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winniethewife · 14 hours

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*SCREAMING INTO THE VOID*

Room's On Fire 12: Love the Way You Lie

Dark!Santiago Garcia x Fem!Reader

Dark!Francisco Morales x Fem!Reader

Dark!William Miller x Fem!Reader

Dark!Benjamin Miller x Fem!Reader

Also: FishBen, and an assortment of other M/M relationships (no Millercest). Everyone is Bisexual

Series Masterlist: Main Masterlist

Spotify playlist

Summery: Madonna lets herself believe the lies

Warnings and Content:

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

DUB CON MOSTLY but there WILL BE NON CON. Major character deaths, forced breeding, physical abuse, brainwashing, manipulation, violence, gore, alcoholism/addiction, BIG OLE BLASPHEMY WARNING like this cult appropriates a lot of religious themes and they call reader their Madonna, Santi is called the Pope, like all that stuff. However, this is a cult so I mean. It happens. None of it are my thoughts on religion or meant to make fun of religion or demonize religious people. Disgusting views on virginity. Attempted rape outside the boys. T*m warning. Age gap. Creepy terrible men. Non-reader rape, dub con, violence. Covert incest, massive mommy issues, sexual abuse all around, past grooming by parental figure. no CSA but the victim isn't much older. some Bates Motel type shit. I cannot properly warn you for everything, without just telling the story but consider this a major warning that there are dark dark themes. No one involved here is morally clean, and who you perceive as the good guy cannot be relied on. Don't come to my story and say im romanticizing these things until at least the story ends.

Extra warnings for chapter: Meltdown, gaslighting and manipulation. Madonna has sensory overload and has a whole meltdown. Lots of people manipulating Madonna. Brief physical violence but it's minor. To be clear, Madonna thinks Iris is willingly having sex with Ben

3.4k words

"Just gonna stand there and watch me burn? Well, that's alright, because I like the way it hurts Just gonna stand there and hear me cry? Well, that's alright, because I love the way you lie I love the way you lie" ~ Love the Way You Lie Part 3, Skylar Grey

Iris stood before you, eye intent and alight in your room. She had convinced Reyansh to step away, and after some concerned disagreement from her lover, he acquiesced to her request, and Iris confronted you.

“You can’t tell anyone.”

Despite the tears in your eyes, you guffaw at her audacity. She had no right to ask anything from you after you watched her be bent over and fucked by your husband.

“How dare you.” You spat. “How dare you ask anything of me! How dare you think I owe you anything!”

You saw a look of confusion on her face that softened for a moment. “You think we’re having an affair, don’t you.”

It was you who was confused now. “What else am I supposed to think?!”

Iris simply shook her head, then settled back into her determination. “Just… fuck, you can’t tell Reyansh or Jonah, please?”

“You’re more concerned about me telling them than Santi or Will?” You laugh.

“Yes!” Iris’s voice cracks, the building emotion in her tone, the desperation that was so clear… you soften your voice.

“I can’t… Rey… he’s my friend…”

Iris closed her eyes and sighed. “I know… I know it looks really bad just…” she scrubbed her face. “I know I haven't always been nice to you, I haven't been welcoming and you care more about Jonah and rey and you have no reason to care about me- ”

“That’s not it!!” You shout, frustrated. How could she think that? “Of course I care about you! All I fucking wanted all these months was for everyone to like me and it feels whenever I finally get someone figured out, something else happens! You, Jonah, Pope, Frankie, Ben! It’s so fucking confusing and it fucking hurts! I just wanted you to love me like I love you! I love everyone in this house, I love everyone in Delta and for some! Fucking! Reason! I could never figure out how to make friends and then my dad had to mess up everything! I came here and I thought-” Your voice cracks under the weight of your feelings, and you close your eyes to not have to look at the pity of her face. You were over the pity. “I thought things would change. That I was divinely chosen and things would get better but… I never fucking does.”

There is a long silence, you could only hear the sound of your own heart beating, the world seeming to fold in on you. All you ever wanted was to not feel so alone and no matter what you did, you just couldn’t seem to push the pieces together.

“Please.” Iris whispered, her voice soft and vulnerable. “Just… give me some time.”

You’d agreed not tell Rey or Jonah for now, then told Iris to get the fuck out of your room. As the door closed, you saw the confused eyes of Rey, clearly worried about you and her. Listening through the door, you hear him desperately trying to get Iris to tell him what’s going on while she keeps saying it's fine, it's fine, it’s fine. Their voices trail off as Rey abandons his post, because Iris is the most important thing to him. You couldn’t blame him for that.

The next day you search out Will. All of your men had different temperaments that were suites for different things, different needs and wants and moods.

Pope was fire and ice, emotions that shifted with the wind but intense no matter what. Pope held the passion and it showed in the way he preached to crowds, controlled a room, even those small moments while he watched you paint his eyes were alight.

Francisco was your calm intelligence, attention to detail that was valuable to the community. When you presented him with your cross stitching, he ran his fingers over every stitching, noticing every thread. He memorized your body the same way, with quiet determination.

Ben was your fun, your adventure and joy. Ben was good at destruction, whether fucking you on a rooftop or taking you out for a high-speed horse race, Ben was always abled to clear your mind. His bright-eyed joy and boyish wonder for the world around him was always more important than whatever else was happening.

