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hollyhomburg · 2 months

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Before I leave you (Pt.67)

(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: You and Hobi bury a dead body (That's a lie, Yoongi buries it for you).

Tags: blood, gore, body horror, death, dead bodies, everyone is pretty beat-up in this, brief implied self-harm but it's very quickly squashed- seriously it's nowhere near as bad as past scenes but i do have to tag it, Dissociation, tae is in the freeze part of fight or flight. hurt/comfort, mental breakdowns, flashbacks, discussions of past abusive relationships, everything is very fluffy until it's not,

W/c: 12.5k

A/N: Are you guys ready for Hoseok's secret reveal??? I'm really excited!!! But also terrified because this whole series has lead up to this point!!! A good number of people have already guessed his secret so congrats on getting it early <3

Previous part - Masterlist - First part

Jimin sits on the stairs going down to the basement. His arm in a sling and bandaged up to the elbow. It aches with every small movement he makes as he peals a tangerine. He hasn't had any narcotics in a few hours and they're starting to wear off.

Jimin needs all of his brain power for this; For covering up the murder.

The fewer things running through his system the less sluggish and fuzzy his thoughts are. Jimin picks his poisons and fewer things make him less coherent than the panic and pain and near constant avalanche of thoughts. Tae, Tae's hurt, Tae's-

Tae's fine, Tae's upstairs with Y/n. he has to remind himself of these facts every few breaths. Tae's going to be okay because you wouldn't let anything happen to her.

There is evidence of that virtually everywhere; In the lines across your hands that Yoongi had dabbed at with a cool cloth, the swollen side of your jaw that he'd cradled. The blood drenching the opposite side of your face that he'd tenderly washed away. Not to mention the blood on the kitchen table, the floor, the ceiling. The blood splattered across your nest-

You don't fuck with an omega's nest; you don't fuck with their packmates.

Jimin quiets his brain with a steady breath as he looks down at Yoongi, Jin, and the body between the three of them wrapped in plastic.

He manages to peel the tangerine in his hand despite how uncooperative his left hand is. Numb at the fingertips just like it’s been since the surgery.

Namjoon had stroked his fingers and tested their give every chance he got, holding onto them and prodding while they waited in the hospital room and then again when Jimin got discharged. He said that they’d probably get better. Probably.

Tae's going to be fine because Namjoon is there too- had checked out her head with that soft alpha grumble croon of his. The most soothing sound in the world, and yet incapable of soothing this.

But Jimin knows nothing’s for certain, he might never get the feeling in his hand back. (This is Jimin's penance; The reminder of these tangled few weeks and how things went will be ever present. The reminder will be the first press of every touch with his non-dominant hand. He will never regain full feeling to the tips of his fingers. Never).

There are a few of noodle paw prints in the dust here, Jimin's ass is no doubt covered in it too from resting on the rickety stairs that lead into the half-finished basement. Little paw print marks that would make you coo and take pictures if you were down here.

But you’re not, you’re upstairs getting the evidence washed off of you.

No one's in that kind of mood right now anyway. No one’s been in that kind of mood for a few hours (or a few days, if he’s being honest, from Jungkook’s seizure, to getting shot, and then coming home to a dead body in their living room).

It’s been 4 hours since you killed someone in the kitchen. 3 hours since Jimin was discharged prematurely from the hospital and the rest of the pack was summoned home via a disturbingly calm call from Jin.

It’s been a tangle of moments even for the people not on hard drugs. Jimin feels like he's doing pretty good at answering the pack’s questions given the circumstances. You'd never know that, given Yoongi's eye roll and Jin's heavy sigh.

"Minnie- we're not asking you how you would have killed him just how you'd cover it up."

They used an old shower liner to wrap the body before they carried it downstairs. It makes a squeaky noise against Jin's rubber gloves (The pink elbow-high ones that he uses to do the dishes) as he pulls back the plastic sheet to reveal what's left of the assassin's head and face.

“I already told you, I don’t know his face- not even a little.” I’d have a pretty hard time identifying his face with the state she left it in regardless Is what he doesn't say.

Jimin tucks his chin, unsettled to look at the man's half-blown apart face for long. "I think he might be the spider but I don’t know. I never met him, only heard his name in passing.”

A small tattoo on the man's wrist reveals as much. A small spider tattoo that someone going to have to cut out and bury separately. Someone's going to have to get all of his teeth too- no identifying marks. None.

He’s a little too impressed with the state you’d left him in when he thinks about it. But once he’d seen your face and Hobi’s neck, not an inch of Jimin had felt the kill wasn’t justified. The whole pack feels that way, he knows they must even though they don't say it. Everyone's a little bit in shock right now.

Even Namjoon hadn’t even given the body a second glance when the pack had tumbled into the house. The pack alpha had simply alternated his fussing from you to Hobi to tae and then Jin. Torn between who needed him first. It was the first words Jimin had heard you speak. Your wet gasp, blood that wasn't yours flashing on your teeth. "Joonie- Hobi needs you."

Namjoon had calmed only once he realized that most of the blood on the three of you was the man’s. Yoongi had a similar reaction and so had Jimin, clutching at Tae. Angry at his arm for its uncooperativeness. About ready to tug off his sling and his bandages and stitches if it meant holding tae easier. He'd even tried it, only to be on the receiving end of a disapproving pack alpha growel too.

“Jimin you can’t; your stitches.”

“Fuck my stitches hyung.”

Numb fingers meet numb faces.

He's a bit ashamed of it, but when he first looked up from Tae to you- where you sat crumpled in Yoongi's hold. Your mate laying down a volley of sweet nothings to you to get you to stop shaking. There was only one sentence running through his head.

That’s my girl.

He'd reached over and squeezed your hand, blood and all. That blood has dried now. Soaked into the lines of his palm. Coloring his fate and love lines all rusty while he eats the tangerine. He should probably wash his hands. All of them probably need too.

Jungkook had been the only one willing to speak, closing the door softly behind him, locking it and treading softly closer. Careful to sidestep both the pools of blood and the piece of a skull sitting next to the couch. He looked down at the 7 of you with a surprisingly calm expression on his face.

"Can't we have one normal fucking day?"

Jungkook was the one who’d gone to the kitchen and gotten one of the hand towels to clean your face. His lips tightened to a line when he wiped away the blood and started to see the bruising, the cut across your temple dripping fresh. Lower lip wobbling ever so slightly.

“Kookie-”

Jungkook had turned to Jin and Namjoon, “I don’t want to deal with the body hyung." His hands were already under your arms, lifting you up, helpless. "Help me get them upstairs. We need to-” he’d let out a frustrated noise. Instincts coming to the full front- instincts he rarely feels.

Who knew blood would incur Jungkook's grooming instincts?

The last time Jimin saw Jungkook; He was helping Namjoon and Yoongi herd the three of you upstairs for a much-needed shower. Hobi hadn't been able to do it under his own power. Namjoon had to carry him.

Hobi; who's choked on every word he's tried to speak. Whose eyes are still red from all the burst blood vessels. Who easily got the closest to dying out of the four of you.

Everyone shakes when they touch Hobi and everyone touches him softly. Namjoon just about snaps his teeth at anyone who tries to get close. His hands turning red from the cold of an ice pack wrapped gently around the alpha's throat.

Jimin knows Jungkook's a lot more unnerved than he lets on, shuffling from foot to foot as he bound Tae up with a towel, taking her delicately from Jimin's arms. Carrying her in the same way Namjoon carried Hobi.

Yoongi was all soft helping you upstairs. Speaking in that quiet voice that he saves for Sunday mornings and stolen moments of quiet. Every moment, all of this is stolen.

And now- the beta is down here, leaning over the body and looking at it like it will tell him something that you won't. After your initial demand that Namjoon he tend to Hobi; you haven't spoken a word. Neither has Tae. Jin's done all of the talking.

There isn’t much to say.

Jimin feels the numbness in his hands and looks at Jin. He hasn't apologized for the bullet yet. But the more time that passes the less Jimin wants an apology. Mating marks come in many forms. Jimin has a scar on his body from one of his omega's- so really? What does he have to be upset about?

The whole house needs to be deep cleaned, and then deep cleaned again. There's blood everywhere; on the couch, the ceiling, the curtains. It's a lot to clean. It's going to be a lot to hide.

That's the only reason why Jimin's not upstairs helping you and Tae clean up right now; the body is unfortunately the biggest threat to the pack's safety at the moment.

There’s a bloodstain on the stairs too, a droplet next to where Jimin sits. he makes a mental note of it but doesn't move to wipe it up. He puts a tangerine slice on his tongue and chews before he answers Yoongi’s next question.

“I don’t know how to dispose of a body, I never dealt with this part. My only job was to kill, not take care of them after. I know there’s a way that you can do it with soap.”

Jin snorts, “You only know that from breaking bad-“

Jimin’s a little miffed, “We already have a plastic tub upstairs-”

“Lye,” Yoongi corrects, looking down at the body before he stoops to retape the plastic over the man's face. It was a bitch to wrap him up, the body stiff and heavy from rigor Mortis. The blood beneath it bubbles and darkens, coagulating. Yoongi's long hair falls over his face and he tucks it behind his ear.

“We could use the soap, but it might take a few days.” Jin clarifies.

“Do you think we can wait that long?”

“Absolutely not,” Jin’s got a similar ice pack to his wrists, the skin there bruised and red and swelling where he fought to get free from the handcuffs, where he eventually ripped down the banisters and broke through them with brute strength and panic.

You’d found the keys on the man’s body soon after and released him from the handcuffs, they're wrapped up in the plastic along with the frying pan, the gun that killed him, and a few other items from the living room that were just too bloodstained, every big piece of evidence will lie right beside him where he rests.

Jimin eats another slice of the tangerine, and Jin shrivels his nose at it. “Isn’t that a little gross?”

Yoongi mirrors his disgust. “Yeah Minnie, weren’t those covered in blood?”

But Jimin just shrugs, “I washed it and peeled it hyung” And keeps eating. After a few days of hospital food, the tangerines taste divine.

Yoongi stands from where he’s kneeling on his knees with a faint crack. “One part kitty litter, two parts concrete should keep out the smell,” Jin says, eyeing the 6 by-six-foot hole in the basement's foundation, already there from the plumbing that needed replacing.

Most of Yoongi's tools are down here too. His scrap pile of wood and the dozen bags of concrete. His hack saw and his circular saw that none of them are looking at. Yoongi had only just fit in the plumbing a few weeks ago. He'd been about to re-pour the foundation anyway.

“I’d rather not have a body buried in our house.”

Yoongi touches Jin’s wrist, so feather-light, removing the ice pack to check the swelling to see if it’s gone down. Jin's left hand is just as useless as Jimin's, the knuckles bruised and ballooned.

“It’s just for a few weeks, we can deal with this once it’s all calmed down, but we absolutely can’t go try and bury it. Who knows what the neighbors heard?”

They're all silent at that, silent at the idea that these few hours might be the last few that the pack spends free.

But over the next few hours, there are no blue and red flashing lights outside or concerned neighbors that come knocking. Your one saving grace is that this all happened during the middle of the day and all of your nearest neighbors have nine to five's. Is it so simple to hope that everyone was just at work? That no one heard the gunshots over the nearby roar of the passing train?

(Maybe they're just too used to the pack next door; the one that has the noisy ruts and noisy noisy packmates. The one whose alphas have a habit of opening the windows in the back room and let the sound of their roughhousing and video games flood the street. The ones who have extra loud movie nights. They're just a bunch of kids, how harmful could they really be? At least the pack alpha and omega look respectable.)

It's a good thing that no one comes; because Namjoon has more important problems, more important things to handle beyond the body in the basement or the police at the door.

Namjoon’s hands cradle Hobi’s neck. He wheeze as he tries to speak, his mouth falling open. He's mostly clean, but a rusty trickle of water from his hair trails down his shoulders.

Jungkook tugged him into the shower first and gave him a rough clean before handing him back to Namjoon. They sit on a towel together on the edge of the nest. they only moved him in here to give him some privacy- to distract him because Hobi kept reaching for you. you'd kept reaching back, tae was already in the shower under the stream.

"Pup- your hands- you're going to hurt yourself."

The Nestroom is dark and quiet. Every single blind in the house is draw. Only the christmas lights illuminate Hobi's injuries. Namjoon will tend to Tae and then you after he's checked out Hobi's injuries. will send him downstairs with Jin for some cold water to soothe his throat once he's done. once he's been cleaned again probably.

Hobi was covered with the most blood, having been just under the man when Tae had blown his throat apart while you- Namjoon doesn't want to think of it, doesn't want to see it.

(Namjoon thinks of every moment, sees them behind every blink. Blink and he sees you sitting in his lap over breakfast squirming happily. Blink and you're kneeling in a bloody puddle looking up at him.

Blink and you're curled up in the nest wearing the first pajama pants he'd given you. Blink and he's watching Jungkook dab at your bloody cheek, blink and you're turning into his hand to nuzzle as he wakes you for sunday morning breakfast. Blink and there’s sunlight spilling across your face and blood slipping down your chin. Namjoon's smallest and most sensitive pup not so innocent anymore.)

Namjoon touches Hobi's throat with no small amount of reverence. it cools the anger in his throat. Namjoon's anger has no good place to go.

When Hobi closes his eyes, he sees it too; the explosion of the bullet and the splat of blood pouring down his face. The shower earlier felt so similar- he almost couldn't handle it. He had to concentrate on Jungkook's voice narrating everything.

"Here Hobi, I'm gonna use some soap now. I like Tae's body wash. You know she always just picks whatever bottles are pinkest because she wants all her toiletries to match. It smells good, doesn't it? Can you take a deep breath for me? Through your nose?"

Endless meaningless Jibber jabber to distract all of them.

Now he shivers and shakes in Namjoon's hold. One part terror and one part near frostbite. Namjoon turns the heat up but Hobi still shakes as Namjoon checks his throat. "Open for me baby- that's a good boy."

He flashes a light down there, listening with his stethoscope. The cold metal end of it presses against his collarbones and the bruises too. Finger-shaped that lace over his jugular like a collar. Over Hobi's heart. Every thump ba-thump ba-thump music to Namjoon's ears.

Namjoon’s growl is soothing as he scoots closer to gather the injured alpha close to his chest. Shushing Hobi as he tries to speak for the dozenth time in the last hour. “Don’t try it, careful- I don’t think he did any lasting damage but-”

Namjoon breaks and his forehead drops to Hoseok’s shoulder, fingers rub out soothing circles on Hobi's wrist even as he starts to cry. Namjoon already stitched up the deep puncture wound there. He had to hold his wrist still as he dabbed the stingy antiseptic, the impulse to pull it away too great. The wound wasn't from a bullet but from the piece of the door that embedded itself in Hobi’s wrist. Blown apart the way he could have been.

Namjoon was so close to losing everything, to losing them.

The bruises, Hobi’s eyes, and his little raspy breaths. Everything both punishment and payment for every violent thing Namjoon wants to do. He feels powerless to do more than hold the smaller alpha right now. The strength in his arms doing little to protect Hobi from the hurts he's already nursing. Hoseok leans his head on Namjoon's shoulder and Just lets the alpha hold him.

If he’d come home to the four of you dead what would he have done? more accurately- What wouldn’t he have done?

Namjoon imagines it- the same way he's imagined it thousands of times. Tae's blood on her lips as pretty as any lip stain. Jin on the floor, his little big love wrapped up in permanent stillness like a mating shroud. Your body turned small and quiet the way you'd been when he'd met you- only so much worse. Hobi with his heart slow and absent of his near-constant music. Bodies stiff as statues, turned alters meant to worship both grief and love.

He’d probably have demanded Jimin and Yoongi tell him everything they knew. And then he’d have gone hunting.

Namjoon lets out a shaky breath and pulls away from Hoseok only to continue dabbing at his wounds. The violence of his alpha's instincts calmed by the sanctity of this- of making it better. of being gentle even when namjoon wants to be anything but.

Hoseok’s mute. Throat too swollen to make more than a soft hissing sound on command. Vocal cords not damaged just swollen. Leaving his brain to hurdle through the last few hours. Eyes closed but his mind wide open.

He sees it all behind his eyes; your hand descending with the frying pan, the explosion of wood near his head. The splat of hot blood against the wood floor. Gasping and getting blood in his mouth accidentally. Choking in it- drowning a little. Everything. The sting of smoke on his eyes. Your words ring in his ears like the final notes of a symphony.

“You can take me. I’ll go with you. Willingly. That’s what she wants isn’t it?”

Hoseok’s brain teases through what you might have meant with that. The unnamed she that you mention. Who, why, and what aren’t you telling them? Is it the woman that Yoongi talked to you about before?

He's unable to say anything to Namjoon even as the alpha softy cradles his damaged throat. Unable to even whisper it out through the swelling that threatens to cut off Hobi's airway. It feels like he's breathing through a straw. Namjoon says he's not going to choke, that it only feels that way. The panic is hard to let go of.

But who do you have to go back to there? You've never talked about the family like you wanted them, like they were your pack. Who have you run from? What monsters are here to haunt you? Who is after you? Or is it something darker- more sinister?

Maybe Hoseok's heart has never truly healed from Yoongi leaving them. Maybe a wounded heart remembers. Yoongi always had them to go back to that Hoseok had never questioned. But he's never wondered about you or stopped to consider that maybe, Yoongi's not the only one who left something.

The family doesn't exactly seem like something you can walk away from unscathed. Yoongi managed it, but Jimin didn't.

Hoseok should warn Namjoon, should tell someone but- it's impossible. His airway protesting with an agonizing twinge with every attempt he makes at speaking. He wonders if this is what being nonverbal felt like for you.

The pain pulses dully without adrenaline to dilute it as Namjoon so lovingly examines the marks, again and again. But he shouldn't be spending so much time. You and Tae are bruised and battered too- even if Hoseok’s are by far the worst; you need tending to.

Jin’s hands. Your face. Tae’s head. Hoseok’s throat. Each of you has lost the thing most necessary to your survival.

Hoseok thinks of the body, not the one that sits downstairs, but the one that you found months ago in the ocean. Maybe this wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe none of this was. How far back do the coincidences go? Between Jin and Yoongi who wouldn't have a relationship to stand on without Yoongi's family- how many other things in the pack are because of this?

Hoseok struggles to speak, to talk to Namjoon about what you'd almost done, what you'd almost bartered- but nothing but air comes out, and the pack alpha shushes him. His hands grip Namjoon's shoulders hard.

Namjoon wishes he had more than just numbing cream and sutures for Hobi’s hurts. Jimin’s already offered up some of his opioids for Hobi to sleep and as much as Namjoon hates the idea of anyone swapping medication- Hobi might actually need them.

Jimin’s doctor had been a little bit liberal with them, sure that his 6 on the pain scale had to be at least a 9. He could spare one or two. The truth is that nothing hurts more than this- seeing the people that you love in pain. Jimin and Namjoon save their 10s for days like this.

With the blood cooling, Namjoon’s anger has nowhere to go. The body in the basement has already gone cold.

In the quiet of the house they can audibly hear Seokjin and Yoongi start mixing the concrete. The dull scrape of a shovel against a bucket and the sound of a faucet dripping.

Namjoon wipes at Hobi’s throat, and Hoseok tries again- futile in his efforts to speak. Namjoon shushes him.

In the basement it goes; drip, scrape, drip.

~-~

Jungkook holds Tae up underneath the warm spray of water. The glass is foggy in places and clear and others, occasional spots of red water joining the constellation of them. She rests against Jungkook's chest, her body is prone and almost lifeless. Eyes vacant and glassy.

So shaky and tired as her body rockets down from its adrenaline high. A drop so abrupt that she could hardly hold herself up. A drop so terrifying that Jungkook must do it for her.

He doesn't mind, none of him minds as he cradles the back of her head oh so gently. Tae flinches, whether from pain or the sudden movement. Jungkook meets Jimin's eyes through the foggy glass and then yours. Biting his lower lip before Jimin nods and tells him to keep going.

Evidence is evidence. Washing off can’t wait.

Jimin has joined you upstairs with the body already packed away and on its way to being buried under the foundation of the house. Jimin watches on from outside the shower as he instructs Jungkook in a quiet voice on how to clean Tae of evidence properly. He's been quiet since then. Staring at them while Tae stares blankly back.

You watch them from where you sit. Mostly you just watch Tae. When Namjoon's body doesn’t block your view. He stitches the gash on your forehead, hands pulling the sutures closed in a gentle and practiced way. The pass of the needle through your skin a distant sensation.

The wounds on your hands are in that awkward place of not being deep enough for stitches but still a little too deep to not need something. After a brief debate, Namjoon sealed them with a bit of non-surgical glue that stung terribly and then regular gauze over the top.

Your hands are swelling and clotting. Scabbing although trying to touch anything is too painful. Closing your fingers at all hurts. Namjoon holds you so lightly it hardly feels like he's holding you at all.

Namjoon apologizes after every wince.

The second he’s done he tosses his suture kit into the bathroom sink with a clang the second he’s done. Namjoon gets on his knees before you. The plastic that covers the whole bathroom crackling as he does.

Jimin had the great idea to cover the bathroom with sheets of plastic to cut down on the cleanup. Hoseok's bloody footprints join Tae's trailing from the doorway to the shower. Join the trail that you left. Parts of you are still dripping.

"It's going to scar," Namjoon says, a little sadly. Thumb skimming over the mark on your forehead.

You swallow hard. You still taste blood. You want to brush your teeth; you want to shut the lights off and go to sleep. You want Noodle and you want Yoongi you want everything from the past few hours- the past few years to be gone and over with. You want-

You want to snap at him and tell him that it doesn't matter that it will scar. That you're covered with scars already and you don't care but-

Namjoon kisses your forehead. A lingering brush. The one spot that's not bloody.

You look over at Tae and her eyes flicker blankly to you. Jungkook keeps bringing the boar bristle brush up and down her back in soothing little circles.

When you turn back to Namjoon he's pursing his lips and blinking away tears as he looks down at your hands. You resist the urge to say you’re sorry. You’re not sure what for. The terrible feral hunger in you gone as quick as it's come.

Namjoon’s fingers wrap around the hollow of your knees, and you meet his eyes, even though you don’t want to. It feels too much like a confession already.

“I’m going to say this now, before you get any ideas; This is not your fault and I am not mad at you and Tae for doing what you did-”

“Namjoon-”

He continues on, words rushing out. “I’m proud of you pup, so proud. I’m sorry that I wasn’t here. I promise I won’t disappoint you again as pack alpha-” You cover his mouth with your hand, gauze and all.

The bit of gauze over your palm is already turning bloody. It's hard to tell if it's your blood or if it's his. You’re the last one to shower. The last one to get clean. Namjoon shouldn’t be touching you at all.

And yet he does, yet he cradles your face, brushes the tears from your cheeks, gets blood on his hands. Evidence is evidence, but love has a steeper sort of price if you don't express it when you can.

When you take your hand away, Namjoon doesn’t try to speak again. someone says something that you don't hear, that you can't hear.

Namjoon stands and when you look up, Jungkook has the shower door open for you.

Because the bandages and the glue on your hands can’t get wet Namjoon binds your hands with Ziplock bags and duct tape. The plastic rustles, and you follow Hobi's bloody footprints into Jungkook’s arms. Namjoon closes the door behind you.

Every bit of plastic is going to get melted down later, until all the blood and terror evaporates through something as simple and trivial as fire. Fire will cleanse it of all evidence, as sure as the burning water you step under.

You're not quite sure what you're going to do about the bullet holes in the walls or the blown-apart door to the upstairs bedroom, but Yoongi’s always had a handle on the home improvement stuff.

Jungkook helps you disrobe off your bloodied clothing. Lifting your shirt over your head and stooping, telling you to hold onto his shoulders so that he can take off your sweatpants. You're pretty sure they're Yoongi's but there's no time to get sentimental as he puts them inside a garbage bag along with Tae's and Hobi's clothes.

Everything on your person is evidence. When you look back Namjoon's gone, summoned by Jin's distant call from downstairs. It's just Jimin outside of the shower. watching you, but mostly watching Tae.

You’d be more self-conscious of your nude body if your brain wasn’t still racing. It’s hard to do much with the bags on your hands. But Jungkook squirts out a healthy dollop of your favorite shampoo and gets to work once the conditioner is in Tae’s hair. She sits like a discarded ball-jointed doll on the built-in bench. Her long hair hair stuck like a sheet over her eyes.

Nothing is as important as making sure you’re not found out. And the frothy shampoo turns rusty around Jungkook's fingers. You have to have a lot of blood on your face. All the water that rolls off of you goes pink.

Jungkook is gentle even by your hairline scratching against your scalp with his fingers. The skin there is tender. Namjoon taped a bit of gauze over the sutures too. You don't remember when he did that.

You make a noise. “Too rough?” his voice has something unreadable in it, something soft and concerned.

You don't respond because Yoongi makes his reappearance at the doorway. The black shirt he wears is dusty at the front from the concrete. His eyes single focused on you the second he enters the room. You stare at him the way that Tae stares at Jimin. Jungkook just huffs and pulls you a little more snugly against his chest.

Tae stands in the corner of the shower, still staring at Minnie. Minnie who stares back, practically not blinking. Both of their anguish are hidden behind glass. Like fish in tanks that could never get out. Not really.

Part of Tae gets washed away down the drain. Swirling and gurgling down and down with no one to notice.

Tae stares off blankly into space. Sometimes Jimin talks to her and sometimes he hums through the glass, he'd be in there too if his bandages couldn't get wet either. If Namjoon hadn’t yanked him back from the doorway and told him that he couldn't.

Jungkook takes the boar bristle brush to your body too. Everything has to be scrubbed multiple times until your skin feels nearly raw from it. Tae’s fingernails, her arms, your neck, the side of your face, the hollow at the inside of your arms. Your knees. Everywhere.

He apologizes when he goes over bruises, wincing, clutching you a little tighter, a little closer to make up for the pain. But Jungkook is meticulous as he cleans of evidence until you feel groomed clean. Until there’s no more blood swirling down the drain just clear water, and the light outside has turned pearly and blue in the twilight.

Tae's still silent. She's been quiet beyond the occasional heartbreaking whimper since you both killed that man. Eventually, You push at Jungkook's hands with a pointed look in her direction where she's slumped and he goes with a soft nod. Two omega's taking care of their alphas.

Jungkook’s delicate with Tae’s head, gentle in the way he cradles the bruising, half hidden by her hair. Washing out the conditioner with a quiet hum. Namjoon had diagnosed her with a concussion pretty quickly, it's not a crack in her skull plate but she's not going to go putting her hair up in a bun any time soon.

Jungkook alternates from you to Tae. One moment you're standing, the next Jungkook is taking you up gently from the floor and Yoongi is at the glass, hand on the door- looking at you anxiously. Letting out a volley of cursing. You can't remember the last time you heard him use language like that.

"Hyung she's fine- she's just slippery, I've got her."

Their voices are so soft and grave and so quiet. Or is it just that you can’t hear it? Why are their voices so far away and muffled? Sometimes Yoongi is here and sometimes he isn't. Sometimes Jungkook is holding you, talking to Namjoon about something, and other times he and Yoongi are talking. Keeping their voices low. Your ears ring. It's so loud it deafening.

“Do you need me to take over?” Yoongi asks Jungkook. Jungkook has blood on his feet, from you or Tae you’re not sure, it soaks the hair there. Jungkook’s got hairy fucking feet for an omega- you’re not sure why you’re concentrating on it. Why you’re noticing all these things now. Cataloging little things about them like you might never get the chance to notice them again.

Your heart beats quick, fear still consuming you even though the danger has passed. You look down at the tiled floor and the room spins.

You don’t feel a thing when you close your eyes. You don’t feel anything when you think of the man that you just killed. You don’t feel anything but roaring, like the crashing of the ocean or the sound when you lift your ear to a shell. The hearing in your left ear where the gun went off feels…off, muffled. You put your hand up to toy with it and freeze when you realize it isn't right.

"Guys" You paw at your ear. But they don't seem to hear you.

"No, I've got them.”

“We need to clean up the downstairs. Kookie, where do you keep the oxyclean?”

"Guys"

They still don't hear you. Maybe you're not making a sound at all just mouthing the words. Your movement gets Tae's attention and her eyes focus for the first time in hours. Slumped on the bench, her hand grips the tiled edge hard as she tries to stand but can't. Jungkook hands Yoongi something through the steam, the black trash bag full of bloody clothes.

The notice Tae trying to get to you first. she hits the floor with a small thud and tugs her way over to you. You make a noise in your throat- a distressed chirp that makes the alphas flinch. Tae cups your cheek as you dig your finger in, slippery from the plastic- and pull something small and fleshy out of your ear.

It's soft and squishy. A curved piece of pink and white brain matter. A little bloody but bleached from the water.

You try to stand to your feet but teeter, shaking, staring down at the chunk of person that you just got out of you, that was just in you.

For a second, no one says anything, but then-

“That’s so fucking gnarly.” Your head jerks up in Jungkook’s direction.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Tae actually does look a little green, but it's good to hear her voice at the very least. She hauls herself over to the drain and starts to dry heave.

