at the table, but I got to, because...” 

“Cuz’ Joey boy was partially sighted, I’m guessin’, right? You were his alleged eyes, but truly, you were there to tell him when to make his moves, amirite?” 

God, he was very sharp. “Correct,” she confirmed, although Luca still looked slightly dubious, reaching behind him and grabbing something. He turned back to reveal a deck of cards, sliding them from the box and giving them a rapid shuffle.  

“Show me.” Standing, he moved to sit beside her on the couch, dragging the table nearer and dealing out as he were the house, Emily moving a little nearer.  

“Alright, so I mostly use the Hi-Lo strategy. It means if the ratio of high to low cards is higher than normal, the player can make bets that are larger when the deck is favourable.” 

He noticed it instantly, how when presented with the opportunity to show off her skill, she unwound from the nervous, tense little waif he’d carried into his home just over an hour before. “How’d you know if the deck is favourable?” he asked, a frown knitting between his dark brows as he pointed at them on the table.  

“You have to track the ratio of high to low cards by assigning them with a value. You begin at zero, then as each card comes up, you add it to your tally. Cards two to six have a value of plus one, cards seven to nine have no value, and cards worth ten and also aces have a value of minus one, so you keep adding and subtracting, betting accordingly. Watch. Hit me.”  

He dealt her another card, Emily tapping it. Another was placed. “I’m holding.” Turning the other cards, he saw she would have won her hand had they been playing for cash. He made her do it another five times before he truly believed what she could do, sitting there with slightly widened eyes.  

“Look at that, huh?” he spoke, gathering the cards from the table and returning them to the pile. “No wonder he kept you around.”  

She shrugged. “Shame it wasn’t of my own free will. All of this mess I’m in, it was because I tried to get away from him earlier, so he took a set of brass knuckles to me. Wasn’t the first time either.”  

He studied her face, his jaw tightening. Luca had few codes of honour, and not taking his fists to a woman was high upon that list. He hissed a breath, his eyes narrowing. “Fuckin’ asshole. I’m extra glad I shot the living fuck outta him now.”  

Dropping her gaze, she folded her arms, looking at her bare feet. “So am I.”  

Reaching for his drink, he knocked it back, truly feeling glad that Joey no longer breathed. If there was one thing he truly detested, it was a woman beater. He didn’t have much to be proud of in his life, morally speaking, but he had never and would never raise a hand to a woman. Ever. “Fuckin’ brass knuckles, Jesus above. I know how much those fuckin’ things hurt only too well.” 

She snorted softly, her eyes finding his again, her heart doing a little somersault as she watched the peridot shards glint at her through the low light. Hoo boy, he was a handsome one. Deadly, but handsome nonetheless. “Who on earth is brave enough to take a set of brass knuckles to the famous Luca Changretta, and live to tell the tale?”  

He smirked, rising to his feet. “Nobody these days, but when I was still comin’ up, plenty of guys.” Moving back to the drinks cabinet, he took the bottle of whiskey, turning to her. “You want another water in there, or somethin’ else? I got just about everythin'.”  

Peering at him over the back of the couch, he felt his inside pinch a little. She was so tiny and cute. “Could I have a vodka rocks, please?”  

“You can, but ice I don’t have. Gimme a sec.” He strode across the space again, heading back down the stairs, the sounds of music growing louder and then returning to the dull rumble, Emily moving to pull on the long coat around her, feeling chilly. It smelled of him. The woody, musky, yet slightly spicy notes of whatever cologne he wore filled her nose as she held the soft lapels to her face.  

The sudden blare of music signalled his imminent return, the tall Italian appearing from the stairwell once more, carrying with him an ice bucket he placed upon the table, going back to the cabinet and collecting the whiskey and vodka bottles, pouring a large measure into her glass, dropping the ice in and handing it to her.  

“Thank you,” she spoke, Luca noticing her manners were impeccable, also watching her face as it twisted into a grimace, Emily hissing before straightening her leg, examining her grazed knee.  

He gestured to her injuries with a sweeping hand. “Gonna let me help you with that yet? You’re kinda bleeding all over my couch.” 

In an instant, she looked horrified. “Oh, I’m so sorry, and probably your coat, too. I’m an idiot, I'll sit on the floor.”  

He moved swiftly, shaking his head. “It’s fine, ain’t no bother, doll.” In truth, it was, but he kept that to himself. Blood cleaned off, he had to concede. This girl, he needed to keep her sweet in order to keep on feeding him further information that he sensed she possessed. Joey Calebrese might not have been high up within his criminal family, a street guy who was not yet elevated at the time of his death (and which was why, Luca guessed, he’d used Emily for her card counting skills to make the kind of bank his lower standing didn’t allow for) but being around them, she was bound to know more.  

She was a valuable asset, and he’d treat her as such.  

He picked up the handful of gauze and iodine, moving back to the coffee table. “It’s gonna sting like fuck, but you likely know that.”  

She did. Bracing herself, she clenched her teeth as one by one, Luca dabbed each cut and graze with the iodine-soaked gauze, wincing, hissing at the burning, sharp sting. “Gonna be a little black n’ blue for a while, honey,” he drawled, his mouth tilting into a smile. “Still pretty, though.”  

He winked, and it sent a spark through her, although the rational side of her brain told her that allowing herself to be charmed by a dangerous mobster was the last thing she truly needed right then. He didn’t make it easy, though, being attentive to her, looking as good as he did. She’d always had a thing for older men, and she could guess he likely had at least a decade and a half on her twenty-three years.  

“So, you gotta home I can take you to, people wonderin’ where the fuck you vanished to?”  

Home. It was a word she didn’t really have any true comprehension over, the place that to everyone else acted as a sanctuary, a safe haven, had truly been anything but to her. “No, I don’t.”  

“No port in a storm, huh?” he asked, gently lifting her leg to rest upon his slender thigh, smoothing her dress up a little to reach a cut beneath. His hands were so hot. Yet another spark flared within her belly.  

“No, no port.” She paused, meeting his eyes, knowing he was expecting more. “I’ve no idea who my father was, and my mother was a drunk, still is for all I know. I don’t have any siblings either so when I was eighteen, I left California and made my way across the country to New York. Wanted a better life for myself. It didn’t exactly go to plan. I have a habit of trusting the wrong people.” 

He looked away from her then, eyes flitting to her knee, pressing the gauze onto an open cut. He was definitely a man she shouldn’t have trusted, and he wasn’t entirely sure why that suddenly prickled quite sharply at his conscience, but it did.  

“You probably don’t trust me, but if you wanna crash here until you find your feet, you’re welcome to.”  

She looked at him with big, grey eyes full of hope. “Really, you don’t mind?” 

He sniffed. “Wouldn’t have offered if I did.” Placing the cork back into the iodine bottle, he moved to take a seat beside her again, picking up his drink. “Might be better if you do, actually. The Calabrese’s are likely lookin’ for ya. If you vanished and didn’t wind up as a dead body, and I didn’t get blown up, then it don’t take no genius to work out that you ratted on ‘em.”  

Shit. She hadn’t even considered that. It was a fear Luca was banking on playing upon, and it had worked flawlessly. “S’okay, though, sweetheart. As long as you’re with me, they ain’t gonna touch ya. You’re fine.”  

Was she, though? Emily truly had to wonder. She pondered over it for the rest of the night, Luca telling her she could go take a bath and clean up, loaning her one of his shirts to wear that absolutely buried her, telling her he’d take the couch while she slept in his bed. She tried to protest, but he wouldn’t hear of it. 

“I ain’t exactly a gentleman in a lot of respects, but you ain’t gonna sleep on the couch. Nah. It’s fine.”  

Was it, though? As her tired eyes fluttered, lying in the comfort of a big bed that smelled like her host, she truly did have to wonder.  

[persphonesorchid]

Connotations Of Sin - JHS (m)

Summary: At your lowest, you’ve been living on the streets for the past couple of months. When you decide to leave your only safe haven and find yourself lost in a mysterious fog, an angel stretches out a hand of mercy. Little do you know, black taints his once alabaster wings.

Genre: Fallen Angel Au | Angst, fluff, smut (mdni), horror (V lowkey, I swear)

Word Count: 30k

Masterlist

Please read these warnings carefully!!

Warnings: Homelessness, Kidnapping (? is it though??), Suicidal ideation, referenced and described abuse and murder of a child. Hoseok is his own warning. Mc gets drugged and then she gets sick... A bit of religious babble, mc has nightmares (one of which is actually kinda bad...), she almost dies at one point. Hoseok likes playing mind games, but they aren't serious (Honestly debatable...). Implied gang activity and violence. Hoseok contradicts himself a lot, he's really confusing. Smut: oral ( m and f receiving) soft dom Hoseok, i think Hoseok has an oral fixation (or is it ME, the author?????) unprotected sex.

Notes: Phew, welcome!! SO, it's finally here!!! I'm so excited to share this project with you alll! It was such a big project for me, and so much time and effort went into it. Believe it or not, this started out as a smut piece and it had nothing going for it at all. If you've been following me for a while, you'd remember that back in 2021 i posted a teaser for something similar. Tbh back then probably wasn't the right time to post such a thing lmao, i for certain wasn't ready to write it and it wouldn't have been written in the way it was meant to with my writing style back then. It's been a long journey of understanding the characters portrayed here, and a lot of work to get them right. Very big shoutout to @hwaslayer who's - as always - been there with me from the very beginning and has been the biggest help and motivator, please look out for her Ateez's Seonghwa fic that shares this universe!! I won't keep you any longer, but please be sure to leave feedback, a lot of effort went into this project and i'd love to hear what you think and answer any questions! Happy reading!!!

“You sure you don’t wanna stay here with me dearie? I know it ain’t much, but it’s better than being out in the elements.” Abigail takes your hands in hers, hands that – much like yours – are dirt stained and ruddy, but bring you comfort that you wouldn’t find elsewhere. Abigail – or Toothy as everyone else calls her – is a frail woman with wispy auburn hair and a gap tooth smile. Her hair had gone white in some places, the crows’ feet at her eyes can barely help you guess her age. Her eyes are blue and dull but still regard you warmly like she did when she’d found you wandering along the fourth avenue weeks or so ago.

The space where she stays isn’t much; a nook in an alleyway between two rundown buildings that people don’t bother to go into. She’d tried her best to make it into a space that’s comfortable enough, the roof made of termite bitten sheets of ply that’s at least a square and a half wide. An old, mildew ridden tarp thrown over it and held down by a couple pieces of rubble from the building across makes up the walls that offer shelter from cold wind and rain and as much privacy you could get out here. The floor made of giant trash bags Abigail had swindled from some place or another, covered with old sheets that’s definitely seen better days. Even though the sheets had long lost their softness and leave you itching, they kept your butt off the cold concrete.

You’re going to miss the stories she’d tell. You’d lay on the floor, the longest part of the tarp folded over the top, and stare up at the strip of night sky between the buildings, twinkling with the bit of stars you can see and listen.

She’d tell you of her life before she fell to rock bottom, how grand everything was. How, many years ago, she’d won the lottery by a stroke of luck, only to have it turn sour when her fiancé gambled it all away and she lost everything. She never did tell you what happened to him.

You’d miss walking the couple of miles to the river, armed with pieces of run-down bar soaps and plastic bags with the little clothes you owned in them bundled in your arms. Or the nights when it’s cold, you’d go down to the square with her and look around for things to burn and dump them into the steel barrel to keep warm.

There are days when there’s nothing, and Abigail would distract you from your stomach trying to eat at itself with another one of her stories and old cans filled with steaming boiled rain water. There are days when you’d sit with a full tummy, there’s usually one kind soul out there that takes pity on you both to offer as much as they could.

You’ll be forever grateful for Abigail, with her motherly affection and her warm hands. She never once asked how you ended up here too, she simply offered a hand when you needed it most.

You felt as though you lingered too long... this is the longest you’ve stayed in a place. The company was good, but you feel like there’s just so much you’re robbing Abigail of by staying with her. You know she would strongly disagree; she’d probably whack you with her busted up sneaker and send you to sit in a corner until you’ve apologized. It’s simply how you feel, if you’re not here, Abigail wouldn’t have to share the little of what she gets, you feel terrible enough that she gives you more than she keeps for herself.

“Don’t worry Abigail.” You smile, pulling one hand away to pat hers. Her fingers are bony and long, and lacking the warmth they did earlier in the day. “I don’t stay one place for too long.”

It’s a lie, obviously. You’d rather chew your leg off than go out there alone. Away from the safety this little nook had been for the past month, away from Abigail, who’s cared more about you than anyone has in a while. But you care about her too, enough that you’d leave to make sure that she eats well enough to survive and not give it all to you. She’d be better off.

Abigail narrows her eyes at you, the wrinkles of her face deepening as she frowns. She looks sad, you note, the blue of her eyes dark and stormy, but she says nothing, just squeezes your hands for a while before letting go.

You smile softly, and continue stuffing your clothes into an old backpack Abigail had given you a while back. You fold the dirty ones tight, setting them at the bottom, and the few clean ones you had that still smelled like your last bar soap at the top. You don’t have much, and you’ve gotten used to it – as hard as it was.

When you shouldered your bag and stepped out from under the tarp, Abigail follows, worry on her brow, saying that she’d walk you to the mouth of the alleyway.

“Oh!” She says, turning back to duck under the tarp. You hear the rummaging of her old pot wares, the clanking of the metal before she comes back and holds out a can to you. The label looks worn, peeling off in some places, but you make out the bright red ‘canned peach’ on the side. “I was savin’ this for when we go down to the river, but you’d better have it.”

“Abigail...” You sigh, guilt gnawing at your edges, “I can’t take this.”

Abigail purses her lips, smacking the can into your hand, “Yes, you can. It’ll hold you out for a little while.”

“Then what would you eat?” You outstretch your hand, offering the peaches back to her and she narrows her eyes at you.

“I can manage.” She says testily, and then sighs, softening, “Are you sure you’ll be okay out there?” She takes the can and tucks it into the outside pocket of your bag, “It’ll be rough ya know.”

“I’ll be fine,” You say, and then, you hug her. Truly, you’ll miss her. She pats your back gently, “Thank you for everything.”

“Don’t mention it, we gotta look out for each other out here.” Abigail smiles, pulling away. She stuffs her hands into the pockets of her baggy jeans, something she’d picked up at a donation shelter a couple of days ago. It’s got a few holes and it’s frayed at the ankles but she’d never complain. “If you fall into luck, don’t forget me.”

“Never.”

You both say your goodbyes and you try your best to not cry at the sadness that clings to Abigail’s form as she hobbles back to her little nook. You take a breath and pick a direction to walk in.

You think about going to the river first, to get a little cleaned up before you go looking for somewhere to sleep for the night. You’re already regretting leaving the comfort that Abigail provided. You know she wouldn’t blame you if you turned right around and dragged yourself back. You’ve already made your mind up, though – it’s better this way.

You don’t have a gauge on the time, but the sun’s getting quite low. It streaks the sky in orange and pink, hiding behind a fluffy white cloud as it makes its slow decent. You might be able to make it to the river and back before night falls completely if you hurry. So you walk, and walk, and it’s a long way past the street Abigail first found you, where the city meets a forest edge.

You once asked Abigail why she didn’t live closer to the river, you worry about her most days, taking her frail self through the streets for such a long walk just to get here. She’d told you that even though some of your street dwelling comrades are friendly, most aren’t, and would do the worst to get what they need. It’s too risky to be close to the river where all manner of folk pass to get to it.

You tuck your bag to your front and keep an ear out for anyone that may be in the area. You grimace as the twigs and stones of the forest floor poke at your feet. Your shoes were on their last, they kept your feet warm most days, but they’re biting holes into your last good pair of socks. The trees get sparse the further in you go, and over the tweeting and chittering of the forest critters, there’s the sound of rushing water.

You break out of the trees and stand on the little edge where the forest pauses and the soft wet dirt begins. The river is a bit wild today, rushing through the rocks as it makes its way from wherever it starts. You know there must be a spring somewhere deeper if you follow the river back, but you don’t have the time to as the setting sun makes the forest look darker already. You wouldn’t like to be out here at night.

You slip out of your shoes and socks, wanting to keep them dry and walk down to the bank. Abigail has a little spot between three large boulders where she hides things. The spot is covered with leaves and sticks, and you dig through it to find the old blue bucket. It’s missing it’s handle and turned over to keep things under it.

There’s a new pack of soap powder that’s already been opened, a little square plastic bowl that’s probably seen better days on a dish rack and half of a soap bar. You pull the bucket out of its hiding place, taking just a handful of the soap powder and tossing it into the bucket. You tuck the powder into a corner of the rock with the soap bar on top of it and carry the bucket over to the river.

You rummage through your bag to find the clothes that needed cleaning, and put them in the bucket with the soap. It takes a moment of scooping water from the river and pouring it into the bucket. All the while you’re wondering where Abigail scored the soap powder from. A lot of things are hard to come by, but some people make trades with the little they’ve got. You feel a little guilty as you watch the water and soap soak into your clothes, though you know she wouldn’t mind if its you – you’re the only two that know where she keeps her stuff hidden – but still.

The soap smells sweet, and fresh in a way you haven’t smelt in a while. With the sun long gone behind the trees but still lighting the sky a bit, you wash your clothes as quickly as you can. You throw the soapy water on the bank and not back in the river, and rinse your clothes out just as quick.

There’s no time to wait for them to dry, with the sun being as low as it is and the wind baring its teeth. So you wring them out and pull out the plastic handle bag you keep folded in one of your backpack pockets to stuff them into.

It’s completely dark out once you’ve put the bucket back and covered Abigail’s things again and made your way back out of the forest. You would’ve liked to take a quick wash, but it’s too dark and the water’s too cold now. You’ll come back tomorrow when the sun’s high and hot.

You walk in a different direction than the way you came, looking for the little park that Abigail mentioned once. Its completely dark by the time you get there, your feet aching from the long walk and your mind muddled with thoughts.

You would often remind yourself not to think too hard, as your thoughts would often lead you to a dark place you find difficult to crawl out of. You would often regret not having people close enough to call good friends, maybe then you wouldn’t be out here.

You didn’t have a difficult life; you grew up in a loving home with both parents making sure that you were happy and not too spoilt by the fruits of their labour. You know the value of things and you know well to act like your parents raised you with some sense. Your mother passed when you were ten, and your father remarried when you were sixteen. You couldn’t understand why, your father loved your mother so much and you thought it would just be you and him against the world. You understood that your mother wouldn’t want him to live the rest of his life overshadowed by her passing and forget to continue living. So when he introduced you to the woman he met on a business trip, looking happier than he had in six years, you didn’t have the heart to tell him that something was off.

Your mother had always taught you to see the good in people, to give them the benefit of a doubt. There was no mistaking the thinly veiled disgust in your step mother’s eyes when she would look at you. She was quite young, compared to your father, anyway, and as the years went by, he spoilt her. He gave her whatever she wanted when she wanted it as long as it made her happy and you could only watch from the sidelines.

Your father fell ill, and everything went downhill from there.

When he passed, your world shattered and crumbled, leaving you standing in the rubble grasping at the wisps of it slipping through your fingers. Things were okay, for a while, grieving the loss of your father and trying to move on and step without him. Then the news of his will came not long after he was buried.

Your father left everything for his wife, the house, his money, and as you’d found on the first night you were out here, the savings account your mother had set up for you.

You had nothing.

You’d always kept to yourself growing up, and never let anyone closer than you would allow. You were home-schooled – all the way up to your tertiary education – and had no friends to speak of. Your parents never spoke of their family, all you knew and had were your mother and father.

It’s been a while since then. A good long while. It was hard to adjust to having everything at the tip of your fingers to having it ripped away all at once.

The first week was hard. You’d worked odd jobs here and there to keep your head above the water. Sleeping in a motel every night wasn’t ideal, especially since you had to buy food and every thing else. The little money you had ran out quickly, even when you pawned the possessions you did own it wasn’t enough.

You’ve had time to adjust since then. You met Abigail and things were as okay as they could’ve been considering. You remember, she had been pestering you about why you were pacing around on that bridge when she found you.

The deep rushing water below it had looked inviting – an easy way out. No one would’ve missed you, anyway.

You take a breath in sharply, and it burns. Cold air fills your lungs with little pinpricks as night fully settles. You try not to think about anything more as you walk through the park.

It looks empty, large trees and neat grass fields and cobbled walkways. There are dark metal benches scattered about, a trickle of water you can’t pinpoint coming from somewhere.

You’d just stay here for tonight, and find somewhere you wouldn’t be in trouble to stay at in the morning. You’re pretty sure you’re breaking some law being who you are as you sit down on the bench. It’s uncomfortable, the metal cold and biting, but you’d just have to deal for the night.

You dig through your backpack, pulling out the plastic bag with your damp clothes, a jacket that’s still in good condition and the canned peach Abigail sent you off with.

You spread your clothes out on the back of the bench, and you’re hoping they dry properly even if the air feels a little damp.

With a soft sigh, you lift the circular pin on the lid of the can and pull. The peaches are cut into slices and swimming in a sweet juice, and with some guilt you pick a piece out. It’s sweeter than anything you’ve had in a while, and for a moment you feel like crying.

You feel tears burn your eyes and nose as you chew the fruit, washing it down with a sip of the juice that tastes slightly like the can. It wasn’t long before it was all gone, your fingers sticky with the juice and you stare into the empty can with a frown. You wonder about Abigail and if she’s okay right now.

Setting the can down near the foot of the bench that’s bolted into the cobblestone path, you lay back. The sky is fairly clear, with a little smattering of wispy clouds floating by and stars that twinkle in the distance.

Drifting off slowly, you try to find a comfortable position to sleep in – though there isn’t one with this metal bench. Your jacket thrown over you as a makeshift blanket.

You’re not certain how long you sleep for, but when you wake, its to a tapping on your shoulder. The air is thick with something as you breathe in, and a lot damper than it was when you’d settled.

“Ma’am.” A voice calls, prodding your shoulder again, “Hello, miss?”

You open your eyes and your blood runs cold at the sight of the man in uniform standing above you. You sit up, excuses dancing at the tip of your tongue before you realised you could barely see past your nose.

The officer is holding a flashlight, the beam directed somewhere off to your right. A thick fog had settled while you slept, swirling way past the officer’s head.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t sleep here. This is a private park.” His words aren’t unkind, they come out gentle and a little pitying, as though he regrets having to do his job of keeping the riffraff out. He lets you gather your things, stuffing your still damp clothes back into your bag.

He takes a step back when you stand, “If you need somewhere to stay, there’s a shelter not far from here. Couple blocks that way.” He waves his flashlight behind you, towards the park’s exit, “Can’t miss it.”

You could barely see the guy, much less which way exactly he’s directing you to. You turn, squinting at the way you think he pointed. “Thank you... I’m really sorry about –”

“Don’t worry about it...just keep walking straight and you’ll find it.”

He motions with his flashlight again and you take two steps away before stopping and turning back, “Sorry but...the fog...which way...”

The man is gone, no sign of him having been there in the first place. It’s quiet, not even insects are chirping, you don’t hear any retreating footsteps. You stare at the spot he was just in, but didn’t want to linger lest he comes back and he’s decidedly less kind.

You hike your bag up on your shoulder, squinting to see through the fog as you walk towards the exit. The roads are empty, there’s the soft clicking of the traffic lights and the glow of shop lights and street lamps that make it a little bit easier to see. You still look both ways before walking quickly across the street, keeping straight like the officer told you.

It’s quiet, and honestly, it freaks you out a bit. You don’t think it’s that late, and even so, there should be people out and about. You don’t even think you slept for that long, it couldn’t have been more than an hour. There’s no reason for no one to be around, then again, you don’t know this area very well.

You walk for some time, the sound of your footsteps and your steady breaths your only company. You’re keeping your eyes peeled for any sign of the shelter, staring up at the glowing signs and squinting to see through the fog. You passed a convenience store, a pharmacy and a pet shop, all closed and dark inside. You’ve crossed two roads so far; it shouldn’t be much more walking...unless a couple of blocks have two different meanings between you and the officer.

You stop for a moment, taking a breath that settles heavy and damp in your chest. You look back the way you came, look at the signs of the buildings across the street and the one you’re outside of. You can’t see much more than that unless you keep walking straight.

You’re beginning to wonder if he’d only said so to get you out of the park. You take a couple of steps forward and then stop, looking over your shoulder. Your brows furrow and the hairs on the back of your neck stands on end.

It’s said that the mind always knows when you’re being watched, a sixth sense to be aware when someone is staring at you.

You feel watched.

And it isn’t an ordinary feeling.

It feels off, like some primal switch just flicked up in your brain. Briefly, you think that this is how a bunny feels being cornered by a fox. Your heart suddenly kicks against your ribs and something in the back of your mind screams for you to move.

You press forward, the feeling lingers, and intensifies. You walk as quickly as you can, your once steady breaths loud and harsh in the quietness of the night. You try not to look behind you as your ears pick up on the sound of another pair of footsteps. They match yours, and you’re not too certain if it’s just really your own bouncing off the walls of the buildings. When you stop, they stop, and start back up again when you start.

There’s another sound below it. Something snarls like a dog somewhere in the distance behind you, but, like everything else about this moment in this fog, it sounds wrong. Like it’s coming from a creature that’s trying to mimic the sound of an animal.

You stop dead in your tracks, goosebumps rippling along your skin like a wave from the top of your head and downwards. You take a breath, and with one foot in front of the other – you sprint.

Your footfalls are loud in the quiet, and even through your panic you notice the change of the footsteps that mimicked yours. There’s two more with it that falls in rhythm, like a large beast running on all fours.

It’s running faster than you are, the pounding of its feet against the pavement is double the speed of your own. You feel like your lungs are about to burst, your legs burning, and the damp air becomes fire in your throat when you breathe.

Whatever it is snarls again, and it sounds way closer than it was before. You could almost feel the sound rumble through you, and something hot fans at the back of your neck. You nearly trip, stumbling over your own feet in an attempt to run faster. You round a corner blindly, hoping to throw whatever it is off your trail and smack right into someone.

With your momentum, you’d think that you would send yourself and the person sprawling to the hard concrete. The terrified scream you let out rings in your own ears, high pitched and shrill, as you bounce back, falling in a heap. There’s a sharp twinge in your wrist as you brace, and a stinging in your palm when you just barely managed to catch yourself.

“Shit!” the person exclaims – a man, if the deep timbre of his voice was anything to go by. “Are you okay?!”

The man crouches down and you scramble back, then remember that you crashed into him because you were running from something and the panic comes back.

“I—there’s ... Something’s following me! It chased me all the way here...It’s—”

“Hey, hey...it’s okay...you’re fine.” The man seems to look behind you. You could barely see his face, even with him being as close as he was; the fog just seems to get thicker. “It’s just us out here...”

His voice suddenly seems hesitant, and you wouldn’t blame him if he thought you were crazy.

You breathing is still erratic, heart still trying to pound its way out of your chest.

The man’s hands hover at your shoulders, and there’s worry in his tone when he speaks again. “It’s okay. You’re alright, nothing’s out here but us.”

He takes your hand – the one that’s not holding your weight – and presses it to his chest. You almost jump out of your skin at the contact, but his own heart is steady, beating a slow rhythm against his sternum. “Breathe with me.”

He takes a deep breath in, and you feel his chest expand as his lungs fill, you try your best. Your throat is burning, and every breath feels like fine glass is swirling at the back of your mouth. It takes a moment, but eventually, your breaths match his and the adrenaline seeps out with your every exhale.

Your brain finally registers the throbbing of your wrist and palm, and the ache in your sides.

“There you go.” You can faintly make out the smile that spreads across the man’s face, heart shaped and pretty white teeth. “Good now?”

You nod, just barely, and he releases your hand. There’s a shuffling and the sound of a zipper and then he’s holding a bottle of water out to you. You eye it with some suspicion, and he picks up on it.

“It’s just water, promise.” He says, wiggling the bottle a little. “The seal isn’t cracked or anything.”

You take your weight off your palm, wincing at the hot flash of pain from the movement. You right yourself a little, taking the water from him with your uninjured hand and a soft thanks.

“Oh...here...” he keeps the bottle steady in your hand with a palm under the bottom of it, and the other cracking the seal with a twist. He lifts the bottle to your lips and you take a sip, and then a gulp, “Easy, not too fast.”

The water is cool, and a blessing, you didn’t realise how thirsty you were. When you’ve drank at least half of the bottle, the man puts the cap back on and leaves it in your hold.

“Were you looking for something?” he asks gently, and you nod.

“The homeless shelter...I think I’m lost now, though.”

The man tilts his head, “There aren’t any shelters in this area...you’re on the wrong side of the city if that’s what you were looking for.”

You stare at him for a moment, “...Oh.” The officer really did just say it, then. You’re not sure what to say to the man and you glance around at the street that’s still teeming with the thick fog.

You’re not sure what to say to him, and instead, look around the street for any sign of the shelter even though he’d said there isn’t one.

“I think the fog’s lifting...” The man mumbles. The fog is clearing; it’s easier to see further down the street and the man in front of you. He presses his palms against his knees and stands, looking around for a moment before looking down at you. “There aren’t any shelters around...but...I can help you. If you want, I live a bit that way, and I’ve got an extra room...”

This is a bad idea.

He’s quite tall, on the lean side with long limbs. He’s wearing a long black coat, and his black, suede shoes look just as expensive as the watch that peeks from the end of his sleeve at his wrist. The white tee shirt he wears looks a little billowy, like it would swallow his frame once he takes the coat off. He turns a little and you get to admire the sharp cut of his jaw and the elegant slope of his nose.

“I won’t hurt you or anything. I just want to help.” He says, turning back to you. His eyes are dark, but kind as he offers a hand to help you off the concrete. “I’m Hoseok.”

You take his hand, and there’s nothing in the back of your mind telling you to get away. Nothing in his body language that shows ill intent, and you have to remind yourself that some people are simply kind.

He helps you to your feet and you thank him softly, giving him your name. His smile is soft as he nods, lips turned up slightly at the corners, eyes squinted just a bit.

“If you don’t want to, that’s okay. It’s a bit late, though, and you’d have to walk a long way to find the shelter...” Hoseok says softly.

