Ramblings

The grass is soft underneath him and the ground is still damp from the morning dew. He should be able to relax like every other day, but somehow he can’t let go of his thoughts. What were his parents like? Did they look like him? What happened to them? Stiles doesn’t know, or doesn’t remember. Peter’s the only person Stiles remembers, as far back as he’s able to. Not that he remembers much. And it just makes him wonder more.

When Peter comes back, slinking out the woods as per usual (the same woods Stiles is not allowed in), it’s been a full day, and Stiles is angry. Not at Peter (partly at Peter), never at Peter, but the world took away his parents and he wants them back. Wants to know what they looked like, what their interests were, wants to know how much he resembles them. Because, he can’t be related to Peter: they’re too different, physically.

Stiles doesn’t even let Peter ascend the porch steps. “You were gone for so long,” he accuses.

Peter quirks an eyebrow, not breaking stride. He has a paper bag in his arms full of groceries. Stiles doesn’t know where they come from, just knows that Peter always brings them. “Hello to you, too.”

Stiles blushes and moves out of the way once Peter stops in the doorway and waits. He refuses to make eye contact as Peter takes off his shoes.

“What did you do today?” Peter asks. He walks down to the kitchen and Stiles grudgingly follows. He doesn’t want to answer, knows the accusations and the questions will spill out unbidden.

Peter has made it abundantly clear that personal questions will not be tolerated.

“The same thing as yesterday,” he mumbles anyway. Nothing to do but read and think.

“Did you finish the book?” Peter asks. He puts away the groceries into appropriate cupboards.

Stiles nods, jaw tight.

“I have another one for you.” He pulls it out next and hands it over. It’s the same as all the others: leather-bound, fancy, and most importantly, about mythology. Not that he can prove it’s really mythological, but they all have an improbable theme going through them.

He doesn’t want it, but takes it. “Thank you,” he bites out. His anger is warring with his need to please Peter, and it’s making a mess of his thoughts. Surely, Peter won’t mind one question? Stiles should be allowed to wonder about his parents. “Peter …”

The words don’t want to come out. He still remembers what happened last time (one of the memories that he does recall, crystal clear).

“Hmm, love?”

“Where, um, are my … uh … parents?” He regrets it immediately. Peter stills in that way that lets Stiles know he’s Messed Up. And then he gets angry at himself for it. He deserves to know, damn it.

Peter slowly turns around and looks him up and down, from his bare feet to his messy hair. Stiles fights not to fidget. He will not let Peter know how nervous he is. “Why do you want to know?”

“Actually, forget I said anything.” Now that he’s asked, he doesn’t want to pay the price for the knowledge. He turns to go (to escape).

“Stiles.” The command stops him in his tracks. “I asked you a question.”

He wants to cry. He wants to rage. He wants to know. “Because I deserve to.”

“Because you deserve to.” There’s incredulity and scorn in it. “Deserve to know about the parents that abandoned you. Am I not good enough?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Stiles tries.

“Then why are you asking me about them?” Peter’s voice got progressively louder.

“Because you never tell me anything! I have nothing to do but read and think all day. I’m not allowed to leave-” There are tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, and he hates himself for them. “-and you never tell me anything about what it’s like outside. I’m asking because I want to know if I even have any!

“You bring me these books-” he shakes the one in his hand for emphasis, “and I don’t know whether to believe them or not.” He throws it at Peter’s head, who dodges expertly, expression darkening. “Well, you can have them back! I can read, but I don’t remember learning. You’re always gone, and when you’re not, you don’t answer my questions.”

Stiles knows he’s crossed a line (or several). Peter’s expression is stormy. He tries to apologize, “I’m so—Peter, I’m sorry.” He scrambles back as Peter advances, but he’s not quick enough to escape the hand at his throat.

He tries to breathe, hands scrambling at his neck, lungs screaming. It’s not typical for Peter to use physical violence, and every time he does, Stiles is afraid for his life. His vision is going dark.

“You want to know about your parents, Stiles? They’re dead, love.”

Stiles can feel his heartbeat in his head.

Peter sighs, like Stiles is a simple inconvenience as he chokes. “Why are you like this? What’s gotten into you lately?”

Stiles doesn’t understand. In a couple of moments it wouldn’t even matter.

And Stiles can't handle the silence. Usually, he sucks it up. But he's tired of pretending their marriage isn't falling apart.

Not like Stiles doesn't know what Peter gets up to.

The absences, the private phone calls, sudden events Stiles hadn't the chance to factor into the schedule.

Peter's too careful to come home smelling different, or carelessly misplace his clothes, or buy unexplained gifts.

But he doesn't spend as much time with Daisy anymore, misses her dance performances, family tv time, dinners. And that's unforgivable.

"Is Dad gonna eat with us?" she asked him earlier in the evening as they set up the table.

Stiles' heart broke to tell her that, "No, he's not."

He couldn't even blame her when she pushed food around her plate, all sullen. Stiles wished he could do the same.

There's a key in the lock, and Stiles jerks up from where he was slouching at the breakfast bar, head in his hands. Peter looks tired, hair a mess, top two buttons of his shirt unbuttoned.

All the lights are off so it takes a moment for Peter to see him. "Stiles?" he asks, freezing. "Why are you still up?"

"Wanted to talk to you." He purposefully keeps his intonation blank, and his body language indifferent.

"Yea?" Peter lets his briefcase fall to the floor beside the counter as he undoes his tie all the way. "What about?"

Stiles considers pointing out all the days Peter missed when Daisy had something going on, and had asked Peter personally to attend. In the end, he doesn't. "All this time you're spending away."

Peter runs a hand through his hair, sighing. "What do you mean?"

"You missed dinner -"

"I was working."

"- when you said you're going to be here."

"Stiles - " Peter begins.

"She asked where you were," Stiles interrupts, barely keeping calm. "I told her you're not coming. You didn't text back. I had to call your Secretary." He takes a deep breath to center himself. "She said you were 'out.'"

"Stiles, you know - " Peter tries again.

"I know," Stiles sneers. But he keeps his voice down so that Daisy doesn't wake up. "Your work takes time."

Peter grits his teeth. "Well, what will you have me do then?" he asks. "You said you understood."

When that began seeing each other, Stiles did. When they adopted, he did.

"I understood your work took time. I didn't sign up for the rest of it." Stiles gets up, more worked up than he planned to get. "I know, okay? I know," he hisses.

Peter freezes, eyes big and startled. "You know . . . What?" It comes out small and confused, two things Peter never is. No one would be able to tell, but Stiles . . . he knows Peter by now.

Stiles immediately regrets saying anything about the elephant between them. Because it's one thing to be ninety nine point nine percent sure your husband is going around sticking his dick into other people, it's quite another to have it confirmed. The fight goes right out of him. It just isn't fair. They - him and Daisy - don't deserve this.

"I hope whomever you're fucking knows what they're involved in," he says, and turns around to make his way to Daisy's room. His little flower will always have him, and he her, even if Peter doesn't want either of them.