"Oh tae don't-" the sound of vomit hitting the floor joins the sound of the shower. You don't look at her. just at the lump of person in your hand.

"Someone please take it from me," Jimin is already there opening the glass door and holding out a cloth for you to place it in.

Yoongi presses his hands to the glass as he watches you struggle to grab the brush that Jungkook was using on you from the floor after finally getting your feet under you. Jungkook is torn, his hand on Tae's shoulder as she wretches turning from her to you like he doesn't know what to do or who to help first.

You don't care about the state of your hands you just need to get clean. You Ignore the twinge of pain in your hands as you try and get the bottle of body wash open. Ripping off the plastic bags that cover your hands when you can't unclick the cap immediately. frustrated and panicking. You ignore Jimin calling your name. The gauze falls to the floor with a wet thwack and you take the boar bristle brush to your hands. Cuts and all.

Big hands stop you. Hands that dwarf yours. Hands that you'd know blind.

Yoongi's standing under the spray fully clothed, the water pinning down his hair and quickly soaking him. His hands tangling with yours, taking the brush from you. Wordless as he grabs your wrists and jerks you forward hard.

He holds on until you stop shaking. resting against his chest. guiding your face to his scent gland. "Take a deep breath for me now sweetheart- there you go- just like that."

Jungkook doesn't say anything and neither does Jimin, not as Yoongi starts to wash you again. Jungkook just stoops to lift Tae and place her back on the bench. She goes easy, limp, and doll-like. But she's almost done- she's almost clean. Tae pushes at Jungkook’s shoulders.

"I’m fine. I need to wait for the nausea to pass before I try getting out of here.”

With you, it's going to take a little longer.

Jungkook has already shampooed your hair, but he does it again. The telltale signs of rusty red in the peach-scented shampoo. Bubbling orange-pink. Yoongi does it slower, gentler- it feels more normal. Like the slow loving you're used to.

“Do you ever feel like-” your voice is a little crackly from all the screaming you did earlier. You hate how the terror makes you not remember all the details. Did you make any sound while you killed him? Did you say anything through the rage?

The others are looking at you but you have eyes for just Jimin. his hand tightens to fists, knuckles pressed against the glass. eyes darkening ever so slightly. “Do you ever not feel guilty? About killing people Minnie?”

You are nude, as bare as you’ve ever been before him, it's hard to be self-conscious about it. Maybe this would be a little sexier- showering with Tae and Jungkook and Yoongi with an audience if you weren't literally trying to cover up a very violent murder.

You remember the words Jimin had said to you weeks ago now. “Would you kill for me?” “I’d do worse” you wonder if this qualifies as worse. You can’t imagine what would be much worse than this.

Jungkook's hands are rough as they massage a bit of soap down your back but instead of being comforting, it feels like you’re going to vibrate out of your skin.

Jimin hums. Eyeing Tae still sprawled on the built-in bench. Jimin gathers his thoughts before he speaks. “In my contract, at the beginning-” He starts but cuts off as you start to slip. Jungkook's hands find you, helping Yoongi hold you up more properly. Your mate doesn't let Jungkook take you entirely just moves a bit to the side to give him space. Any other day you'd love to be in the middle of a yoonkook sandwich but-

“Your contract?” he nods, blond hair bobbing. Yoongi meticulously removes the dried blood from under your fingernails, careful to hold your glue sutures out of the direct spray.

“I specified that I’d only ever kill bad people. of course I got a little lazier after I got used to it." He shoots an anxious glance in Tae's direction, but she's still just sitting. "But at the beginning, I’d go back and look through their files to try to find out what they’d done to warrant a hit getting taken out on them. I couldn’t always find a reason but most of the time I did."

You can see it in his face, that Jimin doesn't want to say that they deserved it. Because if they deserved a violent ending then you could say the same about the 8 of you. Jungkook's hands get a little close to the nape of your neck and you turn to him and snap.

"Don't scruff me."

"Sorry." You need it. Is what he doesn't say.

“Most of the time it was worth it?” You cling to his words. With Geumjae you’d never had to guess if he deserved it or not but this-

Jimin’s eyebrows are brought into a hard line, “Karma is a fickle thing. Sometimes it never comes but-” his eyes are downcast, "Sometimes it's a good thing, being the karma."

You sit quietly, digesting his words. Your lower lip trembles, and you don’t know if you feel terrible or better when the tears just won’t come. Yoongi delicately cradles your body, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and pulling you back against his chest.

“Yoongi.”

“Let me hold you for a minute.” You do, body sagging under the weight of your exhaustion.

Tae teeters in Jungkook’s hold, but she pushes against his hands weakly when he tries to make her stand again. Her voice sounds warbly and fragile when she shakes her head. “I’m still dizzy.”

He tries to guide her gently back to the bench, but she doesn't make it that far. Pushing away his hands when she descends to the marble floor. Closer to the wall, Closer to Minnie who mirrors her, falling to the floor too. Getting as closer to her as he can without being in the shower.

Jimin lets out a sad and bitter-sounding laugh and Tae smiles in reply while Jungkook and Yoongi share an anxious glance over your head.

He's still grinning, words twisting, eyes shining with sorrow and fondness. “You couldn’t wait 24 hours until you had to make it even, didn’t you?”

Tae closes her eyes as her smile twists and she starts to cry “Where you go, I go. We’re the same now Minnie.” Jimin doesn't mean to ask what she means. He knows.

If you're a killer I'm a killer. If you're damned, I'm damned. Even though neither of them believes in God or heaven or damnation. Not really. Not anymore. It's very half-hearted.

(I don't know if it's worth wondering if the people you love are bad people, I think when worse comes to worse, you just put the heaviness down and keep on loving them anyway).

Jimin’s eyes are soft on her, the way that they only ever are with Tae. He places his hand on the glass fogging around his fingertips. She doesn’t match his hands, just leans her cheek against it. Love is only a thin layer of glass away.

You know it hurts her a little bit, must make the dysphoria a little harder to breathe through, to let Jimin and Jungkook see her like this; just the long hair and nothing delicate to cloth her soul in. A soul that now you’ve irreparably tarnished.

A soul that is damaged beyond repair now thanks to you.

It is your fault. All of this is because of you. all of this pain and anguish and damage is because of the choices you've made. the stupid idiotic childish choices. If you'd never needed it- if you'd just been strong enough- Tae could have been whole. Tae could have been unharmed. Hobi and Jin too- if you’d just-

Back at the hospital, Tae had so many questions about Jimin’s job, so many questions about when and where, and why. But she finds her head empty of them in the aftermath. She has no desire to learn anything else about Jimin’s job. Not now that she knows what killing feels like.

Tae is never going to be able to look at red nail polish the same way again.

Jungkook reaches over and turns off the water.

~-~

Eventually, you finish washing. Wrapped up in fluffy white towels that will have to be burned too. The house smells like bleach and gunpowder. It covers everything.

Even the noodle is looking a little more grubby than usual when he zips by, meowing for someone to give him attention. You hear the saw going and you know that Yoongi is cutting the bullet holes out of the walls while the others clean up the blood.

Your skin feels pink and sensitive were the towel brushes as you go looking for pajamas, you'll get some for the others too. Later, Jin will fuss and ask to put some cream on you. Will massage it in something of an apology and pretend that Yoongi isn't going over the whole house with a blacklight to spot any errant blood splatters.

Later Yoongi will take a wood scraper to the floorboards where the man died, will rip them up, and burn them in the house's ancient fireplace just to be sure that no one finds any evidence.

You'll all pretend that Tae doesn't shake through a panic attack when you have an informal dinner in the nest. jin's rule of "no food in the nest" broken for this. You'll all pretend that Hoseok won't choke choking on all but the smallest sips of water. You'll all pretend. You're good pretenders, good liars too.

Later, Jin will put cream on your skin and dot it all with kisses, the swelling in his hands won't take too long to go down. You'll get the love and You won’t deserve a single second of it.

You don't know how you fooled yourself into thinking you ever deserved it. The last 8 months have been stolen. Not earned.

The one-year anniversary of Geumjae's death comes and passes as you go to the top of the stairs in your towel, Ears straining to hear what's going on downstairs.

There is a lot of talking going on downstairs, between Yoongi, Namjoon, and Jin. About what to do, and how to handle this. Hushed voices kept mostly out of earshot. And other more dangerous questions get asked, with equally as dangerous answers.

One of Jimin's guns sits on the kitchen counter through all of it. No one moves to put it away. They're not sure when they're next going to need it and they'd rather not get caught off guard again.

“I could talk to some people- call them. Some people owe me favors, There has to be some section of the family that doesn’t want her too-“

"Absolutely Not, I am not having you get into some weird ass mafia debt"

"Yeah, jailcell orange is so not your color hyung"

“We stay quiet. For the next 48 hours- it’s likely no one will know what happened. They’re too hurt- we need some time to regroup and think.”

Hobi’s voice is absent from the fray. You hear something quite like he's trying to speak, and someone shushing him softly. Namjoon says that his swelling won’t go down enough to talk until tomorrow. You hear the sound of someone opening the refrigerator to get ice.

The door to the bedroom has been blown apart, and a flurry of bullet holes chewed through the top corner. It sits off its hinges and in two pieces.

You remember watching Yoongi paint the door, sitting at the bottom of the stairs while he worked at the top of it and painted it to match the wallpaper in the staircase, a dark cobalt blue. You remember all of it, every little thing you watched him do to make this house into something worthwhile. To make it into a home and now it's riddled with bullet holes and stained with blood.

It's funny, you hardly remember every little thing he did for you, to make you worthwhile.

You have always been a reminder that you don't make houses out of abandoned buildings, and mates out of monsters that bite.

The water has turned the cuts on your hands white and gummy when you look down at them in the closet room. They’re already oozing, not bleeding, it will be at least a day or two until you can touch anything without discomfort. Namjoon will scold you ever so gently later and re-do your bandages.

The pink curtains are drawn already to keep out any wandering eyes from the outside. This is a dressing room after all. The whole room feels like a blush-toned jewel box and you, the one piece of cheap costume jewelry at the center.

You get up and shut the door before you sit on a small poof- something silky and tufted that Jimin had gotten Tae right after she'd come out.

You sit in your towel and look down at your wounds. Thinking about Tae's concussion. Jin's wrists. Hobi's throat. Both of their blank looks and the violence of death and trying to live. You think it all through, every possible ending to this before you pick up your phone and dial Her number.

Moonbyul picks up on the first ring. It’s like she’s been waiting for your call.

“Did you like your courting present pup?”

Your throat is dry and you don’t know exactly what to say, even less how to say it. She hums at your silence, an alpha's imitation of a purr. Waiting until your quietness builds to a frantic pulse.

In the pack, you've always been the one with the best survival instincts. Geumjae made you this way. Although the pack has spent the last few months trying to heal you; deep down you know you've never been anything more than a scared animal. Fight or Flight. Freeze or fawn.

Bullet to bullet. Tooth to tooth. Heartbeat to heartbeat. This time is different. This time you have something worth protecting.

You stand, no longer able to sit. There is a noise at the door, and you wait with bated breath for someone to come in. They don't come. But you stand and move farther inside. Hoping that the distance will disguise the sound of your whispered conversation.

She continues when it becomes clear you're struggling to speak. “I’ve got another one on the way. Hyejin’s here, wanna say hello? You’re on speaker.”

“Pup,” she giggles, and you feel like you might vomit. It’s a struggle really, not to end the call right there, not to let the fear overtake you. “We haven’t heard back from Spider yet, and I have a feeling someone’s been a little naughty.”

You lift the curtain to look outside, the train chugs past and the cars flit by like the fast small birds searching for seed in the snow. The whole world is grey and flat. The sky is orange from the lights of the city reflecting the clouds. The trees bare of all but a few crumbly leaves. It’s strange how all at once, the train is all you can look at. All you can think about.

You think about hoseok, the night at the train tracks where he stopped you from leaving. When he asked you to stay.

“Tell me what I need to do. Tell me what I need to do to get you to stop this, please.” Your voice sounds off, even for you. Too flat, strange even to your ears.

“I’m afraid we’re too far along for that.”

"Please, please Moonbyul-" You turn, pacing back towards the door. Past Tae’s clothes, past yours, past Jungkook’s, past the alcove where Hobi hangs his sweatshirts for you. You pause there. Looking at them.

“You said- you said when it was over you’d give me anything I wanted. Well I want them alive. Even if-"

Your voice is so shaky, you're careful to make sure you're not overheard. The pack is in the other room, just downstairs. You can hear the distant hum of their sweet voices; the people you love always sound like a melody. Your absence hasn’t been noticed yet.

"Even if I’m not here.”

For once they’re silent on the other end of the line. It’s a full silence, filled with one part lust and one part hunger. Both of them are like Noodle playing with a mouse. Waiting for the right time to drive their teeth in and end this game.

But even mice have teeth. Your hand is holding your phone so hard that the plastic makes your bones ache and your cuts bleed fresh.

“If you don’t let them live, I'll never stop fighting. But if you want me to be willing- If you want me to be your pup the way I think you do."

You can’t even close your hand into a fist with how wrecked your hands are. They hurt with every clumsy movement. you hold the phone. Your every heartbeat lurching with the horror of what you're doing.

I can’t lose them; I can’t be the reason why they die. They'll keep sending people until we're all dead unless I do something.

“All of them, all of them need to be safe, Jimin- you need to let him go of his contract and let him go back to living a normal life and you need to not punish Jin for working for the FBI.” Your words rush over themselves. "Leave my pack alone and I’ll be obedient. I'll be yours. I’ll never try and go back to them again. I won’t ever try and leave. I promise.”

Moonbyul and Hyejin are silent on the other end of the phone. You wait for a few moments. They must be looking at each other, deliberating.

Everything in this room aches. The closet bedroom that Yoongi made he made for you. The wainscotting just so. Everything in this house was crafted with an equal amount of love.

It was never meant to be yours forever, you’ve been keenly aware of this fact since the moment you met Yoongi. Since the moment you met his eyes across the dining room table and the moment his teeth met your skin. Borrowed things don't belong, they never do. Good things do not last. You only get them for as long as you get them and not a moment longer.

You're looking at Hobi's sweatshirts, in the alcove where he stacks them for you to take when Moonbyul and Hyejin respond.

“We'll agree to those terms, but remember their safety depends on your performance."

"You have 24 hours to get to us pup. Make them count.”

The dial tone drones like a funeral drum.

~-~

(Hoseok, a few years prior)

The backroom at the record shop is cramped with all sorts of things from a bygone era;

A mini fridge with a decrepit desktop computer and logbook balanced atop it. Pictures and bulletins glued to the wall from the 1960's. A greasy coffee machine piled high with bags of expired tea. A cramped spot for employees to hang their coats and a yellowing old table with a pair of chairs; both occupied by people also out of place. a beta that has a thing for 1980's rap and an alpha with a broken heart who admittedly loves 2010's pop.

A poster of some glittery showgirl omega from the 20s bats her eyelashes down at Hoseok as he has a mental breakdown. Offering neither comfort nor absolution nor love.

Maybe if he'd been born an omega like that, it would have been easier. Maybe they'd have wanted him then.

Yoongi's hands rub down Hoseok's shoulder, his back, places only lovers have touched. Up and down. An endless circle. An ouroboros of affection nibbling Hoseok's fickle heart. Hoseok aches harder with every passing moment.

Yoongi looks at the clock as Hoseok continues to sob. The shop should be open right now but Yoongi won't let it. It can go out of business for all he cares. As long as no one makes Hoseok get up from this chair before he's ready.

Beta instincts are fickle things, but Yoongi has always had a third sense. Something in him always knows if people are trustworthy and if they need him. Something in their scents or faces or eyes- like small planets reflecting the cosmos back to them. Do planets bear life only when someone is willing to look for them? Do people only deserve help when they're willing to ask for it? or is it like this?

Eventually, Hoseok gets his breath back in his chest and his sobs quiet down. His eyes open bloodshot. All sadness has an expiration date (thankfully). Yoongi's hand slides down his arm and gives his hand a firm squeeze (and stays there).

It's the first time someone's touched Hoseok without wanting something in God knows how long but he's too sad to properly appreciate it or savor it. (Yoongi doesn't want anything from him that Hoseok wouldn't willingly give. Doesn't want anything but his smile. fuck- he's just a co-worker, isn't he?). Who knows when the next touch like this might come? (Yoongi is going to hold his hand tomorrow because Yoongi likes holding people's hands, Jin will give him the tacit permission to do that at least. But all of the pack are keenly aware that Hoseok needs time to heal, no matter how obvious Yoongi's crush and Hoseok's needs).

(Hoseok is definitely not just Yoongi's coe-worker at this point, but saviors come from all sorts of unlikely places)

Eventually Hoseok's sobs quiet and Yoongi sighs, pulling back. He takes one look at hoseok's red nose and pale cheeks and puffs up. "I'm making your hot chocolate and you're going to tell me what's happened."

He gets up like he needs something to do. Like he's tired of taking care of Hoseok. He doesn't take it personally, he's tired of it too.

“My mates they- they kicked me out of our den,” Hoseok confesses. Yoongi's got two mugs in his hands, they thud against the counter when he reaches into one of the cabinets.

It’s warm in here but Hoseok is still thankful for the sweatshirt the beta gave him. Not only for its warmth but for the layer of scent it provides; It’s soaked with the smell of chocolate. So comforting and heavenly that it makes Hoseok a little dizzy when he tucks his nose into it and takes a hefty sniff when Yoongi's got his back turned.

Hoseok was never given the other pack's items, never allowed or encouraged to indulge in their scents. They never asked for his either.

Yoongi hangs both their jackets above the radiator in the back so that they’ll dry faster. He bears an impressive bite mark on his arm, visible because of his short-sleeved shirt. It's bruised just ever so slightly- an alpha bite but not a mating bite because betas don't mate. A mark like that on him is as good a claim as any. Even with the other scents that cling to the sweatshirt.

Hoseok hasn’t known him long, but they’re friends even if they’ve never met up outside of work. You can't not be friends with someone you spend upwards of 30 hours a week with.

Yoongi just hums. "Have you been with them long?"

Hoseok appreciates that Yoongi doesn't use the past tense, his heart too tender around the idea of endings. Some part of him is unconvinced that it really is over. A stubborn heart for a stubborn alpha.

His hair is starting to dry when he nods. "It's been a few years." Hoseok bites his lip, "I could lie and say I didn't see signs but-" his hands end up in his hair, elbows leaning against the creaking yellow table. Tugging a little. "I'm so fucking stupid."

"I don't think you're stupid," Yoongi says, hand on the back of his head. warm rough fingers. Touching him ever so briefly as he passes to put the milk back in the mini-fridge. "It's not stupid to want to find more love where you got it."

But in truth, There's not much more than Yoongi can say. Not much more that he knows to say. He'd never met Hoseok's pack. Whereas Namjoon and Jimin and the pups have a general tendency to linger around Yoongi person at all hours and locations. Stopping by to drop off coffee or just to make funny faces at him through the window when they're on their way to work. Yoongi has never met his co-worker's pack and has never seen much evidence at all on him beyond some vague hints of scents.

That alone is enough of a hint; usually, when people have packmates they're soaked in their scents. Visceral claims to keep any wandering eyes wandering still. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't wondered why Hoseok didn't wear his packmate's scents.

It’s not like the alpha smells bad at all- a little strong sure, but less genetically dominant alphas tend to smell a little sweeter like omegas.

At least that’s what Namjoon says when he feels like info dumping. Late at night when the pack asleep around them and only Yoongi's stayed up to listen. Because Yoongi likes the sound of Namjoon's voice when he gets into the details. Stroking across Namjoon’s bare chest just to feel the alpha's words rumble against his fingertips. His heartbeat against his ear the backtrack for all of it.

Whoever Yoongi’s pack is; they surely love him a lot. That much has been evident since the second that Hoseok met him. Evident in the packed bento boxes and the bunny-eyed omega that walks with him to work sometimes. Or in the tall omega and alpha pair that Hoseok has seen perusing the shelves when he comes in to relieve Yoongi of his shift.

Hoseok has worked here for 6 months. It’s impossible not to collect these details. The hickeys on his throat that he wears after weekends, how ruffled but generally loved Yoongi looks when he comes back from rut and heat leave.

“Is there a reason why they left?” Yoongi tries to be as undiscerning as possible. Voice gentle and measured. Stirring the hot cocoa and putting it in front of Hoseok.

Hoseok takes a sip and it feels like he's drinking a cup of the beta in front of him. Yoongi melts a little into the chair at the happy noise Hoseok makes.

It's good. Really good actually, Yoongi uses twice as much Swiss mix as the package instructs and a tablespoon of honey to boot. More chocolate can never be a bad thing.

Before Hoseok has a chance to respond, The phone next to the cabinet rings. And Yoongi takes it off the stand and hangs it up again in quick secession so that it doesn’t ring anymore. It has to be important but he ignores it for Hoseok's sake. Yoongi does a lot of ordering for the shop, the rare records that their boss is always trying to source and sell. It's a lot of chasing down leads and curators.

(This is not true. This is a lie that Yoongi and his boss have fed him. This phone is set up for the family's use. Hoseok doesn’t know that most of the calls Yoongi answers are more delicate than just simple stock orders.)

“I just found out that my brother has stolen from me, what should his punishment be beta?”

“How much did he steal?”

“300k”

Yoongi swallows, fighting his narrow margin of benevolence. The drops of mercy that he's allowed to show without suspicion. He tells himself that the other beta would order a far worse. People only call him when they want lighter punishment.

“A finger for every 100 then.”

The people who call ask him all manner of things. Things like “I think my child might be planning on going to the police, what should I do before anyone finds out about it?” He is both a secret keeper and a jury.

“Send them away. Out of sight and out of mind of anything that they might be able to share. I hear the military academies are lovely this year. So much snow. Yes, they take omega recruits.”

“My firstborn child presented as an omega instead of an alpha. They're my firstborn and heir, how should I proceed?”

“I can ask around for an advantageous match but I’m sorry, there is no fixing presentation.”

Hoseok hasn’t seen a phone like that in years. Didn’t even know they made old-fashioned ones like that anymore. Ones with a dial, the blue plastic worn from the number of times Yoongi's had to pick it up. It doesn't stay silent for long, ringing soon after yoongi's hung it up.

“I'm the only- they’re an all-omega group.” As if by the mention of his sub gender Hoseok’s angry burning sugar scent fills the room. In reply, Yoongi’s sweetness rises. Hoseok takes another sip and pretends it's just the hot chocolate warming his cheeks. “I guess they wanted to keep it that way.”

"I've got two omegas and they keep me on my toes, I can't imagine four." That gets a laugh out of Hoseok.

"You've got a bunch of alphas in yours though, right?" A bunch already, I wouldn't be needed. Hoseok has seen them, the tall one with dimples that looks like something out of a soap opera. The scary-looking one with the chubby cheeks who's always holding hands with the pretty academic one who likes the jazz in the corner.

Yoongi nods, "That must be nice," Hoseok's eyelashes are all clumped together from the tears. "Having so many people to take care of you."

Yoongi hums, knuckles brushing Hoseok’s hand on the table. It’s just one tender touch but Hoseok starts to break. To crumple.

Yoongi senses Hoseok breaking, pulling him in close before he has a chance to really fracture (he comes just in time, Yoongi loves Hoseok just in time). Yoongi’s scent alone is enough to soothe him- beyond the way he guides the alpha to rest against his throat. Hoseok fights it only a little, what's a little scenting among friends?

They're not just friends, it's not just scenting.

Hoseok wants to bury his nose in the beta’s throat, but that wouldn’t be appropriate, not with the scent of so many others clinging to him. He still sags into the hug. Turns his face away to avoid the temptation.

“They didn’t even tell me- and now the lease on the apartment is up and I can’t afford it on my own and-“ I’m so scared and I just wish there was someone to take care of me. I wish I was a pup again.

They sit like that at the table and Yoongi just lets him cry, He pulls back after his sobbing has cooled. They hug until they both smell like gooey chocolate chip cookies with too much brown sugar.

Hoseok sniffles, “We have to open up the shop,” Yoongi's arms tighten around Hoseok's shoulders in reply.

“It can wait a few more seconds.” Hoseok wants to say that the owner wouldn’t like that but he doesn’t.

Yoongi sips and hesitates. “Do you have a place to stay tonight?” Hoseok pauses for a second, flushing before he shakes his head. “Okay, it's okay. You can say with me.”

“Are- are you sure they won't mind?” But Yoongi is already typing away on his phone, shooting a quick text to the pack group chat (a chat that Hoseok will be added to in exactly 23 days, but who's counting?)

“Not at all. It’s a bit cramped with all of us but we have a spare bed in the closet room that Tae likes to read on sometimes- Jungkook's boss slept there last night after they came back from drinking and Namjoon was so mad- he won't be mad about you though- it's just that Jungkook- he just really shouldn't be drinking."

"Is he underaged?"

"No, he's just got health issues."

"Oh." Yet another person who gets the love he needs, the care he needs. Hoseok tries and fails miserably not to be jealous over Yoongi's omega whom he's never met.

He won't be jealous for long. Later Jungkook is going to challenge him to an arm wrestle just to prove he doesn't need babying. Beating alphas in feats of strength is his favorite thing. He'll feel Hoseok’s hand in his and get completely distracted. "Wow, you've got like- really pretty hands!" and drag them close to his to compare sizes. He'll be smitten nearly instantly with Jungkook- for what it's worth. The jealousy only lasts for a few hours.

Within a few seconds his phone is ringing off the hook, he shows Hoseok the chorus of, “Yes it’s okay!” and “Poor thing, tell him he can stay as long as he wants.” "Of course hyung!" "Does Hoseok like kimchi-jjigae or should we just order pizza?" “Oh! Can we get some with pineapple?” “Gross Jk.” "Yeah we all know Minnie doesn't like the aftertaste of burnt fruit."

And Hoseok can't help but feel like he doesn’t deserve this kindness and such an effortless acceptance. There is a knock at the front door before he can say anything. A few short taps against the glass. Yoongi tells Hoseok to stay put while he goes to deal with a pushy customer who wants in. Leaving him alone in the backroom with his cooling hot coco and the poster still staring down at him.

(They say two can keep a secret if one of them is dead, but that's not the only way a secret stays buried; the best secrets are the ones you’re not even aware of.

Out of all the people in your pack. Hoseok is the only one in possession of a secret like this. The best kinds of secrets are the ones you don't even know are secrets see- he doesn't even know that this memory is enough to save you. Hoseok is entirely unaware that in his mind lies this memory.

Hoseok was the first person to get on the no-kill list, and it wasn’t because of Yoongi.

All packmates of a Don get put on the list;

no matter if they're active or past.)

Sitting at that yellowing wood table; Hoseok feels more settled now that he knows he has a place to sleep tonight that isn’t this backroom. Pulling the sleeve of Yoongi’s sweatshirt over his palms and sniffing at the collar where it was pushed up against Yoongi’s scent gland.

If he thinks hard, he can pick out a few scents here and there soaking the fabric. (Milky Omega Jin, Honey Sweet Puppy Jungkookie, Cinnamon sweet Alpha Tae and vanil-lalalala Jimin, Coffee Alpha Namjoon and Chocolate Yoongi).

It's so different from his ex-pack's scents. Their sugary sweet omega peppermint and sharp lemony evergreen, winter berry and pine, the cold smart of snow against his nose. His burning caramel scent- so off-putting. The one scent not Christmas-themed. The one that didn’t fit.

By comparison- Yoongi's pack smells like a bakery in summer. Every scent that could be added to a cake maybe (one day, in the kitchen, he’ll eat your tiramisu and realize yes- that’s exactly what it’s missing. Your cakey scent makes them all complete, the warmth of baking things).

He has somewhere to go now. Somewhere to be. Someone to trust. He trusts Yoongi- even if they’ve only known each other for a handful of short months.

And Yoongi’s pack can’t be worse than his last one.

As if in reply to Yoongi’s phone (buzzing with more texts that he doesn't check because Hoseok is nothing if not respectful of people's digital privacy. If he checked he would see "Is that the hot coworker you're always talking about? The one who always looks a little sad?")

Hoseok’s phone buzzes with the notification he's been waiting for.

Pack Omega 🌙 calling.

Pick up? Decline?

Hoseok hasn't yet gotten around to changing her contact information. He scrambles at it, spilling the hot cocoa across the table as he rushes to pick it up. Scrambling to get to it before it goes to voice mail. Blood pounding in his ears.

Hoseok’s voice is broken as he says his pack omega’s name, his old pack omega’s name.

“Byulyi- Moonbyul please-”

Moonbyul is cold on the other side of the phone. Maybe she’d have liked him more, and wouldn’t have given up on him if he didn't beg. But Hoseok has never been above begging. Not for love. Not for the thing he wants and needs the most. Hoseok needs love more than air and as Yoongi said- it's easiest to go looking for love where you once got it.

Even when you know it could hurt you.