You’re still holding his hand, and the warmth of it grounds you. You honestly shouldn’t, really, you’re smart enough to know you shouldn’t follow random men promising kindness. He really looks like a good person, quietly waiting for your answer as he gives you chance to change your mind should you wish.

He doesn’t rush you, and briefly you wonder if he doesn’t have anything else to do. He was clearly going about his business before you tackled him, though that word should be used lightly considering you’re the one who ended up on the ground.

“Okay...thank you.” When you finally speak his smile broadens, showing pretty teeth and still holding your hand, he leads you in the direction he was coming from before. You feel a bit bad, turning his night on its head and probably inconveniencing him.

The fog is lighter now, the air not as thick with it as you follow along. Hoseok didn’t talk much, not once mentioning your pitiful state of dress, or asking any questions. You’re grateful, not many people would go out of their way to open their homes to someone without one.

The place he leads you to looks expensive and you feel out of place. The road winds and twists into a residential area with houses and three storey apartments. There are cars parked in driveways, neatly trimmed grass and hedges, a fence around every tree. Lampposts dot the sidewalk every thirty or so steps, casting their orange glows across every surface.

Across from there, the road veers off into a more commercial area, with fancier housing and shops and a tall, looming hotel. The streets are quiet, shops already closed for the night and you wonder what time it is. There doesn’t seem to be anyone around, save for you and Hoseok making your way towards the hotel.

The doors slide open with a little mechanical whir, and you balk at the sheer size of the lobby alone. Light fixtures hang from the ceiling, bouncing their glows off of shiny surfaces. There are red and black lounge seats along a far wall, coffee tables of black tempered glass between them and the single seated chairs across. On the other side of the lobby is a little open cafe area, closed of course, with comfortable looking chairs tucked under tables.

There are two elevators, one of which you assume to be for staff. The reception area is a counter space of smooth looking white marble, though no one sits behind it.

Hoseok leads you to the elevator, pressing the button to call it down. You’ve let go of his hand now, as you take in the sight of the place. You wonder what anyone would think seeing someone like you in here. With your shabby clothes that’s seen better days, your dirty sneakers and backpack that looks like it’s moments away from just splitting apart.

There’s no one to see you, as the elevator comes down and opens with a ding. You catch sight of your reflection in the elevator walls, and grimace, regretting not bracing the cold river earlier. You definitely look homeless, your last bath was exactly two days ago, you look grubby standing just a little bit behind Hoseok. Anyone who would see you now would definitely turn their nose up at you and outright ask what you’re doing in their pristine hotel. Though, there isn’t much you can do to prevent that.

When the doors slide close you focus on the button panel, and next to it is a key card scanner and a button under it. The word penthouse is neatly labelled on the button in little black letters, and Hoseok fishes around his coat to pull out a key card. You blink, of course he lives in the penthouse.

The scanner beeps softly and Hoseok presses the button that glows a soft blue before the elevator lurches slight and ascends.

You fiddle nervously with your fingers in front of you, keeping your eyes on your shoes. There’s a shuffle and Hoseok turns to look at you, he’s smiling kindly again, something like pity woven into it and you feel a coil of shame twist in your chest.

“I’m sorry...” You say without much reason, glancing at him and then back down, “For the trouble.”

“No trouble.” Hoseok says softly, concern on his brow, his hand reaching out but stopping short, as though he’s not sure if he could touch you. You’re surprised he even want to. Heck, you’re surprised he’s doing any of this at all. “Really.”

“Do you usually take in random homeless people?” You ask, and his chuckle is light and teasing.

“Only the cute ones.” He says and then looks a little mortified, “Sorry. I’m kidding. It’s just...you looked like you really needed help...so I’m helping.”

“You’re very kind.” You murmur and offer a smile.

He smiles back, not as brightly as his other ones, it curls his mouth less, doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He nods, “I try to be.”

The elevator slows to a stop, doors sliding open to a little well-lit hallway. On the other end of the hall is a wide pane of glass that overlooks the city lights, twinkling in a dance of their own making, and an emergency exit sign jutting out of the wall. You follow Hoseok out of the elevator towards the door which he unlocks with a password — the beeps loud in the quiet — the door opens with a soft thunk and a beep and he lets you walk in first.

The lights are on, as though he’d only planned to be out for a moment. You’re not too sure what to do with yourself now that you’re here, staring at Hoseok’s back unsurely as he takes his shoes off and tucks them neatly on a shoe rack.

He turns to face you, “I don’t mean anything by this, so please don’t misunderstand...”

You nod, waiting for him to continue.

He seems to weigh his words carefully, “Do you want to take a bath?”

You flush, yeah, you surely look grubby enough for him to ask that. It’s warranted, so, you’re not upset that he asked. You’d actually love to, when was the last time you took a bath that wasn’t in the freezing river?

Still though, it’s embarrassing. So you nod silently, “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He says, looking genuinely relieved. “You can leave your stuff here and I’ll take care of everything.”

“Okay...” You step out of your shoes, nudging them in a corner before you take your bag off and set it down. The clothes you have are still damp, stuffed in a plastic bag somewhere in the depths of your tattered backpack and Hoseok doesn’t give you a moment before he’s leading you through his home.

The chill of the grey tiled floor runs up your legs through your thin, threadbare socks. You don’t have much time to look around, but you’re aware you’ve passed an open space kitchen and living room, splashes of white, reds and black in the corner of your vision.

He lets you into the bathroom, “Use whatever you need. The towels and things are in the cabinet.”

You turn to face him, “I really can’t thank you enough.” You say earnestly, and he waves you off, turning to leave and shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

“I’ll bring you some clothes that you could use.” He says through the door, his voice muffled. You thank him again and his footsteps trail away.

You turn and glance around the bathroom, floor to ceiling glass panes makes up the furthest wall. Before it is a porcelain bathtub that could easily fit three people, on a raised platform of white stained marble, and that platform on another, creating a single step up in order to get into the tub. The colour of the platforms compliments the dark reflective marble floor. The undersides of the platforms are lined with what you assume must be LED lights, glowing a pale white along the bottom.

The same LEDs line the back of the large wall mounted mirror, giving it an ominous glow. Below the mirror is a dark granite sink with a faucet you’re not even sure how to turn on. The cabinet below the sink house only cleaning supplies, and you look around for the towel space.

The shower takes up nearly the whole wall it’s connected to, frosted glass and jets embedded into the wall.  

You walk over to the shower and realise that was wall beside it sorts of curve and you let out a surprised sound when you walk the short way towards the back of it. The ‘cabinet’ is more of a little walk-in closet, there’s a few fluffy looking bathrobes sorted by length and colour, and towels and washcloths stacked on shelves that match.

Under those are neat little space savers filled with bath oils and shower gels, sweet scented candles tucked into corners. Bar soaps and toilet paper on their own shelves at the bottom, unopened toothbrushes and what have you.

There’s enough room to turn full circle without bumping into anything if you step into it. But you look at your hands and decide to not touch anything until they're clean.

So you walk back out to the sink, frowning at the faucet with no visible way to turn it on; it’s just a sleek piece of metal that curves back into the basin. You look at it to and fro and wave your hand under it, startling slightly when water sprays from the faucet. You hold your hand away and it turns off after a moment. Now, your parents had money but it wasn’t anything like this.

You can’t imagine the cost of this place.

You find hand soap after peeking into the cabinet below the sink again, taking your time to thoroughly wash your hands clean. It’s hard to see the dirt go down the drain against the dark granite, but you’re grateful. You inspect your hands once your done, and finally allow yourself to touch Hoseok’s things. You take a towel down from the shelf, the one that’s at the top of the pile. It’s a nice pale yellow, and near the bottom right corner is a little blue butterfly embroidered into the fabric. After a little debate with yourself, you pull the washcloth that matches from its pile.

You set the towel on the closed lid of the toilet, and strip out of your clothes. You fold them neatly and set them on the floor along with your socks, stuffing your underwear into the pocket of your jacket. You step into the shower and pull the door shut behind you.

You turn the knobs and adjust the water so that’s it not too hot, and for a moment, you simply stand there. The water flows over your skin in rivulets, washing away the sweat and grime of the past two days. You try not to take too long, but made sure that you’re thoroughly scrubbed clean. You try not to use too much of Hoseok’s things, even though he’d told you to use whatever you needed.

You’re not sure how long you were in there, how long you stood letting the water wash away your tears as well.

When you step out, steam billowing put behind you, you wiggle your toes into the fluffy cotton mat under you, wrapping the towel around your form. It feels nice to be clean, skin feeling a little raw from the hot water. You tiptoe to the door and ease it open, and it pushes lightly against a bundle of folded clothes on the ground. Next to it, a pair of warm looking house slippers that you shuffle into immediately after drying your feet.

The clothes: a dark grey long sleeve crew neck tee that hangs just a little off one shoulder, a pair of boxer shorts still in it’s wrapping, and long fleece lined sweatpants that you have to fold at your ankles.

Near the door is a towel rack where you hang the towel you used to dry, and after taking a breath, you step out of the bathroom.

You walk back the way Hoseok led you, and the air is prickled with the scent of freshly made food and it makes you wonder just how long you took in the bathroom.

The kitchen is a wide space, between the area that makes up the entrance hallway is a kitchen island, and much like everything else you’ve seen, is a long, polished slab of dark marble. There’s a sink in the middle, sleek and silver and soft white light comes from the fixings above it. Across from that is a large refrigerator, an electric stove and more counter space. There are a few scattered appliances, a coffee maker and a small espresso machine tucked under a cupboard over them, and a blender with something or the other in it.

Hoseok stands with his back to you, he turns slightly, looking over his shoulder and startles.

“Oh – shit.” He laughs softly, “Hey, was your bath okay?”

“Sorry...” You apologize for scaring him and he waves you off, turning to face you fully. He scans your form but there’s nothing odd in the action, and he nods to himself at whatever he was looking for. “Oh, yeah. My bath was okay, thank you.”

“Dinner’s ready if you...oh...” he glances to the side, back to you and then to whatever he’s got going on the stovetop. “...This might be too heavy for you right now...” He murmurs to himself, a hand scratching at the back of his neck. He looks sheepish, a little guilty about something he didn’t consider.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll eat whatever it is.” You’re not about to make him waste his food, or be impolite.

“Okay, well.” He presses a button on the stove panel, turning to the island. There’s the sound of a drawer opening and he pulls out a kitchen towel, smiling at you. He nods his head to the right, where, tucked to the wall is a modest sized wooden table. There’re two plates of what he’s made already there, and tall glasses of water. “Go ahead.”

You walk over to the table, pulling out the chair to sit. Dinner is creamy mashed potatoes, a hearty portion of steamed mixed veggies and steak that’s somehow done to your liking and already cut into pieces. Your mouth waters at the sight and it smells so good you could cry. Hoseok isn’t finished at the island, so you busy yourself with folding the sleeves of your borrowed tee-shirt up and out of the way.

When he comes over he frowns a little, “You didn’t have to wait, dove.” He takes his seat opposite you, “Please, eat.”

The random pet name flies over your head, not that you would’ve been bothered by it had you been paying attention. Hoseok was kind enough to open his home to you, let you use his things and now he’s feeding you. He could call you whatever he likes.

You murmur a thank you and dig into your food. The sound you make when you take the first bite borders on erotic, but your gracious host doesn’t seem to mind very much. There’s a pleased glint in his eyes and a small curl to his mouth as he watches you eat for a moment.

You’re too hungry to be embarrassed by the intensity of his stare, but you’re mindful to not choke or look like you left your manners somewhere at your feet.

The food settles in your stomach, heavy but it’s a feeling you welcome. You could barely remember the last time you had a full meal. The bite you swallow brings the odd feeling of it slowing down behind your sternum, and you take a long drink of the cold water Hoseok had set out for you.

The man himself barely touched his own food, seemingly content to watch you scarf yours down. He has his chin propped in his hand, a small curl to the corner of his mouth and a glint of something in his eyes.

“Thank you...for the food.” You stare at your plate, drizzled with gravy and what’s left of your dinner. You can’t meet his gaze and you’re not certain why, and the intensity of it is starting to gnaw on your senses.

“No need for thanks, little dove.” Hoseok says, and there’s a soft clink when he finally picks his fork up and it knocks against the round rim of the plate. “Just doing my good deed for the day.”

The pet name strikes you this time, no longer distracted by the delicious food and your rumbling tummy. The way it rolls off his tongue sends a shiver racing down your spine, one that was decidedly unpleasant. There’s something in his tone, the way he stares when you raise your eyes to meet his, something in his beautiful heart shaped smile.

The fine hairs at the back of your neck raises, and you’re back to feeling like a bunny in a fox’s burrow. It was the same feeling you’d gotten earlier in the strange fog; the primal sense that you’re no longer the apex.

Something like a bell jingles in the back of your mind and grows louder until its a wailing alarm.

You should leave. Thank him for being so kind and get as far away from him as possible.

The look in his eyes unnerves you, but it’s something you can’t put a finger on. Just off the edge of his form something flutters, a shadow that shouldn’t be there, but it’s gone so quickly you didn’t have time to focus on it. The feeling intensifies; tugging, now.

You don’t think he’s blinked.

A shudder runs through you, rippling along your skin like a shockwave and Hoseok is calling your name.

“Are you okay?” there’s concern on his brow, his unoccupied hand raised in a wave as though he’s been trying to get your attention for a while. “Do you feel sick?”

“N... no. I’m fine, thank you.” You try to smile, but you’re pretty certain it looks as strained as it feels. He was almost done eating, though he’s paused to asses you with furrowed brows. You feel like you’ve missed something in the past minute.

“I asked if you wanted more food but you just blanked on me.” Hoseok sets his fork down and you feel like you’re losing your mind. The feeling from before is gone, and you’re not even certain if you felt it in the first place. Maybe you’re tired, or maybe the feeling of the comforts you’ve missed for so long is messing with your head.

Hoseok looks perfectly normal, there’s nothing flickering at his back or anything odd in his stare.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sure.” You don’t feel certain, and if Hoseok noticed he didn’t comment on it. You pick up the fork again, scraping up the little left of your food onto it quietly. You feel strange, as though the past two minutes moved by too quickly, or like they happened weeks ago and you’re struggling to cling to the details of them.

Hoseok is focused on his plate, and uncertainty at the hope that he keeps his eyes there blooms in your chest. You’re not sure why.

It’s awkwardly quiet for a couple moments, with Hoseok finishing his meal and you, playing with the folded ends of your borrowed tee-shirt. When he was done, he takes the plates and the empty glasses to the sink to clean them and you sit idly at the table.

He’s drying his hands with a dark kitchen towel when he’s done, settling at the edge of the island and facing you. The overhead lights glow against his form, casting shadows along his visage that makes him look sharper; menacing. It clings to his hair like a depiction of something holy, making his dark hair look russet in the gleam.

You go to thank him again, even though he’d probably wave you off like he’s been doing the whole time, but the lights are too bright. The glow of the lights swells and flood your eyes, you squeeze them shut, trying to dispel the ache that comes with it. You turn your head and it feels like you’re neck deep in mud, it takes too much effort to do something so simple.

Panic wells in your chest, sending your heart kicking against your ribs harshly. You take a breath, well, you try, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat and you choke on it.

There’s two Hoseoks when you peel your eyes open, and they neatly fold the towel they were using and put it down. For a minute, your vision settles, and the man leans against the island nonchalantly, crossing his arms and tilting his head as he watches you spiral.

“You should try to calm down.” He says softly, and you hate the way you cling to the sound of his voice when it’s very clear what’s happening.

“Wh...” Your tongue feels heavy, and the words you try to say are slurred and unintelligible. You move to stand, trying to get away even when your limbs feel like there’s a ball and chains at the ends of them. The world tilts on an axis, doubling as you make to your feet, you’re not sure if it’s leaning or you are.

Hoseok reaches you in a single step and a strangled sound escapes you. He places a hand on your shoulder, gently guiding you back into the chair. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing your body can’t handle.”

You can barely hear him, your ears feel as though there’s cotton in them, reducing his words to a muddled murmur. You can’t feel the way his fingers curl into the hair at your nape, but you notice the shift as he tilts your heavy head back to look up at him.

He’s smiling, you think. Pretty and heart shaped, all white teeth and sinister. And there’s that feeling again, as he says something you can’t hear, can’t focus, your eyes are closing.

There’s something dark and broken that flickers against the light above his head and shadows that dance at his back.

When the morning came and you didn’t wake, Hoseok wasn’t too concerned. He watched over you as once was his duty to another, tucked you into the sheets and the blankets and let you sink into the warmth of them. He sits in a chair at your bedside, simply watching the rise and fall of your chest and the pinch of your brow as sweat beads upon it.

Your body is fighting hard to flush out what he put in, and he admits, he may have given you a bit too much of it. It wasn’t his intention, but nothing can be done now but wait for you to come to.

When the afternoon comes and the first sign of your conscious shows in a weak attempt to rouse yourself, and a jumble of words that Hoseok deciphers with a well-trained ear it; was clear you weren’t fully there yet. Your skin was too warm, eyes not nearly focused enough, barely looking at him, and then the contents of your stomach come in a rush of bile and acid.

Hoseok tends to you gently, patiently, taking you to the bath and settling you in a way so that you don’t slip under and drown in your unconscious state. He cleans your mess, changes the bedding, puts you in a fresh set of clothes and lays you back to rest.

You stay asleep throughout the day, and Hoseok isn’t too concerned.

Humans are such fragile, foolish things. To him, you’re a porcelain doll, pretty to stare at and admire if it sits on the top of a shelf behind a case. Take it out of that case and it’s so easily broken. Hoseok is like a child in a sandbox of his own creation with too much power in his fingers. If he isn’t careful, he could shatter your form and lose you to the dunes.

The fear you felt the night before played you directly into his hands – never mind he had nothing to do with it – and Hoseok knows, you don’t have to be inclined to feel the weight of his presence. Your mind knew that something wasn’t quite right -- unconsciously or not --, and yet, you willingly followed.

Foolish.

Though, it was purely coincidental that you ran into him, he had been on his way to somewhere and wondering about the strangeness of the fog that rolled in out of nowhere. He hadn’t missed the weird quiet and lack of people either, it hadn’t been that late.

He doesn’t know exactly what you were doing in it, running around the way you were like a mouse in a maze. It’s something that sits at the back of his mind.

The morning of the second day brought no change; you were in and out of your drug induced sleep, and now, Hoseok was a little concerned.

::

“How much did you give her?”

There’s a squeak of leather as Seungcheol crosses his arms, when it’s quiet for far too long he gives Hoseok a look.

“A little.”

Seungcheol leans over your sleeping form, raising a hand to rest against your forehead. Hoseok would think you were dead if it weren’t for the steady rise and fall of your chest.

“If it was a little, you wouldn’t have called.” Seungcheol says, shaking his head, the dark waves of his hair brushing his eyelashes.

“Well, she’s not dead.”

“Dude.” Seungcheol looks a little disturbed, straightening to stare at Hoseok with a displeased furrow in his brow. “You can’t just – humans have limitations.”

“I’m aware, Cheol. Thank you.” Hoseok grumbles, and he ignores the raise of Seungcheol’s eyebrow and the clear disbelief in his eyes.

“‘Course you are.” He rolls his eyes and then sighs lowly, he turns back to you, placing his hand on your forehead again until the tension in your face fades. “Don’t give her any more of that shit. She should wake up sometime today, maybe.”

Hoseok knows better than anyone the limitations of humans. Not that he acknowledges them, he hadn’t the need to in a long time, but he should be careful at least.

Hoseok leads the way out of his guest bedroom with Seungcheol following and closing the door gently behind him. Walking to the kitchen he could feel his eyes burning into the back of his head.

Hoseok takes his time, fetching a glass from one of his cupboards and the whisky he keeps stashed away for his more stressful days. “Spit it out.”

Seungcheol braces his arms on the other side of the island, eyes dark. “Hoseok. I normally don’t care what you get up to; it’s not my business.” He says, looking somewhere to Hoseok’s right. “You don’t fuck around with humans. Who’s the girl?”

Hoseok hums, looking down at the amber liquid in his glass with a contemplative stare. “Street urchin. No one anyone would miss or bother to look for.”

“So you just took her off the street?” Seungcheol frowns, but Hoseok could tell from the look in his eyes that he knows it’s not that simple.

“She came willingly.” Hoseok corrects, taking a sip of the alcohol he could barely taste.

He sets the glass down on the island and pours the whisky to fill half. Seungcheol is quiet, and Hoseok hates it. It gives his mind a moment to wonder, to open a box he’s kept locked and chained.

On most days, Hoseok barely knows himself. He remembers what he’s supposed to be – what he was – and sometimes, that part of him rears its head to fight with what he’s become. Wings dipped in gold and divinity at the end of his fingertips battle endlessly with the shadows that encased him.

A memory of a time he held something as fragile as glass in his hands, broken before he could properly hold it by someone who was supposed to keep it safe. The ache of it burns like a rash that never goes away, always there, only hiding under his skin until it flares up again.

“Just... don’t do anything stupid.” Seungcheol says after a while, watching Hoseok carefully.

“You and your moral compass.” Hoseok shakes his head, and just like that, the golden light is bundled up tightly and pushed back into the corner where he long hid it.

Seungcheol heaves a sigh, shaking his head, picking up his bag he threw on the island counter when he got here.

“I need you to do something for me.” Hoseok says, watching the light shine through the glass in pretty crystal shapes. There’s a furrow of Seungcheol’s brows, but he tells Hoseok to continue with a raise of his chin. “Keep an eye out for a fog.”

“A fog? Why?”

“She was in one the night before.” Hoseok sucks air in through his teeth, “and she wasn’t alone.”

Seungcheol hums, “Alright.”

Hoseok drinks the last of the whisky in one go and waves a hand at Seungcheol, “You can go now.”

“Thank you, Cheol. Don’t know what I’d do without you.” Seungcheol grumbles and then raps his knuckles against the countertop. “I’ll be over here for a few days, gotta sort some things out. Call if you need me.”

Hoseok watches him leave, stuffing his hands into his pocket as he walks back to the bedroom where you still lay asleep.

He sits on the chair, watching the rise and fall of your chest, every minute twitch of your facial features. Restlessness tugs at his limbs as the sun makes its descent western sky, spraying the dimming canvas in hues of lilac and peach.

Something in the back of his mind asks what exactly he’s doing. There was no reason – there wasn’t a reason for him to take you in. A sprout of boredom, maybe, or something involuntary.

Hoseok stares out the window at the slowly darkening sky and the soft glimmer of early evening stars, until the sky is navy and darkness clings to the room.

Your mouth feels like someone’s stuffed cotton in it, and your throat feels like sandpaper when you try to swallow.

You haven’t opened your eyes, laying on what you presume is a bed, if the softness beneath you was anything to go by.

There’s not much that you remember, even as the fog in your mind clears little by little. You remember eating, you remember feeling strange like someone had shrunk you and shook you around in a jar of water. You remember the fear that quickened your heart and your breaths and Hoseok, standing above you like a malevolent God.

You remember the strangeness of his form, and even now your mind can’t comprehend it. You’re not even certain if what you saw was actually real and not an effect of whatever Hoseok had drugged you with.

Drugged.

He drugged you.

Your eyes open and the room is dark. The blankets are thick and heavy and they make you feel warm. There’s a window to your far left, curtains drawn back to show the city in all it’s glory.

Slowly, you sit up, pushing yourself upwards on arms that feel a little weak, and find – to your horror – the clothes you were wearing before aren’t what you’re wearing now.

You take a breath before the panic could set in. You could feel it rolling under your skin like a rumble of thunder before rain, and you try your best to stay calm. You need to find a way out of here.

The apartment seems to be quiet as you slide your feet out of the bed and onto the floor. You barely register the chill of it when you stand, sock-less feet making it easier to sneak over to the door without making a sound. You don’t know where Hoseok put your things, and you don’t have time to go looking for them.

The door isn’t locked, and doesn’t make noise when you push it open slightly to peek out through the little gap you made. You recognise the hallway, the bathroom is two doors down on the other side, and opening the door a little more, you poke your head out tentatively. 

You don’t breathe as you listen, but it’s so quiet, so much so that your exhale seems too loud, and there’s a soft ringing in your ears that set you on edge. Stepping outside the room, you contemplate your next course of action: You can bolt right for the door and get out, but risk making too much noise if Hoseok is indeed here. Or, you can slowly and quietly make your way over and slip out without cluing your kidnapper in on your escape.

Can it be called kidnapping if you were living on the streets?

The door seems miles away as you inch slowly towards the open kitchen and living room area. There are a few lights on, the same LED lighting strips run along the edge of the large pane windows and glows an ominous blue and the lights over the marble island had been dimmed. Both rooms seem empty and you couldn’t be more thankful.

Like a mouse, you skitter across along the hallway space that divides the two, down the little platform at the entrance and take one more step towards the door.

The door that seems further back than it was a second ago.

The stretch of space that was just an arm’s length away was now more than a hallway’s length. You stand still and stare at it, reaching an arm out in case you’re suddenly tripping balls but your hand swipes through air and falls limply at your side.

You look behind you and the rooms and hallway are just as they were, and turning back, the door was right where it was before. You could’ve sworn there was a handle on it. You place your palm against the cool, smooth surface where the handle should be and in the face of your freedom thwarted, you pinch your thigh.

You must be dreaming. The pain flares and grounds you and you realise there’s no explanation for this. You’re wide awake. Still drugged then. But you feel fine. There’s no swirling vision or heavy limbs, your mouth doesn’t feel like someone squeezed glue into it; you’re fine. This doesn’t make sense.

You back away from the door and almost stumble against the raised ledge behind your heels. Steadying yourself with a hand against the wall, you turn, and immediately, notice the darkness of the hallway.

Your breath catches in your throat and your heart slams so harshly against your sternum it hurt. There’s that feeling again, it sends a shiver racing down your spine and scattering goosebumps along your skin. You’re being watched. You are not the apex here.

You want to run, or curl up into a ball and hope the darkness hides you. Fear coils into your muscles and locks them tight, and you’re left standing still, eyes darting around trying to make sense of the shapes in the dark.

There’s a darkness that curls at the center of the space a few feet away from you, undulating and crashing in on itself in an uncoordinated dance of chaos. It’s somehow darker than the darkness – stands out against it like white on black paint. It doesn’t make sense to you, and it could simply be your mind turning against you and scaring you further.

It slowly floats towards you, wraps around you in a languid, bored way, like smoke, no longer as tangible as it seemed before. You don’t feel it’s caress, but it’s cold, like you’d submerged yourself into a tub full of ice and water. You feel as though you’ll pass out, like the black wisps of strange smoke is filling your lungs and carving its way through. There’s fear, which is yours, and something that isn’t.

Something dark and lonely, desperate and afraid. It’s sad, so sad that you feel like you’ll drown in it, that tears would well in your eyes and squeeze your throat tight. There’s anger. It feels as though you can burn the world and revel in it.

The smoke snaps back and away from you, crumples on itself violently and then the lights are on, blinding you.

Hoseok is standing in front of you. There’s a mix of conflicted emotions on his face like he can’t settle on one before the storm in his eyes calm.

There’s a tenseness to his brow, and he studies you quietly with a tilt of his head.

“You’re awake.”

He takes one step forward and you take two back in turn. His eyes dart down to your feet and quickly back to your face, and draws the foot he put forward back to himself.

“I won’t hurt you.”

You scoff before you could help it, fear pushed slightly to the side as your anger rushes forward. “Right. Like I’ll believe that after you fucking drugged me.”

“Like I said, it was nothing your body couldn’t handle.” Hoseok counters calmly, “If I wanted to hurt you, you’d be dead.”

“Then why am I here? What do you want?” His threat didn’t go unheard, it settles into your mind and buries itself underneath everything else you’re trying to absorb for you to freak out about later.

Hoseok smiles, and its bright in its visage, every bit of sweet and caring as you thought him to be. Dimples you haven’t noticed before sinks into his laugh lines, and you think briefly, it makes him even more dangerous. He looks so harmless, as his smile blossoms and blooms into the heart shape you remember from the night before.

“Just you.” He says, eyes glinting with something you’ve decided is more than a little crazy.

You take another step back and he remains in his spot. If you’re quick enough – just enough – you can make it to the door. You might be able to outrun him.

“You can leave if you like.” He says, like he could tell what you’re thinking – or read your mind – and his smile fades, like a raincloud swelling and covering the warm rays of the sun. “Can’t guarantee you’d get very far, so I advise against it.”

You’re not sure if he’s being honest. Though, he looks pretty damn serious. He stares at you quietly, intensely, like he’s daring you to make that mistake. You hazard a look at the door behind you and the handle is still gone.

“What are you?” you ask, turning to face him and he’s directly in front of you. The startled squeak that leaves you makes him chuckle. Bending at his waist, Hoseok stares right into your eyes and you feel like your heart might just burst out of your chest and take off running.

Bunny in a fox’s burrow.

“Hm.” He hums, “Now you’re asking questions.” He straightens with a smile and steps aside, gesturing to the kitchen with a slight nod of his head. “I’ll tell you eventually. For now though, you should eat.”

You stay rooted to your spot and decide that if he wants you to move, he’s going to have to move you himself. He’s insane if he thinks you’d be eating anything he gives you.

“Come now, dove. Don’t be that way.” He sighs, stares at you for a moment later before nodding. He turns on his heel and walks into the kitchen without you.

There’re the soft clangs of him moving things around, doing whatever he’s doing in there.

“You’ve been unconscious for two days, and you’ve been sick. You shouldn’t be standing.” You hear him say from the kitchen, and you think you could make another attempt at the door but the handle is still missing, so you have no choice but to go.

You eye him suspiciously when you enter, watching as he butters a piece of toast and puts it on a plate. He doesn’t look at you as you hover unsurely at the dining table, watching the lights catch on the dark marble island counter.

“I won’t give you anything to drink. Get it yourself if you’re worried I’d try something.” He says softly, and not unkind. There’s a shift in his tone and the way his body moves as he brings the plate over. You feel like the man who was standing in front of you a couple of minutes ago in the hallway had hidden himself away and the man you’d met on the street had crawled his way back to the surface.

He sets it down on the table and walks back around the island, opposite from where you’re standing, and out of the kitchen.