"Stiles! Wait."

Despite his better judgement, Stiles stops. He doesn't look at Peter, knowing he's gonna fall for whatever bullshit explanation Peter feeds him if he does.

"I'm sorry."

So, he won't even try to deny it. Stiles whirls around. "I don't need your apologies, Peter. It isn't me who's going to be heartbroken. And don't you dare look at me like that."

Peter is a master manipulator. Stiles repeats this to himself over and over. He's not gonna let Peter's guilt-ridden expression or his kicked-dog posture get to him. He's not gonna fall for the emotional abuse.

Peter doesn't come around the breakfast bar. Its a tangible barrier between them. It takes some effort for Peter to grit out, "Don't tell her. Please." The last word looked like it hurt.

Damn. It just hurts. Stiles may think he's made peace with it, but it's really not that simple, is it. "You better make it up to her, then. You and me, we may not -" Stiles swallows down the sob threatening to come out. "- want the same things anymore. But don't you dare screw up Daisy's life with your bullshit problem."

Peter stays quiet. Stiles is greatful for that little blessing. But he really can't take it anymore.

"You're not a bad man, Peter," he says, defeated. "Just a weak one."

"How long have you known for?" Peter still doesn't move, and his voice is quiet, resigned.

"Didn't. But I suspected. Months now." Stiles turns away. "Goodnight."

Corporations discover they're suddenly missing millions, don't alert anyone because can you imagine the PR nightmare if it's a company employee, and by the time the internal investigation yields a big, fat nothing, the trail's gone cold. The little fucker had cleaned up any traces of himself, if, that is, there were any to begin with.

Damen stares at his face—his pixelated face, because 'you can't touch me, Mr. Detective Man. Maybe his cold dead eyes will reveal something new; maybe the particular slope of his eyebrows is secret code. Because nothing else is talking.

Yea, right. The only thing those eyes say is Asshole.

Laurent. Pretty face—he's the blue eyed, blond haired cliche with a touch of childish innocence that , undoubtedly, makes him a lethal force to deal with in person. Has a more approachable older brother that has nothing but praises to sing about his baby brother—frustrating— and an uncle that is a master at avoiding the question. Damen didn't even realize until he was sitting at his desk that he didn't get a single useful fact out of that family.

And Laurent himself—it's a wonder he survived for so long with an attitude like that. Vulgar, crude, and sarcastic. His records say he dropped out of school at fourteen and doesn't work—let's be real, crime pays good money if you know what you're doing, and just because they can't find the money, doesn't mean that it isn't there . . . somewhere.

And he's been doing it for a little less than a year, now. The sum he stole—because he stole it, his angelic face be damned—has quite a number of zeros on the trail end of it.

It's a case they resurrect every time an incident happens, but, officially, hasn't been solved. Damen gives up for the day, sighing deeply, and focuses on something easier than a blue eyed fiend.

It's early—the sun is just peaking over the horizon, and the streets are slowly filling up with traffic. Damen is making his way down to headquarters because Jokaste texted him earlier, it's your prettyboy. To which, he obviously replied, he's not my prettyboy. Still, though, it's early, and he needed to stop for coffee.

Just as he's savoring his first sip of wake-up elixir, he sees a commotion from the corner of his eye. People are scrambling out of the way of a very familiar blond head on the sidewalk across the street. It takes a moment for Damen's brain to come online, and realize, oh shit. Because the body that blond head belongs to is carrying a large duffle bag of a very peculiar size and is being chased by three big men in suits with semi-automatics in their hands.

There's a suspended moment as their eyes meet across the street—Laurent's calm despite the situation, Damen's dumbfounded at the shock—before Laurent is past him.

He leaves the coffee on top of his car as he gives chase as well.  It wouldn't look it, but the little rascal can run and run fast. Surprising, considering Damen though he spent all his time in front of a computer, hacking. No one that young should be that good good at the manipulation of all things electronic without some serious practice.

There aren't many people about, but those that are move out of the way pretty quickly when they see the guns. Damen is slightly faster than their entourage, and catches Laurent in a dead-end alley way.

"Stop!" Damen yells, hands out non-aggressively in front of him. He doesn't pull his gun out. He doesn't have a reason to, despite what obviously looks like a pile of cash in the duffle.

Laurent skids to a stop, breathing heavily, and twists around. "Oh, thank god," he gasps.

What?

"Do you know how predictable you are?" he continues, frantically pulling the duffle over his shoulder and letting it drop on the ground. Damen watches suspiciously, but doesn't miss Laurent's fiddling with his sweater pocket.

"What do you mean?" Damen is distracted; he forgot how pretty Laurent is in real life.

"Coffee. The trouble I went through to time it perfectly is unbelievable. And you didn't call for back up, did you?" It wasn't a question. Then his eyes go wide as something behind Damen. Right.

Laurent's hand covers the fakest gasp Damen ever heard as guns are trained on them.

"Hands up."

Damen obeys. There's nothing he can do until they're within swinging range, and Laurent, despite all, is still a civilian.

One of them, a big man in his thirties that moves like he knows how to use his body, sneaks around and punches Laurent in his solar plexus.

He drops, gasping behind gritted teeth. He doesn't get back up, trying to breathe through a spasming diaphragm. The man lets up, realizing that Laurent is nothing but skin and bones, and it would be a miracle if none of the ribs are broken.

"You've caused quite a lot of trouble, haven't you." He says, pulling Laurent up, and swinging the duffle onto his shoulder. "Pissed off a lot of people."

Laurent stays uncharacteristically silent. He looks like a rag doll beside the man.

Damen makes a movement—"You move and he dies."

Laurent's eyes are filled with panic and pain, and damn Damen's bleeding heart, but he really can't let him be taken. "Let him go."

The man glances at him as he drags Laurent along. "Do you know who this is?" He shakes Laurent. "He's the Snake."

Damen knows exactly who Laurent is. It’s the proof he needs. But he wants to see him in a cell, not dead and dumped somewhere. But before he could say anything—do anything, really—Laurent finds the strength to twist out of the man's grip, who now has to choose between the duffle and Laurent, and all but tackles Damen.

Then he's kissing Damen, who's so surprised he gasps into it. Laurents hands are holding his head, not that he could move anyway. But then something metallic is passed from Laurent's mouth into his, and Laurent pulls back. "Keep safe," he whispers, eyes pleading.

Then he runs.

Not far before he's captured, and Damen once again can't do anything—the fuckers tasered him.

They deal with dead bodies everyday in their Court. Rhysand has dealt with plenty himself.

A smirk, and a convincing fake smile, maybe a scathingly sarcastic remark or two, and he's back to the way things were. Untouchable. In control. After all, if  he can dish out the abuse, why can't he take it.

Tamlin, High Faerie of the Spring Court has his little human warrior princess, and his cute, if devastatingly naive second hand by his side. His poor tortured soul is safe in the knowledge that he isn't responsible for any of the bloodshed.

But, hey, no ones really all that innocent in war, are they?

