#don’t kill the messenger���

[soovermyself]

Alright, alright, alright. For everyone in my anons asking. Here it is…

[redversaillesrose]

Blonde hair that reaches just above the shoulders.

Blue eyes.

Singer.

6ft tall.

Lowkey complicated relationships.

[yonglixx]

*is eating bacon* this definitely isnt Dwaekki i swear

[studiem-donec-mortem]

[gremlingottoosilly]

Cleaning services (perv!Konig x fem!cleaner!Reader)

Konig needs help in decluttering and cleaning his house. Unfortunately for you, he takes quite a huge liking in having pretty things like you around. And he isn't very nice about it.

TW: Perverted Konig, age gap, Konig masturbates at you without consent, implied kidnapping, yandere Word count: 3754 This work on AO3

There is no shame in having a professional cleaner, König tries to tell himself. 

Yes, he is a grown man with a very dangerous job that requires having a lot of responsibility. He holds the lives of his soldiers in his hands and risks his life every day not for the sake of his country, but certainly for the sake of his wallet and the reputation of KorTac. 

Hiring a professional cleaner for his house shouldn’t make him feel humiliated and embarrassed, and he knows it. Cleaners are basically like soldiers – doing stuff that other people can’t for a certain amount of money, providing services for the clients who can afford it. Besides, it’s a support of his local community – after everything he took from the people around his town, it’s only natural that he would support this growing business of cleaning services. 

There is no shame in having some nice old lady cleaning his house and watching over it while he is too busy trying not to kill himself or drown his head in liquor after a particularly rough mission. When you lose two guys on a run that was supposed to be the quickest task possible when you’re returning home with an injury that isn’t really that serious but brings your whole mental state into a very dark place, and when you’re forced to take 3 weeks of leave in the place you hate, hiring a cleaner to take care of everything really shouldn’t make him so ashamed of himself. 

Even if he can clean his space – the house is just too big for only one of him, and his ribs still have this funny feeling of fantom bullets traveling around his guts. So, he dials up the number of the cleaning services because he is too fucking old to understand their weird website and messenger ordering, even though speaking with a human operator on the other half of the line is somewhat more humiliating that having no idea of how to use a modern interface. 

There is no shame in asking for help, his therapist is trying to shrill it in his head all of the time and yet he is still hesitant when the cleaning professional is knocking on his door, finding this place surprisingly fast. König braces himself, thinking about all the ways he could avoid having a conversation – he drew a quick map of the place, put down the room cleaner shouldn’t be entering – his gun safe, mostly, already repeated in his head how he would greet them and swiftly extract himself from the situation. 

“Guten Tag, please, come in. This is the map of the place, don’t go to the red door on the right, don’t hesitate to ask questions, I will be on the second floor.” He takes a few wide, swift steps to his door and stops. Thinks again, overthinking, thinking too fucking much about everything, anxiously checking on his phone to read the message that yes, his cleaner is here and he should probably open the door or they would burst down the window. “Guten Tag, come in. Map of the place is here, don’t go to the red door to the right, please hesitate to ask questions, I will be somewhere around the house, lurking in the shadows” He braces himself to open the door, ready to see that sweet old lady who would spend the next 8 hours cleaning his house and then turn back another day to rinse and repeat until his house stopped looking like a place where a very, very miserable man lives. (Even if this is true) 

But, there isn’t a nice old lady with a bunch of cleaning supplies and determination to make someone’s life easier. 

But, there isn’t a cold middle-aged woman with a very professional no-nonsense attitude who wouldn’t even talk to him before going straight to work. 

But, there is a young girl. Well, not a girl, of course, if he had to guess you were somewhere around the “Too fucking young, but definitely legal” spectrum. Young enough to not be alive when he was already going to school, young enough to make him sweat, and definitely not old enough to be accepting a job where you’d have to spend so much of your life cleaning and scrubbing and sorting and…

There isn’t anything shameful in ordering a cleaning service when you genuinely need it, but you’re young and you’re pretty and he isn’t even wearing a mask because he is an old dumbass that forgot about it, and you look at him with your shiny eyes and…

Maybe, he should clean on his own – would definitely be less shameful. 

— Sir? H…hello? Good morning? Can you hear me? 

Yes, he can hear you. 

Yes, he would love to hear you every single day of his life, when he wakes up and when he falls asleep. 

— Ja. I apologize, I…thought it was mail. 

It’s a dumb excuse, but he can’t really say that he was just too fucking mesmerized by your shiny eyes and perfect hair and nice figure and basically everything about you. He has this nasty habit of imagining a future with people around him – with people who just fucking want to be left alone, and yet he still stares and looks and it’s probably ultra uncomfortable for them – but he can’t help imagining the life with every cute lady in the grocery shop or elegant lady sitting next to him on a train. 

He has a pattern – people who are not interested in him in the slightest. He has a pattern, a preference, cute girls, smart girls, popular ladies that were never even so much as looking in his direction. He could probably score someone now, having a colonel’s salary and honorably discharged payments, but he gave up on trying to find anyone. He has friends, company, has work where he spent most of his life anyway – he doesn’t need anyone, he wants to think. 

Then you waddle into his life with a bunch of cleaning supplies and a small vacuum, barely able to handle everything in your hands. He rushes to help and envelops your hands with his – you are so much smaller in comparison, he has bear-like arms and horribly big everything. he feels awkward when he gently removes everything from your arms – when he tries to help by simply putting everything on the table of the next room. 

König hated this house – it was big, it was empty, and the only reason he didn’t sell it was because Mother’s things were still locked in her old bedroom and every time he tried to clean it and evaluate the cost of the house, he decided that he will Do It Other Day. Coincidentally, all of those days were also followed by three-month minimum missions, making him utterly unable to do everything about this place anyway. 

This is why you’re here – a hired cleaner, a sorter, you promised to de-hoard everything and see if there is anything of value. Perfect for someone like him, especially since he is paying you double for spending the whole day and a few days more in his house exclusively. 

Now, he looks at how awkward your smile is, how you fidget with the edge of the broom you brought, and how you can’t even start a conversation because he is simply staring at you, staying in the living room of this dead, almost abandoned house. Now, he looks at how cute you are, how perfect, and remembers that he didn’t score with anyone in half a year already – not even in terms of sex, the casual flirting was also forbidden since half of his unit was transferred and the new people weren’t really fun of his tough methods of breaking rookies in. 

When was the last time someone genuinely smiled at him? 

Ah, he is staring again. Scheisse. 

— Where do you want me to start, sir? 

He wonders how much he should pay you to clean him instead. Would you be gentle? Rough? Would you call him a pervert, which he is, and then slap him and yell at him for being such a horrible old dog who is ready to pounce at every pretty girl in his presence? He would do anything that would set his mind free of the thought about Mom. Her bedroom. This whole house that he can’t call home ever since he turned 6 and understood why Father was always so, so angry. 

— The living room. If it’s not too much. 

He barely stops himself from talking more – you look weird, you loom surprised, you look at him like he is fucking stupid and, in fact, he is. Of course, it wouldn’t be too hard for you, you’re his clean, for fucks sake. You come here to clean, you get good money for it, he shouldn’t feel guilty for using your services because, in some way, he actually provides you with a job and a cute thing like you shouldn’t go to other houses, with old perverts that can do unspeakable things with the adorable worker. 

Ah, yes, perverts like him. God, he is hopeless. 

— Alright. Do you want to note something, like if there is anything I shouldn’t touch? 

He would allow you to take your adorable, yellow glow-wearing hands to get into his personal savings and all of his bank accounts, if you’d want to. He curses under his breath, hating how professional you are – hard worker, perfect, simply a fantastic person who deserves more than working for him. You aren’t trying to shy away from the job and he almost resents you for it. 

You’d make a good soldier, he thinks – you’re able to hear the orders and oblige to them, you’re obedient and came even before the discussed time. You’d make such a perfect private for his unit, he observes. 

Ah, right, he was supposed to answer you. Shit. 

— No. Just don’t go to the second room on the left. 

— Alright. Anything else? 

He grumbles under his breath, trying to get into the right headspace to deal with someone like you. König knows it’s rude, to just ignore and leave you like this – but if he were to stay in he same room as you, he would do something horrible, disgusting, and completely dishonorable to you. So, he leaves – escapes – to his office. Father’s office, mostly, the only thing here that belongs to him are some documents and useless papers – and a laptop that he drags to every other room anyway. 

He doesn’t like this room, it reminds him of the worst episodes of his early childhood – yet, this is his only reserve. He doesn’t want to leave the house because the territory is secluded and if something were to happen to you, he would be the only one able to help. He also doesn’t want to leave his gun collection with you – he doesn’t want you to find it and freak out or hurt yourself. 

This is what he tells himself, at least. He wants to be there with you, in the same room preferably, but horrible for his anxiety, because he wants this illusion, phantasm of having a loving relationship. Of having a woman in his life, a lovely housewife who would cook for him, clean for him, and would be absolutely spoiled with gifts and attention. God knows he doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body – but he will carve one out of his ribs for you. 

And he only knew you for an hour tops. 

König feels like literally the worst man alive when he spread his legs and starts stroking his hard, glistening cock. He brushes over the swollen, red tip, not allowing himself to have any lube other than spit and oozing pre-cum – he tries not to cum embarrassingly quickly, thinking about your perfect gestures and smiling face. How perfect you look in your cleaning uniform – not like maids from the occasional porn he was watching, but still beautiful. Your body is perfect even with all of those ugly layers and grey fabric – and he can’t stop thinking about the sway of your hips or glimpses of your legs under your dress.

He thinks about you, bent over his couch, trying to clean the especially dirty spot on the furniture – how the material of your dress would be tight around your ass. The image makes him grunt quietly, stroking his barely wet dick even more – the pain from the dry sensation only makes the pleasure all the sweeter. He is hard, was hard for the past 10 minutes as you were introducing yourself and whatever your deal is. He is dirty, perverted, knowing only your name and your face – and he is still stroking himself, thinking about paying you extra just so you’d get on your pretty knees and suck him. Would you be sloppy, messy, get his cum all over your face so you’d have to wash it off? Would you be experienced, eager, trying to get as much seed as possible with that pretty tongue of yours? 

He is a lost cause because he hears the sounds of vacuum – you’re only a few rooms away from him, trying so hard to clean his house for him, to work through every bit of furniture and everything he acquired for the past twenty years or so – and he moans loudly, knowing that you don’t hear anything. You’re probably listening to music or some silly girl’s podcast about planets and gardens and maybe some university lectures. He’d pay for your courses, he would get you any book you want – having his salary and barely spending it made him softer in the saving habits. 

He can afford to splurge on a pretty girl who just needs a rich Austrian mercenary to sweep her off her feet. But, he is old – but, he is a monster who preys on someone helpless, using her pretty face to jerk himself off, and he doesn’t even deserve your number, although he has had it since accepting the service. 

His cock is big, angry red in his hand as he runs his finger over the bulging vein, teasing the sensitive flesh – always loud in bed, with grunts and moans of pleasure, he can barely contain himself now, only forcing his mouth shut when he doesn’t hear the sound of vacuum anymore. He strokes his dick fast, angry, and slams it into his fist, trying to make the pain last longer, so he won’t cum after a minute or two. He has the stamina to last longer – but it’s also the first time he was so horny since…he can’t even remember. 

König thinks about putting you in his bed – like a perfect housewife, you would hug his waist with your legs, would allow him to lick and grope at your tits, and won’t scream too much when he’d force his tongue inside of your precious pussy, taking every last drop of your pleasure. He wouldn’t want to be forceful, angry, you’re too precious for this and too weak for his strength – but he can imagine slamming into you in a matting press, cumming inside and not even pulling out, warming his cock in the heat of your body. 

Father would kill him for doing something so dirty in his office – but he is long dead, devil save his soul, and it’s König’s office now. Even when he barely uses it, even if he doesn’t really need this. It came in handy when he had to jerk off to the pretty cleaning girl who cleaned up after him – so, somehow, his father managed to improve his mood 15 years after he died. 

He cums with a low groan, whispering your name – he doesn’t understand how a pretty thing like you still works here and wasn’t taken by someone else already, but he would take what he can get. Never the one to get the first dibs, never being someone’s first choice – he feels terrible for thinking about you in such a low way, but his pleasure sticks to his fingers and, at this point, it’s too late to feel bad. 

Drying the tip of his dick with a tissue, he spends a good few minutes with spread legs, his soft cock laying on the chair, with cum still oozing out – such a waste, honestly, would be much better to stuff you full of his cock or even take your pretty ass, spread you slowly. Keep only the tip in, not pressuring you into anything more until you’d start moving yourself, like a good slut you will be. 

So perfect under him – the images and sounds of your voice are running through his mind, making him breathe heavily. If he was younger and had as much sex drive as before, he would already be hard – but he needs some time to relax, thinking about your pretty legs and adorable face. 

It takes him a few minutes of listening to your sweet voice to understand that you were not, in fact, a hallucination or a mystical fairy coming to make him come. You were standing outside of the office door, looking embarrassed and clearly hearing at least some of his horny mumblings – you avoid looking at him, and your fingers are trembling when you tug at the sides of your dress. Guilt immediately rushes to him again, he looks at you like a perfect treasure you are – and he is a horrible monster trying to hoard all of it to himself. 

— What is it, liebling? 

Petname goes smoothly from his tongue and he can only hope that you don’t know German – he is too embarrassed to talk to you, too anxious, his newfound shyness is a result of both your beauty and the post-nut clarity that already made him feel like a monster. He contemplates just giving you money and sending you off, paying double for the false call, and leaving you a 5-star review so you won’t get in trouble with your boss. 

You look so meek from his angle of view – he has to fight the urge to pinch your face, squeeze your cheeks, grab your waist in his firm hands, and just lift you in his arms, holding you to his bed. Maybe getting a nice set of cuffs to ensure you would never escape from him. 

— I finished with the living room and…well, I just wanted to ask if you want the decluttering work to be done today or tomorrow. 

He remembers how he basically paid you for a few days worth of work – and he smiles at exactly how perfect this decision was. Of course, you are a smart girl, a modest girl, you aren’t staying the night and would rather waste time on the road, much to his dismay, but at least he would see you for a few days already. 

He might not even let you go after. 

— Ach. Today, if it’s not too…

He stops himself again – of course, it’s not too much, you are a professional, not just a friend that comes to clean his place for a pack of beer and maybe some pizza. He doesn’t know how to talk to you, anxiety eats him whole, and he has to just avoid looking at you to avoid further embarrassment. 

— Alright. I will do it right away then. 

You smile awkwardly, your lips are twitching and he already knows that you could hear him moaning your name and sweet little praises while stroking his cock. You aren’t biting the hand that feeds you, not running away screaming at how perverted he is – poor girl, you probably need money more than you need personal safety if you’re fine with him heaving like this. If you were his, he would never allow you to be so careless. 

He moves behind you in the most dreaded room of the house. Mother’s bedroom, a room that she only used for sewing and only allowed him in when he was extra whiny after another failed fight with his bullies. All of her thighs are here – ever since she passed away, he just moved everything to one room and locked it, barely bothering to keep a key. He hates being here, almost as much as being in Father’s office — this room smells like death and old paper and you scrunch your nose in an adorable expression when you take a step inside. 

— I will divide everything into categories, alright? 

— Gut.

You look at him nervously, clearly scared that he is watching over you now. It might feel like a logical decision – after all, it was his mother’s vintage things, who knows what kind of jewelry she kept here, something that he won’t even notice gone until it’s too late. You and him both know, however, that this isn’t the reason he is looming over you. A perfect obedient thing, you deserve something better than his affection, but he still locks his gaze with yours, looking at your hands and going through various furniture pieces. 

You work like a fairy, not an ounce of laziness or exhaustion in your actions – even after you already spent a few hours cleaning his living room, you act like a Cinderella that got a bunch of magic mice up her rags. He licks his lips, looking at your perfect ass you as sit on your knees, starting with decluttering every little box there is. 

— Can I just put it back in boxes or…

You look the the contents – vintage makeup, some jewelry, head pieces that don’t look particularly expensive but were definitely well-loved. You wonder who they belong to – probably a wife, or, maybe, some of his relatives who lived here. He doesn’t seem like a married or divorced man – he does, however, look insanely lonely. 

It takes him a good few seconds to respond, too mesmerized by the little song you were humming a minute before. He imagines you in that old, chunky jewelry, some necklaces that cost more than your salary – and the thought makes him salivate. 

He smiles, leaning closer to you – hot breath on your face, you shift immediately, scared. He is so fast for someone so big, his movements are perfect and his eyes are cold – you feel the chill deep in your bones when he moves even closer, his lips almost brushing against yours. 

Suddenly, you are very aware of the fact that he locked the door to this tiny room when you both moved in. 

[casualhedonists]

✩ it don’t need your loving, it just needs attention ✩ (chapter three)

pairing: Coriolanus Snow x reader

chapter: 3/? (MASTERLIST)

warnings: NSFW (18+), snow being snow, themes of sex work (not the reader), cuckolding, eventual smut, fake relationship, unprotected sex, themes of voyeurism & mild exhibitionism, murder mention (but no actual murder) (not yet at least?), MAJOR manipulation/gross power dynamics + generally darkish themes, power play, oral sex, thigh riding, degradation, dirty talk, eventual piv, i’m new to full on smut bear with me here (and pls tell me if i forgot anything!)

i do not give permission for my work to be reposted/translated anywhere, under any circumstances.

taglist: if you’d like to be tagged, leave a comment on the masterlist post and i’ll add you! 💌

a/n: thank you for your patience and condolences / kind messages over the past week i’ve been awol. i’m very happy to be back. very long, filthy and much awaited chapter ahead, so strap in and hope you enjoy the ride.

in the words of miss zegler herself: oh we are so back.

You weren’t sure how long he stared at you, smiling with a fire in his eyes that rivalled yours until it was eclipsed. A third and final time, you found yourself speechless, dumbstruck, and one final time, much like the others, you took a few shaky steps backwards, before turning and fleeing.

He knew. He’d known this whole time. How long had he been planning this? Exactly how much of this had been an act, with Snow puppeteering you as you slowly lost your mind?

You almost felt pity for the girl, because she was played just like you were. She was a mere pawn in his game of chess, where he’d toyed with you until you were backed into a corner, unable to make a move.

Well, not this time. Now you knew what he was playing, you were ready to up your game. This wouldn’t be another stalemate; you wanted to win, and you had a few ideas of where to start.

You were already up and dressed when you heard a knock at your door the next morning.

Dreading the worst – despite the fact that Snow had never actually been in your room before, but the rules had changed now and you weren’t sure quite how much – you paused for a second to prepare yourself, praying that he wouldn’t be there, ready to put a stop to your plans before they’d even started.

You fell lucky. It was one of Snow’s footmen, George.

“Good morning, ma’am. I, um.” He swallowed, not meeting your eye. “I have a message from Master Snow. He’d like for you to meet him for breakfast in a half hour, if you will. He says you have something… quite important to discuss.”

Typical Snow. Never liked to get his hands dirty. Too proud to knock at your door himself.

You considered.

“George, could you please tell Coriolanus that if I’ve already eaten, and that I’ll come to him when I see fit. If he isn’t satisfied,” you added, for his sake, as you knew Snow wasn’t above killing the messenger, “Say I have an urgent matter to tend to, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

You grew a lump in your throat from your refusal, fearing the consequences. But you’d set your plan into motion now and there was no going back. Once George had been sent on his way, you snuck down the stairs on the far end of the building and slipped out the door through the servants’ quarters, where you knew Snow wouldn’t see you leave. The one upside to the last few weeks was that you’d learned how to sneak around the manor unnoticed. You were certain there were at least three hallways he’d had never even set foot in.

You had Lucille call Henry – Snow’s driver – in advance so you could leave right away.

“Where are we going, ma’am?” He glanced at you over his shoulder as you slid into the black town car.

“Head into the city. I’ll explain on the way.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Henry took some convincing – and some light bribing – to finally cave and tell you what and where this gentleman’s club was. Of course, it was a risk, a roll of the dice to go there without concrete proof, but you knew Snow. You knew his little neuroses and hang-ups, and he was paranoid; in all senses, it would seem, except when it came to you. If he’d been frequenting this club for some time – some years, according to Henry – and trusted their discretion, then you highly doubted he’d play Russian roulette and pick somewhere else.

You were dropped off outside, and sent Henry to the tailor to pick up some of Snow’s things; an excuse for the outing, but a part of your plan too. He was hesitant to leave you alone in such a place, but you insisted you knew exactly how to handle yourself, and so he gave in.

You’d deliberately dressed down for what you were about to do, worn your old coat and let your hair down with a hood pulled over it. It being daytime, the place was closed for business, but you knocked on the front door expectantly.

You waited. Went over the plan, and knocked again.

This time, the door opened and a burly man now stood between you and the inside of the brothel. Your curiosity made peek over his shoulder before he cleared his throat.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“Yes. My name is Margaret, sir, I’m a maid at the, uh,” You dropped your voice to a low whisper, “Snow household. I have a message for the owner of this establishment, from my master. Is he here?”

The man cleared his throat and glanced around the nearly empty street, then beckoned you in quickly.

“Anything for Mr Snow, miss. Right this way.”

There was your proof.

The empty club was a classy one, you had to give Snow that. The bar caught your eye, silver panels lining the wall behind it in an otherwise jet-black glossy room, with dark red couches and shiny tables, booths, single chairs, a stage with shiny metal poles, and a few cordoned-off alcoves.

You took it all in, certain you’d be able to appreciate the aesthetics of it more if it wasn’t for the seething rage inside you. You were stopped at a closed door near the back, and the burly man knocked.

“Yeah.” Came a voice from inside.

“All yours. He’ll take care of you.” Your guide stepped away. You pushed at the door.

A dark-haired man sat facing a desk, poring over paperwork. He didn’t look up.

“If you’re here for a job, sweetie, it’s Tuesday after 11.”

This incensed you.

“I’m not here for work. This is official business. I was told you take care of… special clients.”

He spun around, frowning.

“I’m listening.”

“I have a message from President Snow. He has a series of requests to be carried out with no delay.”

“Ah, yes. Mr Snow. I see. And you are to him?” He prompted.

“Just a maid from the household. He sent me as a messenger.”

“Excellent. Well in that case, of course, miss. How can I be of service?”

You took a breath, hoping desperately that he didn’t see right through you.

“Firstly, the shoes your girl wore.”

“What would he like with them?” He asked.

“He’d like to keep them. He’s willing to pay, and he’s not up for a price negotiation. This should cover them.” You slipped a bill across the table, and he nodded. You learned long ago that money causes loose lips, and this man was no exception.

“Of course,” he obliged, “They’re in the lockers through that door there. I’ll bring them to you. We ordered them in specially for Veronica, he made a point for her to wear them on the first floor. Usually our girls get instructions to sneak through clients’ houses quietly, but we handle every request as thoroughly as possible.” He chuckled.

That fucker. He really had planned it all out to get in your head.

“Was there anything else I can do for you, miss?”

You swallowed thickly.

Here goes.  

“Yes, actually. As of today, he’ll no longer be needing your services, or her services. He’d like to terminate your contract, and he doesn’t wish to see her again. Ever.”

The owner blinked. His mouth moved, as if he was about to say something, but then it closed again.

“But, um,” he stammered, “It’s only been three weeks. Veronica is our best girl, and he’s her top client. She carried out his orders to the absolute best of her ability, I can assure you. Are you sure those were his words?”

You sighed.

“She’s getting off lucky with a dismissal. Take it as a warning, sir. President Snow doesn’t show mercy to thieves. If she shows her face again, I can guarantee you, he’ll have her head.”

His face turned plum-red with horror.

“She was… stealing?”

In a way, yes.

“She was caught by a maid last night.” You nodded, and the owner swallowed thickly.

“I – I understand, Miss. I am terribly sorry for this. I apologise that our services weren’t up to your master’s expectations, truly. Please, if there’s anything I can do- and I can assure you, I’ll be having some very stern words-”

You cut him off.

“There is one more thing, as a matter of fact."

"Anything." He pleaded.

"You can send word that… Veronica, is it? She’ll be paying him a visit this evening. But you are not, under any circumstances, to send her. Am I understood?”

He furrowed his brows, puzzled. But you stared back challengingly and held your ground.

A small, sheepish smile formed on his face.

“Much obliged. I can assure you your requests will be carried out with the utmost discretion.”

“Thank you.”

He brought you the heels in a shiny box, and you turned and left.

Henry was waiting outside, and you slid back into the car.

“Get what you needed, ma’am?”

“I certainly did.”

The drive home was your chance to pick up lunch, finetune your plan, and go through the suits you’d had Henry pick up from the tailor.

They looked impeccable – crisp and creaseless, the white shirts brighter than the stars, and the maroon red jackets and waistcoats deeper than blood itself. It was one of these jackets that you chose to take upstairs with you, leaving the rest to be taken up to Snow’s room later, hoping the missing item would go unnoticed.

You retraced your way up the winding stairs of the manor. Luckily, Lucille had informed you Snow had left not long after you that morning, and was expected to be gone until evening. Nonetheless, your paranoia made you glance left, right and left again before every turn. Finally, after an exhaustingly long morning, you were back in the safety of your own room.