You’ve been here for two days – whatever he’d given you must have been strong as hell – trapped here with...him. You’re certain you can’t call him a man, he’s something more than that and you won’t know until he tells you. Most of the memory of the night you came here are blurry and frayed at the edges, making them impossible to cling to and analyse.

There was something strange in the moments before the drug kicked in and right before you passed out. Something strange about Hoseok, but you can’t seem to recall it. It’s like it happened years ago.

The inconsistencies of your memory leave you on edge, and you eye the two slices of perfectly buttered toast on the plate. He’s given you something light enough that your stomach won’t be upset. As the thought comes to mind you faintly remember being sick at some point, but that too is fuzzy and you aren’t sure if its real. At least now the change of clothes makes sense, though, it doesn’t make you feel any better. He could’ve done anything to you while you were drugged and unconscious.

You wonder what he could possibly want with you. Why you, of all people? You’re just a girl who had everything taken from her and thrown off the ladder, now at rock bottom fending for yourself. There’s nothing left of you that could be given.

You feel Hoseok’s presence before you see him, a sort of odd pressure in the back of your mind and your chest. He pokes his head into the room like he’s checking to see if you’d started eating or not and doesn’t look surprised to see you’d left the toast untouched and you’re still standing.

“The toast is fine, you know.” He says, and there’s an understanding in his eyes when he looks at you. He knows you don’t trust him, though, he doesn’t seem too bothered by it. He sighs when you don’t make a move and comes into the kitchen. He takes the same route as before, walking around the opposite side of the island – away from you – until he’s standing at the other side of table.

“Okay.” He says, picking up one of the toast slices, he bites into it and stares at you while he chews. “Make something yourself then.”

You blink, “Huh?”

“The bread is in the fridge if you want. There’re oats if you prefer that instead. Stick to light things. I’d rather not be cleaning up after you.” You don’t understand him. In the short time you’ve known him, he’s like a square that’s trying to fit into a circle. The circle is too round to accommodate his sharp edges, but he somehow manages to get just half of the square through, even if the circle is struggling to contain it.

Not to mention the weird things that’s happened within the half hour you’ve been awake, things he’s yet to explain to you. Matter of fact, strange things has been happening since you left Abigail. The police officer, the fog, and whatever the hell was out there in it with you. You’re not even sure if that was real either.

You feel like if you focus on it, you’ll go crazy. So your mind does the only thing it can do to protect itself – pushes it away into a corner to mull over later along with everything else.

“I’d rather not.” You no longer feel the need to show him gratitude. You feel stupid, for one, why did you think trusting a random stranger would be a good thing?

Hoseok shrugs, dropping the half-eaten toast back onto the plate. He walks around you, close enough that the hairs on the back of your neck stands on end, that the warning bells are going crazy in your head again.

It’s uncomfortable being this close. The reaction is visceral, unable to ignore and you wonder why you hadn’t felt it the night before. Why you’d manage to follow him all the way here and not noticed. Maybe you had, briefly and in little moments that were small enough for you to brush them off.

You watch him watch you as he circles you like a vulture, “What are you?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was human?” He asks from behind you, and it feels like a terrible idea to have your back to him. He sounds amused, like this is nothing but a little game to him – just something to pass time while he’s bored.

As he rounds your right, your eyes meet the darkness of his. “You’re not.” It would be strange if you still thought he was after everything that’s happened already.

Hoseok hums, a twinkle lighting his eyes, “Perceptive, aren’t we?” There’s something like pride in his voice but you’re not sure what it’s for, “What do you think I am?”

“You expect me to guess correctly?” The difference in your height does nothing to stop you from glaring at him. He tilts his head at you, dark locks of his hair swaying against his forehead gently.

“No.” Hoseok smiles, “But it’ll make things interesting. I like games; play along.”

A shiver runs down your spine at his tone and the darkness in his eyes. He takes a step away from you and it feels like you can finally take a breath. His movements are fluid as he pulls the dining chair out from below the table. He sits gracefully, propping his chin in his palm as he watches you expectantly.

“Do you want a hint?” He asks, smiling sweetly.

“Why don’t you just tell me?” Your voice was barely above a whisper. You’re tired of whatever game he’s playing at, sick of the fear that keeps you standing still as he stares you down.

He stares at you like you’re a complex puzzle he’s trying to piece together. “I used to be an angel. Fallen from grace.”

You’d laugh at the absurdity of his words, but he has that look again. He has that look that makes you believe him, and everything seems to click into place and make sense, even if you barely understand it at all.

“Okay.” You nod, and then take a seat. You focus on the gentle waves of his dark hair and not his eyes, “Why am I here? Why can’t I leave?”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t. You can if you want to. I said that I can’t guarantee you’d get far; You weren’t alone out in that fog.”

You’d almost forgotten about that. Recent happenings had been enough to push it to the back of your mind. You knew you weren’t losing your mind that night, something had definitely chased you and you’re positive it wasn’t a regular animal.

“But that’s another topic.” Hoseok mumbles, more to himself than you, and it looks as though his thoughts strayed elsewhere for a moment before he focused. “You should be thanking me.” He says, tilting his head to meet your gaze with a smile.

He couldn’t be seriously wanting you to thank him. For what? Saving you? For all you know it could’ve been one of his tricks. Why would you thank him? He says that you could leave if you like – him messing with you since you woke up says otherwise. He’s not actually giving you a choice. You’re not going anywhere unless he lets you.

When you remain silent, he leans forward, pink tongue darting out to moisten his lips. “There’s nothing for you out there, though.”

You know he’s right. But that doesn’t justify what he’s doing. You assume he doesn’t care, if you were him, you wouldn’t feel the need to abide by law either.

You’d never been much for fantasy stories, growing up you were well aware that they were just that – stories. Your parents weren’t very religious, but you’d say grace before meals, pray before you go to sleep and when you woke up. Your parents would sometimes quote the bible when you were being naughty and every now and again you’d find yourself in a church for Sunday mas.

Your father used to say that the bible is a book of stories and lessons, and even if you aren’t to abide strictly by it, you should at least heed it. There’s someone up above, watching always.

The angels in the bible were described differently than the man before you, you think. Can angels really do things so bad that it gets them casted out?

Did he do something bad that got him sent here like some wayward child sent off to boot camp?

Even if a part of you is ever doubtful, his existence proves the existence of a higher being and you have some choice words for them.

In the days that go by, you remain wary of Hoseok. You don’t trust him, but you appreciate him letting you hover about him anytime he makes you something to eat. He makes everything from scratch and you wonder most of the time if it’s a skill he just has or was it something he had to hone on his own.

He barely bothers you, goes about his business, which really, entails him sitting in the living room and ignoring you.

Some days is another story entirely. You came to realise quickly that Hoseok is fond of games, usually at your expense. A shadow following you here, whispers that come from no where and bounces off the walls.

There are moments when you catch glimpses of something out of the corner of your eye – a figure lurking in the darkness, just beyond your line of sight. When you turn to look, there’s nothing there, leaving you to wonder if it was ever really there at all. You’ve seen shit at the corner of your vision way too many times for it to be a coincidence. You try to brush them off as tricks of the mind, but deep down, you know it’s not that simple.

Hoseok is always there when it happens, some sort of mirth in his eyes like your suffering is amusing.

The feeling of being watched becomes a constant presence, a weight on your shoulders that you can’t shake no matter how hard you try. Every time you turn around, you half expect to find Hoseok lurking in the shadows, a smug smirk playing on his lips as he revels in your discomfort.

For the first week it’s been this way, and when the second week started, he’d leave at one point during the day. Bored of you most likely, not that you’re complaining; at least he was no longer trying to send you crazy.

He’d give you the same instruction he did the night be brought you, use anything you need with additions of ‘Don’t cause trouble’ and ‘Stay put’. You always roll your eyes at that, the door remains the same; missing it’s handle. You couldn’t leave even if you wanted to.

You would stand in the living room, which looks much like the rest of Hoseok’s penthouse apartment; sleek and dark. There’s a few accents of white and red, black leather couches and clear glass tables. A flat screen TV you’ve never seen used mounted on the wall, a fluffy white rug covering the space between it and the couch. You’ve seen no other electronics besides that, nothing that you can use to contact anyone.

He’d left you things to occupy your time – like you’re a child – books and puzzles and what have you. And you found that the TV works if you become bored of the other things.

Weirdly enough, there’s people outside and below, unlike the night you came when it looked like a ghost town. You can see the glint of the sun bouncing off of shiny cars driving in and out of the hotel’s compound. Little people walking around as they go about their days, oblivious to your plight.

Sometimes you would hear someone out in the hallway beyond the door, like someone coming to clean and you would bang on the door and be as loud as you possibly could. It’s like you’re a ghost. You asked him about that once, and he told you that he can mimic spaces, make it seems as though something is or isn’t there.

Sometimes Hoseok would come back from his little excursions and be as normal as he could be. He’d talk to you like he isn’t holding you captive, ask you about what you did for the day as though there’s a million and one things you could do while there. You’d answer as to not be on the wrong side of him, even though it’s clear that he doesn’t quite mind you not saying anything back. He’d ask you what you’d like for dinner, and he’d eat with you.

On days like those it feels... normal. You feel comfortable and the nature of the situation escapes you. Like this had been your life for as long as you could remember. And sometimes you think, that maybe, if things were different. If perhaps he hadn’t kidnapped you, ‘helping’ you or otherwise. Maybe if your life had gone a little differently and you’d met him under different circumstances...then maybe.

Sometimes on those days he’d sit quietly as you give him little pieces of you; telling him about your childhood and not so important things. He’d clear the coffee table to put a puzzle together and ask you to help him with it.

Some days he’d come back and he wouldn’t be in a good mood. He’d stand and brood at the large windows looking out, lost in thought. On those days he’d look gone, vacant, as though whatever going on in his head was paramount to the reality around him. His eyes are sad then, and he’d be so quiet you’d forget he’s there. He’d make dinner, and he would not eat.

On days like those, if you wake at night and venture out of your room, you’d find Hoseok as you did the night you first woke up. A swirling ball of shadows and smoke somewhere about, and the lights are always off. It scares the hell out of you every time. It reminds you of what he is, despite the nature of his existence, there’s something very dark about him. He scares you mostly, even when he’s being nice, it’s unnerving. You’d try to stay clear of him then.

Something in your mind had been made aware that he is beyond your understanding. He’s stronger and faster than you, can do things that makes your brain grind to a halt trying to process. Sometimes it feels like he’s in your head, watching your every move and surveying your every thought. It scares you.

On days like those, the last thing you want to do is sleep.

Sleep evades you and when you do finally catch it, your dreams are wrought with nightmares of shadows and screams and blood. Sometimes Hoseok is there and he’s less kind than he’s ever been, and you’re lost in darkness and can’t find your way out.

Sometimes it’s a man with red hair lurking at the corners of them, smiling and taunting you. You feel like you could never escape them, like your dreams lasts the entire night and leave you exhausted when you wake up.

The room you woke up in so long ago was yours; Hoseok stays clear of it and never enters without knocking. One day Hoseok had brought you clothes you’re certain costs more than your life, they’re mostly comfort clothes as you have nowhere to be at no point in time. From sweaters to tee-shirts, lounge pants to bicycle shorts and an assortment of underwear that made you scowl at him.

That day you asked him just how long he was going to keep you captive – he didn’t much like the use of that word, prefers ‘keeping you safe’. He told you about the mysterious animal that chased you in the fog, that he and a friend are looking into it and reminds you that you wouldn’t get very far should you leave. You reminded him that he’s not letting you go anywhere.

You stare up at the ceiling, counting the swirling pattern from one corner to the next. You’ve lost count of them every time and you’ve lost count on just how long you’ve been here. Hoseok remains the same, fluctuating between rivalling the sun and being the moon that sometimes eclipse it.

It’s the morning of yet another day, and you can hear Hoseok moving about already. Sometimes you wonder if he ever sleeps...does he need sleep? He eats...that much is for certain, so by any rate he functions partially human.

You sigh softly, getting out of bed and shuffling your feet to the house slippers Hoseok gave to you. There’s the smell of breakfast coming from the kitchen, the sound of Hoseok moving about, and it sounds like he’s in a good mood if his humming is anything to go by.

You wash up for the morning and get changed before carrying yourself out to the kitchen.

Hoseok looks devastatingly domestic and the smile he directs at you is enough to send your mind haywire. These past few days has been confusing for you. Though the initial fear you felt for him was there, lately, it’s been less. You’ve found yourself missing him when he goes off to do whatever he does during the day and you’re excited when he comes back. You’re chalking up the reason for that being that he’s the only person you’ve been in contact with for possibly a month or two.

On some of the days where he would come back and be less than happy, and the lights go out like they’re scheduled to and Hoseok is no longer tangible. When he hovers in a little ball of controlled chaos that blends into the darkness, you sit and wait. You wait until he’s there again and the lights are back on and he looks at you like you’re something he’s lost.

It confuses you as much as his smile that sends your heart thrumming against your ribcage in a dance that isn’t out of fear. You actually can’t remember when you’d stopped being afraid of him.

“I’m going out today.”

Your brows furrow, he’s never told you that he’s leaving before. He brings over a breakfast of pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon and sliced fruit. A sealed carton of orange juice and a glass for you.

“Okay...?”

Hoseok smiles, “Okay.”

::

When lunch came around, you’re sitting at the island watching Hoseok prepare the ingredients for whatever he’s going to make.

You don’t really feel the need to watch him as closely as you did when you first got here, now you simply do it because there isn’t anything better to do.

He moves in the kitchen like it’s a dance, turning to and fro with a grace you could only hope to have.

He’s already got something on the stove, some sort of sauce you think. It smells amazing and you’re looking forward to whatever it could be.

He looks a bit in his head, brows furrowed as he concentrated a little too hard to just be cutting an onion into crescent slices. He mutters something under his breath, turning to stir the contents in the pot before going back at the onion.

“Hoseok?” You call softly as he sets the onion aside in a bowl and pulls something else onto the cutting board. For a moment you’re not sure if he’s heard you, with just the steady sound of the knife hitting the board, he hums, glancing at you. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.” You can tell he’s in one of his moods, but he’s actively trying to be pleasant. He fills a pot with water and sets it on the stove and then turns the oven on to heat up. “What is it?”

His tone isn’t harsh, just a tad bit impatient.

“Is cooking just something that you can do? Or did you have to learn?”

He turns, pauses, stares at you for a moment and then chuckles, “It’s a skill I acquired through a lot of trial and error. I had a long time to perfect it, though.”

“How long are we talking?” You’re a little intrigued, besides him telling you that he’s a fallen angel, he hasn’t told you exactly how he became one or how long he’s been here.

He tilts his head and smiles gently in the way he does when he’s thinking if he should answer you honestly or not before shrugging, “Long enough.”

You sigh, “Fine. Don’t tell me. You’re probably older than dirt anyway.”

A surprised laugh leaves him, high pitched and a little untamed. The sound is infectious and now you’re laughing too.

Happiness looks good on him, you wish he wore it often.

When it was about four in the afternoon, you hear the closing of Hoseok’s door and the sound of his footsteps walking up the hall.

You’re curled up against the corner of the couch, tucked under a yellow blanket with a book in your hand. You smell him before you see him; the cologne he’s wearing reaching the room before he does.

He steps in and stands near the entrance, the end of his coat brushing against his shins while he secures a watch to his wrist. His hair’s grown longer since he brought you here, curling against his jaw and the bangs are long enough to almost hide his eyes if not for the middle part. The rings on his fingers catch the light of the sun, and he finally settles, a serious look on his face as he watches you for a moment.

He seems to be contemplating something, the muscle of his jaw tensing as he grinds his teeth. He lifts a hand and crooks a finger at you.

Unwrapping yourself from the blanket, you walk over to him. He doesn’t say anything, but levels you with a look and guides you into the hallway with a hand at your back. “I’m leaving the door alone.”

The door is practically singing your freedom, the silver handle looks like a lighthouse at a stormy sea at night. Hoseok is looking down his nose at you when you finally tear your eyes away. His eyes narrow as though he can hear your thoughts and steps away from you.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

And you didn’t. You messed around with the TV, got bored, read another book, and decide to take a nap. Doing it all to ignore the door. You wouldn’t get very far. You really don’t want to know what Hoseok meant by that.

There isn’t anywhere you can go, you have nothing to your name. You get three square meals, clean clothes and a bed to sleep in when night comes – you think about Abigail, you wonder if she’s alright – you’d actually be quite dumb to go out there. Hoseok hasn’t done much but mentally exhaust you, you aren’t chained up in a dank room and being made to do things against your will. It’s actually quite pleasant.

You shuffle to your room and crawl under the covers, suddenly too sleepy to keep your eyes open. You would usually take naps when there’s nothing else for you to do, but you’re never this sleepy. It’s like your body is demanding you close your eyes and pass out right now.

You open your eyes a couple of minutes later and realise you didn’t know you fell asleep. It’s dark out already.

You throw the covers back, scoot to the edge of the bed, and put your feet right into water. You look down at it confused – did you leave a tap on? Hoseok would probably throw you out a window for flooding his place. Or maybe he’ll start up his silly mind games again and drive you nuts.

You’re not too concerned about it, strangely enough, as you get up, the water soaks into the legs of your pants. It’s high enough to lap against the middle of your shins and you curse softly, how could you forget to turn the tap off?

You swish through the water, reaching the door and pulling it open. The water is gone and you’re standing in the living room. Hoseok sits on the couch, one leg lapped over the other, bobbing idly as he turns the page of a thick book balanced on his thigh.

“Hoseok.” You sigh, “Stop it. I’m not in the mood for your stupid games.”

He turns his head slowly to look at you, crooks a finger like he did at you earlier. You stomp over to him, not caring that you probably look rather childish doing so. When you stop in front of him, he gently puts the book aside and then wraps his fingers around your wrist.

Your pulse flutters and you pray that he can’t feel it. A soft squeak leaving you as he tugs you to him, you fumble to catch yourself, trying not to trip over your feet and the carpet. Your hand lands beside his head, sinking into the leather, his eyes meet yours through his hair, and when he pulls you down, you follow without question.

He settles you in his lap, one hand gripping your waist and the other snaking upward to bury itself into your hair. He leans forward, nosing along the underside of your jaw and when the warmth of his tongue streaks against your pulse, a shiver races down your spine before you catch yourself. You push against his shoulder, “Hoseok.”

His chuckle sounds dark to your ears, his grip on your waist tightens enough that you fear you’d bruise. His teeth drag against your earlobe and yours sink into your bottom lip. “Don’t act like this isn’t what you want.”

His words wrap around your head, burying themselves under your skin and makes home there. The hand in your hair slowly slides out of it, moving down until it’s wrapped around your throat. His thumb presses against your racing pulse, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “You want me to break you.”

It’s a moment of bliss, warmth spreading through you before it instantly chills. It’s all fun and games until he’s actually trying to choke you out. Your breaths come in shallow gasps as Hoseok’s grip tightens around your throat, squeezing the air from your lungs. Panic surges through you, and for a moment, you’re certain you’ll pass out from lack of oxygen.

He’s going to kill you.

Desperate, you claw at his hands, trying to pry them away, but his strength overwhelms you. Your struggles intensify as you realize the danger you’re in.

He stands swiftly and lets you go, and you crash unceremoniously into the glass coffee table, nearly breaking your wrist trying to catch your weight. You cough and gasp, clutching at your throat that burns with every breath you take. Your eyes sting with tears as you scramble to put distance between you and him.

He watches you, amused, taking slow steps towards you. He laughs, the sound echoing off the walls and you realise – there’s nowhere to run.

You look up at him, and you’re now facing the windows. The LEDs that line the perimeter of them are glowing a sinister red and they’re the only source of light. There’s something slick under your palms, something you slide in as you try to get up. Inspecting it in the lighting does nothing, as it simply looks dark against your skin, but, there’s no mistaking the scent of copper.

Gazing around, you’re sitting in a pool of blood. Hoseok is nowhere to be found. The pool stretches off like something was dragged through it, going out the living room and down the hall.

You follow it, against your better judgement. This is the worst trick he’s ever played.

Your pants stick to your skin uncomfortably, and you wipe your hands hurriedly against the front of them. It doesn’t do much but spread the mess of blood around. The trail leads into your bedroom, and you stand outside the slightly ajar door with your heart pounding against your ribs.

Raising a hand, you push the door open, but plan to go no further than the threshold. The lights are on, dimly, it doesn’t give you much vision, but you could see Hoseok standing over someone.

It’s you, well...it was you. You’re not sure if you could call that you anymore. Limbs twisted in unnatural angles, sharp ends of bone sticking out from your bruised skin.

You stumble backwards, slipping in the still wet trail of blood and falling against the door behind you. Tears blur your vision, you feel sick.

“You see?” a voice whispers, echoing and bouncing around in your head. “This is what will happen.”

There’s someone else here.

“He’ll kill you.” The voice snickers, crawling along your skin like poison ivy. “Run. Get out.”

You startle awake, gasping for air, searching your body for any sign of blood. The sun is almost setting, preparing to make its descent in the west and you dart out of bed. Your skin feels tight, like you’re too big for it and it makes you uncomfortable. Your breaths are harsh barely making it into your lungs before you’re forcing it out again.

You make for the door, yanking it open and running down the hall. You didn’t stop to think, you just want out. You push the entrance door and it opens and you stumble out into the hallway you haven’t seen in ages.

You run up to the elevator, the overhead floor indicator is blank. And the elevator doesn’t budge when you push the button frantically. Hands caught in your hair you spin around, there must be a way.

The green exit sign glows like a beacon of hope. You trip over your feet getting to it, almost face planting on the expensive rug that lines the hallway. The door opens with a click and your footsteps echo in the stairwell as you take them two at a time to get as far away from this place as possible.

You don’t stop until you’re three flights down, breath ragged and vision spotty. You lean against the wall to catch your breath, panting and wiping the sweat off your brow.

There’s a loud bang that echoes from somewhere below and you freeze. Taking careful steps you peek between the railings and see nothing.

It might be Hoseok.

Or, it could be someone else in the building and your only hope of getting out of here.

“Hello? Is someone ther—” There’s another loud bang, and you take a couple steps down the fourth flight and look over the railing again. A thick fog swirls just a floor below.

The hair on the back of your neck shoots up at the low growl that dances up the stairwell. You nearly go tumbling down it in your haste to turn around and go back up.

As you turn to go back up the third flight, the fog surrounds you and you stop as it becomes impossible to see. You grip tightly to the stair railing, tentatively stepping up – You’re trying not to breathe too loudly.

There’s something scraping against the ground on the stairs below and your heart kicks. You step faster, at the same time trying not to trip and break your neck. There’s a low snarl and you bolt, taking the stair two at a time back up the way you came.

The floor vibrates beneath you as whatever it is gives chase. You make it up to the first landing, pulling the exit door open with a grunt. You’re just about to step through when what feels like three hot butcher knives slices through your back. The force of it sends you pitching forward, smacking hard into the wall on the opposite side before you crumple against it.

You could barely feel it, you’re aware you’re hurt...you could feel the pulsing, open wounds at your back. Your mind is trying to process as you struggle to move, taking a breath aches as you push yourself upward and away from the wall just enough to turn. You don’t manage much more than that, sliding down the wall until your butt hits the pretty red carpet.

The metal door of the emergency exit swings open harshly, banging loudly against the wall before it leans forward; one of the hinges broken. The thing that stands in the doorway looks like it crawled out of some deep, dark part of hell. It’s standing on it’s hind legs before it drops forward, claws that look at least nine inches long scraping against the linoleum.

It looks like a giant dog, honestly. It’s hard to tell when all you could focus on was that you could feel your heartbeat at your back, and the slick warmth soaking into your ruined sweater and pants. Shock maybe...or adrenaline, was keeping most of the pain at bay, you’re pretty sure you’d be dead otherwise right now.

With a guttural growl, the creature emerges, its form contorted and twisted, as if it were forged from the very essence of nightmares.

Its body is a grotesque fusion of twisted flesh and sinew, its skin a sickly shade of mottled grey, stretched taut over bulging muscles that ripple with every movement. Sharp spikes protrude from its spine, glinting menacingly in the dim light, while its black eyes burn with a fiery intensity that seems to pierce through your very soul.

The creature's mouth curls into a snarl, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth stained with blood. Its breath is a noxious cloud of decay and sulphur, filling the air with a suffocating stench that makes your stomach churn.

As it lurches forward on all fours, its movements are unnaturally fluid, each step sending tremors through the ground beneath you. It’s trying to squeeze its way through the small space of the doorway, too big to pass through, and you could do nothing but watch.

Your vision goes hazy as you simply stare at the creature.

The adrenaline is fading and you’re starting to feel your wounds, but maybe if you could crawl towards the door...

At six pm on a Friday evening, Hoseok isn’t at all surprised to see the line of people waiting to get into the club. It’s still a long way to opening, but with the prestige of this place, again, he isn’t surprised.

He was with Yoongi when he bought the place, watched him build it from the ground up. Watched his taste for the interior bounce around erratically until he settled, as the clientele flickered from the common club goer to people – if they had enough money – buying their way in.

Haegeum is on the high-end of the city, the type of place where you’d wonder if folks had enough money to burn just because. Yoongi doesn’t discriminate and all are welcomed.

The queue is a mix of people: folks dressed to the nines just to step a foot in the place, those of which would most likely be sitting pretty in the VIP section. People just looking for a place to escape to for a while, teenagers holding tight to their fake Ids and clinging to their friends. They mingle in groups or alone, their chatter filling the air with a soft buzz of voices and hushed giggles.

Hoseok takes everything in with an air of nonchalance as he strolls by.

The bouncer at the heavy black door stands stoically, clipboard in hand for VIP clients. Hoseok breezes past him when he opens the door to let him in, stepping into the entrance foyer, illuminated by dim red lights. He walks down the hall, and down the dark metal staircase into the main floor of the club.

The above head white florescent lights do nothing to take away from the grandeur of the club, though, Hoseok likes it better when it’s late and the lights are off. The main floor is usually accented in lights of blue and red, casting shadows streaking along the sitting area. Embedded into the walls are velvet couches that flow with the design in a sort of snake like shape, a short-legged coffee table and single seated chairs dotted between every inward curve. There’s a wide enough walkway for two people walking side by side to pass, a partition of glass, and on the other side of it, black leather couches and even more glass coffee tables.

 The walls are interesting, and Hoseok thinks this because he doesn’t know why Yoongi likes it so much. In large arched alcoves sits head statues of Greek gods of mortal tales, staring lifelessly into the distance, bathed in dark blue light. Between every two are columns that resembles those of a temple, and smooth grey stone. Hoseok honestly doesn’t know which vibe Yoongi is going for, not that he’d say it to his face.

He walks down the little walkway, down another set of stairs and across the dance floor. The bar is tucked in a corner, glasses being wiped by one of Yoongi’s employees behind it. Hoseok offers the man a nod of his head, moving towards the staircase that curves with the wall and upwards.

Yoongi’s office veers just off the VIP lounge, set behind large mahogany doors. And Hoseok doesn’t bother knocking. The room looks pretty much the same as it’s always had: dark walls with darker patterns, a maroon carpet lining the floor, abstract paintings hanging on the walls that allude to a darker nature, and in the far corner on the wall between two paintings is a golden blade dagger behind a mounted glass case.

“...Pick your side, kid. It’s either you’re with me, or against me.” Yoongi’s voice is cold, not angry per se, but reeking in annoyance that chills rather than burns. “And trust me when I say that you don’t want me as your enemy. I don’t play nice.”

There’s a young man standing in front of Yoongi’s large desk, his hands behind his back where one hand squeezes the other in bouts of nervous jitter. There are bruises on his knuckles, and even from behind, Hoseok could tell that he’s trying to fit into a crowd that doesn’t suit him. Haegeum isn’t just a club but a base of operations so to speak, in the middle of this high-end city, its easy for Yoongi to wrack up a certain clientele. People who seek a different ease of mind and has a different lifestyle.

Hoseok leans against the door, watching the scene play out, as the young man bows slightly and Yoongi waves his hand at him.

“Keep shadowing Seonghwa and Hongjoong for the week, and I don’t want any trouble this time.” He says dismissively, and the boy turns to leave. As Hoseok catches his eye, something akin to a bolt of lightening shoots down his spine. It isn’t noticeable to the more ordinary folk, but Hoseok isn’t ordinary, and neither are Yoongi and the rest of his boys. 

The air crackles with static, raw, untrained power that itches Hoseok the wrong way. The boy stands there clearly a moment too long, and Yoongi’s knuckles raps against the table top. “Yeonjun.”

Yeonjun gives a soft apology, and quickly walks towards the door. Hoseok opens it for him, not out of kindness, but purely to give him a long unbroken stare. He smiles as the boy struggles to hold his gaze, even as the hair on the back of his neck stands on end at his proximity.

When he shuts the door behind him, Yoongi is already watching him with a raised brow. Hoseok wanders over to the leather armchair at the front of Yoongi’s desk and sits, shifting around until he’s comfortable in it. “I thought they were a myth.”

“Obviously they’re not.” Yoongi mutters, shaking his head as he sieves through a stack of papers scattered on his desk before he finds what he’s looking for. “Kid wanted in, so I let him. More trouble than it’s worth, honestly. But, the Nephilim are stronger than the order, so I gave it a shot.”

Hoseok hums, and Yoongi seems to catch himself, narrowing his eyes at him. The scar that runs through his right eye looks pink and irritated in the motion and the overhead lights. “What are you doing here?”

“What? I can’t visit?”

If Yoongi narrows his eyes any more, he’d close them, “I think you know better than anyone that you’re never here.” He says, “You’re absent more often than not, so I have the right to ask. Did you do something? I’m not cleaning up any more of your messes.”

Yoongi pushes back his chair, walking across the room to the mini bar he has tucked in the corner. He pulls a glass from the cabinet and pours himself a glass of whisky from a long necked crystalline bottle. He takes a sip and turns leaning against the bar’s edge. “Last time was enough trouble.”

“You’d clean it up anyways.” Hoseok says, leaning his head back against the chair, tilting his head to look at Yoongi. “I found something fun to do.”