Tamlin might not have dirtied his hands, but he sure as hell didn't bat an eyelash at the abuse suffered by his friend and informer. Lucien, a kindred soul of sorts, loyal to a fault, but everyone . . . breaks. Eventually. 

Rhysand would know, he's broken enough people in his time. And he thought it fun.

The war is over, and the Queen is dead. Her body is right in front of him. Her sightless eyes, though, are staring up at him like they were in life. Their colour hasn't changed even though their life is long gone. If there is one thing he'll forever remember about her, it would be her eyes. Her eyes as they mocked him. Her eyes as she fucked him. Her eyes when he came back bloody and bruised, and sour with his victory.

He wasn't on her side, but would anyone care to really know the truth after his apparent obedience?

Surely, things can't go back to the way they were.

No one blinks when he picks up her head by the blood-matted hair. No, they're more focused on the conquering couple. An end to war calls for celebration! Of course everyone is cheering. 

He tosses it aside. He doesn't need morbid reminders of what the evil woman looked like, in life and in death. But her wings . . . her wings he'll keep as ghoulish trophies. After all, a faerie is all but crippled without the use of them. Maybe he'll put them behind glass and hang them above his bed. Maybe then, he'll feel better. Wings don't rot. They'll always stay beautiful. Beautiful, but useless.  

They take effort to detach. He has to use his claws to tear through the sinews. His hands are once again bloody—she hasn't been dead for long, her blood hasn't had time to congeal. He leaves shredded stumps and doesn't let the memories of every fairy he's done this to at her command surface to the forefront of his mind. Bitch deserves some bad karma. 

He feels the aura beside him before Lucien speaks. "Does it feel any better?" Perhaps Rhysand owes the boy an apology. Tamlin was a stuborn bastard that the Queen couldn't touch, but his lapdog . . . he was another story. Many a time did Rhysand have the gruesome pleasure of carrying out her every wish in Lucien's flesh. 

"Yes." He grins. "The Queen is dead, after all." 

Lucien's eyes soften and Rhysand is afraid he's laced his voice with more bitterness than he thought.

"And the war is over," Lucien concludes.

"That's right." Rhysand spreads his own recently returned wings and just luxuriates in the stretch of them. Wide and luminous, they feel light without the Queen's heavy chains keeping them immovable. "But just because you've healed all the gashes, babe, doesn't mean you don't have scars." He takes a pointed look at Lucien's unseeing, golden left eye—a token of her appreciation for Lucien being smart one time. "Take care, love."

War fucks people over. More so when everything you love is dead and buried six feet under the fucking radioactive dirt in a mass grave back when cold slabs of flesh were allotted that basic courtesy. No one bothers anymore when you're just food for someone less fortunate to still be breathing. Everyone's been through the war, never expecting the kind of hell they brought to the other side.

And like all places, it was better to be on top.

He was bored, and when Peter got bored, shit happened. Club empty of measly rejects looking for a bit of meaning in their miserable lives, he felt stiff with pent up crazy. His enforcers weren't any less so, gathered around him, their flesh oozing tension and apprehension fermenting in their blood.

One poor fucker pretending to be better than the debasement of his human instincts wasn't a very rousing experience, either. Harshly cuffed and forced to his knees, head to toe covered in street shit and a nasty gash on his head pussing blood, he still managed to look more human than any of them. A failure of his upbringing. Daddy probably had too deep a pockets to raise him nice and proper in the rotting gut of their shared hell.

But his children, chained and collared as they were, pink and slender with their apparent youth, were pretty examples of gene alteration everyone still living had. Malleable skin, pink irises, kitten claws, pointy teeth behind scarred pink lips, tails curling around their naked bodies. Twins. Very feline eyes, distended facial features. Too clean in a dirty place, they stood out like a sore thumb. Peter couldn't wait to fuck them over before tearing their pretty little hearts out of their chests with his teeth. He might even share.

What Chris Argent was doing in their toxic part of the city was a mystery Peter didn't intend to solve. Trespassing only had one payment. And in a dump where every life was owed to someone else, Peter would accept only one kind.

His head popper like an overripe melon when Peter squeezed his hands around it. Red sludge and gray matter splattered all over, some landing on the corner of his mouth. His tongue poked out to taste it. He brought his hand up and licked it the gore off it as he watched the little cretins' eyes fill with horror. "Tastes sweet."

Everyone knew who they were, Stiles and Allison, Allison and Stiles, inseparable since their conception in a petri dish. Carrying shit-infested Argent DNA in their decrepit bloodstreams. Made nice and pretty, while the rest of them wear their spliced biology like infected wounds.

"Come here, pet."

One of them was dragged by her chain by one of his enforcers, claws raking over the rock hard ground below her in a restless need for survival. Well, dear, such fantasies don't have a place in their lives. She smelled so sweet, her taste running over his senses, just itching for someone to take a big juicy bite. The other one yanked forward only to be roughly kicked down by a steal-toed boot. The yelp of pain was music to Peter's ears.

"Now." He traced a clawed thumb of one hand under one of her seething eyes, purposefully nicking the skin underneath so it oozed sluggish trails of blood like red tears, while undoing the zipper of his pants with the other. "If you bite, I'll pop the both of them." And they'd pop beautifully, pink and firm with aqueous humor. He might even keep them as pretty trophies.

He shoved his cock down her throat, choking her with it, and hissed as one of her fangs nicked at him. She struggled to get her has jaw wide enough, curling her lips against the sharp points of her teeth. She obviously liked her eyes in her head.

He stared down at her as he pushed in and out, watched how her pink orbs filled with panic when he took a little too long to pull back. The flush of her pink skin as she struggled to breathe, the silkiness of her hair in the grip of his hand.

The corpse of her father was right beside her as she keeled in his still undoubtedly warm blood.

He came down her throat. "There you go, dear. You were so good." He pet her hair in a disgusting warp of intimacy. "Just a little more."

The smell of gasoline was sudden as it punched through the stale odors of piss and rott always present in their infested city.

"No!" the other one yelled and once again tried to push up. But whatever fucked up gene cocktail he grew up in didn't account for muscle strength as he was kicked down again—like a very pretty rag doll.

Allison's eyes were petrified and she scuffled with the terror of a cornered animal, but she stayed silent, like a good girl always should. Just like her father too. Not a problem, she'll be joining him soon.

He dug his thumb into a jaw muscle, claws piercing through the it in a sick squelch. She screamed, cut off only by the viscous fluid suddenly flooding her throat. She tried to twist her head, but he yanked her by the chain attached to her collar—her body light as if her bones were hollow, and wasn't that just fucked up—and forced it down. Half of the gasoline spilled down her front.

Striking up a match didn't take a genius, and she burned.

Her screams cut off when her lungs became swamped with liquid fire, but her eyes took time to glaze over with death. Peter enjoyed the anguished screaming of her twin more than he enjoyed the fiery display.