Her voice is flat and unaffected. “I just wanted to make sure you found a place to stay tonight. Are you still going to be around to give the landlord the keys?”

Hoseok finds himself nodding even though he knows she can’t see him. “Yes- I can do that, I can do anything you want. Can we talk?”

“No.”

“Moonbyul please-”

“Goodbye Hoseok.” She says, hanging up after a second. Hoseok looks at the phone. Pushing the button to redial. It doesn't go. She’s already blocked him.

It will be a long time until Hoseok hears from his last pack again, a long long time until he says their names again. He will remember the way he’d begged, the way her name had sounded smack dab in the middle of it. And hate hate Hate how it makes him feel. He won't ever say their names, regret and self-disgust getting in the way.

It's a little funny, thinking of how different things might have gotten if he'd just told yoongi their names. If he hadn't let his alpha pride get in the way. A few days from now they'll talk about it together. "I don't like the way saying their names makes me feel- it feels- I hate how much I want to say it- to see them again- saying their names just reminds me of the power they had over me."

Never again, will Jung Hoseok beg for someone to give him the bare minimum. This is his lowest point. The moment where it shifts- for good.

His head is in his hands when Yoongi comes back into the room. Still sniffling, crying yet again. Yoongi sets a palm in his hair, ruffling it. Eyeing the spilled hot cocoa with a raised eyebrow.

“If you wanted coffee you could have just said so-“ he makes an attempt at levity and is rewarded with Hoseok’s small snort. Wiping his wet cheeks. Neither of them is aware of the secret. Neither of them is aware and so much worse off for it."

Hoseok grins, “Are you buying hyung?”

~-~

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Notes:

in the story there has always been this question- mainly raised by jimin during his secret chapters- if the m/c is actually in love with them or if she's just manipulating them- at the beginning of this chapter- we actually see jimin finally dispel the last bit of him that thinks even a little bit that this is the case. once he sees how much she put her body on the line- that question isn't even in the back of his mind- even a little. i ended up re-editing this part alot because of it.

every time i write something from jimin's pov i'm always like "why is everything so meandering? why are things disjointed?" and then i remember that's literally jimin's character- that he is in a lot of ways an unreliable narrator.

(TW) i have this idea in my head that namjoon DOES NOT become a good person in the event that all of them die like- a whole separate idea of him becoming a doctor for the family through yoongi's connections with the soul purpose of one day killing moonbyul and her entire pack…including their pups on accident which ends up destroying the last bit of namjoon's innocence as a person…and he ends up becoming one of the families assassins alongside jimin as a result, in this event jungkook does not stay with them and instead moves on and yoongi stays and tries to get them to stop only to ask them to kill him as their last kill because he's unable to cope with the loss of jin, hobi, the m/c and tae. BUT ANYWAY I DIGRESS THAT IS NOT THIS STORY.

i think in this story there is this really interesting dynamic of femininity and death and morality- that being said red nail polish is definitely a metaphor for whose comfortable killing and who isn't. i like the contrast between tae who will never wear red nails again- vs the moon pack who all are not allowed out of the nest if their nailpolish isn't perfect like- thats another layer of the fucked up shit.

are you suprised that the m/c is going to leave? Did you see it coming from a mile away? i mean...it is in the title of the series 😈

….the parallel between hobi losing his voice and the m/c not having a voice at the beginning of the series- you can project whatever meaning you want onto that <3

also on that subject the line "Jin’s hands. Your face. Tae’s head. Hoseok’s throat. Each of you has lost the thing most necessary to your survival." it's worth mentioning that thats not what i think is the most necessary thing to their survival but it is their own interpretation of what keeps them alive. like i for one actually think that the m/c is a lot more pragmatic than anyone gives her credit for but i digress. i could go on about all of their strenghts.

what did you guys think about hobi's secret reveal???? a fair amount of people have guessed it and i think when someone got it at the beginning of the series i lied and said it wasn't- i'm allowed to be an unreliable narrator too!!! kudos to everyone who got it! i feel like it could have been revealed better and originally the big one off was slated for next chapter but i decided to shift it to this one (mostly because i think the next chapter is about to get up there in terms of word count tbh 😭) but T-T its done now! please give me praise because i'm baby and this week has honestly been really hard

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avoxrising · 5 months

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The Feral One • Chapter 4

Finnick x Reader

Series Masterlist Link

I’m on a roll with my writing! Was able to grind out another chapter today. Lmk what you guys think of the story so far :)

Content warnings - descriptions of death and lots of angst

My love, you have my heart for all of eternity. And if I die in that arena, my last thought will be of your lips.

You and Finnick had never been anything more than friends, although friends feels like an understatement to describe what you are to each other. After your games, you lived in Victors Village with your family, doing your best to heal.

When your family was killed after your victory tour, the victors deemed that you weren’t stable enough to live alone. You were only 17 and had nobody left to take care of you.

Finnick had volunteered to move in temporarily until you were better, but better never happened. He felt guilty about how he mentored you. He had told you that what you did in the arena didn’t matter. It didn’t matter how many you killed, or how you killed, it was a game and to play it you had to be entertaining and win sponsors.

So, you entertained. You joined the career pack, hoping they would take out most of the other tributes for you so there would be fewer for you to worry about. That only worked for a week.

One week in, your district partner was killed and you were on the outs. The alliance would turn on you at any moment, so you had to strike first.

You lay awake in the arena, nearly two weeks into the games, as the pair from one were on watch. They thought you were asleep, just as you had hoped they would.

“Let’s kill her now,” Gimena stated.

“How?” Aries replied.

“I’ll wake her up and ask her to go pee with me. You’ll follow and provide back up if the fight drags on longer than necessary,” she told him.

“I doubt you’ll need me but go ahead,” Aries chuckled. “She’s all yours.”

You can still feel Gimena’s hand on your arm, shaking you awake.

“Hey,” she whispered. “I need to go pee. You’re coming with me as guard.”

You nod and follow her into the trees, preparing to use the knife hidden in your sleeve. She makes you walk in front of her, plotting how to attack you. She wasn’t fast enough.

You quickly whip around and fling your knife into her throat, killing her immediately. Because there was no scream, Aries thought the cannon was yours, so he didn’t panic.

If you were going to kill the careers, it had to be now. You removed your only knife from Gimena’s body and climbed into one of the trees. Hopefully only Aries would come looking. It’s hard to kill three people with one knife.

Aries came crashing through the forest a few minutes later, calling out for Gimena. You waited until he stumbled upon her body before flinging your knife into it the side of his head, directly below his ear. The canon wasn’t immediate, but it was quick.

You hopped down from the tree to retrieve your knife, only to be tackled to the ground by Floyd, the boy from 2.

“What the hell did you do four?” he shouted, pushing his spear down onto your throat to choke you. What worried you wasn’t the spear, but the fact that you couldn’t spot Hals, his partner.

You wiggled your fingers in an attempt to reach the knife but it was too far. Oxygen was leaving your body and you needed to think fast.

Your sudden growl caught him off guard, causing him to momentarily lose focus. The pressure on your throat let up just enough for you to turn your head to the side and spot Aries’ sword stuck under his body, barely within reach.

Hals arrived on the scene just in time to watch Floyd’s head roll away from his body. She let out a yell before charging at you, machete in hand. She managed to slice up your cheek, but found herself dead moments later. You had jumped on her and beaten her to a pulp, not caring that the machete was digging into your face.

Those four weren’t your first kills in the arena, nor were they your last. Nobody else in the cage with you stood a chance.

“Hey,” Finnick sighs as he enters your room. He’s still in his outfit from the interview. “Can we talk?”

You nod and he comes to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I need to ask something very important of you in the arena,” he starts and you already feel yourself getting nauseous with anxiety. “I need you to help me keep Katniss and Peeta alive.”

This request shocks you. Finnick had told you about potentially allying with 3, 7 and 12 but asking you to control yourself around a firey person like Katniss was like asking a baby not to cry near loud noises.

You shake your head at him, hoping he understands how you can’t promise him anything of that sort. In reality, you can’t even promise him that you’ll be in control of yourself enough to not hurt him.

“Y/N,” Finnick sighs. “There’s a plan to break some of us out of the arena and take us far away from the capital where we can help change Panem. But, we need Katniss and Peeta alive in order for it to work.”

“Just kill me now,” you whisper. “I can’t do any of this.”

“Yes you can!” Finnick states in frustration. “I know it’s hard but I’ll be with you the whole time. We will get through this together.”

You give him a meek “ok” to quell his nerves, but deep down you know that this wouldn’t work. You know what you have to do.

“Can you stay tonight?” you ask. This takes him off guard as you’ve never let him stay in the same room as you at night, worried you might hurt him.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” he asks, knowing his nightmares might set you off.

“No,” you sigh. “Sorry. Forget I ever asked. Goodnight Finnick”

“Goodnight”

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holybibly · 7 days

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This is a little preview of my new series and yes, bunnies, this is a whole series from me. I hope everyone is ready for an erotic dystopia?

Decadent dystopian erotica with majestic dragons - second teaser for today

Glass House Ateez x reader

Everything changed in an instant.

The king was dead, and thousands of dragons took to the burning skies. The old world was over, and a 'new age' was in the making—an age of gods and monsters.

A thousand years ago, the fires of revolution blazed across the face of the world. Dragons—the creatures of ancient legends and children's fairy tales—reduced the once prosperous world to ashes in a matter of minutes. Rivers of black blood coursed through the veins of the streets, flooding the cities and lands in their wake. The sky was a blaze of purple flames and electric shocks. The church was reduced to rubble, and the royal family was executed in a public display. In the eyes of the dead, the unspoken horror in front of these majestic creatures remained forever, and in the sparks of the flames, they shimmered like precious sea stones.

There was a bitter smell of burning flesh and ash in the air. It was the smell of dreams on fire—the smell of a future in decay.

It was the beginning of the end of ancient life. The beginning of a new world. The Age of Immortality has begun.

All the legends turned out to be true; dragons did exist. They had always lived close to us, lurking in the velvety darkness of the night, waiting for the hour. Waiting for the hour to come when the power would be in their hands. Dangerous, unbridled, wild creatures of magic and the elements, predators at the top of the food chain. They had come into the world to rule, not to obey, and now, at long last, their time had come.

The world was at anarchy. Dragons were killing, raping, and enslaving races and lands as if it were an amusing child's game. They drank blood as black as the night from golden bowls, and they ate our succulent flesh as our bones cracked under the pressure of their razor-sharp teeth. They would hold orgies in the midst of the torn corpses and revel in their omnipotence. Those were the days of darkness. A time of terror, when the very word danger was a synonym for life itself. And so it went for several years, until the ultimate power fell into the clutches of the deadly Children of the Night, the oldest of all dragons.

The majestic Hala.

Eternal as the moon itself and deadly as the uncharted depths of the ocean, they inspired burning terror in all who encountered them. To their people, they were nothing more than a myth, a legend written on fragments of tablets. Forefathers, ancestors—they had hundreds of names, but each one inspired more fear than the last. They were predators among predators, bristling with animal dominance and primal, unbridled sexuality. They exuded power and sinfulness. They were the ones who defined the rules and set the boundaries of what was permissible.

With the arrival of Hala, a new phase in the history of the world began.

Humanity was enslaved, and dragons became the dominant species. As the years went by, the human population began to decline rapidly, with fewer and fewer humans, until "our" species reached the status of gatherers. Angelicus Nova, or Angel Stars, was what we came to be called. Human existence took on a strange religious orientation; we were worshipped, idolized, and adored, but despite all this, humans remained nothing more than a rare exchangeable currency, nothing more than an expensive trinket that was prestigious to own and could be broken with a flick of the wrist.

The human being also became one of the ways in which money flowed endlessly. These institutions were known as "glass houses." Gateway to heaven. They would be the equivalent of strip clubs or luxury escort houses if you and I were in the old world. The rules were the same: "Look, but don't touch." Girls and boys were expensive pieces of family jewelry that rested under the glass of fancy display cases. Our masters showed us off to the greedy eyes of the world with all the pride and ostentation that dragons have.

In spite of their possessive, animalistic nature, dragons were nothing more than swaggering bastards with inflated egos and delusions of grandeur.

Humans could be anything as long as dragons owned us—a muse, an innamorata, a nymph, an angel, a siren, or even a goddess—but like everything else in the universe, we came at a price.

The 'glass houses' were only in operation at night. During the day, all the 'jewels' rested and tidied up after tiring hours of contemplation of the world through the bluish glass of the display window. Nice, obliging workers in starched white collars were busy with the cleaning, scrubbing the baroque decorations of the vetrines with great care from a mixture of sperm, drool, and other secretions. You looked at it with an almost reverent awe, finding it disgusting to the point of bordering on the pornographically beautiful.

You could see it as real art—crude and original, but art nonetheless. There was something particularly mesmerizing about it, almost hypnotic, about the way the thick, pearly sperm dripped slowly from the golden flowers.

Of all the glass houses that ever existed, "Eros" was the most beautiful. It was the jewel in the crown of the New Empire, and you were its goddess. There were rumors that the Hala themselves were customers of 'Eros'. But rumors were only rumors. If they were ever to visit your 'home', you would know about it, for they would be where all men ended up—at your feet.

You were content with the life that you were living. There was no tragedy and no misery, no abusive family or abusive peers, no bullying and harassment at school—no, you had it all great. You were born here at Eros—the growth and blossoming of a beautiful flower. Your whole life has been within the confines of glass rooms and silk sheets, but unlike your dreamy friends, you weren't in need of rescue.

Your name is Aphrodite. Born in the radiance of the Creator. A goddess among goddesses, carved out of marble and mother of pearl. Your hair falls to the ground in waterfalls of pearls and silk. Your eyes are the eerie silvery moonlight in half-darkness, the deadly attraction of jewels in velvet lashes. Your lips are the succulent, juicy, forbidden fruit that every man would like to taste. The pain of your kiss is going to be the last pleasure of life.

You are not a delicate, pure lily; you are not a passionate, fiery rose; you are a narcissus reveling in the crystal of mountain waters. You love yourself to pain, to death, to despair, and in all the New Empire, there was none more beautiful than you.

Original sin. The primordial beauty. You are desire in all it manifests and begins to manifest.

The naked goddess, clad in snow-white fur like armor, is the goddess of love and ecstasy.

You've never been conceptualized; you've always been enigmatic.

You have been the object of worship. Your beauty has been sung in songs, and your love has been professed in a thousand languages. "Eros" was the site of visits from the mightiest and most powerful dragons of the New Empire. They all crawled at your feet, stroking their thick, greased with their cum cocks, greedily as they burned your skin with their golden gaze. They licked the deceptively thin glass of your display case with their long, sometimes split tongues, leaving muddy streaks on the perfect surface of the glass. The mighty and great dragons, unaccustomed to humiliation and submission, urinated like bitches in heat at the mere sight of your bare shoulders and long neck covered with diamond serpents, their eyes shining like stars in the twilight of your silken chambers. They would drip their sperm onto the icy marble floor until it collected in small, glistening puddles, and then they would lick it up as if it were the sweetest nectar in the world. Ambrosia in the truest sense.

Behind the glass walls of Eros, they were dominators, predators, and the rulers of this world through fear and pain, but here in this garden of Eros, they were nothing more than whores—shameless and needy. Slaves to your beauty, desperate to please you.

Their moans are always a delight to you. The moaning of your name.

The scenarios have been repeated to the point of being painful. Sugar-sweet subs with outstretched tongues and pretty, tear-stained faces. Dominant alphas with sweat-glistening skin and eyes rolling with pleasure.

Dragons fucked other dragons; orgies and bacchanals were staged; they were subjugated and subdued. They growled, moaned, squealed, and purred; some were fucked like a port slut, and some were licked for hours until they passed out from hyperstimulation. Some masturbated in front of your window, enjoying the fact that you were there to watch them, and there were others who would spend their heat and ruts in front of your window.

The list could go on and on: bondage, darkphilia, breeding, voyeurism, humiliation, objectification, and breathing games.

You were saturated with this game.

There were so many ways in which you could spend your evenings in the company of others. It was all designed to excite you, to make you beg, and to make you plead. Each of your visitors secretly hoped that one day you would strip off your luxurious furs and assume the position that was right for them—submissive, naked, and ready to accept whatever it was they were giving you.

It was an act of power; it was a position of strength, but here you were the strength. You were power.

No one would ever have the temerity to lay a hand on you. Goddesses are always untouchable.

You entertained yourselves by teasing them, mocking them, and fanning their flames of desire and passion. Dragons are creatures that are very dependent on their emotions and their desires; they feed on their power and their magic, but when they do not get what they want, it burns them from the inside; it breaks and crumbles them, like a cookie that has been bitten.

It was delicious, but you were full. Thank you, next.

You never denied that you were a sadist; you had a taste for pain; maybe it was a kind of revenge for the destruction of your family; maybe not. They came to you for that feeling; the dragons wanted to be punished and tamed, and the feeling of pain made them cum harder. As they say, Orgasm is a little death.

You could play this game for hours on end, letting the fur expose your boobs and pressing it against the cold glass as you went. It was magnificent—tall and plump, as if it had been milked with milk—with pink nipples the color of magnolia blossoms. There was something animalistically seductive about it—an appeal to their natural reproductive instincts—that evil thought of possible pregnancy. Their whimpering made you laugh, and the sounds they made were so sweet—desperate pleas and long, long moans.

"Let me taste you; I want it so much. I was a good boy, such a good boy."

There were other days when you would let your hands run over the bare skin of your thighs, leaving long red streaks that stood in erotic contrast to the silk of your pale skin. You smeared the clear, shimmering liquid of your juices along the line of your neck, in that most exciting place for dragons, where their teeth locked in a mating mark, as if branding their mate in the most perverse of affiliations.

"Tell me I belong to you; please say it. I'll do anything you don't want. Own me, use me; I want to be your toy.".

Sometimes other girls would be brought into your shop window to put on an erotic show. Exquisite nymphs and rosy-cheeked Lolitas would explore your tender skin with their soft, wet tongues, leaving traces of hungry kisses, until at last their lips would close on the most intimate spot between your thighs.

On days like this, the whole of 'Eros' would shake with furious, jealous growls and thunderclaps. Dragons were terrible possessive, and even though the "scene" itself would excite the hell out of them, the jealousy would burn through their veins from the inside out, like a deadly poison.

"You belong to me, and only to me. You are mine, mine and mine alone. I will tear this girl apart, and we will fuck in her blood until there are no more conscious thoughts left in your pretty little head, until you remember nothing but my name.".

But no matter what their words were to you, you didn't have a care in the world. Nobody would dare touch the goddess, and if they tried, they would not only lose their hands but also get killed.

That was the law of the New Empire—all the people who were left were protected and sheltered in an incredible way. There were very few of you, and if there had been any harm to even one of you, it would have been a real tragedy. Only once has there been a breach of that law, and the consequences have been terrible. No one wants a repeat.

In any case, your life in the Garden of Eros was a pleasure. Maybe it was some kind of perverse way of looking at the world and love, but you didn't have any desire to change anything; everything was great.

Have you ever wondered if there might be another version of you out there? Perhaps, somewhere in a parallel universe, humans would still exist as the dominant species, their countries and cities would be prosperous, and you would be living a different life—a normal one. There, in that other universe, that other Aphrodite—no, not Aphrodite—you would have an ordinary name, not a divine one, something cute, something sweet, and always with a hint of shyness. It is probably there that you would have experienced your first love, that you would dream of a prince who would take you off into the sunset, and that "and they lived happily ever after." You would have been embarrassed to talk about sex, and you would have blushed horribly if his fingers had been in your knickers. But you weren't her. And she wasn't you. You don't want to be saved from sinning; you want to become one of them. You want to experience forbidden pleasures. You want to subjugate and dominate.

You're not in need of a prince; you've already had a king, or rather, eight kings. The day will come when everything you have ever dreamed of will come true, even if you haven't met any of the Hala yet.

You want power; you want to sit on a golden throne in a castle high up in the sky, and so it shall be. They say that love is a great strength, but they fail to mention that it is also the greatest weakness. And you, like no one else, know how to use it to your advantage.

This is not a pink fairy tale. There are no rainbow ponies pooping rainbows and eating fairy dust. No, this is a rotten world. It is full of debauchery, violence, and sex. You could say, "Come and rescue me. I'm waiting for you," but no, you have to rephrase it as "I'm waiting for you to crawl on your knees and lick my heels, and from that moment on, I will own you.".

Yes, that sounds much better.

It's already eight o'clock; time to get ready; you're leaving soon.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the most famous glass house in the New Empire. Tonight we have wet aesthetic cunnilingus as our main course, and for dessert, a mind-blowing orgasm. You have a choice of starters. Drinks are on the house. We accept cash and checks. If you wish, you can leave a tip for one of our "jewels.".

Our hope is that your time at Eros will be an unforgettable experience.

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edenmemes · 9 months

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asoiaf: a dance with dragons starters

❝ i fear i make you uneasy. ❞ ❝ knowledge is a weapon. arm yourself well before you ride forth to battle. ❞ ❝ go on. show your steel. give me cause to do the same. ❞ ❝ fear is what keeps a man alive in this world of treachery and deceit. ❞ ❝ these woods are not as empty as you think. ❞ ❝ promise me that you will never turn against me. i could not bear that. promise me. ❞ ❝ the only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid. ❞ ❝ if i must die, i will die with an axe in my hand and a curse upon my lips. ❞ ❝ tales are told of you. i hear them everywhere. people fear you. ❞ ❝ go too far down that road, and mistrust can poison you, make you sour and fearful. ❞ ❝ you mistake me. that was a command, not an offer. ❞ ❝ sorcery is a sword without a hilt. there is no safe way to grasp it. ❞ ❝ prophecy is like a half-trained mule. it looks like it might be useful, but the moment you trust in it, it kicks you in the head. ❞ ❝ it is not the foes who curse you to your face that you must fear, but those who smile when you are looking and sharpen their knives when you turn your back. ❞ ❝ i rose too high, loved too hard, dared too much. i tried to grasp a star, overreached, and fell. ❞ ❝ they think that this will break my pride, that it will make an end to me, but they are wrong. ❞ ❝ tell me of the things that make you happy, the things that make you giggle, all your sweetest memories. remind me that there is still good in the world. ❞ ❝ one war ends, another begins. there is always someone fighting someone somewhere. ❞ ❝ this is what i was made for. the dance, the sweet steel song, a sword in my hand and a foe before me. ❞ ❝ my enemies have told you i am dead. those tales are false, as you can see. ❞ ❝ not all that a man does is done for gain. ❞ ❝ i know that you believe me weak, frightened, feeble. ❞ ❝ it takes a man to rule. kill the boy, and let the man be born. ❞ ❝ do you mean to spend your whole life running away? ❞ ❝ kingdoms are at hazard here. our lives, our names, our honour. this is no game we’re playing for your amusement. ❞ ❝ however gentle the words, there are always darker motives underneath. i do not trust you. ❞ ❝ a good honest face, but you should smile more. ❞ ❝ my throne is made of burned bones, and it rests on quicksand. ❞ ❝ you are so radiant today i fear to look on you. ❞ ❝ prove yourself more trouble than you are worth, and you can go your own way. ❞ ❝ you need not look so pale, i was only playing with you. ❞ ❝ this is not the day i die, i promise you. ❞ ❝ i wanted you from the first time i saw you. ❞ ❝ was i so blind, or did i close my eyes willingly, so i would not see the price of power? ❞ ❝ men should not go wandering in this place. ❞ ❝ hold your tongue and do as you are told, or you will soon wish you had. ❞ ❝ you won’t try. you will obey. ❞ ❝ kneel and live. or go and die. it’s your choice to make. ❞ ❝ are you so blind, or is it that you do not wish to see? ❞ ❝ that is not a place you want to go to. ❞ ❝ i will not go back without doing what i came for, no matter how hopeless it may seem. ❞ ❝ the fairest woman in this world...i am drunk with the sight of you. ❞ ❝ secrets are worth more than silver and sapphires. ❞ ❝ we have come too far to turn back now. ❞ ❝ what have i done to make you hate me so? ❞ ❝ you meet so few men who value friendship over gold these days. ❞ ❝ it is true, i am a bolder man than most. ❞ ❝ i cannot go home. but i dare not stay here much longer. ❞ ❝ foes and false friends are all around me. ❞ ❝ the fewer folk who will know of this, the better. ❞ ❝ all you have i gave you. remember that. ❞ ❝ will you make me say it twice? go and do as i commanded you. ❞ ❝ love is madness, and lust is poison. ❞ ❝ i feel safe when i’m with you. ❞ ❝ have you no smile for me? am i as fearful as all that? ❞ ❝ why did i ever allow myself to be talked into this farce? ❞ ❝ don’t think i don’t see what you’re doing. ❞ ❝ i will tell you nothing. do me the same favor. ❞ ❝ if i look back i am lost. ❞ ❝ a crown should not sit easy on the head. ❞ ❝ we must show a little trust, you and i. ❞ ❝ trust only your companions, and do your best to avoid attracting notice. ❞ ❝ you’re not going to try to kill me again, i hope. ❞ ❝ if you will forgive me for saying so, you look...weary. are you sleeping? ❞ ❝ your clothes are stained with blood. take them off. ❞ ❝ every fool loves to hear that he’s important. ❞ ❝ my father used to tell me that a man must know his enemies. ❞ ❝ you are a harmless creature, to be sure. as innocent as a lamb. ❞ ❝ till then, let us drink and dream. ❞ ❝ you will be tempted to betray me. to run or fight or join our foes. i’ll not hear you deny it. ❞ ❝ soon enough you may have grave need of me. do not refuse my friendship. ❞ ❝ it is best that no man knows that you are here. ❞ ❝ i kill kings, haven’t you heard? ❞ ❝ should any ill befall you, this world would lose its savor. ❞ ❝ some will look at you and see only another doomed pretender. ❞ ❝ i think life is a jape. yours, mine, everyone’s. ❞ ❝ i will forgive those words...once. but never presume to threaten me again. ❞ ❝ your father would be so proud if he could see you. ❞ ❝ just once you might try to give me an answer that would please me. ❞ ❝ they love me well. none would betray me. ❞ ❝ i have sins enough to answer for; i’ll have no part of this one. ❞ ❝ i mean you no harm, you know. ❞ ❝ i do not trust you, but i need you. ❞ ❝ we’ll both sleep, and dream of sweeter days. close your eyes. ❞ ❝ since you ask so nicely, how can i deny you? ❞ ❝ no wine is half so intoxicating as your beauty. ❞ ❝ why should i beg for what is owed me? ❞ ❝ a lord may love the men he commands, but he cannot be a friend to them. ❞ ❝ let them try and trouble us, we’ll show them what we’re made of. ❞ ❝ a leader should be feared, by friend and foe alike. if men think me cruel, so much the better. ❞ ❝ the enemy of my friend is my enemy. ❞ ❝ a book can be as dangerous as a sword in the right hands. ❞ ❝ i am an old man, grown weary of this world and its treacheries. ❞ ❝ these are desperate days, and like to grow more desperate. ❞ ❝ we need to find shelter before nightfall. ❞ ❝ there are footsteps behind us. we are being followed. ❞ ❝ this is no common fog. it stinks of sorcery. ❞ ❝ i am glad you came to me. it is good to see you again, my friend. ❞ ❝ the man who does nothing also takes a risk. ❞ ❝ the women are the strong ones. ❞ ❝ afraid, are you? i would be if i were you. ❞ ❝ tell me a tale. some tale of valor with a happy ending. ❞ ❝ i’ll have a cup of wine as well. to clear my head. ❞ ❝ we may lose our heads, it’s true...but what if we prevail? ❞ ❝ keep your swords sharp. we’ll have us a real fight soon. ❞ ❝ this is going to end badly. ❞ ❝ what are you doing here? how did you get past my guards? ❞ ❝ it is so hard. to be strong. i don’t always know what i should do. ❞ ❝ let us instead speak of love, of dreams and desire. ❞ ❝ you wound me, wandering off like this. have you grown tired of my hospitality so soon? ❞ ❝ with this sword i defend my subjects and destroy those who menace them. ❞ ❝ it is too late for such misgivings. you made your choice. ❞ ❝ in times as confused as these, even men of honor must wonder where their duty lies. ❞ ❝ why? what did i ever do to you? ❞ ❝ we must be certain that we do not choose the losing side. ❞ ❝ dream sweet dreams. there are no monsters here. ❞ ❝ i know who you are. i know what you are. ❞ ❝ a little honest loathing might be refreshing, like a tart wine after too much sweet. ❞ ❝ a bloody sword is a beautiful thing. ❞ ❝ a ruler belongs to their people, not to themself. ❞ ❝ if the ones i killed come haunt me, i will kill them all again. ❞ ❝ you shine so brightly, you will blind every man who dares look upon you. ❞ ❝ a fair bargain leaves both sides unhappy, i’ve heard it said. ❞ ❝ there’s blood on your hands, aye, same as mine. ❞ ❝ i have done wicked things, i know, but i could not bear for you to hate me. ❞ ❝ it is good to see you smiling again. ❞ ❝ i have doubts enough without you throwing oil on the fire of my fear. ❞ ❝ blood pays for blood, a life for a life. ❞ ❝ go home, if that is what you want. i am staying. ❞ ❝ a man’d think there’s no trust between us. ❞ ❝ i would choose freedom over comfort every time. ❞ ❝ you are even lovelier than i was told. ❞ ❝ stay. i do not wish to be alone. ❞ ❝ treachery on treachery. is there no end to it? ❞ ❝ dreams and prophecies. why must they always be in riddles? ❞ ❝ one wrong word, and this could turn to blood in half a heartbeat. ❞ ❝ you lie. i can see the truth in your eyes. ❞ ❝ throw down your steel and stand aside, and no harm need come to you. ❞ ❝ you are supposed to be my friend. why must you mock my hopes? ❞ ❝ it is better to die with honor than to live without it. ❞ ❝ it does no good to brood on lost battles and roads not taken. ❞ ❝ i see you are deaf to sense. ❞ ❝ you are no better than me. we’re just the same. ❞ ❝ a man should never draw his sword unless he means to use it. ❞ ❝ you kill men for the wrongs they have done, not the wrongs that they may do someday. ❞ ❝ close your eyes. close your ears. turn away. you do not need to see this. ❞ ❝ the sooner we are gone from this place, the better. ❞ ❝ i am sorry my actions have displeased you. i did as i thought best. ❞ ❝ you do not need to trust a man to use him. ❞ ❝ if you cannot do this thing, you need only say so. there is no shame in that. ❞ ❝ never wound a foe when you can kill him. dead men don’t claim vengeance. ❞ ❝ this is what i wanted, what i worked for. so why does it taste so much like defeat? ❞ ❝ honest men should never need to hide their faces. ❞ ❝ i am not the trusting fool you take me for. ❞ ❝ men’s lives have meaning, not their deaths. ❞ ❝ he’s dead. he won’t bite. ❞ ❝ if this is the price for peace, i pay it willingly. ❞ ❝ it makes me wonder whose side you are on. ❞ ❝ dreams and prophecies. why must they always be in riddles? ❞ ❝ i will not say that you are welcome. nor will i deny that i have hoped that you might come. ❞ ❝ you have the eyes of a wolf and a taste for blood. ❞ ❝ men are mad and gods are madder. ❞ ❝ one war ends, another begins. there is always someone fighting someone somewhere. ❞ ❝ not all risks lead to ruin. ❞ ❝ is there some place with fewer eyes and ears? ❞ ❝ i need you now as i have never needed you before. ❞ ❝ tell me, is there any fight left in you? ❞ ❝ it was the wind that you heard screaming. ❞ ❝ crying? i was not crying. why would i cry? ❞ ❝ are you some butcher of the battlefield, hacking down every man who stands in your way? ❞ ❝ rain. a storm is coming. ❞ ❝ that was simple. simpler than i dared hope. simpler than it should have been. ❞ ❝ see that you do not speak of this. i’ll not have this tale spread. ❞ ❝ how could i be so blind for so long? ❞ ❝ you had a bad dream, that was all. ❞ ❝ are you prepared to defend that boast with sword or lance? ❞ ❝ i will do it. i said i would. i will. ❞ ❝ think that. believe that. tell yourself it’s true. ❞ ❝ you have more enemies than you know. ❞ ❝ i have no heart. i only have a hole. ❞ ❝ it has been too long since i’ve killed a man. ❞ ❝ words are wind. words cannot harm me. ❞ ❝ have you forgotten who i am? ❞ ❝ too many good men died that day. ❞ ❝ it is so good to see your face, your sweet face. ❞ ❝ it is still not too late to abandon this folly. ❞ ❝ i will not stay here to be insulted. ❞