Yoongi stares at him for a moment, quiet, contemplative, “Causing a different type of trouble, I see.” He chuckles, “Don’t break her.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Hoseok smirks, and then frowns a little. With all Yoongi’s prowess and danger, he’s gone a little soft around the edges, and he could see that softness in his eyes as he looks off into the distance. Surely thinking about the mortal girl that has him wrapped around her little fingers like bubble gum.

“You’ll learn.” Yoongi says cryptically, and it reminds Hoseok that he’s never really sure what Yoongi is thinking. Sometimes he’s an open book and Hoseok could read him like one, easy to figure out in the way that he moves, and sometimes he’s sealed tight.

Yoongi drains his glass of whisky, setting it down with a clink on the bar top before walking back over to his desk. “Since you’re here...” He opens a drawer and pulls out a thick black file, “Give this to Seonghwa.”

Hoseok takes the file and opens it, reading over the contents. There’s a man on Yoongi’s black list that’s due a checking in. “You let him and Joong have all the fun.”

“You’re too messy.” Yoongi retorts, “I said I’m not cleaning up after you.”

Hoseok shrugs, and gets up, skirting around the back of the chair and walking towards the door.

“Hobi.” Yoongi calls, “I don’t have to remind you that there’s a meeting at the end of the month, right?”

“I’ll be here.” Hoseok says, as the look in Yoongi’s eyes gave no room to say anything else.

He leaves the office, closing the door behind him with a quiet click and lets the tension roll off his shoulders. He goes back the way he came, black file in hand, towards the VIP section where he knows Seonghwa would be lurking. He walks down the little walkway, through the identical couches and tables on raised platforms that overlook the main floor of the club.

At the end, there’s a small section of booths, black velvet and low lit, and standing with his back to him is Hongjoong. He seems to be busy, twin pistols in pieces on the booth’s table, cleaning supplies set up neatly in a little row. Hoseok saunters over, and throws his arm over the man’s shoulders.

Hongjoong doesn’t spare him a glance but sighs softly through his nose. “I’m busy, Hoseok.”

“Where’s your shadow?” Hoseok asks, and waves the file at him, “Yoongi has work for you two.”

“When doesn’t Yoongi have work for us.” Hongjoong slides away from under Hoseok’s arm, sitting down in the booth to avoid him all together. There’s a dull glint of light as the fixtures catch on the gold diamond studded crucifix that swings against the white of Hongjoong’s tee-shirt.

Hoseok clicks his tongue against his teeth, “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

The dark bangs of his hair, which are usually styled away from his forehead, falls into his eyes when he glances upward at Hoseok. He picks up the cleaning solvent and pours a bit of it into the cap before dropping a cotton patch in to let it soak, then, he wraps the patch around the bristles of a small bore brush.

“Seonghwa isn’t here, he’s out back.” Hongjoong picks up the dismantled gun barrel, sliding the bore brush through until the now dirty cotton patch pokes out from the other end. The scent of the solvent burns Hoseok’s nose, and he leaves Hongjoong be, going back down to the main floor and through the emergency exit. The exit sits in the middle of an alleyway that connects two streets, and Hoseok catches sight of Seonghwa’s faux fur coat on one end.

Smoke curls away from his form with a light wind and brings the scent of a cigarette as Hoseok walks with quiet steps towards him. He’s laughing at something, phone in hand, and Hoseok drops his hand heavily on his shoulder and feels the way he immediately tenses.

“I’ve told you one too many times, Seonghwa.” Hoseok says, stepping to the side and around him, “Always be on your guard.”

There’s a glint in the way that he sneers, pulling away from Hoseok’s grip. He takes a couple steps back, watching Hoseok as though he spat at his feet.

“Aw, don’t look at me like that. Makes me all tingly.” Hoseok teases mockingly with a smile, and then offers the file to him. “Here.”

Seonghwa shoves his phone into the pocket of his coat, taking the file and looking through it. He takes one last drag of the cigarette between his fingers before tossing it. He raises a perfect brow at Hoseok and tilts his head, something like amusement in his eyes. “You don’t show up for weeks, and now you’re just Yoongi’s errand boy.”

Hoseok chuckles and it’s dark, low in his throat. “Seonghwa.” He takes a step closer, “Don’t forget your place.”

It’s irritating how Seonghwa doesn’t back down, the way he looks at Hoseok as though he’s beneath him. He stands tall and proud with his chest puffed out like a peacock, and Hoseok knows he’s about to say something stupid without using that brain of his first.

“Don’t act like we’re not in the same boat.” Seonghwa scoffs, and even before he opens his mouth, Hoseok could see the thought in his eyes, glowing like an ember in the dark. He sees the minute curl at the corner of his mouth and the glow of the street light that catches on the pretty studded silver of his teeth. “You got your ward killed, and killed the man that killed her. There’s no hierarchy among murderers.”

Hoseok takes a breath, and he feels the heat rising from the tips of his toes. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the images he’s locked away floods out of the steel box he’s put them in. The little girl he’d been guardian to, her short, miserable and painful life. Found end at the hands of someone she had the misfortune of being born to. It was too late – he was too late, when he’d found her. And just like then, Hoseok sees red.

Warm, gushing red that spill into the creases of his fingers when he swings his fist at Seonghwa’s face. The black file and the papers within scatter on the wind.

Hoseok doesn’t let the surprise and force send the younger man stumbling back too far, and grabs hold of the front of his coat, curling his fingers into the material tightly. He kicks at his knee, and when he’s forced to kneel, Hoseok leans down to his height.

“You talk a lot of shit for someone who lost his wings for something so trivial; your sin and mine are two different things.” Hoseok sneers, and he’s so mad he could set Seonghwa on fire and watch him dance. “But I can remind you exactly why Yoongi doesn’t bother to have me involved.”

Someone pulls Seonghwa back, dragging him up to his feet. “The fuck are you two doing?”

There’s a tick in Seonghwa’s jaw that doesn’t go unnoticed and his eyes stay locked with Hoseok as he straightens. He should think twice, Hoseok knows he knows better.

Hongjoong shoves at Seonghwa’s shoulder, “Go pick that shit up.”

Yeonjun stands at the open doorway of the emergency exit, watching with wide eyes, looking like he’s halfway to backing out on his choice to get into Yoongi’s ranks. Hongjoong eyes Hoseok warily, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that Seonghwa was doing as told.

Hoseok’s gaze burns a hole into the back of Seonghwa’s head as he moves around to pick up the scattered papers while Hongjoong stands like a watchdog.

Hoseok shoves his hands into the pockets of his black coat, tilting his head back to stare at the sky. “You boys be good, now.” He says in parting, turning on his heel and walking out of the alley.

“What the fuck did you say to him?...”

Hoseok walks up the street, through the throngs of people still waiting to get into Haegeum. His phone vibrates in his coat pocket, with a sigh he pulls it out and answers.

“Yes, Cheol?”

“Hey, remember when you asked me to tell you when I’ve seen that weird fog?” Seungcheol sounds distracted, there’s a sharp sound from his end that has Hoseok pulling the phone away from his ear with a wince. He says something to someone else, voice too far away for Hoseok to catch, before he speaks again. “Couple of nights ago, it was in my area. Whatever’s in it is pretty good at hiding. It’s not the only thing in it either.”

Hoseok crosses the street, going in the opposite direction of which he came from. The people that line the sidewalk give him a wide berth as he weaves through them; unconsciously reacting to him being near.

“Didn’t see much of the guy, some twinky-looking redhead.” Cheol sighs, “I think the fog is like a domain. If you get lost in it, it’s like there’s no-one in there but you. Like a mirror realm.”

‘They who fight monsters should be careful, lest they become a monster themselves.  And if you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.’

What defines a monster? Something that goes beyond human comprehension, something that stands outside the bounds of what is morally accepted. Something that a person fails to understand and is therefore scared by. Something that make stories entertaining because they’re meant to be defeated in the end. They’re meant to be slain and mounted like trophies, pinned up for grotesque display of heroism.

What defines a creature that goes beyond human comprehension? White coloured morals and the freedom to help in the way it needed. He stopped being what he was created to be, and instead became something that someone needed the most. He did everything right. He had his head in the right place, he was determined to see it through to the end.

He was a little too late.

Over the years, Hoseok could no longer recall just how late he was. If it was by seconds or minutes, or an hour by a half. When he was finally strong enough to move, he traced the memory of a place he’d seen for years, all the way to a house where his charge waited inside.

She was always afraid. Alone, trapped with a monster of man’s making. A child he’s watched since the moment of her birth, watched her grow to be afraid and the light never reach her. By the laws of his nature he was forced to do nothing.

He was restricted to assisting in the only way he could. He couldn’t shield her physically, so he instead manipulated the monster in her closet. He made sure that his mind was changed, that he didn’t swing his claws as fiercely, that he slept deeply so that the child can have a night of rest.

He started to question, as he watched the monster that called himself a father, prey upon what he was meant to protect.

What’s the point? Is he not allowed to stop this? Why can’t he stop this? He could stop it because he has the power to do so.

The ideology was shared by another, and together, hubris.

Hoseok fell with pride; he fell with the intention to seek his ward out and help her. Even if he had no idea what was to come afterwards. Stripped of his grace and the feathers of his wings burned away, it didn’t matter to him.

He went as quickly as his wounds allowed, which in retrospect, wasn’t quickly enough. She was only six. An awfully short time to the likes of him, even shorter to mortals, not enough time to live and laugh – she wasn’t allowed to even do that. He’d stood there, in the broken doorway of a broken home and watched as the monster of his ward’s nightmare became a man before him. Hoseok’s vision had tunnelled and in the centre was the broken body of the child he’d sworn to protect.

When the shadows on the walls grew tall and Hoseok’s mind closed in on itself and allowed those shadows to encase him, the man cried. He pleaded on his knees at the sight of his reckoning, begged for mercy when he gave none.

Then, Hoseok shattered. Scattered like tiny specs of dust floating on the wind, and under the heat and pressure of his own realisations, he turned into glass. With his sharp edges he cut into the man and reveled in it. The sounds of his pleas like the gentle strum of a harp’s string, and the warmth of his blood was a bath Hoseok sunk into.

What he was, was something that was no longer needed, and with his hands covered in blood and gore and mess he held tight to his reasons for being and cried for her. He became something else that only protected himself. While he locked everything away and allowed the shadows to stay. The light he’s trapped struggles to glow, to breathe, and some days Hoseok wants to snuff it out for good, to become the shadows he plays in.

He wouldn’t allow himself to reach that point, though. He still has a sense of himself, however skewed.

He owes Yoongi a lot, his partner in crime that he would follow to the ends of the earth. He never turned his back on him even as Hoseok changed to suit his troubles.

Hoseok remembers Yoongi standing at the doorway, catching up much later than he had. He stayed there quietly while Hoseok mourned the death of his ward and his tears made tracks in the blood that coated him.

Hoseok buried her away from her cursed home, far away and as deep as the roots of an old oak runs and salt floats on the air. Wild flowers bloom there, giving her the beauty in death she wasn’t allowed in life.

His chest aches as he stands there now. Under the shade of the oak tree where little speckles of the setting orange sun spills through leaves and dances along the space that he occupies. There’s a crinkle of plastic and Hoseok stares at the small bouquet in his grip. He chose every flower that reminded him of her: daises and lavender, lilies and snapdragons.

He lays it gently on the patch of grass that’s long grown over between two large protruding roots, mutters the same apology he does every time he comes by, and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his coat as he straightens.

He’s sorry he wasn’t there in time.

He wished she was given a chance, and wondered if her death was his punishment. He wonders what it would’ve been like to watch her grow, safe and happy. What her favourite flower would’ve been, if she would’ve valued the little things. He would’ve given her everything – pulled the moon from the sky if she so desired it. He would’ve taken the stars and put them in her little hands for her to watch them shine.

He wonders if it would’ve been better had he waited a little longer. That maybe the slightest change would’ve brought about a different outcome.

Hoseok sighs, turns his head to watch the sun set, dragged behind the ocean’s edge far off in the distance. Something at the back of his mind wiggles and tugs. He knows something’s wrong and he’s in no mood to deal with it.

You’re dying...you think. Your hand slides against the floor and it takes a moment to realise it’s your blood you’re slipping in. You can barely feel the rest of your body, adrenaline pumping your blood out of the wounds at your back. The doors of the elevator doubles and swarms in your vision.

You see them open but it’s so hard to focus. Hoseok steps out and walks slowly to you, you can’t see his expression, but you faintly hear the long, drawn-out sigh he releases. Your eyes focus on the darkness that surrounds him, the way it curls like smoke. The shadows at his back are clearer to you than they’ve ever been – wings. Dark plumage that glitters with something silver in the light, the feathers are long, long enough that they drag behind his steps. If he were to unfold them they would easily span to the ends of the hallway.

He hardly gives you a glance, stopping in front of you. You can’t see the creature now – blocked by Hoseok’s wings – but you hear it growl, and the scraping of it’s claws against the floor. Something glints in his hand against the flickering lights, a short sword that looks like it was dipped in gold from the hilt and it ran down the edges of the blade.

He’s a blur as he moves and your tired eyes can barely keep up with him, if it weren’t for the small space and shadows his wings casted you would’ve lost sight of him completely. 

The creature snarls and lashes out with its razor-sharp claws, but Hoseok is already one step ahead, dodging with effortless grace. He moves with a speed and agility that seems impossible in the space he occupies, closing in on the creature that growls and snarls at him. It’s forced to dislodge itself from the doorway, pulling back into the stairwell that gives it even less room to defend.

Hoseok’s wings fold tightly to his back as he follows, and you could only hear the sound of his weapon sliding through the air, the sound of the blade whistling and the increasingly irritated sounds from the creature. Hoseok ducks under a swiped claw, makes a spin on his knee, and switches the hands that holds his blade. It slices through the creature’s gigantic paw like it’s made of something soft, and through the other as it comes back down. The severed limb drops heavily on the ground before it dissolves into ashes and float upward.

The sound it makes grate on your ears, loud and sharp and you can’t bring your hands up to cover them, something warm trickles out of each.

Without it’s two front legs to support it’s weight, the creature drops forward, and Hoseok grabs hold of the first spike at the top of its head. With a flick of his wrist his weapon spins in his palm and he points the blade right between the creature’s eyes and pushes.

Golden light flashes, nearly blinding you on top of everything else, you can just barely hear the cry it makes this time as it writhes in agony. It’s monstrous form twists and contorts before finally collapsing to the ground in a heap.

Hoseok stands over the fallen beast, his weapon clenched tightly in his hand, watching intently as it’s body dissipates like ash from a fire.

With a satisfied nod, Hoseok sheaths his weapon and it vanishes, and then turns his attention back to you, his expression a mixture of something. You can’t tell, everything seems so dark and it’s hard to breathe. He approaches you slowly, his movements cautious as he assesses the extent of your injuries.

Hoseok crouches and you slowly look up at him, he tilts his head and clicks his tongue against his teeth.

“I told you not to go anywhere, little dove.” He says softly, calmly, as though he’s telling you about his day and you’re not bleeding out in his hallway. “You’re so troublesome.”

You try to respond, but the words stick in your throat, drowned out by the rush of blood and the overwhelming sense of impending darkness. Hoseok’s presence feels both comforting and ominous, his wings casting elongated shadows that dance across the walls. You try to focus on his face, to find some semblance of reassurance in his eyes, but all you see is a blur of shadows and flickering light.

“I’m sorry,” you manage to choke out, your voice barely audible above the sound of your own laboured breathing.

Hoseok’s expression softens slightly, a hint of concern flickering in his eyes. He reaches out a hand to gently brush the hair from your forehead, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the underlying tension in the air.

“Jesus...” Another voice says, the sound of footsteps hurrying close and the last thing you see is the shift of the hallway.

The night he found you out in the fog wasn’t the first time Hoseok had seen you.

By now, it would’ve been at least three months ago. You were alone, pacing around like a worried mother on a bridge over your perceived peace – had you decided to take it.

Human lives were no longer any concern to him; no consequence. He and his kind were here before and would be long after your kind has crumbled to dust and returned to the earth. He stopped then, and watched you contemplate the height of the bridge and the chill of the water below it; whether or not you’ll receive the mercy you seek. You’d cried for a long time on that bridge.

Hoseok is many things, but cruel is not one of them. He changed your mind and sent you away into the arms of someone that would care.

Hoseok has many contradictions. The darkness that he allowed entry fights the light, beating it into a corner where it cowers on most days. On those days he’s distant and struggling to contain it, he could taste malice on his tongue and the bitterness of it. The steel walls he painstakingly built with bloody and broken fingers are nothing more than barbwire fences; they do nothing to protect the glass figurines that make him whole.

Sometimes the glass are shards, sharp and unforgiving and willing to cut anything that gets too close. Sometimes they’re splintered panes and Hoseok is cutting his fingers to keep them in place. He curls in on himself, draws himself away, pushes everything outside his barbwire fence and tries to reinforce the walls. The darkness that swirls outside it seeps in and he can’t keep it out so he lets it fester and churn and he becomes intangible.

You weren’t there, and then, at some point, you were.

Sometimes...

Sometimes he’s standing in a grass field full of wild daises and the sun is warm and there’s salt in the air. The light peeks through the leaves of an old oak tree, and there’s a little girl who’s placed her life in his hands, who skitters about in the  grass like something wild and free. She glows in her happiness, and nature stains her hands and the bottom of her white dress. She makes faces at him behind the trunk of the tree, smiles and hold his hands and tell him that it’s okay. It wasn’t his fault and he’s forgiven, he could let it go and be.

On those days, Hoseok feels like a still pool of water. The ones with lily pads and life, and everything’s alright. You’re always there then.

Hoseok knows of the fragility of humans. How easily they could shatter and break and suddenly be no more. He was something once, and then he became something else, and sometimes it’s hard to not be what he is. His darker nature prevails, and he doesn’t do much to stop it. Sure, sometimes he’s done things simply because he’s feeling particularly malicious and thinks that everyone should suffer – it’s almost always harmless.

He has a sense of himself, he knows when to stop, when things are taken too far and you can’t take much more of it. You eventually learnt to take it in stride and Hoseok was proud of that, though, a part of him thought it wasn’t nearly as fun anymore.

He would walk your dreams some nights when he was bored and had nothing better to entertain himself, his presence would sometimes bring his darkness and your dreams would not be as pleasant. He tried to walk through them less often.

When you were jumping at every little sound, the silence that Hoseok moves with and the way you’re less of yourself some days – he realised something. Not every nightmare was his doing, and the whispers in the walls of your dreams spoke of something else entirely.

The far, fuzzy edges of your vivid dreams where he’s reminded of things he’s tried very hard to lock away, lurks something red and more sinister than he.

He’s every reason to believe that hellspawn didn’t find it’s way here on accident, and for it to go undetected until the very last moment. It bothers him like nothing else has.

Though you lay peaceful now and Seungcheol had left after doing what he does best, the unease lingers in bouts under Hoseok’s skin, skittering about like electricity on a wire. His feelings where you’re concerned contradicts each other. Like oil on water he’s stuck in between wanting you close and keeping you at arm’s length. He likes when you’re near, but he likes when you’re far. A consequence of his nature, he toes the line of something sinister and could get dangerous and down right evil if he doesn’t reign himself in.

At a point he wasn’t quite sure what to do with you. He was just as confused on why he stopped you from ending your own life that night on the bridge and why he took you in that night in the fog. At first, he was just as wary of you as you were of him, despite the way he acted. He can’t help what he is.

On the days where he feels like splintered glass and he’s choking on his despair, you’d waited. You were there until the smoke cleared and your quiet presence helped put the glass back up and straighten out the posts in his fence.

He told Yoongi, there’s no fun in not breaking you. Yoongi said that he’d learn.

He can’t help what he is.

He could try, though.

He doesn’t want to break you, it’s a matter of cause and effect. You’re here with him, evidently, you’d be broken regardless. The most he could do is try. He could try to not be the straw, and try to not let outside forces become it.

He cares. He cares so much that sometimes he could taste it on his tongue. He cares that you smile when he’s earned it, that you eat well, that you greet him like a friend and then somewhere along get shy when you do. He cares if you live or die.

Hoseok squeezes his eyes shut, opening them to blink away the image of you, helplessly laying in a pool of your own blood.

Fear. He’s has only felt it once, the fear that you would die and he would’ve failed again to protect someone.

He sips slowly at his glass of whisky, drinking in the sight of you. He thought you were smart enough to listen to him at least, trusted that you would stay out until he got back. Perhaps it was his mistake, but he wonders, and he ponders as you give a minute twitch in your sleep. Your eyebrows draw together and you murmur something unintelligible.

Hoseok sets his tumbler on your bedside drawer and pulls his chair closer. This is something he could easily do from another room, though, for what he’s about to do he would need to be touching you in some capacity.

Your dream had started off vividly, as most of your dreams have since you came here. Hoseok stands just in the corner of it, watching you wake within your dream and put your feet down into water.

He walks along the edge of it, watching it play out like a simulation, following behind you as you make your way down the hall towards the living room. He’s there and Hoseok isn’t surprised – it’s not the first time you’ve dreamt him.

He watches as your dreamscape version of him pull you into his lap and he feels a little offended and rolls his eyes – he didn’t even try to make it look sexy. Is this what you think of him? He isn’t half as tactless. Seduction takes finesse, and you clearly have no idea what that is.

Hoseok turns, gazing at the darkened edges of your dream.

There’s a shift and he feels it. It’s heavy like a wet blanket and seeps in like mist, and your dream changes accordingly.

He knows this feeling too well – the intrusion of an external force manipulating the dream, it’s faint enough that he knows it wasn’t in his apartment or anywhere nearby, but strong enough to reach so far.

Hoseok hovers hesitantly between the doorway of the living room and the hallway, and closes his eyes against the image of him hurting you.

He follows you as you follow blood, and he wishes you weren’t so frightened. He stays close to you, stepping where you’ve stepped as though he could protect you from something that’s already occurred. You push the door to your bedroom open and he wants to stop you, turn you around and shake you awake, but he can only watch.

You’re there and he is too, whispers skittering along the walls like mice, and Hoseok yanks himself out of your subconscious mind.

He feels like glass.

When you wake it’s dark and your back is sore like you fell from a high place and splatted against a body of water. The moment feels like déjà vu regardless as you swing your legs over the side of the bed with a wince.

The broken projector of your sleep-addled mind flickers in black and white cut scene imagines of the evening. Hoseok, the fog, the dog that crawled out of hell specifically for you – as you can only assume – things considered, you’re pretty certain you died at some point.

The dark unnerves you, it makes you feel like a kid as you pull your feet back up onto the bed, and pull the blanket up over your head and pulled tight between your fingers at your chest.

You scoot back, wiggling a bit until your back is pressed flush against the headboard. There’s no light seeping in from under your door, and you sink lower, curling into yourself and hold the blanket tighter.

There’s a prickling at the back of your neck that sends a shiver racing down your spine. Your head turns slowly to the left and notice the unnatural darkness of the space between the edge of the wall and the window pane. Relief blooms in your chest at the sight of it.

“...Hoseok.” You call softly, waving a hand into the dark. You wait for a moment, but the lights don’t come on and he doesn’t appear as he usually would.

Carefully, you unwrap the covers from around you and place your foot on the ground. Taking a moment, you count your fingers – it’s always hard to count them in your dreams. All ten are there, and you take a breath before standing.

The floor is cold, and you notice the carpet that’s usually under your feet is missing, and the silhouettes of the things you’ve made yours are different; this isn’t your room.

You approach the ball of chaos carefully, and stand five steps away from the space it occupies. This is the second time you’ve been close to it, the first time had been much closer and you hadn’t understood it then. You reach a hand out, and gently: “Hoseok...”

It slows, the shadows and wisps shifting gently like a leaf on a soft wind. It elongates into a vague outline and then, Hoseok stares through you before he sees you. He’s still wearing the clothes he left in earlier, coat and all, looking a little more than rattled even in the dark.

He raises a hand and it hovers by your cheek, thumb ghosting the skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. The lights didn’t come back on and it’s hard to decipher his emotions in the dark.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice soft, barely a whisper in the darkness. Somewhere behind you, a lamp flickers on dimly and Hoseok looks like he’d shatter if you touched him.

“I’m okay.”

Hoseok’s hand drops slowly from your face as he blinks, as though waking from a dream. His gaze focuses on you, but there’s a vacancy in his eyes. For a moment, he seems almost confused, as if he’s not sure how he ended up here or what to make of your presence.

His touch is light, gentle, like he’s handling something fragile when his fingers brushes yours. You feel his fear, a palpable thing, thick and heavy. It’s a side of him you’ve never seen before, and you’re not sure what to do with it.

He exhales softly through his nose, nods once and then his eyes are somewhere above your head. “Are you in pain?”

“No,” Your back sings a low hymn, achy and sore, but it’s nothing to fuss over. “I’m okay.”

There’s a lot of things you want to ask, but you can’t seem to pick one. You want to ask him about the fog and the creature, about his wings or how you’re even alive to mull over said questions.

Instead, you ask: “Are you okay?”

Hoseok looks unprepared for that, his eyes snapping back to yours and he flounders. His mouth opens and closes before he stares at you in that unnerving way he had your first couple of days here, like he’s trying to understand you. Like he could strip you down to atoms and see what makes you act the way you do and therefore comprehend the bases of your human nature.

“I’m...” He blinks, looks away, and a muscle beneath his right eye twitches, “I’m okay.”

He doesn’t sound convinced and you aren’t either, and where his hand brushes yours you reach out first. His fingers are cold and he looks down, staring at your hand like it’s something foreign, but his grip tightens. It’s quiet for a moment, he takes a breath that doesn’t seem to ease the weight he carries.

“You almost died.” He says quietly, brows furrowed as though he can’t understand his own concern. “When I brought you here...I did so with the intention to keep you safe.”

It’s quiet again and you wait, and wait.

Hoseok’s eyes mist, his breath shudders on the exhale. “I wasn’t here in time. Again. I—”

His hand in yours tremble, he’s looking through you again, not entirely here and he looks like a man haunted by ghosts he alone could see. You stumble a step back when he falls to his knees before you, but didn’t get far as his arms wound tight around your waist. There’s something strange about a creature such as him with all his prowess and tainted grace kneeling at your feet, and his words tumble from his mouth like his tears that soak into your borrowed shirt and he lets you hold the chain that drags behind him.

The weight is heavy, heavy enough that it grounds you and you listen to it rattle as Hoseok tells you everything. In a broken tone about a broken home and a child he couldn’t reach in time to save, about the shadows that he let hide the light and now he struggles to find it. The things he’s done since that would make the most wicked men cower.

You make the connection, as he lays himself bare before you. He peeled back the layers of his being himself and let you look inside; the bases of his nature, the connotations of his own sins. It makes sense to you now. The way he would change like the tide and his near obsessive, compulsive need to wrap you in bubble wrap and put you in a glass case. He’d long stopped scaring you and somehow became a comfort despite himself.

Maybe it’s circumstantial, or something else entirely, but you’ve grown to care for him and he’s been caring for you from the start. However skewed that was.

When he’s stopped his babbling, and he’s no longer crying, he still holds you tight, whispering apologies against the dampness of your shirt. You meet his height, gently pulling his arms away from you and you kneel, too. He blinks away the last of his tears and you catch them with your thumbs just under his red-rimmed eyes.

He’s no longer looking through you, one of his hands covers yours, his lips brushing delicately against your wrist when he turns his head; your heart flutters. He whispers something you didn’t catch, he closes his eyes for a moment and when he opens them, he repeats: “You can leave if you want.”

“I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“Will you stay, then?” He looks away when he asks, pressing his fingers against your palm in a way that tickles and distracts, and studies the lines of them quietly. “Stay here with me.”

There’s something like hope in his eyes that glints against the shadows that linger, shining like flecks gold in cracked rock. You nod slowly and he smiles easily, all teeth and heart shaped and his hand is warm when he cups your cheek with the one that isn’t holding yours.

“Your dream...” He says softly, and later you’d find that it troubled him the most; he would never do something like that – not to you. “I’m sorry.”

You store the fact that he knows about it at the back of your mind for later – later when he’s not pressing the pad of his thumb against the fullness of your bottom lip, tracing the shape of it. You’ve learnt to ebb and flow with him, a boat on his tide, taking the shift of his mood in stride.

There’s something in his eyes now that has nothing to do with how you found him earlier, something that makes you follow his lead, leaning in when he pulls you towards him. Deja vu accompanies the way he shifts, easing back and turning you as he does, leaning against a dresser you hadn’t noticed. He keeps his eyes locked with yours, directing your leg over his with a hand, and he settles you on his lap.

“This feels familiar.” He giggles, lifting his head to nose along your jaw and you’re reminded that he knows. Heat flares at the back of your neck and races up your ears, and when you push against his shoulders, he steadies and keeps you still with his hands on the top of your thighs and a click of his tongue against his teeth.

“I’m teasing.” He gives a crooked smile, tilting his head, “It’s cute that you think it’ll play out that way.”

“Isn’t it, though?” You blurt out, embarrassment forgotten. Honestly, the only thing that’s changed is the room, and when Hoseok pauses you smirk.

He smirks right back, something dangerous, and he chuckles, “Keep talking back. I like that.”

His hand slides up your back, and you don’t suppress the shiver that follows after it. The air grows heavy, charged with unspoken tension. You’re vaguely aware of your heart pounding, the rhythm matching the erratic thrum of your blood. He leaves a kiss where your jaw meets your neck, sucking lightly on the spot.

“Hoseok...” You start to say his name, but it comes out as a breathless whisper. You’re not sure what you intended to say, but the words get caught in your throat.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours. “What is it?” he asks, his voice rough with desire and darker still. “Do you want me to stop?”

You shake your head, unable to form words.

With a low growl, he takes your silence as an invitation, his fingers tangle in your hair, and he tilts your head down, his lips meeting yours in a kiss you gasp into. It quickly deepens, becoming more urgent, as if he’s trying to devour your very soul. His other hand finds your hip, squeezing possessively.

You’re lost in the sensation, the taste of him, the feel of his body pressed against yours. The world has narrowed to the two of you, to this moment.

A soft moan escapes your lips, and he takes that as a cue, his tongue exploring your mouth with a hunger that sets your entire being ablaze.

