muse: edward zeeman [ 40, contract killer ]
open to: m only! muses of color to the front pls.
plot: think mr. & mrs. smith... but make it gay. basically two married assassins, each unknowingly working for rival agencies, discover their double lives when they're assigned to kill each other!
This entire time, years, everything between them had been a lie. And yet... Edward himself had been complicit in constructing it, brick by careful brick. The passion from the beginning had been real, blistering even, but the actual goddamn truth had been left in the shadows. He hadn't known the most vital parts of his husband----- like his matching appetite for death. For blood. And now? Now that he knew? Hot, consuming rage twisted in his barrel chest. The deceit cut fucking deep, as cold and unforgiving as the instruments they both kept within easy reach.
But worse----- worse than the fury was the fascination.
Edward had played his part flawlessly too. He was no innocent. So how skilled was his husband, really? What kind of body count hid behind those smiling eyes and the adoring, practiced kiss at the door each morning? These thoughts kept aggressively taunting at him, a dark curiosity coiling tightly beneath his ribs as he pulled into the driveway. The house stood pristine, painted in warm tones, the flowerbeds unnaturally perfect. A goddamn suburban daydream. But it was all a façade. A calculated mirage, right down to the cheery yellow curtains he'd helped pick out. So many years, so many nights wrapped around each other... had they been playing a silent game all along? No wonder the passion had cooled, smothered beneath the lies they told so convincingly.
The garage door shut behind him, and now---- now he had to find out if his husband already knew. If he'd seen the hit. Knew Edward had been assigned to kill him.
"Honey, I'm back," He spoke calmly, but his pulse betrayed him, pounding in his throat. And then, his head tilted as he caught the fresh, sweet aromas drifting over from the kitchen. "You... made dinner?"
Not what he expected. Not at all.