This one, he thought as he looked to the other twin, he'd keep until he got bored again. "There, there, my child," he comforted, coming closer in measured steps. Stiles' tail was twitching in agitation, his whole body trembling, pink crocodile tears streaming down his face. "Your daddy should never have come."

Peter crouched down and grasped the sides of his head, ignoring the claws raking over his arms, enjoying their sting. Such small claws, not at all sharp, very delicate. Just like the boy. Peter always preferred boys, anyway. Stiles hissed at him, baring his sharp teeth and Peter grinned.

"You motherfucker, you'll regret Ali. You piece of shit scum, you'll regret her if it's the last thing I do."

"Careful, baby. You don't need a tongue to suck cock." His skin was soft, and he smelled just as good as his twin.

"Fuck you. You stick that anywhere near me, you'll lose it, you wolf whore."

Peter liked him. It was hard finding willful partners with the hell the world turned into, and Peter was looking forward to breaking every willful thought in that boy's head.

"I think you'll learn your place soon enough, pet."

Blissful Content is the latest edition of the Contentment series―literal happiness in a bottle sold commercially. It aired about a month ago, and the sales already surpassed the entirety of its predecessors. It's one the most successful products they've ever come out with.

“What do you mean, call it back?” a no-nonsense lady—the company’s Central Marketing Officer—asks disbelievingly.

“I mean,” he says, pulling out a stack of papers containing the governmental seal. “They claim there's something wrong with it.”

Something w—how dare they. As if they sell anything but perfection. They value their integrity, thank you very much, and everyone bristles at the insinuation that they don’t.

The man looks lost as to who he should be handing over the papers to. A withered old man—the head of Research and Development—holds out his hand, saying, “Hand them over.”

The sales meeting could wait; the issue needed immediate attention.

The compilation of papers contains customer reviews, most of which they’re already familiar with, and a letter from the president detailing the consequences should they fail to comply with the terms of the call back—a letter full of juvenile threatening techniques.

The threats are ignored in favor of the reviews: it’s alway pleasant to know that you’ve done a good job.

One says: Blissful Content literally changed my life. I feel happier than I have in years. I’ve finally had the courage to file those divorce papers, and I don’t even feel bad about it. I realized that there is literally no reason to feel guilty about wanting out of a relationship that turned abusive. I can finally have custody of my kids and am really excited to start living my life for once. Thank-you, you’ve saved me.

And another reads: I can’t believe the amount of time and money I spent hating the way I look. Makeup is so expensive on a good day, and it didn’t really make me feel any better once I put it on. But Blissful Content made me realize that I’m beautiful and I deserve nice things. Now I can put makeup on, knowing that I’m doing it because I like it, and not because I feel like I need it to feel valued.

Similarly: Finally came out to my parents. Couldn’t care less what they think anymore. Blissful Content made me realize that I’m happy with who I am, and feeling guilty because I couldn’t give my parents natural grandchildren is completely useless. They’re angry, but fuck them.

People are taking control of their lives. How could that possibly be a bad thing?

They’re in the business of improving people's lives (at a cost, obviously), and the reviews all attest to that.

There are murmurings of dissent from around the table once the question is brought up. But since no one understand the reason the government wants Blissful Content off the shelves, the folder is given over to the Legal Department. They will do a good, proper job of telling the government to shove their terms up their ass.

It’s bad karma that the company gets sued the following week on the grounds of encouraging murder. The case didn’t have merit in the beginning—how could being happy lead to murderous tendencies?

Turns out, the secret formula behind the success of Blissful Content was the elimination of guilty emotions. Rather than trying to induce happiness, like all the others have done in the past, it eliminated things like guilt, depression, and fear.

And as such, there is no remorse felt for criminal behaviour. A string of murder cases were presented as evidence where all the charged parties had used Blissful Content and claimed “it made them do it.”

Before the case had a chance to go to court, the company settles. No one wants that much bad publicity. Therefore, they discontinue Blissful Content.

But in doing so,they  create a mass dissatisfaction as people begin doing crazy things to try and alleviate some of the guilt of what they’ve done.

Another sleepless night spent researching. Another stack of empty coffee mugs. Another mess in need of extensive clean up. And with school in fifteen minutes, Stiles just wants the ground to open up so that he may take his eternal rest.

Scott asks him if he’s okay when Stiles falls asleep in class and almost falls out of his desk.

“I’m fine, Scotty.”

A girl goes missing. Stiles knows why, but he can’t get a word in between the werewolf snarling and declarations of heroic intent. He can’t focus his eyes and figures it’s just easier to wait for the werewolves to calm down. He stares into his cold coffee instead.

Somewhere along the lines, coffee has become his only salvation.

Once the plans are made and everyone knows their role, they go hunting this thing. The latest monster. The newest nightmare. Stiles is just so tired of it all.

He starts his jeep. Malia is wrinkling her nose as she sits in the passenger seat but keeps whatever she’s thinking to herself. Stiles is grateful for the silent respite as he gets on the road.

He faints at the wheel halfway to their destination.

It’s cold and dark. There are shadows everywhere. He can’t breathe. His heart is going a mile a minute, but he can’t see. He just knows—feels—that there is something in the darkness that can see him. He wants to scream but his breath is coming too fast. And he can’t do anything about it.

A familiar hospital ceiling greets him when he finally opens his eyes. It’s silent, but not suffocatingly so. His head aches, and his wrist feels newly sprained, but he doesn’t feel all that terrible really. Considering what happened.

Sitting up turns out to be a terrible idea as he faints again.

It’s still dark and cold. But he can breathe a little easier after what felt like an eternity of trying to calm down. There is still something out there, and it still frightens him, but, hey, gotta die sometime, right?

He doesn’t die. Malia caught the wheel and righted the car before it had a chance to crash, but Stiles still hit his head pretty hard on the wheel on his way down. And Malia re-sprained his wrist when she used her wolfy strength to try and catch him.

Melissa asks him, “When was the last time you’ve eaten?”

He doesn’t remember. “Does coffee count?”

The pack lets it go eventually.

Being tossed into a tree is not fun. Stiles is out of commission for the rest of the week. He doesn’t sleep well.

There is a massacre. A lot of bodies tossed around, missing legs and arms and heads. In the middle of the woods, naturally. Campers. Many have been snacked on by the woodland creatures. The Sheriff’s department is on top of it, but many of the officers are ashen and uncharacteristically silent.

Scott is uncharacteristically silent as well.

“Did you pick up a scent of what did it?”

Scott glances at Stiles, eyes haunted. “No.”

It’s dark, but not so cold. Stiles can breathe. Not being able to see is not much of a hardship. It’s calming. He thinks he’s finally making friends with his demons.

They never catch the killer. But they do find more supernatural creatures coming to town. Supernatural creatures of the dangerous variety.

Stiles researches. Insomnia is his friend. Scott gets his retribution on all the baddies and the pack protects its territory. It’s a win-win.

He sees it in slow motion. The clawed hand of an insane omega werewolf slashing at his head. There is no way his human reflexes will move him out of the way in time, and any of the betas are too far away to intervene. Scott is too far away.