His touch ignites a fire within you, consuming your senses and leaving you breathless, his hand sliding from your hip to your lower back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

He pulls away slowly and you chase, he smirks against your kiss, and when he lifts his hips you feel the press of his arousal. His kisses trail, ghosting along your jaw, his tongue warm where your pulse thrums. He directs the shifts of your hips, grinding you down against clothed erection with a curse growled against your skin.

You follow the light tug of his hand in your hair, tilting your head back and to the side to give him more room to work. He hums appreciatively around your skin between his teeth and you hiss softly at the sting of the pull.

“So good for me.” He whispers when he pulls away. His fingers tap at your hip before he wraps his arm around, bracing the other against the dresser behind and stands easily.

A startled squeak leaves you, wrapping your arms around his neck even though he’s holding you steady. He reaches the bed in two strides, and drops you there, a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

You bounce a bit amongst the soft sheets with a soft giggle before you settle. His index finger curls beneath your chin and tilts, thumb brushing along your bottom lip again, “Ah.”

You comply easily, and then his thumb is pressing against your tongue. Saliva pools in your mouth and he hums when you wrap your lips around the digit. There’s a tick of his brow and the dull glint of his teeth when he smiles in the dim light of the singular lamp, and a darkness in his eyes that doesn’t scare you.

He tests the boundaries of what you’d allow, sliding his thumb along your tongue. His palm lays flat against your cheek, thumb reaching far until you feel the lurch of your stomach and pull back with a gasp.

He coos softly, leaning down just as he slips his finger out of your mouth to capture your lips in a kiss that’s more teeth and tongue than anything else. He nudges you back softly, large hands sneaking their way under your tee to reach your skin, desperate in a way that makes you think he’d die if he doesn’t.

He stops just shy of the undersides of your breasts, pulling away from the kiss to rest his forehead against yours. His breaths are shallow, he whispers your name, “I can get intense.”

“I know.”

“I could hurt you.”

“I know.”

He studies you for a moment, then, tugs gently on the hem of your tee-shirt, “Up.”

As you shift to sit, you’re not surprised to find you aren’t wearing anything underneath the tee-shirt and cotton shorts he’s put you in; dressing you properly must’ve been the last thing on his mind.

Hoseok stands back to shed his coat, dropping it carelessly on the floor. There’s a metallic clink as the buckle of his belt jingles, and the sound of it racing through the loops of his pants.

You – oddly – don’t feel ashamed under his gaze that sets a heat wherever it settles as he roams over your exposed upper half. Putting your weight on your hands, you lean back, watching Hoseok roll the long sleeves of his tee-shirt up his forearms.

His tongue darts out to moisten his lips as he closes the distance again, climbing into the bed on his knees and coming up until they’re on either side of your thighs. Silently he trails a finger down the slope of your neck, it tickles across your collarbone and his fingers spread and palms your left breast.

Your breath hitches and he chuckles, and you know very well he could feel the shifting of your thighs as you rub them together seeking friction. It’s been ages since anyone’s touched you like this, all of Hoseok’s teasing isn’t doing you much good.

His lips meet yours, licking into your mouth, and he groans when you suck on his tongue. His fingers lightly pinch at your nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. His other hand roams, goosebumps following it’s path down your side and stops where his fingers tease the band of your shorts.

Your hips buck as you whine and Hoseok pulls away, eyelids heavy, pupils all but gone, panting softly; looking drunk on you.

He smiles and makes a disapproving sound at the back of his throat. “Patience little dove.” He tuts, tilting his head at you, “I’ll give you what you need.”

He trails his fingers along the edges of your shorts before pulling them down and off, leaving you exposed to his touch. His hair tickles where it drags against your sensitive skin as he moves downward. He avoids where you need him most entirely and you squirm, a soft whine building in your chest.

He kisses and licks his way up your thighs, teasing you until you’re begging. Gently, he spreads your legs, kissing the inner thigh of your right before he rests it over his shoulder, pushing your other up and holding it there with a palm.

His dark gaze meets yours and you can’t hold it when he licks a hot stripe from your weeping entrance to your clit. Your hand shoots down to grip his hair, back arching when his responding growl vibrates against your core.

With each stroke of his tongue, Hoseok explores every inch of your most sensitive areas. He laps at your clit, drawing out a series of gasps and moans that fill the room. You’re shaking and swearing as he eats you out like a man starved, his tongue swirling around your clit in figure eights and then dipping into you. He moans like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted.

Your hands curl into the sheets, fingers digging in as if to anchor yourself. You’re lost in the sensations, a whirlwind of pleasure that leaves you breathless. And you wonder, briefly, if this was just something he was good at or something he had to hone.

His arm draping over your hips was the only warning you got before his lips wraps around your clit and sucks. Your back arches with a pitched moan and he slips a finger into your heat, and groans when you clench and gasp his name.

Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat a reminder of your vulnerability. Yet, paradoxically, it’s this vulnerability that fuels your desire, pushing you to new heights. You’re a wild thing now, driven by pure, primal need.

From between your legs, Hoseok watches your reactions, a dark-haired god feasting on your pleasure. His gaze is intense, a silent promise that he’ll take you to the edge. He adds another finger and they curl against your g-spot and it brings about your undoing.

If your arousal was a fire, Hoseok just threw gasoline on it just to watch it explode. He keeps hips lips around your clit as it throbs, fingers dragging along your fluttering walls and your eyes squeeze shut. You could barely breathe, lights dancing behind your eyelids as you gasp his name.

“Good girl.” Hoseok praises, lips brushing your clit and your thighs tremble. He rubs his hand gently over your stomach while you come down, and evilly, bites your thigh with a dark chuckle.

“Hoseok...” you whine as he laves his tongue over the stinging spot.

“Hm?” He smiles, “Want more, little dove?”

You almost cry as he changes course, pulling away entirely, and makes it clear he revel in your suffering when he coos mockingly, standing now.

He slowly unbuttons his pants, slowly pulls his legs out of them one after the other, smirking at you all the while. Even in the dim lighting, you could see the strain his cock against his black boxer briefs and you don’t miss the near inaudible sigh of relief from Hoseok at the change in pressure.

He crooks a finger at you, and shuffles closer as you do. He stands at the edge of the bed, and he sinks his fingers into your hair, brushing it back as you look up at him. He looks down his nose at  you, and raises a brow, “Be a good girl now, dove. Or do I have to teach you?”

“I know how to suck cock you ass.”

Hoseok shrugs, a playful smile shifting his expression as he gently squeezes your cheeks, puckering your lips, “Is all that little mouth good for talking back to me?”

“You said you like that.” You say defiantly.

Hoseok hums, “Have your fun then,” He says, smiling, “Won’t be able to say much in a bit, anyway.” He tugs on your hair, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to signal his impatience.

Funny, he was preaching patience is a virtue a while ago.

You scoff softly, holding your weight with a hand and tugging his boxers down with the other. His cock springs out, long and thick enough that you wonder if it would fit anywhere. It’s flushed red at the tip and leaking pre that beads and dribbles down the underside, and maybe if you focus enough you could just about see the throb of the vein that runs along side. A breath hisses through Hoseok’s teeth when you wrap your fingers around him, his eyes shut and his head tilts back.

Your eyes meet his when you slowly drag your hand down the length of his shaft, teasing him like he did you; turnabout is fair play. His hold in your hair tightens just a bit, eyes narrowing.

“Dangerous game you’re trying to start.” He murmurs, “I don’t take well t – fuck.” He hisses, the word tapering off into a low groan as you wrap your lips around the head of his cock.

The slightly salty taste of him bursts against your tongue and you hum, twisting your wrist as you bring your hand back up to meet your mouth and follow it down again. The saliva that escapes from the corners of your mouth helps with the glide.

You take a breath through your nose and relax your jaw, taking him in until he hits the back of your throat and you gag. Hoseok’s thighs tense and a stuttered breath leaves him.

“Easy there.” He soothingly runs his fingers through your hair, though it does nothing for the involuntary tears springing at your waterline. You decide to play it safe, not taking more than you can handle. Hoseok doesn’t seem to mind, letting you set your own pace, whispering swears and your praises.

Heat pools in your gut as your head bobs back and forth, your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, swirling around the head every time you pull back.

Slick with spit, your hand strokes the rest of him, and his groans vibrate in your ears. His fingers tighten in your hair, and it’s the only time he directs; holding you still.

“Take a deep breath for me, dove.” You do as told, and as you inhale, Hoseok slowly pushes forward, his cock reaching the back of your throat in no time at all. He groans above you, cock throbbing against your tongue, “There you go.”

He holds you there for a moment, only easing you back when your throat tightens with the need for air. He lets you breathe for a bit before he’s going again, thrusting slowly, once, twice and then holding you still. He keeps you there, cock throbbing at the back of your throat, your nose pressed against the neatly trimmed hair at the base.

When you gag he pulls you back, barely letting you breathe before he’s leaning down to kiss you, catching the string of drool that hangs from your bottom lip with his tongue. He lets you catch your breath, stepping back to pull his tee-shirt over his head and your mouth goes dry at the full expanse of his lithe frame.

Sitting back on your heels, breath a little ragged, you admire the sculpted lines of his body. Every movement is fluid and graceful, his muscles shifting smoothly beneath his skin.

His chest is defined, the faintest sheen of sweat highlighting each ripple of muscle. You can see the strength in his arms and shoulders, the way they flex as he moves. There’s a raw, primal energy about him, but it’s tempered by a quiet confidence.

Hoseok comes back to you quickly, cupping your cheek and kissing you fervently, moving with you as you shift back, cock smearing pre-cum along your inner thighs as he slots his narrow hips between them. He nibbles at your bottom lip, fingers sliding through your slick folds before the head of his cock nudges against your entrance.

For a quiet moment he stares then, kisses you tenderly as he breeches. It’s an easy glide, but it stings none the less, and you give an appreciative squeeze to his wrist when he goes slow. The stretch is bearable and soon the slight discomfort dissipates when he bottoms out and gives you a moment.

“Good?” he breathes out, hips pressed flush against yours. The same breath sucked back through his teeth when your walls tightens around him, his cock throbs in response and you keen. He grinds his hips down, pelvis pressing against your swollen clit and the sensation is almost too much and not nearly enough.

He’s close enough that you can run your tongue along his collarbone  and feel him shiver. Leave your own marks there with your teeth and revel in the growl that rumbles in his chest.

He hooks an arm at the back of your knee, pressing it against your chest as he raises and balances his weight. You’re spread open for him, his cock sinks deeper, rubbing against a spot that makes your eyes roll back. He gives shallow thrusts at first, pressing kisses and bruises wherever he could reach.

“Fuck.” Hoseok hisses between his teeth, hips still, palm against your cheek, and he watches you with something other than lust in his eyes. Something gentle as he caresses your cheek with his thumb. “Look at you, such a good girl. Taking everything I give you.”

His hips snap forward and you cry out, hands gripping the sheets between them at his sinful groan. He keeps a relentless pace, and you could feel him everywhere. His fingers on your skin, leaving you cold and hot at the same time, gripping your hips so tightly you fear they’ll bruise. It would simply add to the ones he’s already placed, scattered on your neck and chest like mismatched constellations in a dark sky.

He brings your hands up above your head, holding them there, together with his free one.

“You’re so good to me, Dove. And all mine, hm? Say it.” He grunts, “Say you belong to me, promise me that you’ll stay here with me.” He says this softly, tenderly, grinding his hips against yours in slow movements, tightening the coil in your stomach.

“I’m yours, I’m yours. I promise.” You babble, hips moving against his on their own accord. “I’ll stay. I promise. Please.”

Hoseok groans at your words, leaning down to capture your lips with his, tongue finding yours with ease. “That’s right. You’re mine. Fuck. All mine. Say it again.”

“I’m yours, Hoseok.”

He curses under his breath, straightening his form and brings his hands down to grip your hips tight, and sets a brutal pace. Head tilting back to reveal the marks you left on him, groaning before he looks back down at you, “Close? Hm? You’re squeezing so tight.” His words taunt, as did the smirk on his pretty pink lips, “Make a mess for me, Dove. Cum all over my cock. That’s it, good girl.”

White lights dance behind your tightly shut eyelids, a ringing in your ears. And Hoseok was fucking you through it, fast and hard, his praises a rumble in his chest. You lay there boneless, taking what he gave with a haze over your mind, a weak moan leaving your parted lips when his hand met your throat. Your heart spikes for another reason entirely, but he doesn’t squeeze. Fingers just there, barely any pressure, as he chased his own end, cock kissing your cervix with each trust, his other hand pressed against your lower stomach.

His thumb finds your clit and you jolt, catching his sinister smirk that curled his lips. “There’s no going back after this, baby. Fuck – you’re mine, understand?” You can feel him throbbing, feel the way his hips stutter on the draw back, he was close and you wanted nothing more than him marking you, claiming you in this way. When your eyes meet his, a shiver goes through you.

He comes undone with a low groan, hips flushed with your own, still thrusting through it, and you can see them with your own eyes, as he shudders and stills. His wings uncurl, dark feathers, darker than anything you’ve ever seen, dipped in silver, spreads out behind him and flutters. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, gentle, barely there and you feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

Your eyelids were heavy, and sleepily, you reach out to brush your fingers through the feathers that encased your forms. Hoseok stiffens before your fingers reach them, and chuckles, nipping softly at the flesh of your neck, “Go ahead, Dove.”

He relaxes, when your fingers touch, and you feel him shudder, groaning softly against your neck. They’re soft, your fingers disappearing in the inky blackness of them. With a final brush of his lips against your neck, Hoseok pulls back, his wings shimmering away like a mirage and your hand passes through air before lands limply at your side.

He squeezes your hip gently, mindful, and then he’s gone, walking out his room and into the hallway. The light that spills in helps you see a lot better than the dim lamp, and you notice that Hoseok’s bedroom looks much like the rest of his apartment; sleek and dark. There isn’t much to it either, the basics, more utilirian than a comfort space. You wonder if he uses it at all.

Hoseok comes back and gathers your boneless self into his arms. You rest your cheek against his collarbone, the sound of running water reaching your ears when he steps out into the hallway.

The tub is filling, steam rising from the bubbles that form at the top of the disturbed water. It smells like mint and some sort of fruit, and the temperature is just right when he steps into it and lowers you down. He positions you so that your back is against his chest and turns off the water when it’s high enough. You sense that he’s in his head again, not quite here even as he presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck.

“Feeling okay?” he asks suddenly, tracing a mindless pattern along your arm.

You hum softly, “Yeah. Sore, though.”

“I expected that.” Another kiss, apologetic, against your shoulder. “Also...” Hoseok pauses, “I finished inside you. I didn’t ask. I’m sorry.”

The realisation dawns on you too and you shift a little to look at him, “I don’t mind, but....is that a bad thing?”

There’s a strange half smile on his lips and he lifts a hand to tug softly on one tangled end of your hair, gently sifting his fingers through until he’s satisfied. “It can be, if it takes. But, I’ll get something for it tomorrow.”

You notice that the marks you left along his skin have begun to fade already, and you poke at them with a finger. He heals quickly, you figured. He chuckles softly, taking your hand to press kisses along your finger tips and then to your palm. Your finger brushes over the mole on his upper lip gently and watch him melt.

He studies you for a moment, the same way he did before he left earlier, though, it’s softer now. “Would you like to come with me?”

You brighten, perking up with a nod, “Is that okay?”

Hoseok hums, mischief in his eyes, “If you promise not to run off as soon as you step foot outside.”

You roll your eyes and turn around, and Hoseok pulls you back to him with an arm around your middle. “I have nowhere to go.”

“I know, I was only teasing.” He chuckles.

You’re both quiet for a while, and you simply relax, almost falling asleep against him as the warm water soothes your aching muscles. You aren’t aware that you did, and only wake when Hoseok was just done tucking fresh clean sheets up to your chin. You’re back in his room but you don’t mind, the thought of going back to your own unsettles you right now. You haven’t forgotten your nightmare, and it’s something you’d definitely have to unpack another day.

You wait until he’s crawled in behind you, the warmth of him encasing you gently. His form melds against your back like he belongs there, an arm slipping under your head and the other over your hip. “Hoseok?”

“Yes Dove?”

You worry at your bottom lip, fingers finding his under the covers and they squeeze your own encouragingly. “There’s a friend of mine...I was with her before I met you.”

“I can help her.” He murmurs, and he sounds...sleepy. Today was a lot for him as well, you suppose. “I can get her a job here.”

You shift, turning to face him, he tucks you to him when you settle, chin resting on top of your head. “How are you gonna do that?”

You hear the smirk when he answers, “Do you think everything I have magically appeared? I own the hotel.”

“Wha—”

“Shh.” Hoseok squeezes your hip, “Go to sleep.”

Sometime later you’ll realise that Hoseok needed you more than he would admit. When you learn his tells he would help put himself back together with you instead of trying to do it alone.

Sometime later he’d take you to see her. When the wind is cold and the old oak tree reaches it’s bare, spindly arms to the frosted sky. When the day marks yet another year and he lets you put the flowers between the roots. He looks like a shadow against the glittering white, and he tells you he’s okay.

He’d take you to meet his friends at a club on the high-end and you’d would realise that he’s soft only with you and the guy who reminds you of a cat. With the others he’s closed off and friendly in a way that seems a little odd.

You’d see Abigail often and would skirt around how you actually met Hoseok when she’d ask. Anyone would think you’re crazy if you told them.

You spend most of your time at home while Hoseok goes off doing god knows what when he’s not there. It’s something to do with his friends and you never ask.

Then he’s there and everything beyond him and you and the space you both occupy doesn’t matter. And it’s kind of easy to forget where it all started – it’d been so long since you’d wondered where you were going to get anything to help you get by.

He’s made of cracks and splintered glass but he let you sink into the spaces, filled the pieces with you and settled. There would always be cracks in the glass that he’s made of, and there would always be a post in his fence that he needs to hammered in to fix. Despite the unconventional way you’d both started, the abnormality of his existence, you’d be there.

[bold, can't tag]

Tagging: @iammeandmeisiam , @imanhaitani @allhobbitstoisengard @dontstoptime @astormunchar @eoieopda @blog-name-idk @madbutgloriouspond @bangtansmauyeondan @taestefully-in-luv @mssukeyna​ @euphoricfilter @luaspersona

[b-afterhours]

Avenue of Sins: Neon

A Sequel to Avenue of Sins

SUMMARY: ‘90s. It’s the aftermath. Jaded, Bill and Alma navigate their new lives as they try to drag themselves out of the dark debacherous trenches they had once ensnared themselves in. It’s easy to forget their evils when a silver lining introduces itself into their lives but can they create a less hedonistic life that would be just as satisfying?

WARNINGS: adult content, mature readers only.

The completed first series can be read and found here.

Chapter Twenty-four

September 1993

Bill was woken up with Echo's foot wiggling and digging into the side of his face the next morning. She was sitting against the headboard when his eyes narrowly peeped open. He didn’t exactly know when he had fallen asleep; he just watched mind-numbing TV until his eyes could no longer stay open. Alma had woken at a point in the night and took the remote control out of his loose grip while he slept to turn the TV off and swiftly went back to sleep. He was still tired. Instead of choosing to rise and be present with his daughter, he tugged her foot, pulling her down to lie, but he hadn’t realized that her hand had a grip on Alma’s hair. In the action, Echo inadvertently tugged her mother's hair harshly. 

Alma sucked air through her teeth, and her hand reached for the sore patch on her scalp. She squeezed her eyes tightly when the memory of Craig violently pulling her by the hair came to her. She took a deep, shaky breath, then grumbled in her sleep from being woken abruptly. As she began to shift her body, she was suddenly reminded of her period. She could feel the flow wanting to creep farther back than what the long nighttime pad could contain and stilled. Huffing in irritation, she turned her head. Echo was awake, playing with her father’s ear while he snuggled her in his arms, still asleep. 

After a piping hot shower to help relieve her cramping, she reentered the room in just a long band tee and comfy granny panties. The room was empty, only momentarily, when Echo came running to her legs once Bill opened the door holding plates of complimentary continental breakfast from the hotel. He was in a simple black sweat set after having slept in black boxer briefs.

Alma planted kisses on her daughter's cheek as she giggled in her little princess nightgown. She still had messy bed hair, so Alma smoothed it down, but it wasn’t much help. Bill kicked off his Adidas sandals by the door and situated the plates he was once balancing along his long arm, on the unmade bed. 

“Feeling okay?” he asked caressing Alma’s cheek after kissing her good morning. It was very early—hardly 7 a.m.

“Eh,” she grimaced. “I was about to take some ibuprofen.” 

“I’ll grab it.” He then gestured to the food so that she would eat. 

He brought back a hodgepodge of breakfast foods from the lobby. Overripe fruits, watery scrambled eggs, paper-thin bacon, sausage links, and plain bagels that were warm to the touch as if they were toasted but yet still oddly pale. It may not have been the best breakfast they ever had or could even make themselves, but it would suffice. Echo was given the best plate, a waffle Bill took the time to make at the waffle station. Warm and crispy, buttered and drizzled with syrup, and topped with a dollop of whipped cream.

After fiddling with the in-room coffee maker to start brewing, Bill approached Alma, who was holding a bagel, and put three tablets in her hand, which she dry swallowed. He couldn’t dry-swallow pills like she could; it made him gag any time he tried. He pulled his pockets inside out, produced packets of jam and cream cheese, and sprinkled them on the bed. 

They spoke about their plans for the day as they ate. Their main event would be visiting Alma’s dad in the afternoon, but when arriving in Springfield, they saw signs advertising a weekend swap meet. It sounded like something nice to do while in town. Before they realized it, they had eaten all the food without complaint. The only complaint uttered was from Bill, who commented on the brewed bitter, watery coffee. He said it probably wasn’t to drink but for the aroma only.

“Mo’ joos, mama,” Echo asked, waving her sippy cup in the air. 

“Please?” 

“Peeze!” 

Alma grabbed the jug of apple juice she left by the side of the bed to fill it up for her when she started speaking to her father.

“‘Nana, papa?”

“You want some, baby?” He asked, tearing a piece from the one he was eating. 

Alma passed the sippy cup back to her daughter, to which she thanked her without needing to be reminded of her manners. She began to gather the paper plates to throw away when Bill got up to rip off the top duvet, which got messy with syrup. Luckily, they still had three more. He laid back on the bed after and sighed, rubbing his eyes. 

Once Echo was settled and sitting at the foot of the bed watching children’s educational TV, Bill felt Alma’s hand on his chest. Then she laid her body over his. He appreciated her relaxed weight over his body, and tightly wrapped his arms around her. 

“You look tired, love.” She mumbled.

“I am.” He admitted, which was a rarity.

“We’ll be gone by tomorrow night.” She reminded. “Just take a nap; we’ve got time.” 

She began to scoot off of him, but he held her firmly, keeping her from doing so. His hand slid down her back to grope her ass cheek.

“Stay.” He said squeezing it, making her giggle. “You feel nice on me.” 

They lay silently while Echo exclaimed and giggled along with the TV. Bill thought it was endearing that Alma reminded him of when they’d be leaving. Despite dragging her there, it was nice that she recognized that he didn’t want to be in Missouri either. But he had something to do, and today was his day to execute it. He was nervous, and he wondered how he'd be able to approach it without Alma suspecting something or overhearing. He’ll figure it out; he knew he could always find a way. Even with his confidence, it didn’t ease him. 

…

As they left, the hotel Bill looked down at Alma with a smirk on his face just before they exited the lobby. They were going to the post office to ship Alma’s old things back to Seattle.

“Yeah?” Alma flippantly questioned his smugness. 

“I saw your old skates in one of the boxes. Do you think you can still skate?” 

“What? There’s no way!” She scoffed, shaking her head. 

Suddenly she was sitting on a curb by the SUV, lacing them up. Bill had dared her to try, and she couldn’t back down from that. She remembered begging her parents for roller skates for Christmas her junior year. They were white, with pink glitter laces and pink translucent wheels. However, they were used, so they were scuffed, the trucks looked slightly rusted, and they had collected dust. Echo was next to her, intrigued and touching them just before she stood up. She stood there for a moment, a bit hesitant, before she pushed off and slowly rolled on the stiff wheels, trying to catch her bearings. It had been about a decade since she’d donned skates. Bill picked up Echo, and they watched Alma do a slow arching semicircle before them until she stumbled a bit. 

“I got it,” she said, putting her hand up when Bill stepped forward. “I rolled over a pebble.” 

She steadied herself again, and then she began skating with more confidence. Echo was giggling with fascination. Meanwhile, Bill watched her hair flow behind her with a pleasant smile on her face. He was seeing the young girl he fell in love with so long ago again. Alma skated up to them and was confident enough to take Echo in her arms for a slow, cautious ride. She instinctively wrapped her little arms around her mother's neck and just snickered to herself. 

“One mo’!” She asked when they completed the ride back to where Bill stood. 

She obliged her, going a little bit faster, and then handed her back to Bill, much to Echo’s dismay, to take the skates off. 

“And you said you couldn’t,” he chuckled. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she smiled. “All the kids' rollerblade now, though. I’d look like a dork with these out at the park.” 

“They’re the dorks,” Bill retorted. 

…

It was a hot and muggy day in Springfield. The air hung humid from the late-night rain, and besides Echo, who was appropriately dressed in light colors and shorts, the sun was beating down on Bill and Alma, especially as they wore their typical black garments. Bill was even wearing the same black shirt he wore the day before. They took brief refuge just outside the parameters of the outdoor swap meet at a small record shop, where they had spotted some local teens loitering about. It seems like some of that Seattle grunge aesthetic has made its place even in this small town in southwest Missouri with the youths. 

Echo was wriggling in Bill’s arms as he and Alma walked around the humble music store, speaking to each other. She felt familiar with being in this environment and was becoming a little frustrated that she couldn’t just run around like she was able to at Sheisty Sound. 

“Down, papa!” She whined, trying to push away from him. 

“Down? Or up?” He asked, inadvertently cutting Alma off mid-sentence. He put Echo on his shoulders, and she giggled, satisfied with the compromise. “Sorry.” 

“I was saying like, Darby basically hired me. It feels weird to surpass him.” 

“I mean technically… you would.” Alma rolled her eyes at that. “So you really want Ash as a manager? Why not Ulyssa?” 

He hadn’t questioned Alma about it until now. When she informed him that she’d be training Ash to replace herself, he just chose to trust that she knew what she was doing. After all, she understood the dynamics between the coworkers much better than he did. He was an interloper, but Alma was his guide in. 

Alma paused, leaned her hip on a record table, and looked at him. “I know you trust her, but I trust Ash too. She’s good with numbers and people. She’s a lot more patient than I am regarding customer service, too. Anyway, Ulyssa is still in school, and she might be moving.” She said, looking a bit sad, passing along the news. 

“Moving for what?” He balked with furrowed brows in shock. 

Alma sighed. “Well, she’s got an opportunity to finish her degree at NYU.” 

Bill raised his brows. “Impressive. But what the hell?” 

“Yeah. But that won’t be until next year, so...” she trailed off and began perusing again. 

“Still… Alright, and then Darby. He stays the head manager, okay?” He said it as if he were checking off boxes in his mind. 

Before they left for Missouri, Darby had asked Bill if he’d like to go for lunch sometime when they got back. He knew it would be a discussion about his paycheck, but Bill was already a step ahead of him on that front. He saw what all the employee's hourly pay was, and with what he knew from Alma’s information, Lewis was ripping them off a little. 

“I’ll handle the live events, you know. It is separate from sales. I could work in-store or at home when I need or want to.” 

Bill puffed his bottom lip out and nodded. He agreed with her line of thinking. They had been subtly hinting to each other about possibly growing their family in the future. Neither just hadn’t outright said as much to each other. 

They were back-to-back in an aisle, flicking through records. The shop they were in didn’t seem to be big on keeping up with the decade, but there could always be old hidden treasures. Bill had no such luck as he looked, but Alma found two records of interest. He pulled one out of the plastic sleeve and saw that it was an original pressing. Alma, having worked in a record shop, now had a better eye than he did.

…

On their way to Alma’s father's that afternoon, Bill noticed her spinning the rings on her fingers nervously. She had her gaze fixed out the passenger window, seemingly in deep thought. 

It had taken her so long to get ready, too. As if she were trying to push the visit back by being picky over what to wear. She changed her top four times and switched between jeans and a respectable knee-length skirt. She ultimately chose the first outfit she had initially tried on. A sleeveless black button-down and a pencil skirt. The only change she made was to tie the bottom of her shirt together. She wanted to look like an adult, but now, looking at herself in the wall mirror, she thought she looked so plain and lame. Bill could see her second-guessing herself again.

“Babe... That’s nice. It looks better when you tie it.” 

Alma nodded, smoothing her skirt on her hips, appreciating his reassurance. “Okay... Just let me do something with my hair.” She said, striding to the bathroom.

Bill inhaled deeply and then smiled at his daughter, who was dressed in a lavender-colored dress that had the flowers embroidered along the bottom hem. She was passing him one of her hot-wheel cars while holding onto a knockoff troll doll from the swap meet in the other.

“Dwive!” She said, “Vwoom!” 

At least he had his daughter, helping with distracting himself rather than absorbing Alma’s nervous energy. God only knew he didn’t need any more of it. 

Bill parked right behind Antonio’s red Chevy Silverado. He turned to Alma, who was nervously chewing her pink, balm-covered lips. 

“What are you thinking?” He asked her softly. 

Alma flashed a wary glance at him. “It’s just… last time. Last time I came back, my mom was sick, and, uh…” her voice wavered. “I’m scared. He’s old.” 

Bill wasn’t sure what words he could provide to ease her. He was old, and the grim updates he’d give over the phone, he was sure, were anxiety-inducing for her. Reimagining his tales and inserting her father in those situations. This is what she wasn’t mentioning to him. Worrying that her return would just reveal that her father wasn’t doing as well as he let on, just like her mother did to her. 

“Well. He doesn’t look too bad…” Bill said, looking out the windshield. 

Alma followed his gaze. Her father was standing on the porch, squinting with his hand over his brow. He looked the same as the last time Alma saw him, and she felt some relief. Just then, his wife Connie appeared to take a peek from the screen door, and Bill bit his cheek, looking at Alma.

“The wife?”