Will was logical, patient, clear headed. Will could soothe you and provide you with answers, talk you through your feelings, reassuring you on that golden tongue of his, that tongue that made you cum over and over again and made your heart swell with his sweet words.

Will was who you needed right now.

What you weren’t expecting was for Will to not be surprised.

When you come to him, trying your best to hide the tears blurring behind his eyes, hearing.

“I thought Iris was a strange choice.”

He was surprised by the fact it was Iris. Not that he was sleeping with someone that wasn’t you, Pope, or Francisco.

When you question what he means, Will goes on to say. “Well, Iris and Frankie were going to be engaged at one point, and seeing as her dad was sleeping with my fiance, it seems a bit of a mess, but” He shrugged. “That’s Ben for you.”

What did that mean? Iris and Francisco were together? Had she slept with two of your husbands? Fuck, had she slept with them all? Did Iris have everything you didn’t, fucking your husbands, Rey, ever loyal at her side, a dad that was good and loved her? Beauty and confidence that you felt you could never achieve? Your hand goes to your stomach. She didn’t have a baby. “You… knew Ben was sleeping with someone?”

Will goes back to organizing his medical books. “Well I mean I figured he had someone, especially after him and Frankie, well, you know.”

You didn’t. “They what?!?” You stand there, feeling dumb. You were dumb.

Will waves his hand behind him, not looking at you. “It’s just them, you know how they are.”

Again, you didn’t. “Will…” Your voice cracks his name. “What’s going on?”

He stops, turning to look at you with a frown and when he sees the tears in your eyes, his face falls. “Oh, princess…” The pity drips from his mouth, smooth as honey but a hint of something else. “Did you not know we could see other people?”

You felt… stupid. Heat rose up at your neck, ears burning. You were angry and felt humiliation. “He wasn’t ‘seeing’ other people, he was fucking my friend up against the wall!”

In surprise, but remaining calm, Will raised an eyebrow. Immediately you feel childish for your outburst. Talking like that, saying ‘fucking’, it was not becoming of the Madonna. “She’s your friend now, is she?”

You were certain you looked like an idiot standing there. “Well, yes, she-”

“Because yesterday you said you weren’t friends”

“No! No that’s not what I-”

“Did you not say you had nothing in common?”

You… you did say that… Had you said you weren’t friends? You didn’t feel like that’s what you had meant to say… Had you misled him? “Well, yes but I just meant-”

“It’s no matter. The point is, Madonna…. My darling wife…” Will steps forward and takes both your hands. “How many wives did Isaac have?”

You blink. “Two…”

“And king David?”

“Three… But they were married! They were holy unions, like me being married to you 4?”

A slight smirk on his face. “Do you think you’re King David in this scenario?”

Once again, you felt stupid and embarrassed. “Oh… sorry, I misunderstood the analogy…”

“It’s alright, come here, beautiful…” Will pulls you in, his strong arms making you feel safe, secure… It was going to be okay. “Since the dawn of time, men have always had multiple partners. As God’s, we have needs that can’t be filled by one woman.”

“But I thought… I guess I thought you were with each other too, and that was enough…”

Will rubs your back, his fingers massaging into your tense skin. “It is for me, Madonna, don’t worry… You, Pope and Frankie are enough for me. Ben just has a strong sexual appetite. It’s a part of his energy, you know how he is. He just has mistresses. You didn’t know he had mistresses Madonna? Kings and Gods, we always have mistresses and lovers. It’s a part of our nature. Surely you know this, Madonna…”

Of course. Of course you did. How stupid of you to think they didn’t. “Does it… does it have to be Iris?”

“I’ll talk to him, okay? No guarantees, but I’m sure someone else will be suitable.”

You felt better. Will always made you feel better. Your questions have been answered…. So why did you still feel confused?

What you didn’t know was that after Ben was done with Iris, the clarity hit him. He fucked up. And who does he count on to fix his messes? Ben ran to Will, who concocted the mistress defense in an instant. Then smacked Ben upside the head for being so stupid.

Frankie’s head lay in your lap, his unbuttoned shirt showing off curls of hair. He was beautiful like this, gazing up at you as you placed small flowers and bright green blades of grace in his hair. His cock was hard inside where your legs were spread over him, your white dress covering you both, just how you two liked to hang out in the meadow; sometimes fucking, sometimes not. Always together and connected. Frankie’s mouth was occupied with a joint.

“Can you grow flowers?” You ask him, distracted. You’d been distant all day, mind busy reconciling the fact Ben was sleeping with another women. Perhaps you were overreacting, naive, selfish. You got to sleep with 4 handsome men, it was wrong of you to expect them not to sleep with other women, right? How could you be jealous where Ben’s dick went when you were sitting on Francisco’s right now?

“Hm? Oh, no, I wish. That’d be cool.”

You hum in acknowledgment, absentmindedly twirling one of his curls against his forehead around your finger, looking at the red, blue, yellow and white flowers in his hair, brown locks in a bed of green grass. You liked the smell when he smoked. You never liked it before, but now it reminded you of him.

“You okay, beautiful?”

Your lip quivered. “Yeah.” You wish he hadn’t asked that. Tears began to burn behind your eyes.

A deep crease appeared between his brows. “I don’t think you are.”

That was enough. “D-do you have a mistress?” You manage to get out, then begin to cry, and Francisco pulls you down onto his body, the thick joint put out in the dirt.