But the work was far from finished. You ate quickly, then began getting ready for your discussion with Snow. He hadn’t sent for you again; he was too proud. You took pride in knowing he’d be positively seething at your turning him down that morning. You kept going, showering, teasing your hair, adding a little more makeup than usual – not excessive, but enough to make a difference – then finally wandered the room as you picked your wardrobe for later.

You lay out the heels – which were a little big on you, but would serve their purpose – as well as the jacket you’d stolen, taking the time to run your fingers over the smooth maroon velvet you’d felt only briefly before, when brushing against Snow at public events. You then dug through your underwear drawer, debating between a red lingerie set and a white. You picked the latter; the tones of red would blend in with the jacket and white made more of a statement.

Innocence. If only.

You checked the time. Three hours or so until Coriolanus would be expecting Veronica. You hoped that he would be back by then, and more so, that your performance with the brothel owner had been enough to hold him to his promise of sending word. But if you’d learnt anything from Snow, it was that fear commanded respect, and better yet, obedience. So your doubts were few and far between.

In all honesty, that’s what had drawn you to Snow in the first place. It wasn’t about money; your family had money, more than they knew what to do with. It was the power, the fear. Even the richest man in the world would crumble to the ground with a gun to his head. Power trumps wealth every time, and the enigmatic, newly elected President was by far the most powerful man in Panem.

It was its own kind of thrill, pursuing a man like that. The temptation to get him wrapped around your fingers, ravenous, hungry for power, hungry for him. It all blurred together at this point, the man was like a magnet. You wondered if this thirst for more, always more, was an affliction the two of you shared. Or perhaps, an affliction you’d developed a taste for because of him. And the longer you spent at his side, the louder it began to beat in your chest like a second heart. You wanted to consume it, and let it consume you.

It thrummed in your chest now, adrenaline coursing in your veins. You fidgeted as you waited for the hours to pass, your craving growing with each second. You flicked through a few books; you drafted a letter to your mother. Each tick of the clock bringing you closer to finally taking the one thing you’d wanted since the day you met Coriolanus Snow. It was almost time for your big move.

✩✩✩✩

As enough darkness crept into your room and you stood to light some candles, you heard soft footsteps pass your door.

For a change, you recognised them as Snow’s, even and deliberate. He was home. With half an hour to spare until he’d be expecting his whore.

You jumped at the opportunity to change. Slowly and carefully, you slipped out of your clothes and into the underwear set, until you were clad in crisp white lace, with a matching garter belt as a finishing touch. You slid on Snow’s jacket – which smelled like him, of his cologne – the usual fitted shape it would give Snow now hanging loose and slack around your body, falling to the tops of your thighs. You did up the first button, tracing the neckline that plunged down your chest, leaving very little to the imagination. You slipped into the heels, checked the time, and after scanning yourself over in the mirror, made for the door.

The few worries you had about being seen by the staff were short-lived; the hallway lights were dim as you wobbled in the heels, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. You weren’t sure if Snow had fallen for your plan, but what mattered was that as you turned the corner, there were lights shining from under his bedroom door. He was in there, waiting. By now, it was odd seeing it closed. You tried your best to emulate the sound of the footsteps you’d drilled into your brain, the clicks giving you a sense of power knowing Snow – apprehensive or not – would be in for at least one surprise.

Click. Click. Click.

You considered pausing before barging in, but you didn’t. When you reached the end of the hallway, seconds away from your fate, you reached out a hand, pushed Snow’s door open, and walked right inside.

Snow was there; of course he was. Facing his dresser and away from you, he didn’t flinch at the sound of your arrival. You closed the door behind you, and took a step towards him. Stared at his back, scanning his black dress pants and the white shirt he’d rolled up to his elbows, cufflinks on the table, blonde curls a little unruly as he smoothly poured himself a drink.

This, right here, was where the solid part of your plan ended. It was caution to the wind from here on out, and you could practically taste it, high off the adrenaline; off his presence. And he hadn’t even looked at you yet.

This was the moment of truth.

“Well,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “Look who finally figured it out.”

“Not who you were expecting?”

“She’d never reschedule.” he said simply, turning on his heels, eyes glinting at you. “Figured you were up to something. Drink?”

“Think I’ll pass.”

He approached you, eyes scanning your body, deliberately clad in the skimpiest underwear you owned. You figured this was as good a time as any to unbutton the jacket and let it fall open. It brushed your sides, and you watched him lower his glance, hungrily taking you in for what could quite possibly be the very first time. He wet his lips, took another sip.

There it is.

There was that power you craved, that look that you’d been aching to see in his eyes while he stared at you, and although it was fucked up, you let the pride fill your head with confidence, and stepped forward.

“Now, just where did you get that?” A slight narrowing of his eyes gave him away. At least something you’d done had made an impression.

“Borrowed it. In case I get cold.” You smiled.

“Cute. Didn’t your daddy ever tell you not to take things that aren’t yours?”

“Oh, I take whatever I want, Snow.”

You raised your head in defiance. Proud of your voice for not faltering once.

“Clearly. Nice shoes. Borrow those, too?”

“Why, do they look familiar?” you quipped.

“I think we both know the answer to that, doll. Now why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

You sighed, feigning exasperation. A chill crept up your legs but you barely noticed.

“You wanted to talk to me, Coriolanus. Talk.”

“Is that really what you came here for, sweetheart? Dressed like that?” He put his drink down on the dresser, not once looking away from you.

“If this is what it takes to get your attention, Snow, then yes.”

You took another step closer, and the jacket fell further to your sides, more skin slipping out from underneath for him to feast his eyes on.

“I think you know plenty about trying to get my attention. I watched you struggle for weeks.”

“Didn’t think you cared.” You muttered.

He laughed, low, more like a scoff.

“What, your childish attempts at seduction? They were pitiful at best. I’d expect that kind of behaviour from a common whore, not a lady of your standing.”

“Thought you liked whores.” You retorted.

“They’re no fun to live with. And there you were, proving my point.”

Your eyes narrowed, and when you spoke, it was through gritted teeth.

“So what, you had to go and fuck one to prove a point? Mature.”

“Mature?” he glowered, then before you could think, he stormed towards you, grabbing both of your wrists with a hard squeeze. You gasped.

“Mature like you, with your short skirts and your fuck-me eyes, sucking your fingers off at the breakfast table?”

You squirmed. Tried to jolt yourself away but it was no use.

“I didn’t think you-”

“Oh, I noticed.” He said, moving in to corner you, grip tightening until he was walking you backwards across the room as he spoke, never once taking his eyes off you. “And it’s a real shame this couldn’t have been easier for us both, but you just had to start it. So I watched your pathetic little displays, day after day, knowing if you’d behaved better, I would’ve given you exactly what you wanted.”

You fought not to trip over yourself until your legs bumped against the ottoman at the foot of his bed and you caught your breath. His eyes bored into yours and you blinked helplessly. His grip loosened on your wrists. You tried to speak, but your mouth had gone dry.

“If you’d been good,” he continued, voice lowering, “you wouldn’t have played around like that. Good girls don’t whore themselves out to respectable men.”

Your eyes narrowed in defiance as you felt heat start to brew in your stomach.

“Respectable?” You spat, and his grip tightened again, bringing one hand up to trace your jaw, almost pitifully.

“See what I mean? You dig yourself deeper at every turn. Good girls ask nicely, and say please. It didn’t take me long to figure out you had issues with authority. It could’ve been so easy for you, sweetheart. You had plenty of chances. You could’ve asked me very nicely to fuck you, but instead you behaved like a desperate slut for weeks on end. Eventually, I knew there was only one way to shut you up.”

Your ears started to ring and you fought harder to gain composure. He’d never talked to you like this before. And now, all this, all at once, it was almost too much. Goosebumps had long covered your arms and legs, despite the heat inside you burning you up. You were vaguely aware of heat pooling uncomfortably between your legs.

Your breathing was heavy as you stared into him, his hand gripping your chin, and you couldn’t hide it if you tried. He finally backed away, letting you peel yourself from the ottoman. His hungry eyes scanned over you, suit jacket now crumpled at the wrists. You swallowed as you tried to pull yourself together.

“You knew I was watching you. The whole time. Every time. It was… for me.”

He watched you knowingly, raised his eyebrows a little. His lips grew into that smirk, that fucking smirk you knew all too well.

“We were playing the same game, sweetheart. I was just… Better.”

“A little excessive, don’t you think?” Your voice faltered and you cursed how breathy it sounded.

“Oh, on the contrary. It was very entertaining to see you struggle, but I could’ve gone further.” He mused. “I even considered fucking her on your bed.”

Shit.

A thought popped into your head, and a strange smile made its way to your face.

“Aren’t you going to ask me where I got these?” You asked, glancing down.

He frowned for a second; good. You’d thrown him off guard. But he caught up fast.

“The heels? You know, I had her walk right past your door in those so you’d follow her and see just what you were missing?”

If you weren’t so wired with adrenaline, you were pretty sure you’d be tearing up with how desperate you felt. But his words channelled it all into pure anger.

“Fuck you.” You seethed, and he smiled.

“We'll get to that. But go on, I’ll bite. What did you do to her?”

“Let’s just say she deserved much worse than what she got. Maybe you should’ve fucked her on my bed. Would’ve given me a reason to choke the life out of her.”

“You think I’d care?”

“Course not. Knowing you, it’d probably get you off.”

“Which brings us right back to now.” He stared at you, challenging. You laughed again.

“Is this you talking? You’re not very good at it.”

“No, this is me giving you a second chance. The way I see it, you made your move, I made mine. Now, if you’re a good girl, and ask me very nicely to fuck you until that pretty little head of yours gets filled with nothing but empty space, I might consider putting an end to this and giving you what you want. Maybe.” If you thought you’d survive smacking that smug look off his face, you would.

“You want me to ask nicely, Coriolanus?” You closed the gap between the two of you and glanced up at him through your lashes. He looked back at you, and no chill in the world could cool you down from the fire in his eyes.

He stepped away, paced towards the desk chair – the one he’d watched you from last night – then dragged it across the floor, spun it around, and took a seat. Once again, last night felt worlds away now. A lifetime sat between that moment and this one as he made himself comfortable, unbuttoned his collar. As if the room was now a stage, and he was the sole spectator.

“Go on. I’m waiting.”

Cocky bastard.

Another airy laugh escaped you. But you’d be lying if you said he wasn’t exactly where you wanted him. So you played into it.

“You want me to beg you? Say pretty please?” Your voice softened as you slowly stepped towards him, holding his gaze. A passing thought reminded you of your childhood, asking your mother what you’d feel when you first truly fell for someone.

Fireworks. Thousands of them, crackling, hissing, charging the air between the two of you into something heavy. Thick clouds of smoke you could almost taste as you stared into darkened eyes. You paused in front of him, fingers playing with the hem of his suit jacket that brushed against your thighs. Caught your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Take it off.” He ordered.

“Gladly.”

You slipped the jacket off your shoulders, and it fell smoothly into a pile on the floor. You kicked off the heels next, landing haphazardly to the side with a thump. His eyes never leaving you, consuming you.

“Like what you see, Snow?”

He took you in, long and hungry and shameless. Like you were simply there for his entertainment, nothing else. You wondered where along the line he’d lost all his inhibitions, at what moment in his very young life he’d decided to simply stop caring. It should scare you, but it just made you burn warmer. Maybe your wires were a little crossed, too, because it didn’t make you feel cheap.

It made you feel powerful.

You knew you looked good, too; you’d made sure of it. But he was looking at you like you were carved out of solid gold. He didn’t answer, because he didn’t need to.

“Think I like you better when you’re not acting like a dumb slut.”

You hummed, determined and unphased, moving in closer until your legs touched his knees. His words shouldn’t turn you on - nor should not knowing exactly how much he meant them – but they did.

“You like me better when I’m begging, then?” You placed your legs either side of his, straddling him, but still standing, and took his hands in yours. You ran one of them across your lips, brazenly taking a digit in your mouth, releasing it with a wet pop, then dropping your head down.

“You want me to be straightforward, Snow? Tell you exactly what I want?” you breathed, your foreheads almost touching, looking down at him from a thrilling vantage point, your hair falling either side of his face. “To beg you to rip this off me?” You guided his hands to your hips, letting them slide over the lacy fabric. “You want me to beg you to kiss every inch of skin you see and make it yours? Beg you to fuck me until I can’t think, and forget my own name?”

You ran his hands down the sides of your legs, then, inch by inch, letting him take a good long look on the way, you finally lowered yourself onto his lap. Your blown-out eyes met again, at the same level this time. You shifted your hips once, feigning getting comfortable, and hid a smile as he let out a strained sound.

You were close enough to feel his breath against yours, fast but steady, controlled. You moved closer, your head dipping cautiously under his chin to kiss his neck. He smelt clean, like fresh laundry and his cologne, and his skin tasted like salt as your tongue traced a line across it. It felt like power, having him like this. Slowly starting to grind your hips as your mouth pressed against his pulse, every shaky breath you elicited from him awakening something new in you.

“Say it, Snow.” You murmured, breath catching. “Tell me you want me to beg you, and be good for you.” Another trail of messy kisses across his jaw, and you finally heard it, ragged and coarse, words shooting through you like knives softened by the heat of his breath on your hair.

“Be a good girl, and fucking beg me.”

You hummed with satisfaction. Moved your lips to his ear, hand cupping the back of his neck, and leaned in close.

“If you wanted me to be good,” you whispered, “then you’ve picked the wrong girl.”

You felt it, his whole body tensing beneath you. But you had it now, the upper hand, and you weren’t giving it away. Your other hand came up to close over his mouth with a warning shake of the head, and you gripped the back of his neck harder with the first. Craned it backwards so he could look at you, a different kind of fire in his eyes. A fire that could burn you far worse than any other. You leaned your weight into him until you were flush, skin pressing into fabric. Tightening your legs around his so he couldn’t kick out. You felt dangerous. You felt alive.

When you spoke, your voice was a vial of vitriol.

“You thought I’d just give into you? Three weeks of torture and you call it even? No fucking way, Snow. You wanted to play? Let’s play.”

You were closer to him now than you’d ever been before, infinitely closer than when you’d held hands in front of an audience, or danced in the middle of a ballroom, or when he’d draw you in for a lingering kiss at the head of a busy table.

You were closer still because of the common denominator: you were alone, your bodies pressed together, soft and firm colliding. And your stomach ached with want, but your rage burned brighter.

When you were sure he wouldn’t move, you readjusted your position on his lap so you were sat on one thigh, your right knee pressed firmly against the chair between his legs. Slowly, you dragged your hips against it, firm muscle between your legs, shameless as you stared him down.

“I’d like to modify the terms of our agreement, as of tonight. Starting with this: I’ve made sure your little whore won’t come running back here. If I so much as hear a whisper of a rumor that you’re fucking someone else, I’m leaving. Don’t think I don’t know how to disappear. I can, and I will.”

He scowled at you, and you’d never felt power like the rush you got from seeing your hand clamped over his mouth. His own hands, now easily able to overpower you and push yours away, instead sat at your hips, digging in so hard you knew there’d be bruises for weeks. As you moved, he started to follow suit, rocking your hips on his thigh faster.

He’s allowing this.

The realisation made you pull your hand from his mouth, and yet he didn’t speak. There was a tightness in his jaw, locked down so hard it must’ve hurt as he watched you move, helped you move. It sent a shock through your core, and you ground down harder.

Who’s on top now?

This was getting to your head.

“President Snow,” you mocked. “What a title. Thinks he can take whatever’s in his sight. Thinks he has the right. Did you think I’d come crawling back to you?” Your voice lowered.

“Did you think I’d get on my knees, like she did?” You glanced down, running your now-free hand over the front of his pants, gentle at first, then pressing in firm, and he hissed.

“Did you really think, after all your little shows, that I’d just submit? Not a chance.” You spat, and his breath turned a little shaky as your hand slid up, then down.

As it evened out, and he reached for composure again, he pulled a countermove. Got in close, with words so sharp, they nearly cut through you.

“Which one was your favorite?”

You pulled your hand away. Your hold on the back of his neck tightened, and in turn, so did his grip on your hips, pulling you down harder as you got closer, panties bunching up as you became desperate.

You shook your head.

“Don’t.”

He smirked.

“I gave you plenty to go off. Tell me, was it when I sat right here while she rode me? Or when I was fucking her mouth and calling your name?”

He pulled your hips in rougher, and you gasped, barely able to think. You were sure if he kept this up, your thighs would chafe. You just couldn’t find it in you to care.

“No, I don’t think so.” He hummed. “I know which one it was. It was the second time, wasn’t it? When I was making her cum all over my tongue, wondering what you tasted like.”

You couldn’t help it – a moan slipped out of your lips. He kept up the pace, rolling your hips faster, flexing his thigh as you started losing your bearings. He laughed at the state of you.

“I knew that one would get to you. Tell me something, princess, how many times did you touch yourself after that night wishing it was me? Or did you lose count?”

You gritted your teeth, fighting the spinning room.

“Cocky much?”

He let out a breathy laugh again, as if he was losing himself as much as you were. Pulling you in harder in response.

“Look at you,” he mused, “riding my thigh like the needy slut you are. Bet you’re close, too, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“Fuck.” you panted. “Stop fucking talking, oh my god.”

“You sure about that, sweetheart? You know I can feel how wet it’s making you, right?”

Your head dropped down and you whined. Sure enough, you’d soaked through your panties and dripped an embarrassing wet patch on his dress pants. You cursed under your breath as you slowed down.

“Beg me.” He ordered.

“No.” You gasped as he pulled you back again, faster, hips bucking as your legs started to shake around his.

“Beg me,” he repeated, "or I’ll stop.”

“Fuck, no, don’t fucking stop, I can’t-”

It was so much friction it hurt, but you kept chasing it.

“Yes, you can. You want to cum? Ask nicely, sweetheart. Just ask me.”

The seam of your panties got wetter as you moved, just enough to let the pain melt into pleasure instead as it caught on your clit, and you started to ride out your high. You were right at the edge, he was keeping you there, hair stuck to your face in a hot sweat as you writhed on his lap. So fucking close.

“Fine, shit. Please. Please help me cum, oh my god. Right there, please. Fuck.”

And maybe you were more like him than you thought, because you weren’t ashamed. You rode his thigh like you’d ride him, unabashedly, while he watched you starting to fall apart. He moved faster, pulled your hips hard in as if you were riding him, as if he could feel it, breath running ragged, desperate. It only brought you closer knowing this would be sending him over the edge, holding you so near and yet so awfully far away. The look in his eyes screaming danger, and you let it swallow you whole, squeezing his shoulders like you were scared you’d float away.

"That's it. Knew you'd sound incredible, asking me all pretty like that."

His lips met your neck, teeth grazing your skin and that’s what did it, your legs squeezing his as you shook through your orgasm, crying out, falling to pieces, hearing going fuzzy. The words good girl echoing through your head so distantly, you couldn’t tell if he’d really said them or not.

You sighed, glazed eyes rolling open, coming back to yourself. Your right hand was pressed against his chest, fingers curled into the creased fabric of his shirt. As you looked closer, you noticed it had opened wider, and he was missing a button. Had you done that?

When your eyes finally met Snow’s, you couldn’t look away from them. Beautiful and blue, like an ocean frozen over, staring into yours like you were all he’d ever wanted. You could get high off this feeling, live off it.

“Get on the bed.” He breathed. “Right fucking now.”

But too much of any feeling isn’t good for you.

“No.”

He glowered, face flushing even further, and as he leaned in to make another demand, you quickly stood, trying your hardest not to let your wobbling legs give you away.

“You should understand, Snow. We’re doing things my way now. And I’m going to be doing them as I please, when I please.”

You picked his jacket up from the floor, and slipped back into it, the soft fabric cooling down your burning skin.

“You think you’re funny, sweetheart? Nobody likes a fucking tease.”

You chuckled, doing up a button and brushing your hair out of your face, damp with sweat. You walked to the dresser and took a swig from Snow’s half-empty glass, then turned. He sat there, and it took everything in you not to smirk at the mess you’d made of him. You handed him the glass when you were done drinking and turned away. You felt him stand, but you didn’t acknowledge it, still fiddling with your hair, smoothing it out.

“You said it yourself, Snow. I’m no common whore. If you want me to beg you to fuck me, you’re gonna have to work for it.” You turned, pulling him in for a chaste kiss. His face was unreadable.

“But be a doll, leave your door unlocked.” You added, stepping back. “You never know when I might change my mind.”

“You’re not going to leave. You wouldn’t dare.” He seethed, the rage in his voice only propelling you on.

“Wouldn’t I?” You smiled, giving him a once over. Dropped your eyes down pointedly, first at the ruined leg you’d ridden, then at the uncomfortable-looking tent in his pants. You met his eye again and bit your lip, really laying it on thick. “Good luck with that, sweetheart. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

He huffed, incredulous, disbelief painted across his face as you made for the door, swinging it open. You glanced over your shoulder.

“Buckle up, Snow. I’m just getting started.”

You missed the way his shocked face turned almost admiring as he watched you leave, walking barefoot down the hallway, leaving the door wide open.

Checkmate.

a/n: hope it was worth the wait 😌

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[natalievoncatte]

“Director Danvers, Lena Luthor is here.”

Alex stared at the speaker on her desk for a moment, feeling her anger rise. She didn’t need this now. Whatever stunt Lena was pulling, now was not the time. She had fires to put out and Supergirl was out of the fight.

Kara, a voice whispered. Kara, your sister.

Alex’s prime directive was take care of Kara. Yet here she was, again, dealing wit the aftermath of Kara being knocked down and beaten to a pulp in service of people she didn’t even know. Half of them hated and feared her now.

How had she let this happen? By small allowances. Step A led to Step B and then on to Step C. It started with looking the other way while Kara foiled robberies and rescued cats from trees and led to Kara defacto joining an organization whose mandate was, on paper, to imprison her or worse. She told herself that she was doing good, that between her and J’onn, they had become the wolves keeping the wolves from the door. Under the right leadership, an organization mandated to “control” aliens could help and protect them.

It gave her no comfort when Kara was lying in the sunroom unconscious, and the government was breathing down Alex’s neck while J’onn was off finding himself on some pacifist bullshit quest.

(Why did their fathers always leave them? Were the Danvers girls doomed to face everything alone?)

Now Lena was here. Luthor’s sister. Alex had let herself trust this woman and she wasn’t sure how that happened either.

Might have been because her kid sister, her precious dumbass kid sister, was over the moon for her Lena and didn’t even know it.

It was Luthor who did this to Kara, Luthor and his allies. Alex had enough of this. There would be no trial this time. No public spectacle. She didn’t care if it ended her career or even her freedom, she was going to kill him, because Kara couldn’t. Kara would always look for the other way, the perfect solution. She was beautiful and good, a hero who came from the heaven to set things right. A saint.

Alex was not and she never pretended she could be.

She drummed her fingers on the desk and stared at the speaker and said, “Keep her in the lobby.”

“No, Director, I mean she’s here, outside your door. We… she can be persuasive.”

Alex reached over wearily and hit the button to open the doors.

Lena marched in, and the sight of her took Alex aback. The boardroom predator with the razor sharp hairstyle, flawless makeup and fuck me pumps was gone, replaced by what Alex would think was Lena’s kid sister under other circumstances. She looked her age, for once, dressed in faded jeans and a threadbare MIT sweatshirt, carrying a battered messenger bag.

Alex had never seen Lena so bedraggled. Her hair was a chaos of unkempt curls pulled into a low ponytail and she was sans makeup, and for good reason. Her eyes were painfully red and the tracks of her tears were as livid as if they’d been left by claws. Her bottom lip was trembling and she fiddled with the strap of her bag.

“Close the door,” said Lena. “Can we talk here? Is this room secure?”

Alex pushed the button and closed the doors.

She had barely said “Yes”.

“Where’s Kara?”

“Not here. Why would she be at the-“

“Don’t fuck with me, Alex.”

Alex looked at her sharply. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish here with this, after you started working with Lex again.”

Lena stormed forward and slammed her palms on the desk, rattling Alex’s possessions. She leaned forward and glared with Alex with a furious, teeth-baring demand.

“The clone almost killed her. Where is she?”

Alex swallowed hard. “I’m not sure what-“

Lena cut her off. “I know Kara is Supergirl, Alex. I need to see her. Please.”

Alex rocked back in her chair as if struck by a physical force. The words slam into her chest like a brick into her sternum.

She knows.

“How?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve know for months. But you have to listen to me. Lex knew. He told me her identity, tried to throw it in my face so I’d turn on her. He knew her real name, he knew about you, he knew about your mother. You have to do something now.”

“Oh my God,” Alex said, standing. Mom.

“He wasn’t going to stop, Alex!” Lena blurted, almost hysterical. “He was never going to stop. He was going to kill her, he swore to me that she was going to die. I had to do it!”

“Do what?” Alex whispered.

“I had to kill him,” Lena wailed, balling her fists impotently as if she were trying to choke her own soul. “I had to!”

The reality of it slams into Alex and before she knows it she’s rushed around the desk to throw her arms around her friend, all thoughts of Luthors and loyalty and everything else going out the window as Lena sobs into her should.

“I killed my big brother.”

Lena’s voice so so small, so broken, that Alex can’t help but sob with her.

The fucking bastard just wouldn’t stop hurting them, even in death. Alex didn’t believe in hell but she wished she did for Lex Luthor.

Lena’s sobbing ebbed but did not fade entirely. There was only one cure for that.

“Come on, let’s go see our girl.”