“Mm. She doesn’t speak English, but she understands it well. She’s actually… a nice lady,” Alma admitted. “It’s just… weird. I don’t get why my parents, uhm. I never asked.” 

“I get it. I get it.” He nodded. “I’ll be right behind you.” He encouraged. She reached for her door handle to let herself out, just to get the ball rolling. “Wait.” He said, placing his hand on her knee. “I have to do that, especially with your dad watching.”

He stepped out of the SUV and waved to Antonio, who only gave him a curt nod back.

“Ugh, shit,” Bill muttered under his breath. 

He swiftly helped Alma out of the car and planted a reassuring kiss on her lips. Discreetly, she palmed his package. She thought he would flinch, but instead, he pressed himself much more firmly. Calling her tease and making her lightly laugh, which was the goal.

“In front of your dad? Sicko!” He said in a hushed tone, before letting her go on her way. 

While Bill was busy gathering Echo and her things, Alma quickly made her way up the porch steps. Before her father, who used a cane to support himself, could start making his way down them.

“Mi Almacita!” He said with a big grin on his face, embracing her. “I was getting worried you weren’t coming,” he winked at her as he held her face, examining it. Her brown eyes were so bright again.

With her wedge heels on, they were close to the same height. Her father wasn’t a short man, but with age, it looked like he had shrunk a bit.

“I wouldn’t come all this way for nothing.” She said, making him laugh. “You miss me?” 

“All the time, amor.” He said, caressing her cheek with the back of his weathered hand. “All the time. Y esta muñequita quien es?” He nodded his head, and Alma looked behind herself. 

“You know Bill?” She said to him, and they both laughed. 

Bill stood there, unsure of what was said, but the laughter was good. He’ll take it, even if it was some joke about him. He couldn’t claim to be fluent in Spanish, but having taken it for his foreign language credit so long ago in high school, he could somewhat follow the context. However, he had too much on his mind for his feeble grade school knowledge to help him now. 

“She’s like a little doll,” Antonio said in English, and then he greeted Bill with a polite handshake. “Come inside. Connie’s almost done with the cooking.” 

When entering, Connie had come to say hello. If Alma wasn’t wearing her optical aids, she could easily mistake her for her mother. They looked eerily similar, yet at the same time, they weren’t. Alma asked Connie in Spanish if she needed any help in the kitchen, but she told her to sit and to make herself at home instead.

They were in the den, where there was a needlepoint project on a side table, newspapers, and TV guides scattered about. The TV was on mute, broadcasting local news. Bill’s attention went towards a shelf full of pictures of other kids who were Connie's adult children and grandchildren. And then he saw the JC Penney's portrait of Echo in the bunch. As well as a shot of Alma and Echo together, and right by was their family portrait. So he made the cut. That was nice to see. Reassuring, actually.

Antonio sat in his designated brown suede recliner, which had the imprint of his body indented into it. He watched his daughter and her family situate themselves on the couch for a moment until Alma took Echo into her arms. 

“Do you want to hold her?” She asked him.

“Echo.” He tried to acclimate to her name, but when he said it, she looked at him with her hazel eyes, curiously.

“Put her down,” Bill suggested when he noticed his daughter wasn’t behaving as timidly as she was at his brother's house. 

Alma placed her on her feet and she began walking towards her grandfather.

“Aye, big girl,” Antonio said, making her smile. “Soy tu abuelo. Pero tú sabes, si?” He said, petting her light hair. 

She took notice of his hand then. A russet, calloused hand, but it was the soft, wrinkly skin on the back of his hand that she was fascinated with. He let her pull and tug at it, as she found it peculiar. The parents were just letting her sus the mood out and navigate herself. Alma’s fingers inched across the suede couch they were on and found Bill’s hand to hold unconsciously. It hadn’t ever occurred to Alma that Echo really hadn’t been around old people. She had seen them at the quad apartment, but she’d never interacted with them before.

“Look, I have two,” Antonio said, introducing his other hand. “How many do you have?” he pointed at her little, stubby hands. “Two, too?” 

“One, two, twee!” She exclaimed.

“Three! That’s too many!” He said, making her laugh. “She looks like you when she laughs.” He said, looking at his adult daughter. “But she looks the most like you.” He said to Bill. 

“‘Tonio,” Connie said from the dining room. 

That was odd for Alma to hear, as that is how her mother would address him too. 

“The food is ready,” Antonio informed them, since his wife was a little shy to do so herself. “Let’s eat.” 

Antonio slowly got up with the help of his cane, and Alma had to resist helping him get upright. He was too proud to accept it, and he didn’t want to have his daughter worry about him that way. Echo returned to Bill and held his hand as they followed the other father-and-daughter pair. 

As they entered the dining room, the food was perfectly presented in Mexican terracotta cazuelas. A spread of carne asada, frijoles molido, arroz, roasted jalapeños, fresh tortillas de maiz, guacamole, quartered limes, and pico de gallo. 

Connie finally sat down with them after making Echo some quesadillas that she cut into the shape of stars. Alma thanked her and complimented the food she had spent time making for them all on behalf of her family. As they ate, Alma found the food to be really tasty and perfectly seasoned. However, being stubborn, she couldn’t admit that it was better than her mother's food. That, she would keep to herself. 

During dinner, the parents shared funny anecdotes about their daughter and spoke about how she was smart for her age, sweet, kind, and maybe a little too rambunctious at times. Bill was telling Antonio about Seattle, but all he did was nod, mostly. To Bill, it felt like he was playing nice with him for Alma’s sake.

“And you know, once we get our house,” Alma continued for Bill as he was adding more guacamole to Echo’s plate upon her request. “You should visit.”

She noticed her father’s gaze stayed on Bill and their daughter while she spoke. Echo was telling Bill that the food was yummy and was holding her spoon out for him to try a mixture of beans, guacamole, and rice she had stirred together. He lightly chuckled at her generosity and redirected the spoon towards her mouth. Connie had spoken up then, and Alma turned her attention towards her.

Bill sat there, wishing to understand what she had said, because suddenly Antonio looked uncomfortable, and Alma flashed him a look of frustration and surprise.

“You’ve been to San Antonio?” She questioned.

“Mhmm,” he said, wiping his mouth nervously. “Well-” 

Alma’s gaze fell, but she then set her feelings aside. “Was it nice?” She asked, pushing her rice into the beans on her plate. “How was it?”

She wanted to be upset, but she hadn’t ever invited him to visit her until now. There was no way in hell she’d ever invite him to New York; he’d just kidnap her and take her back home if he had seen how she was then. It didn’t help that he was also weirdly stubborn about travel and used his age as an excuse. However, she wanted to be happy that at least he was traveling and that somehow his new wife had encouraged him to. 

“It was nice to be back in Tejas,” he lightly chuckled. “But anyway, it’s nice to hear that you’re doing big things in Seattle. But it rains a lot there, and I have arthritis.” 

“Really?” Alma bit her tongue to keep from saying anything else. 

There was a smile creeping on Antonio’s face; sometimes he just liked to mess with her. She was as stubborn as he was, and it was undeniable. Alma shook her head, amused and annoyed that he didn’t give her a straight answer.

As they wrapped up dinner, Connie asked anyone if they’d like coffee, but Antonio asked her to bring back some beers instead. He watched Bill clean his daughter's hands and face with a napkin. He liked that he was so attentive to her. However, it was so strange to see, after having known the young, rough, and tough boy, that his daughter had taken a liking to sitting in his home. Now he was a well-put-together man. He was nice and polite, even. 

Noticing the amount of jewelry they both wore was not lost on him, though. They smelled of expensive complimentary “his and hers” perfume that even the baby smelled as if she had gotten a few spritzes. However, with the state Alma was in when she arrived in Missouri after years of being away, he was still wary of him. He knew how his family—specifically his father—was. 

He observed how Alma and Bill could silently converse with only their eyes, and they remained close to each other. Their bodies always met, no matter if it were their knees against each other or Bill idly touching the material of her clothing. They had an unspeakable bond and understanding with each other. They were both quite intense to experience in person.

It was quite clear that they were in love. Alma had made her choice, and they had a child that bonded them for life now. To interrupt them at this point would just be futile. Besides, it wasn’t as if she’d listen to his bargaining anyway.

They had all gone out to the back porch to enjoy the evening so that Echo could meet her chicken cousins. The women walked out to the yard, where the coop was, and joined the flightless birds. Meanwhile, Antonio and Bill stood under the back porch, sipping on their cold beer in awkwardness.

“Duck!” Echo pointed.

“Huh?” Alma said, and then, looking in the direction she pointed, there were indeed two pekin ducks living with the horde of hens. “Yeah, those are ducks!” She said proudly that Echo was able to identify and recognize the difference. 

Antonio looked up at Bill, who smiled proudly overhearing the exchange, and then sighed. “So.” 

“Hmm?” 

Just then, Echo squealed with fright, and Bill’s eyes darted back to her. Alma was picking up the chickens and tossing them up, their wings flapping rapidly as they clumsily settled back down on their feet, stupidly clucking as if nothing had happened. She had been laughing before, but one chicken plummeted too close to her, and she didn’t appreciate that. 

“Uh, Echo’s got a weird thing about animals.” Bill lightly chuckled under his breath. “She likes them, but she thinks they should behave like her stuffed animals. You know, just sitting there looking cute.” He explained. “We went to the zoo in Kansas City, and, eh, she was into it and recognized that they were actual living things. But the heat got to her, so we left early.”

Bill was preserving Echo’s dignity a bit because she actually had a full-blown meltdown from the heat and the overstimulation. She completely fell out like a deadweight on a trail, screaming and crying in a tantrum. It was too hot for Bill and Alma, too, so they resigned and left after wrestling her into the stroller. 

“Ah,” Antonio nodded. “Well, the zoo always seems to be a thousand degrees for some reason.”

“Um, thanks for having us over–” 

“Thanks for getting Alma here,” Antonio interjected. “I know she wanted the deed to the house, but, still… How’d you manage that?” 

“Eh?” Bill shrugged. “I have ways. But I wanted to come here to speak to you in person, actually.” 

“Mm,” Antonio said, raising his brows and taking a sip of his beer. 

“Well,” Bill bit his lip, figuring out his wording. “I want to marry your daughter.” He said it plainly. “And… I’m not asking for permission, frankly. But I just wanted to let you know because I just wanted to do something the right way for once. So I guess what I’m asking is your blessing.” He scratched his neck, feeling a little confused by his own wording. He didn’t want to come off as rude because it was going to happen despite his opinion, but he wanted him to feel included. At least that's what he supposed he was doing now.

Antonio stood in thought for a moment and gazed out to look at his daughter, who was crouched down holding a chicken under her arm and guiding Echo’s hand to pet its brown feathers as she giggled enthusiastically. Bill was bold to say he wasn’t asking for permission, but he knew his daughter would do what she wanted to do regardless of what he thought. As he looked at his daughter and grandchild, he saw the common ground that he shared with Bill. They were both fathers to daughters. 

“That’s a bit tough for me…” 

Bill took a sip of his beer then, feeling a bit tense and wishing he had a lit cigarette between his lips. He had gotten over with what he had traveled so far to say. Why couldn’t Antonio just play his part and say yes? Alma’s decision was as good as concrete, even without having been asked for her hand in marriage yet. 

“You know,” Antonio continued. “There was a moment when I thought Alma may not like boys at all. If you get me,” he peered up at him. “But that was just wishful thinking. I just… Well, you have your daughter, so one day you’ll get it. You won’t think anyone will be good enough.” He sighed. “Maria and I raised Alma to be headstrong, independent, and sure of herself. We feared a lot about the fact that she’d be alone without us much sooner than most. But I see, maybe that wasn’t the best way… Not because, even after being taught all of that, she chose you. That’s not what I’m saying. It’s because we never let her just be a kid. We…” He cleared his throat and seemed to hold back on what he was going to say initially. “She found someone who could let her be just as she is. Just sit back for a moment without having to worry, you know.” 

Bill was surprised; this was the way her father saw things as an outsider. It was so easy to reflect on all the worst things they have been through together. How awful they could even be. Forgetting that even in the self-destructive chaos they had created, they were the only two who could give each other peace as well. In his thoughts, he just resented how much time he wasted deflecting a life he could have lived much sooner had he given in to love and stopped punishing himself. Perpetuating his father’s abuse onto himself and continuing to believe the ugly, harsh words he even beat into his subconscious, making him feel unworthy.

“She can be a bit, eh,” Antonio said, tilting his hand from side to side. “But I’m sure having the baby probably puts a break on some of her antics, too.” He lightly chuckled. Bill thought if only he knew, but then he became serious again. “But… I saw how she looked when she came back from New York. And it didn’t make me like you any more than I already did. It was my daughter who came back, but it wasn’t.” 

Bill frowned apologetically, but he didn’t have any excuses, nor did he want to give them. Antonio took Bill’s obvious remorse as enough. 

“She told me nothing when I questioned her.” He continued. “She defended you so much, it even made me angry. Then I stopped. My ex-wife was sick, and I was just making it worse for both of them at that time.” Antonio shook his head, disliking his behavior at that time. 

“Could I ask why you and Maria divorced?” Bill blurted out of curiosity. He even felt it was such an odd thing for them to do just as much as Alma did. “Actually, you don’t have-” 

“She asked for it.” Antonio frowned. “I told her no. I was in it to the end, but she felt I was unhappy. That she wasted my life being with her, which wasn’t true. At all,” he adamantly stressed. “But then I met Connie at the senior center, and, well, I thought on it for a long while. And eventually, I went through with the divorce. I never cheated. So when you tell my daughter, make sure she knows that.” 

“Yeah, of course.” Bill nodded, surprised to be privy to such information. 

“Are you coming?” Alma hollered at her dad from the yard. Connie was showing off her salsa garden now and plucked a cherry tomato off the vine for Echo to try. 

“Yeah,” he waved, and that sufficed. “She doesn’t care if I go out there or not, she just wants to see what the hell we're doing.” Antonio laughed, knowing his daughter all too well. “How do you support her? And don’t bullshit me. Entertainment business?” He shook his head. “You want my blessing; you tell me the truth.” 

Shit. Bill grumbled internally as he stood up straighter and held his chest out. “I own a gentlemen's club in New York City. That’s why I have the money to buy a record shop slash venue. It’s how we can afford a new house in Seattle while we have a penthouse in New York. I have investments here and there, as well as stocks, too.”

Antonio was quiet for a moment, almost as if waiting for Bill to say he was joking, but he said it all straight, no chaser.

“And… Alma worked–”

“She was only a bartender, that’s true. She never danced. I would never—I didn’t allow it.” He said it truthfully, even if he didn’t like how it sounded a little controlling. 

“Hmm.” He contemplatively rubbed his mustache. “So in Seattle, the record shop is really a record shop. It’s not another gentlemen's club?” 

“No, that's real.” He said, leaning against the porch railing. “We brought copies of the magazines with her concert photography if you want some proof.” 

“She went to night school?” 

“She did. She passed and has her accounting certificate.” Bill answered his questions, but he felt bad that he was somewhat skeptical of his daughter's affairs, but at the same time he understood. “Her doing that helps us with our businesses and such, so I’m happy she did it. She worked hard. Work, school, and a baby all at the same time, you know.”

Antonio nodded and then scratched his salt and pepper hair, a bit stressed and in disbelief. “Well, okay... I can’t change what I can’t change.” He resigned begrudgingly. He could see that Bill was one of the better ones out of his family, but he knew he’d still be up to mess, it was just in his blood. “I’m happy to see that she looks well compared to how she returned the last time. All I ask is that you take care of her. There’s no reason she should ever look like that again. She’s the mother of your child, and that is a sacred thing. What I’ve seen today, gave me a little more faith. So yes, you have my blessing.” 

It was as if a weight fell off of Bill’s shoulders hearing that from him. “Alma will be happy to know that you’ve given it. Like, really. She does do whatever she likes, but your blessing will mean a lot to her.” 

Antonio nodded. “How do you deal with that?” 

“With what?” 

Antonio sipped his beer and looked at his daughter enjoying a fresh cherry tomato. “Disobedience.” He raised his brow. 

Bill smirked, licking his lips. “There’s nothing to deal with when you like it.” 

…

They were all back in the den and Antonio and Connie presented Echo with some gifts. They bought her some dresses, bows, and a baby doll, which she was very happy about. While it was her first time meeting these people, it was written all over her face that she didn’t find them half bad at all. Especially when Connie gave her a grape-flavored tootsie pop to occupy her while the adults spoke as the visit was winding down.

Alma had brought a few family photos to show off to her father, but now he was looking at her photography in the magazines. They had given him his own copies, and he seemed quite impressed and proud. 

“And this band is all over the radio?” He asked, peering through the reading glasses he wore on the end of his wide nose. 

“Yeah. Very famous,” Alma said.

“Maybe not very famous if Antonio hasn’t heard of them,” Bill said softly, directed more for Alma’s ears, and winked when Alma tilted her head at him. 

“Hmm. Were you on Bill’s shoulders? You’re above everyone from where this was taken.”

Bill lightly laughed. “No…” 

“I was on the shoulders of a biker friend of mine, Zeph.” 

Antonio side-eyed his daughter and lightly shook his head, a bit displeased. Even surprised that Bill, who wanted to claim her, was unbothered with her on some other man's shoulders and biker at that, but what could he say? His daughter was just always going to be too out there for him. She was a modern woman. Maybe even something completely different from that. 

“Uhm, would it be okay if you watch Echo for an hour, Apá?” She pointed at her daughter, who was putting her lollipop on the baby doll's plastic plump lips to share. 

Bill peered down at her where he sat, giving her a strange look, but was interested in what this was about. 

“Sí, podemos cuidarla. Está bien.” Connie said it with certainty, peering over at Echo and smiling. 

“Gracias.” Alma smiled appreciatively. “Uhm, I’ll change her before we go.” 

“Where are you going?” Antonio finally spoke up. 

“We. I,” she corrected because she was going off script. “I want to check out the bar before we leave tomorrow.” 

“The bar?” Bill said, surprised, scooting up and turning to look at her. 

Antonio was happy that he was questioning her instead of having to do it. She rubbed his arm as she stood up to grab Echo. 

“Yeah, for like an hour.” She assured. Leaving the scene and helping herself to one of the rooms for privacy. 

“Uhm,” he pursed his lips. “Do you mind if I,” Bill pointed and stood up when Antonio gave him a nod. 

Bill walked down a long hallway and cracked open the closest door to find no one. He heard Echo's little shriek from further down, and as he made his way, he passed by Alma’s brother and sister. The altar wasn’t too different from how he remembered it, only this time the urn was arranged in a small alcove where you’d typically keep a telephone. 

“Leo. Liliana. Hi again.” He said under his breath in passing. “What the hell?” Bill said, shutting the door behind him after finding the correct room. 

Alma was placing a new diaper on Echo, who was pulling on her feet and wiggling over her head. “I know, I know.” She sighed while she kept a hand on Echo’s tummy as she dug into the backpack for a onesie. 

“Well? I thought we said no townies?”

“We’re never coming back here again. Why not?” She said, gently tugging Echo’s arms through the sleeves. 

“Your dad hasn’t even given you the deed to the house yet.” 

“He’ll give it to me when we get back. It’s an hour of our lives,” she shrugged. “I’m not trying to stay late. It’s like, what, eight?” 

Bill checked his Rolex watch and felt a little better about it, seeing that it was fairly early. “Almost. Yeah… fine, we better start going then.” 

[agentc0rn]

Flâneur

What if AZ is seen wandering in the city lol. Might not happen, may happen, who knows.

Short story I randomly made up for no reason if anyone wants to read based on this art (it's not the best but I wanted to indulge in my thoughts):

He wandered. It took great effort and time to get around the labyrinth of buildings. It did not help that his aged senses struggled with grasping all the novelties he had never seen before in his lifetime, nor did it help that hundreds of curious gazes and whispers accompanied him all the way through.

He had been well used to eye contact; not because of his height, but rather because of his status and duties he once held. Though now he was no more than a lost empty shell of a man, merely equipped with a heavy heart and a luggage full of harrowing memories and bygone knowledge that seemed of no use here.

He was a nobody, yet his presence was pronounced. Aside from his stature, his ragged, dull-coloured outfit and his long, unkempt white hair contrasted greatly with the finely made dresses and suits worn by the inhabitants of this great megalopolis. He stood out as a sore thumb, a prickly weed amidst a garden of small colorful flowers. Even though this place was formerly his home, he only became a stranger, a foreigner both in time and space.

Shunning the looks, gasps and hurried whispers he had garnered, he marched on, with no destination set in mind. An old habit that had turned into a lifelong custom - an eternal wayfarer he had become and identified himself as, since he had no home to return to. It had been long gone, washed away by the tides of time. 

He could not help but admire just how the place brimmed with life -  the way the afternoon golden sunlight poured down on the wide paved streets and avenues, where people chattered and strolled about, carrying bags full of goods purchased from the market stands. Carriages rocked and passed by, along with carts loaded with supplies of organic products. Pidoves pecked on bread crumbs at every chance they could get.

The longer he observed, his mind stirred up thoughts and ideas and imagination of all sorts. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment  as he saw himself opening up the mass contraption, unleashing a huge brilliant beam of light that pierced through the clouds, the skies, to the heavens above, soon to scorch upon the earth. Destruction was his legacy, forever engraved onto his name, a grave sin of his that took the form of a key that he long bore for centuries. The effects of his crime more or less tagged him everywhere, lurking around within his shadow. 

It haunted him.

He took a deep breath and doddled the other way, searching for a place to sit. His legs needed a break and so did his mind. He continued onwards until a fragrant scent reached his senses, causing him to stop in his tracks. Taking a closer look, he found a cart stocked with motleys of blooming flowers. There, a short, petite woman donned in a white dress looked around the pots, still yet to decide on which one to choose.

He couldn't help but draw near, all while memories seeped into his mind where his younger self plucked a handful of flowers, tying them and placing them onto his beloved one as a crown. As he bumbled towards the cart, the short-haired brunette took notice of his presence and backed away from him, startled. He mumbled an apology with a tilt of his head, stepping away from the cart. Once she regained composure, she smiled and invited him to come forward with a flick of her hand, quickly dismissing the awkwardness of the encounter.

"Lovely, aren't they?" she said, leaning towards one pot filled with daffodils and sniffed one. AZ did not expect the lady to speak, yet alone to him out of all people. But he did not want to rudely decline a conversation. He hardly exchanged a conversation with a human being for so long in the countless years of his wandering.

He yearned to regain a sense of humanity again, for he had long lost his sense of self along the way in his descent to desolation.

"...Yes, they certainly are," words parted from his lips. "Fleetingly beautiful. Small, but valuable. Truly Earth's finest wealth." With his gloved, coarsened hand, he gently lifted a drooping rose and over to the lavender. The lady in white's smile remained as she eyed his solemn expression. Her soft gaze held a tender curiosity, free of disdain and wariness, unlike the gawking reactions from others. She turned away briefly, returning to her search for some moments just before re-opening her mouth.

"With all of that cumbersome load and thick garment, you must have traveled a great distance. From where you might be?" She inquired. On her right, a Floette drifted up towards AZ, smiling brightly the same way her partner did. As soon as he caught sight of the Floette, it broke his stolid, stony expression. He tried to utter a response but failed. From the bottom of his stomach, grief resurfaced, securing his throat at a chokehold. Tears blurred his vision and he fluttered his eyes quickly. The Floette tapped on his shoulder in an attempt to reassure him, but a few tears trickled down his pale, hollow-cheeked face.

"I...I apologize. I am suddenly reminded of something," he stuttered and looked away in shame. He had thought he had dried all his tears up after all these years.

Taking a quick gander at her surroundings, the lady beckoned to him to follow and he did so without a complaint until they reached a small alleyway, where ratattas scrambled out about. The lady fumbled in her bag and pulled out a handkerchief. "This should be a better place. I should be the one giving an apology, you did not do any wrongdoing. I am no fan of the public either." He accepted her generous offer and dabbed at his eyes, then gave his thanks.

"In a way, you remind me of my grandfather," she said. "Gentle, soft-spoken and fond of nature." As she spoke, the Floette twirled around AZ in a small happy dance. He cracked a weak smile, then returned to his usual countenance. .

"Do I?" he questioned.

"Your mannerism and tone precisely resemble him. I would have loved for him to meet you, surely you would have been good friends."

He smiled and said nothing. They stood in silence, gazing outward at the end of the alleyway, with small streaks of people flowing in and out of the street.

"It is better for me to go now. I worry that I am troubling you, having meddled with your errands," he said with concern, looking downwards at the lady. "I thank you for your acts of kindness. I truly appreciate it." For every word he said, he meant it. He glanced sideways at the lady's Floette and it dawned on him that he had something with him that he could give to the lady as a return of  favor.

AZ dug into his pockets.

"This may not be much, but I hope that you may use these to grow in your garden." He said, extending his long slender arm towards her, handing her a bag of red trillium seeds that he had collected not too long ago in his journey, in hopes of planting along barren areas long affected by the war and the destruction of the ultimate weapon.

"Oh, you are too kind, traveler! I have heard of these before, but never have I expected to possess them!" she placed both of her hands on her chest, gushing. "Do you see this, Fleurine? We can grow more!" she beamed to her companion, who spun around once more in great joy. She turned back forward to him and grinned.

"Before we depart, my name is Acacia for your knowledge, should we ever cross paths and meet again. It  was a great pleasure of exchanging some brief pleasantries with you, good sir! May your journey be filled with great tidings!" she waved at him, joined by her Floette, who waved her flower at him.

"Likewise. My name is AZ. If we do not meet again, then let those seeds be a souvenir of me. I wish you a prosperous life ahead," he said."Au revoir, Ehzie!" the young lady called one last time, and made her way back to the market. Waving back and nodding, he trotted off. He managed to make his way to the end of the city, apparently named Lumiose, with hope sprouting within his ancient, grief-ridden heart.

[crepesuzette2023]

hello, I was wondering if you have any fics you like where Paul is the one pining?

Thank you so much for this question, and sorry to have taken so long to reply. I hope you still find these useful!

The lovely thing about J/P fic is that both John and Paul excel at pining. Scholarly tomes should be filled with arguments about who does it better. (Is Mutual Pining really the ultimate, or can something be said about the solo work of either man surpassing their 'collaboration'?)

As per your ask, it's Paul turn in these recs. I've decided to include fics in which they are in a relationship, of sorts, but where there's an element of Paul feeling that John is out of reach, or that Paul doesn't have enough of John — there's a distance to be bridged (but how?).

Early Days: Before the Fete

I've Just Seen a Face (sleepprettydarling): Five times Paul sees John before the Woolton Fete, one time he doesn't. G-rated, but the longing is *everywhere*.

Early Days

Two of us (burning matches) (@scurator). John corrupts/awakens Paul.

Above us only sky (candle_beck). "Paul is tired of being so good."

The first year (candle_beck). "They didn't get along, Stuart and Paul."

Lifting Latches/Sending Postcards (thinkpink20). Swapping clothes and becoming lovers...slowly. You can feel Paul's heartbeat when you read this.

On Menlove Avenue (thinkpink20). One of my favorite summaries ever: "It's a dark, dark night in Woolton."

Hamburg Era (roughly)

Mistletoe (thinkpink20). Paul observes John at Christmas, and finally takes action.

Like Love, the Archers are Blind (@dailyhowl). "He can’t ever be truly mad at him. Because his frustration melts like sugar on his tongue when he thinks about them sat across from each with their guitars and a notebook between them. Thinks about riding on the bus together with greasy packets of chips, stalking through record stores and strolling by the docks. How familiar and comfortable it feels to be together. What they have is too golden, too warm to ever stray from. And now he’s drowning in it." Come onnnn

Sinful (thinkpink20). "He tells himself it's just the grime around him, dirtying up his mind."

Beginning Fame

the touch of the velvet hand (downtothelastdrop). “Well then,” Paul countered, “you’ve not felt what I can do.”

I'm Telling You (aceonthebass). Paul pitches a 'soft' love song to John.

wouldn't it be nice? (@pauls1967moustache). John marries Cyn. What about John&Paul?

Geodesic Dome Era

open heart (@revollver). Vampire AU. Paul needs John—in more than one way.

Way up Top (@boshemians). The Beatles in Greece. "Underwater Paul snakes his arm around John’s wrist and presses their chests together, struggling for something."

1968

Days Like This (@eveepe). "His mouth was strangely dry, and he could feel his heartbeat pulsing in the scar on his lip."

Bad luck to talk (7intheevening). Paul is yearning for what he and John used to have—without being quite aware of his feelings. (Subconscious pining?)

Lost (@ohjohnnysblog). Paul needs a reminder of his and John's happier past. He goes to see Astrid...

Wings Era

Red Lights, Green Lights, Strawberry Wine (@savageandwise). Paul is with Linda and Denny, but waiting for John to call him back again...(Linda POV).

Later Days

Nude (@ohjohnnysblog). Paul buys nude pictures in a gallery and thinks of John.

Modern Love (caesdoublesteps). For a lighter touch: Paul negotiates with Yoko to give him Self Portrait, the movie about John's semi-erection. Yoko has a counter-offer.

AU

Sleeping Sand, Morning Moon (@dailyhowl). Playwright Paul grieves a dear friend and the end of a relationship. He escapes to a Scottish village and falls in love with resident eccentric John—but his heart is not ready. (It will be.)

[radiaurapple]

Lucid Dreams of New Orleans: Chapter 8

CHAPTER SUMMARY: IN WHICH Alastor goes for a swim.

The last time Lucifer saw his father, he was granted a fragment of His divine power — a punishment in the guise of a blessing — that he might serve as steward of the wayward souls cast down into Hell. It is a cruel gift, designed to ensure that he will always be haunted by his mistakes; Lucifer has endured the past seven thousand years by avoiding its use at all costs. But in the aftermath of the fight with Adam, Alastor’s worsening injury threatens the foundations of his daughter’s dream. Lucifer does what any good father would do: he uses his long-forgotten power to deliver Alastor’s soul from the brink of destruction. In turn, knowing Alastor — with all his sins, past lives, and heartbreaks — teaches Lucifer a little more about what it means to be human.