“Sweetheart, hey! Where is this coming from? Of course I don’t… why would you ask me this?”

“Ben does!” You don’t know when you became so emotional… You felt stupid. You always were easily frustrated, people not making sense to you, sounds being overwhelming… but you weren’t a cryer, not anymore. As a child, you were prone to meltdowns, something that was disciplined out of you. You learned to shut down, not act out, as a good and holy woman should… the tears must have come with pregnancy.

“Oh baby… what do you know?”

You explain it to him. Not how you found them, not how Ben wanted you to participate, but that you knew he was sleeping with Iris.

Francisco’s eyes widened at that, tone just a tad darker than you knew it to be. “He’s sleeping with Iris? Really?”

“Yes!” You sit up and smack his chest in the low-buttoned shirt; it wasn’t hard, but he flinched. Guilt washed over you, but you couldn’t stop. “And you were going to be engaged to her! You’re probably sleeping with her too!” You smack his shoulder again, but when he catches your wrist you begin to scream. It was all too much: him inside you, the wind on your skin, grass itching your legs, the smell of the burning joint and that deep-seeded something deep down inside you threatening to boil over. There had been no outlet for you, no where you could turn to feel anything happening and not feel the things that were constant irritants. You had no mouth, and yet you must scream. So you did.

Francisco watched in horror and you broke down, screaming and crying and pulling at your hair and scratching your legs.

“Madonna, hey, Madonna what's going on? Talk to me, please, your… you're scaring me…” He keeps his distance when you climb off him, but it doesn’t seem to help.

You don’t want to feel the grass or your dress or the wind and you don’t want to feel the pain deep in your heart, the anger and hurt and fuck the grass feels awful. You scratch and scratch and it hurts. You tug at your dress.

“It’s too much!” You shout, crying as he watches you. “My dress, the grass it’s too too fucking much!”

Every second feels like forever, but you are soon aware of Francisco’s hands on you, You try to smack him away, not wanting more touch as you melt down on the damp ground, but what he does surprises you. Fransco pulls off your dress, which initially makes you fearful of the grass texture on more skin, but soon enough you are pulled onto his lap, your naked body curled up on him and he’s squeezing you, he’s squeezing you so hurt and fuck, it feels good. You stop screaming, beginning to calm down but still crying. He pulls a blanket over you and at first you aren’t sure why. He makes sure the blanket doesn’t irritate your skin more, still holding you.

When you hear the sound of horse footsteps, you realize why he covered you.

“What the hell happened! It’s she okay?” Jonah tore up the ground when he heard you screaming while doing circles around the open meadow. The sound of you in pain echoed down the valley, and Jonah feared the worst, and he shouted your name when he saw you.

You didn’t answer, too exhausted and distressed. Frankie looked up to Jonah on the horse. “She’s alright, she just had a… had to get some feelings out. Could you please bring my horse?”

Jonah’s eyes darted to wear your dress lay discarded on the ground and back to you. He shared a knowing glance with Francisco, and went to fetch his horse, Cielo.

Francisco gentle kissed your forehead as you muttered an apology. “You have nothing to be sorry for, mi flor” He picked a wild flower out of the ground and placed it behind your ear. “Mi flor perfecta. You’re my wife, you’re the only one I need. I don’t have, need, or want a mistress.”

You sniffle. “And… Iris?”

Francisco sighed. “That was never my idea. I won’t lie to you, we’ve kissed, we’ve done a little more but… that was Bea- ahem, Divine Mother’s plan. She wasn’t the one I wanted.”

Jonah rode up with Cielo, and Francisco stood with you in his arms before handing you, bundled up in the blanket for modesty, to Jonah. As Francisco gathered your dress and the picnic quickly, Jonah held you close; firm chest a contrast to Francosco’s fluff.

“Had me scared there, darl’n. Though someth’n happened to yuh.”

“”M sorry…” You mutter, tired. His deep, gentle voice was soothing.

“”Salright… I’m still worried, so you come talk to me if yuh need to, okay? My doors open this time, I promise…”

Bags packed, Frankie got on Cielo.

You remember last time you came to Jonah’s room crying… he was letting you know you could this time, should you need to.

“I got her.” Francisco spoke quickly, practically taking you out of Jonah’s arms.

On the ride back, sun beginning to paint red over the land, you feel somewhat childlike. You’re naked under the blanket, feeling a bit like a burrito. You hope your baby is okay. Frankie assures you that baby and you will be okay, but he’ll take you to Will when you get home, let you rest.

“How did you know what to do to… to help me, I mean.”

A long pause. “Just…” He sighs. “I’m omniscient, all that.”

You nod against his chest. “It was Ben, wasn’t it? The one you wanted to marry instead of Iris? I see how you look at each other…”

Another sigh. “Yeah. It was. But don’t worry about that now, Madonna. Love’n Benjamin… it ain’t easy. I guess you know that now. It’s not like loving you.”

You spent the rest of the day in Will's dim lit bedroom, Will and Frankie making sure things weren’t too loud or bright or anything that might disrupt you and the baby. You would be okay.

When Iris brought you and your two husbands your diner, she couldn’t look you in the eye. You noticed the way Francisco watched her with wide, sad eyes. You wondered if he wanted her.

The next day, Pope found you painting, sauntering in the room with his wine. “What’s this one going to be?” He asked over your shoulder. He smelled fresh and clean, his growing beard tickling your face.