#rp meme #rp starters #long post for ts #roleplay meme #roleplay starters

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luffyrose · 1 year

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Mistaken - DC x DP

Idk man- this one fully just came to me. So have fun. Cry.

~~~~~~

Another rogue attack.

Bats coming to save the day.

It was a never-ending dance between the two.

Casualties were often low. People got hurt but fewer and fewer people died. Even major injuries had lessened over the years. It wasn't the focus of the villains to necessarily kill people, it was simply a byproduct of their goal.

So why was it different?

Why now?

Sure, Gotham's rogues weren't afraid to kill to gain attention, but this was different. The attack came from nowhere, no sign of it before it had already begun, and when Batman arrived...there was no villain there. Just the destruction in its wake.

He'd been quick to call the others for help searching for injured, and no doubt dead from the destruction, before getting to pulling people from rubble and fires. His kids arrived and did the same until another call came from Oracle. The fire department and ambulances had arrived, so they left it to them.

It had already been nearing the day, so when they finished dealing with some goons, the family had turned in for the night. Yet Bruce couldn't stop thinking about the explosion. The camera's from the building, he'd learned it was a lab of some sort, were far and few, really only showing the entrance. Even then they cut out before the explosion.

The news was talking of it, the owner of the lab was on it by now claiming it was an accident with some chemicals and they were investigating possible causes. He knew it was a lie, and from his children's faces when they heard it, they thought the same.

It didn't take him long to head there, not as Batman, but as Bruce Wayne.

He had planned to speak to the owner of the Lab, he really only remembered he wore a pristine white suit. Parking nearby, and offering help to those he saw as he passed, Bruce slowly made his way toward the main part of the crowd.

A quiet sob and cough made him freeze in his tracks. It was so quiet he doubted anyone would have noticed if they weren't trained. Glancing around, he slipped into the alleyway he'd heard the noise from. It was close to he accident, but far enough away no one would look down it...so why was someone here?

Bruce cautiously looked through the alley, his gaze hardening as he found a smaller figure curled up on itself, trying to hide behind a dumpster.

"Hello?"

The kid, because it really could only be a kid, flinched eyes darting toward him.

And Bruce froze.

Green eyes were staring back at him. Glowing, Lazarus, green eyes. Yet, his eyes were quick to drift from the color to the blood soaking the boy's clothes. Gritting his teeth, he crouched, holding up his hands. He couldn't see the boy well with this distance, but he couldn't risk not finding a way to help the kid.

"I'm not gonna hurt you...I promise."

The glow fluctuated for a moment before the other tried to move, wincing harshly as his arm gave out and sent him careening into the floor. Bruce had moved forward when he fell, worry clear on his face, and when the boy growled, only for it to fade into a whimper, he paused again.

"Let me help you. I can get you to a hosp-"

Panic filled the other's eyes, scrambling further away. "No! No, hospital. No, no, no no nononono-" Bruce kept his face from changing at the boy's voice. It was hoarse as if he hadn't used it or had been screaming.

Putting his hands up placatingly, he carefully shifted on his feet. "Okay. No hospital. But you need help...can I help you?" The boy seemed to be looking for something in his face, maybe a lie, but after a few moments, the kid's head bobbed before he collapsed onto the ground completely.

Taking the moment, Bruce moved beside him, careful not to touch him as he pulled out his phone, messaging Dick and Leslie. She would need to prep for some stitches no doubt from the blood, and he definitely couldn't get the boy elsewhere without some help. As he finished sending the messages, he felt a hand grab onto him weakly. Looking down at the boy, his heart absolutely sunk.

He could see him now. How his black hair fell over his eyes. Blue eyes. The green was temporary, probably powers, but now with those blue eyes, he looked like one of his many children. More specifically...a younger Jason. His heart clenched, gently taking the boy's hand despite himself.

This wasn't Jason...it wasn't.

It was clear the boy had started to grow delirious, his eyes unfocused for the most part, but staring so intently at him.

"...dad...?"

Oh.

Bruce could hear the harsh swallow he did, but smiled softly at the boy. Carefully sitting, he dragged the boy onto his lap, gently moving his hair. "You're gonna be alright..." It wasn't Jason, and he knew that...but that didn't mean he couldn't comfort the boy. If he happened to look like his father...Bruce wasn't going to try and correct him when he was so delirious, not when it may give him some kind of comfort.

He couldn't help the pain in his heart though as the kid practically melted into the touch, unfurling slightly and revealing some of his injuries. It wasn't his kid. It wasn't.

Maybe he could have comforted any of them like this if he'd listened in the past.

Shaking his head, he pushed down the feelings. He couldn't focus on that, not right now. Looking back at his phone, he saw a message, saying Dick was almost there. Part of him hoped he was alone...he knew that probably wasn't the case.

"I'm scared..."

Gazing back toward the kid, he put the phone back in his pocket. Putting his hand on the boy's cheek, he gently rubbed away some tears that had begun to fall. Before he could respond the boy's eyes drooped the little consciousness he had fading. "Hey, come on, try to stay awake." It was no use as the boy drifted off, only the too-slow rising and falling of his chest assuring Bruce he wasn't fully gone.

"Kid, come on you can't sleep yet-"

Two pairs of footsteps came from the entrance of the alley as Bruce tried to wake the boy, glancing back to see his oldest boys. What was slight, but worried, amusement turned to horror the closer they got, seeing the pool of blood. "Leslie is waiting." Without needing to say anything else, Dick was quick to carefully scoop the kid up, looking back to Jason. He seemed shell-shocked, staring at the boy. Bruce couldn't blame him.

They looked so similar.

~|0|~

Danny had...what had he been doing? He remembered the GIW, and lab equipment-

Oh.

The lab.

He had gotten out...but someone had seen him. Where was he now? Fighting to open his eyes, he saw the ceiling of a car. He could also see two older guys. He was in the back seat with his head...on someone's lap? Or was it a ghost? They felt like a ghost...but not.

Frowning, his eyes slowly drifted shut again. He'd thought he'd seen his dad...but, the man had been too kind. His- Jack was...he wouldn't have ever comforted him like that. Not now. Not in the past. Feeling himself drift off again, he felt small tears fall down his cheeks.

Why had his dad never comforted him like this stranger had? Why had he hurt him? Given him to the GIW after he'd told them what he was? If they truly hadn't believed him...if they had thought he was mimicking "their beloved son" then why not do everything they always said they would.

More tears fell, but he felt someone wipe them away again. It was a different hand...it was still rough, but gentler than the other had been. With a stuttered breath, Danny let the darkness take over his mind again. He probably wouldn't have let himself fall asleep again...but he would rather these people who reminded him of his family have him. Hurt him or not...he just didn't want to be alone.

A hum was the last thing he felt, a warmth he couldn't remember having in a long long time rumbling beneath his skin.

~|0|~

Jason had felt something when he'd seen the kid. The pits went quiet before pure worry erupted from them. He didn't know why...but it didn't help that this kid look like him. Looked like that little kid who'd never gotten help.

It didn't help that deep down Jason knew that this kid hadn't either.

He'd ended up carefully cradling his head in the back seats while Dick drove and Bruce messaged who he could only assume was Leslie or the family group chat. Either way, when he felt something wet land on his hand, he hadn't expected the kid to be crying.

Gently wiping the tears, he felt the frown on his face grow. "He's crying." He heard Bruce shifting, probably looking at the two, yet he ignored the other, just wiping the small tears. As he did, a warbling cry made him jump slightly. Glancing toward the other two, he saw the shock on both their faces.

"Well, he's definitely some kind of meta."

Bruce hummed, but Jason simply looked down again. The pit was silent for a moment, the non-stop worry having paused at the noise. So when a rumbling almost purr-like hum came from himself, he almost froze. Almost. His shock had been overrun by how the kid seemed to relax, one of his hands gently grabbing onto him.

"That...that was new."

He didn't need to look to know the two were even more shocked, if not worried. Jason couldn't bring himself to care for once, wiping the last of the falling tears before running his fingers through the fluffy and bloody locks of their mysterious meta-kid.

He wasn't a meta...he knew that deep down as well.

It didn't take long after for them to get to Leslie's clinic, taking the boy inside in a rush. He was quickly moved onto a stretcher and taken into one of the more medically equipped rooms. The three weren't far behind, entering the room as Leslie worked on removing the bloodied clothes, mainly his shirt.

A large y-shaped and inflamed gash met all of their eyes. It wasn't the cause of the bleeding, but it clearly had been done not too long before the large gash next to it. They weren't the only injuries he had, and he'd had plenty if the scars were to say anything. The most concerning was a Lichtenberg scar that stretched from his hand across his entire chest.

None of them had been ready for it. Dick covered his mouth as Jason audibly took a deep breath. Bruce was silent, but from the stare, they knew he was just as horrified.

Leslie was equally as horrified to find a child in the condition he was in, but gritted her teeth and got to work. It took a long time, but the boy didn't stir. She and the others had checked his vitals multiple times just to make sure he was still fine. He was...if the low heartbeat and temperature were normal. The temperature probably was to an extent at least, they'd figured that out after a frost had covered the bed he was on.

Finally, his injuries were stitched, but as Leslie left to get everything he would need the boy bolted upright.

His breathing was heavy, flinging himself out of the bed and into a corner. Jason reacted the fastest, getting over to him and enveloping him in a hug. It was definitely not the right thing you're supposed to do, but he'd done it before he'd even thought about it.

And when the boy's arms tightly wrapped around him, a loud echoey sob being muffled against his jacket he knew it had been the right instinct.

Neither let go nor did they move.

Dick came over, carefully sitting beside them and hugging them both, taking a moment to wipe a tear that had fallen from Jason's face...when had that happened?

With a quiet click of a door opening and closing, Jason buried his head into the younger black-haired boy's head. Leslie wouldn't have had silent footsteps. Bruce had left the room. He didn't know whether he was thankful or not for that. From the brief information, he'd told them, the kid thought Bruce was his dad.

"...I'm sorry..."

Shaking his head slightly, not bothering to lift it, Jason rubbed the other's back.

"Nothin' to be sorry for. You're alive."

Another rumble noise escaped him, but he couldn't bring himself to worry and wonder about it yet again as the kid clung tighter, a similar yet much sadder noise coming from him.

Both could feel the short breath of a small laugh from Dick, who still held them both.

"You both sound like birds, your nicknames pretty fitting now, Jaybird."

A laugh came from the boy, slightly startling the older two. But, it was a welcome sound, the rest of the tense air finally fading.

After a bit of silence, the kid spoke again.

"I think I called your dad my dad."

Jason couldn't help the smirk that grew on his face.

"Just sounds like you're the next sibling to be adopted."

"New baby bird!"

Danny was both incredibly confused and...pleasantly surprised by their words. He knew for a fact they'd seen his powers at some point. But then again, the one he was clinging to, Jaybird if the guy's nickname was to be used, wasn't entirely alive either.

"Honestly I should apologize for thinking he was my dad...he's probably worse."

Jason snorted out a laugh. He probably shouldn't, but damn if the kid with the scars all across his body said it, he was probably right. Dick made the noise he does whenever Jay makes a joke about his death, only causing the kid to look over.

"What, it's a very grave mistake."

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super-hoech · 1 year

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It's some kind of poetic justice that the thing people are talking about the most about the Teen Wolf movie, the part that's left such a big impact, that's had such an intense reaction, isn't the Scott and Allison reunion storyline as Jeff and Posey intended and wanted, it's Derek Hale's death.

Once again, the lead character and his story is overshadowed by someone else. If Jeff thinks that by finally getting rid of the one remaining character that was more loved than the lead, that people would finally "watch for the right reasons" now, then he was dead wrong. Because there's no chance of any future sequels happening now. The few who were watching will become even fewer now that the fan favourite is gone.

#teen wolf #teen wolf movie spoilers #derek hale #anti scott mccall #anti jeff davis #tyler hoechlin

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believinghurts · 6 months

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Their Daughter Part 6

Tenison was high in the dining room of Grimmuald Place as the Black brothers stared one another down. Regulus knew that part of Sirius's anger was because he thought he had lost his child to his brother, much like when they were young, and their parents favored Regulus over him. But this was Sirius's own fault; Ali had tried even after she had been hurt that Sirius went to Harry first. Sirius could not get over the fact that Ali was close with the Malfoys and had taken to projecting his anger to the only person who would love him more than anything if he tried.

Sirius wouldn't admit it out loud, but he was jealous of Regulus. He always had been, but coming back from the hell he had been trapped in to find that his own daughter had chosen his brother over him hurt more than any torture he had ever faced. Regulus had always been the perfect child who everyone adored. He had gotten fewer beatings as a child than Sirius, had gotten better grades in school, and now was considered a dad to Ali. It was only natural for Sirius to go back to what he did during his school years and focus his attention on the people who showed him attention. Harry was his godchild, but Harry also had no one else, meaning Sirius didn't have to worry about being replaced. Sirius also felt awful for the events that transpired the night of James and Lily's deaths and was trying to make up for it.

"If you just gave her a chance, you may find she is much more like you than you think." Regulus sat at the table again, watching his older brother run his hands through his hair. "She is so headstrong and stubborn that I know it revivals yours. And I cannot express enough how she just wants to be good enough for you to love, much like how you tried for years with Mother."

Sirius sighed in defeat, regrettting the painful things he had put his daughter through. "I do love her. I just…."

"Are shit at showing it. I saw the look in your eyes when Ali called me dad; I know that hurt you. But instead of talking about it, you just lash out at her or me or Remus, making it seem like you really don't care at all. I never tried to fill that role in her life. I was and will always be Uncle Reg, and that is fine. Do I see her as my child and love her like my own? Yes, absolutely. I will do anything for her, and if that fills that role as a father, I will. But I don't want to take that from you. You had so much stolen from you in your life, Sirius: your childhood, your parents, your best friend, 12 years of your life. The last thing I want to do is take more away, but I cannot and will not put you above her. She deserves so much in this world, and you should help her get it. We both should. But the question remains: will you put aside your 'every Slytherin is a Death Eater' mindset to do so? Because people have changed and we are close to the Malfoys, Notts, Parkinson's, and the Zabini's. They are not the same people anymore. Things have changed in the war; sides have changed. But you haven't. Ali is loyal to a fault and is a great judge of character; she won't betray the Order, nor will the others. Just give people a chance, Sirius."

"I did give people a chance, and it…..it got my best friend and his wife killed. We trusted Peter. I trusted Peter enough to have James make him the secret Keeper. It got them killed, and he was our friend. How am I supposed to trust that Lucius Malfoy has the Order's best interest at heart when my own friend of 9 years didn't?" Sirius started pacing before his brother. His head is cloudy in memories, tears blurring his eyes as his best friend's dead body flashed in front of him. "I know that I'm shit at showing Ali I love her, and part of it is because I'm scared to get close only to lose her again to someone like Lucius Malfoy. I owe it to James to look after Harry, but that doesn't mean I don't love him like my own because I do. But I love Ali just as much, and I know she has you, Remus, and even Snivillious to love her. And I want to try to improve things with her; I just don't know how. How do I fix what I've done, Regulus?"

Regulus caught the double meaning to his brother's question, "You can't. Sirius, you can't fix what happened to James and Lily. You can't fix how you've treated Ali so far."

Sirius felt his heart crack at his brother's words. He had hoped to get Ali back, but it seemed he had gone too far. He started for the stairs when Regulus continued.

"But that doesn't mean you can't fix it from now on. You can't change the past and bring James back, but you can make them proud by loving and protecting Ali and Harry. I mean, yeah, they don't get along now, but I think part of that is because he has seen and heard how you and James treated outsiders. I know they used to play together as babies, not that they would remember it, but Remus told me. Tell how close they were till everything happened, and bring them back together. Stop being afraid of losing Ali to someone when all everyone wants to do is love her and keep her safe. And maybe you don't trust Lucius or the others right now, but I trust them more than Dumbledore most of the time. And you should talk to Moody about the help Lucius has given the Order even if he refuses to say he has aligned himself with us." Regulus held his brother's shoulder, "Give them a chance. Don't let the other kids make remarks about Ali and her friends. Talk to her. I wouldn't start trying to act like her father, but maybe a friend? Or a really distant uncle. You'll figure it out, Sirius; you're smarter than you give yourself credit for."

Sirius followed his brother up the stairs, going to bed with hope, lighting a flame in his heart for the first time in years.

Days following the talk between Regulus and Sirius, Ali noticed that the golden trio had become slightly nicer to her. She does not make as many comments about her or her friends. She had no idea what was happening but wasn't going to complain. Regulus had come to her that morning telling her that he thought it a better idea if Blaise came to their house instead of her going over there. He believed it would show that the Slytherins were not as bad as all the others thought.

At first, Ali was hesitant about the idea. Still, after being reassured that Remus would be home as well as Regulus, Ali agreed. The thought of Blaise being at her house surrounded by her tormentors made her sick to her stomach. She wanted nothing more than to run away for a few days, but that ship had sailed, and it was only hours before Blaise arrived when Regulus called for 'those who live in this house meeting.' By the time Ali had gotten dressed and cleaned her room, everyone was already in the kitchen since it seemed to be the usual gathering place for the group. She straightened her sweater and did a quick glance down to make sure her outfit was still okay. It was slightly chilly in the house, so she had gone with a Bulgarian Quidditch sweater that was mainly red with black details and a pair of cropped black leggings with matching fuzzy socks. She and Blaise had already decided to stay for most of the day and then go and get dinner somewhere in Diagon Ally so she could change later. Remus and Regulus walked at the same time as Sirius and Harry.

"I'm assuming everyone is confused about why this meeting was called," Remus started. "There seems to be an assumption that Slyertians and those associated with them are all Death Eaters or traitors."

Scowls had overtaken most of the younger one's faces in the room, as well as Sirius's. Ali looked at her uncle, trying to figure out where this was going. She knew the reason was to inform everyone that Blaise would be here for a few days, but there was something else going on; she could feel it.

"After speaking with Dumbledore and getting his permission, not that I technically need the permission as it is my house, but nevertheless. A few individuals will be coming to stay here for the upcoming days, and there will be a couple of visitors as well." Regulus's eye caught Ali's, and gave her a wink just as the sound of footsteps entered the foyer. Ali was too short to see over everyone's heads to see who was there, but from the looks on a couple faces, including the elder Weasley, it was someone they were not fond of.

A flash of white hair caught Ali's eye as the group entered the kitchen. Her mouth dropped in shock as she took in her uncle Severus, leading the Malfoys, Blaise, and Theo towards Regulus and Remus. Cissa shot her a wink while Draco eyed Harry and Sirius up and down; Blaise kept his eyes locked on Ali, and Theo thoroughly enjoyed the shocked looks from the Weasleys.

"Sorry, we're late. Draco took too long in the mirror this morning," Severus said. Draco glared at his Godfather before continuing on with his glare at Potter.

"Well, allow me to introduce everyone. This is Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, which I'm sure almost all of you know. This is Blaise, Theodore, and Draco. Narcissa and Lucius will be in and out for the next bit trying to get caught up on Order business while the latter three will be staying here for a bit." Remus shook Lucius's hand before joining Dora beside Ali, who was bouncing on her toes, overly excited at the fact that it was going to be back to normal in the next couple of days.

"You can't be serious. They are staying here?" Sirius exclaimed, running his hand down his face before glaring at Lucius. "I still remember what you did, Malfoy."

"I don't often agree with Sirius, but Dumbledore said this was alright?" Arthur asked. Ali knew that the Malfoys hadn't been the kindest to the Weasleys in the past, and she felt sorry for them in that aspect, but Lucius was not the same man as he was during her first year. And Narcissa wouldn't hurt a flea.

Remus stepped forward again, "He did. Narcissa and Lucius will be helping with some scooting missions that are coming up since they know that area of town better and are considering joining the Order. The three brats are mainly for Ali, though."

"Did you miss us short stack?" Theo opened his arms for Ali, who jumped straight into them. Theo gave her a twirl before pulling on her braid. She barely had time to catch her breath before Draco had her spinning again and tickling her sides, making her squeal.

"Of course I missed you! What kind of question is that?!" Ali giggled before hugging Blaise despite her uncle Remus glaring at them. Blaise took her hand and gave it a squeeze when they parted before facing the other children in the room. Theo and Draco took the opposite sides of Ali, showing a united front against the ones who had been horrible towards her.

Ali was ecstatic that they were going to be in the house more. Maybe her summer wouldn't end so badly. Sirius was shocked that Dumbledore had cleared this and even more shocked that Lucius would help the Order. He did not trust him and would go on those missions even if he had to go as Padfoot. This was outrageous and downright stupid, allowing death eaters to snoop freely in the Order business. Looking at his daughter, he could see how happy she was to be surrounded by her friends, but he also knew that he would have to keep a closer eye on her than he already was. He had asked the trio to play nice so he had more people watching her. He did trust that she was a Death Eater, and now he was surrounded by them.

"Al, Kreatcher sat up extra beds in your room for the boys. Pansy should be joining later, but she had something come up with her grandfather. Her mother said she would owl when she was on her way." Regulus leveled each of the boys with a look. "You lot know the rules. I don't care if you have fun but clean up after yourselves, and don't be too loud when it gets late. Curfew is at 10pm and no later. If you are leaving the house, go in pairs at least and let one of the adults you know be aware of where you're going. You lot know the food is fair game, and Kretcher has already been instructed to grocery shop more often. The house is also fair game, but be respectful, please."

"Don't worry, Uncle Reg. I'll keep them in line," Draco smirked at the other three before Severus whacked him upside the head.

Ali turned and looked at the younger swarm of redheads and others in the room. She cleared her throat to get the attention on her, which made her take an unconscious step back toward Blaise and Draco. "Everyone, this is Theo, Blaise and Draco. I'm sure most of you know this, but just in case. You are welcome to join our fun, but we get if you don't want to." Ali pulled the boys out of the room after greeting her aunt and uncle. They sat on the living room floor with wizards, chess, and a few other games while a movie played in the background. Kreacher brought out snack trays for them, and the laughter was music to Regulus's ears after all the quiet he'd heard from Ali this summer.

Ali could feel the stares from those around them, most directed at Draco and her. She could see the disbelief every time Draco laughed or made a joke. This was the side of Draco that was rarely seen by others. An hour had passed before a chess match went on between Draco and Ali. Blaise sat to one side of Ali, and Theo was in the middle of her and Draco, watching the death match continue.

"What dare shall I have you do this time, Als" Draco taunted her while he moved his piece. It was an ongoing rule that when she and Draco played wizarding chess, the loser had to do a dare of the winner's choice. It was always a toss-up in who won, as both were incredibly good at the game.

"Don't think too hard; I wouldn't want to overwork that one brain cell of yours." Ali stuck her tongue out at Draco when she stole his knight.

Draco was about to reply when a shadow came over the top of the board. Looking up, there was the eldest two Weasley children and Fleur. Ali could see the hearts in Theo's eyes before she kicked him in the shin. "She's engaged, you idiot."

Bill and Charlie chuckled, "We saw you guys playing games and were curious if we could join you? I have my board and thought we could do a little tournament."

Charlie held up his chess board. The teens all nodded, and with a snap of his fingers, Charlie's board was all set up. Bill took one side of the board before looking at Theo. "You up for a challenge?"

Theo crawled to the opposite side of the small table. Bill made the first move, and the game commenced. Charlie and Fleur took seats around the rest of them and started trash-talking with them, too. Charlie was on Ali's side, whereas Fleur took Dracos. Regulus, Molly, and Narcissa looked around the corner and had smiles spread across their faces at the sight they saw. It wasn't the younger kids trying to get along with the others, but the eldest and Molly knew that her children all looked up to their brothers, so maybe there was hope in this crazy plan after all.

#harry potter #remus lupin #sirius black #harry potter fanfiction #blaise zabini x reader #remus lupin x daughter #regulus black x niece!reader #regulus black #severus snape x niece!reader #severus snape #sirius black x daughter!reader #sirius blacks daughter #narcissa malfoy #draco malfoy x platonic!reader #theodore nott #harry potter marauders

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boldlyvoid · 2 years

Text

Dear Eddie

Eddie Munson x best friend reader

Summary: a summer fling between best friends ends in heartbreak

Warnings: angst with a happy ending, friends to lovers, implied sexual content, secret pregnancy, birth, post-partum depression, leaving a baby on someone's doorstep, work accidents (Wayne getting stitches)

Part one | part two

Word count: 6.8k

He hasn’t had a lot of visitors at his new place… not since the ground was patched up and the insurance sent him a new trailer but it wasn’t the same. His boy wasn’t with him anymore, the place was bigger, there was room for him too, but he wasn’t there.

Eddie’s been gone almost 4 months now… and it hurts just as bad every day. Especially today, he doesn’t want to get up, but there’s a knock at the door and he’d hate to ignore it if it was Dustin coming for a talk or a hug or just a place to escape to.

When Wayne opens the trailer door, however, he finds a baby wrapped up in blankets, placed in a cardboard box, perfectly content to be there.

He looks up, staring down the road for any glimpse of the person who left it there. He walks past the baby and runs towards the end of his driveway, noticing a girl walking as fast as she can out of the trailer park.

“Hey!!” He calls after her but she doesn’t respond, she starts to run instead but she can’t, not well.

He can tell she’s hurt, something’s wrong with her… she’s sobbing as she stumbles and hits the gravel, hard. Wayne is quickly at her side, “hey, are you alright?”

“I’m sorry,” she pushes him away, “I can’t keep him.” She tries to stand up again, limbs weak and face stained with tears, “I have to go.”

“No, please stay, talk to me?” He begs. “Who’s baby is that? Why did you leave him with me?”

“Ed— Eddie,” she chokes on her sobs and accepts Wayne's support. She buries her face in his shirt and holds him tight. “I can’t do it without him. I can’t raise his son alone…”

“Oh, god,” he holds her close, rubbing her back as he realizes who she is. “You’re Y/N, aren’t you?”

She nods, he feels it, but she doesn’t pull away. “I had to hear about it on the fucking news… I was so pregnant and then he was gone…”

“Come live with me,” Wayne offers. “I have another room with all his things in it, we can get a crib, I’ll help, but this baby needs his mom. Eddie would want his son to have a mother.”

“I know,” she pulls away and wipes her tears. “I’m sorry… I just didn’t know what to do?”

“No one ever knows,” he tries not to sob. “I’ve been so lost without him… but he’d want us to raise his boy, I know that.”

“He didn’t even know I was pregnant… he hadn’t been up to see me in forever and I couldn’t tell him over the phone cause I knew he’d just drop out and run to me but I— I was going to come and see him for spring break, I had a whole plan on how I was going to tell him and then it was too late.”

He rubs her back gently, “I know, it’s tough. I went to work one day and came home to a dead girl and no Eddie.”

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through, either. He loved you a lot,” she reminds him. Knowing all too well the relationship between Eddie and his uncle and just how pure and precious it was.

“Let's go back to the trailer, I wanna meet this little guy,” he turns back to the house, baby still in a box on his doorstep, not crying, just chilling there on the front step. “What’s his name?”

“James, like the lead singer of Metallica… I thought he’d like it if he was here,” she admits, so caught up on the fact he’s gone. She really thinks he’s dead and not just missing.

“He’s not dead,” Wayne whispers. “He’s just not here.”

“I know but the police technically consider him dead and they’re not even looking anymore—

“Because the government told ‘em to stop,” he keeps his voice low. “I’ll tell you more inside,” he doesn’t want to explain in the open, the fewer people that know his business the better.

“Wha—“ she just follows him quicker, up to the trailer where he picks up the box and brings both her and James into the main room. “Where is he?”

Wayne sighs as he sets the box down on the coffee table and takes the little guy out. He’s big, for a tiny baby he’s very long and chunky and healthy from what he can see. Under his little hat he has the cutest dusting of dark curly hair, he can’t be more than 4 months old… she must’ve had him whence found out.

“Um… can I ask you some more things before I tell you the truth?”

She nods, “of course… I wrote you a letter, it’s in the box,” she takes James from him and holds him close, kissing his little head as she snuggles him close. “I didn’t want to abandon him… I just heard about the settlement and I know how much Eddie loved you like a dad and I knew he’d be safe with you and I— I—