Alex led Lena outside. First, she flagged down Brainy and gave quick, clipped orders: Get Eliza and get her here now, and find Nia and do the same. Then make a list of anyone Lex might have targeted and find them and get them secured.

Then she took Lena to the sunroom. They stopped outside and Alex handed her a pair of silly looking goggles.

“We can’t stay long, the light is too intense even with sunscreen, and you look like you burn.”

“Like a lobster,” Lena choked, pitifully.

Alex entered the code and opened the door.

Kara lay on the padded bed in a paper gown, bathed in sunlight. She was a mass of bruises and her right arm and left leg were in casts, a collar wound her neck. She’d been unconscious for three days now, possibly in the same kind of healing hibernation she’d fallen into after her first fight with Reign.

Lena rushed to Kara’s side and cupped her cheeks with her hands, brushing back sweat-dampened hair.

“Oh God,” Lena blurted, “oh please oh God Kara wake up.”

“She’s been out for days,” said Alex. “She’s stable, just not coming around. This has happened before. We think it’s part of how her body heals serious injuries. It just takes time. She’ll wake on her own when she’s ready.”

Lena didn’t even seem to hear her. She leaned down with an intensity and intimacy that shocked Alex to the core, and then shocked her further. Lena loosed three words in a language from a dead world that she has no business knowing.

“Zhao w rrip.”

Alex was thunderstruck. Lena knew Kryptonian?

“Lex had a translation dictionary,” said Lena. “I just hope I pronounced it right.”

“We need to go,” Alex said, glumly. “You can stay at the DEO. We could use your help and it’s safer for you here anyway.”

“Just let me stay another minute. Please.”

“If I do, your face will be peeling off tomorrow. We can visit again later. Come on.”

“I can’t,” Lena choked out. “I can’t leave her.”

Alex was an about to say something else when her mother fell open. Kara’s eyes fluttered open and she immediately turned to Lena, bleary-eyed.

“Did you mean that?”

“Yes, Kara, I meant it.”

“But zhao means-“

“I know what it means,” Lena insisted, so full of joy now. “I know what it means, darling. That’s how I meant it. I love you, Kara.”

Oh.

Alex swallowed hard. She didn’t want to interrupt but Lena, and not to mention Alex herself, would get very sick very fast if they didn’t leave this room.

Lena grasped Kara’s uninjured hand.

“You have to go. It’s not safe for humans in here.”

Lena swallowed hard, her throat bobbing.

“Before I… can I…?”

“Yes,” Kara whispered.

Lena darted down and gave Kara a quick, soft kiss on her lips, lingering for just a moment. Kara smiled at her and their hands slid apart as Alex half dragged Lena out of the room and closed the door, then ripped off her sun shades and stared.

“How long?” she breathed.

“I’ve been in love with her for at least for years now,” Lena said, her voice cracking a little. “I’ve wanted to tell her for so long.”

Lips trembling, Alex was besieged. She remembered every time that she told Kara to stay away, not to trust her, not to tell her. The weight of what she has done presses her down as firmly as the knowledge that Kara will be healed soon lifts her up. There’s only one thing she can do.

She swept Lena into a bear hug.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for doubting you and pushing you apart. I’m sorry I didn’t see sooner.”

Lena, at last, fully broke down in Alex’s arms. Later, when Eliza arrived, she passed off Lena-hugging duties to her mother until Kara was fully awake and can leave the sunroom.

Then, Alex went and did what you do for family.

She got rid of the body.

[clownsuu]

Just a lil doodles smhhhh

cw: mentions of violence and distress. Also weapons-

This is probably a good time to mention everyone’s jobs since I keep forgetting to mention it JDHDGDH

Wally: Da Boss (yeah no shid) he isn’t that merciful of a boss- can be very brutal with how relentless he can be and is a bit of a (non sus) sadistic a s s sometimes. Usually is playfully humorous initially, but can quickly go sour if he feels ever so slightly ticked. Preferred weapon: his eyes and his arms.

Barnaby: Body guard, boss’s left hand man, usually the one who talks for the boss. Sometimes he’s even seen as the “unofficial” boss of the whole group (which he likes to humor sometimes) but in the end he is possibly the most loyal out of everyone to Wally (man’s best friend after all). Preferred weapon is “da biggest gun we got!!!”

Howdy: Butler, bartender, boss’s right hand man. Will do basically everything anyone says (who’s part of the family) without question, however he will always take the Boss’s requests as main priority over the others. This will often keep him awake and exhausted, and a few new stitches to add to his collection. He has the lowest ability to think freely. Preferred weapon: Ice pick

Julie: Hitman A, interrogator, mad scientist really. Killing isn’t really too much of her thing, she prefers methodical planning and slow suffering with the use of chemicals and even random substances she can get her lil paws on. She’s not afraid to use anyone as a test subject, even if it’s her own members. preferred weapon: tranquilizers

Sally: Hitman B, intimidator, c h a o s. Almost the complete opposite to Julie. Absolutely chaotic and adores violent bloodshed to a point it’s theatrical. Usually is called if they don’t really need a clean kill. Can often be seen dancing and listening to music while on the job, often says it helps her focus (nobody really argues with it). Preferred weapon: anything blunt and/or violently loud (tasers, rocket launchers, fireworks) (sally is banned from using rocket launchers)

Poppy: Medic, crime scene cleanup, voice of reason, sometimes chef. She does ok when it comes to clean ups and stuff, however she has panic attacks and gets terrified when ever she hears screams of pain/torture, and freezes. Typically Howdy is there to help her snap out of it and help her complete her work, if not do her work for her. Everyone, even including the boss, is there to support her when she’s distressed (everyone would hug her except Wally. He does not like being touched unless it’s Howdy or Barnaby). Preferred weapon: n/a

Eddie: Messenger, delivery pick up/drop off, handler of the goods. He usually goes by himself, however after an incident where he lost his arm from a deal gone wrong, he is now required to leave with at least one of the hitmen (typically Sally). Very often does he get hurt in these trips and is usually always saved by Sally. Absolutely adores Frank for always trying to find the safest routes for him and wishes they had time together alone. Preferred weapon: a simple revolver

Frank: In charge of ordering goods, making contacts, being a voice of reason, basically just a manager. The most stressed member of the group. Rarely is he seen outside of the headquarters unless it’s to talk to well known individuals. He doesn’t usually talk to anyone besides Howdy (ranting at the bar about people), Eddie (telling him what he needs to get next), and Julie (normal convos and her asking him to order new chemicals for her next project). Every time Frank thinks he has an intimate moment together alone with Eddie, out of the blue Eddie would just randomly talk about how much he loves the family and how Wally is so amazing. The next day Frank asks him about it, it seems Eddie doesn’t remember what happened yesterday. Frank has the highest ability to think freely. Preferred weapon: a simple glock.

Home: Voice of reason. Preferred weapon: Wally

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Cat Warrior // Mouse Trap

In the world you live in there’s a variety of races and peoples that exist. Most of them are at war due to ancestorial feuds or snobbish viewpoints about heritage. Which unfortunately means the world is overrun by constant wars and charged attacks. Being a fighter is a no-brainer. Whether or not you agree with the reasons those who do not fight shall survive. Which is why Ferrin the Cat Warrior fully believes you’ll kill him the second you’ve pointed your spear to his neck. 

“Kill me then human. End this so I don’t have to see your pathetic look of victory.”

Only to realize that you’re not going to bother killing him when you’re clearly the better fighter. Even when he tries to sneakily strike at you while you turn away. You’re still triumphant leaving them cradling the scar you’ve mercifully given them. From then on it’s this. Constantly avoiding this Cat Warrior’s backshots and sneaky attacks that just never let up. 

“Tired yet, human?! Ready to surrender in despair?!”

“I don’t think I’ll be doing that considering your arm is still broken from the last time.”

“Don’t underestimate me! I am of the race of the greatest hunters in the world! You’ll be my prey today and the next!”

He vows to defeat you one day but he does it so often that you stop taking him seriously. He hates that you don’t realize how much of a threat he is. In the week he’s spent following you he already knows so many of your habits. Like how many times you turn in your sleep. Or often you yawn before bed. He already knows so much it's truly a miracle you haven’t succumbed to his mighty claws with all the info you’ve let him memorize.

“Stupid human! I’ll get you next time!”

It’s a game of cat and mouse that he adores fuels his primal desire to hunt. It’s strong enough that when his own kind sends a messenger to return to his fleet. Citing all his discoveries he’ll politely refuse the backup they want to send. This is his prey to chase. Others would just spoil his fun. All he’s waiting for is an opportunity to best you.

“You’re so weak. It’ll bring me no satisfaction to kill you now.”

You’ve fallen ill and he’s forced to tend to his prey. He wants you fresh for when he defeats you after all. He clicks his tongue as he feels the heat on your forehead rise and the sweat on your brow increase. While caring for you, the sound of your heavy breathing forces him to think. Why couldn’t he end this now? Why while you were indisposed and at your absolute weakest did he fight off the dog warriors that had come to inspect your camp? Why did he feel the need to scent you while your batting at him was weak?

“I think you’ve gotten me sick as well. This just means I’ll have to stay by your side then.”

From then on he’s your plus one, when you make plans to do anything he is involved. There are no ‘ifs’ ‘and’s’ or ‘buts’ about it. You’re his human and he’s your cat but if you ever say that he’s swiping at your face. He’s going to demand you let him stay in your tent as your journey persists, nipping at your neck and kneading into your thighs. 

“If you’re blind this is my human, you can try to get on their good side all you like but (Y/n) is mine.”

The Cat Warrior has decided to stay by your side as you continue on a journey–that he doesn’t care to pay attention to. But even as you amass attention from all walks of life, he’s promised to remain by your side. You’d be foolish to chase away this hunter because to him he’s won. He has his prey now right where he wants you. 

Complacent when he curls into the blanket with you in your tent. Groaning in your sleep casually as he nestles his fangs into your neck. His tail wrapped around your leg without so much as a twitch from you. 

He’s caught his mouse. 

And he'd never let you go.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 12: Please Call Me Only If You Are Coming Home]

A/N: Only 1 chapter left!!! 🥳 Be sure to vote in our final poll, which will be pinned at the top of my blog per usual 🥰

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Homecoming” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.8k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

“What the hell do you need that for?” Cregan says to Helaena in the next aisle over, sounding alarmed. You are raiding a Kwik Stop just outside Colusa, California, following Route 20 west towards the Pacific Ocean. But when Helaena replies, her voice is perfectly soothing, lyrical, too serene for the way the world is now.

“It’s not for me. It’s just in case anyone ever finds themselves in need of one.” And this makes sense, even though you can’t see what it is she’s taken off the disorderly, ransacked shelves; Helaena is always picking up trinkets to keep stowed away in her burlap messenger bag until their utility becomes essential.

Cregan is relieved. “Oh, okay, gotcha. Whew, you almost gave me a heart attack there, Miss LaeLae…”

Ice is stretched out and dozing on the cool tile floor. Luke and Rhaena are keeping watch by the front of the store. Aegon is standing by the decommissioned Icee machine and showing Daeron which route he’s marked on his map and why.

“Why do I need to know this?” Daeron is asking.

Aegon snorts. “In case I get killed, dumbass…”

Fluttering pieces of paper hang taped to the glass doors of the empty refrigerators: Don’t go towards Sacramento; People in Santa Rosa killed my brother for his car; Andrew Lounsbury, if you see this we are headed to Aunt Sarah’s house, meet us there! Meanwhile, in your own aisle, Aemond is watching you as your fingers flit through packages of Starbursts and Jolly Ranchers and Life Savers Gummies, separating the trash from the ones that haven’t been opened yet. His expression is wary, uncertain. “What?” you ask him.

“Are you…okay?” Aemond says, low enough that no one else will hear.

Of course you aren’t; you keep walking into rooms and looking for Rio, and he’s not there. But you know what Aemond means. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Did I hurt you? Are you…” He steps closer, the blue of his eye gleaming with attentive, penitent concern, sins he is certain he must have committed. “Are you sore, are you bleeding at all?”

You smile, just the ghost of a curve at the edge of your lips. “No, really, I feel fine.” And in your body, this is true. There is a tension that has vanished from your muscles, a softness in your bones, not shards of glass shifting beneath skin but living things like the branches of trees, flexible, green, damp life awash within.

“I was trying to…you know…take it slow and be super gentle, but then…by the end…”

“Aemond, you did everything right.”

And he exhales all the iron-heavy dread he’s been carrying around since he woke up this morning to find you already gone—showing Aegon how to flip Bisquick pancakes as Cregan browned them in a skillet in the woodstove downstairs—and you realize how much you’ve scared him. “I’m really sorry about…” He touches his chin restlessly. “I should have asked you if you wanted me to pull out, I just got, uh…kind of…distracted.”

Your smile grows; now you can feel it in your eyes, warm and luminous. “It’s alright. I did too.”

He is hopeful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t have told you to stop. And anyway, I think we’re safe.” But of course you’ve lost track of the days, and in your dark trance of grief and Tramadol you were entirely unaware of the rhythms of your body, pangs of desire or clear ample wetness, biological cues, primal timekeeping.

“Cool,” Aemond says, now trying to sound casual. “And next time…are you thinking that I should try to…maybe…just to be sure…?”

You shrug, then tell him the first thing that comes into your mind, that flashes in your skull like lightning bugs at dusk. “I’m thinking that life is too short and too rare to put effort into preventing it.”

Aemond’s eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t seem disappointed. “So we’ll see what happens.”

“If you’re onboard.”

“I’m totally onboard. I just want to take care of you. I…” He glances down at his palms—open, clean—and then looks back up at you. “I’ve never had anything that felt right before. Not my family, not myself, nothing. But this feels right. And it’s where I want to be forever.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” And this is what everyone thought: Jace, Baela, Rio. But you make the oath anyway, a hollow promise that echoes like a windchime.

“Me either,” Aemond vows.

You turn to leave the aisle and your backpack hits the shelf, knocking something off the top and onto the tile floor, where it lands with a thump. You gasp, and people come running; but it’s only a box of Honey Buns that was stashed somewhere too high for you to see. “It’s nothing,” you assure them. “We’re all okay, no need to get excited.”

“Death by Little Debbie,” Aegon says, chuckling nervously, his heart still racing.

You pick up the box and think of Rio with abrupt, violent clarity: he’s playing with French-speaking kids on the beach outside Djibouti City, he’s drinking cans of Guinness with you under a full moon on Diego Garcia, he’s reaching out from the pier to pet finless porpoises in Chinhae, he’s bleeding to death on a floor in Winnemucca, Nevada. Your vision is blurring with tears; your throat is knotted and scalding.

“I want him back,” Aegon says softly.

“I know. I do too.” You open the box of Honey Buns and pass one to Aegon first, then distribute the rest. There are only six total. Helaena tries to give hers to Cregan, but he rips it in half so they can share; Aemond insists you take the last one. You eat it wordlessly, sugar melting into your bloodstream.

“I think I saw a minivan down the side street,” Luke says as he chews his Honey Bun, waving his binoculars with his free hand. “It’s probably out of gas like all the others, but…”

“We’ll check it out,” Aemond replies, and everyone follows him as he departs from the Kwik Stop.

It’s a green Kia Carnival with a zombie trapped inside: once a young man in a Nirvana t-shirt, now a ghoul that paws at the glass with its oozing hands and licks the windows, long animal drags of a decomposing tongue. But the fuel cap is still closed, and while the van is turned off you can see the keys dangling from the ignition.

“Think there’s any gas left in the tank?” Daeron says brightly. The Targaryen beach house, following the indirect route you must take to avoid the cities, is about 250 miles from where you are now in Colusa. That’s two weeks on foot, or as few as five hours by car.

Rhaena goes for the driver’s side door. “Let’s find out.” She yanks on the handle to discover it’s locked. Cregan uses his axe to shatter the window, and the zombie tumbles gracelessly out onto the pavement, rancid skin and necrotic muscle ripping from its bones. As it crawls towards the siren call of fresh meat, Ice barks viciously and Cregan swings his axe. The blade slices easily through the monster’s skull, and its flailing, murderous limbs go still.

Rhaena reaches through the broken window to unlock the doors, climbs into the driver’s seat, and turns the key in the ignition. There is a blessed sound: the thunder of a living engine. “Half a tank!” Rhaena cheers.

Aegon gags as he opens the passenger’s side door. “Oh, it reeks so bad…”

“We’ll roll down all the windows,” Aemond says curtly.

“There are organs on the floor! What the fuck is that, a liver?!”

Aemond gives it a cursory glance. “Looks like a spleen.”

“I don’t want to sit near a spleen! I don’t even know what a spleen does!”

“Then throw it outside somewhere!” Aemond snaps. “You’re thirty years old, you can’t clean a minivan?!”

Aegon grumbles as he uses sheets of Burger King coupons from the glovebox to toss zombie guts into the grass. Aemond wipes down the hard surfaces with antiseptic. Luke keeps watch and Daeron shoots down several zombies as they lurch out of nearby houses and towards the Kia Carnival. You ask Helaena for the box of 9mm bullets in her messenger bag and she gives it to you. You load your Beretta M9, stow the remaining bullets in your backpack, and take aim at the approaching zombies to make sure you still know how to get into the rhythm, that you can still be a killer when the circumstances require it. You are out of practice, but you’re beginning to feel more like yourself again. Aemond brought you back. They all did.

When the minivan is as clean as possible, everyone hurries inside and Rhaena drives west on Route 20 under the afternoon sun. At the intersection with Route 53, Aegon directs Rhaena to follow it south around Clear Lake, then to take Route 29 west through rolling hills that were once filled with vineyards, wineries, music, weddings, horse farms. Now the land is hushed, and wild, and dotted with silhouettes that sway drunkenly and swipe at vultures when they try to gobble tattered strips of putrid flesh that unravel from bones like the bandages of a mummy.

The Kia Carnival rides Route 175 west and then Route 101 south, where the earth turns dry and rocky and barren, reminding you of northern Nevada and piling stones of heartache in your belly. In a place called Pieta—an old 1800s railroad depot, according to a plaque mounted just off the road—Rhaena slows down to get a better look at something that doesn’t make any sense. There is a souvenir shop of rocks and gems, now long out of business, and in a shed beside the main building hangs a gruesome specimen that you can see through the open doors. It has two arms and two legs, but it’s not a zombie. Its flayed flesh is a vibrant, healthy red; parts of the thighs and chest have been carefully carved away like cuts of meat are sliced from beef cattle. It is suspended on meat hooks. It is being butchered.

Cregan notes uneasily: “That ain’t an opossum or a bison.”

“I think it’s human,” Aemond says, horrified.

“Guess we’re not stopping for the night anytime soon,” Rhaena quips, then floors the gas pedal.

One of Aegon’s mixtapes spins in the CD player. From the speakers flows Somebody To You by The Vamps.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Do you see anyone now?” Aemond asks.

Luke speaks without looking away from his binoculars. “And for the fourth time, my answer remains no.”

After a night’s rest in a cabin at Camp Liahona Redwoods in Sonoma County, you followed California State Route 1 down the coast of the Pacific Ocean until the Kia Carnival finally ran out of gas just south of Olema, a small town founded in the 1850s. A ten-mile hike has brought you to the cliff where the fabled Targaryen beach house is perched with a few hours left before sunset. The ailing daylight is golden, the wave crests glittering, gulls cawing as they swoop through the salt-lashed air. From the road that twists like a snake through the slopes of Bolinas—thick with redwoods, Douglas firs, oaks, cypresses, tall grass that whips in the wind and tufts of eucalyptus—Luke is searching the property. It is less a house than a mansion, a museum, a monument, a work of art: sharp rectangular lines and glass walls, balconies, fountains, a pool, a garden.

Cregan whistles. “A place like that has to cost a million dollars.”

“Try fifteen million,” Aemond says distractedly, and Cregan gawks at him.

“Well, from what I can see it looks safe,” Luke declares, lowering his binoculars. “No zombies.”

“You really think they’re in there?” Daeron asks eagerly. “Mom and Criston?”

“Yeah, kid,” Aegon says, squeezing Daeron’s shoulder; but his voice is morose, like he knows he has surrendered to something, a path of least resistance, a hostile planet’s gravity. “Of course they are. Let’s go say hi.”

At the end of the driveway, the five-car garage is open. There is an Alfa Romeo, a Porsche, a Ferrari, a Ducati motorcycle, and a white Chevy Tahoe, which Aemond says belongs to Criston. And there are other items of interest mounted on the walls.

“Yes!” Daeron says as he runs to a quiver full of arrows for his compound bow. Aegon lifts a golf club out of its bag and makes an imaginary putt, getting reacquainted with the feeling of his hands on the grip.

“This is an iron,” Aegon says when he catches you watching him. In the shade of the garage, he pushes his neon green plastic sunglasses up into his windswept hair. “It’s metal all the way through and gives you good control over the shot. Drivers are for long-distance, and wedges and putters don’t have enough power. But an iron is just right.”

“Are you going to teach me how to golf?”

Aegon grins, his first real smile all day. “You think you can handle it, SunChips?”

“I don’t,” you answer honestly, and he laughs.

“If you teach me how to shoot, I’ll teach you how to golf.”

“An unfair trade! My skill is useful.”

Aemond knocks on the door that connects the garage to the main house. “Mom? Criston?” There is no response; all of you wait for one, listening intently through the crashes of waves and reverberating gull shrieks. Ice begins to pace agitatedly and nudges Cregan’s hands. He looks at Aemond, half-fear and half-sympathy.

“No,” Aemond says. “No, she’s wrong.”

“She might be,” Cregan replies, steady and ever-agreeable. Helaena is wringing her small, gentle hands. Everyone is watching Aemond to see what they should do next.

He pounds on the door again, this time with a closed fist. “Mom, we’re home! Mom? Criston? It’s me! It’s Aemond!”

Still, there is no answer. Aemond tries the doorknob, and it turns unimpeded. It is unlocked. He opens the door, peeks inside, and then crosses through the threshold. The rest of you trail him like he has eight shadows, the last in the shape of a wolf.

You step into the living room: wide open windows, the ocean breeze breathing through the house. The air tastes like sand and saltwater, sun and blue skies. There are three-story glass walls that overlook the water, a staircase leading up to the next floor, pristine white couches, black end tables topped with vases full of dead flowers, grey marble floors, bejeweled golden crosses that glint cruelly in the bloody late-afternoon light, family photographs on the mantle of the fireplace. There are many pictures of Aemond, and some of Helaena and Daeron as well. You don’t see a single photo of Aegon. He notices you scanning the snapshots in the frames and looks away, ashamed.

“Mom?” Aemond calls, his voice ricocheting through the vast, open space, clinical like a hospital or a morgue. “Criston?”

“Grandpa?” Helaena says meekly. Cregan is clutching his axe and peering around vigilantly. Ice whines and paces, her strange yellow eyes glowing like flecks of gold in a stream. Rhaena tries to soothe her with ear scratches; Ice begins to howl, low long mournful sounds.

You catch Aegon’s attention when he glances at you again. “This isn’t right,” you whisper. “If they were here, they would have heard us by now.”

Aegon turns to his brother. “Hey, Aemond…”

And then there are footsteps from upstairs, slow and shambling. Everyone looks, and it appears at the top of the steps like a mirage or a night terror, like a wrathful god glaring down from Mount Olympus. Long, filthy strands of white hair hang from what is left of its scalp. Its gore-stained teeth are bared. Its eyes are cloudy like the poisoned atmosphere of another planet, one gasp enough to singe your lungs and infect your bloodstream. The snarls pour out ragged and rasping from its disintegrating vocal chords. The man was wearing a suit when he died, and the pale blue shirt is now splattered with crimson and bits of rotting flesh. The black leather shoes on its feet clop as the zombie descends the staircase with staggering, unnatural steps, its decaying arms grasping for the mortals who wait below.

Daeron says numbly: “Dad?”

Aemond’s eye is wide and dazed. Ice is growling. Helaena is screaming and fleeing towards the wall; Cregan embraces her and she clings to him. “Aemond? Buddy?” Cregan shouts. “How do you want to handle this?” And what he means is: Do you want to kill it, or should someone else? Do you need time to process what’s happened? How can we help you?

“Aemond?” you say. You touch his arm; he doesn’t react. Rhaena draws her Ruger but doesn’t shoot yet. She is looking to Aemond for permission. Luke is standing in front of Rhaena and forcing her backwards as the zombie nears the bottom of the staircase. Now you can smell it: dark wet rot, spoiled meat, blood and oily fat and organs putrefying in a threadbare patchwork of flesh.

“Dad!” Daeron wails, and he’s covering his face with his hands because he knows what this must mean for the rest of his family too.

“Aemond?!” Rhaena yells. “Aemond, what do you want us to do?!”

You reach for your M9 as the zombie’s leather shoes settle on the marble floor. This seems to shake Aemond from his paralysis.

“No,” he says. “I’ll do it.” He grabs his Glock and aims, but his finger hesitates on the trigger. And you can see the ghosts of the people who have died by his hands lurking in the crystalline blue of his remaining eye: Alys, Jace, Baela and her baby…and now Viserys Targaryen too.

In the lull, in the indecision, Aegon roars and swings his golf club. The metal head collides with the zombie’s skull. Weak corroded bone collapses; blood and brains the color of black mold leak out onto the polished marble.