“A maypole.” You point to the tall structure and ribbon’s you’ve painted so far. “I wanna do it with all our colors, red yellow blue green white.”

“Beautiful idea, my Madonna.” He took a step back, looking at you with concern. “Frank, he… told me what happened to you in the meadow.”

Your eyes widened. “I’m, Pope I’m sorry!” You begin to ramble, to panic again. “I’m so sorry it won’t happen again! I just- I was over reacting and being childish and I promise it’ll get it under control!”

You expected anger, or his disappointment. You couldn’t bare it if he cut you off again. Instead, he was gentle; his voice was soft and calm. “What are you apologizing for, beautiful girl?”

“For… for being…”

“Human? Madonna…” He steps closer to you again, his hair now long enough to tie in a bun but right now, the graying curls dance at his shoulders. His eyes are empathetic. “I use to… I used to struggle with… similar feelings. Emotions I felt out of control with… my mother, she…” Pope’s feet shuffled and he looked down, suddenly seeming 10 years younger. “Well, she obviously had a lot more to worry about than just me. I guess I wish she handled it differently. Ways that didn’t involve locking me in a dark closet or using a belt.”

Your heart sinks at that. You were raised to believe in corporal punishment; it was used on you, and every child in delta… you didn’t realize it was used on Pope. He was a child in Delta after all… but you had thought God’s were beyond it. You forget, sometimes, Pope was half human. It hurt you to know that he had been hurt.

“Frank was the only one who could calm me down sometimes.”

“Oh Pope, I’m so sorry” Quickly, you embrace him with a hug that he returns tightly.

“It’s okay, just… don’t feel bad for having feelings. Get them out whatever way you want, if you wanna get out more, Saha can take you riding our walks or whatever. We’re here for you, Madonna. You took on the burden of baring the savior, we’re going to take care of you in return.” He tightened his grip on you, tucking his face into your neck.

You felt safe with him. You felt seen. “Thank you, Pope. I love you.”

“I love you too, Madonna. We all do.”

He held you like that for the while, your hearts beating against each other, safe in your own skin, pregnant belly pressed up against his softness.

“Oh, that one’s new…”

Breaking away, you turn to see where he was looking and smile when you recognize the picture. It was the abstract piece you and Ben made. “Oh! Yeah, me and Ben made that!”

Pope’s back stiffened, but it went unnoticed by you. “You… made it?”

“Yes!” You laugh, walking over to it and smiling, admiring a particular spot you knew was Ben’s buttcheek. “We had sex with paint on our bodies. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Your heart was warm looking at the painting, remembering the good times with Ben. It was going to be okay. Your bodies made something so beautiful together, you loved him so, so deeply, it had to be okay.

“It’s beautiful, Madonna.”

Sarcasm was lost on you.

******************

Alright guys, next chapter....... IS WHERE IT ALL GOES WRONG!!!!

I wont have anything out for at least 2 weeks probably bc........ PAPERS so much writing to do ahhhhh

as always i appriciate your guys kind comments more than you could ever know! Esp after everything that happened a few weeks ago that caused me to slip away for a bit. Love you all dearly <3

Also: any idea for names??? I like Meadow for a girl because Frankie and Madonna and THATS WHAT BELLA AND EDWARD SHOULD"V NAMED THEIR DAUGHTER INSTEAD OF FUCKING RESUME

where my ratties at?

Please consider joining me in in donating to humanitarian aid in Rafah through Doctors Without Borders

LOVE YOU ALL!

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winniethewife · 16 hours

Text

Me as Birdie.

8- lucien & claire, anselm & birdie

Summary: You learn more about Anselm's past as the mysterious, Lucien. (~4.6k)

Contents: 🔥 18+ nsfw, gun violence/murder, dry humping, oral sex talk

a/n: thank you to the (❤️ not) anon who gave me the push I needed to finally write this. It will help if you've seen "Ticky Tacky," but if you know the general gist, then you should be just fine!

-----

“Don’t trouble yourself, my dear,” Anselm says as you move to exit the car behind him. “It’s only a small errand.”

A stop at a donut shop you’ve never heard of, a few towns away.

He hasn’t said what his business here is, but you know it certainly isn’t pastries.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you trying to hide something from me?”

Anselm stands outside of the car, but bends down to talk to you. “Yes.”

One of his eyebrows is slightly raised and you know he’d prefer if you dropped it. But that’s not really your style.

“And how’s that going for you?” You ask.

His beard twitches. “Not well, apparently.”

You hear the jingle of a bell behind Anselm and see a young guy walk out of the bakery toward the car.

“Lucien,” the man says. “I have your donuts and your knives.”

Anselm’s face is stone still.

“Lucien?” You ask.

Anselm takes off his glasses and tosses them aside on the seat.

He stands and turns. “Hey, how’s it going?” He hugs the man. “Thanks again.”

You’re struck dumb. You’ve never heard Anselm talk like this in all the time you’ve been together. So… American… so… accent-less.

You see the man hand off a black bakery box on top of a metal suitcase. He notices you in the car and waves. He has a baby face and a white apron smeared with dough and frosting.

“I’m Gabriel,” the man says. “You must be the new wife, and the new boss. Congratulations. Sorry I couldn’t come to the wedding. I’m real happy for you and Lucien, though. I thought he’d had sworn off love, but I guess that whole thing with your cheating ex was, what, 8 or 9 years ago now?”