“You were struggling,” he gets it, taking the note from the box and skimming through everything she wanted to say to him. “I don’t blame you…”

“I don’t have any of my things here, I was just going to catch the bus back but if you were serious?”

“We’ll get your things later,” he agrees with a smile. “There’s a lot I can’t tell you, but I guess it starts during the earthquake… something big happened, something I don’t understand, all I know is he fell through the cracks in the earth and got hurt and he was exposed to something and they’ve got him quarantined somewhere I can’t go,” his voice gets louder the more he explains, angrier now than when the men in black first came to tell him about it all.

Her eyes grow impossibly large, and she has to sit so she doesn’t drop the baby as she stares off into space, “how?”

“I don’t know… they don’t tell me nothin’ but Eddie’s friends said he got hurt trying to save the world, so I know it’s not for nothing,” he simplifies it, it’s what he’s said to himself a million times to make it seem okay.

Her shoulders drop as she melts into the couch, it’s all too much to even fathom. “He didn’t die?”

“He didn’t die.”

—

When she found out she was pregnant, Eddie was just an old friend who visited her every few months. Last month he visited to play a show with his band, it was the first time he got a real standing ovation, the first time he looked at her like more than a friend from kindergarten… the first time he slipped into her bed and into her and then seemingly, out of her life.

She saw him twice after getting pregnant, both times she could hide it well, unable to tell him the truth in fear their friendship would end in burning flames. He stopped coming around after the first trimester when school started again and he was trying to graduate.

That’s when the first letter came.

Dear Y/N,

School sucks, I miss you, I wish I could come up and see you again soon but I promised Wayne this is the last year I’m freeloading on him.

I need to graduate, and honestly think if I came to visit you I wouldn’t be doing a lot of homework. Not since the last few times I’ve been to see you have all ended up the same way… It’s hard to stay away from you, but if I came back I don’t know if I’d be able to leave you again? I hope you truly know how much you mean to me and how much I wish I could say this in person without chickening out… But, I love you.

I love you a lot, I can’t wait to see you again soon. Maybe Thanksgiving or Christmas? Let me know what you can do, maybe you could even come here? I don’t know. I just know I miss you.

Love from Eddie <3

She called him that night, and they talked for hours about feelings and truths they never shared with each other… all except the pregnancy. She brought that up slowly but he never caught on.

He wanted kids one day, she knew that from the way he talked about Dustin, Lucas and Mike, he would be a good dad if he had kids… he knew she wanted to be a mom and she also knew his relationship with his own mother and how unfortunately short it was cut. They both wanted a family, and she listened to him talk about his childhood and how great Wayne was, how much he changed his mind on what a dad truly is… they both had shit dads and yet they turned out pretty okay.

He couldn’t see her for thanksgiving, her parents were mad that he got her pregnant and even more angry that she didn’t tell him yet while at the same time they were grateful. They wanted her to never tell him, put the baby up for adoption in the spring at the end of her semester of college and go back to school as if nothing happened in the fall. But she didn’t want to do that. She wanted this baby, she wanted a family with Eddie, she was going to tell him at Christmas and they gave her an ultimatum.

She was cut off the moment she left their house after that awful dinner.

Her current semester was already paid for which gave her until January to get her act together and find a new place when the school kicked her out for not paying the winter semester fees. So she got a job, she made friends, and she went to single mom support groups that introduced her to the good food banks and how to get good coupons for all the baby things she’d need. She was even gifted some hand-me-down items.

Eddie still called her every day and wrote her the occasional letter. He was super excited to come to visit for Christmas, she was going to be so pregnant she wouldn’t have to say much when he saw her, she just hoped it all went well.

When he didn’t show up for Christmas her heart broke a bit, she called the trailer 3 times and no one picked up, she called the hospital to make sure there wasn’t an accident that he was brought in for… nothing. She sat in her bed and worried with her hand on her stomach and a tiny roast chicken for two cooking in her oven, alone on Christmas.

He called a day later, apologizing profusely but there was an accident at the lab, he spent the night beside Wayne in the hospital, holding his hand as he slept. It was a head injury, they had to cut his hair and sew his head back up, he was going to be out of work for a few weeks, and Eddie couldn’t leave him to take care of himself.

She understood perfectly. It just sucked that another thing got in the way of her telling him the truth.

She got a new apartment at the start of January, it was a low-rent place meant for moms and their kids… the distant sounds of babies crying made a very unpleasant ambiance but at least it was preparing her for what was to come. Alone or not, she was going to raise this baby to the best of her ability. She took a lamas class, she practiced her breathing, she had checkups every few weeks at planned parenthood and they were going to help her with her birth plan and apply for social assistance to help while she’s recovering and watching the baby. They assigned her a social worker, and she had free therapy, it was all really helpful while she went through it alone.

On Valentines Day she came home to a bouquet of blue and yellow flowers sitting on her doorstep with a sweet note.

“I still love you so much, can we spend spring break together?”

Spring break… it seemed so far away at the time and then it showed up in the blink of an eye. She turned on the TV that morning, struggling to angle the antenna to pick up any new channels to pass the time while she packed up to see the love of her life, the father of her child, the only person she’s thought about for the last 8 months… and longer if she really admitted that to herself.

“Local girl's body was found in the Forest Hills Trailer park this morning, there’s no word on her identity or who the killer is. All we do know is foul play was involved and locals should be vigilant,” the reporter says, standing right in front of Eddie’s trailer. She’d know it anywhere.

She called him, she called every Gareth Emmerson from the phonebook to find him, she even called Wayne’s work to see if she could reach him at all… nothing.

The TV is her only way of getting any information. Another boy died the following morning, back to back 8 am news reports suggested that Eddie was the one who did it, and if she knew his town, they were probably all hunting him by now… every fibre of her being wished he ran to her? If he was okay... if he was able to run… she wanted to help him and keep him safe and she knew he didn’t do it. There was no fucking way he did it!

He was the sweet little boy who kissed her boo-boo’s better on the playground after Dean Barker pushed her down. He was the adorable teenager who bought her pads when they were hanging out and she randomly got her period. He was the gentile and considerate man who took in lost sheep without even thinking twice… he’s not a murderer.

The earthquake rocked Hawkins the same day she was supposed to take the bus to go and see him. The helicopter footage showed the whole town in absolute disarray, the whole trailer park was practically sucked underground, the town hall was on fire, over 25 people died and then the worst fucking sentence to ever be spoken on television was said.

“Edward Munson, the cult leader many accused of the horrific killings that happened here in Hawkins earlier this week is presumed dead, no one has seen him and with the growing death toll, local police don’t expect to. Back to you Janice.”

“What?!” She throws the remote at the TV, “FUCK JANICE?!” She breaks down, sobbing, knowing she’ll never see him again and not a single soul gave a fuck.

She spends almost a full 24 hours sobbing on the couch, holding her stomach for support, the baby inside her being the only piece of Eddie she had left.

When her water breaks early, the doctors tell her it’s the stress she’s under, knowing something is wrong with her by the way she wouldn’t stop crying. Most women cried, it was completely normal, however, she was hysteric. She couldn’t even explain why, she ended up writing it down for one of the nurses.

My boyfriend died.

Yesterday.

She walked into the hospital alone.

She wasn’t alone for long.

She thought a lot about names, she considered everything from family names, both hers and his, to the names of things that mean a lot to them, songs, people, friends, and colours, she thought over everything. And yet the one name she keeps coming back to is Eddie’s middle name.

James.

Also, the lead singer of Metallica’s name, something Eddie found so cool that he shared with his favourite person, his idol… and now his son shared it with them both.

She walked into the hospital alone. But she wasn’t alone for long, James Edward Munson, born March 29th, 1986, was a perfect little mirror of the boy she loved her whole life… and she was going to dedicate the rest of it loving their son.

There are a few bumps in the road. Making money and watching a baby and trying to stay sane while working through grief is all really hard. So hard that she hops on the bus with James when he’s a little under 4 months old and almost leaves him with Eddie’s uncle… she couldn’t do it anymore, it was a lapse f judgement, it was her best option at the time, a silent cry for help that was answered in the best way possible.

She moved in with Wayne full time in July ’86, she was able to stay home while he worked, she didn’t go many places except the grocery store, no one knew who she was or that Eddie was her baby’s father, she was a recluse in a town she never wanted to live. She saw him in everything, mostly in the kids wearing hellfire shirts walking home from school, and especially in their own son… she misses him so much it starts to kill her slowly and Wayne knows it.

“You should introduce him to the boys,” Wayne suggests one morning while preparing James’s bottle, both of them sleepy wandering around the kitchen as James lightly whines in the other room, waiting for his breakfast.

“Like Eddie’s friends?”

“Yeah,” he gives her a sweet smile, holding a bottle in a boiling pot of water to heat up the cold breastmilk she stores in his fridge. “Dustin, Gareth, Jeff… they’d want to meet Eddie’s little boy… James needs some uncles.”

“Okay,” she takes a deep breath and crosses her arms, leaning against the counter as she waits for the bottle. “Do you think they know about me?”

Wayne laughs, “yeah… how do you think I knew about what you two were?”

“What were we?” She’s confused by that. “‘Cause to me, I was his friend and we slept together after high emotional nights and—

“You took his virginity,” Wayne cuts her off.

“No, he took mine… he said he already—? What?”

“Oh, no,” Wayne keeps giggling, taking the bottle out of the water and testing the milk on his wrist. “He just didn’t wanna feel like a loser for not having sex until he was nearly 20, but yeah… you meant a lot to him and he loved you so much he knew if he went up to Indianapolis he’d never come

“So thats why he got so weird,” she mumbles, taking the bottle and heading off to James’s room with Wayne in tow. “He sent me love letters and flowers and things…”

“Sounds like him,” Wayne chuckles.

“Morning, cutie,” she changes her tone when she sees James, picking him up from his crib and taking him to the rocking chair. His 7-month-old body barely fits comfortably in her arms anymore, he’s getting so big. He takes his bottle, he holds it himself and looks up at her with his big chocolate brown wonders. She runs her fingers through his little curls, he’s so much like his dad it hurt sometimes. “I love how much of him is in James…”

“I know,” Wayne takes a knee beside her, looking at James just the same. “I hope he gets to meet his dad soon. I want him home.”

“Me too…”

—

With James held against her with one arm and his diaper bag slung over the other, she walks into the school after the bell rings and follows the instructions from the receptionist. Down the hall, past the washrooms and to the left there was a drama room, that’s normally where Dustin Henderson spent his time. She finds it easily, there’s a “game in session” notice on the door but she knows there hasn’t been enough time since the last bell for them to be too busy, so she walks in anyway.

“Hello…?” She calls out.

“Hey?” A young boy stands from the table to greet her. “Are you lost?”

“Um, no, this is hellfire, right?”

“It is…” another curly-headed boy comes up behind her, trying to get into the room. “What can we help you with?”

“I’m Y/N… Eddie’s girlfriend?” She keeps her voice low, “or I was trying to be before all the shit went down here…”

“The Y/N?” The kid behind her asks.

“Yeah, that one,” she manages to laugh, “this is James, if you couldn’t put it together, Eddie is his daddy,” she bounces the baby a bit, making him smile as he grips onto her shirt and leans into her shoulder with a drooly smile.

“I’m Lucas, that’s Dustin,” the first boy explains for them both, shocked but not speechless like Dustin.

“Wayne mentioned how James needs some uncles, so I thought I’d come to meet you guys?” She makes sure it’s okay, “do Gareth and Jeff still go here?”

“Yeah,” Dustin finally answers, leading her over to the table, right to Eddie’s old thrown. “Let’s get you a seat, he looks heavy… and he’s the rightful heir so…”

“Prince James,” she teases her little guy, setting her bag down on the floor as more boys start to pour in.

“Gareth, Jeff, this is Y/N and James… Eddie’s family,” Dustin explains, his voice low and sad, wishing more than anything he could tell them all the truth about where their friend was.

“no way!” The boys light up and rush to the table. “He said you two slept together but—

“He didn’t know,” she shakes her head, cutting them off. “I never had a chance to tell him, I wanted to, believe me,” she forewarns. “But uh, yeah, this is little James. James, say hi to daddy’s friends.”

The little boy waves slightly, shying away into his mom's side. “He’s slowly becoming more of a people person,” she laughs, holding him tightly and kissing his curly mop.

“How old is he?”

“8 months,” she presses her lips together awkwardly, they knew how to do the math, they would all know.

“You had him when he died?” Gareth is the first to pick it up. “You knew all that time and never told him?”

She shakes her head, “no, I couldn’t. It’s not something you say over the phone to someone trying to graduate high school, now is it? If I told him he would’ve dropped everything to run to me, the band, this club, all of you, I wanted you to have him as long as possible.”

“Yeah, none of us got enough time with him,” Jeff sympathizes, placing a hand on Gareth’s arm. “But you’re right, Eddie would’ve done everything for you. What do you need? We’ll be here for you both now instead.”

“Thank you,” she gives them a genuine, toothy, smile. “I’m living with Wayne, we’re still in the trailer park, I just wanted you in James’ life, I wanted him to have at least 1 cool uncle like how Eddie had Wayne… we’ve moved onto calling him gramps by the way.”

“And he doesn’t hate it?” Dustin asks, shocked. “I’ve tried calling him pops and he thought it was weird.”

“It is,” Lucas shoves him.

“he loves it, now at least,” she can’t help but laugh. “James is still trying to say grandpa… can you say, papa?” He shakes his head and buries it back into her shirt. “I guess that’s a no.”

“He’s adorable,” Gareth gets a little closer, squatting beside her so he can seem less tall and scary to the little baby. “Hi, James. My name is Gareth, your daddy used to call me Gare… I wouldn’t mind you calling me uncle Gare?”

“He called you Gare-bear,” Jeff corrects, “call him uncle Gare-bear, please?”

“he doesn’t really talk yet,” she laughs, feeling more at home than she has in a long time. Like Eddie was there with them, watching and smiling too… the room carried so much of his essence that it was hard not to feel him.

God, she missed him.

—

May 1988

“What do you mean she doesn’t live here?”

“I’m sorry, Sir, Miss Y/L/N moved out almost 2 years ago now… I might still have her forwarding address?”

“Please?” Eddie begged, following Y/N’s old landlord into the building and waiting for her at the threshold of her office, not wanting to intrude.

“Her last address I was given is Trailer 13, Forest Hills Trailer park, Hawkins Indiana,” she hands him a copy of her address on paper and a small smile. “Something about moving in with her son's grandpa… I don’t know.”

He tries to stay calm, feeling so fucking confused and out of the loop because who knocked her up and why was she living in his uncle's trailer park? He just takes it and thanks her, heading back out to the van the government supplied him with as an apology for keeping him locked up for 2 years to run tests on him… he was telling them the whole time that he’s healthy and fine and just wanted to go home, but they didn’t listen. The last thing they wanted was to send another monster back to Hawkins.

With a haircut and lighter clothes, he’s been cleared of all charges and it's been suggested that he not go back to Hawkins for his own safety, but now he had no choice.

He drives the 2-hour trip in under 1, speeding until he hits the town he spent most of his life in and abiding by the speed limits. He travels down newly paved roads, over patches in the ground he was once deep under and towards where his heart ran off to in the midst of the madness.

He pulls up to a brand new trailer, nowhere can he see that ugly blue trailer he watched fade over the years under the sun. Behind a new truck, he parks his van and gets out, there are kids' toys all over the yard, evidence that she did have a kid, the windows are blocked by shutters and the door doesn’t have a screen he can spy through either.

But he knocks anyway.

“Coming!!” He hears Wayne's voice and his heart stops.

The door swings open, and he’s holding a curly-headed little boy with a wide smile that drops the longer Wayne stares into his eyes, “Eddie?”

“Hi,” he whispers, eyes welling with tears. “Where is she?”

“Work, what are you doing here?” He changes the topic right away. “I thought you weren’t allowed to come home?”

“They declared me not a risk to the general public,” he explains. “I would’ve called but I went to Indianapolis first to talk to Y/N cause I missed our last meet-up… turns out I missed a lot?”

“Come in,” Wayne holds the door open for him, letting him into the trailer, it's big and clean and nice… “sorry for the mess.”

“What mess?” He manages to laugh. “It’s nicer than when I was a kid… speaking of?” He points to the toddler in Wayne's arms, snuggled into his shoulder with his thumb in his mouth, scared of visitors as it would seem.

“This is James,” he smiles, “James this is your daddy… ‘member the photos mommy shows you at bedtime? He just has short hair… he’s not scary, see?” Wayne walks over to him and sets his hand on his shoulder, shaking him as he presses his lips together and tries not to cry.

The last thing they needed was to scare James.

“Papa?” James whispers to Wayne, his grandpa. “Daddy?” He turns to Eddie that time, reaching out for him.

“Yeah,” Wayne helps his little brain understand. “I’m papa, he’s daddy,” explaining further as he hands him over.

Eddie takes him in his arms, looking into his brown eyes and noticing everything about him that he got from himself and Y/N. “Hi, buddy?” He tries not to cry and scare him at all. “yeah… I’m your daddy.”

James rests his head on eddies shoulder, cuddling into him, “you just caught his nap time,” Wayne explains. “You want to read him to sleep? Your old books are all still here.”

“yeah... I just want to sit with him?” He tears up a bit, holding James as close as possible while being extra delicate with the toddler. “I have so many questions?”

“Y/N gets home at 4,” he smiles. “She’ll tell you everything… I think she’s written you a letter every day since she move here since she found out you lived.”

“Oh god,” he whispers, “she thought I died?”

“for 4 months…”

He closes his eyes and tries to stop himself from crying, he cradles the back of his son's head and presses his cheek to the soft baby curls on the top of his head. He smells like a baby, he’s soft and sweet and his and hers… “I love you so much,” he whispers. “I wish I came home sooner.”

Wayne wraps his arms around the two of them, joining the hug because he just couldn’t take it anymore. He missed his boy so bad. “I love you.”

“I’m not supposed to stay in Hawkins…”

“So we move,” he replies in no time. “As long as we’re a family, we can be a family anywhere.”

“Daddy?” James asks again, squished between the two men. “Ba?”

“Oh,” Wayne pulls back, “he wants his bottle and to go to sleep… he’s big about schedules,” he teases with a laugh as he heads to the kitchenette.

Eddie trades arms, holding the toddler on the other side and taking a moment to look at him with a sweet smile, “what books do you like, buddy?”

“Trucks,” his eyes light right up, even with the sleepy sand gathering around his lashes.

“he’s obsessed with anything with wheels, isn’t that right, buddy?” Wayne explains as he comes back with a bottle. “Let's go to his room,” he nods down the hall, making Eddie follow him.

His room is cute, not too big, not too small, full of photos of him when he was even tinier than this with Wayne and his band and his friends, he has a hellfire poster, he has trucks everywhere and eddies old rocking chair in the corner. “You can sit there and read to him and then carefully put him in the bed when he’s asleep… I’ll give you your time with him—

“What?” Eddie panics. “I can’t be alone with a baby?”

“He’s your baby, you’ll do fine,” he waves it off, points at the chair and then heads out, closing the door behind himself.

The rooms dark, but the chair is in front of the window so some light still shines through the blinds and onto the pages he holds in his free hand. James snuggles into him, holding his bottle in his arms and listening contently to every word. He nods quickly, his eyelids flicker shut and flashback open as he fights it. Still suckling on his bottle, he fights it for at least 10 minutes before the bottle drops from his lips and barely stays in his grasp. Eddie stops reading then. He puts the book and the bottle on the table beside the chair and just looks at his son.

His son.

He had curly hair and a round button nose. He had chubby cheeks like Y/N did when they were little, he’s tall like Eddie’s side of the family, he’s smart like hers… he’s everything.

If he does the math right in his head she had him around the time he went missing, which meant one of those first and only 3 times they had sex got her pregnant and she never told him… she tried, he supposes that’s what all the family and baby talk came from. She asked about the future too much for someone simply curious.

He places James gently in his crib and watches for a moment to insure he doesn’t wake up, when the coast is clear, he tip-toes out of the room and quietly twists the door handle as he shuts the door for ultimate quiet… the deep breath he lets out when he’s successful is unlike any other.

Wayne’s in the living room watching tv with a plate that once held a sandwich, “want some lunch?”

“I’m good,” he passes and takes a seat beside him, snuggling into his uncle's shoulder he finally lets himself cry. “No, I’m not…”

“Oh, my boy, I’m so sorry,” he wraps him up and lets him cry. He can’t even imagine what they did to him for two years, 2 months and 6 days. It was far too long for him to be quarantined with no contact with the ones he loves. It was so unfair. “When you can, I want to know anything and everything… you can share it with me, you don’t have to carry this all alone.”

“She had my baby,” he whispers, unable to pull back, still broken inside and numb everywhere else. “All alone…”

“I’ve been here. She showed up 4 months after, we’ve been together ever since,” he explains. “Not like together, but she lives with me, I love her like family. She is family.”

“What about hers?”

“They cut her off,” he sighs. “Cunts, the whole lot. You should hear some of the shit they said, and how rude they were when she tried to invite them to Christmas 2 years ago… she tried to have them meet their grandson and they didn’t care.”

“They always sucked,” he finally pulls away and wipes his tears. “I’m glad she had you. You’re the best dad a kid could have.”

“Grandpa,” he corrects, “I love being a grandpa to that little boy, he’s such a gift.”

“I want to know everything, how old is he? What’s his full name? What does he like? All of it.”

“His full name is James Edward Munson, James for Metallica and Edward for you,” he explains as if he needs to.

“Seriously?” He lights up, “that’s amazing.”

“His birthday is March 29th, ’86,” he confirms Eddie’s suspicions. “She was going to tell you, at Christmas and then,” he points to his head scar.

“She was so sad when I finally called her back,” he remembers like it was yesterday.

“She’s not mad at you at all anymore, she wishes every day that you’ll come home, she’s going to pass out when she sees you,” he half kids. He doesn’t really know how she’ll react. “I think I should tell her first…”

—

Works long, she hates it the whole way, all she wants is to get home to her baby for some snuggles and a nice night in after Wayne leaves for work. She clocks out at 4 on the dot and all but runs to her car, she couldn’t wait any longer to get home.

Much to her surprise, Wayne is waiting outside. Which is weird seeing as he doesn’t smoke anymore… who was with James? She parks behind the strange van in her drive, thinking it’s Gareth’s, he was in the market for a new one… so she grabs her purse and gets out with a cautious look on her face.

“What’s going on?”

“Eddie’s home,” he breaks the ice with a fucking sledgehammer.

“What?” She drops everything and covers her mouth in shock.

“He’s inside, James met him, they’re in there together—

She breaks past him and runs inside, stopping dead in her tracks when she sees the 2 pairs of matching brown eyes turn to her with glee. “Mommy!” James stands from the carpet and runs to her.

She scoops him up, “hi baby,” she tries to stay normal and calm, she kisses his cheeks and breathes in his baby scent after a long day apart. “Can you go outside with grandpa so mommy can talk to daddy?”

“Why?” He asks one of his new favourite words.

“Cause mommy needs to tell him some grown-up things, but it’ll be 5 minutes, I promise,” she hands him off to Wayne. “Then we’ll all go out for dinner, okay?”

“Okay,” he trades off easily, heading outside and out of earshot.

She lunges for Eddie, diving to the floor and wrapping her entire body around him. He holds her back just as tight, sobbing uncontrollably without any words to be said. There wasn’t much that could be said. She pulls back only enough to press their foreheads together as she holds his face in her hands and he holds her right back. They stare into each other's eyes, sharing how much they miss and love each other with just one glance.

“I’m home,” he assures her.

“Good,” she brushes her nose against his. “It’s about time we were a full family.”

He kisses her for the first time in forever, something he’s thought about day in, and day out throughout his quarantine. He can’t stop kissing her either, he kisses her whole face, making her laugh instead of cry but his kisses still taste like salt from the tears already shed. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she takes some of the burdens off his shoulders. “But that little boy out there has no idea anything happened, he doesn’t know this is weird and not normal… so it’s okay.”

“you think?”

She nods, “he’s had the best life so far, he’s surrounded by love. I didn’t know you had so many friends until I moved here.”

“Who?”

“Well the guys, obviously, but also all your friends from the end of the world,” she knows more than he expected. Dustin must’ve spilled the beans. “Uncle Steve really likes to buy our son expensive shirts, Aunt Robin and Nancy are the best babysitters ever… Dustin loves him like a brother, Mike and Lucas and Erika are always coming over to see him too… our son is very loved.”

“Our son,” he repeats, still astounded by it. “I can’t believe I have a son and wasn’t there for it…”

“I made you something,” she struggles out of his grasp and to her feet, dragging him up as well and towards her room in the back.

Under her bed, she has a shoe box full of things. “This is our memory box… we’ll it was before I moved here. I started putting all of my memories with James in here too when I learned you could come home one day…”

He sits on the bed beside her, watching her sort everything into what she wanted to show him the most. “I have the letters you sent me, the dried flowers from valentines day, my pregnancy tests, his sonogram,” she hands them to him so he can look at their baby’s first photo.

And then his second, she hands him a polaroid. “The nurses took this of us.”

“You looked so cute pregnant,” he can’t believe it, she was swollen and happy and adorable with their son resting on her chest.

“And then this is his umbilical cord stump,” she holds up a plastic bag with a dried-up brown thing in it.

“Ew?”

“Not ew!” She can’t help but laugh at his disgust. “Lots of moms keep them, it’s the last part of us being together… and when I become the tooth fairy I’ll probably keep them too.”

He chuckles, shaking his head with love, “of course.”

“And…” she gets up from the bed and opens her bedside table to take out two notebooks. “I wrote you some letters.”

“Letters?”

She nods, opening it up to page one, “dear Eddie, today our son is 5 months old and I realized you’ll be back and wondering all about him and these milestones you missed. So here are some things to know, he was born in the middle of the night and now it’s his favourite time of the day…”

“It’s all like that?” His eyes light up.

She nods, “and there are some parts from me… about the days it was hard to not be with you.”

He takes the books from her and flips through the pages, seeing some had polaroids taped to them. Photos of their son on the carpet with numbers, each one he gets bigger. 6 months, 7 months, 8 months, he grew a personality with each one too. Smiling, rolling, kicking, he was never in the same position, he was such a cutie, his heart swelled in his chest.

“I thought you’d like them,” she notices his tears, sitting beside him and wiping his cheek for him so it didn’t get on the pages. “I knew you’d be home.”

“And I’m never leaving. Either of you.”

Taglist

@fightingdragonswithwho @mrs-dr-reid @kyomito @reidselle @venomsvl @nomajdetective @girl-with-an-orange-cat @stevesmunsons @blairscott @sweetyyhippyy @wroteclassicaly @reidsbookclub

#eddie munson #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem reader #eddie munson smut #stranger things #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson imagine #stranger things imagine #stranger things season 4

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astroboots · 2 years

Text

RED FLAGS ║ PART 6

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector

Summary: You and Marc grow closer, but it’s a little more complicated than that. Or alternatively: Marc refuses to let dead fish lie.

Word Count: 7,800

Series Masterlist | Astroboot's Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss' Masterlist

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Autumn is right around the corner for London. With it, the leaves are starting to turn, specks of bright orange and canary yellow dotted along the sidewalk. The old drab stone buildings in the city are washed in a pink amber from the morning sun. Suddenly every street, nook and cranny of the city is transformed into a gorgeous postcard for you to enjoy as you walk into your office in the mornings, sipping burning tea from your travel mug.

It’s a season of cosiness. The autumn sun eases off mercifully, meaning no more unbearable heat waves. The smell of hot melted rubbish that permeates the summer months dissipates. Even the Thames River doesn’t look quite as mucky when the reflection of evening sunsets bounces off its ordinarily grimy grey surface.

Best of all, the tourists start to thin out, no longer blocking every tube entrance while trying to figure out if it’s the Central line or Bakerloo line that will take them to Big Ben (neither will, of course).

With the city deserted of tourists, there are fewer visitors at the museum and barely any people in the gift shop, all of which means more free time for Steven. No matter how much Donna might want to lock him up in the storeroom and be done with him, there’s only so much inventory work to be done when the museum is decreasing its stock of historically inaccurate kitschy trinkets for the season.

It also means that by the time the working day ends for you, Steven will usually already be downstairs waiting for you at the reception in your office building.

He and Susan have gotten quite chummy now that she no longer thinks he’s some random vagrant. More often than not, he’ll be there, bent over the reception desk as she shows him the latest photo of her grandchildren or shares cooking tips (which never quite seem to stick) as you exit the lift. Failing that, you’ll find him leaning against the wall, worn messenger bag slung across his shoulder, head lolling to the side trying to catch a few opportune minutes of sleep as he waits for you to walk home together.