“It wasn’t enough, huh?!” Aegon screams, then hits the zombie again. The corpse crumples to the floor, but Aegon isn’t done yet. “You couldn’t just fuck everything up when you were alive, you had to keep torturing us from beyond the grave, you sick bastard, you selfish prick, what is wrong with you?!” He whacks the carcass with his golf club again and again. “I hate you! I hate you! You deserved so much worse than this! We crossed an entire goddamn country, and Jace died, and Baela died, and Rio died, all so we could get back here, and now it’s all for nothing because you’ve destroyed everyone you’ve ever touched! I fucking hate you!”

Aegon strikes the zombie one last time—the skull is a pulverized soup of gore and bone fragments—and before anyone can reach for him, he has bolted up the steps to search the rest of the house. You find them in their final resting places: bones in the hallway interspersed with gold rings and a medallion of Saint Irene of Thessaloniki, bones in the shower pierced with stainless steel surgical screws from hip and knee replacements, bones in the master bedroom entangled with shreds of a bloodstained silk nightgown and long locks of auburn hair. Daeron is sobbing, and Cregan takes Helaena outside to the garden to calm down, and Aemond wanders through the rooms in shock. You don’t know what to say to him; you remember how nothing anyone said made a difference when Rio died. But Aegon is furious. He tears away from everyone and goes to his bedroom: racks full of CDs, neon green blankets, an acoustic guitar propped in one corner. Then he ravages his hiding places—inside drawers, under his mattress, on tiny shelves he carved into the walls behind golf and Green Day posters—and collects mint tins. Then he pours out the white powder inside onto his desk and arranges it into lines like contrails behind airplanes, like wagon trails across the earth.

You try to stop him. “Aegon, wait, please don’t—”

“Get the fuck out,” he hisses, and for the first time you see the cold reptilian sheen of something like hate in his eyes. “You don’t have to pretend to love me. I can be alone. I’m used to it.”

“Aegon, I’m not—”

“They’re gone. You can leave too.” Then he slams the door and locks it.

~~~~~~~~~~

While Aegon is upstairs getting high and Helaena is downstairs inventorying supplies in the massive walk-in pantry, the rest of you use shovels from the garage to bury what is left of the bodies in the backyard, unceremonious shallow graves, the soil too rocky for anything more elaborate. Rhaena uses her jagged sliver of slate to mark stones with their names and a few kind words about each of them; but Viserys’ stone is left blank. Then Rhaena returns inside to help Helaena prepare for dinner, while Daeron inspects the perimeter of the house with Cregan and Ice. Luke uses a telescope near the pool not to gaze up at the rising stars but to study the neighboring properties.

Aemond murmurs as he stands in front of the four graves: “I should have gotten here sooner. Maybe I could have saved them.”

“You still have a family,” you say, begging him to believe that there are things worth living for. “You have Aegon and Daeron and Helaena, Rhaena, Luke, Cregan. And you have me.”

Aemond stares out over the Pacific Ocean. The sky above is red and lavender, fire and dreams. “How do we get to Diego Garcia?” He is only half-joking.

“Well you just find a boat and row about 10,000 miles that way.”

He sighs and drags his trembling fingers through his hair. It has always been his job to know what happens next, and now he doesn’t. Gulls squawk and wheel in the air. His right cheek glistens with tears.

“I never saw the ocean until I joined the Navy,” you say, and Aemond looks over at you, curious but not wanting to react in the wrong way and scare you into going quiet again. He’s always mining for details of your past, and you’re endlessly evading him. But perhaps you have been too secretive. He wants to know these things because he wants to know you, and you have no idea how long you’ll be here to shed your mysteries. If a story dies with you, it dies forever.

“Really?”

“Yeah. My mother…Mama, I always called her Mama…she went to Virginia Beach a few times while I was growing up, and that was her favorite place in the world. But she never took me with her. She’d go with my aunt or my oldest brothers. So when I got to basic training on the shore of Lake Michigan, that was the closest thing to an ocean I’d ever seen, and it absolutely amazed me.”

“Lake Michigan,” Aemond repeats, trying not to sound like he’s mocking you.

You smile. “And then of course I ended up in some more impressive places. But compared to Soft Shell, Lake Michigan was a whole different planet.”

“Soft Shell?”

“Like softshell turtles. They’re one of those animals that are so ugly they’re almost cute. We have a lot of them in Kentucky. Well, we used to. Maybe people ate them all when the food ran out.”

“Soft Shell, Kentucky,” Aemond says. “What was it like? I mean…I know you left, and I know you had good reasons…but I’ve never been to Kentucky. I’ve never really been to Appalachia period.”

“It’s beautiful. You get all four seasons, and you’re out in nature all the time, and it feels old, like hardly anything has changed there in thousands of years. You feel connected to the earth. I loved the forests and the mountains. I don’t think I realized how much I loved certain things about where I’m from until I’d been gone for years. I didn’t leave because I had to get away from Kentucky. I left because I had to get away from who I was when I was there, you know? Someone lonely and helpless. But how my family was isn’t Kentucky’s fault.”

“No,” Aemond muses. “I suppose not.” You begin walking together back towards the house.

“Ready for more bad news?” Luke asks, and gestures for you and Aemond to peer through the telescope. Aemond lets you go first, and immediately you see what Luke means. There are zombies in the surrounding hills, and not just a few. There are hundreds, stumbling around aimlessly and posing no current threat; but you are not safe here.

“We don’t have enough people to defend ourselves,” Aemond says once he’s taken a look, tapping his chin in that way that he does when he’s fearful but trying to hide it.

“No, we don’t,” Luke agrees.

“And there aren’t many natural resources here to subsist on. Even the fishing prospects aren’t great without a boat or a pier.”

“Right,” Luke says.

You wonder if Aemond is thinking the same thing you are. He might not know what has to happen next, but you do.

~~~~~~~~~~

The dining room table—large enough to seat twenty—is illuminated with candles, meticulously arranged with china and silverware, and cluttered with canned soups from brands you’ve never seen before: Amy’s, Pacific Foods, Health Valley. There are cases of Perrier and San Pellegrino to drink, and bottles of Chateau Lafite Rothschild red wine. Everyone else is here except Aegon. You are just about to go find him when he comes rushing down the staircase and into the dining room. He is wearing clothes from his closet here: a salmon pink polo that emphasizes his sunburn, khaki shorts, a white puka shell necklace, Sperry Bahama sneakers. The left shoe just barely fits over the bandages still protecting his healing left leg. There are fingerprints of white powder on the front of his shirt.

“Oh, look!” he announces. “Isn’t this precious? A family dinner?”

“Aegon, please sit down,” Aemond says briskly.

“Come on, it’ll be just like old times. We have all four of us kids, and then…Rhaena, you can be my dear departed Grandpa Otto, you just have to scowl at everyone…and Luke can be Criston.”

Luke is confused. “What—?”

“No no no! Don’t worry. It’s a very easy part. All you have to do is gaze worshipfully at Aemond and talk about how brilliant he is. There’s really not much to it, and honestly you do a lot of that already. And then…” Aegon floats by you, skimming his palm down the length of your hair. Something about the weight of his hand gives you goosebumps: careless, careful, fleeting, intimate. He sighs: “My beautiful, tortured mother.”

“Aegon, sit down,” Aemond orders.

“Father!” Aegon cries out suddenly, spotting Cregan at the head of the table. Cregan looks around the dining room, baffled. “You’ve joined us! How unusual! Did your Titanic replicas spontaneously combust? Did the world end? Well, actually, it sort of did…”

“Buddy, I have no earthly clue what you’re trying to—”

“Now this is a tough part,” Aegon says forcefully. “Patriarch of the Targaryen dynasty, big shoes to fill! But don’t worry, I’m here to help. I’ll give you your lines. All you have to do is repeat after me, okay?”

Cregan studies him and does not assent.

Aegon slams both palms down onto the table. “You’re so fucking stupid, Aegon. You’re a humiliation, Aegon. Why can’t you be smart like Aemond, or sweet like Helaena, or obedient like Daeron? Why did my firstborn child turn out to be such a fucking waste?”

“I’m not going to say that,” Cregan replies quietly.

“Say it,” Aegon seethes.

Now Daeron is weeping between spoonfuls of Amy’s tortilla soup straight from the can. “I want to go home.”

“We are home,” Aemond says.

“This isn’t home anymore, Aemond,” Daeron sniffles.

Aegon is still trying to feed Cregan lines. “Have you found a wife yet, Aegon? No, of course you haven’t. You’ve got hands like a rat and a disposition to match. You’re an overgrown vermin, you’re a plague to every house you enter. Who would fuck you out of anything but greed or pity?”

“Aegon, please stop,” Aemond pleads, wincing and rubbing his forehead.

Helaena folds her arms atop the table and rests her head on them, hiding her face. Luke and Rhaena keep their eyes downcast. Daeron reaches for a bottle of red wine, but Aegon swats his hand away.

“Nope. Illegal. You’re not 21.”

“Aegon, seriously, I’m so over that joke—”

“Shut up. You can’t even get a tattoo without parental consent.”

“Our parents are dead!” Daeron shouts. “They died terrible deaths and they’re never coming back and you’re making everything worse!”

“Then get rid of me! Put me out on the street and I won’t be anyone’s problem anymore! I’ll get murdered or eaten and it’ll be the best thing that ever happened to you!”

Helaena breaks down sobbing, and before Aegon can register what’s happening Cregan scoops him up off the floor and throws him over one broad shoulder. Then Cregan lugs him upstairs as Aegon struggles and yowls and punches at Cregan’s back, all in vain. You can hear a lot of commotion and then finally Cregan reappears, sweat beading on his brow but otherwise composed.

“I tied him to his bedframe with an extension cord,” Cregan says. “I don’t think he’ll be making any more trouble this evening.”

“Thank you,” Aemond replies, defeated.

“If he’s going to be up there all night, he’ll need water and food,” you say. “And enough blankets to make sure he’s warm.” It gets chilly when the sun goes down here, as low as the 50s. You grab two bottles of Perrier off the table and stand to bring them upstairs to Aegon, but Cregan gently takes them out of your hands.

“I’ll make sure he’s well supplied, Miss Chips,” Cregan insists, and you are convinced he thinks he’s doing you a favor. He doesn’t want Aegon to have the opportunity to upset anybody further. And yet a part of you is undeniably disappointed.