“Yeah, more actually,” Anselm says, sans accent, scratching his beard.

You nod, shocked silent.

Gabriel smiles. “I was only 10 when we started working together. I still remember the first gun I ever acquired on your behalf. You’d never killed anyone before.”

Anselm nods. “I guess in hindsight everything worked out for the better. My Birdie here, she’s the greatest. Blows everyone else out of the water. Anyway, we have to get going. I’ll call if I need you.”

“What the hell?” You mutter to yourself.

Gabriel shakes Anselm’s hand in both of his. “Good to see you old friend. I could never thank you enough for giving me the shop to run arms out of.”

“Please, you were always a natural. And the donuts are even better with you in charge. Stop by the house sometime. We’ll talk,” Anselm says.

“Definitely, definitely. I haven’t seen this one, and you burned your old one down. I’ll bring you a grenade launcher as a belated wedding present.” Gabriel smiles, waves to you again. “You two have a great day.”

“See you around,” Anselm says.

He gets back in the car, setting aside the case of knives and flipping open the box of donuts to offer you one.

You hand him his glasses.

“I have four hundred questions,” you say.

“My dear-“

“Oh, your accent’s back,” you say, reaching in for a glazed donut. “Well, there’s one question answered.”

Anselm rests his yellow lenses back on his face. “It was all a long time ago. I was very different as a young man.”

You bite into the donut, momentarily distracted. “Holy shit this donut’s good. That guy’s been making donuts since he was 10?”

Anselm shakes his head, closing the box and setting it aside. “No, I gave him the bakery to run when he was 18. He was working for me long before then, though. He’s a very distant relative.”

“Of course he is.” You lick your fingers after inhaling the rest of the donut. “And this woman? Who was she?”

Anselm fights a smile, his beard shifting with glee. “Jealous?”

“Of someone dumb enough to cheat on you? No. Not jealous of a dead woman.”

The car starts moving. Anselm’s gaze flicks away from yours.

“She’s not exactly dead,” he says.

The rest of the donut tastes like sand in your mouth. There might be ringing in your ears. There’s no reason you can think of for him not to have shot her in the cheating, lying face. Except for one…

Anselm holds up a hand. “Birdie, please let me explain. There’s no reason for you to be upset.”

You huff, trying to act casual. “Why would I be upset that you didn’t kill someone? That would be stupid. I’m not. Upset or stupid. I’m not either of those things.” You realize you’re rambling and shut your mouth. You look out the window.

Anselm sets his hand on your leg and you move it out of his grasp.

He chuckles quietly. “I’ve never seen you jealous. It’s given me an erection like you wouldn’t believe.” He clears his throat. “No matter. Just listen.”

You fold your arms, stubbornly refusing to look at him.

Anselm rubs his hand over one of your shoulders. “I’ve never told you this, but for a time in my youth, I tried to ‘go straight,’ so to speak. I only owned legal businesses. Had no ties to organized crime. I spoke with an American accent to blend in more. And,” he hesitates, “I was going to ask a woman to marry me.”

You bite your bottom lip so hard it hurts. But it’s better than the pang you feel in your heart.

“Her name is Claire. From an old east-coast family. Shallow, selfish, but very much the kind of wife someone in my position should have,” Anselm says quietly.

You feel tears well up in your eyes. Snot’s going to start coming out of your nose any second, but you don’t want to sniffle and let Anselm know you’re crying.

Out of the corner of your eye you see Anselm offer you a handkerchief. You snatch it out of his hand.

“Oh, my love, I’m sorry,” he says. His brace squeaks as he scoots closer to you.

You blow your nose loudly and turn back toward him. “We don’t have secrets, Anselm. Not from each other. What the fuck?”

He looks upset with himself. “That part of my life is like a dream, or a movie. It doesn’t feel real most of the time. Except, for these.”

Anselm raises his hand to touch the scars on his face and ear, down his neck. The air catches in your throat, like your pounding heart is keeping you from breathing.

“You’ve never really asked,” Anselm says with a small smile. “The fact that it’s never mattered to you is something I treasure deeply. It was selfish of me to treasure that feeling over telling you the truth.

“Claire cheated on me. Said she was in Paris, but really, she’d only traveled across town to see Nikolai, my cousin and my best friend. They’d been carrying on behind my back for some time.”

Your hand automatically finds Anselm’s. “Fucking jerks.”

Anselm smiles. “I agree.” He squeezes your hand back. “Gabriel had been more of an assistant, but his father was in charge of the family armory here in the states. I asked him to procure me a gun so that I could kill Nikolai.”

“The first person you ever killed was your best friend?” Despite how hurt you are, you still feel a wave of emotion for Anselm. He doesn’t make friends easily. Then again, maybe this story is why. Also, why he considers his useless cousins so disposable.

“No, actually, I shot him, but he lived,” Anselm says. “Gabriel finished the job.”

You tilt your head, doing some quick math. “Wouldn’t he have been like, a child? Um…”

“Anyway,” Anselm continues, “Claire was, understandably upset that I’d attempted to kill her lover. She stormed off as if she had the moral high ground. It didn’t occur to me to kill her. Now, I wouldn’t hesitate. But at the time, I was more concerned with my failure.”

“Your failure? None of that was your fault.”

“It was, my dear,” Anselm say with a sad look. “I didn’t truly love her. I hated that life, hated abiding by the law.”

