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husbandohunter · 3 years

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Dear Father [Genshin Impact/Diluc x Reader]

Synopsis: Wherever you are wherever you may be, even if you are beyond my reach, I only wish to see you again. -from a letter lost in the wind.

(A story where you and Diluc somehow managed to meet Crepus)

Genre: all fluff

"I know how late I am to father's day but here's my father's day take on Genshin Impact! Just let Diluc be happy for once T_T Mihoyo pls."

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Discovering Master Crepus' old belongings was like wandering in a domain surrounded by ancient artifacts. Each piece holding the memory of someone you've never met.

The paintings. Master Crepus loved to paint. Typically birds were the main muse of this portraits since they deeply embodied Mondstadt's values for freedom which shows you how much he cherished this city just like his son did. In almost every hallway you walked through there was a collection of his paintings, some belonged to another artist but the majority was an original work. Diluc didn't have the heart to sell them.

Elzer. He was one of the oldest workers who served under the Ragnvindr name, ever since Master Crepus had appointed him during his earlier days. You were told that he treated everyone, both staff and noble, with equal respect. Almost all the denizens of Mondstadt knew this man for he was not only noble in riches but also in the soul.

"I'm sure he would have loved to meet you in person. Now that I think about it, you and Master Crepus are quite similar. Haha, it seems that Master Diluc was selective in terms of who he wanted for his future bride."

Elzer adds with a light chuckle but the statement only made you more curious. A man who affected the lives of so many others, he must have been a wonderful person.

Diluc. The bloodline Master Crepus left behind after his death, a piece of himself and the heir to the whole wine industry, his son Diluc. Although you could see the resemblance in appearance, both of them were men of prinicples and values, putting Mondstadt first before anything else and you suddenly realized if that was the reason why Diluc was so protective of this city. As if, it were everything he had? You could tell he loved Master Crepus very much, not because he said so, rather the painful expression buried deep within his crimson glare whenever someone brought up the topic. Diluc was skilled in hiding himself, it's something he practiced over the years of working alone, though he lowered his guard as long as you were the only one present.

Even so, he had many conflicts still wringing him internally and you didn't want to push him until the day he felt ready to personally tell you himself.

But it would be nice if he opened up, just a little bit.

There were times when you would worry since Diluc had the tendency to hide his feelings for the sake of not troubling you. He wanted to keep life simple and bright, bringing the best to the table while making sure that you lived safely out of harm's way. You couldn't seem to get him to understand that as lovers, you would be happy to help him, in anything. Unconditionally. It was natural for you to feel the need to force yourself in every once in a while and there was nothing more you wanted to know than the story of the man who raised him.

You would even jest on the idea of what it fel like to meet Master Crepus in person. Were you able to reach his standards by any chance? Would he have liked you just as everyone claimed? Of course, they were only silly indulgent thoughts so you quickly dismissed them in the end. Bringing back the past was impossible no matter how badly you wanted it. You closed your heart on that possibility.

On a lovely evening, while you and Diluc were taking your time off Angel's Share to make a stroll around Mondstadt's quiet streets, a strange merchant called over to you. She displayed various antiques ranging from different sizes to designs, none of them seemed to haven been carved in the same place but distinct cultures throughout Teyvat. The only thing they had in common was that they were all equally beautiful to the eye.

However a particular item of what looks like to be a heart locket snatches your attention and you instantly became mesmerized, allured by it's mysterious charm.

"Ah, the locked heart caught your fancy, my lady? It's said once you open it, you will be set free."

"It's magnificent..." you muttered, staring unabashed at the shining surface.

Diluc who was observing from behind folded his arms and tilts his head, "How much is that?"

Although you intended to simply inspect the choices, your lover immediately offers to pay. They all already gave the impression of a hefty price and you didn't want him to spend his fortune on things that deemed unecessary. Still, this wasn't the first time it happened. Diluc would always insist whenever you protested against him from buying anything, it was just a way of expressing his affections towards you. Mora was never a problem and you were priceless. That's how he sees things. You had to remind yourself to be careful when stumbling upon a bustling area full of salesmen next time.

"Five hundred thousand mora."

He purchased it without hesitation.

On your way home, Diluc noticed that something was amiss. You couldn't tear your gaze from the locket as if it had hypnotized you by the golden smooth surface. He had to ensure you didn't run into anyone by accident, tugging your arm closer so that it gave him an opportunity to lead you where you yourself could not. Surely it must have been the appearance but instead of being drawn by, you were drawn in. Completely.