Aegon has been gone for ten minutes, and you miss him already.

~~~~~~~~~~

In Aemond’s childhood bedroom, a huge, impersonal, spartan space, the very few pieces of furniture all in the same color scheme of white and navy blue, you cannot say anything to bring his family back to life, or his friends, or the possibilities of what his life might have been before the dead began to walk. But you remember what he did for you when Rio died and you were sinking in dark, numb despair, and so you take Aemond’s hands and place them on your body—skimming under your t-shirt, circling around your waist—offering yourself like a sacrifice that you both desperately need, like a shot of antivenom that will only buy you hours. He draws you into his lap, and beneath your palms and your lips and your thighs, you can feel him coming back to you, filling up with light like a horizon at dawn.

“I’m still here,” you whisper as he throws you down onto the bed, eases himself into you, carries you away like a ship coasting out into open water. I don’t ever want to be anywhere but here.

Aemond holds you after, ensnared in sweat-damp sheets and entwined fingers, and he confesses: “I knew it was possible that they might not still be alive. Logically, I knew that. But it was like I never allowed myself to feel it. And now it’s…it’s…it’s all at once and it’s too much. I can’t fathom that I’ll never see them again. But I don’t even have time to mourn. I need to figure out where we’re going next.”

“Aemond?”

His lips to your forehead, his voice a drowsy murmur: “Hm?”

“I have to tell Rio’s family what happened to him.”

He pulls back to look at you. “You want to go to Oregon?”

“What if Odessa really is safe?”

At first he is bewildered; then he begins to consider it. “Criston’s Tahoe is in the garage. If we siphon the gas left in all the vehicles, we might have enough to get us halfway there.”

“That’s a lot better than none of the way there.”

“We’ll all have to vote on it. The trip will be dangerous.”

“Everything is now.”

“Almost everything,” he teases, his hand sliding down between your legs, taking you far away again.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning, you find Aegon at the cliffside smoking one of his Marlboro Golds, slow meditative drags, eyes bloodshot with lack of sleep. That’s alright. He can nap in the Tahoe. Rhaena won’t need his directions for a while; you’ll stay northbound on Route 1 for 200 miles before cutting inland as you near the Oregon border.

You sit down on the sandy, shrub-strewn ground beside Aegon and wait for him to speak. It takes a while, but you don’t mind. You’ve always had patience; you’ve always been a better listener than someone who fills silences.

At last Aegon says: “I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

“Then stop.”

He smirks bitterly, glaring out into the sunrise, orange light like fire on his sunburned face. “You make reinvention sound so easy.”

“It’s not easy. But it is simple. You decide to get out, and then you do it. You don’t let anything convince you to give up or change course. The only way out is through.”

“I have a proposition.”

“I’m still not interested in fake dating you.”

He cackles. “No, it’s something else.”

“Okay. Let’s hear it.”

Now Aegon is serious. “I don’t ever want to split up again. Not in a year, not in ten years, not in twenty. Never.”

You smile as you watch the reflection of the dawn in his eyes, murky faraway blue like oceans all across the globe. “I didn’t know you thought so highly of commitment.”

“I want to take care of you until you die. I want you to take care of me until I die. And that’s as far as commitment goes with me.”

“Deal.” You offer Aegon your hand.

He shakes it. “Deal.”

Two hours later, Criston Cole’s white Chevy Tahoe is loaded high with supplies—including several of Aegon’s golf clubs and his acoustic guitar—and heading north on Route 1, a Fall Out Boy song from one of Aegon’s mixtapes blaring through the speakers:

“When Rome’s in ruins

We are the lions, free of the Colosseums

In poison places, we are antivenom

We’re the beginning of the end…”

You rest your head on Aemond’s shoulder and wait for the sapphire-and-gold Bay Area to become the misty, primordial emerald green of the Pacific Northwest.

[written-in-flowers]

Her Soldier: Demon!San x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Incubi!San x Fem!Reader

Genre: Fluff, smut, angst MINOR DNI

Word Count: 14k

Summary: Injured during a mission to protect Lucifer's child, San begins to doubt his dreams of having his own someday. It's only your comfort that convinces him it's not all pointless.

Tags: polyamorous relationship (m/m/m/f) bisexual!demonline, graphic depictions of violence, serious injuries, scenes of child birth/child labor, blood, blood and violence, angels vs demons, religious imagery, underage storylines, mentions/allusions to underage violence, implied child neglect/abuse, crime, mentions of childbirth death and complications, fluffy vanilla sex this time, multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, breeding kink, breeding.

Pretty Lady Masterlist

Previously on Pretty Lady

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***

He’d never seen anything like it before. The young woman laid on the stone table in the torch lit room, sweat gleaming on her body and blood oozing from her legs. Dark hairs sticking to her forehead, her face squeezed tight as she made attempts to push the child from her. Women wearing black cloaks stood around her, dabbing cold cloths on her forehead and encouraging her to breathe between pushes. One sat at the edge between her legs, gloves on her knobbly hands as she urged the woman to keep going. Around the room, monks in crimson cloaks held black candles. Her cries drowned out their low chanting, an incantation to welcome the new babe into the world. San couldn’t keep his eyes off the mother. She looked so young. She couldn’t be any older than you, and here she was harboring the greatest responsibility a servant of Lucifer can bear. 

His seed. 

He’d heard people around her say how lucky she is to be pregnant with Lucifer’s child; it is a high honor to carry the King’s child. They tell her that she will be the mother of a powerful lord, who will take over the world and rule as a living god. He heard one midwife talk of Lucifer’s other children, and how successful they’d become. Very few women have had the privilege to carry the new Antichrist. She should be thankful for this child’s birth is a slight upon The Almighty. San knew he’d be more worried about not dying during the birth than the honor of being chosen.

“Your first birthing ceremony, son?”

The soldier beside him leaned over and whispered, not catching anyone’s attention. San almost didn’t hear him. He saw more blood staining the mother’s white dress. San shed more blood than either of his brothers, but this was different. 

“Yes, sir.”

Hector chortled. His former commander stood in bronze armor that popped against his green tinged skin. His horns, white and ribbed, curved from the top of his forehead and his wings remained close to his back. He stood several inches taller than San, and much wider too. 

“Is it always this…bloody?” he asked, watching the midwife reach forward.

“Yes, sometimes bloodier depending on the woman,” he replied. “It is an honor to be here, Choi. Not just anyone is chosen to protect The King’s offspring.”

“I know.”

The messenger came to the Black Keep with a royal summons from His Majesty to San. San thought it might be to perform a demonstration in the frozen palace in the ninth circle, since he’d done it before, but he’d been wrong. Lucifer had impregnated another follower, who was due any day. They’d chosen him and others to protect the mother and child. His brothers begged him not to go.

“You could die, San. You could actually die if an angel gets their sword in you.”

“Please, decline. You can tell him that while you are honored, you cannot accept. San, you’d be going to the living world and you’d be facing holy magic. That can actually kill us. Do you hear me? A holy blade can and will kill you.”

“Sannie, don’t go.”

Your plea had been the softest of them. Even if you didn’t fully understand the gravity of the situation, you didn’t like the sound of it. The look of concern in your eyes haunted him as he stepped through the portal into the living world. He found himself memorizing your kiss when they arrived at the church. Standing in the circular room, watching a young woman give her life for her master, you kept rushing to his mind. It was possible that this birth would be successful and he'd go home to you. But, the likelihood of a fight was also possible. Every soldier faces the risk when they head into battle. San knows once he picks up his sword, he agrees to the fight. There’d been a time in his life where he’d join without hesitation, but that changed when you arrived. 

The image of you sitting across from him, laughing at one of his jokes and engaging in conversation, brought comfort to him. In a world of blood and pain, you’d become a beacon of warmth; the candle in the window or the light in his valley of darkness. When he first looked at you upclose, seeing you in the soft firelight, he felt you slip through the chinks in his armor. He still thinks about the vision of you on the soft sheets, soundlessly sleeping next to him the morning after. He’d wanted to stay holding you a bit longer. San wanted to know the beautiful “human” who’d wandered into his life so unexpectedly. He’s thankful you’d decided to stay so he can keep digging for more. 

“Father,” the midwife turned to the coven leader, “There’s something wrong.”

“What’s wrong?!” the mother panicked hearing this, eyes wide with fear as she looked between them. Neither priest or midwife answered her, but instead quietly spoke to one another. “What is going on?! What’s wrong with my baby?!”

San’s blood ran cold. He watched the pair continue talking before the priest went to retrieve a black bottle from a nearby altar. He bid the mother to drink it, telling her it’ll save her child. San saw him bring the bottle to her lips, and she gulped it greedily. Thin crimson trails leaked from the sides of her mouth, not going to waste as she wiped them. Suddenly, she screamed. A terrible, painful scream ripped through her chest and out into the world. Bony fingers gripped the sheets underneath her, and her toes tightly curled inwards. The midwives encouraged her to keep pushing, even as her screams turned into guttural snarls. San’s eyes widened as that final push ended in high pitched squeals drowning her out. The coven members awed and praised her as the head midwife pulled the squalling babe from her. 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Hector asked, wiping his eyes. “I always cry at these things.”

“Yes. It’s wonderful,” San said in a monotone voice.

The midwife wiped the blood and matter from the baby, and San finally caught a look at it. Skin the color of snow, he saw small hands and feet kicking around before being swaddled in a blanket. The mother beamed happily, laughing as she held her baby to her naked chest.

“She’s beautiful, Francesca,” smiled the midwife. “You’ve done well, my child.”

“What’s her name, Sister?” asked one of the attendants.

“Gisella,” the mother sniffled, unable to stop her happy tears. “Her name is Gisella.”

Francesca kissed her daughter’s forehead, not bothered by her small claws or dark red eyes. San knew once the child grew, the human features would start appearing. He wondered if any child you two had would be the same. His heart fluttered imagining you in her position, holding his child and crying tears of joy. It was unlikely you’d want children or a family, since you never showed interest in having them, but he knew you at least liked babies. You smiled whenever you saw one in the street, and some friends of yours had them. The dream of you carrying his children, being a mother to them would be a dream.

“Choi,” Hector called to him from the birthing bed, “Come see her.”

In timid steps, San approached them. The stench of blood grew thicker, but the sight of the newest Antichrist took his attention away. The baby had His Majesty’s sharp nose and round eyes, but her mother’s lips and chin.

“Congratulations,” San said kindly.

“Thank you,” she smiled, immediately looking back at her baby.

“His Majesty must be informed at once,” the priest said.

“I’ll have one of my men go inform him…” Hector said, but San tuned him out right away.

An unnatural breeze blew in from the nearby tunnel entrance. His entire body moved into action. In an instant, a figure in bright gold armor appeared from thin air, raising their longsword to slash at San. He blocked it with his own sword, then swiped at them. The angel, with their large feather wings, lifted into the air and more of them appeared. Then, the battle began. San and Hector stood by the table while their fellows fought off those at the entrances. The angel who’d attacked San came at him again, but a swing of his sword to the midriff and then to the back of their wings wounded the celestial being. San then blocked another angel’s sword, kicking them right in the chest and stabbing them in the gut. All the adrenaline he’d held back came at him full force. It fueled his fast, precise movements, causing his heart to pound in his ears and made him hyper aware of his surroundings. 

“Beat them back!” ordered Hector, who blocked an angel’s sword. “Protect the babe!”

He could not fail. If the angels managed to get their hands on the baby, they’d never see her again. One angel flew and landed on top of the table, reaching for Gisella, but a slice at the back of their ankles crippled them. San then stabbed them right in the neck, blood spurting from the wound and the angel clutched their neck as they fell. He had no time to observe.

“Can you stand?” he asked Francesca, who shook her head. 

“Take her,” the young woman cried, handing Gisella to him. “Please, take her.”

“Take the baby and get out, Choi,” Hector ordered.

He gently took the baby from Francesca, and held it close to him. Due to all the noise and commotion stimulating her senses, little Gisella’s shrieks nearly blew out his ears. San, unable to use one arm, swung his sword at any enemy he came across through the tunnels. The portal back home was on the other side of the church, underneath the Vatican streets. Urgency pushed him forward, and panic had him holding the child close to his chest. He moved through the caverns until he reached a large room where seven demonic statues stood facing the center. Yet, right as he reached the very threshold, one of the angels grabbed him by the metal arm guard and spun him away. San lost his grip on Gisella, who floated in the air before being caught by an angel. 

“No!” he screamed, scrambling to stand and rush at the man holding Lucifer’s child, but was then countered by another soldier. 

The burning heat of a holy blade seared his skin, sinking further into his body. All the air in his went out in a single gasp. His muscles constricted, but he maintained his own strength. As the pain took over, San reached for the dagger on his belt. The handle carved with serpents slithering towards the rose pummel, San sunk his blade into the angel’s exposed neck. Blood poured out from the angel’s mouth and artery, while more bled out from San’s side. The angel fell first, laying flat on their wings as they struggled to stay alive. Demon blades held the same power as holy ones. Falling to the ground, San took deep breaths on the stone ground. Each one burned, and he felt them start to choke him. He grabbed at the wound between his ribs. His vision started to blur and blacken, but he blinked it away. Images suddenly flashed before his eyes. 

Hongjoong smirking and winking as he stole a grape from San’s bowl. 

Seonghwa smiling widely, a book in his lap and the sun beaming behind him. 

The three of them sitting in the lounge, chattering and laughing together. 

And you. Wonderful you. Your eyes are bright with happiness as flowers grow all around you. Face down on the floor, the stone scratching his cheeks and arms, he held onto images of the four of you. The sounds of his enemies fleeing with the squealing baby became muddled and inaudible to him. He thought of your laugh, sweet and cheerful. He’d promised to come home. More pain shot through him as the magic took over, sapping more life from him. 

“Choi!” he heard a voice say from nearby. 

Before, he would’ve been glad to be dying for his king. He’d feel honored to die fighting. Not anymore. Now, he wanted to live. San only groaned, rolling onto his back. He struggled for a breath, clutching onto each one as it may be his last. He told Seonghwa he’d be back in no time. It’d been almost a month. Hands grabbed at him, and he left the ground. 

He told Hongjoong not to worry; that he’d been in tons of battles before.

He told you he’d be fine. He said he’d be home before you knew it.

Promises he’s unable to keep. San clung on to every breath, feeling the pain it brought and the hollowness of his chest. The sudden nothingness of the portal sucked more precious life from him. He heard voices all around him. Bright lights burned his eyes. Where were you? He wanted to see you. He wanted to see his brothers. Several hands laid him on a firm surface, and small wheels could be heard underneath him.

“You’re going to be alright, son,” he heard Hector’s voice. “You’re going to be alright.”

His Darling, who brought so much comfort to him. He’d never known real comfort until he ended up in Hell. The couple he’d been given to gave him the bare minimum. The witch, Hyeon, and her servant, Heechul, took him in as a baby and never told him about his true identity. He’d only learned what a family was when his brothers took him into their home.

Darkness came over him the moment the cart stopped. He forced himself to stay awake, despite the blood filling his lungs to choke him. San wanted to see you. He needed to see you one last time. 

“YN…”

****

“Wake up, you stupid boy!”

The world came to him in a blur. He blinked back the rays of sun peeking in between the cracks in the curtains. Outside his doorway, he heard the other tenants starting to rise from their corners of the shared room. The stench of sweat, illness and filth sunk right into his nose at the first breath; he coughed it out as he did every morning.  

“I said ‘get up’!” 

A swift kick to his ribs took the breath from his chest. San curled inwards on the thin mattress, groaning as the pain subsided into a dull ache. Kicks to the stomach hurt more without any fat protecting it. Immediately, the boy stood up from his bed on heavy legs. Ahead of him, a skinny woman with messy black hair in a bun walked away from him to a rickety dresser. He watched her start slipping into a ragged chemise and stockings. In a corner of their small area, a man in rags sat passed out against the wall. The dark bottle beside him told San he'd drunk too much gin again. He recalled Hyeon and Heechul’s argument last night, and the latter likely drowned his sorrows in the drink. The yellowish puddle around him made San’s stomach churn.

“Daniel!” Hyeon screeched from her cot, using his English name.

“I’m up.”

He picked up the gin bottle from Heechul, and finished it off. The pure liquor stung his throat, but relieved his thirst and woke him up right away. All around him, he heard people starting to rise from their beds to begin their day. He saw Mrs. Cimorelli pulling on the top layer of her dress. His eyes scanned over her slim figure, taking in her soft curls and olive skin. A shudder went through him when he recalled a few nights previous, when he’d offered her his last bit of coin for a suck. His age, fifteen, didn’t matter to a whore like her. San snapped back into reality when a sharp hand hit the back of his head. This caused Mrs. Cimorelli to turn her head. It took her a moment, but she smirked when she realized he’d been watching her.

“Filthy lout,” Hyeon scoffed, pulling on her worn out boots. “You’re going to catch a pox one day, boy. You mark my words.”

“Ah, shut up, you ol’ cow,” he snapped back, rubbing where she’d hit him.

“You're lucky I got work, or you'll get more than a clout on the ear. You get yourself right and get going. The overseer will deduct your wages if you’re late.”

San glared at her. He'd grown used to it since arriving in New York. Whenever she started barking about work, he thought of telling Hyeon they’d do better starving back home than starving in a new country. Though, she’d quickly retort with, “There aren’t any jobs at home.” He’d then tell her fortune tellers and mediums did just as well in Korea as they did in New York.

When Hyeon turned her back, San quickly snatched the lump of bread she had hidden under her blanket. Taking a bite of the hard lump, he glanced back at Mrs. Cimorelli as he passed her. Her small wink and smile warmed his blood. If he made enough, he’d give her another go if he caught her on the street that night. San walked past the other tenants in the small apartment space, nodding to those he knew and turning from those he didn’t and walked outside. In the stairwell, he heard the hustle of the morning crowds. He heard and smelled everything around him. He heard babies crying behind closed doors; he caught Mr. And Mrs. Wang arguing about Mr. Wang’s drinking again; he saw Daisy, Irene, and Sarah walking up the stairs from their night on the streets.

“Morning, Handsome,” Daisy, straight black hair in a messy braid and dress slightly askew, smiled at him. “We missed you last night.”

“Sorry ladies, I had places to be,” he said apologetically as he walked down past them.

“Will you be out tonight?” asked Irene, a red blotch starting to bruise on her peachy skin. “You know I always save space for you.”

“If the boss lets me,” he winked, walking down the steps to the next floor.

The best thing about New York? The girls. Back home, girls shared the conservative, modest views of their parents. The women in the brothels looked tempting, but they didn’t service teens. The ladies he’d met in America did him as long as he had enough money.

Coming out into the street, San took in the sights and smells of New York’s Chinatown. It wasn’t strictly speaking only Chinese people. A melting pot of different ethnicities and races lived in the small community, working and surviving off meager wages. Those with a bit more sand did jobs for the gangs around the city. When he first arrived, San got a job at the textile factory working the looms. It was a dangerous job for a skinny boy who barely spoke English, but it was better than the street. Of course, any money he made went directly to Hyeon, who claimed to spend it on ‘keeping them above ground’. Heechul worked in the fish market, coming home stinking of fish guts and stagnant water every day, while Hyeon was a seamstress who told fortunes on the side. It was when he beat down two thugs trying to rob him that he caught the attention of crime boss Lee “Benny” Siwon. Siwon led the gang known as the Black Lotus, a gang known for smuggling, theft, and drugs. He offered San a place in his gang.

San had been working for him ever since.

Making a right turn down an alley, he passed through a market street where vendors peddled their wares. His stomach growled seeing the fruits and vegetables being left out. He bypassed a fruit vendor, and with a deft hand, took up the topmost apple in the pile. The vendor never noticed. Nobody noticed. He waited until he’d gotten a good distance before he sunk his teeth into it. The sweet juice filling his mouth pushed back the constant seed of hunger. San could never take food home, otherwise Hyeon split it and gave him the small pieces. One might think a new country with better opportunities would make the old witch turn over a new leaf. It’d done nothing.

San finally reached a small restaurant nestled between a butcher’s shop and a chemist. The black lotus sign hanging above the door told people who ran these streets. He walked in with a small smile, seeing people already at tables and servers taking orders. The boys sitting at a nearby table took notice of him first, all of them smiling and greeting him. He shook hands, and took the shot of gin that they offered. As the boys went back to talking about their various runs, San lit a cigarette and took his first puff of the day. Any minute now, Siwon will send one of his thugs to give them various jobs for the day. Everything from passing on messages, picking up or dropping off products to theft and beating people up could be assigned to any of them. San hoped he’d be sent on one of the more important jobs for once. Things like stealing from rival gangs, picking up money from extorted business owners, or roughing up people who owed money paid much more. Siwon promised he’d give him a chance one day, but ‘one day’ is too far away.

“Hey boys,” a tall man with square shoulders and an oval face approached them. In his tailored pin-strip suit, he looked like any ordinary gentleman.

“Shoiming!” the boys cheered, clasping hands with the older man.

“I got your jobs right here,” he said, holding up a few papers. "You know your streets. You know your marks,” he began passing items to certain boys, “Get the job done fast, you get paid even faster.”

Shoiming handed everyone a slip, and San looked at his. From the scrawled handwriting, he saw mostly pick ups and drop offs. He sucked his teeth. Pennies again. He supposed low wages were better than none. He stood up from the table, holding his cigarette in the corner of his mouth, as he tucked the paper into his pocket. It was then that Shoiming stopped him by the shoulder. For a split second, San thought he’d get a scolding for his reaction, but the large man didn’t seem angry.

“Do your work quickly,” he said, “Siwon has a big job for you tonight.”

“Really?” San’s eyes lit up. “What is it? Smuggling? Roughing up?”

“Something like that,” he nodded. “Go on, now.”

San walked with a pep in his step the rest of the day. While Hyeon thought he was at the factory, he was really jumping from place to place. He handed off packages and messages that couldn’t be sent through official channels. He bought and sold the items given to him by various vendors. San even took time to go into the fancy part of town where he picked pockets. He’d gotten away with a decent loot: a gold pocket watch, a few coins, three rings he lifted from a shop, and a snuff box he stole from a fancy lady. Siwon will be so impressed, he’ll take him on the big jobs. By nightfall, San felt nervous and excited. He came back to the restaurant with his loot and messages.

“Good haul,” nodded Shioming. He took the pocket watch, two rings and the snuff box. “Siwon’s not here. He told me to tell you to meet him at Flannery’s Hall. It’s on King’s street, not too far from here.”

“What’s that? Some kind of club?”

“Yes, now hit the bricks. Don’t be late.”

He left right away, going down all the alleys and side streets until he reached King’s street. The nightlife started buzzing to life around him. New York never slept, he’d come to learn during his time there. Back home, everything grew quiet once the work day ended. That wasn’t the case in this new country. Life kept going even as the moon reached high into the sky. He liked that. He never grew bored or anxious in the hustle of the city. Walking down a row of clubs and bars, San stopped outside the one with the sign ‘Flannery’s Hall’ written on it. He only stopped because his stomach twisted tightly. A pair of women’s boots hung on the newel post leading down into the building’s basement. San tried not thinking anything of it as he walked through the doors.

Once inside, a new world unfolded in front of him. In the small bar, he saw men sitting and drinking at tables with pretty girls. Except, most of the ‘pretty girls’ weren’t girls at all. They were boys in girls’ clothes and wigs who’d powdered their faces. In various stages of dress, they moved about the room to their marks while one “girl” sang up on a stage in a falsetto voice. San’s insides told him to run, but he knew better. Siwon didn’t like people who didn’t follow orders. He walked up to the bar where a young man stood handing out mugs of beer.

“Excuse me,” he said to the man, “I’m looking for Siwon. My boss said he’d be here.”

“Nah, I ain’t seen him,” the barman replied.

A lie. He likely didn’t trust San. Most white people didn’t. He huffed and turned to the room. San tried not noticing the boys around him. He found them to be beautiful in and out of their dresses. He supposed them dressing as girls made it easier for their customers to stomach their desires. San preferred boys who looked like boys and girls who looked like girls. Of course, he kept that bit to himself. If Hyeon knew, she’d kick him out for sure. She’d rather he be stealing than selling himself to old men.

“I know where Benny is,” someone said to him.

In a very short night dress and stockings, there was nothing hiding the fact that they were a boy. Blond hair cropped short, he wore a thin robe that barely hid the naked flesh exposed underneath. He sat on the bar stool next to San, light blue eyes sultry and flirtatious, and leaned closer.

“I can take you to him.”

“What’s it going to cost me?”

“For you? Not a dime. I’m Lucy,” he said, “Benny and I are pretty close. I can get you in with him.”

“He asked me to come,” San said.

Lucy paused, his seductive stare breaking for a brief moment, “Huh, alright. Come with me, handsome.”

Lucy walked him through the bar’s main floor and up the stairs. He tried ignoring the workers servicing their clients or sitting in their rooms waiting for the next one. San enjoyed a good brothel, but something about Flannery’s Hall disgusted him. Not the boys or the girls, but the clientele. Old, wrinkled men who want things that real girls would not do. He saw one man in just his trousers come out of a room holding his shirt. Even after being with the person inside, he still sized San up with hungry eyes. He nearly vomited before moving onwards. Lucy led him to a series of rooms on the third floor. These rooms weren’t much quieter either. His body grew numb. He regretted coming here.

“Do you know what he wants?” he asked Lucy, keeping the nerves out of his voice.

“What every man that comes here wants.” He brought San to the last room and turned around, “Just relax. It’ll be over a lot quicker than you think.”

He blew San a kiss, and walked away. San could run. He could turn tail back home and pretend he’d gotten lost. He can say he got picked up by cops. But, he knew Siwon. The old man would see right through him. It wouldn’t be his first time with a man, but those had been different. He didn’t do it for money or by force then. San turned the knob, took a deep breath, and went inside.

“-And I told him, ‘Sure you can have it, but let me tell you, this snuff bites back!’”

Siwon sat in a well furnished room with a group of other well-dressed men. He stayed frozen by the door, counting down the seconds before someone saw the young, good-looking boy in the doorway. Siwon lifted his head first, gleeful and sucking on the end of a cigar, and smiled at San.

“San! There you are!” He stood up and walked over to him, patting his shoulder. “I worried you might’ve gotten picked up.”

“I ain’t a whore,” San heard himself say defiantly. “I ain’t sucking anything I don’t want to suck.”

Siwon appeared stunned by his words. “What?” he said in disbelief, but then it came to him and he laughed. “No, no, Sannie. You don’t have to worry about that. That’s not why I called you here.”

“It’s not?”

“Hell no,” he said. “You’re a good looking kid, San, but my girls have to be delicate and pretty. You’re too rough for that kind of work. Nah, I got a better job for you.” He put his arm around his shoulders and brought him closer to the men, “You see these men?”

San nodded, and he immediately noticed their fine suits, pocket watches and shiny shoes.

“They’re some friends of mine from uptown,” Siwon continued. “I told them I’d show them a good time while they’re visiting our little corner of New York. Now, I got the ladies and the booze, but we need the entertainment. That’s where you come in.”

“I ain’t following, Siwon.”

“This,” he gestured to another boy on the other side of the room, “Is Tiny.”

Tiny stood much taller than San, with muscular arms, legs and chest. In nothing but a pair of trousers, he might’ve been mistaken for a grown man if the face didn’t give away his age. San saw the faint scars on Tiny’s bronze skin, and the scab on his lower lip. He gulped down his nerves when the truth came out. 

“And you’re going to fight him.” 

****

“San? San? Can you hear me?” 

The voice came to him through a blurry haze. A gentle hand touched his face, and he instantly swatted it away. He pictured Siwon, the old man who’d caused his death, hanging over him with disappointed eyes. He’d lost the fight. Tiny beat him to a bloody pulp and he landed in the hospital. It explained the pain coursing through his body, starting at his torso and radiating across the rest of him. A low groan escaped him as a rough hand cupped his face. 

“San, wake up,” a familiar high voice said, not in the usual forceful tone but tender and calm. “Wake up, Sannie.”

“I’m sorry,” he coughed, the breath he took hurting his chest. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” they said. “We’re just glad you’re home.”

“San,” a female voice spoke to him. Hyeon? No, not Hyeon. Someone whose voice calmed every nerve in his body. The other person moved away as the woman came closer. “It’s me,” she said, “It’s YN.”

Opening his eyes at last, he saw you next to his hospital bed. Your eyes, puffy and red, stared at him worryingly. The girls in New York looked nothing like you. They had bruises or scratches from rough customers, and they carried that New York bred toughness about them. You had sand, but softness too. If he’d met you then, he would’ve tried keeping it straight and narrow. He’d get an honest job and marry you. That’s what couples did back then; they got married. But then, he wouldn’t know who and what he was. 