[AO3 LINK]

Another Saturday means another chapter + another promo art attempt!!! it's human Alastor and Lucifer on the subway!! Next chapter coming next Saturday, chapter preview below! 📻🍎

Alastor returns the next three nights. Lucifer brings him first to Victorian-era London, where they explore the rainy streets under a conjured umbrella. The following night they visit a speakeasy in Chicago — the next they spend wandering the streets of modern Tokyo. 

It is nothing like those nights, so many years ago now, when Lucifer would seek out Lilith’s warmth on the other side of the bed. When he and Lilith touched, they almost always ended up somewhere sleepy and serene — a meadow in the midst of Eden’s enormous, ancient trees, or a breezy morning on the deserted Mongolian steppe, in one of Lucifer’s memories of the age before humans spread across the Earth. Perhaps it had reflected a love built more on companionship than actual desire — the love that would bind any two souls alone at the desolate edge of the world. The love that hadn’t been strong enough, in the end, to hold them together — that had instead flickered out over the years into a warm but lonely friendship. 

This is different. 

The doors of the F train slide shut and the train lurches into motion — Lucifer glares up at Alastor, both of them gripping the pole in the center of the car. 

They’re in New York in 2019. Alastor’s visit today was an unexpected surprise on a lazy morning with no meetings and nothing to do; they’d arrived here just before sunset and spent a while exploring the Lower East Side before they hopped on the train at 2nd Avenue.

“You are fucking unbelievable,” Lucifer says, too loud — a father seated between his two children casts him an affronted glance over the top of his phone. Lucifer continues at a whisper: “How the Hell can you be so sure this is a downtown train? You’ve never even been to New York.”

“I can be sure because I have made use of an advanced technique known as observation of our surroundings. I highly recommend it.”

“Okay, well, you’re wrong. I’m getting off at the next stop. Asshole.” 

“This is a downtown train,” says a voice behind him, not unkindly — Lucifer turns around to find an elderly woman watching them, leaning her forearms against a cart of groceries. She inclines her head above her, at the monitor that lists the upcoming stops. “See? It’s going to Brooklyn.” 

“Oh,” Lucifer says. 

He shifts his weight on his feet as the train slows to a stop. The doors slide open; Lucifer stares out at the pillar reading Delancey/Essex and fights a losing battle against the flush rising on his face. After what feels like an eternity, the doors close again and the train accelerates out of the station.

“This is my first time in New York,” Lucifer says to the woman, as if it will in any way improve this situation. The woman glances up at him again and offers him a smile, but says nothing.

“No, it isn’t,” Alastor says behind him. “He’s been here many times before. He is the Devil, nearly as old as time itself — unfortunately he is notoriously absent-minded and plagued by the regrettable belief that he is always correct.”

The woman blinks at Alastor. The silence is broken by the deafening screech of the train’s brakes as it slows; the doors slide open before an enormous sign that reads East Broadway. 

“Ah — this is our stop. Thank you for your assistance,” Alastor says. He steps fluidly off the train and turns down the platform, toward the exit.

Lucifer stares after him in shock for a long moment, then jolts forward. “Hey!” He trips off the train, quickly rights himself — “You can’t just tell people I’m the Devil!” 

Alastor’s laughter echoes down the platform like music. 

[AO3 LINK]

[slickchickchocolatier]

ↀOUBLE IIROUBLE - CHAPTER TWELVE

For once, there isn't any smut....HOWEVER.....

Warnings: mentions of murder, implications of gruesome torture, collection of body parts/organs, secret family history, intentions of murder, restraint, forcefully restraining y/n, some hints of conspiracy, conspiring others to hold a secret, cursing...think that's it. I really do feel bad for y/n in this one….This also isn't proofread....sorry. -___-

Next chapter is series finale! Be ready y’all!

It had been two days since Danny confronted you and the boys, revealing his knowledge of your hidden love affair and unexpected pregnancy. You bit your nails out of anxiety, staring out the window and watched as each drop of rain trails down the glass. You became so overwhelmed and nervous, you feared the worst and furthermore, despite his claims of not informing your mother, you wondered if Danny had divulged the details of what you had been doing with your twin stepbrothers for the last nine months, ever since she and Danny tied the knot. Was it too late to abort everything and start over? You considered restarting the entire avenue of how things came to be, you couldn’t deny that you’ve thought about it, yet the idea of abandoning the two men you had fallen for, regardless that it was forced and the nature of your love was more than likely due to Stolkholm Syndrome, was all unbearable. How could you leave them? Not only did you return their affection, but there was no way the boys would ever let you leave or go in peace. Surely, they would have haunted you and taken drastic measures to bring you back, you’ve already seen a hint of their ugliness with all the training and punishments they pushed on you. Aside from their obsessive nature, you have found yourself unable to imagine a world without them; you needed and depended on them so much for the last six months, how were you able to function without their generous consideration and devotion, especially now that you’ve not only gotten used to it, but embraced it. And then there was the baby…your baby, their baby…no doubt the thing was no bigger than the size of a pea, but the thought of you erasing it from your memory, knowing full well that you would have created something beautiful became ultra devastating. You couldn’t do it, you won’t. 

The only resolution you could accept was that your mother would find out about you and the twins, and that a huge debacle would unravel between you three and the parents, but it was a love worth fighting for. Your rational sense, well, if you can call it rational among everything that’s happened, told you of the legalities in this situation. It wasn’t illegal to have a consensual love affair between three people, minus the fact that no one would ever know that the relationship did not start out that way, but that didn’t matter to you anymore. You became theirs, and they were yours, it didn’t matter if it was all forced through struggles, pain, and a training process; you had already come so far and done so much, there was no looking back. You weren’t related to them, so really, was there anything genuinely wrong with what was going down? Could your mother be at all mad? Disagreeable, perhaps. You’re quite certain that she would have never thought that her daughter would be one to grow and indulge in such a sinful relationship that involved two men, yet it happened. Maybe…just maybe, this would all bend out through argument and tears. Or, it could end in a different way, one that had not crossed your mind…until Heeseung came into the room. 

“Aww, are you crying? What for? I told you everything is going to be fine, come here.” He walks into the room, gently closing the door behind as he smiles gracefully upon seeing the tear stains on your cheeks. He pats on his thigh as most dog owners would do, not that he treated you as one, he just knew that you liked it when he was gentle and soft. Getting up, you walk over and hug him tightly, and he returns the embrace. HIs nose duffles into your thatch of hair and inhales the scent, remarking how lovely you smelled. 

“God I love your scent…I dont think there’s anything in this world that looks or smells as good as you.” 

“W-where’s Heejeong.” 

Heeseungs eyes slowly open as his nose and mouth remain buried into your scalp. A pause of silence fills the air before he finally answers. 

“Heejeong is handling the matter of our parents.”

You look up, breaking the contact of his inhaling act as you look at him somewhat confused. “He’s going to see our parents?” You softly inquired, before continuing on as you watched him stare blankly at you. “Why didn't he take us? What is he going to say?” 

Sighing out, Heeseung grips your waist tightly, his fingers pinching your skin as he answers. “There won’t be much talking, that’s why you're here and' I’m keeping an eye on you.” 

Your eyes widened as you watched the shine of his eye disappear, becoming soulless and empty, matte as black velvet. “N….no…..no…..don’t….Heeseung no!” 

“Shhh…”

Attempting to calm you down, Heeseung restrains your movements as you burst out into sobs and made every effort to break free from his grasp to call Heejeong, how could they do this behind your back and eradicate the situation by doing the unthinkable towards Danny and your mother? 

“No! Not my mother! Heeseung please! Please call him! Please! She wont do anything to us! I promise! Please don’t do anything to her!” 

Your cries fell on deaf ears as Heeseung pins your arms securely to your sides, and brings you down on the floor where he wrapped his lengthy limbs to further secure you. “Shhh its okay baby…I promise everything is going to be okay. We’re going to be free from everyone and we’ll be together forever. The three of us.” 

Screaming, crying, and kicking, you nearly fainted upon feeling the extreme fatigue hit you as you were being forced to remain steady. Doing your best, you fought as hard as you could to break free from his grasp and prevent Heejeong from carrying out a deed that you did not approve of, yet with Heeseung burying his nose back into your head, he continues to inhale your scent, smiling maliciously as he pets your cheek and flawlessly keeps you steady in a trapped embrace, wiping away the fresh tears that spilled on your face. “Shhh, there….that’s a good girl. Be still and quiet, take a nap and I’ll wake you when Heejeong gets back.” 

……………………

Perhaps it was the way his tight hold around your arms and waist suffocated you, or maybe it was the exhaustion taking its effect, whatever it was, it bowed to Heeseung’s command and you undoubtedly felt yourself drifting off into a soundless doze while he hums a fruitful tune, as if he lullabied you to sleep. Within minutes, you were done, but not without the warm streams that coated your cheeks, and the image of your mother’s face being the last thing you think of before it became pitch black under closed eyes. 

……………………….

‘And so the young maiden ventures into a world that reeked of death, 

Unknowingly, she strays into a marriage with a bachelor intending to take her last breath. 

Though she may not have strayed in blindly, not knowing of what lies behind Bluebeard's closet, 

The pitiful, curious maiden will unveil the truth behind the rumors of her bethrothe’s torment.’

……………………….

Strategically parking the car aways, Heejeong calmly makes his way up the driveway of his father’s estate. Greeted by the familiar faces of his father’s guards and surveillance team, he flawlessly enters without being detected, after all, who would ever have thought that the young man, donning all black, would have any murderous intentions to carry out, especially against his own parents. Never minding the aftermath, he came more than prepared to carry out the deed and to pay off the guardsmen with stock bonds of his father’s corporation. Easily, it was an offer that no man or woman would refuse, especially if it meant they could retire at a prime age to any destination they wanted. The buyout is so generous, it even guaranteed a passport with one way tickets to a place of their choice, all they needed to do was to erase the footage, and speak of his presence and arrival to no one. 

Entering, he is greeted by the still silence that haunts the massive foyer. WIth a light on at a distance, Heejeong walks delicately through the narrow corridors that lead to the main room. The presence of his parents was lacking, yet he saw their vehicles and knew they had to be home. With his arms crossed, he takes a lingering stroll through the massive room, admiring the moon as it lays nudely in the center of the dark blue sky. The light illuminates his silver strands, and tones his olive complexion into a more pale color while the black cap shadows the darkness that lies beneath those matte black eyes. With cargo pants strapped with tactical knives, a kbar at his hip, and a small bundle of five-fifty cord, the image behind those items is hard to swallow for anyone who would be witness to what he intended to do, and yet…

“Are you here for your father?”

Turning around calmly, he stays composed and steady with an emotionless tone in his features. His arms remained crossed, with the sleeves of his black long sleeve rolled up, revealing the strength behind those veins that graced his forearms. 

“I’m actually here for you…and him.” 

He doesn’t make any sudden movements, and his eyes remained hidden under the bill of his hat, yet your mother spoke without any timidness in her voice. It was almost as if…

“I figured…I guess you’re here to talk to us?...Or maybe you’re here for something else…” 

She knew.

“By the sound of your voice, I’m guessing he already told you about his little visit last week?” Heejeong smirks in a condescending manner. Unsheathing the kbar from its leather cover, he flashes the lengthy blade as he taps the flat, shined edge of the knife against his chin. “Well now, since you already know about the baby, and by the sound of your voice it seems like you already know why I’m here.” Taking note of the woman’s lack of expression upon seeing the kbar made it easy to dictate that she knew of his reason for visit, yet the moment he mentioned the pregnancy, he was slightly shocked to find her eyes reacting, though he didn’t show any inclination of his confusion, at least not yet. 

“Y/n is….pregnant?”

“You mean he didn’t tell you? Hmph…fucking aye.”

Your mother shakes her head, looking down at the floor beneath her swarovski shoes. Her brows furrowed as tears began to welp up in the ducts of her eyes. 

“You don’t really need to cry, for you, I’ll make it quick.” Heejeong scoffs as he adjusts his grip, equipping the kbar for its intended use. 

“I’m not crying because I’m afraid of what you will do…Heejeong…” 

He had to be quite honest with himself, he was somewhat stunned at hearing her words, yet, the moment she appeared in the room, her reaction was anything but normal. She had already seemed to be aware of why he was here, and she didn’t seem to be so concerned about seeing the young man before her, dressed all in black while holding a large knife, seemingly flaring off a subtle threat, yet her tears weren’t because of that? 

“So enlighten me, why are you crying? Is it because you’re going to miss your daughter? Don’t worry, she’s with me and Heeseung, and we will take good care of her.” 

Your mother lifts her head and gives a chuckle that further confuses the man, it was a scoffing sense of laughter that only lasted for a split second before the look of fear and sadness drowned her face once more. “I know she has you both…I saw it in your…and Heeseung’s eyes the moment you both first met her….I saw the way you both looked at my daughter.” 

Furrowing his brows, Heejeong blinked before adjusting the expression to a more ruthless countenance. “Wait…so you’re telling me you know?” 

“Ha…Heejeong…a woman my age…I can tell when a man is smitten by love and obsession…let alone two.” 

The air fell silent and Heejeong merely stared at her, squinting his eyes with a fierce look, demanding an explanation. 

“I also knew…that my daughter probably didn’t have a choice when she moved in with you and your brother…am I correct on that?” 

Shifting his gaze on the marble tile, he emits small nods before giving off another malicious smirk her way. “Does that bother you? I can assure you, it was all done with good intentions. I love that girl, and so does Heeseung. We both cherish her, protect her, and have both become the father of the baby she carries. We are family, and all she will ever need is us.” Slowly, he takes his steps forward, closing in on the woman, yet came to a breaching halt the moment she spoke up, with a different kind of smile on her face. 

“I know…and I hope that you know how glad I am to hear it…especially when you say the word ‘protect’.” 

Furrowing his brows once more, Heejeong’s combat boots scuffs the tile as he abruptly stops mid way. “What the fuck is your deal? You knew about us practically kidnapping her, restraining her and holding her damn near hostage, the only thing you didn’t know about was the pregnancy yet…you don't seem to be bothered by that. What? Are you merely being supportive to save your own life? Or are you just a freak with a kink…that can understand the type of love we have for y/n?” 

Your mother sobs out, a burst of tears break free yet she laughs laconically, it almost appeared as if she went insane for a second. “Yes! Yes I understand that love you have for her and if the circumstances were different…maybe I wouldn’t have approved but the fact of the matter is…Heejeong…I need you and Heeseong to never leave my daughter. I need you both to keep her and take her far away from this place, as far as possible. I can’t tell you how delighted I was to hear when she ‘moved’ in with you both…yet I wasn’t as happy when I heard about what happened to Jeff…after hearing from her about all those terrible things he used to say…” 

Heejeong was beyond all lost. Was she truly just like them? Or was there something that she wasn’t telling, that caused this encouragement to dispel from her? She wasn’t at all concerned about you being with the twins, it seemed like she was concerned about something else. Heejeong was smart enough to sense that, yet he was having a hard time in fully cracking the code. “So…what you’re saying is…you’re okay with me and Heeseung being with y/n, despite the fact that you pretty much guessed…correctly I might add…that we are beyond in love with her…but have also tortured others and brutally killed for that love?” Raising a brow, Heejeong flashes the blade as he takes a couple more steps forward. “Don’t lie to me and try to save yourself now, that’s not going to end well. Nobody…and I mean nobody…is going to take Y/n away from us. Not you, your family, or my father.” 

Your mother breaks down once again, her knees meet the cold tile as she buries her face into her palms, kneeling before the man as she eludes a mixture of sobs and laughter. “Good…good…never….never break that promise….” 

Looking up, she notes the extreme confusion on the man’s face. Before he could say anything, she beat him to the punch. “Heejeong…I have to show you something…”

………………..

‘Before emitting his travels, where he would be gone till morning, 

Bluebeard gives the young maiden a single word of warning. 

“Stay away and do not open this door.” he tells her forcefully, 

Yet the maiden emits a false promise, her curiosity grows shamefully. 

…………………

Leading him to the study room, one that was grand and expelled the unique language of luxury, your mother maneuvers a hack, debunking the security system as she inputs the secret code that she found out during her stay in the mansion. 

“No one must know what I’m about to show you…” Looking back at Heejeong for reassurance, she receives it in a single nod as he huffs out a prolonged sigh, expressing a sense of irritation from whatever it was the woman was harboring in secret. “Just hurry up and show me already. If if you keep draggin this further I’m going to make it more painful than you will like…trust me. I have a dark side.” 

“One that was developed after meeting my daughter, I’m assuming?” with a snappy response, your mother looked back at Heejeong with a raised brow. “Trust me…you need to know the truth.” 

“The truth about what, woman?” Heejeong grows tired of your mother taking far too long in opening the door, after the security system accepts the code, Heejeong shoves your mother aside as he pushes the door wide open. “Okay, what is it?” 

Your mother makes her way toward the massive line of wall closets, each door in fine mahogany wood under protected lacquer gel paint. The golden brass handles were slim, yet elegantly decorated with engravings of peacock feathers. “Here…” Opening one of the skinny doors, she leaves it wide open for Heejeong to closely inspect. From afar, he could see the plastering of polaroid photos that were pinned on the inside of the door, with delicate crystal jars and lids, neatly organized on the shelves. “So…you wanted to show me my father’s locker?” 

Nodding her head, your mother encourages him to come closer. “Take a closer look…” 

Giving a harsh side eye, Heejeong glares at the woman before fully making his way in front of the locker’s interior…and there… 

“What….is this?....What the fuck is this?” 

……………………..

‘With the young maiden’s curiosity at its peak, 

She takes the golden key and inserts it without taking a second blink. 

Upon opening the closet door, there she stood in gruesome horror as she looks,  

The bodies of Bluebeard's missing wives, all hanging, bloodied and butchered on steel hooks. 

Quickly, she closes the door, and removes the key from the lock,  

Only to find that the blood red dye on the golden metal became her doomsday clock. 

Permanently remaining, no matter how much she scrubbed and soaked, 

Unfolding her lack of honesty, this was the trickery under Bluebeard's cloak.’

………………………

“This….is your father’s work.”  Your mother solemnly tells him, cradling her own arms, she issues fresh tears of sympathy as Heejeong takes in the note of her words, and recognizes the photos of the various young women. “Aren’t these the girls from the news? The ones that have been missing?” 

Shaking her head, your mother clarifies. “Not missing…not anymore. A lot of them had been found…in pieces and without a single breath in their body. The ones that the police haven’t found…trust me…they’re out there in ruin…your father is a monster.” 

Trailing his sight down, one particular photo catches his eye. “What is my mother’s picture doing here?” Taking the polaroid, he shifts a demanding glare over to her as he pinches the photo of his mother, with him and Heeseung as children by her side. Your mother quietly sobs. “Heejeong…I am so…so sorry….for you and your brother.” 

Heejeong’s heart skips a beat. He crumbles the photo in hand, though he instantly regrets it as the lone surviving memory of his mother crinkles in his palm. He didn’t need, nor did he want for her to clarify. He wouldn’t have been able to swallow it down had he heard it. He already knew what this had meant, all those times when he and Heeseung constantly questioned their father or their mother’s whereabouts, only to be told that she left due to the constant arguing and bickering. For years, he and his brother had thought their father drove their mother away, with his constant philandering habits with the younger women, and his abusive authority, it had only made sense that she would leave…yet the one thing he could never make sense out of, was why she had left without saying anything to him or his brother? Why did she never come back to see them? 

“She never left…at least…not by her choice….” 

Your mother’s words shatters Heejeong’s state of mind, as the anger drives up from his chest and into his brain. Gulping a hard swallow, he couldn’t even find it within himself to grow teary eyed, the rage took over and prevented him from feeling anything else. Lifting his sights, he inadvertently takes in a close sight of what was contained within those crystal jars. The delicate grooves of the container's decoration obscured the details, yet it wasn’t hard for him to see that within those fine jars, were ‘tokens’ of his father’s victims. Fingers, hands, eyeballs, hair, and even internal organs. Everything was sickening, even for someone like him. Sure, he and Heeseung were murderers, technically, yet they only did what they deemed necessary in order for them to keep you. No one was going to separate you three, and they were willing to do anything to keep it that way. But never in a million years would they resort to murder out of pure pleasure, unless it was for your safety and comfort, despite you not seeing it that way. 

As heartless it may have sounded, Heejeong cared less about the murdered women, so long as you were not a part of that list. He was not at all thrilled about finding out his own mother was a part of that statistic, yet she was no more than a distant memory, you were the only thing he and his brother cared about now, however, it went without saying that his father’s actions against his beloved mother deserved only one punishment that he deemed worthy, death. 

“So how long have you known this about my father?” Heejeong coldly states as he stares at the jars before him, even taking a moment to delicately remove one of the lids, only to gently shut it back up once the pungent scent of formaldehyde kicked in. 

“...It was before the wedding…”

Heejeong’s eyes grew wide as he tilted his head. “You knew for that long and didn’t say anything?” Clenching his teeth, he grew furious as the concept of your mother keeping the truth of his mother a secret for so long enraged him more, yet what made him even more angry was the fact that she knew, and yet never said anything, knowing full well that you could have been a potential victim, considering you were a young woman, pretty, and too gentle nature for your own good, much like all the victims that were targeted. 

“Did you ever consider that y/n would be at risk? Look at these women! Y/n is ten times the woman than any of these girls…and you not only kept silent, but married him? I should fucking kill you right now.” Shooting his hand forward, he grips your mother’s neck as he shoves her against the wall. “I’ll fucking slit your throat, cut you to pieces and place you in jars for him to come home to.” 

“I….it was for y/n’s safety that I married your father.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Confused, yet still enraged, Heejeong’s grip tightens as he chokes your mother out, before releasing and allowing her to catch her breath. “Fucking explain and get to the damn point.” 

“Y…your father…” coughing, your mother chokes up as she quietly sobs in between her words. “Your father admitted….shortly after meeting him….when I met him at the event….I wasn’t alone. I was with my nieces…y/n’s cousins….he was…he was going after them. So he came and greeted us….he was going to eventually get their information and over time….they would have ended up just like these girls….but….but….” her eyes welded up as she sobbed hysterically. “He saw y/n’s photo on my phone screensaver….he saw her and immediately dropped everything….once he found out that she was my daughter….he pretended to love me….he asked me to marry him…and I accepted…but then….one night…..” your mother’s sobs calmed down, as she kneels back down on to the floor, barely able to function as she recollects the discovery of Danny’s unusually gruesome habit. 

“One night…he came home…bloodied and just….I could see it wasn't him bleeding…he was covered in some else's blood…he didn’t know I was awake….so when I saw him….he just laughed…..and he told me…..he….he told me…..”

……………….

“Well…since we’re having a moment of honesty, I think it’s appropriate for you to know that I am only marrying you to get closer to y/n….she is so lovely. Oh but don’t worry, she won’t be added to the jars like the rest of them…no…she’s far too beautiful for that. I am going to marry her. Now, if you want to live, I have no intention of wasting my time or my shiny tools on you, but I will…if I have to….if you want to live…and if you want your daughter to keep living, then I suggest you stay silent. After some time, we’ll get a quickie divorce, you go away and I will marry y/n. During the meantime, you will convince her to agree to the marriage, just….tell her how good in bed I am, that should help out. Right?” 

……………….

Danny’s laughter following his tasteless joke was all your mother could remember. She explained to Heejeong, that she had been secretly trying to find a way to escape, along with Y/n, away from Danny. Yet there was no plan that was sound enough for her to carry out….until. 

“When you both met y/n….and I saw the look of obsession that overtook you both during dinner that night…I knew…I knew that was y/n’s way out of this….you two are what was going to protect her….while I find a way out. I-I….I could never let him have y/n…I feigned loyalty to him all for the sake of keeping him from doing anything behind my back. So yes…I stayed silent and acted the part….but by doing so, I bought you both time to take her…bring her to your home….love her…impregnate her…and now…I am buying you time to take her away and do what you need to do with Danny.” 

Shutting his eyelids halfway, Heejeong gives a seldom glare as your mother grovels at his feet. “Please…please take her away. I don’t care if you take her away from me, just please….keep her safe…keep her away from Danny…do what you have to do….Heejeong…don’t let that man near her!” 

“Where is my father?” Heejeong calmly states as it dawned on him that Danny had been absent the entire night. 

“He went on a trip over night….he comes back tomorrow morning. He….I think he went to find a clinic….at first I didn’t know what it was for but….when you said earlier that y/n was pregnant….I think he is finding a way to get her institutionalized….so he can keep her away from you two.” 

Turning his head once more, he stares at the crystal jars before kneeling down on one knee. Sheathing his kbar, an eerie smirk develops, one that he displayed before he did away with Jeff. 

“Well, I suggest that you pack your bags and leave town…leave the country even.”  

Standing back up, with no sense of sympathy in his expression or tone, Heejeong takes his phone out, and hands it to your mother. Looking at the screen, she shifts a wide eye stare back to Heejeong after noticing that his banking app was open. 

“Put your account information in there, and type in a number. I don’t care what or how high, type in any number you want with as many zeroes you can fit in. Once it transfers to your account, get your stuff and leave.” 

Your mother graciously holds the phone in both palms, yet refrains from typing anything in. “If…if I leave…wiill…will I ever get to see y/n again?”

Crossing his arms, Heejeong’s lids grow heavier. “Why would you? She has me and Heeseung, she doesn’t need you. We are all she’ll ever have and need, mother or not, if I were you….I’d stay away. I’m not going to show you the same clemency as tonight…you come near her, I’ll finish what I came to do.” 

Your mother flared a saddened smile, before handing the phone back. “I don’t need your money. Danny left his safe open, he never worried about me taking anything and leaving because he knew that with y/n here, I was forced to be trapped and play along. But now that you know the truth…I don’t need to play anymore….will I?

…………………………

“Fearing for her life, the young maiden sends one of the servants away with a horse and message in hand. 

“Fetch my brothers! Tell them what is bound to happen to me, for they love me more than any man can!”

Desperate, the young maiden waits, not knowing if she will remain living come morning. 

Bluebeard makes his way back home, where the young maiden awaits, each hour nearing his foreboding. “

Authors notes: the motha-f*cking plot twist!!!

Taglist: @hoyeonheeseung , @yohanabanana , @deobitifull; @solstramaii; @vampiregirl215; @nshmrarki; @enhypen14; @iamliacamila; @lisaaannna; @nikstrange; @jaehaki; @luv-enhy-skz33; @silcry@honeysjae; @crackedcameraa; @stinkmonkey ; @baekxo07@raishaii @yangjungwon33 @lhspeachie ; @differentchildwombat ; @prettykia ; @kimsseonu ; @stvrryhee ; @en-thralled ; @hoonzdzbl ; @yuppppp ; @jinniespuppy ; @browsehnnie @prettykia @lprww @they2luv1naia @ellixqz @mimimovv @stvrryhee @moonmoongi @seungjiseyo @csmicvrse @yohanabanana , @heeshees@yumii0828 , @lprww, @mariji , @silcry @cutiejseong ; @lol6sposts @heeseung-min @heesquared ; @jaeneohee

[dollopheadedmerlin]

I think one thing that isn't mentioned much is that Morgause could have been trying to allow Arthur to be king. Merlin tells him that Morgause wanted to turn him against his father so he would be a burdened or weakened ruler from regicide, but we don't actually know this.

For all we know, Arthur could have been plan A.

It's unlikely the show's intention, but imagine for a moment a High Priestess tries to aid in the prophecy of the Once and Future King. She shows him the truth, gives him an avenue to the throne, and then sees him reconcile with the man who slaughtered her kind.

Then, she turns to plan B, her half sister. With newfound spite for the prophecy that has just spit in her face, she goes against it. Morgana is reluctant at first, but then Merlin poisons her, and she garners resentment for him and those who stand by him and Uther.

When she is gone, Morgause tells her, shows her the truth and how Arthur was privy to it, but stood in Uther’s shadow all the same.

From Morgana's point of view, she could see Arthur as a man who knows the sins of his father and condones them.

It would be no wonder how she hates him so.

[nihildenial]

"Fifty Shades of Pink" a Papa Emeritus III x Omega fic

SMUT UNDER CUT

one chapter ; wc: 6,586

There wasn’t much that could surprise Omega anymore. He’s been topside for about six years now, served as rhythm guitarist for three Papas, and performed countless ritual performances.

This, however, was something new.

“Isn’t it perfecto ?” The short man in front of him throws his arms wide and does a slow spin.

Omega simply blinks his lavender eyes and tries his best to think of a way to put what he’s thinking into nice-enough words. Why the hell did he agree to go to the cobbler to pick up the Terzo’s loafers and leave his kin with the man? “It’s…tailored nicely.”

Terzo Emeritus, Papa Emeritus III, a forty-three year old, pouts like an affronted child. He turns back to the large floor length mirror and takes in his appearance from the tailors’ platform. “I think I look like I belong in one of those fancy Ivy League college fraternities! Alpha told me pink was my color. Imagine a beer in my hand.”

“You took advice from Alpha? The Ghoul who still puts on different colored socks because he’s too lazy to find a pair from his dresser?”

The raven-haired man huffs, “You were too busy with Francesco! Maybe if you weren’t such a bossy-pants, you would have been here. I think I’ll keep it like this just to show you that I do look handsome.”

Omega sets down the several pairs of ties and socks on the vacant chair next to the platform. Of course his kin would disappear when someone had to tell Terzo he looked like a bottle of pepto-bismol. “I didn’t say you weren’t handsome. It’s tailored well to your figure. The color on the other hand…”

“Pink is the new black! Slimming for the masculine shape, and feminine to complement the olive tone of my sun-kissed Italian tan.”

The large Quintessence Ghoul sighs, “Just humor me and try the gold that we originally agreed on.”

“No!” Terzo steps off the platform, losing the extra inches of height. “I like this. We’re going to check out and go back to the Ministry.”

“You look like a child dressed for church.” He could pick the small man up with one hand and shake him like a naughty toddler.

Terzo flips a loose bang out of his eyes, “I’ll let you be the first to take it off me.”

Omega holds back a grumble, “What is the horrible pink shirt for anyway? You’re still getting the white suit, right?”

“Of course, I’m getting the white suit! This is for a new music video; Sister Imperator finally said the budget was thick enough to shoot it,” His fingers make sure the Grucifix cufflinks are facing the same direction, leading Omega and his purchases to the Ralph Lauren counter.