Watching his eyes light up when he looks up and catches sight of you never gets old. Nor does the way that Steven slips his hand into yours as you walk to the tube station.

Weekday evenings are spent at his, simply for the unbeatable convenience of the central location. Steven’s flat is in zone 1 of London, just a quick hop away by tube versus the fifty minute commute to yours, practically in the outer rims of the galaxy out in zone 4. The close proximity means you have more time with each other in the evenings, and you often spend it heating up easy-to-cook meals (for Steven’s benefit) or finding new Attenborough-narrated documentaries to watch.

But your favourite part of the evening is cuddling up in bed while he reads to you wearing his ridiculously outdated and thick-rimmed librarian glasses. It’s a look which, for some reason even you cannot fathom, you find completely irresistible, and you inevitably wind up climbing into Steven’s lap, book discarded somewhere on the floor as you show him just how irresistible you find him.

Then there is the other half of your Autumn days: the mornings you spend with Marc.

Those days start with you waking to an empty bed and the gentle white noise of yesterday’s dishes being taken care of in the kitchen. That’s how you know Marc is there before you even open your eyes to find your clothes neatly folded beside you. It used to make your stomach clench with unease, but that’s no longer the case.

To say that you and Marc are besties is a bit of an overstatement. Even "friends" would be a stretch, but you've definitely grown more comfortable with each other over time.

Stirring awake to the sound of Marc pottering around has become another piece of your life. As has having breakfast together across the kitchen counter.

Breakfasts that Marc cooks for you.

In the early days, his efforts had been commendable but hardly first class (bless his cotton socks). But you’d seen the soggy eggs and limp sausages as the peace offering they were, and you were only too happy to accept the proffered olive branch.

The first time he’d made you tea had tested that resolve. He’d popped it in the microwave, and it came out a lukewarm, watered down, milky mess. You'd struggled to keep a smile on your face as you choked it down, until, by the last few sips, it felt like it had slipped into something closer to a Wallace and Grommit style grimace. He must’ve picked up on your not-so-subtle struggle, because the next cup of tea had been a bit better, and so had the next. A steady improvement until he was serving you a perfectly prepared cuppa every morning.

It’s become your ritual now. You’ll sip the tea he prepares for you each morning he’s there, watching over the brim of your cup as he prepares his own cup of coffee, then plates up your breakfast and it’s... nice.

As endearing as Steven’s exuberant culinary efforts are, you secretly prefer Marc’s cooking to your boyfriend’s (perpetually burnt) marmite toast. There’s no risk of accidental arson for one. And, like the tea he makes for you, Marc’s food seems to get marginally better every time you eat it. The omelettes have gotten fluffier, the sausages crispier. Whether your palette is being won over by your increasing comfort around him, or it’s an actual improvement in technique, you don’t know, but his repertoire has expanded as well.

Marc now has a regimented rotation of breakfast dishes for the weekdays. You’ve memorised the order to the point that it’s become your internal calendar. You begin to look forward to waking up at Steven’s on Mondays, because Monday is French toast day.

It’s strangely domestic.

Marc cooks with mechanical precision, movements sparse and controlled, in comparison to Steven’s wild chaos. He’ll clean up after himself right away as well, even going so far as to wipe the crumbs off the counter before sitting down with a plate of his own. Because that’s another thing you’ve learned about Marc: absolute neat freak. Whereas Steven… not so much. In fact, you’d say your boyfriend thrives on the messy chaos. He seems to feel at home ensconced in piles and piles of books like it’s his own personal cocoon of safety.

To Marc though, the mess is an eyesore. You can almost see the thick veins in his neck protruding in irritation whenever his eyes roam the cluttered space. Every nerve in him screaming as he fights his A-type instincts to make drastic cleaning efforts lest Steven become suspicious that someone else (or at least some kind of friendly cleaning poltergeist) has been in his flat.

Every morning you spend together, Marc gets more verbal in his disdain for the mess. It’s hard not to laugh at some of the comments he makes because he sounds more like a cantankerous 70-year-old than the man in his prime years that stands before you.

“You should tell Steven you hate the mess. He’d clean it for you, you know.”

So Marc’s said, and more than once. It’s a running theme, and the wry comments make you snort into your tea with laughter every time.

“You could always tell him yourself, you know,” you like to rejoin, mimicking his delivery.

“Funny. Hilarious,” Marc will shoot back flatly, rolling his eyes at you as he wipes the counter clean. But for all his sarcasm, one corner of his mouth remains tipped up in an almost-smile.

You’re still not quite friends, but you wouldn’t say that you’re far from it.

It’s Sunday. You know it must be from the warm, lightly sweet smell of pancakes in the room and the gentle sound of butter sizzling in the frying pan. Marc makes pancakes with maple syrup on Sundays.

Sitting up in bed, your eyes follow the sounds to see Marc standing before the stove. Bundling the quilt up around you, you make sure your naked torso is completely covered before gathering your neatly folded clothes from next to you on the bed and heading to the loo to get dressed. When you come out, your cuppa is sitting piping hot on the kitchen counter, steam gently rising as it waits for you.

Marc’s just reaching up to grab the ground coffee from the cupboard, and it occurs to you that this is an opportunity to repay the favour.

“I can make it for you,” you chime in.

He freezes and shoots you a startled look, staring like a deer in the headlights for a moment before he sets the coffee grounds down on the counter and retreats to the side, making space for you to slide in between him and the coffee maker.

Stepping up to the counter and unravelling the paper bag of ground beans, you realise that you’re not sure you remember how to do this. You’re not much of a coffee aficionado, so it’s been ages since you made coffee from scratch, but with Marc standing behind you, you can’t exactly pull up your phone and google instructions. You’ll just have to improvise as best as you can.

From your observations, Marc takes his coffee black and strong. So adding one spoon of grounds for each ounce of water Marc’s added to the coffee maker should be enough… right? Grabbing the spoon, you sneak a glance at Marc as you start to measure it out, but he’s watching you stone-faced. If you’re doing anything wrong (or right for that matter), his facial expression isn’t giving you any hints.

After counting out the rest of the heaping scoops—plus one more for the pot—into the filter, you close the lid and turn the machine on. Watching anxiously as the pure black substance begins to drip down into the glass carafe. Tapping your fingers, you wait drop by drop until the machine is finally done squeezing out the very last of your efforts, and then grab a mug.

As soon as you pour, you know something isn’t right. It smells off—acrid—to your nose, and there’s some sort of sediment at the bottom of the pot that looks like dirty sand.

You stare at the noxious substance in the mug in dismay.

Clearly you’ve made an error somewhere, because this doesn’t look safe for human consumption. From the way it smells, it might very well be poisonous. Regretfully, you step over to the sink with the pot and mug, resigned to pouring the whole sorry mess down the drain, but before you can do so, Marc intercepts you.

He wraps his fingers around the handle of the mug and takes it from you without so much as a word. Then he raises it to his mouth, and you’re so surprised by it that you don’t even have the time to warn him of the Chernobyl situation happening inside that mug before he tips it up and takes a sip. And swallows.

There’s no reaction beyond a brief nod and a quiet “thanks.”

You watch in disbelief as he continues to drink from the mug straight-faced. How long would it take for food poisoning to take, minutes, hours? Should you try to convince him to go to the hospital to get his stomach pumped?

“Breakfast is going to get cold,” he tells you as he sets down the breakfast he’s already plated up for you on the kitchen counter and gestures for you to sit.

Drawing your eyes away from the coffee mug in Marc’s hand, you take in the food in front of you.

The pancakes look glorious, three of them piled on top of each other to make a fluffy stack several inches thick and glistening with maple syrup. You eagerly stab your fork into them and shove a large chunk into your mouth letting the perfect mix of sweet savouriness melt on your tongue.

“This is so good,” you moan, eyes nearly rolling back in your head. You're still chewing open-mouthed as you compliment him, refusing to stop scarfing down this delicious food. (Your grade school teacher would be appalled at your table manners.) From the corner of your eye, you can see the way Marc’s lips tilt, not quite a smile, but the hint of one.

“God, how do these pancakes keep getting better every time. Is this a Ratatouille situation?”

Marc lifts an inquisitive eyebrow. “Never seen it.”

“The one with the rat chef? He hides in his human friend’s hat and tugs his hair to marionette him to cook?”

“That sounds unsanitary,” Marc remarks, not answering your question, then makes a show of running a hand through his thick curls and tugging them between his fingers, deadpanning “No rats.”

He turns back to his food, but you’re left staring, struggling with the sense-memory of running your own hands through those soft locks while Steven buried his face between your legs and made you see stars.

You shake your head and will the intrusive thought away, quickly scooping up another bite of pancake. Doing your best to focus on the near heavenly taste and texture, you shovel it into your mouth as fast as you can chew.

Marc eats in a much more dignified manner, cutting his stack of pancakes into neat squares. He looks up occasionally to watch you massacre yours with wry amusement. You continue to eat and neither of you say much, only the tiny clang of your cutlery scraping against the plate sounding out.

Picking up the mug next to him, Marc finished off the coffee inside down to the last drop. Either the man has a terrible taste in coffee, or your efforts weren’t that bad after all.

“It might take longer this time,” Marc says. For once, he is the one to break up the silence instead of you.

You look up from your plate, mouth crammed full of syrup-soaked pancake, which you have to chew furiously before you’re able to swallow and speak again.

“Oh, all right.” You don’t have to ask to know he’s talking about leaving again. “How long will you be gone? Have you called in sick to work for Steven so he doesn’t get into trouble?”

Marc hums an affirmative, which you assume is an answer to the second question, not the first.

“Marc,” you begin again, fully intending on repeating yourself like a parrot until he gives you an answer, “How long will you be gone ?”

“Don’t know yet. Might be a few days. Probably a few weeks.”

That’s not too bad then. You’ll miss Steven, of course. And you make an unenthusiastic mental note to pick up more granola from Sainsburys for breakfast while they’re gone—Marc’s food has spoiled you.

“What do you do on these trips anyway? Is it for work?”

“Something like that.”

“How do you not know how long you’ll be out of town then? What kind of company doesn’t give you an itinerary?”

He merely shrugs, and you know you’ll get nothing more down that line of questioning.

You look out over the flat as you finish up the last of the pancake on your plate, and your eyes land on Gus swimming away in his gigantic fish tank by himself.

“Do you want me to pop ‘round and feed Gus?”

Marc shakes his head, already taking away your plate, cleaning up after you. “No, I got it handled.”

Of course he’d turn you down. It’s no big surprise. Knowing Marc, he doesn't want you in Steven’s flat unsupervised for fear you’ll get funny ideas or start prying into his and Steven’s things. You imagine that’s why he’s always here, busying himself with something or the other in the flat when you wake up with him instead of Steven. The thought stings a bit, though you can't quite put your finger on why.

Collecting your things, you head towards the door, taking one last glance at Gus’ fish tank before you go. “Don’t forget to feed him.”

Marc turns towards you, the corner of his lips quirking up, “I won’t.”

It’s another Thursday night.

Steven and Marc have been gone for a fortnight, and you’re tucked up on the sofa with a cosy blanket and some wine watching The Great British Bake Off on the BBC. Paul Hollywood is in the middle of critiquing a subpar cranberry tart when you get the usual head’s up text from Marc:

Marc Safe. Back tomorrow.

Loquacious as always, but you've got his number now. Marc's not nearly so taciturn as his initial attitude would imply.

Maybe it’s the buzz from the two fishbowl-sized glasses of wine you’ve had (your cheeks already feel a little warmer the way they do when you’re tipsy). Maybe it’s because nowadays you’re comfortable enough with Marc that expressing curiosity no longer feels like you’re wading into something dangerous. Or maybe you’re just lonely and want to keep the connection going a few minutes longer.

Whatever the reason, you decide to text him back.

You So what exactly is it that you do while you’re away?

Marc I can’t tell you.

You Or what? You’ll have to kill me, Mr Bond?

You grin at your own joke, feeling quite clever and very chuffed with yourself. When several moments tick by with no response, you seize the moment to continue teasing him, messaging him again (and again) with a growing sort of giddiness.

You Marc… Marc! Surely you’re joking You’re not! You can’t be!! Get back here, Marc!! Please tell me you are not actually a secret agent.

Marc I’m not a secret agent.

Ha! You knew it was only a matter of time before he took the bait! You chortle gleefully to yourself as your fingers fly over your phone screen, spelling out the obvious response.

You That sounds like something a secret agent would say

Marc It’s a little more complicated than that.

You That’s not a no...

Marc Good night.

You shake your head at his non answer and sign off, still chuckling quietly to yourself as you settle back onto the sofa to watch Paul Hollywood eat another slice of crumble rhubarb pie.

Glued to your sofa, you get through three episodes in a row, and barely manage to curb your envy of the man’s metabolism. How he’s managed to last so many seasons without seemingly gaining a pound is beyond you. When the third episode ends, a rerun of Top Gear comes on, and as much as you cannot stand Jeremy Clarkson, the sound of motors rumbling on the telly in your empty flat is soothing, and you let it stay on to keep you company as you clean up your dishes and wander back to the couch to check your email.

Your doorbell buzzes, and you jump about half a foot at the sudden intrusion of sound. It continues loudly and without interruption, as if whoever was ringing at your door is determined to exhaust the buzzer into silence. You quickly scramble up and around the ottoman, trying to get to the door before one of your neighbours starts pounding on the wall.

Putting your eye against the peephole, you’re greeted by a familiar sight. You’d recognize that sharp nose and floppy dark curls anywhere. Except, his stance is a bit too impatient, militant.

Marc then, not Steven.

Unlocking the door, you barely have a chance to say so much as hello.

“I killed his fish,” he announces.

“Wha– Gus?”

“The stores are closed.” He rakes a frustrated hand through his hair, neatly combed waves coming apart into slightly messier curls that remind you of Steven. “I tried five pet shops on the way here. None of ‘em were open.”

“So, wait. Your grand master plan is to find a lookalike fish, and then… what? Hope Steven won’t notice? That’s ridiculous, Marc. Steven’s not a five year old child. Just leave Gus where you found him.”

Marc seems to consider that for a moment, jaw flexing as he stares off into space, but then he shakes his head. "Yeah, I can't do that. He'll be upset. I need to get him another one."

That gives you pause. As much of a sour old grouch as Marc usually is, every now and then, there are moments like this. Moments that hint at something softer and caring within. You catch glimpses of it in his misguided attempts to protect Steven’s happiness. You don’t agree with the way Marc chooses to do these things, but the intention is there all the same. The postcards from their mum that are really from him. His insistence on keeping his very existence a secret from Steven. Only Marc would resort to gaslighting as a form of affection.

“Why didn’t you text me? I could’ve swung by and fed him.”

Marc’s eyes flicker, then he turns his face to the side, away from you. For a brief moment you think you see a line of bruising on the side of his neck, but in the dimly lit darkness of the hallway you can't tell if it's just a shadow or your eyes playing tricks on you.

“Things got… complicated,” Marc says.

You sigh, opening the door wide enough to make room for him to come in.

He doesn’t take the hint, remaining firmly planted in the hall, with no indication that he means to cross your threshold.

It occurs to you that Steven’s spent quite a bit of time here, but Marc hasn’t been back to your flat since that first night he interrupted your Blue Planet marathon and rudely shoved his hand over your mouth. How far you’ve come.

You stand back, even farther, gesturing him in, and Marc leans forward and peers hesitantly into your flat. Yet, instead of going inside, he takes a step back, and you really want to roll your eyes and just shove him inside already. It’s been raining all day, and it's cold in the hallway. Keeping the door ajar is letting out all the warmth, and your gas bills are already through the roof as it is.

“I shouldn’t be here. I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea–”

“Come inside, Marc,” you interrupt.

Like a vampire being granted permission, Marc finally relents and follows you into your flat.

Walking to the couch to retrieve your phone, you pick it up and pull up Google Maps. “So Amazing Fins down the street from my office opens at 11am on Fridays. Want me to meet you there on my lunch break?”

“No, I might not be able to stay awake that long. We need to get something now.”

Stubborn as always.

You grumble to yourself as you go back to poking at your phone. You don’t know why you’ve let this man into your house, much less why you’re letting him rope you into a futile mission of procuring a goldfish when all pet shops across the whole of London are closed.

Yet somehow you find yourself texting every local friend in your contacts about the possibility of “borrowing a goldfish for a day or two” because there’s been a petmergency.

“Not borrowing. We’re keeping it,” Marc says from behind you, but you pointedly ignore his unhelpful commentary.

Now here’s the wonderful thing about London. You’re pretty sure that in any other city, a mad text like this, sent out late on a Thursday night, would be met with a slew of offended texts back like “get stuffed” or “are you on drugs?”—if it got any responses at all. Instead there’s only a handful of those (and one asking if it’s code for “sex stuff,” which you do not respond to).

It’s truly only in London that you would get a reply from an old uni mate you haven’t seen for almost half a decade with a casual, no questions asked:

Sam sure fam! how many u need?

Good old Sam. Sam was the friend you’d call at uni whenever your evening plans fell through, and he’d take you to this unlicensed club in the middle of Clapham or a secret party held in a closed down tube station. Apparently not much has changed. Sam’s still that lad—the one who’s never said no to anything in his life and always seems to have a contact or twelve for everything—so you don’t even raise an eyebrow when he tells you that he knows a bloke with a huge collection of fish in his cellar.

Marc however, does raise an eyebrow.

You tell him, as you’re putting on your coat, that you have a lead and are going over to Docklands to get a fish. Before you even finish the sentence, his arms are already locked across his chest, and he’s wearing that pinched expression that you’ve learned by now means he’s unhappy.

“How well do you know this guy?” he asks.

“Well enough. I told you, he’s an old mate of mine from uni.”

“It’s not safe,” he mutters under his breath. “Who keeps a bunch of fish in their basement and then just gives them away? You sure it’s not a trap?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Marc. Besides, what kind of person would come up with an evil master plan to lure women into their cellar with fish?”

“A serial killer,” Marc answers with a straight face.

You scoff as you wrap a thick scarf around your shoulders. It’s about all you can do to not laugh in his face, because Marc seems completely oblivious to the irony that he is the sketchiest bloke you know. “Are you serious right now?”

Apparently he is, because his eyes narrow, demeanour as serious as ever, when he announces, “You’re not going alone. I’m coming with you.”

You hate the DLR.

The above-ground railway is always so bloody slow compared to the tube, and it coils its way clumsily around office buildings and industrial estates like some discount Tory rollercoaster. This is what happens when you build public transport as an afterthought. If it wasn’t for the Thames river being in the way, you could probably get there faster simply by walking.

On top of that, it’s crowded. It always is on weeknights, but tonight is worse than anything you’ve experienced before. You’re all packed in like sardines, and it isn’t until the third congregation of rowdy men enters your car and begins chanting football anthems that it occurs to you why: there was a football game tonight.

In the crowd of sports enthusiasts, you’re unable to find a seat, nor can you reach any of poles or straphangers to steady yourself. The carriage sways over a bridge like a slithering snake, and between that, the wine from earlier, and the smell of rancid beer and drunk blokes sweating through their polo shirts, motion sickness kicks in with a fury.

Oh fuck, you really don’t want to be sick all over the floor.

You close your eyes tightly, breathing deeply through your nose. You’re distracted, not ready when the carriage lurches forward, and your footing fails. You start to tumble backwards, absolutely sure that you’re about to go arse over tits when you feel someone’s arm lock behind your waist. In an impressive display of strength, they arrest your fall, reeling you forward until you’re steady on your feet again.

Opening your eyes, you look up to find Marc watching you, his mouth set in a worried frown.

“You okay?” he asks, and you open your mouth to answer him, but the sudden countermotion of the carriage correcting its course slams you forward, and you collide with him, nose to chest.

Blistering heat burns your cheeks, and you nod into his shirt. All of a sudden, your legs seem to have become gelatine, and you're pretty sure it’s not just from the motion sickness.

It’s silly really. Your proximity to this man should not get you this flustered. You’ve done far more physically intimate acts than be pressed up against his fully clothed body, crammed around a sea of sweating strangers.

You’re about to remove yourself, stutter out some polite apology to avoid any awkwardness between you. But his arm tightens around you, locking behind the small of your back to steady you again. Then he keeps it there.

“It’s fine,” he says.

You’ve never heard his voice like this, pleasantly low and soft for your ears only. Even through the pandemonium of football fans arguing about who was really offside in the background, you hear it piercingly clear and your ears tingle.

“Just hold onto me until we get there.”

Your eyes linger on the side of his neck. There’s no sign of the dark bruises you thought you saw on him in your hallway earlier this evening. It must’ve been the trick of light.

Marc tips his face until he can meet your eyes, and– Fuck, you’re staring.

With a quick nod, you quietly murmur, “thanks,” then duck your head, pressing your face further into his chest in the hopes that it will help to hide any physical signs of the burning sensation that is spreading across your face.

The buzzing noise of the carriage fades away, and you can barely feel the unsteady sway or the stops and starts anymore as Marc continues to hold you steady. He smells like clean linens, and there's a hint of coffee that reminds you of sitting at the breakfast table with him on your mornings together.

Inertia tugs at you as the train slows to stop again, and this time Marc gently taps you on the shoulder, pointing to the doors as they slide open.

You look up to see the sign on the platform that reads, ‘Canning Town.’ It’s your stop.

Stepping back out of Marc’s arms and then out of the train into the much colder air on the platform, you can’t help the invading thought that it’s a shame your journey on the DLR wasn’t longer.

As you leave the station, Marc stays stuck to your side and the two of you walk down the empty streets of the Dock area, shoulder to shoulder, until you reach the small residential area where Sam’s friend lives, part of an old rundown council estate.

Sam and his friend are already standing outside, and he waves you in with a cheery smile. Before you’ve even reached the front door steps, he pulls you into a hug, and then leads you down to the cellar. Energetic as always, he's stopping every two steps to show you a cool exotic fish in one of the tanks lining the hall, the stairs and just about every spare inch of space while his friend enthusiastically regales you with the origin of each.

Marc spends the whole time staring down Sam with suspicion.

“Is he always so… intense?” Sam whispers over his shoulder to you. “Your boyfriend is more intimidating than I imagined.”

Your first instinct is to rebut with “he’s not my boyfriend,” but thankfully you catch yourself in time. Marc may not be your boyfriend, but Steven is, and Sam has seen your corny couple photos on Instagram.

How do you explain to an old friend that this is not your boyfriend but your boyfriend’s alter, particularly when your boyfriend doesn’t even know he has one?

You turn to look at Marc, who is standing next to Sam’s friend. His lips are pressed together in concentration as he regards the goldfishes in the tank studiously. You overhear him asking if any of them have only one fin (they don’t), and you can’t help but smile.

“He’s not as bad as he first seems,” you tell Sam. “It’s a bit of a secret, but he’s actually a big softie.”

It’s after midnight by the time you get back to Steven’s flat, and you find yourself with a plastic bag in hand, scooping an unfortunately two-finned goldfish out into the large fish tank in a sad attempt at tricking your boyfriend into believing it’s his old goldfish.

The imposter lands in the tank with a wet plop, and you and Marc stay standing in front of it, watching as he explores his new home. You’re shoulder to shoulder, hunched over so close to the glass that a patch of fog forms then dissipates with each exhale.

From where you are, if fake Gus doesn’t turn, he can pass for the original Gus. Marc took extraordinary care to make sure that the golden colouring was the same hue, that the marks were the same and even the fat plumpness of the two was as close to identical as possible.

There’s something incredibly ironic about this. You’re standing next to a man physically identical to your boyfriend, while staring down a dupe goldfish that you’re both trying to pawn off as the original. It seems like some big metaphor that the universe is using to try to tell you something. Now if only you were clever enough to figure out what.

Or perhaps, you think, watching fake Gus turn and flash you his superfluous fin, the cosmic universe has a really bizarre sense of humour.

“Shit,” Marc curses, turning away to pace the room. His feet thud loudly against the wooden floor with each step, and you wonder how Steven doesn’t get more complaints from his neighbours than he already does. “He’s going to notice.”

“Well, why don’t you just manually remove one fin then?”

Marc stares at you with a look of horror, the kind usually reserved for war criminals. “Rip his fin off?!”

"God, no. I'm not a barbarian. We'd use scissors.” You hold up your index and middle finger, mimicking a scissor to show him. “Snip snip. The fish won't feel a thing."

For a purported man of mystery, Mr. ‘my-line-of-work-is-dangerous’ seems appalled by the very notion of violence, his whole body shuddering in disgust.

“Yeah, we’re not doing that.”

“It’s either that or hope Steven doesn’t notice.”

Marc’s teeth clamp down on his lower lip, worrying the flesh, and your heart skips a beat at the familiar sight. Those two are so unlike each other, but this little habit is problematically similar.

“I’ll take my chances,” he murmurs, then approaches the tank again as if looking at it a third or fourth time will magically make the extra fin less noticeable.

You follow suit, walking forward to stare at the imposter goldfish again as well. Despite the large size of the tank, the two of you are huddled closely together, the firm line of Marc’s shoulder pressing against yours. You don’t pull away, and the pleasantness of the touch lingers and spreads until the back of your neck is tingling.

This is Marc, not Steven, but it’s like your body doesn’t know any better, a kaleidoscope of butterflies skittering through your veins at the innocent touch.

Shifting your weight to your heels, you try to distract yourself from the inappropriate sensation. “Oh, um... By the way, why did you come to me for help?”

“You and the fish seemed close.”

The statement stuns you. You don’t know why he would think that. What indication have you ever shown him that you and a goldfish missing a fin would be close? You cycle through your memory and the only thing that comes to mind is that one time months ago when Marc had thought you were leaving a post-it note to Gus.

“You know I don’t actually write to Gus right?”

He doesn’t reply, but there's a small teasing smile on his face and he looks entirely too pleased with himself.

Oh. It’s a joke. Marc is joking.

You can’t help but smile back at him, entranced by the difference that little bit of a smile makes. It feels like a rare treasure that no one but you has been privy to. God help you, he’s one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen.

Steven is attractive in an adorable, puppyish sort of way, and quite fit actually, once you get past the too big clothes and nervous mannerisms. (Gorgeous once you have him all fucked out underneath you and he finally relaxes). Somehow, despite sharing the same body, Marc is cut from a different cloth. Confident and self-contained to Steven’s awkward flailing; overly serious where Steven is cheery. But when they smile? Both are breathtaking.

The smile doesn’t last long, but Marc’s face stays open and relaxed. He holds your gaze for a long moment before looking away, giving his full attention to the imposter fish.

“You’re the only one I could think of to ask.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that you miss the significance at first.

The only one…

You’re the only one he has.

You had thought, with all their differences in personality and mannerisms, that Steven and Marc were nothing alike. Simply considered Marc as an ill-tempered twin brother of sorts. But you see more clearly now. As different as they are in temperament, there are similarities too that go beyond the physical details. There is a loneliness there, etched into the strands of their very DNA and enforced by their unusual situation. Marc is no more able to live a whole and full life than Steven is.

For all his lone wolf attitude, at the end of the day, a lone wolf is also just that… lonely.

It’s all so stupid. If Marc wasn’t so stubborn and insistent on keeping his own existence separate from and unknown to Steven, then he’d have the only one person in this whole wide world that could possibly understand this loneliness beside him.

You find yourself openly staring at him. This man who looks exactly like the man you love. Knows the same loneliness as the man you love. Physically, is the very same man that you love, and your body responds to him all the same.

You don’t know when the two of you got quite this close. When your foreheads became inches from touching. So close that you can’t look away even if you tried.

He’s not Steven, you remind yourself. But every line of his face is identical to Steven. Not Steven, but he smells like Steven. Not Steven, but every vein and fibre of your body is singing out in want of him all the same.

You already know what it’s like to kiss this man. Know intimately how soft and pliant those full lips feel against yours. It doesn’t help that your body craves the familiar touch. It wouldn’t take much, just a slight tilt of your head upwards, and you’d be there.

His nose drags against yours until the tips of your noses brush up and it sends a shiver through you. He’s so close. Close enough that his eyelashes tickle against your cheekbones. Close enough that you can almost taste his lips, and God help you, you want to.