You put your arm around him, your anger forgotten. “You were doing what you thought was right.”

“Yes, but I created quite a mess for myself. So, I had to create an even bigger one to get out of it. I set Lucien Vogelweide’s life on fire. Nikolai's body, the house, all up in flames. And unfortunately, myself as well. I saw it as penance for not being true to who I was.

“When I got out of the hospital, Lucien had been declared dead. I decided to shut that part of my life away. Except for Gabriel. He's the only one who believes Lucien to be alive and thriving. Although, he's probably figured out the truth by now. But he was born discreet and logical. He can keep a secret, that one.”

You lean back in the seat. “Whenever I think you can’t possibly get any weirder.”

Anselm laughs. “I do test your limits. In every way. Am I forgiven, Birdie?”

You look at him suspiciously. “Give me a kiss and I’ll think about it.”

Anselm leans forward and gathers you in his arms, pressing his open mouth against yours hungrily. You hold onto the lapels of his jacket.

“You taste like a donut,” Anselm says. “You know, I’ve always thought the glaze to be rather like cum. Visually speaking.”

“Obviously.”

Anselm kisses you again.

You pull back after a few seconds. “Now all I can think about is you coming on my face.”

“I was thinking the reverse, but a moving vehicle is no place to 69.” Anselm kisses your neck. “And I don’t deserve your beautiful mouth on me after I’ve behaved so poorly.”

You pull him closer, and down over you as you lay back on the seat. Anselm’s brace squeaks as he bends his knee, using it as leverage to rock his hips against yours. He nips his teeth along your jaw, drags his beard along your skin.

You wrap your legs around his thighs, pushing against him, the cloth of your underwear and pants just enough friction to catch your clit. Anselm’s so hard it’s like rubbing yourself on solid rock.

“Let me,” Anselm tries to squeeze his hand between your bodies, but you pull him flush against you.

“No, stay like this,” you say, “harder.”

Anselm’s glasses drop slightly as he looks down at you. His gaze is intense, drinking in the way your lips part, the wrinkle in your brow, how your breath comes out in little pants.

He teases your nipple through your shirt. Twisting lightly as he cants his hips and you gasp, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you strain yourself toward him. The friction of his hard cock rubbing against you just right. The exact way you need to come.

You try to form words. Tell him not to stop. But it comes out a babbling mess. Anselm knows what you need, though, and keeps going. He buries his face in your neck and kisses you, shuddering.

“Fuck, fuck,” he says, mouthing at your neck, “I can’t- oh God, Birdie, you have to stop. If you rub your hot cunt on me a second longer, I- I-“

Anselm tenses. You keep your hips thrusting hard against his, moaning in his ear as you come down from your orgasm. You feel Anselm’s cock twitch, wetness that’s probably both of you, against your pants.

You squeeze your arms around him, encouraging him to lay his weight on you. It’s comforting for you, and for him. Your breathing syncs up, and you play your fingers through his curly hair.

“I haven’t done that since I was a teenager,” Anselm says.

“What? Dry hump in a car or come in your pants?”

“The car part. You know very well you’ve been the cause of many a ruined pair of pants.” He back away, kissing you quickly before retreating back to his side of the seat.

You smile, righting your clothes. “We should ask for a bulk discount at the dry cleaners. Or a punch card or something.”

You untuck your shirt, but it’s not long enough to cover the wet patch. Anselm doesn’t even bother. He lets his jacket fall open, the dark circle on his black pants on full display.

“A punch card?” He asks, face screwed up in confusion.

You reach out to smooth his curls back in place. “A customer loyalty card. Like, buy five gallons of milk get a tub of ice cream. Or, for you, it’s more like buy ten cases of ammo, get a pallet of bleach free.”

You rake your fingers through his beard.

“Thank you,” he says.

He holds your hands to keep you from fussing anymore. You know he feels your nervous energy, back again now that you remember what he’d told you about his past.

“I want you to know something very important,” Anselm says. He runs his thumb over your wedding ring. “I hadn’t thought about that woman for years, before you came into my life even. But her presence did linger. I thought I’d never marry. Probably never love anyone enough to share my life with them. Not many would accept me as I am. You were such a beautiful surprise. Continue to be so.”

“I love you, Anselm,” you say with a smile.

“I love you too,” he says, with great feeling.

He pulls you toward him so you can recline against his shoulder.

“Do you think I would’ve liked Lucien?” You ask.

“My dear Birdie, if you think you’re able to twirl me around your little finger, Lucien would have turned to dust in your presence. An absolute puppy on his hands and knees for a Goddess like yourself.”

You snuggle your hand under his jacket. “I’m glad our timing was right. Meeting now, I mean. I’ve never liked a push over. Or a cheater.”

*****

The next time you’re in the car, you’re in the passenger seat in front. Godzilla is driving you to your meeting.

Although, ‘meeting’ is probably the wrong word when the other party has no idea you’re coming.

Godzilla’s hands are slightly fidgety on the wheel. As loyal as he is to you, you’d asked him to straight-up lie if Anselm asked where you were going. You weren't sure he could do it, but it was good to know he was willing to try. But not really because he'd run outside and sat in the car until you were ready, to avoid talking to anyone.

You’d put on a black dress, slinky but conservative. A white trench coat. You’d thought about a colorful scarf and big sunglasses, but this isn’t about drama.