“YN…” your name left him in a hoarse croak. 

“Yeah, it’s me,” you sniffed. “We’ve been so worried about you.”

“I’m okay,” he said unconvincingly. 

“You got stabbed in the lung and started choking on your own blood,” said Seonghwa. “You aren’t okay.”

“What?”

Then the truth came to him. The birth. The angels. The baby. “Where’s Gisella?” he asked, panicking. “Did we get her back?”

“Gisella?”

“He means the baby,” Seonghwa told you. “They lost her,” he answered San’s question. “The angels got away before we could get her back.”

He’d failed. Once again, he’d let somebody down. “What happened after?”

“Don’t worry about that right now,” he said. “You stay here and rest.”

“What happened?” he asked more forcefully. 

“They brought you here,” Hongjoong answered. “Hector told Lucifer they’d taken the baby, and, well, losing a kid isn’t great news.”

“You’re lucky he doesn’t blame you,” Seonghwa said. “The guy’s lost so many Antichrists that he isn’t surprised when the angels take them away.” He paused, looking down at his younger brother. “Let’s give San some breathing room. We’ll come back later, Brother.”

A pair of lips touched his forehead, and another hand ruffled his hair. San reached out for you, grabbing your sweater. “Stay,” he said, though felt himself dozing off again, “Don’t go.” 

“I’ll stay here.” 

“Until they kick you out,” noted Hongjoong. 

San heard footsteps cross the linoleum floors and a door softly close. The scent of oranges caught in his nose, and he inhaled it until his lungs hurt. Your fingers pushed hair from his forehead, giving him a way to catch your hand. 

“I thought you’d died,” you said in a whisper, afraid to break the quietness of the room. “When you didn’t come home after a week, I thought something happened to you.” 

“The birth took longer than expected.”

“It made me think of what it’d be like without you,” he heard your tears thicken your voice. “I don’t like it.”

“I wouldn’t prefer it either.”

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” you said, sniffling. “You hear me?”

“I’ll try.” He felt you rest your head on the bed, still staring at him with watery eyes. San hated seeing his Darling cry. “Please don’t,” he said. “I’ll be okay now, Darling.” 

“I can’t help it.”

He cupped your cheek and wiped a stray tear. Whatever painkiller they’d given him slowly took over again. He didn’t let go of you, worried about where he might end up. 

“Just sleep, Sannie,” you said, kissing his inner wrist. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

****

He should be in pain. The bones Tiny broke with bloody fists should be cracked and poking through his skin. Blood should be dripping from the broken teeth and cut cheeks onto the floor. His jaw, his arms, and shoulders suffered so much pain that they must be in pain. Yet, when he opened his eyes, he felt barely anything. Only a dull stiffness in his muscles remained. A soft groan pulled itself from his chest, which did not feel broken or torn apart. He forced himself to open his eyes, but immediately regretted it. 

“Welcome,” a man’s voice said from nearby. It didn’t sound like anyone he knew. “Name?”

“Huh?”

“Your name, son. What is your name?”

“Daniel,” he answered with his English name. 

“Your true born name, please.”

“San.”

“Surname?”

“Choi.”

He blinked the pain from his eyes, and took in his surroundings. He found himself on a cold, hard floor. Looking around, he saw empty chairs in a carpeted room. When he glanced upward, he saw a man in a purple suit standing behind a window like a bank teller. Except, this wasn’t a bank. 

“Choi San, Choi San, Choi San,” the suited man looked through a thick, leather bound book. “Date of birth?”

“July 10th, 1910.”

He sensed the man’s silence when he finally stood on his stiff legs. The man, dark skinned with tight black curls, looked at him in astonishment. All the breath came out of him at once, and he fixed up his suit jacket. 

“My-My Lord,” he said, “Forgive me. We weren’t expecting you so early. You had four more years until you came of age. This is, I’m sorry to say, quite irregular for us.”

“What’re you talking about?” he asked, confused. He touched his lip where Tiny slammed his fist last, and felt the split skin. “Where am I?”

“You’re home, sir,” he answered. “I am Charon, ferryman of souls.” 

“Okay, and what’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you’re in Hell, my lord.”

San’s eyes widened, and his heart jumped into his throat. “I’m where?”

“In Hell,” he repeated. “Since you are a demon, you came to my station instead of the forest.”

“Look,” he walked up to the window, “I know I wasn’t the best kind of kid, but I couldn’t have been that-” then he stopped. “Wait, what did you say?”

“I said that since you are a demon-”

“-What? I ain’t a demon.”

“Yes, you are. Look for yourself.”

Charon turned the book around to show San a list of names scrawled in black ink. He pointed to San’s name, “Choi San, birth date July 10th, 1910. Mother: Kim Youngmi. Father: Asmodeus, Prince of Lust and Lord of Depravity. You’re a Duke of Lust, my lord.” He paused, “Did you…Did you not know that?”

San stared at the names. That couldn’t be right. Hyeon and Heechul were his parents. As terrible as they were, they’d tolerated him enough to feed and house him. Hyeon always told him she’d given birth to him in their house in Korea. Heechul claimed to have delivered San on his own. No Youngmi or Asmodeus came looking for him. 

“I can’t be. I just can’t.”

“But you are,” he closed the book, “You’re a very important person down here, my lord.”

“I ain’t a ‘lord’.”

“Yes, you are. Come with me. The ferry for Depravity hasn’t left yet.”

Charon walked out from behind the window and walked him to the front door. He led San out into what reminded him of the ferry back in New York. Thousands of people moved in straight lines towards the different colored ferries. A melancholic, dreadful feeling carried through the air. San thought he’d stepped into the most miserable place he’d ever been. He followed Charon down a flight of stairs opposite the one leading down to the crowds. By the ropes separating this line from the others, San guessed he’d gotten special treatment. Charon led him past the flowing black river, the crowds thinning the further they walked from the main ferries. 

“Are all those people demons too?” he asked. 

“No, these are reluctant sinners or those who received no baptism or funeral rites,” he said. “They’re taken across the river to Inferno’s port where they’re shepherded to Limbo. That’s where the sin seers figure out where to put them. Don’t fret, my lord. You’re not going to Limbo.”

“Where am I going?”

“Home.”

“Home?”

“The Lands of Depravity, located several circles above the circle of lust,” he said. “Your older brothers will explain more.”

“Brothers?” San gulped, “I have brothers.”

“You didn’t know that either? Whoof, whoever raised you certainly did you no favors,” he huffed. 

Charon led him to a smaller dark green ferry. At the bottom of the ramp leading onto it stood a soldier in bronze armor. Charon approached with a self-important smugness. 

Charon turned to him. “Here’s your ferry and your ticket,” he handed San a ticket from his inner pocket. “Hand it to the guard, and he’ll let you on board. It’s a short trip, but there’s plenty of food and drink there.”

“Thanks,” San said, reading the white ticket. 

“You’re welcome, and I hope you enjoy your new home.”

San nodded as Charon left his side. Anxiously, he walked up to the guard. 

“Ticket, please,” he said. When San handed it to him, he checked and then stamped an approval. “Welcome to Hell, my lord.”

“Thanks.”

San took careful steps up the ramp. It reminded him of the ferries back in New York, except this one didn’t have any people. An attendant in a purple vest and pencil skirt smiled brightly when he walked into the sitting room. She offered him refreshments, but he declined. He might vomit if he digested anything. Sitting on a chair, he kept an eye on his surroundings. He wanted to think he’d entered a sort of coma-induced dream. Right now, he’s really in a hospital bed. Any second, he’ll wake up and it would’ve been a big dream. 

He figured out he was wrong once the ferry reached port. The attendant led him to the ramp and gave him the typical customer-service farewell. At the bottom, he spotted dozens of people leaving their own boats to come ashore. He might as well be in New York, coming off a ferry from one part of the city to another. San had no clue where to go from here. Charon gave him no directions, and the attendant told him nothing. Staring around, he saw certain people in suits holding up signs. He spotted a tall, broad-shouldered man in a suit holding a card with his name on it. 

“Um, hello?” San approached him slowly. 

“Choi San?” the man asked with bright eyes. 

“That’s me.”

“Oh, wonderful,” he laughed with relief. “I’m Yunho. I work for your brothers. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sir. We weren’t expecting you for a few more years.”

“Things happen,” he shrugged. 

“As they do,” he agreed. “Come with me. I'm going to take you straight home.” 

“Where is ‘home’?”

“The Lands of-”

“-Depravity, yeah, the Charon guy told me that. What is home? Who is there?”

Yunho guided him towards the turnstiles, “The Black Keep. Well, it isn’t so ‘black’ anymore, but the name’s endured the centuries. Your brothers, Lords Seonghwa and Hongjoong live there. When they received Charon’s message, they were overjoyed.”

“They don’t even know me.” 

“That’s not important. You share a mother and father. Do you understand how rare that is for a demon prince?”

“My dad’s a prince?”

“Yes, Prince Asmodeus. Charon didn’t tell you?”

“He glossed over it.”

“As usual. I suppose it’s excusable since he has a lot on his plate. Things have been heavy for him since Lucifer added more ferry boats…”

He brought San over to a motorcar. Black with white leather seats, San hesitated to get inside. “I ain’t never been in a motorcar before.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

The car ride distracted San from the city around him. He hardly noticed how much it reminded him of the big cities of the world. He held onto the side of the car as it bumped and rode through the streets. Soon enough, they’d left Inferno and ended up in a vast countryside. It looked nothing like what he expected. Evergreen trees lined the rolling hills and fields of tall grass. The sun shone bright in the clear skies. This was “rich people country”, as Hyeon used to say. Street rats like them didn’t live in big houses with lots of land and fresh air. He knew it must be nice, but not like this. Yunho drove up the country lane to a large gold and white gate. Golden serpents slithered down from the bars that resembled flower vines. They opened on their own, letting them drive onto a circular roundabout surrounding a floral bronze fountain. 

“I ain’t ever seen a place like this…”

More snake motifs molded into the cream colored walls, with a long balcony above the tall doors. San stayed frozen in the car as he continued taking in the grandeur of the mansion. The people who lived here came from old money, like Siwon used to say. Their home didn’t appear brand new by any means, but it was not decrepit or unkempt. It amazed him. Not even Siwon could afford a place like this. His sleazy uptown buddies would never own a home like this. 

“Behold, my lord. The Black Keep.”

“It’s…”

He saw gold roses winding through the rails of the balcony above, and more clinging to the columns holding it up. San felt tears in his eyes. He’d never seen a more beautiful place, and this guy was saying he’d be living here. Impossible. Not even in his wildest dreams could he make up a place like this. 

“My lord?” Yunho opened his door without San realizing it. “We’re here.”

“Nah,” he shook his head, “This can’t be it.”

“You’re right. There’s more inside.”

San couldn’t picture the inside. Slowly, he stepped out and onto the gravel driveway. Yunho led him up stone steps to the front doors. More roses. 

“They must like roses, huh?” he joked, trying to hide his anxiousness. 

“They’re part of the family crest.”

“What’s a crest?”

“Like a little picture representing the family. Seonghwa will explain it should you want to know more.”

Yunho opened the doors and San stepped inside. He’d been right. He could not have dreamed up this place. High ceilings, paneled walls, expensive paintings and drapes with a grand staircase could not be of his own imagination. He gazed up to the ceiling to see a garden mural with a naked woman standing next to a tree holding an apple. He’d never seen a more beautiful painting. 

“You’re here!”

No fantasy of his could create them either. At the top of the steps stood two men: one with thick black curls hanging to his chin, and the other with dark red hair slicked back from his face. They weren’t New York boys. They weren’t human. Their beauty surpassed any boy or girl he’d paid for back home.San saw the golden pins on their chests: a snake coiled around a singular rose. The dark-haired one wore a white shirt underneath an emerald velvet and satin vest with a nice tie. The red-head wore a similar fashion, except dark red rather than green. They were beautiful. 

“You’re more beautiful than I thought you’d be,” the dark-haired brother grinned, eyeing him from top to bottom. “A bit grubby, but with a bath you’ll sparkle.” 

“I don’t mind a bit of grubbiness,” said the redhead, also sizing him up. “I think it adds to his charm.”

The way they undressed him with their eyes didn’t bother him like it might have before. He couldn’t look away from either of them. He’d let them take a piece for free. The dark-haired one snorted with a smirk. 

“Naughty,” he said. “I’m Seonghwa.”

“I’m Hongjoong,” said the other brother, still looking down at San's body. “He’s the oldest. I’m the middle child, and you’re the baby.”

“I ain’t a baby.”

“You mean ‘I’m not a baby’,” Seonghwa corrected him. 

“But, I imagine you’ve done a lot of things kids your age shouldn’t have been doing,” Hongjoong winked, but stopped when Seonghwa backhanded his arm. 

“He’s a child, Hongjoong.”

“You think the people up there care?” he retorted. “They force boys to dress up like girls and fuck them for spare change. They’re a bunch of animals. I bet he walked around with a painted face and gave blowjobs for two dollars-”

“-I ain’t a fucking whore,” San interrupted him harshly. 

“It’s ‘I’m not a fucking’-”

“-Correct me again and I’m putting you on the floor,” San cut him off. 

Seonghwa laughed rather than cower away. Hongjoong beamed, “Finally, somebody with some fire around here. Are you sure he’s our brother, Seonghwa?”

“Yes, I double checked. It seems he inherited Mother’s tough streak,” he said, amused. It was then that Seonghwa addressed the injuries left on San’s body. He walked up to him, and tried touching his chin before San flinched away. “Who did this to you?”

“A kid named Tiny.”

“What was he? Like four-feet but full of fire?”

“Six-feet with muscles that no kid should have. My boss made me fight him.”

San didn’t want to explain it to them. He still tried wrapping his head around the incident. He always believed Siwon cared about the kids who worked for him. Whenever one of them was mugged or picked up by the cops, Siwon sent men to take care of them. As he thought about it, he realized Siwon didn’t protect them. He protected the product the kid held for him. It saddened him. 

“Don’t blame yourself,” Seonghwa said. “Men like him only care about themselves at the end of the day. If he’d treated you like scum, you wouldn’t have worked for him. I’m positive if you’d survived that fight, you’d end up doing it again with someone else.” He brushed his thumb on the split lip, “Nobody is going to hurt you here. Not even if you asked,” he glanced sideways at his brother. “You’re the son of a lord now. Demons around here would be marked for death if they put a finger on you.”

“We’d make sure of it,” reassured Hongjoong. 

Their words should comfort him, but the comfort never came. He’d met plenty of adults who made the same promise. Hyeon was supposed to protect him, but she never did. Heelchul was supposed to protect him, but he never did. Siwon, Shoiming, his friends all meant to protect him and they didn’t. He meant nothing to them. He meant nothing to anyone. 

“Come on,” Hongjoong touched his shoulder, and frowned when San pulled away. “You’re peaky. Cook will make something for you. What do you like?”

Nobody did things for free. “Nah, I’m fine.”

“You’re not. Let’s go.”

Hongjoong and Seonghwa led him into a fancy dining room. On the table, servants put a large spread of food. Meat, cheese, fruits, and small cakes laid about the table. San’s stomach rumbled. The two of them sat on the other sides of the table, watching him closely. A woman in a maid uniform served him pieces of chicken, potatoes and vegetables. San stared at the plate. It beat the bits of bread and cheese he managed to steal off Hyeon. He picked up one drumstick and bit into it. The juicy meat broke on his teeth, tender and steaming hot. The first bite preceded the next greedy bites. It was so good that San thought he might cry again. Nabbing a bread roll, he wiped up gravy to stuff into his mouth. 

“Easy there,” Seonghwa chuckled. “The food isn’t going anywhere.”

“Or are you used to food disappearing before you eat it?” Hongjoong asked with a knowing look. “You aren’t the only person here who’s used to going hungry.”

“How could you get hungry? You live here,” San asked, food in his mouth still. 

“I didn’t always live here. Neither did Seonghwa.”

“Did you know who you were?”

“Yes.”

“Wait,” Seonghwa paused, “Did you not know you were a demon?”

“Not until I got here.”

“You mean to tell me that not only did your caregiver treat you poorly, but they never told you who you are?” 

“Yes.”

Hongjoong laughed gleefully. “They’re going to get torn apart.”

“Rightfully so. You weren’t supposed to be here so early. You’re still a child.”

“I ain’t a kid.”

“Yes, you are,” said Seonghwa firmly. “Just because you’re not twelve doesn’t mean you’re not still a child.”

“Nobody treated me like one.”

“Because they didn’t care. I care. Hongjoong cares.”

He’d believe it when he saw it. 

*****

Nothing beats coming home. Whether from a vacation or a night out, walking through the door into the comfort of familiarity relaxed the mind. San breathed much easier when he finally came home. He smiled seeing his bedroom, neat and tidy as he’d left it, and at the softness of his own bed. Seonghwa told Cook to make his favorite dinner for his homecoming; Hongjoong pulled out the “fancy shit” from their cellar. He appreciated his brothers’ attempts to make the event special, but the person who eclipsed them was you. 

“No fair,” frowned Hongjoong when you walked into the dining room, “Nobody said to look hot. Seonghwa just told me to wear my ‘nice shirt’.” 

San couldn’t take his eyes off you. In a velvet blue dress, he saw the tantalizing off-the-shoulders and the way the dress slimmed down to your shins. You’d put on the diamond necklace and earrings he’d bought you for your four month anniversary. He stared down your body as you walked to him and kissed his cheek. A single whiff of your expensive perfume had him capturing your lips with his. 

“You look divine, Darling,” he grinned, taking in the shade of your lipstick and your upturned lashes. “And all for me?”

“All for you,” you agreed, kissing him once more before taking your seat at the table. “I wanted to look nice for you.” 

“Do we really have to eat?” Hongjoong asked Seonghwa. He looked over to you, “She looks better than anything on this table.” 

“Back off,” San joked, throwing a piece of his roll at him. “You sleep in your own bed tonight.”

“Oh come on,” he whined, “We missed you too Sannie. I think we should all celebrate you coming back home alive together.”

“We can do that another time,” he laughed at the weak attempt. He took your hand, noticing the ring on your finger. “I want my Darling all to myself tonight.”

“I’m not the one complaining,” you replied, smiling coyly at him. 

“First course, please,” Seonghwa told one of the maids, who bowed and went to the kitchen. “This reminds me of his first homecoming.”

“His first homecoming?”

“He’d gone back home for a special assignment,” he said, buttering a bread roll. “On their 18th birthday, a demon is allowed one free kill. They get their choice of prisoner, living or dead, and can torment them however they see fit.” 

“I tormented a guard from my reform school,” Hongjoong smirked over his wine. “I put a box of rats on his stomach and-”

“-San,” Seonghwa continued, “Was offered the pass too.”

“You killed someone?” you asked, surprised by it. “Who?”

“Lee Siwon.”

“Who’s that?”

“He was a gang boss who cheated, lied, stole, gambled, raped, and killed. He sold young boys to seedy old men. He forced kids to fight each other until they knocked out or died. He was your classic asshole criminal,” he picked at the soft inside of his roll, “My dad gave me the torment pass as a gift for my birthday. He said it was a right of passage for demons. You can really exercise your powers and spread sin everywhere at the same time. I could only think of one person when he asked me who I’d pick.” 

“Was he still alive?”

“Surprisingly,” he nodded. “I figured he’d still be in the same city, extorting the same families and fucking the same kids. I got my pass and went home.”

“And he saw you?”

“No,” San grinned, recalling his one year back home, “And it drove him insane.”

“How?”

“General ghost stuff at first,” he shrugged. “I would open drawers and cabinets. I’d move stuff around his house and office. I’d make random noises in quiet rooms, open windows, and make radio static during his favorite songs.” He then laughed softly, “Every night at exactly 3:42am I’d turn on his water faucet. Not a steady stream, but enough that he’d hear it dropping. It drove him crazy. Then,” he ate the soft part of his bread, “I revved it up. I’d make him think people stole from him by taking money and hiding it around his businesses. I’d leave messages to make him think people in his gang were conspiring against him. Whenever he went to a drug deal, I’d either take money or damage the goods.” He laughed softly, “He finally spiraled when the market crashed, and he lost everything. Without me, he might’ve been able to survive with the money he’d kept hidden in one of his warehouses.��

“But you happened?”

“A huge fire started in the warehouse and destroyed property and the goods inside. By the time Siwon put the gun to his head, he’d completely lost his mind.”

San pictured his killer: Siwon, his hair streaked with gray, kneeling in his dusty apartment, sobbing as the agony took over. He remembered the man’s luxurious apartment having been stripped of anything valuable. Without a maid, and his wife having left him, Siwon surrounded himself with filth. Stuck in an apartment of trash, no money to his name with only the clothes on his back, Siwon had fallen. By the time San finished with him, nobody feared or respected Lee Siwon. He only revealed himself in those last few minutes, disguised as his fifteen-year-old self. Believing himself to be in a delusion of despair, Siwon didn’t question it when San made him see more children: the ones he forced into prostitution, the ones he put into fighting rings, and the ones he sacrificed on his path to fortune. The visions surrounded Siwon as he put the shotgun in his mouth. 

“No talking gore at the table,” said Seonghwa as the first course was served. 

“My favorite part was when he came home,” Hongjoong smirked, hardly noticing the soup bowl in front of him. “Seonghwa and I used to peep at him through the holes in his walls. We didn’t want to force him into anything, since we weren’t sure if he liked boys. Imagine our delight when Sannie walked into the lounge and,” he held back a laugh, “And told us if we wanted to see him naked, we could have just asked.” 

“And then you guys fucked?” 

“And then we fucked,” San confirmed, starting to eat the soup. A creamy chicken soup he’d fallen in love with when he first tried it. “What did you do while I was gone?” he then asked, wanting to change the subject. 

“What happened between you and Siwon?”

“Huh?”

“You could have picked anyone, but you picked him.”

San’s eyes met Seonghwa’s from across the table. He preferred not to think about how he ended up in Hell in the first place. 

“He killed me,” he said. “Well, indirectly. He put me to fight this kid that was twice my size and he beat me to death.”

“You've taken out guys bigger than you though. Jongho and Mingi have told me.”

“I was fifteen, skinny as a twig, and tired from running errands for him,” he answered. The image came to him as he spooned more soup. “If he and his friends wanted to watch a fight, they should have chosen grown men, not kids.”

“That's terrible,” you said. Like he knew you would, you picked up on his reluctance to continue. “I didn't do much.”

“Didn't do much?” Seonghwa said, astounded. “You learned how to make armor and weaponry with just your abilities.”

“You did?”

“It's not perfect. The bark is soft in some spots.”

“It can't be hard everywhere,” San said, “Otherwise you'll have trouble moving around when you're fighting. You can try filling up those weak spots with some kind of soft leather or mossy chainmail or whatever your flowery version would be.”

“What do you wear?”

“Breastplate, shoulder arm and shin guards.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s meant to be a costume as well as actual armor,” he explained, finishing off the small soup. “It’s in an old coliseum, so it has this Roman era theme to it. The armor protects most of the body, but leaves room for mobility. If every inch of me's covered in steel, I can’t move as quickly. The heavy armor would weigh me down because of my weight and-”

“-She’s been learning how to make living things with her plants too,” Seonghwa told him. “She’s managed to make flowers that sparkle like gems.”

“That’s great,” said San with a grin. “What have you made so far?”

You began telling him about what you called “gem stems': a beautiful range of different flowers that glittered and gleamed like gemstones. You’d managed to produce opal, rose quartz and amethyst flowers. Diamonds, rubies, and sapphires, you said, proved a bit more challenging for you, but you’d get it in the end. San found your creativity your most attractive trait. He saw the ensembles you wore, the way you redecorated your bedroom, and the plants you grew in your greenhouse. Everything you made turned out vibrant and beautiful. Seonghwa’s experiments might have had various shades of purple and red, but yours popped. He thought of the yellow-mouth flowers you’d made variations of in your greenhouse. Instead of only yellow, you had purple, pink, and orange-red ones. Octavius’s offspring came in hybrid forms now. Rather the purple hibiscus shapes, you’d merged them with sunflowers, roses, and tulips. Even the more dangerous flowers, who you called ‘Spike’ and ‘Rex’, bore interesting personalities and colors.

San wondered, as the conversation switched, about Francesca. He hoped Lucifer hadn’t harmed her. She’d already been in so much physical and emotional pain. Not only had she just given birth, but she’d lost her child. He’d thought someone might tell him what happened to her, but nobody breathed a word. The mother of Lucifer’s halfling children never seemed to matter to anyone. She was simply a vessel for the child who’d one day destroy the world. 

He looked over at you, cutting into the steak dinner Cook prepared, and felt grateful. Demons could breed with other demons. Demons could not breed with humans, aside from Lucifer, the King of Demons. Demons and cambions did not typically reproduce because most demons considered cambions closer to humans. When he first entered you, he quickly thought about how you’d never have his children. He’d never met a woman he wanted to “mate” with until you. Knowing you better now, and knowing your status, it was possible. Not certain. It’d be difficult and there’d be many failed attempts, but not impossible. 

But, what kind of father could he be if he’s unable to protect them? He’d been trusted to protect His Majesty’s child, and he could not do that. He’d failed in keeping the child safe. It’d likely been purified and turned into an angel by now. What if the same thing happened to you and he’d failed again? The image of you in Francesca’s place, laying flat on your back with blood pooling around your thighs and legs came to him. Some women died in childbirth. His mother claimed she’d nearly died giving birth to her last child, who’d come out deformed and sickly before passing a week later. He didn’t want that to happen to you. He didn’t know what cambion-demon pregnancies were like, but it could not be that different from normal ones.

“San?” your voice broke through his thoughts, and he saw you looking at him with concern. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Darling,” he said, pushing pictures of you lifeless and bloody from his mind.

You didn’t believe him. He saw your worry even as you went back to eating. San tried keeping up the charade by eating his own dinner.  The meal ended with a variety of tarts San enjoyed. He devoured the peach tarts, while you’d dove into the strawberry tarts. Your appetite never ceased to amaze him. You told him in your past life, you’d waste time going on fad-diets to keep yourself from gaining more weight. Now, in a world where that doesn’t matter, you indulged more than you used to. Cook’s excellent skills made everything you tasted mouthwatering. San didn’t mind at all. He loved a woman who ate well; particularly the luscious curves that might result from proper appetite.

“I’m heading to bed,” you said once dinner ended, kissing each brother but lingering on his lips the longest. “This dress is nice, but not sleepwear. Right, San?”

“If you give me a few minutes,” he slid his hand down around your thighs to your ass, “I can help you take it off.”

“No, I want to keep it a surprise.”

You kissed him one more time before leaving the dining room. San downed the last of his wine before standing from the table. Seonghwa and Hongjoong instantly gravitated towards each other as they often did when alone. It reminded him of the first time he saw them together, and he shuddered.

“Looks like San is going to get a second dessert tonight,” smirked Hongjoong. Seonghwa cupped his jaw and kissed his cheek, “A nice, thick, yummy creampie.”

“Hush,” San laughed, cheeks turning hot. “I won’t be the only one tonight, it seems,” he said, nodding to Seonghwa. “You two have fun.”

“You too,” Hongjoong said, hazy from his tipsy state and Seonghwa’s full lips on his neck.

He walked out of the dining room to his bedroom. Sadly, he envisioned a child in the hallway. A beautiful girl with your eyes and hair, giggling and skipping joyfully. Perhaps a boy with his nose and jawline, playing with a wooden sword and pretending to cut down imaginary foes. San wanted to say you’d both be good parents, but could you really be? Andromeda was the kindest demon he’d ever met, who’d loved you with all her heart. You had some idea of how to be a loving mother, should you want to be one. But he didn’t grow up with such love and attention. Hyeon and Heechul despised him, and did nothing to hide it. He’d been another burden for them to bear. He never felt a mother’s warm hug and kiss or a father’s arm around his shoulders or patting his back. No fun holidays together. No cozy nights. Nobody comforted him when he cried or had a bad dream.

He didn’t have any of that until Seonghwa. Hongjoong might’ve been more of a sibling figure, but Seonghwa took on the parental role. He made sure San got a good education, that he ate well, bathed and tried making him the gentleman Hongjoong refused to be. He’d hated it at first because he saw it as a force to change. But, he soon learned Seonghwa didn’t want to change him, he wanted to help him. If San should imagine any father figure, it should be his oldest brother.

San walked into his apartment, not bothering to turn on the lights as he headed straight to bed. He pictured you, him and your child having come back from a family night out. You’d be in one of your lovely dresses, and he’d be wearing a suit and tie. Your kid would be put to bed first, wrapped up in soft pajamas and falling asleep as one of you read to him. Then, you’d both be alone. As he removed his jacket and unbuttoned his tie, the idea of domesticity between you both appeared to only sadden him. What if someone tried harming one of you, and he failed to protect you? What if he wasn’t quick enough? Strong enough? Brave enough? If he’d moved faster, he might have saved little Gisella. Lucifer would be delighted for another antichrist; lovely Francesca would be rocking the baby to sleep right now. But because of him and his hesitation, that had been shattered.

“This room hasn’t felt the same without you.”

San, unbuckling his pants, turned to see you leaning against the doorframe. You wore a lace night dress, a slit through the middle to reveal the matching underwear underneath. Your beauty usually distracts him from any thought in his mind, but not tonight. All he saw when he looked at you was Francesca and the baby he didn’t save.

“Has it?” he asked, knowing he had to say something to keep you from suspecting anything other than pure lust.

“It was empty,” you sauntered over to him, running your hands down his back and around his waist when he turned away. “And the bed was always cold.”