“Mr. Emeritus, I see the tailor was able to make those adjustments for you.” The woman flashes a polite smile.

Omega sees it falter a bit as he feels his four kin reappear at his side. Of course, Alpha has damn pink socks. “We are not getting pink socks too.”

Alpha puts the offending socks on top of Omega’s well-chosen accessories. “He looks good in pink.”

“I’m buying the damn socks, Omega,” Terzo affirms and lets the woman take all the items to begin scanning.

Omega could be petty and not hand over the Ministry credit card, but Terzo strikes him with a look that promises a reward for being good. “Fine,” He grumbles and nudges Alpha out of the way so he can sign the receipt. The woman hands back the large items in several bags and the five glamoured hellbeasts follow their leader out onto the busy 5th Avenue streets. Glamouring all of them, they walk undisturbed down the block to where a sleek SUV idles.

“That’s what you spent all that time getting fitted for?” Is the first thing out of Sister Imperator’s mouth when they all pile into the car. A bag of clothing for some of the Sisters of Sin sits by her feet in the passenger seat.

Omega sits directly behind her, letting her take in Terzo in the driver side middle seat. “I said the same thing.”

“We like it, Papa,” Pebble chirps from the third row, “All of us back here do.”

Alpha and Mist nod.

All eyes turn to Zephyr, who is unfortunately stuck sitting between Omega and Terzo. “I mean…Papa can make anything look fetching.”

Terzo claps a hand on the air Ghoul’s shoulder, “Majority rules! Now, let us get back to the Abbey so I can make sure the equipment is ready for shooting tomorrow.”

Sister Imperator pinches the bridge of her nose, but nods for the Brother of Blasphemy to go ahead and drive away.

“I made sure we got the white suit, at least,” Omega watches the bustling city slowly crawl past them in traffic.

“I knew I could count on you, Omega,” She says, reaching back and patting the Ghoul’s knee.

—----------

For the music video of He Is , the Ghouls weren’t needed as actors or instrumentalists, so Terzo gave them all the day off–except for Omega.

“Your punishment for yesterday is that you get to spend the day with us as we shoot.” It’s like four in the morning so they could get the shots down at the river around mid afternoon.

He wants to whine like a Ghoul kit. “They’re going hunting! Deer season just began!”

“Maybe I’ll take pity on you after the lunch break,” Terzo chides with a wink, “Now sit in your chair and be good for Papa. You can be my waterboy.”

Omega would do most anything for him. Sitting and zoning out while his beautiful Papa twirls his dramatic ass around a sound stage may sound like a relaxing afternoon, but his kin are out frolicking among the large forest and hunting.

Terzo stands on his tip-toes to presumably kiss Omega, but the antipope simply smacks his lips a hair’s breadth away and bounds out of the Ghoul’s arms.

That motherfucker, Omega sits back in the shitty makeup-chair with a huff.

Sister Rebecca raises a beauty blender. Her brown eyes are bright as she’s nearly bouncing in place/ “Could I try something on you? I got a new, thinner foundation to use for you and the Ghouls in an upcoming photoshoot.”

He sees how hopeful she is. She wasn’t chosen by Sister Imperator to be in the music video because of her skills at makeup. Both of them were stuck watching this anyway.

Omega reaches up and undoes his mask. “Knock yourself out. Don’t be offended if I fall asleep.”

“I also have some head massage techniques I could try out…?” She grins.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

A few hours pass with Omega submitting to anything Sister Rebecca wanted.

The new foundation she got did make his hell-soot colored skin more luminous, and flattened some pores that he’s been a bit self-conscious of. She smudged some eyeliner here, a small dusting of brightening powder on his eyelids, and something moisturizing that tastes like cherries on his lips.

Omega can’t help the happy rumble when her manicured hands reward him with a truly sinful scalp massage. Thankfully it isn’t loud enough to disrupt the filming across the room, but Sister Imperator does shoot them a glare that sobers both of them up enough to stop.

“That’s a wrap!” Comes the director’s call.

“This was really helpful, Omega, thank you.” The sister begins to put away most of the new makeup. She leaves out Terzo’s papal paint in case he needs to reapply during any of the recording.

He looks at himself in the mirror, “I feel good in this. Much better than the grease paint of the last tour.”

She huffs a laugh, “Yeah, that stuff was disgusting to work with and have on. Here’s some wipes to take it off.”

Omega takes in the nearly flawless quality of his charcoal skin, “Actually, I might keep it on for a bit. See how it wears.”

“Of course, I’ll leave those here,” She rolls the makeup suitcase with her as she follows the production crew towards the Abbey sanctuary.

In the mirror he can see the reflection of Terzo talking to the two young children that were in the video. Their father was an archbishop from the Salem Ministry, and was one of the only clergy members with young enough twin children.

Terzo was always so great with people. It breaks Omega’s heart that he and his kin hold the man’s love and there’s little chance for mini-Terzos to come into being.

“ Grazie, miei dolci bambini ,” The antipope pats their heads, eliciting delighted laughs as the boy and girl toddle over to their watchful father and mother. He struts to Omega, taking a long swig from the water bottle Omega was tasked with keeping. “Wasn’t I absolutely sinful?”

The Quintessence Ghoul inclines his head, “There’s hardly been a time when you’re not. It was good to see those kids so happy.”

“ Sono una famiglia adorabile , quite the lovely little family, no?” Terzo smiles. He steps forward to peer around Omega’s back.

“What do you think? I let Sister Rebecca experiment with some new shit,” He turns fully to face the antipope. He relishes the shocked flush that crawls through the cracks of Terzo’s papal paint.

For once the man is rendered speechless. His mouth opens and closes like one of the fish Pebble caught the other day in the Abbey lake. “I…”

Omega sees his chance to get some payback, “I think I should let her do this more often, yes?” He makes sure most of the room has cleared (mostly just making sure Imperator is gone) and uses his larger form to back Terzo against the vanity counter. He lets his hands rest on those beautifully familiar and full hips and leans down.

Terzo takes the bait and sighs happily into their shared breath–except Omega smacks his lips together and pulls back before their lips could meet. “It’s a shame, really. My lip balm is cherry-flavored.”

The shorter man’s mismatched green and white eyes fly open in betrayal, “You motherfucker!”

Omega folds up the vanity chair and saunters to the doorway, “I might take pity on you after lunch.” He grins at the imaginary lasers shooting him in the back.

—------

Terzo and Omega have always been this way. One of them does something immature to the other, then other retaliates, then they make up by the fucking the absolute shit out of each other. It’s very much a game of cat and mouse or freeze-tag, making the four other Ghouls roll their eyes when an argument inevitably happens.

Terzo’s a little shit.

Omega’s a little shit in the form of a 6 ft 7 Quintessence Ghoul.

Nothing is better than the angry-eventually-loving makeup sex. Tonight was going to be quite a treat judging by the horny mini-glares Terzo gives him between shots of the He Is sanctuary scenes. Omega sits out of the way in his vanity chair and snacks on popcorn provided on the shooting table.

After another two hours of getting footage, the director calls for lunch. They’ll resume in another hour to begin the footage down by the river.

Omega doesn’t know necessarily what they’re going to shoot down there. But he hopes Mist is ripping into the throat of a deer on the banks and ruins their shot so he and Terzo can go fuck.

Speaking of, they do have an hour before resuming…

Terzo is engulfed in a mass of followers and Siblings. He drinks their attention as if he needs it to continue existing. He flashes that sharp smile that’s all shiny, white, perfect teeth and it makes Omega’s black heart do somersaults.

He likes to think that he controls the Antipope, but Terzo is a feral hellbeast in his own way. Even if Omega holds the man facedown against the mattress more times than Terzo rides him, Omega would fold faster to the man’s orders than the other way around.

The crowd moves towards the Dining Hall across the cloister courtyard, carrying Terzo with them. He doesn’t even spare the Ghoul a glance as the group filters outside.

Omega holds back a growl. So that’s how it’s going to be.

Lunch flys by. Omega tears into a pack of beef jerky and one of Pebble’s edibles. If he got upset, then he can go fuck off. Omega’s horny as shit and being forced to be a waterboy for a frustratingly beautiful and petty man while Pebble got to sink his fangs into a tender deer flank.

By the time they resume filming at the hill that leads to the Wallkill river, Pebble’s edible has kicked in and relaxed him some. Which is good because his anger shoots back up as Terzo steps out into the mid-afternoon sun in that damned pink shirt under a white waistcoat.

He looks like a douchebag actor in an American frat movie! Paired with black aviator sunglasses, it screams the wrong kind of self-assertion. But then again, Omega hasn’t really thought about what He Is is about…and it begins to make sense as they start filming.

So, he’s been an asshole for no reason. The song is a parody of Christian baptism rock.

Guilt rises in Omega’s chest. How many times has he performed this damned song and not understood what it meant?

The Quintessence Ghoul watches the group film shots of a handful of Sisters of Sin frolic in the meadow that covers the path down to the riverbank. Their flowing white dresses and long hair twirl in the gentle breeze.

It is a nice day. Omega turns his face towards the sun and feels how the foundation moves on his cheeks. He’ll never get tired of being out in the topside sun. The heat from the planet is a pleasant warmth compared to the spikes of fire from the Pits.

He hears water splash. Down at the edge of the grass, Terzo is wading into the water, while in that stupid outfit.

Part of Omega’s brain purrs in happiness knowing the brackish water will destroy the offending shirt but also–

What the Hell is he doing? That outfit alone cost nearly $3,000, and they bought it just yesterday!

Despite the conflict within Omega, he ultimately decides to sit still. He’ll give Terzo a reprimand after he’s done being a destructive little shit. So he sits, watching the Sisters remove their sandals and wade in a bit aways from Terzo.

All of them are only waist-deep.

Are they going to do some sort of synchronized swimming routine? Omega doesn’t remember Terzo being very good at keeping afloat just by himself.

To Omega’s disbelief, the first Sister wades to Terzo and he takes her hands in his right, cradling her against his chest. Her blonde curls flare in the wind coming off the water.

Terzo’s free hand comes up to rest at the back of her skull and he dips her back into the water.

Her perfectly tan hand slides up to his jaw, a teasing thumb brushing against the black paint of his upper lip.

Terzo submerges her entirely then helps her upright, the water rushing from her plump form. Her white choir robe clings to her now stiffly peaked nipples. His hand that held her stomach sneakily cups her right breast during the sloshing of the cold river water.

Omega wouldn’t typically be that upset; he’s always up for a third (or fourth, fifth, and so on) to join him and the Antipope. The Sister is extremely beautiful and has always been kind to the Ghouls, but this bastardization of a water baptism taking place in front of Omega after Terzo was being so fucking petty, absolutely makes Omega’s pointed ears burn with jealousy.

One by one, the baptism continues five more times. Each one has some naughty tease between Terzo and the Sister: the next one gasps out a moan at the cold water when she comes up, the third one unbuttons the infuriatingly pink top button of his shirt, and the fourth Sister’s breasts are basically exposed through the now-soaked white robe.

The fifth woman is more bold than the rest. When the brunette cuddles into Terzo’s baptismal embrace, her hand follows the same path as those before her–up to cup the blurred edge of his papal paint on Terzo’s jaw. He leans her back and submerges her.

She’s guided back up with Terzo’s steady hands (hands that are usually gripping Omega’s white hair as the Ghoul fucks the Hell out of him) and as she lets the face drip from her face, she leans forward and catches his lips.

Terzo doesn’t hesitate to deepen it.

And on the far shore, four unglamoured Ghouls howl with the victory of a fresh kill. It echoes so loudly that it creates ripples on the mostly-calm river.

Omega’s Hell-beast blood boils.

He leaps up from his chair and stomps past the production crew and down to the water’s edge. He ignores the sound of the crew frantically packing up as the scent of ozone fills every molecule of the air by the riverbank.

“ Get the fuck off her !” Omega thunders in Ghoulish.

The Sister squeaks and pulls out of Terzo’s arms so fast she falls onto her ass in the water.

Terzo goes to help her up but Omega leaps from the bank and slams into the raven-haired man.

—---

They collide and go underwater, Terzo’s hands grappling the front of Omega’s vestments as they resurface. The Antipope’s aviators are missing and he goes to search for them but Omega pulls him away from the shore.

“ You make me sit here all day, tease me, and now you decide to snog a Sister during a fake baptism, in front of all these strangers?!” Omega growls as he bodily drags the now fully soaked Antipope to a mostly-submerged cove just out of sight. He tosses Terzo onto the small silver of a rocky beach, making sure it’s enough to bruise, but not actually hurt him.

Terzo spits out some brackish water to the side. His face is equal parts cocky and affronted, but the smirk on his ruined makeup grows as he takes in the Quintessence Ghoul’s burning eartips and heavy rut scent. “It was Sister Imperator’s idea-”

“ I know it fucking wasn’t. You’re just a whore.”

Terzo reclines on the beach as if he wasn’t just dragged through the water like a piece of lumber, “I never took you for a jealous teenage Ghoul.”

Omega snarls, frustration only building at the man’s continued sass. Doesn’t he know what danger he’s in? He trudges through the water and lets his glamour fully fall. He feels his horns reappear and his sleeves bulge as they barely contain the soot-black muscles Omega crafted over centuries as champion in the fighting Pits.

Instead of flinching, Terzo’s erection hardens in his wet trousers. “ Un ragazzo così grande …”

That tone immediately dismisses part of Omega’s fury. There’s appreciation and lust wrapped up in that sentence. How is he supposed to stay angry when Terzo becomes so riled up when he’s in his most authentic form?

“I’m still angry ,” The Ghoul says.

Terzo slicks back his sopping bangs, “I would hope so. I’ve been so naughty I deserve a punishment; merito una sculacciata . A good spanking would make me repent.”

Omega reaches forward and slices through the white vest and pink shirt with a long claw.

“Hey! Fuck you, we just bought this! I could have gotten the salt out of it.”

“You’ve been sitting in brackish water for the past two hours and now you’re upset?” Omega rips the offending material from the man’s body to float off in the water around them. “If anything, this is simply payback. I don’t think I should even touch you. I should leave you here to trudge back to shore; water-logged, naked, and messy-faced.”

Terzo play-struggles as Omega grips his chin tight enough for his claws to press in. The Quintessence Ghoul sees his mismatched eyes roll with pleasure.

“ Filthy .”

“The correct word is-” Terzo’s shit-eating grin grows.

Omega has him on his stomach in the next blink, claws raking down the man’s legs to shred the white trousers. He relishes the red scratches that follow his claws. “Shut the fuck up.”

Terzo lets out a groan and his hands grasp for purchase on the slippery rocks. “ Omega …oh, how you spoil your Papa.”

“Right now, you’re nothing more than my bitch.” Omega has to re-glamour his hands so he can pry apart Terzo’s slippery thighs. When the infuriating man wiggles his ass out of Omega’s grip, the Ghoul smacks the pert right cheek.

Terzo’s echoing gasp is beautiful. Water sloshes over him and pools in the hip dimples above his ass.

Omega should fuck him in this cove more often.

-

Terzo makes Omega carry him back to shore after a rough fuck in the cove. Indulging the man who did make him cum so hard his vision whited out isn’t the thing he has issue with. Staking a claim on Terzo has only partially satisfied him.

The shreds of the blasted pink shirt swirl in his wake as Omega trudges back to shore. As the Quintessence Ghoul walks back to the Abbey at the top of the hill, Terzo lounges in the strong arms.

Terzo idly plays with the black chest hair brushing against his cheek as Omega walks. “Why don’t you like me in pink again?”

“You’re better suited to richer tones.”

“Do you think purple is ugly on me as well?”

Omega rolls his eyes and sets Terzo on his feet as they reach the Abbey’s doors. “Of course not.”

“I would like a reason, per favore ,” Terzo ignores Omega holding open the doors for him.

“You simply look better in colors other than pink. Even going a shade darker like magenta would bring out the warm undertone in your skin.” Omega takes the human’s forearm and turns it over, tracing a claw over the thrumming veins below the skin.

Terzo blinks, “So you aren’t just doing this to spite me.”

Omega’s thick eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Spite you? For what?”

“Because I had the other Ghouls come with me to the fitting and had you come later,” Terzo admits sheepishly.

“I don’t care about that shit.”

Terzo hums, “So…you tackling me and pounding me into the rocks of a cave wasn’t a consequence of your jealousy from earlier this week?”

Omega takes a deep breath. “No. It’s because…I was jealous of the Sisters in the music video. How they got to hold you, how tender you were while you gave them an unholy baptism, all while wearing the shirt you knew I disliked…I want to feel like you hear my opinion.”

“Oh.” Is all Terzo can say. His face flushes in realization. “I probably was a bit mean and the gold was pretty… Mi dispiace .” He hugs Omega around the middle.

Omega sighs and pets the damp raven hair, “You’re too cute to stay upset with.”

“I promise to make it up to you,” Terzo’s smile is innocent but filled with the promise of something naughty.

The large Ghoul watches the naked antipope saunter inside without a care in the world. He passes a wary Sister Imperator and Cardinal Copia talking in the foyer without a second glance.

-

While the music video was in the editing phase, Sister Imperator called the band together to record ‘He Is.’ It only took a few times to get a good enough recording, and Sister rewarded them with a few days off.

Before Omega could even grasp the fact that he only had a few cleaning chores for the next two days, Terzo was rushing out of the studio room. Rolling his eyes, Omega reracks his guitar and chats with the producer about if there was anything he needed to drag Terzo back to fix.

“So, ‘Mega…want to come hunting with us?” Pebble’s tiny form pops up from behind the drum kit.

He thinks it over. He could go track down Terzo but potentially get turned away for the man to have a nap, or join his kin for the night. “Hunting sounds good.”

Pebble’s fanged grin is infectious. “Awesome! You missed out on Mist taking down a deer twice her size! It was so cool.” The two ghouls walk from the studio out into the courtyard where the other three Ghouls are stripping their clothes to hand to one of the sisters tasked with laundry.

“No more blood stains on these, please. It was impossible after yesterday’s hunt,” Sister Anais held out the basket already filled with Alpha and Zephyr’s uniforms. Mist is taking her time undoing her boots.

Omega easily undoes the buttons of his cassock.

“Now, you boys are going to be careful out there tonight, yes? The game Warden said there’s an excess of about thirty deer this season,” She says, nodding as all of them finish placing their clothes in her basket.

“Including the ones from yesterday?” Zephyr’s gray eyes brighten.

“No. New total based on the herds movement today. I’ll tell Papa all of you are leaving.”

Omega and his pack scamper through the courtyard (always careful of Primo’s topiaries) and out the gates to the hill that holds the forest on one side and the meadow that leads to the riverbank on the other. Once out of view from any Siblings, all of them let their Earthly glamours slip away.

Omega’s muscles have been crying out for him to move for a few days now. Even his hot tryst with Terzo in the cove wasn’t enough to fully drain all of his infernal adrenaline. He senses how the forest is filled with potential dinner, a group of deer only a mile away.

He drops to all fours and bounds away, leaving his mates to hopelessly beat him to the first kill.

Not many things were better than this.

-

It’s near midnight when the five Ghouls waddle back to the Abbey with bellies full of rabbit, fox, and deer. Thankfully they were able to stop before they hit the target overpopulated numbers. There’d be another night of hunting in a week or so.

Omega drops his body onto the Ghoul common room couch. He could sleep for a month, but then he’d miss Samhain and Terzo’s birthday.

Mist plops into the armchair by his head. “Those rabbits were so tender…” She purrs happily.

“My fox was delicious. I probably absorbed his wit and cunning.” Pebble maneuvers her so he can curl up with her.

There’s a collective eye roll from the pack.

“We’ll see if you stick a fork in the toaster again!” Alpha calls, snickering.

Omega closes his eyes as the pack continues to roast each other. He’s on the edge of falling asleep when footsteps come from the stairs down into the crypt that holds the Ghoul den. He cracks an eye open, seeing the common room is empty of his pack. He must have dozed for a bit longer than he thought.

The Quintessence Ghoul smells the air and relaxes as the scent of Maison Margiela’s Jazz Club fills his senses. “Terzo,” He says to the newcomer.

Terzo is dressed in a loose black t-shirt and baggy gray sweatpants. His face is empty of skull paint. “I was wondering if you were going to leave your poor Papa all alone in bed tonight,” He says innocently. His bare feet are barely audible as he steps up to the couch, tracing a finger down Omega’s strong nose.

“Sorry, we got back maybe an hour ago and I dozed off.”

“ Va abbastanza bene , Omega. At least, it would be alright… if I got some special attention.”

Omega pulls the man’s hips until he’s straddling the Ghoul on the couch.

Terzo tsks, “Not here.”

“Then where?” Omega asks.

“My rooms, please.”

Omega exhales and lifts the man back to his feet. “You should’ve just called me to come upstairs.”

“I did. You didn’t pick up.” Terzo pulls out his iPhone. Sure enough, Omega missed three calls and three texts from him.

Shit. Time to turn on the romantic gestures. Omega picks up Terzo easily in his arms, one wrapped securely under his knees and behind his back. He regales Terzo with how the hunt went as they ascend the stairs and make it to the man’s papal suite.

Terzo locks the door and turns to Omega with a coy smirk. “Now, before we start anything, I did get you a surprise.”

Omega puts his slippers by the end of the bed. “Hmm, what for?” He asks, suspicious.

“Well you still believe I don’t look good in pink–”

“Terzo, are you seriously still thinking about that?” Omega gives him a pleading look. “I’m sorry I said that.”

Terzo nods, “Yes, yes; I forgive you for all that shit. Anyways…I thought I would show you that I do in fact look good in pink.” His hands take their time moving to the hem of the shirt he stole from Omega, then pull the garment up and over his head to toss carelessly on the floor.

Hidden by the bagginess of the shirt is a baby pink, sheer lace bralette embroidered with cherries and soft ruffles. Terzo doesn’t have a lot of area to be placed in a bralette, but the sheerness makes the illusion that he’s filling it out just a bit.

Terzo’s smirk grows as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants.

Omega’s eyes are glued to the slow reveal of skin and matching pink lace hemline that appears as the sweatpants pool at the human’s ankles.

The front panel of the panties are the same pattern as the bralette cups. It leaves nothing to imagination as the leaky tip of Terzo’s cock just sticks out over the panty hemline. The soft looking ruffles continue over the high cut expanse of Terzo’s thighs to disappear to probably cup his ass perfectly.

“So what do you think?” Terzo turns in a circle, and Omega feels his blood drain to his cock.

He was correct about the ruffles. Omega is dumb with memorizing the sinful sight in front of him. “Oh..”

Terzo gently lifts his head by the chin, tearing Omega’s lavender eyes from roving over his body. He uses his leverage to move Omega backwards until the Ghoul’s knees hit the bed. Omega drops back to the bed, stuck in Terzo’s laser-focused gaze.

“Now, il mio gatto cattivo , no claws are allowed to rip this delicate outfit,” Terzo coos, easily lifting himself to straddle the Ghoul’s wide chest. “Premium Italian lace…Rip even a single stitch and you’ll be forced to watch your brethren have their way with me.”

Omega snorts, cockiness rearing up at the demand even if he’s clearly losing the battle. “That’s still pretty hot.”

“Oh, did I forget to mention that you would be strapped to that lovely St. Andrew’s Cross?”

Omega gulps and his claws shift to human fingers.

“That’s what I thought. Now touch me,” Terzo says sweetly, taking the Ghoul’s hands to rest on the cups of the bralette. “A few more spoonfuls of Nutella and I’ll fill these, probably. Copia’s been making too much carbonara recently.”

“I would still love you either way,” Omega’s hand cups the back of his neck and pulls the man down to seal their lips together.

Terzo’s voice is pitched with arousal and fondness. “Sap.”

Omega’s left hand slides over the pink lace of his sides and down to grab a handful of Terzo’s ass. According to his fingertips, it’s a thin thong in the back, the crotch band barely holding a glass plug inside him. Omega’s finger stretches the fabric and he snaps the thin waistband against the smooth side of the plug’s base.

Terzo yelps, “Watch it, asshole! That could’ve come apart!”

Omega shrugs and does it again. “Seems fine to me.” He presses a finger against the plug and forces it as deep as it can go without getting completely swallowed.

Terzo’s hole resists, turning it into a game that leaves him flushing as pink as his lingerie.

“Didn’t stretch all the way for this, huh?” Omega coos to the human.

“I like it when it burns at first,” Terzo says, even if both of them already know it.

Omega grasps the end of the plug and pulls it out in one smooth motion. He lets it roll from his hand to somewhere on the duvet of Terzo’s bed. They’ll deal with it after Terzo’s cock-dumb and knotted.

Terzo is pressing a tube of lube into the hand wrapped around his ass.

“When did you grab that?” Omega pops open the cap easily and spreads a good amount inside the human with invading fingers.

“I had it in the left cup,” He moans when Omega presses against his prostate.

Of course, the bralette cup Omega didn’t feel up. “Sneaky bastard ,” The Ghoul growls. He tosses the lube in the same direction as the glass butt plug. He lifts his hips and slides down the boxers he put on after getting back from the hunt. His cock springs to attention from its confines, the tapered tip slapping against the beginning swell of Terzo’s ass. It doesn’t take much maneuvering for Omega’s head to find Terzo’s hole and push in.

Terzo’s answering moan vibrates through Omega’s chest where the man’s immaculate fingernails dig into his pecs. The Ghoul didn’t notice the coating of nude pink on Terzo’s nails. That wasn’t there earlier…was it?

Nothing else matters as Omega pushes himself inside all the way to the hilt. He feels Terzo’s ass resist him near the end but a carefully placed kiss to the human’s neck makes him relax easier.

“I bought this…so we could fuck and keep it on…” Terzo pants into Omega’s hair.

“So thoughtful,” Omega sighs happily. His hands shift to cup an asscheek in each, forcing Terzo’s center of gravity over his face and leaning on his hands on either side of Omega’s ears. It puts the cherry-embroidered bralette cups right in his face. He cranes his neck and sucks at a nipple through the lace.

Terzo squirms at the first few slow thrusts, trying to frustrate Omega enough that he’ll speed up without any begging.

“You’re so beautiful in this,” Omega fucks up into him deeper. He’s so slick and warm and perfectly fluttering against the ribbed sides of his engorged cock. Every steadily increasing speedy thrust makes Terzo moan like a whore.

As wonderful a feeling as all of this is, Terzo is far from his twink past where he could bounce on a cock for hours at a time. His knees are older and are already starting to ache. “‘Mega…”

The Ghoul presses a kiss to his cheek to show there’s no hard feelings, and lets the human sit upright. Terzo carefully eases himself off Omega and makes himself comfortable against the pillows, blow-dried bangs fanning out around his unpainted face.

Omega turns onto his stomach to cage the human in between his arms. Terzo kisses him as he lines his cock back up to his entrance, swallowing their shared moans. Omega does his best to stay attached at the lips, but he’s craving to watch Terzo’s lace-covered body writhe under him.

The lace is a more saturated pink than the stupid shirt. It complements the dusty rose of his nipples and the neat, salt-and-pepper hair that is smattered around the human’s sternum. It also fits well against the darkening red of his cock. The head strains against the thin silk waistband of the thong, the lace sticky and glistening as each thrust forces out another small spurt of pre-cum.

Omega wraps a hand around the lace covered cock and shifts the fabric over it. It moves the human’s foreskin and jolts Terzo into awareness at what he’s doing. “So much for talking about me ruining the lace…”

Terzo whines as Omega times the tight strokes with each rolling thrust. There isn’t much movement he can do with the panties, but it’s enough to send Terzo over the edge. His cock gets caught under the hem and his cum shoots from behind one of the cherry motifs, sticking the front gusset to his cock. He shivers in pleasure.

Omega doesn’t slow down. He knows his human isn’t satisfied with just one. He continues the steady pace, changing angle gradually to now rub a nodule on his cock against his prostate with every movement. Terzo shudders in overstimulation, his ass clenching against the invading cock. His nails dig into the short white hairs at the nape of Omega’s neck.

It all burns so good.

“I love…our little games,” Terzo breathes into the space between their lips. His mismatched eyes are lidded heavily, “You get so defensive…yet are always so ready to defend my honor. Fuck, right there, please…”

Omega places a flat hand on Terzo’s solar plexus and sits up straighter to thrust straight inside him.

Instantly, Terzo’s moans morph into punched-out whimpers. Omega’s fingers grasp the bralette to stretch it down to below his nipples. It acts as a leash to move Terzo in time with each roll of his hips.

“‘Mega…” Terzo whines, “Please, please…”

“Please, what? Gotta use your words, sweetheart.” The Quintessence Ghoul can feel the beginning swell of his knot. It’s starting to keep him from sliding all the way inside Terzo. He uses his momentum to pop in the swell and it makes Terzo explode with an orgasm again. This time, the cum reaches the edge of the bralette and Omega’s hand.

“O-oh, fuck!” The human cranes his neck to look down as he feels the knot forming.

Omega sweet talks him as he pushes the knot inside with each thrust until it’s formed enough that it would tear the human to push back out.

Nothing compares to this moment; Terzo’s musical whines in his ears, the mottled red blush of his chest underneath the cherries and pink lace, the gloopy pools of his cum from his two orgasms collecting in the thong and bralette waistbands.

“You want it, Terzo?” He can’t resist teasing him as he writhes. He can’t hold himself back, but it enhances the experience to hear the words from the man.

“Y-Yes! Please, ‘Mega!” The human yelps, helpless as a third orgasm overtakes him at the same time as he’s pushed full of Ghoul knot and a river of cum. A small indent forms as Omega floods him with enough release to knock up any Ghoul, female presenting or not.

It’s probably a good thing that Terzo’s the one taking knots and not Mist.

Terzo’s slumps against the fluffy pillows with a fluttering heartbeat. He lets silence fill the spaces between their panting breaths. “You ruin me for everyone else,” Terzo says quietly once they’re locked together and calmed for a moment. “At the tailor’s I agreed with you; that shirt was ugly. It didn’t match my undertone. Gold was a much better choice.”

Omega buries his head in the human’s hair so he can laugh, hiking up his hips so the angle of penetration doesn’t hurt his hips. They’ll be stuck together for a while. “You’re such an asshole.”

“And you love both my personality and asshole, il mio adorabile demone .”