His breath ghosts over your lips, a barely there touch, and you find yourself, despite all common sense, closing your eyes and leaning into it. Waiting for that perfect press of his mouth brushing against yours.

It doesn’t come.

Your eyes flutter open just in time to see Marc pull back, eyeing you warily, like you’re something dangerous. He takes a step back away from you, that ever present scowl firmly back in place, and that’s all it takes to break the spell.

What the fuck are you doing!?

“It’s late,” Marc murmurs, “You should go home. I’ll walk you down.”

Your cheeks are suddenly on fire. Whether it’s want or embarrassment or pure shock, you don’t know. Possibly a combination of all three. You don’t know how long that moment lasts, but you stand there rooted to the spot, your eyes are barely able to meet Marc’s, and he seems intent on avoiding your gaze as well.

Then finally, you’re able to swallow down the remains of your wounded pride. “Yeah, that... um... that sounds good.”

Neither of you speak again as you quickly collect your things and follow Marc out the door and down the poorly lit corridor to the lift. The silence between you is deafening.

Mercifully the lift door opens almost immediately, but stepping into the enclosed space is not an improvement. Not even a square metre in total, metal on all sides around you with a gigantic mirror that, instead of creating the illusion that the space is larger, only serves as a reminder of how little space there is between you and Marc as you stare at the reflection.

You don’t ever remember it feeling this claustrophobic during the countless times you’ve stood inside it with Steven. But the weight of your near-almost mistake weighs oppressively on you with each passing second, and the lift seems to be taking its sweet time making its way down through the floors. The silence between you is so potent, that you can hear the hum of the lift, can practically see the heavy weight of the cables running above the metal box you’re trapped inside of together.

Your skin crawls inside your jumper like someone’s poured a jar of ants inside your collar.

You can’t take the silence.

But you don't know how to make it stop. Don’t know what to say to him. So you resort to the one conversational topic that all British people fall back on in the face of any awkward situation.

“Uhm so, the weather is getting nippier now with Autumn coming on, isn’t it?”

The only response you get from Marc is a gruff sounding noise in the back of his throat, eyes fixed on his feet at the ground, brows scrunched tightly together.

It’s quite possibly the most effective conversation ender known to man, and it makes your stomach sink until you’re sure it must have descended through the floor of the lift to land somewhere wedged into the concrete floor of the basement. You resign yourself to silence after that, because you can’t bring yourself to try again.

Five floors down has never felt this long. Aeons later, the elevator pings, announcing your arrival, and the stiff metal doors slide to the side to let you out.

Shortly after, you make it outside, finally free from the confines of the tiny lift and the narrowness of the corridor, only to discover that at some point the humid air polluted by London congestion had betrayed you and tipped over into pouring rain.

You can’t even walk out into the open street like this. Instead, you have to stay under the flimsy shelter of the rooftop above the entrance so you don’t get soaked, and the feeling of being trapped remains. Leaning out, you try to get a peek at the clouds to see if there’s any chance the rain is going to let off, but in the murky darkness of the night, there’s no way of telling.

The rasp of a separating zipper cuts your concentration. You turn your head to your left to see Marc taking off his jacket. He walks towards you then settles it over your shoulders.

“It’s raining. And cold,” he mutters in response to your questioning look.

Nodding dumbly at him, you try to ignore the way the residual heat from his body still lingers in the lining of his jacket and how it is boiling your skin. Cold? Right now it feels like you’re being burned at the stake.

You’re about to pull up Uber on your phone, but, as if he cannot wait to get rid of you, Marc steps out to the street and flags down an old fashioned black taxi that pulls up to the curb under a lonely streetlight.

You step cautiously out into the rain, and Marc opens the door for you as you approach the taxi. Standing by the open door, you pause to look up into his face, half expecting him to look impatient, like he can’t wait for you to be gone.

He doesn’t. Instead, there’s a pained expression that meets you there, and he can barely meet your eyes. He looks so unsure of himself that it almost breaks your heart. His shoulders are rounded in, slumped posture made all the more obvious as the rain plasters his unprotected shirt to his skin.

“Oh!” Grabbing onto the lapels of his jacket, you start to slide it off to return it, but Marc shakes his head. His hands cover yours, trapping them and tugging the jacket back up around your shoulders until the collar is pulled securely up to your chin.

“Keep it.”

You stare up at him, momentarily distracted by the rogue curls starting to fall down over his face as the light from the streetlight glitters off stray droplets of water caught in his hair. Your breath catches in your chest, and you can’t move. You search his face, but his expression has turned inscrutable, and you’re not even sure why you’re still standing there. You feel like you’re waiting for something, but for what, you don’t know.

Some sign from him, perhaps. Or for something to crack.

“Where to, sweetheart?” the Croydon accent of the taxi driver cuts into the space between you, startling you. You jump slightly, sucking in a deep breath like you’re surfacing from underwater, and Marc’s hands fall away from yours. That feels wrong.

Stepping back, you turn away from him, and that feels wrong too, like your shoes are weighed down with concrete as you step towards the taxi. Ducking your head, you climb in and give the driver your address. Before you’ve even had time to scoot properly into your seat, the door closes gently behind you.

Looking up through the windowpane, Marc is still there. Fixed in place in the pool of light under the streetlamp right where you left him, watching you with a look you can’t decipher in his eyes. The sight of him makes your chest ache.

You twist around as the taxi pulls away, peering through the back window so you can keep your eyes on him as he recedes into the misty city background. London’s never looked so dark and dismal as it does now, watching as the growing distance makes Marc look smaller and smaller until he is no longer visible to you.

And even then, you keep staring for a few minutes longer, as if he might somehow reappear. He doesn’t of course, and eventually you force yourself to turn back around and sink down into the seat. You’re still wrapped up in Marc’s jacket, and you snuggle in, pulling the collar up far enough that it covers the tip of your nose. The thick canvas fabric is coarse but worn soft with wear and washing and still almost uncomfortably warm. A faint scent lingers in the material, reminiscent of the way your pillow smells when you wake up after spending a night with Steven.

The heat in your cheeks is scorching, but you tell yourself it’s just from being in the warm taxi after standing in the cold rain. That's all it is…

~ CONTINUE ~

A/N: This is one of my favourite chapters to date. When I first started Red Flags, I had two scenes in mind that I absolutely wanted to explore: one was Steven calling you after you'd been stood up and how I would absolutely still show up because have you seen him!??! He's gorgeous! The second was Marc asking you to help covering up the dead Gus-- and being appalled at the suggestion of snipping of the fin (come on Marc, you're a mercenary!! This is where you draw the line?) Thank you all for coming on this journey with me. I've never written anything this long before. Thanks to everyone who has taken the time out of their day to read this.

We all have busy lives and the fact that you would choose to take the time out of your day to sit down (or lie or stand) with me and read my writing gives me a lot of joy. Whether you're a lurker, a liker, reblogger, or a commenter, thank you so much for reading and I appreciate you all very much.

Dedications:

To @thirstworldproblemss whom I adore and love more than 🍆 & 🍤. I hit the fucking tumblr lottery with your friendship, and am so glad everyday that I jumped into your DM to strike up a conversation for funsies, and then made fun of you for your (amazingly-panty-meltingly-hot) milk-titty stories. Because look at where we are now, more than a year and a half later and all the fun I have with you daily. Writing this story with you has been such a great source of joy and comfort to me in an incredibly tumultuous. I'm so proud of this baby that we've created together, communist bugs bunny style. I love you the absolute m🐭st.

To @radiowallet and her sage advice and for being my sounding board on all things Marvel.

To @jazzelsaur and her micro ☕ without her amazing wealth of coffee knowledge I would be lost in this chapter. Her gorgeous avocado hair is a source of endless inspiration to me and she is my muse.

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𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.

Ch 2: 𝐘𝐞𝐭 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬; 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬.

A sequel to Whither is thy beloved gone? (AO3)

After the events of ‘Whither is thy beloved gone?’ Lord Astarion Ancuńin and his consort wife navigate their relationship anew. The ghosts of the past - his, hers, and theirs - threaten to unravel everything they’ve worked for.

The gift arrives, and Astarion continues spinning himself into his little web of mistruths. Ban does some sleuthing.

Now professionally edited by @editing-by-night

Originally beta'd by @leomonae

Read on AO3.

Masterlist

Ban and Astarion by @primopinku

Astarion stood with hands clasped behind his back, watching Roderich’s workers carry the mirror inside the palace. It was huge, and he absently wondered what he would do if it didn't fit through the doorway to the bedroom. He supposed having it in the ballroom wouldn’t be such a bad idea, but it might prove to be an issue when hosting parties; people would inevitably notice his consort’s lack of reflection.

Roderich approached him and gave a small bow. “My lord,” he said. “Which room would you like the mirror to be brought to?”

Astarion regarded the man before him; Roderich was frightened, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Perhaps rumors of the activities that had occurred in this palace during Cazador’s reign had reached Roderich’s ears. He deliberated between further terrifying the man for his amusement or placating him, and begrudgingly settled on the latter, as delectable an idea as the former was.

He draped an arm over Roderich’s shoulder. “Our bedroom, on the far wall,” he replied. “Take two left turns and you’ll find it.” He leaned in. “Would you like to join me for some refreshments, Master Glasscraft?”

Up close, Astarion thought, he could see the family resemblance. The shape of his face and nose were reminiscent of Ban’s - Ban, who had gone to Rivington today to see Shadowheart.

Ban, who had been rather quiet since the day she saw him hiding the contract.

The silence had been unnerving him, bringing out his insecurities at a frankly terrifying speed. While he normally would have sought to explain his feelings to her, he hadn’t this time; the sheer fear of her anger and the thought of losing her winning out over his better judgment.

Roderich flinched, but as the arm over his back was a normal temperature, felt himself relax slightly. Perhaps Cazador Szarr could have been the monster he had been suspecting Lord Ancunín to be, but presently there were fewer and fewer reasons to suspect the man beside him.

“Some tea would be nice, I suppose. But I can’t stay too long. My wife, Arlette… she’s waiting for me.” He doubted vampires ever stocked human food and drink, so that was a good sign, but he still felt the need to clearly state that someone would notice if he disappeared. His throat was a bit dry and scratchy, regardless.

“Tea it is, then.” As Astarion called a servant over and rattled off a request for tea and some biscuits, Roderich quickly instructed his men as to which room to bring the mirror and where to place it. Turning his attention back to Roderich, Astarion shot him his most winsome smile, taking care not to show his fangs this time.

“I’ve asked for the tea to be delivered to my study,” he said, arm still around Roderich, steering him in that direction. “So. Do tell me about dear Arlette. Children? I’d assume a son, considering…”

The shop’s name, yes. Astarion fought back the wave of indignation at the fact that Ban didn’t even seem to merit a mention there. Of course, they likely assumed her dead, and he had no idea why she had left them in the first place, but still.

Roderich, finding the small talk a bit peculiar but not impolite, nodded, clearing his throat. “Arlette and I ha-have a son. Adrien.” He entered the study, following his host, and took a seat on one of the plush armchairs in the room; Astarion took the one next to his, crossing his legs.

As the tea and biscuits arrived on a metal tray, Astarion noted the hesitation in Roderich’s tone. Fear, perhaps? He gingerly picked up his own cup, making a show of finding the tea hot, blowing across its surface, to further disarm the man.

“Arlette and Adrien.” He paused a moment, then offered some information in return, keeping the conversation flowing. “I myself am newly wedded, only about a year or so ago. Alas, the gods haven’t seen fit to bless us with offspring as yet. Grandchildren?”

Roderich shook his head, a heaviness settling over his features. “No,” he said. “It’s… Adrien-”

His voice was rough; Astarion noticed it, but did not comment. Instead he took a long sip from his cup, allowing the man a moment to recover.

“Adrien hasn’t taken a wife.” Roderich settled on saying.

Astarion let the silence stretch, picking up a biscuit with slender fingers. Taking a bite or two; he regarded Ban’s father. A brother, then, with something seemingly causing Roderich distress at the mere mention of his name. Interesting.

Astarion’s chamberlain entered the room, and made a small bow. “My lord,” he said, “they have finished.” At the man’s words Roderich stood, eager to be done with this conversation.

“Lord Ancunín.” He gave a small bow, “I really do need to take my leave. Arlette needs me to weed the garden today, and…”

Astarion waved his hand in a gesture of nonchalance, as if it did not trouble him at all. “Take some pastries with you, Master Glasscraft. I’m sure your wife and son will appreciate them. The kitchen will have a box prepared for you - just let him lead the way.” He nodded towards his chamberlain.

“Yes, my lord. Thank you. I shall be off.” Roderich followed the chamberlain and was soon on his way home, grateful to be away from Lord Ancunín, his questions, and his oddly piercing gaze.

Still in his seat, Astarion mulled over Roderich’s words. How much of this was old information, and how much did Ban know?

And whatever could have happened to Adrien that so disconcerted his father?

Ban stared at the mirror as she slipped her bathrobe off, draping it over the couch. She did so merely as a matter of habit - of course she no longer saw herself or the bathrobe, only the empty room staring back at her. The mirror was large and ornate with gold inlaid into the frame. Leaning against the wall of their bedroom, it gave the impression of a great beast looming over their bed.

She hated it. Not that mirrors have ever been something she liked - they reminded her too much of her past - but this one in particular felt ominous, a little too big and a little too oppressive a presence in their place of refuge. She knew Astarion would have it moved the moment she asked, but for now at least she was willing to let it stay. After all, he’d done a marvelous job introducing her to it earlier today; the memory of him fucking her in front of it so they could see what his cock did inside her - him spreading her apart, coming apart inside her, just for her - was one she thought she’d remember for a while.

Ban spied Astarion’s reflection in the mirror as he walked in from the bathroom, towel still wrapped around his waist. His expression looked conflicted, until he schooled it into something more neutral.

“I see you’re admiring our newest acquisition,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the back of her shoulder, then slowly trailing a path of kisses up to the base of her neck. He closed his eyes, hands resting on her waist. The fear of her leaving, now ever-present, fluttered in his breast; his brows furrowed briefly, but he managed to smooth them down.

All this, Ban could easily see reflected in the mirror. A small sigh escaped her, and she turned to face him. He fell still, eyes still closed, afraid to see or hear what she’d say next. She cupped his cheek, smiling a little when he leaned into her touch.

“I still stand by what I said. This feels a bit much.”

Her words were met by quiet, soft laughter, and he kissed her palm.

“You did mention that.” His hands shifted forward, fingers knitting together against her back, pulling her in close. Astarion debated between playing up his usual snark or letting his walls down, but there really wasn’t any contest. There hadn’t been any for a while now, in moments like this. “Do you dislike it?”

“Not dislike, I think, it’s just…” She frowned. “It’ll take some getting used to. I won’t mind as much if we do what we did today more often?” A small conciliatory offer, one Astarion grasped without hesitation.

“Of course,” he huffed, amused. Astarion leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead. “To bed then, love?” He finally opened his eyes, offering her a soft smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Astarion’s fingers deftly removed the towel from his waist, throwing it onto the couch nearby; despite her nearness, there wasn’t any stirring of desire in him, the worry overruling every other thought. He lifted her in his arms, carrying her to bed. Crawling in after her, he curled his body around hers, holding her close. He tucked his face against the back of her neck, hiding.

Astarion had been waiting. Since she’d come home and seen the mirror, he’d been waiting. For what, he didn’t know - a word, a quick anecdote of her life before, anything. Even a snide comment would have been something.

He hadn’t meant to blatantly state the mirror wasn’t from her family, of course. It had slipped out in a moment of nervousness as he’d tried to reassure her about the new addition to the bedroom.

“Even for you, this is a bit much,” Ban had said as he’d walked in.

Astarion remembered dragging a chair with him, planting it directly in front of the mirror and sitting down. He’d placed it close to the glass; his knees had almost touched his reflection’s. There had been apprehension, a worry that she’d somehow immediately know the origins of his purchase and confront him right there and then. Her pithy comment and the fact that she’d almost caught him with the contract had simply exacerbated his unease. He’d defaulted into his usual defense then, the old act slipping on effortlessly.

“I didn’t buy this from your family, if that’s what you’re so concerned about. And…” He had kept his expression neutral, cooly leaning forward to tilt his face, making a show of admiring his own visage on the mirror. He’d sensed her watching him, likely entranced by his little display, as intended. His eyes had flicked towards hers and in one smooth, practiced move, he’d leaned back to spread his legs.

“Sit.” He’d tapped his right thigh.

Why he needed to do this, to dig at the truth of her past, he didn’t exactly know; after all, the issue of her family was something they’d never spoken of, and which had seemingly no immediate relevance to their life. However, he did see her occasional sadness, saw her pull away when whatever he said or did reminded her of something, and he wanted to understand. He had tried asking her - had done so gently, at times with a little more force, but it always ended the same way.

I don’t want to talk about it, Astarion.

That, usually combined with an angry huff and silence for the rest of the day, even when he acquiesced and let the matter go.

The anger had been a recent thing, an ugly creature borne out of her need to avoid anything even approaching the topic of her past. As their relationship had slowly improved, Astarion had taken it upon himself to learn more about her, figuring that her past would have shaped her; thinking that knowing her more fully would help him predict her better.

That was the logical reason, of course. At the core, all he wanted was to be entrusted with her heart, the whole of her self, in a way that was greater than before, in a way that indicated he’d been fully accepted back, forgiven - permitted to know and love her completely. He sighed, thinking about her most recent eruption.

“Ban, I just-” He’d backtracked, trying to salvage the situation before it escalated into yet another anxiety-filled day of barely being spoken to as punishment.

She’d rounded on him, eyes wild and full of fury and fear - although not of him, if her words had been any indication. “Stop, Astarion. There’s no point in asking, no point in prodding, do you understand?”

“I know...” He had tried to take her wrist and been rebuffed with a quick withdrawal of her hand; his fingers had closed around air. “I merely want to see you.” Like you see me.

“What else is there to see?” Ban had raised an eyebrow, challenging him. “I love you. I am happy with you. I am not afraid of you. What more do you need to know?”

Everything else, he’d thought, but that fear in her eyes had stopped him. Small steps. He knew trust to be a delicate thing; earning it would take time.

Perhaps direct questions might help.

“What was it that… caused this?” Cautious, careful words; he’d tried his best to keep his voice neutral.

After all, he still hadn’t even understood why the argument had started. They had been at Wyrm’s Crossing when a merchant had accused Ban of stealing a necklace.

The culprit had been Astarion, of course. The necklace had a pendant in the shape of a rose, and he had thought it would look wonderful on her. His fingers had moved before he could think, the necklace gone before anyone had been the wiser.

The vendor had eventually noticed the missing necklace. A cursory scan had shown it likely to have been the couple who had just passed by: a silver-haired elf, adorned in a beaded, gold-trimmed jacket, and his companion, a human dressed in nice enough, but rather simpler clothes.

Ban had vehemently denied the accusation, her voice rising in time to match the vendor’s, though still reining herself in.

“Rich,” the man had hissed, eyeing her, “and yet with scruples no better than a common thief. Your companion here picked you up from the streets, no doubt.”

Astarion had seen red then, the temptation to simply end the man’s miserable life almost overwhelming. Instead he had taken a step, encroaching on the man’s space.

“You do not speak to my wife in that manner, cretin,” he had growled, his fangs threatening to make an appearance.

Then he had said the thing that he was almost sure had caused her to recoil. “We could buy your wares, your sorry little shop, and even your sorry little self. ”

He had seen her blanch then, her hand disengaging from where it had been linked around his arm. She hadn’t looked scared of him so much as it had seemed like she’d remembered something, and whatever it was had upset her. Unsure, Astarion had dragged her away from the bristling vendor before the argument could escalate even further.

It had gone downhill from there until, hours later, he’d found himself once more trying to find his way through the mire of her anger and her secrets. What was it that… caused this?

Ban frowned at Astarion’s question, the words ringing in her head.

I could buy you!

Her father had loved saying those words, bandying them about whenever some unfortunate soul crossed him. The moment similar words had left Astarion’s lips, all those memories had come flooding back.

Of course, she would never tell him. It was the past, and as much as Astarion had inadvertently reminded her of her father, she knew he hadn’t meant to. She knew he wanted to know; the way those eyes pleaded and his voice trembled told her in no uncertain terms how badly. She worried, though, that if he knew of her past, knew what she’d suffered, his vision of her would forever be altered.

Ban knew Astarion had always seen her as strong. Resolute. Someone capable of protecting others. She wanted to be that for him, to be his rock - forever, if possible.

There was also the fact that she’d always loathed being weak, even for him.

The mirror was, he supposed, his last, desperate effort. He’d hoped seeing the mirror would bring the conversation to the fore… but then what would have happened?

He would have told her that he did indeed purchase it from her family. He’d have begged for forgiveness, explained he only did it to get her to open up, that she needn’t do anything with the information he’d gleaned about her family. That he wanted to understand her like she understood him, and why was that so wrong?

He’d have told her that he’d tried everything else: he’d spoken, he’d pleaded, he’d begged and tried to explain how important this was to him, and it had all fallen on deaf, if not angry ears, until subterfuge was the only option left unexplored. He’d have told her that it ate him up inside to know she still didn’t love him enough - trust him enough - to share all of herself with him, the imbalance a constant reminder of all the things he could never take back, of sins remaining unforgotten and of wounds unhealed.

Astarion shifted against Ban as frustration seeped in anew, a small grunt escaping his lips.

She knew everything about him, from his worst memories to his greatest fears. She’d seen him at his best, and at his absolute worst. What had he seen of her?

A carefully curated facade, which did sometimes crumble to reveal her soft, loving core - but what about all the parts of her that aren’t her love for him? What about her life before? What made her this?

He wanted to know those pieces of her, to pick them like roses amongst thorns; to love them, to help, to soothe where needed. To do what she’d done for him.

It tore him apart to not be allowed that. To not be trusted with it.

How long would she hide herself from him? He’d given her every ounce of himself; every single day he rested his heart upon her palms, ready to be crushed at a moment’s notice, and yet he was given so little in return. Was he to expect an eternity of this, of her holding back, never giving what matters most of herself? Had he been seen and deemed unworthy of her trust, of her?

And if so, how long until she decided this wasn’t worth it? That she could find someone worthy of sharing all of herself? That he wasn’t worth it, after all?

And just like that day in Wyrm’s Crossing and the countless other days before it, Astarion’s plan for the mirror to trigger a conversation had fallen flat on its face.

When she’d come home earlier today and seen the mirror leaning against their bedroom wall, it had stirred something. She’d definitely reacted to it; he’d seen her staring. But there had been no words, nothing to indicate any willingness to open up to him about her thoughts.

Panic had flooded his mind then. He’d slipped into seduction, hoping that would disarm her enough to say something in the glow of post-coital bliss. Instead she’d merely kissed him and stood up, leaving him to clean himself off and scramble for words that wouldn’t come.

He hadn’t been able to say it, the cold grip of fear squeezing his heart until all he could do was watch his own reflection in the mirror.

The man staring back at him had looked terrified.

Ban noticed Astarion’s frustrated noise as he snuggled more firmly against her back.

“You alright?” she asked, feeling the hand resting on her stomach tighten in response. He sighed, his warm breath tickling her nape. She knew he was troubled, knew that it had to do with whatever he was hiding, and also now suspected that the mirror was related to it.

Astarion cleared his throat. “Perfectly fine, if in need of rest,” he said stiffly, but there was no hiding that tone, nor the tension in his body. The fear had fully set in and he didn’t want to risk their forever by admitting his misdeed.

Besides, he reasoned, it’s such a small, irrelevant thing. Maybe she isn’t bothered by the mirror. Maybe those memories are just that - recollections not worthy of further thought. Perhaps there isn’t a need to even bring this up.

“Astarion. Talk to me.” Ban turned to face him; he closed his eyes as she did, refusing to look. “What’s with the mirror, and whatever you were hiding in your desk a tenday ago?”

No. No. His mind scurried for a response, looking for an excuse and finding absolutely none. He forced his eyelids open to meet her gaze. There was nothing for it; he had to at least say something.

“I thought it would jog your memory, and perhaps pry open your mouth.”

“Mem-” Ban swore. “ Gods. How many - I keep telling you. I don’t want to talk about it!”

Of course it had to do with her past. She tried to bite down the vitriol threatening to make its way out of her and entirely failed.

“Why are you so keen on knowing, anyway? Can you not keep your nose out of my business for once?”

Astarion gasped at her poisonous jab. For so long he’d been backing off whenever she snapped at him over this, but his patience had run out. “Because you won’t tell me anything! How can I make things right if you won’t trust me?”

The moment the words were out of his mouth he regretted them; his jaw snapped shut. She wouldn’t like that; any mention of anything regarding her opening up was met with anger or stony silence. Astarion quickly changed tactics, doing what he usually did at this point: placating her while panicking quietly.

“Ban,” he sighed. “That… I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Probably not,” came her clipped response. She moved away, out from his arms, curling up at the far side of the bed.

Astarion watched her, the last embers of that defensive anger slipping away under the endless tide of his fear. He didn’t reach for her; simply drew the blankets over her body, tucking her in.

He pressed one small kiss to her shoulder, sighing as she made no move to indicate she’d even noticed him.

“Goodnight, Ban,” he murmured, as he allowed himself to slowly slip into trance. I love you. He didn’t say it, frightened of what her response would be - or worse, wouldn’t be. He didn’t hear a reply.

Ban waited until he was fully in trance, his breaths slow and deep, before she moved.

The hallways were bathed in moonlight, a beautiful sight that she had always loved. Tonight, however, they barely merited a glance.

A quick left down the hallway, and she was in the study. It didn’t take long to find the parchment Astarion had tried to keep hidden. To find the truth.

If you would like to see more of these two and their story, consider reading my other entries in the series "If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there."

Taglist: @elora-the-slutty-songstress @tragedybunny @spacebarbarianweird @ayselluna @enterthedreams @coltaire @qiific3 @misscrissfemmefatale @vixstarria @eatyourheartoutmylove @linllewellyn @ battisonsgf @micropoe10 @thegoodwitchs-blog @akirahime @velcyrptrr @i-cant-get-into-my-other-account @babblebrain-blog @asterordinary @last-but-not-the-least @artist4theworld @gracemisconduct @decadentcoffeewizard @rootin-tootin-n-kind@pursuitseternal @youngtacobanana @krispeenuggiez @girlygmer-blog @cheezits4lyfe @vinegarjello @the0ldmann @wisteriaofthegraves @girlygamer-blog

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dragons-and-handcuffs · 25 days

Note

While Lady Velaryon is hidden away on Dragonstone these many months, Aemond has been fighting in the war. It drags on, painfully. Some days truthfully, Aemond has begun to question why to continue the fight.

Everything made sense to him before. The family. His place in it. Duty. It was all so easy. Until her. How can he live with his duty… if he loses her?

A traitor to every ideal he thought he had. Every ideal he was taught. Surely there’s no way out of this. If he stops fighting, he knows it will mean his end. But as time passes, a silent truth creeps into him. He would happily go to his end, if only he can kiss her lips once more before it all.

This is the state in which he meets his dear uncle in. Far less smug than Daemon expected. Instead he’s somber. Almost as if…. He knows he may go to his death. Months before, he was confident. If he faced his uncle, he was sure he’d be strong enough. Now…. None of it matters.

Not a hint of mockery. Nothing in his face but sincerity. It catches Daemon off guard. As they ride up into the clouds, so certain at least one of them rides to their death.

Still, fierce and terrifying is the battle. But as Daemon moves, his sword aimed for his nephew’s one good eye, to deliver the killing blow….

One cannot say why. Anyone would assume it was a clear shot. Aemond would be dead. Falling into the lake along with his dragon. Perhaps an uncharacteristic moment of hesitation in Daemon. Perhaps Aemond moved his head just enough at the last minute. Or perhaps, just a twist of fate. Dark Sister does not find its mark in Aemond’s skull. Instead slashing the side of his face. But though his other eye isn’t lost, his ear was not similarly spared.