Stiles moves anyway. And, turns out, he underestimated himself. The claw misses, and Stiles is at a perfect angle to ram a wolfsbane coated knife into the bastard’s heart.

He doesn’t hesitate.

That’s the first time he walks away from a fight without an injury.

It’s not so dark anymore. Neither is it cold. Stiles thinks he sees little flashes of light at the edges of his vision. But there is muted screaming. Stiles pays it no mind.

For once in his life, he wakes up refreshed.

The trend continues. Somehow, Stiles is all sorts of lucky. Hits that never before had an impact stagger his opponents. He dodges before he even realizes someone is attacking him.

Scott looks at him triumphantly after the vampire burns into a pile of ash. “I can’t believe that worked.”

His enthusiasm is contagious. Stiles grins. He doesn’t have a scratch on him. “That was awesome,” he says.

Scott hugs him, and for once, it doesn’t bruise. “Hey, I thought your wrist was still bothering you. How did you manage to roll away like that?”

“I don’t know,” he says, but Scott’s attention had wandered away to check up on everybody else. Stiles rolls his wrist absently and it doesn’t hurt. He thinks he sees little lights from the corners of his eyes. “It must be better now,” he finishes anyway.

His dad comes back home subdued that night. He pulls out a bottle of whiskey and Stiles hesitates to share the latest success. “What happened?” he asks instead.

His dad throws back the entire glass. “A massacre.”

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but it feels good. What should be a nightmare—people screaming, guts flying, blood spraying the earth in gory caricatures of a Jackson Pollock painting—doesn’t actually bother him. It’s not dark anymore. He can see little fireflies flitting above all the destruction, paying it no mind.

It feels like forever. He wakes up with a smile and a body pleasantly relaxed.

Scott is looking at Stiles. Malia is looking at Stiles. Kira has her hand on her belt and tries not to obviously stare. Lydia studies him from underneath her long eyelashes. It’s a beautiful day. Stiles just tries to enjoy it. His friends will eventually tell him what’s bothering them.

Or maybe he’s smiling on a day that that another massacre occurred, and they think he’s being weird.

He can see Scott. Can see his snarling shifted face as it turns blotchy with constricted blood. He can’t pry the perfectly human hands from around his neck.

Stiles recognizes those hands. Immediately he lets go. Scott falls, gasping for breath.

He looks around, confused why Lydia is barely holding on to consciousness. He can’t reconcile the fact of Malia and the large hole in her chest, missing a very valuable organ. His hands are coated with something warm, and it drips down his forearms as he stares at them.

Red. So much red.

Kira is standing above Scott, badly bruised but with a sword in hand and her kitsune completely visible.

There's a presence behind him that he recognizes from his dreams. It calms his frantically beating pulse. “Scott—” he chokes out, terrified of the understanding he just came to.

Abruptly, he remembers. All the death. Remembers the rush of power. Realizes the cost of his sudden skills. Understands what fuelled his improved reflexes and what it all really meant.

“Scott—” he tries again. Tries to push it past his constricting throat.  “I’m—I—”

But didn’t it feel good to finally have some control?

And by god, it did. Not being constantly abused, forgotten, ignored.

Didn’t it feel good to defend yourself?

It did. Stiles can’t deny it.

Didn’t it feel good to be strong?

It did.

Wouldn't it be worth it to feel it all again?

It . . .

You’re going to have to choose a side.

Stiles looks at Scott’s betrayed face. At the resolve in Kira’s.

That's the way it works.

Stiles doesn’t know anymore.

The Sheriff wakes up with a now familiar hangover. His brain adds another tally to the days Stiles stays missing. He doesn’t get out of bed.

They all met by accident (because how else do these things come about?) in an old factory where Tony was trying out a bigger and better bomb and Tasha with Clint were hiding out from a mob boss they cheated out of money. It was quite a scare with two guns pointed at Tony's head and a bomb with a countdown in Tony's hands. It wasn't like he couldn't disable the countdown, but getting shot as he was doing it was never on his to-do list. As soon as Tony placed and detonated the bomb under gunpoint that a blond, tall drink of water ran up to them yelling about destruction of property and are they insane but also are they hurt, and do they need medical assistance? Because he could call an ambulance.

It was comedic the way both guns swung from Tony to the new guy as he was calmly asked to put the phone down, but then Tasha realized there wasn't a gun pointed at Tony, and swung hers back. Steve did, eyes wide as saucers, and Tony almost felt bad for the kid. A hot, well muscled kid that wasn’t a kid at all the more Tony squinted. And he wasn’t frightened, as Tony first assumed, but exasperated and maybe a little disappointed?

Seeing as they were all in a standstill staring at each other suspiciously half with guns, there wasn’t really a way to break the ice that wouldn’t send them all toppling. Surprisingly, it was another man and would they all stop showing up, Tony only wanted to blow stuff up how did the situation spiral out of control that much, that broke the tension by saying something ridiculous about the sky. And by the appearance of his hair--long, blond and unkept flapping in the wind. And his white pajamas. Or prison garb, upon closer inspection.

And he demanded food (but he called it sustenance), to which Tony jumped right on, offering to take them all for food as a way to diffuse the situation. To think all that was happening as the building behind them burned. By the time they all spilled through the door of a burger joint, Tasha had already threatened anyone thinking about making a move she didn’t like by neutering them and making it look like an accident.

The silence was awkward as they waited for their food, squeezing into a booth made for people twice as small. The new guy, who introduced himself as Thor but no one believed that it was really his real name was smiling weirdly while staring off into the distance. That was when the occupants of the table began to suspect something wasn’t held together in that man's head. The silence continued right through the food arriving, and the eating of it. Any conversation attempts got Tony glares, so he ate his burger quietly.

Somehow, they all followed Tony home, poor Steve comatose after a nasty hit in the head from Clint when he moved too quickly. Bruce was brought in later, by Natasha, shaking and holding himself together with too much whites in his eyes and pupils blown to bits. She dropped him in Tony's lap and said, "Fix it," like Tony knew how. He didn't but he tried when the resident good boy glared at him from where he was tied up in the shame corner. In the early days, Steve always tried to escape and had to constantly be tied down so he wouldn't be spilling their secrets to the world. Or getting them arrested. They thought they did a good job with taking care of him, only having forgotten to feed him once and never again after the god awful puppy eyes. And the damned disappointment. Tony got enough of that from his parents, he didn't need it from the gorgeous model tied up on his floor.

Bruce came to, eventually, and successfully locked himself in the bathroom. There weren't any razors or anything sharp in there as it wasn't used often by anyone because the showers upstairs had better water pressure and Tony often poured chemicals down the drain that made the whole room smell awful, and Tony told Bruce as much. He noticed the scars.

Natasha was the resident money maker (somehow), as well as resident planner and resident cleaner and resident...well, everything but cooking. Clint did that. No one really knew that much about Clint, though.

