declan lynch knew that there were always consequences to his actions. his father, niall lynch, had drilled that into declan from a very young age — when he’d recruited his own son to tag along to his criminal meet-ups. this was why declan was incredibly careful when it came to every aspect of his life, especially his youngest brother, matthew, dreamt up by the middle lynch son, ronan.

except matthew was now dead. the golden, joyous boy, gone.

fuck consequences, declan thought vaguely, staring up at the darkened hotel currently housing the fairy market. the market had been different this time, commandeered strictly by the all-women magical underground crime organisation called boudicca, instead of the usual black market for illegal goods commandeered only by the vendors and customers. not anymore.

fuck this, declan thought again. (he’s dead, matthew is dead, ronan is—)

when declan entered the hotel, he shot both of the guards waiting there with the gun at his hip. without any words, he took the elevator to floor ten, where he knew the sweetmetals were. the sweetmetals, magical objects which could keep dreams awake. keep matthew awake.

there was an onslaught of guards when declan arrived at floor ten. but the oldest lynch son was quick, and he spun, and he dove, and he fired; meticulously. there was blood on his hands, on his polished shoes. not his.

declan sprinted past endless hotel rooms, surrounded by guards and sweetmetals and bodies. not even the lure of the magical paintings on the walls could save him now. there were bodies at his feet, iron in his mouth. he was out of bullets.

declan stood in the deadened quiet: sharp blue eyes wild, pristine dark curls wild, frothing boiling blood wild. and then there was you, guarding the final sweetmetal, a painting: the son of man by rené magritte. how fitting.

you were beautiful, just like at previous fairy markets. there was blood on you, too. not yours. declan opened his mouth to speak, and you shot him in the shoulder.

"fuck's sake, {{user}}!"