The histories differ. Some say after both men fell into the lake, Aemond cut his saddle and used what strength he could to swim to shore. And some say Daemon’s mercy was why his saddle was cut….

But as Aemond, blood running down his shoulder, gets his bearings on shore, he’s put face to face with his uncle’s blade. Looking up into his eyes…. His death is all but assured.

Aemond shocks his uncle then. His face finds composure. All the feeling draining from him. Instead giving one look to him. He’s ready for death.

“Why.”

Daemon asks.

“Why boy, is your death so easy to accept?”

Aemond speaks simply.

“I lost care for my own life many months past…. If nothing else uncle, grant me this before my death.” His composed voice instead almost shakes. “Lady Velaryon…. Tell me she’s well. And… give her… my apology. For the promises I made and did not keep. Please.”

Daemon freezes, caught completely off guard. Staring down at his nephew he looks for any trace of the fierce and intelligent threat that he once was…. Yet that’s not the man before him. In his mind Daemon finally connects it.

“It’s you… isn’t it? The father.” He speaks almost in disbelief.

“Father….?” That word makes Aemond look up in complete confusion.

Daemon is many things. He supposes to call him cruel wouldn’t be a complete lie. There’s many a thing he’s done no doubt the gods have gasped at. But….

“You’re going to stand. And walk. You’re a prisoner of war now and you’ll stand trial before your Queen.”

It’s hardly an act of mercy to some. But it’s the most mercy Daemon will grant him. He will go to Dragonstone in chains. But Daemon knows what waits for him there. Aemond will owe him a life debt times two perhaps.

Dragonless, now missing an ear along with his eye, and a prisoner of the blacks. That is the state in which former prince Aemond Targaryen arrives at Dragonstone. He would hold his chin high. Were it under any other circumstance. The first time he sees his love again, and she will see him disgraced and in chains. But when they return…. They find fewer people greeting them than expected. Aemond finds himself face to face instead with Baela. There is shock in her eyes. And then anger. But then… she seems to relent something. He almost sees worry. Why is Baela worried exactly….

Perhaps it was seeing Daemon fly off. Knowing he goes to face Aemond. Perhaps all the stress of these months finally caught up to the Lady Velaryon. But her labors finally began.

Long into the day, she paced her chambers, trying to take comfort in the midwives. Baela and Rhaena were with her when it happened. But they couldn’t be here now. It was too close to their mother…. Rhaenyra herself stepped in. Knowing the pain very well.

But the lady was inconsolable. She cried not only from the pain of the body, but in her heart. She’s laboring alone, having the child of the enemy Daemon rode off to kill. Her poor fatherless child. And she feels she brought this doom upon them. She’s here now. Hours she labors. Exhaustion beginning to weigh on her. Rhaenyra tries to offer SOME comfort. But it’s clear as her labors become more difficult, it reminds Rhaenyra too much of the stillbirth of her daughter.

Long into the day, and soon into the night she struggles. Rhaenyra tries to come back to life. Holding her hand and encouraging her to push. Telling her she can bring this child forth.

But the lady only cries.

“I want my love! I wish he was here with me… I’m not strong enough alone! Instead I am to have a fatherless child! If I even have one…” She laments. Rhaenyra sees her losing her nerve.

But…. In the candlelight, in this chamber with only worried midwives and a distraught laboring woman, a new fave enters. A face that shocks all in the room.

Aemond. Standing in the door. He’s followed closely and watched by Daemon, despite his visible discomfort at the scene in this room. Aemond is disheveled. His ear is hastily bandaged. His clothing a mess. His wrists with chains.

But his eyes…. They hold only love. A euphoria at seeing her again. A desperation. And fear. He returns to her now, seeing her trying to birth a child he didn’t know she was carrying. His child.

He wastes no time in being at her side. Brushing her hair out of her sweat covered face.

“A-Aemond? You’re alive…. You’re alive, oh this must be a cruel trick…. I’m dying and the gods sent you.”

“No.” Tears are almost coming to him now. “No my girl, I’m alive. You are not dying. But please. You need to fight. I know you must have been fighting so long but just a little longer. You need to… for our child, can you do that my love?”

Despite Aemond’s comforting words, his heart is full of fear. He sees the faces of the midwives. He knows if the child doesn’t come fully soon, she’ll lose her strength. He knows soon he may still face the harsh consequences for his actions against the blacks…. But just for now. He’s with his love. For the first time in months. And all he wants is for her to live.

“Come on my brave girl. Just push.” He holds her hand tightly and kisses her forehead. She squeezes his hand back, holding onto him and crying out, as she struggles and fights. Her baby’s father is here now…. She just needs to manage.

And as Aemond holds onto her for support… the Lady Velaryon’s labors finally come to an end. When a tiny cry is heard throughout the room. Small. But strong. She’s done it.

Aemond can’t stop from crying then. Kissing her and holding her like he wanted so long to do again. All while praising her for her strength.

Rhaenyra steps back for a moment. Standing close to the door with Daemon. They both watch Aemond carefully. For now… they don’t interfere.

As the baby is placed on their mother’s chest, and she wraps her arms around them. Smiling and holding them close. Remarking affectionately that she can swear they have Aemond’s nose. Aemond is frozen. Looking down at the child. Their child. His child… he’s a father.

He reaches out and brushes a finger against their cheek. Unexpectedly the little creature grabs it, gripping onto his finger tightly as they blink their curious eyes. Still drawing in their environment. Their eyes aren’t good enough yet to see far. Not enough to see their father’s face break out in a smile.

Gently he lifts them in his arms. Holding them close.

“Oh my child…. If only I’d known…” Carefully he rocks them. “I wish I could promise you…. That things will be well after this. I wish…. I could even say with complete certainty that I’ll return. I don’t know of our futures now… nor what I can give you as a father. I can offer no more inheritance. No titles. No honor. Naught but a name. And…. the promise…. That no matter the consequences I face now, no matter the fate I go to, my heart will rest with you and your mother. If nothing else… I love you with all my heart and I bid you, never forget it.” He whispers these words gently to the child. Placing a soft kiss on the top of their head. Almost painful as he puts them back in the arms of their mother. Standing and looking to Daemon.

He knows not what his punishment will be. But at least…. He saw his love. And held their child. At least once. He whispers to the lady. Words of devotion to her. And a name for the child. Something for him to give them. As he stands and walks to find what fate will decide for him now.

This is so beautiful 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

And the ending 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

Aemond needs more time with his kid and his lady Velaryon 😭😭😭😭😭😭

But anon your writing is so good🔥🔥🔥🔥

#aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #aemond x reader #hotd #house of the dragon #game of thrones #game of thrones imagines #hotd headcanon #hotd fanfic #hotd imagine #hotd imagines #hotd one shot #house of the dragon imagine

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macgyvermedical · 4 months

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Magic Bullets: The Antibiotic Story

The year was 1907 and a Dr. Alfred Bertheim was trying to make arsenic less toxic to humans.

Why? Because in addition to killing humans, arsenic also kills trypanosomes- single-celled protozoa that cause the life-threatening infection trypanosomiasis. By creating a version of arsenic that still killed the protozoa, but not the human they infected, Dr. Bertheim could create a drug to treat the disease*.

This was not a fully new idea. About 50 years earlier, a drug called Atoxyl had been created in France. About 40 times less toxic than pure arsenic, it had been shown to not only successfully treat trypanosomiasis, but also the equally devastating syphilis infection.

But 40 times less toxic than pure arsenic is still not great. About 2% of people treated even one time with the drug ended up blind, among a myriad of other side effects. It was a start, but not ideal.

And Dr. Bertheim (under the direction of better-known Dr. Paul Ehrlich) was setting out to change that.

And it just so happened that the sixth compound from the sixth group he tried did so. Known as "compound 606", the new Arsphenamine could treat trypanosomiasis, relapsing fever, and syphilis very effectively- and it didn't leave its takers dead or blind.

Most of the time, at least. See, arsphenamine, also known by the brand name salvarsan, was a pain in the ass to administer. It had to be dissolved in several hundred mililiters of water under a nitrogen atmosphere to prepare it for administration. If it touched air, it would rapidly react, causing toxic byproducts that could cause liver failure, severe skin rashes, and even death.

But both trypanosomiasis and syphilis were definitely going to kill you, so it was worth the risk.

And the seed had been planted, so to say. The idea of a chemical able to kill infection-causing agents without killing the host was a true possibility for the future of medicine.

And by 1912, Neosalvarsan, a drug somewhat less effective -but far easier to administer and with significantly fewer side effects- was on the market. Over the next decade, Neosalvarsan would be responsible for a massive drop in syphilis cases worldwide.

But neither of the drugs could treat deadly infections from staph or strep or the hundreds of other bacterial or viral infections that still had no cure in the 1910's and 1920's.

Then came the first of the heavy-hitters. Bayer was a dye company when it started, and in 1932, three and a half decades after switching mostly to pharmaceuticals, chemists at Bayer were testing the company's dyes for anti-infective properties. They went through thousands of trials, finally finding a dye that could kill streptococcal bacteria without killing a mouse host.

Pre-1930s, streptococcal disease was a major problem. It caused strep throat, cellulitis, scarlet fever, childbed (purpural) fever, some forms of toxic shock syndrome, impetigo, necrotizing fasciitis, rheumatic fever, and many others. The skin infections may have been at least somewhat treatable with a hot compress, but the rest were prone to cause blindness, deafness, loss of limbs, and for many, loss of life.

In 1936, sulfonamide antibiotics changed that. Protosil, the first of the sulfonamides, became available to treat many of the infections listed above. These would be used for wound infections throughout WWII. Unfortunately, they would also cause the untimely death of nearly 100 people via the Elixer Sulfanilamide tragedy.

Sulfanilamide was a similar drug to Prontosil and was safe and effective for treating strep infections. However, when mixed with diethylene glycol (now used as standard car antifreeze) to make it into a liquid suspension, it was deadly. See this letter from a doctor who had prescribed the liquid form of the medication, not knowing it was poison:

[to read more about the Elixer Sulfanilamide Disaster, see here]

Despite the sulfanilamide tragedy, the race was on for more antibiotics. Three years before they went on the market, researchers had found evidence of bacterial resistance to sulfonamides. What would happen when these new bacteria, that didn't die when exposed to the new wonder drug, made up so much of the bacterial population?

In 1942, the Cocoanut Grove fire in Boston caused over 492 deaths and 130 injuries. The injured were among the first to receive a remarkable new drug called penicillin. The fire and the fate of the victims were publicized throughout the world, and penicillin became a household name overnight. But once again, even before it went on the market in 1943, just in time for the end of the Second World War, there was evidence of resistance.

But fortunately, the fire had been sparked. Over the next 30 years, many dozens of antibiotics would come into clinical use. If you've taken it, it probably came out between 1940 and 1970. Tetracycline, isoniazid, metronidazole, ciprofloxacin, erythromycin, vancomycin, amoxicillin, and dozens more you've never heard of.

And then? Nothing.

Well, not completely nothing, there were a couple that came out in the 1980s and a few in the early 2000s. But nothing like that 30-year golden age.

But now we're running into problems due to drug resistance. About 1.27 million people die annually directly from antibiotic resistant infection, while antibiotic resistance contributes to about 4.95 million more deaths.

The good news is that the drugs that are being made today are directly targeting those antibiotic resistant infections. In fact, as I'm writing this, a new drug (Zosurabalpin) is being tested for a bacteria called Carbapenem-resistant Acinetobacter baumannii, which up until now has had no antibiotic that works against it.

*as you may imagine for the time period, this was not necessarily a benevolent act. See, most of the reason Europeans wanted to treat trypanosomiasis in the first place was because they kept dying of it when they went to colonize Africa. And they wanted something that would give them a leg up on the people who were already there.

#writing reference #whump reference #antibiotics #science #history #early antibiotic history

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viridianevergarden · 24 days

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The Comforts of the Night

A/N: So I haven’t written anything serious in like 2 years but my elriel hunger is unfathomably ravenous so I decided to take a crack at it. This little fic focuses more on Azriel and is told from his POV. It’s a what if scenario that I hadn’t really bothered to specify precisely when in the story this would ever take place so 💀 Enjoy, I hope.

Word count: 3.5K

Ship: Elriel

Key: light fluff, angst

Possible triggers: Elements of poor self loathing/esteem, light mentions of blood and suggestive things.

• • •

It had been a long day for Azriel, so unbearably long. Such was commonplace for him, however, as being the Night Court's Spymaster unyieldingly commanded the workload.

His muscles had ached from stress nearly all day, though he effortlessly paid no heed, not until now. A part of him had wondered how, after centuries of the same work, his body hadn't become adapted to it. He couldn't deny that he worked more nowadays than he had ever done, especially with the threat of the incoming war growing ever closer.

Work had been unforgiving for a long while. The requirement of always leaving Velaris to go to war camps, courts, or even the continent had always been something Azriel loathed and wished he never had to do. Yet now, for a time, he had returned home to Velaris. As for how long he would stay, he had no idea. Orders alone had determined that factor and even those were ever changing.

The wind's chill nipped at Azriel's wings as he flew across the clear starry sky, peering down at the warm lights that littered Velaris' buildings and streets. Fewer people were out and about at this hour, and yet the city looked as lively as it did in the day. Perhaps some were going home after a fun night at a local bar, or others were merely enjoying the ever-beautiful scenery on a late-night walk. If only he had the free time to do so as well, he'd thought.

After circling the proximity of Velaris once over, he banked into the direction of the Townhouse. He would sleep there only for the night and leave again come dawn. As of late, Azriel had avoided staying at the Townhouse, at least for longer periods. But to his dismay, sleep softly called out to him, just as his shadows so often would.

From overhead, Azriel could see the Townhouse's gardens as he approached, making note of the newly planted flowers and sprouts that rimmed the tall hedges within.

It had been over a week since he was last in Velaris. Being here now, seeing the progress that had been made, he couldn't help but let his mind wonder about the one who tended to the gardens itself. He wondered about how she was doing, what else she was up to, and if she was doing alright.

His eyes continued to scan the gardens until they locked onto a pale mass of lilac, golden brown, and cream sitting upon one of the stone benches. The Shadowsinger knew exactly who it was. It was as if his thoughts of her had miraculously willed her into existence. The very girl that had constantly plagued his mind, plagued his mind just then.

But why was Elain in the gardens alone in the dead of night? On a chilly one no less? He had known Elain to be one to stay up late on occasion but being alone in the gardens at this hour was new.

Thoughts of what to do flit through his mind, contemplating whether to bank now and go inside before she noticed him or to see her— To talk to her and revel in the moment, to see if she is okay.

Desire wrestled with the fiends in his head, the ones that told him he shouldn’t. That told him he should go inside and sleep. To forget what he saw and stay away. That there was no need for someone like him to speak to someone like her.

Although it seemed that his mental war was all for naught. Quiet as his large wings were on the wind, it seemed as if Elain could still hear him coming from miles away. Like she had already known he was coming.

Her beautiful face turned upward in his direction, brown eyes wide in recognition. It was too late to turn away now. The female remained in her place, daring not to move as Azriel had landed a short distance away on soft feet. He flared his wings once before folding them in and tucking them closed.

They stared at one another before Elain bit her lip and spoke, “You’re back.”

Her voice was quiet and soft, and Azriel took a moment to just… Listen. His shadows had pooled to his feet at the sweet sound. Like they were in need of retreat.

He swiftly ducked his head to nod, “I am.” It wasn’t enough of an answer, not for her. “For now. I’ll be leaving again at dawn.”

“Oh… I see.” Elain’s eyes darted away from him as her hopeful expression faltered. “You must be tired, so I’ll–” Azriel shook his head.

She looked him up and down in worry, searching his eyes for some form of an answer.

“I’m fine.” He angled his head toward the flower sprouts across from them. “They’re coming along nicely.” A smile twitched onto Elain’s lips, and Azriel had known then that she was well aware of the subject change.

“I planted them a few days ago.” Right after he left if he had to guess. “They’re moonflower sprouts. They bloom after dusk until dawn.”

Azriel offered her a gentle smile, recalling that they were indeed one of the flowers that she had spoken about a time before. He could remember as much with little effort.

“Sit with me?” The sudden request made Azriel’s brows twitch in confusion. Elain stammered, “If it’s no trouble, I don’t mind the company.”

Azriel shouldn’t— Shouldn’t— but he couldn’t say no, not to her offer. Not to her. He stepped closer as she scooted down the bench a little, allowing him space to sit and move his wings to get comfortable, or at least as comfortable as anyone could get on a stone bench.

Being so close, the scent— Her scent of honey and jasmine was near enough to leave him intoxicated. His heart thrummed and he only hoped that she couldn’t hear it.

“Why are you outside this late?” The words slipped from Azriel’s lips faster than he could contemplate them.

Elain fumbled with the fabric of her lilac sleeping gown like she was thinking of what to say. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I would come out here for a bit to get some fresh air.” A partial lie. He knew that much, and judging by her expression, she knew that he was aware.

Was Elain like him too? Did she have endless voices in her head? Were they the ones responsible for keeping her awake at night like they did him?

Azriel blinked, his hazel eyes sliding down Elain’s form. Just in her gown, no shoes or socks, no coat. Long, wavy, golden-brown locks draped over an exposed shoulder, over her creamy skin— “It’s cool out, you should have grabbed a jacket.”

Elain’s cheeks flushed at the realization as she quickly averted her gaze from him once again, taking interest in the moon-bathed pavement. “I didn’t think it would get this cold…”

The male took a moment to think, to think over his immediate thoughts, and determine what to do. Anything to avoid messing this up. But if she was cold—

“I’ll be alright, please don’t worry.” She had known, caught on too quickly. Elain had read him all too well. She always did, he realized.

Moonlit doe eyes stared back at him once more. Doe eyes… How beautiful they were. And her bright reassuring smile— it was more than enough to make him weak in the knees, bright enough to put even his shadows at bay.

Azriel’s lips parted in an urge before they quickly shut again, quickly willing himself to speak. “At least let me keep you from freezing.” He could provide that much at the very least, if she let him.

Before Elain could speak, the Shadowsinger slowly extended his wing behind her back, though careful not to touch her and not to disturb the blue hydrangeas behind them.

An offer.

She sucked in a breath that sent shivers down his spine and glanced back at the sight. She then slid closer to him, just a few inches. Close enough that their thighs nearly touched. That large wing gently— carefully— ever so slowly curled around her far shoulder, as if he thought that any careless movement could harm her.

His wings alone were not incredibly warm but they did help to retain some semblance of body heat in times of need. At the very least, they could protect from the wind.

“Thank you.” Sweet. Her voice was too sweet. Like a song. Azriel dipped his chin in response, not knowing how to respond properly.

“Your wings,” Elain paused for a moment, focused entirely on the one resting against her back and curled around her side. “Do they get cold too?”

A laugh nearly instantly slipped from Azriel’s lips. A low and quiet chuckle. “Sometimes. The cold’s bite can be relentless.”

Perhaps it was due to his laugh or some other thing, but Elain’s shoulders loosened in ease. A smile bloomed back onto her face as she peered up at him. “It was a silly question, I apologize. I’m just curious.”

“Curiosity is harmless. Never apologize for it.” The male smiled back at Elain. “If you have questions, you may ask freely.”

“Even if my questions are frivolous?” Elain joked with a small giggle, raising a curled finger to her lips.

Azriel’s warm gaze softened at the lovely sound— her laugh. “Even if your questions are frivolous.” A silly reassurance, but a reassurance nonetheless.

Elain hummed as she stared up at Azriel, that smile never faltering. The shadowsinger was the first to break eye contact, fearing that if he looked at her too long, he might do something foolish. That he might fall victim to his desires more than he already had this night. He looked up at the stars instead, for any manner of distraction. It was nearing an hour past midnight, judging by the moon’s positioning.

“If I may be so selfish to ask,” Elain’s voice called his eyes back down to her. “Could we stay here for a while longer?” Her tone was laced with meek hope. Azriel tilted his head in inclination, wondering why.

Elain clenched her fists and her lips trembled. She was searching for an excuse, anything not to seem impolite or desperate, it seemed. Before she could speak, Azriel had beat her to it.

“Yes,” He took a breath, “Of course we can.” Elain’s hands unclenched after hearing his confirmation, seemingly relieved by it.

They sat together in a comfortable silence for a while, merely enjoying each other’s company and the scenery that surrounded them. The silence was nothing new between them and it had never been awkward before but tonight, oh this night felt… Different. Here they sat, where only the stars might witness them, while all of Velaris slept.

Sleep. The shadows whispered into his ears. The girl wants to sleep.

Azriel turned his head to peer down at Elain, right in time to witness her dozing figure lean against his arm. He assumed it was hardly comfortable, given that he was wearing his Illyrian leathers, but…

He stared, stared at her. At the way the loose strands of her hair framed her face. At her long lashes and perfect nose. Her soft lips. Her lips—

Sleep. His shadows continued to beckon. Sleep.

Azriel knocked himself out of his trance, a small frown forming on his face.

He didn’t want to disturb her rest but it was getting cooler by the minute and this was no place to sleep safely.

“Elain…” His voice was barely louder than the soft breeze. But her name— Her name rolling off his lips—

Elain merely gave him a barely audible broken hum. She was falling into a deeper sleep by the second.

“We should get you inside.” He received no response and hadn’t expected one.

Azriel sat there for a moment to consider what he should do. He then loosed a quiet sigh and moved to pick Elain up. Carefully, ever so carefully did he crane one arm underneath her legs and the other to support her back. The sudden absence of his wing had caused her to cling to him, to any semblance of warmth she could find against the frigid air.

Her head rested against the black scales of his leathers as the male started for the doors that led back inside from the gardens. Silently, the doors opened for Azriel, by the work of his shadows no less. He passed the threshold and the doors closed, then he began his ascent upon the foyer steps.

The trip to Elain’s room was short and uneventful, thank the Cauldron. If anyone had seen— There would be no excuses to be made, no believable farce to cover how they had looked in the moment. And more importantly, to disturb Elain’s peaceful rest, Azriel wouldn’t be able to forgive himself for it.

His shadows had willed her bedroom door open, and Azriel nudged it further with his foot before heading inside. Hazel eyes scanned the view before them, taking in all the details of the room.

Perhaps it was due to his habit as a Spymaster to do so, to analyze every little thing in sight. Not that Azriel hadn’t long since memorized the entire layout of the townhouse, including the placements of any weapons within, but this room— this room was uncharted territory. He’d kept true about Elain’s right to privacy after all.

Elain’s room was clean and tidy, and had smelled so strongly of her— The old vanity desk in the far left corner was littered with stacks of books, he’d guessed, that covered the arts of gardening and botany. Several seed pouches lay scattered about, each labeled with names of different flora.

On the opposite side of the room was the massive canopy bed, centered against the wall. The bed itself was big enough to accommodate Illyrian wings. Such a thing had been the standard for every bedroom in the townhouse, but Azriel could only imagine how much better the extra space was for those without wings.

The rich wood end tables that flanked the bedsides had been adorned with smaller potted plants. Each were with little budding flowers in hues of pinks and blues, although they were closed for the night.

The ivory covers of the bed itself were a mess, and Azriel had guessed that she indeed must have tried to sleep before getting up— just as she had said before.

Azriel moved through the room and gently laid Elain down in her bed, pulling off the strands of hair that had snagged onto his leathers. Elain had hardly stirred during any of it, to his favor.

Scarred hands pulled the soft covers up to Elain’s shoulders and all the male could do was halt. He couldn’t help but stare. She had looked so… So peaceful. Beautiful. Even bathed in the silver moonlight that the bay windows had offered, she still glowed like the light of the sun at dawn.

He wondered, how could anyone not fall to their knees before her? How could they even think to hurt someone such as her? Someone so warm and sweet— Endlessly giving and full of light— So gentle and yet so strong—

The Shadowsinger thoughtlessly leaned down to take in her features, bracing his hand on the bedside to keep himself balanced. Elain remained ever so still, breathing slow and soft.

Oh, how he yearned to be able to hold her in his gentle embrace. Yearned to make her smile and laugh. Yearned to lay with her in warmth and comfort. Yearned to place his hand on her cheek and lift her chin the way he wanted, to lean down and press his lips against hers—

Azriel’s other hand had lifted, he’d realized, frozen merely centimeters from touching Elain’s soft cheek. His hand— Hideous splotched scars had consumed his vision, and plagued his mind like the terrible fiends did. Calloused and burned hideousness covered in the blood of many. A hand that did nothing but kill, maim, and hurt. One undeserving of anything such as this.

His hand quickly jerked away from Elain’s cheek and formed a fist back at his side, as if his own ugliness would singe her perfect face, her beauty. As if his ugliness would cast a shadow over her light and snuff it out for good.

Azriel stumbled back three steps, releasing a series of shaky breaths. His heart rushed and ached more than anything he had ever felt. Sickness fell to the pit of his stomach.

Leave. He needed to leave.

His wings tucked closer to his body as he turned, quickly and quietly making way for the door.

Stay. His heart pleaded. Please stay.

No.

No— He couldn’t— He shouldn’t—

Shouldn’t— shouldn’t— shouldn’t—

He didn’t deserve her. Didn’t deserve this.

No one could ever hope to deserve someone as perfect as Elain. Not even himself. No matter how much he felt for her. No matter how much his heart had stirred as heavily as the crash of raging tides. No matter how much his heart yearned for her love, her light, for anything at all.

Elain was not his to love. She was a mated female after all. One who was forcibly shackled to that wretched mating bond like a beast locked in a cage. But even then, oh then, she was not his. Never his.

Azriel silently closed the bedroom door and hastened down the hall, desperately needing some form of space. Of air. Anything to calm his raging and hurting heart.

He quickly reached his room on the opposite side of the house and retreated inside without a thought. Azriel couldn’t even bear to look at his hands, the horrid sight they were. How could he? How could he when he had been so close to tainting her flesh?

Fool.

A fucking fool.

He shouldn’t have been so stupid as to linger. To let himself go astray and even attempt to touch Elain. Especially when she was sleeping, when she was at her most vulnerable— Wrong, it was all so wrong. He should have just left her to sleep in peace the moment he tucked her in.

The Shadowsinger sauntered over to his wardrobe and slowly stripped the leathers from his body, unbuckling the countless amounts of leather belts and undoing all of the strings and buttons. One by one, each article was removed and tossed onto an empty table nearby.

This room seemed empty compared to Elain’s. Lifeless. Most of his things had been moved to the House of Wind, they had been for a while now. So this room was no more than a ghost of what it once was, but even so, it served its purpose well enough.

Leaving none but two siphoned gloves on his hands to rest, Azriel grabbed a set of night pants and slipped them on. He then walked over to his bed and laid atop the fixed covers, facing toward his window to view the sky. Near instantly did the pains of the day’s stressors set back in. He’d forgotten all about them when he was with Elain, he realized. That, and his exhaustion too.

Time always flew when he was by her side. All of his pains and worries seemed to go away in her presence. Everything felt so right when he was with her. But it was wrong. Still, it was wrong. So then why? Why was Elain forced with another? Why, when she felt so right with him instead?

Why were his beloved brothers, Cassian and Rhysand, blessed by the Mother? The Cauldron? With something so lovely, so sacred as love itself? As a bond— Something so few could ever hope to have, that many dreamt about, but Azriel was left alone?

Was he truly so horrible, so unlovable and undeserving that not even the gods could give him that blessing? Did Fate itself really hate him as much?

Azriel couldn’t understand, even when he tried so hard to steel his mind to the pain and misunderstanding. When he tried so hard to make himself think that maybe it’s just not meant to be, and that it was okay.

Happy as he was for his brothers, he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t prevent the pain and envy that so viciously ripped and tore and clawed at his heart like some ravaged beast. Like an unforgiving fiend.

Perhaps he had no right to love and be loved in return.

Perhaps he had no right to experience something as sacred as a mating bond. Not with anyone.

Perhaps Elain had never even begun to see him in the light that he saw her.

Azriel’s eyelids grew heavy and he could no longer fight the ever growing fatigue. His view of the moon outside had begun to fade to black.

Elain…

Her smile alone was the last thought that his clouded mind could muster before the darkness took him, just as it always had, body and soul. Just as he knew it always would.

#elriel #acotar #pro elriel #elain x azriel #azriel shadowsinger #elain archeron #a court of thorns and roses #azriel #elriel fic #azriel and elain #elain and azriel #azriel x elain

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