Thor, (no one really bothered to figure out his real name and soon stopped wondering as asking didn't get them anywhere) often took long walks that he surprisingly came back from and mumbled about a Jane and a Loki and an Asgard, and packed a mean punch. Tony figured that out first hand. But he was smart when he focused, sharp, and had great insight. He also spent an unhealthy amount of time in the basement, keeping Steve company and talking at Tony who was too focused to listen.

Eventually, Bruce came out of his shell enough to ask Tony what the hell he was doing, and then began speaking science at him. They became instant buddies, talking faster than anyone could follow, and building not just bombs, but cool gadgets and experimenting with with them. Until he got angry enough to level the makeshift (they're always makeshift nowadays) lab and then relapsed into the shaking and silence and self-harm even though everyone hid the sharp things.

Tony didn't get to blow stuff up for the first couple of months while they figured out their strange dynamic. He also had to learn to share his space and his stuff and realized people ate three times a day and went to sleep at a set time. It was unnerving. No one dared argue with Natasha though. She set the schedule.

But when he did, it was glorious. The extra time got him building a chain reaction of explosives that levelled the whole block they tested it on. They were all there to witness it, as well as run from it when they realized they were inside the hit radius. Steve was out of his restraints, Tasha deeming him loyal enough to not need them anymore. Only he complained and yelled at them and then gave them the silent treatment when he realized no one was listening. Clint also told him to shut the fuck up and took the safety off his gun in a subtle threat. Worked wonders.

That explosion go them onto the news radar. No one saw their faces, but a group of orphaned children got caught in the blast and they got labeled terrorists for that. Reactions varied. Tony pretended not to care even though he was hella proud, Tasha smiled and Clint was ecstatic, actually voluntarily coming down from the attic to engage socially. Bruce once again locked himself in a bathroom whether from the children's deaths or his own issues no one could tell. Steve wouldn't look at any of them and had to be restrained again in the corner of shame that was more of his corner now with his stuff piled everywhere. Surprisingly, it didn't bother Tony that Steve's stuff was infringing on Tony's lab space. And Thor...well, no one was sure he knew they got on the news.

After a while, and two explosions later, they packed up and moved. Tony wasn't sentimental about his home, but he was about his lab and it took a day of consoling and then threatening to get him to pack it up. And burn it.

A moving truck was procured by either Natasha or Clint, hell, maybe Bruce, Tony was still in mourning enough not to notice. Turned out, only Tony's lab needed packing up. Steve wasn't happy about moving, to which Tasha explained that he was still hoping to get rescued. That made Tony think about the life Steve might have led until the factory incident, and wasn't it strange to think that maybe they kidnapped Steve? Who was once again out of his restraints but under Clint's watchful eye.

Most of the ride was spent sleeping with Thor driving, Bruce sitting shotgun, Tony on the right, Steve on the left, Clint in the middle with Natasha in his lap who was giving directions and a glare to anyone disturbing the quiet. There wasn't even radio to fill the extra silence. It appeared they were held together by those glares, too afraid to leave Natasha's strange mothering nature. They had been unfortunate enough to become her adopted children (even though she was probably younger than most of them.)

Unpacking was just as traumatizing as the packing had been. The house was smaller, one level plus basement. The basement actually had rooms instead of the open space Tony was used to. Steve got placed in bedroom there and Thor just followed. Tony would sleep in his lab, thank you very much, and that left Tasha, Clint and Bruce to split the upstairs' two bedrooms. Before they could properly move in Tony was already tinkering with all his lab equipment haphazardly stacked everywhere. He didn’t sleep the night.

Next morning, the doorbell rang and made half the occupants startle while Tony short-circuited the new thermonuclear generator he was making.

Tasha opened the door, smiling brightly to everyone's extreme discomfort, and welcomed their new neighbours. She introduced them all as fiancé, brothers, boyfriend of a brother and a friend and then invited the couple with their casserole inside. No one contradicted her, instead attempting to play up the impromptu roles they just got assigned, but looking more like threatened wallflowers while Natasha and Clint played it up. And they were good. Their performance had everyone watching.

By the time the couple from across the street left, they were charmed, leaving their phone number in case of an emergency and inviting them all for dinner tomorrow night which Natasha politely declined claiming the move had made everyone tired.

Tony needed to blow something up, and said as much. Tasha already had a plan and asked how soon the next explosive will be ready. Tony, like a gleeful child, explained, "Two days, tops," and continued to give specifications no one was listening to. Bruce suggested to do it publicly, and blow up a big monument while Steve tried to dissuade everyone. Unsuccessfully. Tasha wanted a couple of casualties to uphold their image and Tony wanted it to be huge. Clint began cooking, foreseeing that it was going to be a long discussion that will inevitably stem into lunch time. Thor set the table and then sat himself down in a chair, sometimes giving input. He appeared more present lately, paying attention and helping out without being prompted. He also strayed less from the topic, and interested himself in different activities. And took less walks.

Playfully offended, Harvey turned around to find the object of Donna’s attentions. The girl was dressed in a crimson thong with a skimpy frilly skirt covering the top half of her ass, a push up bra of the same colour giving her amazing cleavage, netted garters and pumps so high, she seemed to be walking on tiptoes. And she was fluidly moving around the pole, rolling her hips, spreading her legs, artfully bending over to give anyone watching an eyeful of her perfectly shaped ass.

Both Harvey and Donna were staring as she walked around, picking up her feet in a way that accentuated her hips.

“See,” Donna whispered in his ear, “prettier.” She finished off her drink, and smirked at Harvey as she got up. “I’m going to go ask for a private dance.”

Before Harvey could process what she said, Donna was striding towards the girl wonder. Harvey noticed when the girl took notice of Donna, unsurprisingly. Donna was a hard woman to miss and ignore. She came all the way up to the the platform and curled her fingers at the girl, who now had a seductive smile on her red lips as she crouched in front of Donna. She was precariously balancing in her heels on the edge, and Harvey was surprised she didn’t topple right off. Donna waved a crisp hundred in front of her, and the girl pulled it out of her hand with two fingers, making it look much dirtier than it needed to be. Donna must have said something because the smile turned genuine, like the girl was actually amused rather than faking it. She said something back, and Donna’s red head bobbed in agreement. And then Donna was back and the girl was getting off the platform, disappearing in the crowd.

“What did you do?” Harvey asked as he leaned back into the cushions and laced his arm around the back. Donna gave him a predatory grin as she reached for her purse, which she had left beside Harvey.

“I’m meeting her in room seven. She agreed to a couple of lap dances. Wanna come? I’m sure she won’t mind if you pay her.”

Harvey downed his drink quickly and grabbed his jacket. “As if I’d leave you in the clutches of a stripper,” he replied cheekily. Donna rolled her eyes.

They made their way down a hallway once they exited the main area and found room seven.The door was slightly ajar, and Donna pushed it open to reveal the girl standing by the stereo, hooking up an iPod. She was even better looking up close, with sinful curves and tousled blond hair that just reached the line of the bra. Slow techno music filled the space.