He felt your warm lips dot kisses on his shoulders, and your hands replaced his at his front. With deft hands, you undid his belt and fly, then lightly pulled at them until they pooled at his feet. In the mirror, he saw you clinging to him. He touched one of the hands on his chest, feeling the softness of your fingers and palms. Your fingers then intertwined. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing you.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, the temptress dropping in favor of the sweetness.

“Nothing,” he assured you.

“Liar,” you said, lips on his skin. “What happened up there? Who’s Gisella?”

“What?” He never recalled mentioning neither mother nor child to anyone.

“You said her name in your sleep,” you replied. You didn’t sound jealous. You sounded comforting, “Was that the baby’s name?”

“Yes,” he said, preferring not to lie to you.

“What happened to her?”

“She was taken. I…I didn’t get her back in time.”

“What do angels do with demon babies? They don’t…” you hesitated, then said, “They don’t kill them, do they?”

“No, they purify them,” he said. “They use their holy magic to sap out the demonic energy in their blood, and turn them into another angel. To Lucifer, that’s as good as death, but it’s more favorable than true death.” He stared at himself in the mirror. Even with all his muscles, speed and skill, he couldn’t protect the most important being in demonic history. “I’d nearly gotten her out. I was right there, YN. I was right at the exit into Hell, and they caught up to me. I…I tried fighting them off, and I did for a bit but then one of them caught me and she…” his chest tightened remembering the moment she slipped from his arms. “They caught her before I could. One of them stabbed me through my armor. I managed to stab my knife into their neck, but not in time to save her. They’d escaped through their own portal. I failed, YN. I was given one job. I had one job to do and I failed.”

“Just because you failed once doesn’t make you a failure. You did all you could-”

“-I have fought angels twice my size. I have fought against humans, demons, angels, archangels, cambions, and all the rest. I should have succeeded-”

“-You’re not always going to win,” you assured him, putting yourself between him and the mirror. “From what Seonghwa told me, the likelihood you would lose the kid was fifty-fifty. You might get the child away or you might not. It isn’t an indication of your skill or abilities.” You rubbed his arms comfortingly. While you have bite and bark, you also carried a gentleness he rarely experienced.

“I watched the birth happen,” he explained, “And the mother. She was so young, but carrying this big responsibility. I saw the pain in her eyes when she handed her baby over to me. She’d hoped I might be able to take her to safety, and I didn’t do that. The child she bore for weeks was gone, and she’d never see them again and it’s my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” you said bracingly. “She must’ve known what she was getting into when she agreed to get pregnant. Seonghwa told me all about it. He says every few years a woman is chosen to have his kid, and she has to consent before it happens. This woman knew there was a chance she’d lose them one way or another. Now, is it nice that it ended up happening? No. The kid getting taken is not your fault.”

“It is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It is.”

“No, it isn’t,” you said more firmly. “You did the best you could.”

“I should’ve done better.”

“Stop that,” you cut him off. “Everyone always says what a great swordsman you are, but you’re not going to win every battle-”

“-What if that happens to you?” he said. He cupped your cheeks and looked into your eyes. Their shape and color had been his last thought before he slipped into unconsciousness. “What if something happens to you and you die because I wasn’t fast enough to act? What if we have a kid and they get hurt or die because I didn’t try hard enough? YN, you are the one person who matters most to me. I don’t want to lose you-”

“-Is there something that makes you think you will?” you said, touching the hand on your cheek. “I do have a shadow demon for a bodyguard, and Jongho and Yeosang aren’t weaklings either. There’s also two other demons who’d protect me just as much as you would. What makes you think something might happen to me?”

“The fear of losing something that makes me happy,” he said. “When I was growing up, nice things always got taken away. When I made some money, the witch took it from me. If I got a bit of food, she’d snatch it and give me the smaller piece. If I showed any sign of happiness, it disappeared somehow. I love you, YN,” he said, “And I don’t want anyone to take you from me.”

“Nobody is going to,” you assured him, kissing him lightly. “I’m not exactly defenseless either, you know,” you gave a small grin.

You extended your hand, and several thin vines extended from your hands and around his wrist. San hissed when the vines tightened around his arm, squeezing him until his arm seized up. As that happened, you flicked your other hand and out shot a spiked, magenta dart that lodged itself to the wall. San watched the barb start spreading a sizzling, black goo that burned a hole right through the stone.

“Where did you learn that?” he asked, impressed by the snake vines slithering back into your palm and the acid dart dropping to the floor.

“My Aunt Rhea,” you shrugged. “She’s been giving me self-defense classes. She says ladies need to know how to protect themselves from man-things. Gaia is the one who teaches me how to create and grow the flowers I work with now.”

“Your mother?”

He noticed your sad expression, “How to live again.” You held the hand you’d cut the circulation from, rubbing it gently, “How to feel whole and happy.”

“Were you not before?”

“Not truly,” you said. “I filled my life with meaningless, temporary happiness. I thought having lots of nice things and sleeping with good looking people made life worth it. But, now I realize how empty I’d always felt then. I never felt complete,” you brushed yourself up against him, “Until I met you and your brothers. I love you more than anything else, and not just because the sex is amazing.” The both of you shared a laugh, “I don’t want to lose any of you. I might have owned nice things, but the people I chose to share myself with didn’t stay long. I don’t want you to get bored of me and throw me out or trade me in for something better-”

“-There is no one better,” he reassured you. “No one.”

He stepped out of his pants, kicking them away as he cupped your bottom. This prompted you to leap into his arms, wrapping yourself around him tightly. He turned to the bed, where he laid you down gently before landing on top of you. Once your bodies met, his lips opened yours in soft caresses. The intoxicating natural drug in your mouth mingled with his own, and that familiar burning desire ignited between you. Usually, this sensation took him down a rabbit hole of overwhelming lust. Tonight, it didn’t seem to do that. This time, he felt nothing but tenderness as he slowly grinded himself into you. He wanted you, but not in the sexual, primal way. San didn’t want to fuck you until the sun came up. He didn’t want to ‘take you’ like an animal in heat. He wished to melt with you. After witnessing so much violence and blood, he wished every vein and muscle in his body sunk inside yours to make you one body.

‘You are the sun and I am the moon. Without your light, I am nothing.” 

A quote Seonghwa read in a poem came to him as his hands slipped off the straps of your dress. Seonghwa was better with words. He grew up with poetry and literature while San could never get a grasp on it. He often forgot names of poets or authors or playwrights, but he understood their words. He felt them. This quote bundled everything he felt for you into two sentences. Now that he had you, he would be nothing if you left him. 

“San,” you breathed his name between kisses, “Don’t be rough tonight.”

“I don’t plan to be,” he replied, pulling down the top half of your dress. He peppered kisses on your chest as your breasts spilled out of the cups. A nipple in his mouth, he sucked and licked softly. “I want to feel every inch of you.”

He exhaled deeply when your hands slid through his short hair and down his neck to his spine. Your hips slowly rocked against him, your thin underwear dampening between you. He wouldn’t use toys this time. He won’t call you dirty names, choke and slap you. San treated you with all the gentleness of a man holding fine china in his hands. He delicately handled your breasts, giving them gentle squeezes and sucking them until you whimpered. He did not bite them like he sometimes did. San teasingly wagged his tongue over each just to hear your soft gasps. He knew how much you loved having your nipples teased. It’s why they paid so much attention to them during those first few moments in bed.

Your excitement grew when he kissed between them and down to your pubic bone. Kissing along your hips, his arms wrung around your thighs so his hands massaged the inner sides. The mere scent and taste of you aroused him. He started at your knees before moving closer to your center, where you hitched a breath when he reached the very innermost corner. He kissed back up to your waist and to your breasts again. On the base of your throat he asked:

“Would you want one?”

You did not answer right away. You paused, staring at the ceiling. Right when he thought he’d ruined everything, you answered him. “Maybe? I never thought about kids before. I like kids, and babies are cute, but I never considered it. I never met anyone I wanted a family with, since most of them already had families.” Hands in his hair, you looked down at him. “But then, I met you.”

This brought you to his lips, where he kissed you as passionately as before. You both broke apart as if you’d just come up from underwater. You wrapped your legs around him as you kissed his neck. “Give me one,” you whined in his ear, rocking against him again, “Fill me up with one. I’d have one with you any time.”

He strengthened his arousal. His cock hardening against your inner thigh, he groaned as he pushed to your hips. His hands on your breasts, San moaned when a hand slid between you to his groin. He didn’t stop you from pulling him from his boxers to lightly stroke it. The pleasure it brought felt like nothing before. It might as well be the first time you two have touched each other. While he suckled your nipples, you took your time fondling his boner. He could feel your fingertips sliding over the most sensitive parts of his cock; he groaned aroundyour hard nipples whenever you gently squeezed the bulbous head. San knew he was larger than either of his brothers. They liked mentioning it whenever they shared a bed. The only thing that mattered to him was how much you liked it. Pushing into your fist, he thought of all the times you reached out and groped him.

‘I don’t know why. I just love having it in me. It hits the spot each time and makes me cum so much.’

San hooked his hand to the side your panties and slipped himself under them. The both of you shared a moan once his thick head touched your soft lips. He didn’t enter right away. San lifted himself up a bit more to see the two of you nestled together inside your wet panties. Your hands gripped his forearms for stability as you slid yourself up and down his tip and shaft. The sweet nub at the very top, hard and uncovered from its hood, dragged across the slit of his head. He took hold of himself just to move side to side over the sweet spot. You pulled your panties aside to give him a better view of your soaked pussy opening up to his throbbing cock. It made for a beautiful sight. He saw the need for him in your eyes, and he’d usually withhold it. San and the others enjoyed teasing you into madness, but not now. He sunk himself inside the tight entrance that clung to him. It brought a twinge of relief before he pulled out to keep rubbing. 

“Don’t stop,” you said, moving your legs further apart to give him more room. “That feels so good,” your eyes fell shut as he sunk back in and pulled out a second time. 

“It’s you that feels so good,” he groaned, sliding in and out a few times before withdrawing. He saw how wet you became each time he did it. “It’s your pussy that drives me absolutely insane,” he huffed a laugh, then groaned when he saw you stretched around his shaft. “It’s so tight every time,” he said when he pushed further inside, rolling his hips to get deeper, “It makes me want to breed you whenever we fuck.”

“Then breed me,” you said, head tilting back into the bed and hands gripping his arms tightly. “Cum deep inside until I’m bursting with it.”

Anything for you. Laying on top of you, arms sliding underneath your shoulders to keep you close, San fully plunged inwards. Even though his body begged him to go faster, he continued gradually. His lips found yours, and you each moaned into each other’s mouths. He never felt so close to one person, not even his brothers. Not a single soul alive made him feel the way you do. It was unlike any romance or feeling he had for anyone before. San needed you the way plants need sunlight; the way fish need water and birds need the sky. After what he’s gone through these past few days, he cannot be without you anymore. 

Even when you managed to roll him over, you remained connected by a few inches. Arms on either side of his head, you kept kissing as you brought your hips up and down on him. The faint smacking of hips on hips joined your moans and groans. He felt down your back to squeeze your supple cheeks. He didn’t let go, but he didn’t spread or spank them either. He simply held you as you went at your own pace. 

“San,” you whispered his name in the midst of your whimpers, “Sannie…”

“YN…” he replied, merely wanting your name to roll off his tongue.

You are the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Just like when he first laid eyes on the Black Keep, it nearly brought him to tears at times. He pushed his hips to yours, feeling his orgasm slowly climbing to the top. Your taut walls grew tighter as his tip hit that squishy piece inside, driving you to rock back and forth. He put one hand to your chin, thumb resting on your lower lip. The feeling of your tongue and lips around the digit made his jaw drop. You put his other hand between you to your clit, where he slowly rubbed it from top to bottom. He made sure you felt the pad of his thumb moving around over the middle.

He came right when you did. Your body stiffening, mouth hung open with his thumb still inside, you kept him buried deep as you shuddered on top of him. He removed his thumb to hear your moans uninterrupted, causing his own to drive further. He felt the distinct hot sensation of his cum shooting inside while yours covered him entirely. You planted yourself on him as his head stayed firmly on your g-spot, bringing overwhelming pleasure before it turned to sensitivity. 

San didn’t pull out right away. With a bit of maneuvering, the both of you stayed connected against the pillows. You hugged him close as he continued pushing inside you despite his sensitive cock. More deep, passionate kisses resulted in him remaining hard for another orgasm. San lifted your knees up, curling you upwards to shove in at a different angle. When he broke away to look down, he saw thick white fluids mixing each time he slid outwards. This encouraged him to keep his strokes short and deep so nothing spilled too far out. He can’t breed you if he lets it seep onto the bed. That’s awfully wasteful.

“Fill me up with more,” you said, hands tugging at his scalp. “Please, San. Please.”

“As much as I can give you, baby.”

He did. He came inside until he felt empty. You enjoyed this part particularly because his orgasms also brought out yours. By the time he felt spent, he still did not pull out. Holding you to his chest, he brought the covers over the both of you as you kissed wherever your lips could reach.

“I love you,” the words escaped you in a single breath, staying as close as you could under the covers.

“I love you,” he said back, giving light kisses to your chin and lips.

While it was highly unlikely it’d take root inside you, San liked the idea of it happening. He’d do anything for you regardless of whether it happened or not. You meant the world to him. Seeing you fall asleep in his arms, San pictured it and smiled softly before kissing you one more time. 

***

A/N: Such a fluffy good time! I kind of wanted to dial back on the kink for this one, so I hoped you guys still enjoyed it <3 Like and reblog! It keeps posts alive!

[writing-mlm]

Hii I just found your blog actually and I love your stories,and uh,per say if I were to request a spencer reid x m reader where reader is a famous author and composer and whenever the team meets him it's pure chaos,just fluff in general actually. you don't have to do this if you don't want to of course! - Moony (shh it's a nickname that stuck)

Don't Spoil the Ending

Summary: Meeting your boyfriend's friends is a natural step but what isn't is them harassing you because you keep killing their favorite characters Pairing: Spencer Reid x Male reader W.C: 3k a/n: PLEASE I KNOW THIS TOOK ACTUAL YEARS IM SORRY oh and the walking dead spoilers ig

Whenever Spencer had one of his spells, whether that be his migraines or moments where the world just feels too much. Too heavy, too big, too scary, he went to your house. Your house, his escape from everything. A quaint home he could see himself moving into. 

A lovely one-bedroom, two-story home tucked into a hidden part of the city. There’s a small garden in the back, hardly filled with vegetables and mainly flowers. The front lawn, when he had first seen it, was mowed down to the dirt and replaced with various native plants. It didn’t take long for it to get to its current state, a lovely amalgamation of plants and wildlife that thrived in the almost cottage-looking home. 

He eyed the official state-provided Certified Wildlife Habitat sign that hung just in front of the property and let his messenger bag slump from his shoulder. There was no need to keep up appearances, not when you open the door and wait for him with a cup in hand. His mug. His mug you’d gotten him from the flea market on your first date and had remained in your house since the tenth date where he had to rush out for a case and never picked it back up. 

“Should I cancel with your team?” You ask, voice soft as he takes the mug and nearly inhales the tea. He looks at you, confused and you know then and there the headache is bad. “Your team is supposed to come over for dinner today.” Blinking, he sets the mug down on the shoe rack and kicks his shoes off. 

“No,” He sighs, his internal debate lasting nearly two whole minutes. “A nap and the rest of the tea should be fine.” It wouldn’t, you both know that but the dinner has been rescheduled twice already. Once due to the flu that was making its rounds through the entire team and another because you had an emergency to attend to. 

“Okay,” You hum, locking the door. He eyes each of the three locks and finds your hand. “Do you want to hear a specific symphony?” 

“Do you have anything new?” He asks, letting you guide him up the old wooden stairs to your bedroom. 

“I do,” You nod. “I learned some music from Howl’s Moving Castle.”

“For inspiration for the DreamWorks movie?” Nodding, he sits with his back pressed to your headboard and the blankets pulled up to his belt. 

“Remember to take off anything tight. So your belt, those socks, and such.” He smiles and nods, doing that as you leave the room and make your way down to the living room. Your piano is loud and sits at the perfect volume from your bedroom for his headaches. At night it’s amazing, the black-out curtains and the hidden glow-in-the-dark stickers around your room make him fall asleep in minutes. 

He listens as the steps creak and gets to work on getting himself comfortable. He should get up within the next two hours and help you prepare dinner for the team. But he doubts you’d actually wake him up on time for that and wait until everything is done so he could rest for as long as possible. 

Sipping the tea, he grabs his phone and sets a timer before placing it under the pillow. It’s silent but the vibrations will wake him up if you don’t. After doing that, he sets his things on the rocking chair and hears the starting notes of the music drifting up. He tries his best to focus on the music and not the notes themselves as he tucks himself into bed. 

—

He was right. 

He was absolutely right in that you wouldn’t wake him up. You even took away his phone when you went to check on him sometime later. He only woke up when he smelt the food coming from the oven and the loud ow you hissed when you bumped your forearm against the oven racks. 

He doesn’t bother to fix himself as he stuffs his feet into his house slippers and begins his descent down to the kitchen. 

“Aw, sorry, hun. I didn’t mean to wake you,” You call over your shoulder, hearing the banister creek under his hand. 

“You should’ve,” He chided while wiping the sleep from his eyes. His migraine is gone, which is honestly surprising. It must’ve been a terrible headache, then. Especially considering he doesn’t medicate for them anymore. “I was supposed to help you. You didn’t even let me buy groceries.” He frowns, staring at the array of food you’d made. 

“Please,” You dismiss, putting a damp cloth over your burnt forearm. “My brother came over while you slept and made half of it. New recipes for his restaurant.” Spencer looks at the fancy little labels on the trays; shawarma, broccoli cheddar potatoes, sun-dried tomato pasta, garlic bread, baked ziti, and lemon pepper chicken. 

“Did you already make the dessert? I can help with that,” He offers, scanning the counters. 

“You needed your rest, Spencer. Everything is already made and Derek said he’ll be here in ten. He’s picking up Penelope and Emily.” He stares at you and you stare back. “Fine. I haven’t finished cleaning the living room. Could you grab the extra chairs from the shed? Or grab the large tray from the cabinet and organize the brownie dip?”

“I got the brownie dip,” Heading out to the shed, you grab four foldable chairs and remind yourself to clean the dusty leather once you get back inside. You’d rearranged your entire living room and dining room for today. The couches, which used to be in a more closed position, were all shoved against the walls and the shelves you had were hidden away inside of your shed. Your coffee table, which Spencer vaguely remembered had different shapes, was out in its longest form and several coasters were scattered around. Not to mention plate mates stacked on the edge. 

He’s glad you left the wall decorations up, although he thinks you could’ve done without the framed picture of you and him at your cousin's wedding where he has cake smashed on his face and your fingers are covered in white frosting. You still deny doing that. 

“Like this?” He asks once you’re done cleaning the chairs. Peering over his shoulder, you rub along his hips and nod. 

“Looks perfect. Have you tried it yet?” He shakes his head and you grab a graham cracker and put some of the dip on it. He takes it and tries it, aware of your gaze on him. 

“It’s good.” He affirms and you nod, grabbing a strawberry and dipping it inside. 

“My nan used to make it when we were kids. It’s super good, but she added rainbow sprinkles.” The doorbell rings and Spencer goes upstairs to get himself properly dressed while you go to the door. 

“Hey, guys!” You greet them, their names popping into your head as you see them. “It’s nice to finally meet you.” 

“Your lawn is beautiful,” Penelope says as she hugs you, careful to not drop the dish she’s brought. You think it’s some type of finger food because it moves around. “How’d you get it like that?”

“Oh, thanks. It’s almost native plants. The bees and butterflies do most of the work.” Stepping aside, you greet Emily and Derek and check outside. There’s no one else so you close and lock the door. Just one lock so you don’t have to keep undoing it until everyone gets there. 

“This is lovely,” Emily says, her eyes taking in your home. She eyes the support beams and then the vintage wallpaper. “Aw, look at Spencer!” She laughs, staring at the picture from the wedding just as he’s coming down the stairs. His arm snakes around your waist and you hold his hand, eyeing their shoes. 

“Do you guys want some house slippers?” He asks for you and takes them to the closet where you keep them. You bought some new ones just for today. When they return the door rings again and this time Spencer gets the door while you set out the food. You’ve never really hosted before, so you awkwardly stand in the space between the dining room and living room until Spencer beckons you over. 

“This is Hotch and Jack, you’ve met JJ, her husband Will, and their sons. Henry and Michael. He introduces and you shake hands with the men and wave at the boys. 

“It’s good to see you again,” JJ says as she pulls you in for a hug. You’ve met her twice, once at the park accidentally and another while you both were hanging out with your sister and niece at the mall. 

“Likewise, please sit. The food is done so feel free to serve yourself.” 

She nods and she and Hotch set their food next to the rest of the food. She’d brought three bags of chips and Hotch had gotten ham and cheese sliders. Derek had made macaroni and cheese, Penelope brought over zucchini garlic bites, and Emily brought over two bottles of red wine. 

“This is a lovely house,” Will says as the two of you stand awkwardly, watching the others talk to each other. 

“Thank you. You have a lovely family,” He smiles over at them and nods. 

“Are you and Spencer ever gonna…” He trails and you suck in a breath. Your home isn’t exactly big enough for kids, maybe just you and Spencer. It’s not even ideal for hosting, but you made it work. 

“One day, maybe.” You answer, looking at him as he’s holding Henry. “We haven’t talked about that yet.” He nods and you get to leave when Rossi knocks on the door. 

“Am I the last one?” He asks upon hearing the noise. 

“They say the best is last, no?” He laughs and nods, presenting his famous pasta and you happily lead him to the food table. Some of the food is already gone and you see Spencer holding two plates. Making your way over to him, his eyes light up and he hands you one of the plates. 

“I noticed some of it was going quickly,” He explains as you take the plate. It’s piled in neat forms, none of the food touching each other. “So, I made you what I thought you’d like.” Thanking him, you drag him to a seat and everyone settles down with their plates. 

Turning the TV on, you put on a random show and tune the conversation going on around you. 

“This is really good,” JJ says, pointing her fork at the broccoli cheese potatoes. 

“Is it?” You ask and get an enthusiastic yes from Jack. “I’m allergic to broccoli so I’ve never actually tried it.” 

“Aw man, you’re missing out.” Derek sighs, rubbing his stomach after he’d eaten three of them and you laugh, twirling the plastic fork around the Rossi pasta. 

“(Y/n)’s brother owns a restaurant, he’s thinking of adding those to the menu.” Spencer explains and you nod, putting the fork down. 

“It’s called Bun-Apple Tea. He’s thinking of adding those, the tomato pasta, and the baked ziti to his menu. I’m usually his test subject but he appreciates the wider audience.” 

“Oh, he should add it.” Will says. He’s been busy feeding Michael bites of the garlic bread while also feeding himself the macaroni and cheese. “I took JJ there once, she loved it.” She nods and recounts the experience and your eyes widen. 

“I worked that day!” You admit. “I was playing some music, were you the couple that had ordered the mushroom soup and the couple next to you tried to steal it?” 

“Oh my god, yes!” She laughs. “You were playing the piano, right?” You nod and tell the story to the others.

“Spencer mentioned you’re a writer, too, right?” Hotch asks. 

“I am,” Sheepishly, you look at Spencer. He smiles at you, not even sorry that he talks to his friends about you and your jobs. “I mainly write young adult fiction but I’ve started writing science fiction.” You elaborate. 

“One of his books is getting a TV show.” Spencer easily boasts and everyone congratulates you. “He’s also going to be the lead composer for it.”

“That’s amazing.” Emily says. “What book is it?”

“It’s one of my series; The Walking Dead. It was also a comic book for a special edition my publisher did.” The conversations devolve until you get up for a second plate of food from the kitchen. Spencer follows you with a large grin and fixes himself some more juice. 

“They like you,” He says and you look over at him. “I knew they would, of course.” He adds. “But this… wow. We should have a watch party for when the show comes out.”

“Maybe.”

—

“Ahh! My friend made this!” Penelope shouts as she shakes your shoulder. The first episode of The Walking Dead was set to air in just a couple of seconds and as Spencer predicted; it turned into a watch party.

It’s been nearly a year since the first time you’ve met them and you’ve been busy composing and having the final say over most of the show. Spencer sometimes tags along, giving his opinion on how certain things would look from a scientific standpoint. But there’s a lot of far-fetched imagination when it comes to zombies and what people could do. 

You think he just likes learning from the design crew on how they do things. He does. But he also likes seeing your book come to life, remembering each detail, and having people fix them without you noticing. 

Everything had come to fruition after several months of working and pitching ideas, not to mention filming and creating sets. 

You’re all at JJ’s house, scattered amongst the floor with the boys upstairs asleep. You’d warned them it’s definitely not suitable for them just yet and they trusted that. 

“This opening is good.” Derek says and you thank him. You want to tell him it was you and Bear McCreary who helped compose and Dominik Hauser who helped perform it with you but you don’t think he cares all that much. 

Spencer lays his head on your shoulder and you wrap your arm around him, happily watching the show that you know is going to ruin them forever. You’re glad they haven’t read the books, because damn. You look at all these faces that don’t make it to the final chapter and wonder how mad they’re going to be when their favorite will inevitably die. 

And boy, did they hate you. 

By the end of season one they all but refused to tell you their favorite characters. Never mind the story has been written and you couldn’t change it. Penelope would send you voicemails crying whenever she watched an episode early, yelling at you for killing her favorite character or someone who definitely didn’t deserve it. You made it up to her by being able to let her meet the actors during Comic Con the same year. 

Spencer, on the other hand, knows everything. They’ll pester him at work for spoilers and he’d just shrug. 

“I don’t remember who died.” He tells Morgan one day. 

“You remember what you ate for breakfast when you were ten. You know who dies this season! Who is it?” Derek demands, following Spencer out of the bullpen and into the elevator. 

“I know,” Emily grins.

“How?” Derek asks, his gaze accusing Spencer of spilling the beans to her but not to him. 

“It was a book first, genius,” She reminds him and shrugs. “I got tired of waiting and just read the book for this reason.” Stepping into the elevator Derek groans. He’s not going to read the book. 

“How’d you like it?” Spencer asks and she groans, throwing her head back. 

“It was so good! The deaths hurt like a bitch.” She explains and he laughs. 

“His sister blocked him for a month for killing this one character.” He explains and she nods, that’s completely justified. 

The elevator doors open and they spot you waiting at the front of the building, holding a cup of coffee and talking to JJ. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” He kisses your forehead as your conversation comes to a natural stop. 

“Sup,” Handing him the coffee, you greet the others. “I got your email Derek, and I’m not telling you.” You all walk outside and Derek pushes your head. 

“I’ll just read the book.” He turns his nose up and you hum.

“This book took Spencer twenty minutes to read.”

“Damn. How long is the audiobook?”

“About thirty-six hours,” Spencer answers. “Thirty-five hours and fifty-two minutes long.”

“Oh, hell no. I’ll wait,” 

“I couldn’t.” JJ sighs. “I finished the book last night.” He huffs and leaves the group, heading to his car. The others laugh and also split up leaving just you and Spencer. 

“They’re not ready for Carl’s death.” He tells you, a hint of a smile on his face. 

“You certainly weren’t,” You snicker, grabbing him by his wrist. “Now let’s hurry, I still need your opinion on suits for the award show.”

—

“You’re hurting my ears,” You tell Emily as she plays your piano in all the wrong ways. “My poor baby is being abused by you, I hope you know that. You monster.”

“What about me?” Penelope grins, playing your violin. 

“You’re actually killing me. The two of you are going to become murderers at this rate.” She frowns and checks her fingers on the violin before playing one actual note. “That was good. But I can also see JJ about to pick up my trombone and that thing was my very first instrument so she should put it down.” Carefully, she sets it back in the case and Spencer comes down the stairs with Derek close behind. 

“Oh, are we playing?” Derek asks and b-lines for the cello you have. 

“They’re killing me,” You mumble to Spencer at the base of the stairs. Neither of you are hiding your expressions, not even when JJ joins Emily on the bench and they play horrid— horrid sounds. 

“I’m about to spoil the Glenn death to get them to stop.” You whisper, staring at Penelope as she pressed too hard on the strings and winced. 

“Don’t,” He gasps. “They’ll never recover.”