It’s about curiosity, and doing the right thing.

Godzilla had Claire’s address in less than thirty minutes after you’d come home from the donut shop. You were proud that you’d waited even a whole day before going to see her.

Anselm knows none of this.

Claire’s house is a large one-story in a nice neighborhood. She’d been married and divorced twice already. Cheated on both husbands.

She lives off her family’s money. Is on the board of a couple of her family’s companies, but as far as you can tell, she’s still the selfish, entitled jerk that had cheated on Anselm.

You slip on your black, leather gloves.

“Stay in the car, Godzilla.”

He unbuckles his seatbelt. “Ma’am, please let me go with you.”

You look at him. “If she tries anything, it’s a good excuse for me to fuck up her nose job. Stay here.”

“Yes ma’am.” He sinks back into the seat.

Claire answers the doorbell with a smile. As if she knows you. Probably because you have on expensive clothes and fancy perfume. Snob.

“I’m sorry, are you here about that charity thing? I promise it was a big misunderstanding,” she says, inviting you inside. “I’ll write you another check. It’ll clear this time.”

She laughs, high-pitched and fake. Annoying.

You smile, looking around her house, letting her lead you toward a sitting room that gets warm, morning light.

“Can I have my housekeeper make tea? I was just in Paris and brought back some lovely macarons.” She waves her hand vaguely at her housekeeper, who leaves quickly.

“You know, I’ve never been,” you say, sitting in a comfortable wingback chair across from Claire, on the sofa. “My husband hates Paris.”

She looks at you like you’re insane. “Who hates Paris? It’s cultured. The best shopping in the world. It’s so romantic, you must go.”

You nod. “Maybe soon. He has bad memories that I’m hoping to heal. His ex-girlfriend cheated on him.”

Claire’s face is all fake sympathy.

Your smile sharpens. “Said she was in Paris. She wasn’t. His cousin slash best friend was actually in her.”

Claire’s face freezes.

“I think you know my husband. Anselm Vogelweide.”

Her mouth parts in silent shock.

“Lucien is one of his middle names. The one you called him,” you say.

She stumbles over her words, but manages to gather a shred of composure. “Wow, Lucien, that was a long time ago. I hope he’s well. I mean, I thought he was dead. But I guess he's alive. That's good? Right?”

She laughs nervously.

You think of the pain this woman has caused your Anselm. How she’d taken advantage of him at a time when he was, perhaps, a little lost. Still finding his place in the world.

That, despite everything working out in the end, Anselm had hurt so badly that he’d burned his entire life to ash, almost killing himself in the process.

That’s the part you can't forgive.

This woman had almost killed Anselm.

You unbutton your trench coat and take out your gun from the inside pocket.

Claire gasps.

“Stay right where you are,” you say, pointing it at her. “You have no idea how lucky you are, Claire. You’ve been living on borrowed time. My Anselm, the Anselm that’s true to himself, would do exactly what I’m about to do. I think he’s a little ashamed actually, that he didn’t kill you when he had the chance.”

You enjoy her panicked look. How she’d like to bolt, but knows you have the upper hand.

“He killed Nikolai,” she said. “I don’t want anything to do with Lucien. Anselm. Whoever the fuck he is. He’s a manic. Fucking murderer.”

She yells the last word at you, flinging it like some kind of rock, wrapped in morals and laws, straight at your face.

You don’t bat an eye, your gun steady on her. “The thing about your righteous anger, Claire, is that it only works if you and I see the world in the exact same way. If we share the same set of morals. We don’t. I think you’re a total piece of shit. Therefore, nothing you say matters to me.”

Tears well up in her eyes. Her words are shaky. “You’re just like him. Both of you. Crazy.”

“Thank you,” you say, smiling. You pause for a moment. “I’ve never killed anyone before.”

Claire’s eyes somehow get even bigger.

“Anselm does all the killing. He’s a gentleman like that. But he’s been helping me practice at the range in the basement. Usually we use pictures of fascists for targets. Are you a fascist, Claire?”

Her breath exhales in jerky puffs. “No, you crazy bitch. I’m not a fucking fascist.”

“Okay, no need to get angry.” You bring up the gun and look down the sight at her. Then you turn it. One side, then the other. “Anselm gave me this. See all these decorations? A little something for every person he shot with it. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

You run your fingers over the smooth metal, down the grip. The beautiful bird that Anselm believes you to be.

“I love Anselm Vogelweide,” you say to Claire, your smile fading. “Beyond love, actually. Beyond reason.”

Claire holds up her hands, palms out. “It was like, a billion years ago. He’s moved on. Get over it. You don’t need to do this.”

You cock the gun and hold it back up, level with her lying, cheating face. “You have no idea the things that man has done for me. To keep me safe and happy. And I’m sure he’d agree, that I don’t need to do this. But I want to. You hurt him.”

Her face, still terrified, clouds with anger. “I hope you both rot in hell. I hope you’re both miserable. I hope you never get a happy ever after. You don’t deserve one.”

You tilt your head slightly, lining up the sight of your gun with her forehead. “Oh Claire. You really are a fucking idiot. This is the happily ever after.”

You pull the trigger. Once. Twice. A third time, just to be sure.

Godzilla bursts in the front door, seconds later, having heard the gunshots. He’s gobsmacked at seeing you, holding a gun and standing over a dead body slouched on the couch.