She turned around and gave Donna a smile until she noticed Harvey, and then she frowned, looking to Donna in confusion. “It’s okay,” Donna reassured her. “He’s paying for himself.”

“Well, in that case,” the girl said, biting her bottom lip intently and slowly striding across the room toward them, “Fifty bucks a dance, sixty and you can touch. No kissing on the lips. And if I like you, we can talk about continuing with…” She gave them both a secretive smile. “...other arrangements.”

The room had a pole in the middle of the room, and there was tacky couch a little to the side, a small table in front of it, and two chairs, randomly placed.

“Deal,” Donna replied, already shedding her cardigan and going for the chair. The girl followed willingly. Harvey sat down on the couch, happy to watch for the time being. Once Donna was seated, the girl straddled her, placing her hands on her shoulders. Harvey watched as they pressed chest to chest, Donna’s hands sliding up her gartered thighs as the girl gently rolled her hips, back and forth, arching her back and rubbing herself all over Donna in time to the music. Both of them we keeping steady eye contact with each other and breathing the same air, lost in each other, Harvey forgotten. Donna’s hands slid up higher and around cupping her ass and pressing her closer, helping her move.

“So,” Donna began, a little breathlessly as she looked up into the girl’s face. “What’s your name?”

The girl's hands slid around Donna’s neck, tangling in her hair as she leaned down close to Donna’s ear. Before replying, she exhaled, making Donna shiver with the warm air. “Michelle.” She didn’t pull away.

“And, Michelle, what are you willing to do for me?” Donna’s hands slid under the tiny skirt, fingers tracing patterns and dipping under the elastic of her thong every so often.

“Whatever you wish.”

“Wow, you feel amazing.” Michelle smiled in pleasure at that, momentarily closing her eyes, and rubbing her boobs against Donna.

Harvey was enjoying the show. He half-heartedly listening to the conversation, more interested in where Donna’s hands were sliding up, exposing more of the girl’s ass as the skirt got caught, before continuing on to the small of her back. Harvey was mesmerized with the new skin, and once he pulled his eyes away and met Donna’s, she was smiling knowingly at him. The girl couldn’t see her expression, as she was still whispering dirty things in Donna’s ear. ‘You want her,’ she mouthed at him, and she was right. Harvey was slowly getting hard in his pants just from watching them together.

The tempo of the song picked up, and Donna spread her legs for the girl to fall through them. Her ass hit the edge of the chair but she was quickly moving back up, rubbing herself up against Donna’s stomach. Donna supported her until Michelle pulled away, and, placing her hands behind her on Donna’s knees, leaned back, speeding up the rolling of her hips. She kept at it, changing the direction a little to the left, and then to the right, and then in little circles. They were grinning at each, exchanging seductive smiles, and little gasps of air until the beat stopped, and Michelle swung her leg back around to get off Donna.

Harvey had already fished out a hundred and was holding it up in the air for the girl to take. He figured she deserved the whole thing, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t afford be a little more generous.

A new song came on, with the same seductive beat if a different melody.

She came up to him, saying, “It’s a bit harder to do it on a couch.” She leaned down a little, giving him an eyeful of her breasts which he unabashedly admired. “I can make it so much better for you if you would move?”

There was a lilt in her voice that had Harvey obeying before he could even question it. She grabbed his tie and started skillfully leading him around the table backwards, as if she’s done it a shitload of times before and has memorized the route by heart. She sat him down in the other chair by pushing him down on the shoulders. He spread his legs automatically.

He gave her his famous Specter smile, one that made all girls melt. It wasn’t any different this time, as her pupils dilated and her rosy lips parted. But she made sure to leave him watching her, instead of straddling him right away like she did with Donna. She walked around him, trailing her hands over his shoulders, the nape of his neck, over his chest, and bumping her legs against the side of his trouser clad legs. And what fine legs she had, long and tanned and glistening, the stockings teasing the skin just enough. He kept his hands to himself for the time being, curious as to where this would lead.

She continued to touch him with her fingers, slowly moving her hips side to side as she walked, putting on a little show for him. Her stomach muscles contracted with each subtle body wave. Her thighs stood far enough for his to see where her undies disappeared between her legs, and he wanted to palm her there to feel her heat. The curve of her spine made him want to trace each vertebra with his mouth. All in time to the music.

She stepped between his open legs and then promptly turned around and lowered her ass down to his crotch, rolling her hips in little circles. He gasped as his half-hard cock finally got the friction it was craving. He felt her hands on his thighs, helping her keep her balance in those stilettos as she moved against him. He had to touch her, and he did, running his palms over her hips, and up her sides until he hit the material of her red bra. Sliding his hands around her, he cupped her breasts, feeling the rough material give way to smooth, supple skin.

She threw her left leg over his, and straddled his thigh without breaking the rhythm, rubbing her ass up and down his stomach. The right leg soon followed, and then he was supporting her in his lap.

He was now completely hard. He gave into the urge to kiss down her back. Her bra was in the way though. “Do I have your permission to take off your bra?” he breathlessly asked her. She slowed down the movement of her hips with the question, and glanced over her shoulder at him.

“Only if you promise to be nice to me,” she replied, and Harvey grinned.

“Scouts honour.”  

He unclipped it with his teeth, having had practice before, and she tugged each strap down her arms one after the other. he was now supporting it where he held her breasts and imagined the picture she made.

Donna was the one to tug it free, though. She dropped it on the ground and kneeled in front of them. “Can I kiss them?”

“For another hundred,” Michelle replied.

Donna pulled one from her pocket (Harvey didn’t know Donna carried that much cash in her pockets) and placed it under the elastic of her underwear. “Done,” she said and leaned it to mouth at them, avoiding the nipples for the time being.

“How much would it cost to fuck you?” he asked because he really wanted to.

“None, because I don’t do that sort of thing.”

She squirmed in his lap when Donna finally bit down on a nipple, making him groan. “No?”

“No,” she affirmed.

The song was coming to an end, and, to his disappointment, she began sliding off his lap. Donna moved back to give her space to maneuver and step away from them.

“Classy,” she said when she pulled the hundred from her underwear. Donna just grinned.

She grabbed the hundred off the table, the one Harvey payed her, and brought them into a neat stack, the previous one from Donna included. They were all folded and placed underneath the stereo system.

“Anything else?” She made quite a picture, standing topless in her heels. Harvey noticed a nipple piercing, and got the sudden urge to bite at it.

“Yea,” he replied, deciding that there was no harm to try and pulled out another hundred from his wallet. He held it out to her. “To kiss at your chest.” She went to grab for it, but he curved his fingers before she could and smiled cheekily at her as Donna laughed. “Oh the couch this time,” he clarified.

She snatched it from between his fingers, annoyed, and tucked it into the elastic of her underwear, as Harvey got up. “Classy,” Donna smirked as she got up from the floor to which Michelle rolled her eyes.