“Good. Neither will my ears after this torture!”

[thelov3lybookworm]

Weeping Heart (Part 4)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Summary: a late night walk in the woods, bandages ripped off old wounds.

•○●⛦●○•

Word Count: 1477

A/n: AHHAHAAHHA I LOVE THISS like it feels so good to be writing 🥹

we getting our hearts broken folks, less goo 🥳

anyways, enjoy!

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

There wasn’t a knife at her neck.

That was the first concern Y/n cleared from her mind, her heart rate slowing in comfort before speeding up again.

Who the fuck-

"Y/n, my friend." Slurred a clearly drunk Cardan.

Thank god it’s this fool.

She knew it was mean to think of him this way, but Cardan had never been much of a warrior.

He was a poet.

Made to be a lover, born to be soft hearted, forced to rule.

"Cardan." She gently grabbed his arm, trying to push him off as she breathed deep, her racing heart slowing. "What are you doing here-"

"How are you!" She blinked as he stepped back, spreading his arms as if asking for a hug.

"I’m good, Cardan. How… how are you?" She mumbled, dreading the answer already.

She did not want to know how he was, because if he was not good- which she somehow knew he wasn’t- she would want to return, heartbreak be damned.

And that would end up with her not being good.

"I’m so glad you asked!" He cackled, swaying on his feet before Y/n wrapped her hand around his bicep and forced him to sit. "I am so sad, Y/n. You know why?"

Her breath caught in her throat, and she stared at where she could make out the outline of his eyes. "Why?"

She began moving again as he started listing off all the reasons everyone at court bothered him, the way this courtier wasn’t entertaining enough, the way that messenger was too stoic and would never laugh at Cardan’s jokes, the way Jude forced him to sit in the great hall and and just watch, prohibiting him from revelling like he had used to before he was crowned.

It made Y/n smile.

Everything had changed in the past year, with his family being killed, him becoming a king, his sudden marriage, but if there was something that hadn’t changed, it was him.

He kept whining as she arranged her pillows around him, and as he leaned back, she nodded along, just like before.

But then his voice lowered, and she had to strain her ears to hear, even with her advanced fae hearing.

"You left too."

She froze. "I know."

"I don’t have anyone to talk to now Y/n." It was dark, but not enough that she couldn’t make out the small pout on his lips.

"I’m sorry, but it was the queen’s orders-"

"Fuck the orders, Y/n. Come back. I am so lonely without you."

She pulled back from him, blinking away the sudden stinging that started in her eyes, but he was quick, his hand grabbing hers in a vice like grip.

Cardan really was lonely, because he was not one to curse so freely, and if he of all people was cursing…

I’m fucked.

"I was so excited to meet you again, but you haven’t talked to me at all since I arrived. And then I thought you would appreciate your soldiers being distracted so we could talk, but then you got mad and left me alone."

His voice kept getting smaller and smaller, like a child on the verge of crying.

It broke Y/n from the inside.

"Cardan-"

"Please Y/n, I want to talk. Just like we used to." He mumbled, and Y/n watched as his eyelids drooped over his glassy eyes, as if he was on the verge of crying but too tired and drunk to. "Please, don’t ignore me. I’m sorry if I hurt you but-"

She swallowed.

"I- Cardan? You want to talk right?"

He hummed softly, his eyes struggling to stay open as he turned on his side.

"Sleep, my love. We’ll talk tomorrow, yeah?"

He turned his head to her again. "You promise?"

She offered him a weak smile, knowing he probably could not see.

"Yes, sweetheart. Rest now."

He passed out before she even finished pulling the duvet over him, and she stared at him for a moment. It was a split second decision, but she hesitantly dipped down, pressing her lips to his temple.

Sighing, she stretched to try and get rid of the sudden pain in her lower back.

She looked around, wondering if she should go back to sleep.

She didn’t, instead stepping out into the crisp night air, her eyes drawing to the softly glowing embers in the middle of the camp, fighting to stay alive long after the fire had died down.

Quietly, she settled down on one of the logs closest to it, lost in her own thoughts.

It wasn’t long before someone interrupted her, though.

"Couldn’t sleep?"

She blinked, then turned to look at the newcomer. "I should be asking you that."

Herb shrugged, plopping down beside her. "I asked first."

Y/n sighed. "You could say that."

He was silent, then- "Why?"

Frustrated, Y/n tilted her head back, eyes fixed on the stars twinkling against the dark sky. "Because my bed is occupied."

He nodded, like he knew exactly what she was talking about.

"Why are you here?"

"Couldn’t stop thinking about all the things. Too much on my mind to shut off."

Y/n hummed.

Neither of them spoke after that. Surrounded by silence and his quiet company, Y/n felt oddly at peace.

In the distance, Y/n thought she heard an owl hoot, the quiet rustling of leaves, the crunch of snow. It calmed her.

Herb stood then, cracking his back.

"Come."

She blinked. "What?"

"I’m going to take a walk in the forest. Come with me."

She thought about it for a moment, then stood. "Not too deep, Herb."

He grinned his signature goofy smile, his canines glinting under the light of the full moon.

"Do you realise what you just said? I can make so many jokes with that."

Y/n shook her head, exasperated, shoving his shoulder as she began walking off towards the dense cover of trees. He continued cackling like a madman, his steps near silent as he fell in step beside her.

Unconsciously, the corner of her lips ticked up.

"So. His highness?"

Just like that, her smile vanished. "What about him?"

Herb was quiet, but she knew he was observing her. "You love him."

It was not a question. It was a statement, his surprise evident in his voice.

Y/n turned her head away.

But she didn’t deny it.

"And he’s married."

"I know." She snapped, making him raise his hands in surrender.

"Calm down, I’m not trying to offend you-" A look from her, and he stopped.

Moments passed, tense, filled with harsh truths swirling between them.

"Why… Why did you not tell him? From what I know, you used to be very close."

"I don’t see how it concerns you." Y/n closed her eyes, chest constricting. She exhaled heavily. "I… he would have never loved me back."

A beat passed, then- "How do you know that?"

"Don’t you know? He was a rake. Had everyone begging for a chance to spend a night with him. He wasn’t the type to settle down, at least not so early."

"But he did."

He did. And it wasn’t with Y/n.

"He would tell me everything back then, and maybe if I hadn’t left… he probably would still have told me everything. A few days before his coronation, he told me he liked Jude. I knew then that I never did stand a chance."

"I… I’m sorry-"

"Don’t be. It isn’t your fault that the heart loves."

He was quiet after that, contemplating. This Herb as new to her. This was not the Herb who was always goofing around, pulling pranks on people in the middle of important missions.

It made her concerned, to say the least.

"Are you sure he doesn’t like you back-"

"Herb. Please."

He nodded reluctantly as the camp came into view again, guilt and sadness mixing with something Y/n did not want to recognise in his eyes.

He came to a stop in front of his tent, glancing at her and opening the flap, his eyes unmoving.

"Get in, Y/n."

She blinked at the seriousness in his tone, the way he refused to break eye contact. "I- you want me to sleep in your tent?"

He rolled his eyes, letting the flap fall. "Unless you are planning on kicking his highness out of yours, where are you going to sleep?"

"Where will you sleep?"

He shook his head. "I’m not tired. I was thinking of staying up and keeping watch for some time."

Y/n nodded, searching his eyes.

She stepped forward, and so did Herb, his back to her.

Y/n hesitated for a moment. "Herb?"

He paused, half turning to her.

"Thank you-"

"Don’t." He offered her a small smile, then walked away.

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

Cruel Prince Taglist: @dahliawarner @yucanbmylxdy

Cardan Greenbriar Taglist: @kennedy-brooke @hnyclover @minnieoo @sidrapotter

@rosecobollway @mp-littlebit @tele86 @fauxraven

@fuzzycupcakebeliever @bay7let

Taglist: @dreamsarenicer @kennedy-brooke @rosecobollway @batboygirlie

@btrxbllck @love-bookprincess

[sunnie-angel]

Part 12: The Reunion

part 11 | series masterlist | ao3 link

jason todd x f!reader

summary: jason reaches out for help with his serial killer case. dick comes to help and that goes about as well as can be expected.

tags: complicated sibling dynamics, stalking, fear for one's life, gaslighting, off screen implied sex

rated explicit (mdni) | wc: 2.3k

a/n: thank you so much to everyone who helped me trouble shoot the plot problems i was having with this chapter!

Jason’s gonna kill Dick for this. How Dick had ended up in the middle of Gotham University’s campus at 10:08 in the morning waiting for Jason to show up to a meeting no one had bothered telling him about, Jason doesn’t know. He also doesn’t care, only he can’t have this happening again. Dick wasn’t supposed to be here, he wasn’t supposed to be the one Jason was meeting with, and he definitely wasn’t supposed to know about this side of Jason’s life at all. Maybe he should have known better. You attract the attention of one Bat, you get them all.

Which fuck, fine, Jason can find a way to live with their nosiness and their disappointment if that means he can keep you safe. What he won’t stand for is them terrorizing you. Jason can tell from a few tense lines of text that you’re nervous, that Dick makes you nervous. Can already see the down-turned lines carving themselves into your cheeks as you glare at him suspiciously. So he plays it off, the little shithead brother looking to stir up trouble with his family, anything to make the hard line of your shoulders soften. He’d dropped everything and broken more than a few traffic laws driving to campus, hoping against hope that for once in his life Dick would actually listen to him.

Jason slows to a fast walk as he yanks the doors to the student union open a little too hard, panicked but not wanting to show it. A muscle in his jaw clenches as he finds the place practically deserted and Dick sprawled out on the bench where Jason expects to find you. There’s the requested chili dog sitting on the table across from Dick and so Jason grudgingly takes the bench in front of it.

“What are you doin’ here?” Jason asks bluntly. He keeps his hands below the table, unable to hide how badly they tremble at seeing Dick for the first time in years without a mask on.

“You know Jay, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you weren’t happy to see me,” Dick says playfully.

Jason grits his teeth. “Well you don’ know better and don’t fuckin’ call me that.”

“Interesting,” Dick murmurs, leaning back in his seat. “You asked for help, I’m here to help.”

“No,” Jason shoots back, “I asked Barbie for help. You’re not Barbara.”

“Babs is busy with her own thing, I wasn’t. Besides, all this info is going back to her anyway, I’m just the messenger.” You were right, Dick’s grin is too wide, especially when it’s forced. Jason snorts.

“You just wanted a chance to be nosy,” Jason scoffs.

“Can you blame me?” Dick doesn’t try and deny it. “Look what you’ve built for yourself Littlewing–” Jason tries not to flinch “–you’ve got a life outside of the capes, just for yourself.”

Jason rolls his eyes at the way Dick honest to god starts to tear up. “Contrary to what B believes, I do have hobbies outside of killing people.”

“And friends,” Dick’s quick to add. “One of them in particular was very protective–”

“People are dead,” Jason interrupts, unwilling to let Dick’s fishing expedition go any further. Jason’s hands clench in his lap. “I asked for help because I haven’t been able to catch the motherfucker, not because I wanted a family reunion. So either be helpful or leave.”

“Fine, fine!” Dick puts his hands up in mock surrender. “Give me what you’ve got and I’ll get it all back to Babs.”

Finally, finally the conversation moves past the unsubtle prying and back to the problem that has had Jason grinding his teeth again in the few hours of sleep he now manages. When it comes down to it, Dick is a reliable partner, focused and attentive on all the details and getting as stubbornly focused on catching this killer as Jason is. It’s... nice in a way, to finally have a conversation that doesn’t end in screaming or entreaties to come back home. Dick’s– Dick’s finally listening to Jason. Only interrupting to ask questions about the things actually coming out of Jason’s mouth and not just the things that Dick’s trying to hear from him. All because some sicko decided that some women shouldn’t be allowed to breathe anymore. It would be nice, if the reason why didn’t make the acid in Jason’s stomach churn. The chili dog ends up in the garbage.

There’s eyes on you. Following you. For at least the last week the hair on the back of your neck has been standing up at random intervals. The paranoia that’s been dogging your steps ever since the first girl was found dead has been keeping you on edge, pulling the worst things from your imagination into reality, but this time you know its true. Hanging around Jason – the Red Hood – has taught you to look up more often, to scan the skyline for a familiar silhouette. What you see perched on top of the building down the street is not familiar.

You slam the door to your apartment shut, locking it up before sliding down against it. Your breath comes in heavy pants. Maybe, maybe it was just one of the city’s vigilantes, you try and reason with yourself. But you know that the only one that haunts this side of town is Jason, and whoever it was on that rooftop was not Jason.

Heart in your throat, you creep through your apartment, a foreign land in the darkness. Back to the wall, you use the edge of one finger to pull the blinds back a smidge, just far enough you can peer through it without the appearance of anyone being home. The streetlights are just bright enough outside that you can make out the figure still lurking on the building opposite yours.

Your nightmares always go something like this. Chased, cornered. Alone with the monster scratching at your door. It’s long leans limbs are nothing like Jason’s, it’s too short to be his frame. It moves with a fluidity that is so alien from Jason’s bullheaded focuses your brain clangs with the wrongness of it.

Your hands shake as you fumble for your phone in your pocket. It doesn’t even finish ringing once before Jason picks up.

“Jason?” you whisper, unable to tear your eyes away from the figure.

“What’s wrong?” his voice is tinged with alarm.

“There’s– there’s someone watching my building. I swear m’not imagining it, there’s someone watching from the roof across the street. I don’t– I don’t know what to do.” You break down on the last word, terror clawing through your chest as how violently alone you are won’t let you ignore it any longer.

“I’m— huff – on the way. Stay on— stay on the line— huff – and lock the doors,” Jason pants down the line.

You murmur something, probably your agreement, and then sit on the cold wooden floor of your bedroom frozen in fear as you pray to whatever deity might be out there that Jason will get there in time. The figure starts to move just as snowflakes start to cut through the beam of the streetlight. It disappears just seconds before Jason’s recognizable form goes careening across the rooftop.

“There’s— pant— there’s no one here,” Jason puffs and your fingers curl tighter around the hard edges of the phone.

“But there was. Someone was just there, I’m not imagining it,” your voice wobbles with desperation as you try to keep what’s real and what’s just the paranoia straight in your mind.

“— I believe you,” he says, but you’ve already heard the hesitation there. You swallow thickly.

“Will you– will you stay with me for a bit?” You ask, hating how needy it comes out.

Later when you’re lying in bed, the warm steady beat of Jason’s heart under your cheek, you can’t shake the feeling that something about the stranger’s silhouette was familiar. Nothing you can quite place, but still it itches at the back of your mind as you trail delicate patterns into Jason’s skin.

There’s only 8 minutes until class starts and the coffee shop you’re in is a 10 minute walk away from the building so understandably you’re in a rush to grab your order and go. You spin around, burning liquid caffeine clenched gratefully in your fist, and promptly nearly spill it all down the front of the guy that’s standing way too close to you. His hand snaps up with a startling speed to steady you and disaster is narrowly avoided.

“Sorry!” You call out only you look up and make eye contact with Jason’s still smiling brother and freeze.

“No worries, it was my fault for being too close,” he tries to apologize charmingly. “I was hoping to run into you again,  I want to—”

“Sorry I’m running late, maybe another time,” you interrupt him and flee the coffee shop.

All through class you can’t help but to think over the encounter. That was weird right? Him showing up to a student cafe on campus, standing so close he was almost on top of you. It was definitely weird. Again something at the back of your brain itches but you can’t quite figure out why.

Jason’s waiting to walk you home from class, collar turned up against the cold and hands firmly tucked into his pockets. He neatly slides your bag over his shoulder and waits for you to finish mulling over whatever it is that has you so distracted.

“I thought I ran into your brother earlier,” you start, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Who, Dick?” He scoffs. “Probably not, he’s in Bludhaven.” You frown. That’s only two hours away. “Besides, he doesn’t come back to Gotham that regularly anymore. The other day was a special one off.”

Except it had to have been Dick because he’d tried to talk to you. Either Jason’s lying, or he doesn’t know his brother as well as he says he does. You hope he’s not lying.

Jason feels bad about lying. Well, not about Dick always being in Bludhaven – from the little he knows, Jason’s reasonably sure Dick’s been visiting to mentor Talia’s little demon regularly – but Dick definitely hadn’t been in Gotham today. In fact, Dick had blown off Jason’s offer to meet earlier while you were in class because of his own fact finding mission. It was probably just some other cheerful guy with a similar build and colouring. He covertly observes the roof across from your building for any hint of Nightwing blue when he double checks your locks. It doesn’t hurt to be cautious.

Dick’s early to the rendezvous point, a pointedly 3 blocks east of your apartment building and just on the edge of the territory Jason has greedily claimed as his own. The wind’s not so bad tonight, snowfall remaining unlikely on the forecast when Jason had checked it earlier. That doesn’t stop Jason from shivering in his steel toed boots as the temperatures trend towards freezing.

“Oracle hasn’t found anything you hadn’t discovered already,” Dick tells him upfront. “It’s not that he’s particularly tech savvy, just lucky.” Jason swears.

“Asking for help was meant to, you know, get help,” he snarls. “I’ve got nothing to show but you sticking your nose into my life.”

“Show to who?” Dick asks. Jason chooses to ignore the question.

“At this rate another girl’s gonna get taken tomorrow night and you know we won’t find her alive,” he reminds Dick.

“That’s one thing I did notice. All the girls – he’s got a type, a very specific one. Hair, eyes, ethnicity, all of it the same. And I couldn’t help noticing at the coffee shop that they’re all a match for your friend.” Dick levels his gaze at Jason, impassive behind the domino.

“I can want my friend safe and still want justice for the others too,” Jason says, hurt at the accusation he’s worried is going unsaid.

“That’s not what I— look, does she know about this,” Dick gestures to Jason’s Red Hood getup.

“Might,” Jason hedges, unsure of where this is going.

“So she matches the victim profile and she knows enough to trust you to protect her,” Dick heaves out a sigh. “I don’t think we’ve got much choice, our usual methods just aren’t turning anything up.”

“You want to use her as bait,” Jason says, the flat affect of his voice modulator turning his words into a blade. Dick flinches but nods. “You said “at the coffee shop”. You didn’t meet her at the coffee shop you met her in the middle of the food court.”

“I guess I misspoke,” Dick shrugs. “Coffee shop, food court, close enough.”

Jason may not have lived under the same roof as Dick for years but still he can tell when Dick is lying. He’s lying right now.

“She thought she saw you earlier today. Was kinda spooked about it actually,” Jason takes a menacing step towards Dick. “You wouldn’t do that Dickie, would you? Lie to me about being somewhere else so you could go and stalk my— my friend. You wouldn’t be lying to my face right now would you?” There’s a growl to Jason’s voice and boots are making heavy, even thuds as he prowls closer. Dick backs away.

“She called you Jay—” he starts but Jason cuts him off.

“I DON’T CARE WHAT SHE CALLED ME!” He roars. “YOU LIED TO ME DICK!” Jason is very, very glad he’s wearing the full helmet tonight. Tears don’t show through layers of plastic and metal. “You lied, Dick, and I believed you. I believed you over her and I should have known from the start because you and B always do this. You try to manage me. I’m done. Tell Barbie to figure out another messenger because you’re not welcome here anymore.”

Jason turns and runs for the edge of the building. The grapple catches and he feels the pull of it heavy in his shoulder. Whatever Dick shouts after him gets lost in the wind.

part 13

[creadigol]

I wanted to write a civilian story and this is what came out of my brain. I hope y’all like!

Warnings: Mentions of a violent encounter with a pretty creepy bad guy. 

The body floated, bobbed one might say, aimlessly in the expensive botanical garden’s pond. With the amount of algae in the water it was a wonder Civilian had seen the thing at all, let alone recognize the figure. 

But recognize the figure they did… and it made the horrific sight all the more terrifying. 

Civilian bit back a scream as the bloated body floated closer to them. 

Bloated…that meant the body had been in there for at least a day right? At least that’s what all those cop shows said…Civilian was a historian, not a doctor…oh god it was getting closer!

Civilian clutched their messenger bag close to their chest and backed away from the pond. Five minutes…five minutes was all it took to scar them for life. Five minutes to change everything Civilian thought they knew about their gracious hosts at the historic hotel. 

God, they were such a fool. 

They had their suspicions. Of course they did, but when  the opportunity came to stay at the very place they had spent years researching came up…there was no question. They had a sabbatical coming up anyway, where better to have it than on the actual location? 

But now…

The body was face down, but it was no question who it was, and who had done this. Villain had been threatening the Senator for months, it was all over the news. But how did Villain know the Senator was staying in this specific hotel in England? Hell, why was Civilian’s timing so terrible?! 

There was a rustling in the bushes to their right. Civilian whipped their head around hoping against hope that the sound was the normal squirrel or bird one would find in a botanical garden. 

The rustling stopping as soon as Civilian looked over. They caught a glimpse of something metallic reflecting the sun…so, not an animal then.

Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god. 

Maybe Civilian could play it off as if they saw nothing? Just glance away and find the path back to the hotel where there was a cell signal and they could call for help. That was good, now they just needed to look away.

 Shit, why were they so frozen? 

They slowly edged backwards towards the tan gravel path. Civilian couldn’t help but keep looking at the bush, waiting for whoever was in there to strike. As soon as they had made it three steps a deep voice rang out from the shrubbery,

“Got somewhere to be? You only just got here.” 

Civilian turned and ran. 

They ran faster than they ever had in their life. Their feet pounded on the gravel with as much force as their heart pounded against their rib cage. In their hast they couldn’t find it in their throat to scream for help. Help from someone, anyone. 

Their running wasn’t fast enough. 

A hand grabbed the back of their messenger bag and yanked them back. Civilian choked on air as their back viciously hit the ground. A knee was on their chest and a hand over their mouth as soon as their body was down. 

“Now, now love. All I need is a little chat about what you just saw. No need to be so on edge.” The man on top of them wore a dark mask and his leather gloves smelled against Civilian’s face. The man’s silver watch periodically glinted the reflection of the sun with each spasm Civilian experienced.

They frantically tried to claw the hand off their mouth, tears already leaking from their eyes, and they kicked their legs out trying to dislodge the attacker. Their struggle, though, quickly stopped as the other hand yanked their head back by their hair at an angle which promised death if they struggled too hard. 

“None of that now,” the low voice said. A voice that Civilian did not recognize. “I don’t want to kill you yet. There’s still some things I need from you.” 

Yet.

Yet. 

The word made new panicked tears come to civilian’s eyes. Their sobs were stifled by the rank leather that gripped tighter around their mouth. 

“That’s a good one. Now, tell me, did you tell anyone where you were headed on this fine morning?” 

Civilian froze. Wide eyes staring at the two eye holes the mask provided. What should they say? What would buy them more time? They could lie and say they had told someone they were going for a walk…but would that put someone else in danger? The moment the attacker knew Civilian was alone with no travel companion they would break their neck or drown them in the pond like the senator, they were sure…

“I can tell you didn’t,” the mask lifted a bit at the edges indicating a smile beneath. “Your eyes say it all. No one knows you’re out here then, hm?” 

Civilian tried once more to push the man off, but his grip only tightened and he leaned more of his weight on his knee. Civilian’s chest ached. 

“That’s a yes. You should never play poker my friend. You have every tell in the book.” 

Civilian only cried more. 

“You and the Senator were getting pretty close last night. Anything he told you that you wish to share?” 

Pretty close? Civilian had only spoken to him for part of the evening about the hotel’s architecture. The senator had found it fascinating that Civilian could tell what year each part of the hotel was built based on the shape of the windows. It was nothing special…but that meant this masked man was at the party last night, watching them. 

Civilian was going to throw up. 

The hand eased a bit off their mouth, now just hovering over. Civilian’s choked sobs immediately sounded. 

“Come on now, just tell me what you know and this will go as smoothly as I can make it. That’s quite nice of me, isn’t it?” 

“I…” Civilian stuttered through the panic, “I…don’t know what you mean.” 

“Of course you do,” The hand gripping their hair pulled even more, causing Civilian to choke on a gasp. “I know you’re a smart one. You’ve seen the news. Did the Senator tell you anything about making a deal?” 

What? What did that even mean? They spoke about windows for fucks sake!

“No…no…we were…” They huffed out a sob that they couldn’t hold back. 

“You were what?” The hand that hovered over their mouth now clamped on their throat. Just tight enough to cause pain. 

“Windows,” Civilian cried. “We were talking about the windows.” 

“Windows?” The man questioned. 

“I…you can tell a lot about a building through its windows…I’m writing about the hotel…” 

The man interrupted them with a laugh. The hand on their hair loosened and Civilain’s head was no longer forced back. 

“Windows,” the man chuckled. “Fucking windows…and here I was worried.” 

The hand started to card through their hair in an oddly intimate gesture. 

“Sorry mate,” said the man with nonchalance. “Wrong place, wrong time I guess. Pity too, you’re sorta cute.” 

The hand on their throat suddenly clasped and Civilain’s eyes blew wide as the man leaned down and placed both hands on their neck to squeeze. 

The man put his weight onto his knee and arms, effectively cutting off all air and making any of Civilian’s struggling pointless. Still, they clawed at the hands and kicked their feet, feeling the blood rush to their head. 

No, they thought at black spots appeared before their eyes. Please, god, no.

“It’ll be over soon, love.” The man’s voice barely registered. 

Civilian felt their hands go numb and their kicking stopped as their energy drained like a bath with the stopper pulled out. 

“Yeah, it will.” 

A slash and the pressure on their neck and chest was gone. Civilian coughed and gasped as air flooded their body. 

From the corner of their eye they could make out two dark shapes struggling beside them, but through the coughing and the tears they couldn’t make out much. 

Suddenly they felt themselves being picked up and thrown over a shoulder. They make a sound of protest, despite their damaged throat. 

“Hang on, mate. I’ll get you somewhere safe.” 

Civilian knew that voice. They knew it, but their battered body could do nothing to protest. 

Civilian could only hang off the broad shoulder as Villain swept them deeper into the garden. 

[chimielie]

cw f!reader , mild fraternal violence , atsumu’s terrible lying skills

“I know something you don’t know,” Osamu singsongs, standing in the doorway of their shared bathroom and peering over his brother’s shoulder at his reflection in the mirror.

“Yeah?” Atsumu grunts, yanking a comb through his hair and glaring back at his twin. “Spit it out, shitty ‘Samu. I got places to be, you know?”

“Ouch, don’t shoot the messenger,” Osamu drawls, leaning against the doorframe. “I know that you have a date tonight and you think you’re being sneaky about it.”

“Do not,” Atsumu scowls immediately, dropping the comb and turning around, because he is the worst liar ever. “I don’t even—what are you—I’m taking myself on a date, how about that, it’s called self care, ever heard of it? Huh? Okay? Huh?”

“Okay,” Osamu says, “You’re wearing a tie.”

“I can wear a tie if I want to,” Atsumu sneers, fiddling with it.

“Last summer, at Uncle Jun’s wedding, Ma had to literally threaten to shave your head to get you to wear one.”

“I’m a man now,” Atsumu sticks his chin up, examining his jaw. “I can wear a tie. Hey, did I miss anything while I was shaving?”

“You don’t have any facial hair to shave. And you have a hickey right there.”

“What? Seriously? Where?” Atsumu panics, turning back and forth.

“Ha, I got you—hey!!! Don’t hit me, asshole! I’ll tell Ma!!! And you—you left your fucking bouquet out on my desk, by the way. I told you to stop putting your stuff—no I swear I’ll kill you get offa me get off!—on my desk just because yours is too messy!”

“It was there for five seconds! You left all your laundry on my bed the other day—“

“Where was I s’posed to put it, the floor?”

“Your closet!” Atsumu roars. “Oh, shit, what time is it?” He drops his brother’s shirt collar abruptly.

“5:30,” Osamu says, dusting himself off. “What time you gotta be there?”

“She’s walkin’ over here now, probably,” Atsumu says, rushing back to the bathroom. “Fuck, well since you know, can I use your cologne?”

“It’s the same one you have?”

“It’s better, I don’t know,” Atsumu argues. “Just gimme it, it’s like one spritz.”

“Fine,” Osamu grumbles. “Hey, ‘Tsumu, I know something else you don’t know.”

“What,” Atsumu rolls his eyes as he walks around, frantically shoving his keys and wallet into his pockets, picking up the bouquet—delicate red and white flowers, not bad, scrub, thinks Osamu.

“This ain’t your first date,” he says smugly.

“What are you, Sherlock Holmes?” His brother says. “How d’you figure that?”

Osamu mock-stretches before counting off on his fingers. “One, you never walk home with me and Suna anymore. Two, there’s some flowery shit that appeared in our shower, and I know I didn’t buy it, and you’re not walkin’ around smelling like lavender and honey, so you’ve gotta be sneakin’ someone in. Three, you came to practice two weeks ago with an actual hickey, y’know, when you kept missing sets ‘cause you were in such a good mood.”

Atsumu blinks at him, finally lost for words.

“And,” Osamu says, tone somewhat gentler. “You seem a lot happier lately. Less, y’know, hard on yourself. Whoever it is, I think she’s good for you.”

“Thanks,” Atsumu says, swallowing roughly. “You’re so sappy.”

“Says the guy holding the flowers.” And trying not to let his eyes water over, but Osamu doesn’t say that bit. He can spare some of his brother’s dignity.

“It’s our six-month anniversary,” Atsumu says quietly. “Please don’t tell Ma yet, okay? She’s always on about volleyball bein’ enough of a distraction from school, I know she thinks dating is too. I just wanna—I want her to like my—”

He says your name just as the doorbell rings.

“Her? You’re dating—?” Osamu’s tone is incredulous. “Hold on, you can’t go yet. She’s like a million times out of your league—”

“I know!” Atsumu beams at him. “Keep your mouth shut or you’ll regret it. Tell Ma I’m sleeping at the dorms with Suna. Bye!”