The housekeeper, who hated Claire with the burning fire of a thousand suns, is easily paid off. She even packs up the macarons for you to take home.

*****

You feel lighter than air as you walk in the front door. You want to hug everyone. You give all the bodyguards a macaron and a big smile.

If this is what Anselm feels whenever he shoots someone, you’re starting to understand the appeal.

You practically glide into Anselm’s office. He stands, face lighting up.

His suit jacket is off, slung over his chair. Two of his bodyguards are near the window, a table set up to clean the guns in the office. They nod to you.

“Someone had a good morning,” Anselm says. “You were away for a whole five hours without a word.”

“I’m sorry. A meeting I forgot to put on the calendar. Macaron?”

You walk around his desk and sit on on it, holding out the box.

Anselm, still smiling, looks at you like you’re a puzzle, all jumbled up for him to piece together.

“Birdie?” He says slowly.

You dig around in the box for one of the salted caramel ones. You pop it, whole, into your mouth and chew, relishing the crispy outside and creamy filling.

Anselm leans down and inhales the skin of your neck. He holds your arm, runs the tip of his nose down your shoulder and upper arm. Kisses your elbow.

He moves so fast to kiss your mouth that you drop the box of cookies on his desk. His lips are hard on yours, his teeth dig into your bottom lip. He breaks away with a deep breath.

“You smell like gunpowder,” he says, his face still pressed against yours.

“Like you said, I had a good morning.” You kiss him again, smiling.

You push him back, far enough so you can feed him a macaron from the box. Vanilla. You smell it as he bites down. An ironic flavor choice for Anselm, given he’s anything but.

“I did it,” you say. “You know how nervous I was about my first time. But it turns out, I just needed to find the right person.”

Anselm’s dark eyes are delighted, sparkly behind his yellow lenses.

You hug him, Anselm squeezing you back.

“I already had someone call the crew to get the jet ready. I feel like celebrating,” you say. “We’re going to Paris.”

Anselm doesn’t look nearly as excited anymore. “My dear, I would do anything for you. I’m surprised, though, that you’d want to celebrate in a city that I hate so much. So many bad memories.”

You cross your legs, pick the box of macarons back up. You shake it so the cookies rattle around and hold it out to the bodyguards.

“And what if,” you say, handing off the box to the biggest, hairiest one.

“Share,” you tell him. He nods.

“What if,” you continue talking to Anselm, “I told you that your bad memories were in the past? And that we could make new ones. Just you and me. That whatever happened between you and Paris is dead. Very. Dead.”

Anselm is rarely speechless. He always has something funny or cutting, observant or naughty.

Now, though, his face looks almost… it’s kind of like Andre the robot during a maintenance cycle. Anselm’s face is neutral, a thin facade of a smile, but his brain is out to lunch somewhere.

It occurs to you that maybe, Anselm didn’t want Claire dead. Maybe he wasn’t as uncaring about the whole thing as he’d said.

You’re sure he doesn’t still love her, but what if he does? A sliver of himself still loves Claire.

He’s entitled, of course. You’ve never demanded he hand over his entire heart and soul over to you. But still. You thought he had. That he was completely yours.

Anselm and Birdie.

Was there still a part of Anselm, though, that thought about Lucien and Claire?

A cold pit of dread forms in your stomach. You lay your hand over it, almost nauseated. It’s your left hand. You stare down at your wedding ring.

Then, you feel Anselm kiss the top of your head. His hands are gentle on your arms.

His voice sounds thick, almost tearful. “You are a wonder, my dear. Never ceasing to amaze me.”

He pulls you closer, so you rest against his chest and he can lay his cheek on your head. “You’re not mad?” You ask.

Anselm laughs, pulling away to look at you. To your relief, he looks ecstatic. Still surprised, but he’s all smiles.

“Angry? I could never be angry at you,” he says. “No. I’m honored that you would do such a thing for me. The depths of my love for you, deeper and deeper.”

You bite your lip, face feeling warm. “I thought-“ You cut yourself off, not wanting to say it out loud.

Anselm tips your chin up so you look at him. “I don’t care about her. I didn’t even feel enough to find her and kill her myself. But the thought of you, jealous and hell bent on defending my honor? Well, my dear, I hope you’ve been doing your yoga exercises because I’m going to have you bent in every possible direction for a week and a half.”

Your anxiety melts away. Replaced by pure happiness, and that excitement you get between your legs when you feel Anselm’s gigantic erection. He’s pressed up against the side of your thigh. Turned on by the violence and your demonstration of love.

“I should shower and pack,” you say. “We can leave in an hour.”

“No, I need to get my hands on you now, while you still smell like this. Gunpowder and hot metal.” Anselm gently rocks himself against your leg. “You killed someone for me. I must bury my face in your delicious cunt for at least an hour to say thank you. And I bought one of those little vibrating things that basically attaches to your body. You're going to make my desk so wet, I'm going to smell you in it for the rest of my life."

His hands part your legs, already working your dress up around your thighs.

You shift your body toward the edge of his desk, Anselm already kissing his way down your body, pushing aside your underwear to touch your hot, sensitive skin.

“Whatever you want, Anselm.”

“You,” he says, sliding his body back up to kiss you on the lips. “I only ever want you.”

Paris will be wonderful. You just know it. The city of love. The perfect place to spend part of your happily ever after.

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