Harvey leaned back in the middle of the couch, and she made herself comfortable in his lap, knees on either side. She could still feel his hard-on, but as long as he kept it in his pants, she had no trouble with it. His mouth felt amazing, warm and inviting on her breasts, and she let him nibble at the skin and skim his teeth over her sensitive nipples. He rolled the piercing around on his tongue, and she let out little moans at how it felt, rocking her hips back and forth involuntarily. His hands played with the string of her thong as his tongue worked magic with her chest.

He pulled off and grinned up at her. “You sure I can’t fuck you?”

“You utter and complete bastard.”

Donna chipped in from the floor where she was watching them, “Like that’s anything new.”

“No, I don’t do that sort of thing,” she gasped as his tongue did that thing that made her want to rethink her boundaries. But they were there for a reason.

She let him go on for a while, getting his fill, enjoying it in the process. The music kept playing and she indulged by running her hands through his hair mussing it up and guiding it him to how she liked it. By the time the song finished and she climbed off him, Michelle was frustrated. She needed to get back to work.

“Next time you come in,” she threw over her shoulder as she clipped her bra back in place. “I might be persuaded to blow you.” He groaned at that and Michelle was pleased, a little. “But until then,” she continued as she slid her arms through the loops under their watchful gaze. “I’m leaving you both here. Toodles.” She wagged her fingers at both Donna and Harvey, collected her money and left the room.

“Donna, I slightly hate you,” Harvey said into the silence of the room.

No such luck was forthcoming tonight, to his exasperation. Maybe sitting wouldn’t be enough anymore. His eyes tracked the priest, in his black robe, as he parted with the deacon and started towards the side doors. Charles made up his mind and got up to follow, before the mad could disappear.

“Good evening,” he greeted. Before he could chicken out, he continued once the priests attention was on him, “Would it be possible to go to...confession?”

“Of course,” the other man answered. “But I have to ask, are you Catholic?”

Charles shook his head, and the priest became thoughtful at the response. “Ah,” he started. “Normally, you’d have to be baptized in order to fully participate in confession. As is, though, I can listen, but I wouldn’t be able to absolve any of your sins.”

Charles told him it's fine. When the man of God gestured in a universal 'shall we,' Charles followed him.

The confessional was small, with Charles on the one side and the priest on the other, separated by a thin wall. He sat down rigidly on the provided chair, and sucked in a deep breath—steeling himself—while the priest prayed the opening prayers. He asked if this was Charles’ first confession, to which Charles nodded, realized his mistake, and said, "Yes."

“What would you like for God to forgive you for?”

All at once, the emotions he was trying so hard to suppress came rushing to the surface. All the late nights, the questioning looks, Charles’ sudden need for space. In the isolation of the tiny room, he was able to finally break down and admit to himself that he has messed up and messed up big.. “I’ve been cheating on my husband,” he admitted guiltily into the silence. “For the past four months. With another man.”

The way he flinched every time Erik tried to initiate physical contact would always leave the man looking confused, and as more time passed, betrayed. But Erik--kind, understanding Erik--would take it in stride, and ignore the incidences, prompting an onslaught of guilt in Charles. He would then try to make it up to Erik. Kisses, gifts, dates, surprise visits at work…

There were tears gathering in the corners of Charles’ eyes. Erik didn’t deserve a cheating scumbag like Charles. He’s tried to break it off, his affair, but somehow he still endlessly ended up in Logans bed, feeling like shit the next morning with six missed calls from Erik. He’s always claimed that he’s lost track of time with his research, as he was prone to do and Erik had no reason to suspect he was lying.

“I’ve….I’ve lied. Kept it secret from him. He still doesn’t know.” He was subtly sniffling but it was plainly obvious that he was crying. He took a moment to wipe away the tears that’ve escaped.  

It's just... Logan was a great conversationalist, and by conversationalist, a great listener. Logan wasn't much of a talker beyond the occasional sarcasm and the grunts. But he always had that attentive expression, the one Erik used to have in the early stages of their relationship, whenever Charles would slip up in his unspoken rule to never talk about his research. And research quickly lent itself to other topics, and soon Charles was sharing the horrors of his childhood as they lay intertwined after a rigorous night of sex.

Logan knew about Erik. Charles wasn't ever that great a liar, and when the phone would go off a suspicious amount of times, he had to explain. Logan took it in stride, joked about knowing someone had to have been in Charles life if Charles looked like that, making Charles smile easily. And when Charles anxiously wondered if it would change anything between them now that Logan knew, it didn't. Logan still treated him with affection and good humor. The only aspect to have altered were the fewer inquiries for coffee dates, as Logan now understood why Charles alway rebuked half of them.

Logan made Charles feel desired again. And Charles really wanted to be desired again.

It was cruel to keep Erik in the dark. Logically, Charles had to tell the mad he was married to that he messed up and grovel for Erik's forgiveness.

The tiny enclosement Charles was sitting in was making him feel slightly claustrophobic. Not enough space for him and his guilty conscience. "God, I'm so sorry. So fucking sorry."

He must have sounded like a wreck because the priest didn't call him out on his swearing or his being married to another man. The church was stubbornly standing by their verdict, but Charles didn’t care. If it made him feel less like a jackass, then he could believe in God for a couple of hours.

It was really Erik that he should ask for forgiveness, but Erik has never been an easy man to talk to. Especially recently. He respected Charles need for space, and they spent even less time together than they already did. Haven’t had sex for over a month.

Charles didn’t know what to do. There wasn’t much hope in ending the fling with Logan, and Charles couldn’t bear the thought of Erik leaving him.

“We are all weak,” the priest began. The disembodied voice startled Charles out of his crippling musings, and he choked in a breath. “And sometimes we give into temptation. It doesn’t make you a bad person, just one that needs guidance in his life.” He sounded thoughtful, not at all condescending, which was what Charles was expecting. If he was truthful with himself, he expected to be told that he’s an awful waste of space. It was sobering.

“You will really have to think about what it was that brought you to this other man, what imperfections in your married life made you seek this other comfort out. Breaking it off would be a good start, and I’d suggest talking about it with your spouse… But ultimately, you have to think about what outcome you’re striving for.”

Charles wanted….. Charles wasn’t sure what he wanted. Maybe the first step in figuring this shitstorm out would be to think about what he wanted. Would he leave Erik? Tell him the truth? Or keep Logan his dirty little secret?

“I’m...not sure,” Charles started carefully. “I…” He was helpless in finishing that thought. His eyes burned from the tears, and he was starting to feel slightly embarrassed.  

“God doesn’t judge us for our failings. He wants us to pick ourselves up and keep living life. Truth is usually harder for us, because we don’t want to hurt the other person, especially if that person in someone dear to our heart. But you have to keep in mind that by keeping the truth hidden, we cripple ourselves. We stop from forgiving ourselves, and rob others from forgiving us. But God has already forgiven us.”

Erik would have to forgive him. Charles would do the decent human being thing and break it off. And then he will sit Erik down and tell him everything. And Erik can decide just how much he hates Charles. Charles will live with it, because he deserved it.