I wonder...what will happen if I open it?

"(Y/n)?" Diluc narrows his eyebrows together. Did you like it that much? No, he knew you weren't the type to be so etranced by jewelry, this was certainly different. Even the merchant seemed a little suspicious when she approached you and Diluc couldn't ignore the heavy sense of aminosity that was emitted around her aura. He couldn't think within her presence but now that his mind was much clearer, he was able to use his skillful judgements.

"Wait...! Don't open it yet-"

However, he was too late.

The wind picks up at an alarming speed and you both brought up your arms to block the debris that had flown in the way. They swirled in non-stop motion until your worlds were engulfed with not even the sky in sight. Amidst the turmoil Diluc latchest onto you and holds your body close his chest as he was determined to protect against any force that dared to hurt you. Something heavy knocks his head and he winces, tighting his hold even further. Your voice could hardly be heard with all the noise that rung around and eventually you discovered the the world wasn't disappearing. You both were.

The last thought you had was the image of Master Crepus and you didn't know why.

---

"Diluc? Diluc?"

He faintly heard his name through a series of echoes. Diluc fights to regaind concousness, feeling your grip upon his shoulder while trying to urge him awake.

"Diluc are you alright?"

Your worried face was the first thing he sees other than the fog that looms above. Diluc blinks a few times in an attempt to ease his migraine, using one arm to force his body into a seating position as he allowed himself to be supported by you at the same time.

"Does your head hurt?" You ask, palming gently against his forehead to feel the heat. Even if her was usually very warm, there was no unusual rise in tempurature, something must have hit him instead, "Here, maybe this will help."

Bringing out your hand you concentrated on generating the water through your fingertips. Having a hydro vision meant you were capable of healing magic which Diluc appreciated since he often came home late at night with injuries hidden behind his sleeves. But nothing came out and he became even more suspicious of the situation.

"Eh? What's going on?" You blurted out, patting down your clothes and your pockets, "My Vision, it's gone too!"

"Mine as well," Diluc flexes his fingers to test his own element, "It seems that our powers were sealed once we entered this domain."

"A domain that prevents you from using a Vision? That doesn't sound very comforting," you scratched your head, suddenly remembering the cause of your current problem, "The locket...it's all starting to make sense now. Ugh, I should have listened to you earlier, I'm sorry Diluc."

"No (Y/n), you don't have to apologize," he interjects and you returned a curious glance, "I should have stopped you the minute I discovered there was something strange. I was too careless."

"You felt that too? I thought I was the only one," your tone and face mimics one of surprise. The fog continues to dance around, enclosing the two of you to the small area. You lifted your head and looked above in deep contemplation, "When I saw the locket I couldn't tear my eyes off of it, like something was pulling me in. Like...there was a spell casted on it."

"What do you mean?" he asked in an inquisitive manner.

You nod, "I can't put my finger on it bit Ifel that the locket wanted me to..." balling your fist upon your lap, you stared intensely at the floor as if drilling holes into them while digging into the depths of your mind for any specific clues. Initially you thought the locket was so captivating that you were simply charmed by it's craftmanship. But tere was more than that, you began deciphering, there was also a need for fulfillment. A yearning desire, "to know. The locket was calling me to know."

'Once you open it, you will be set free.'

"To know..." you trailed off. How strange. No matter how much you tried to rationalize, you were always brought back to the same square as if the locket knew exactly what you wanted. What you were lacking. Because the one thing you wanted to know most about was the person you've never met, "Someone very important to you."

The fog dispersed.

Diluc instinctively puts an arm in front of you defensively as he scanned his quick and thorough eyes around the area. It didn't take long for him to know exactly where everything was. In fact, the abrupt change isn't what puts him on high alert, but it was how familiar everything looked to the point he evaluates if there was any reason to be skeptical or if he should be breathtaken.

"What a beautiful house," However you didn't recognize it. Diluc knew because he had yet to meet you during the time he lived in this estate, "I wonder who does it belong to?"

"Father's old mansion...how?" Diluc breatlessly mutters, as if seeing the supremecy of Celestia for the first time. When years passed after his father died, he chose to sell off the majority of his belongings, the mansion being on for example. Currently it was in the possession of a well-known business associate that used to be a friend of Crepus. The mansion would likely have looked much different due to the renovations it gone through but Diluc remembers the picture as if this were yesterday. Everything was in tact. The vine yard, the gazebo where they drank tea, the hill that he and Kaeya used to race on when they were kids-

Revelation burns in his pupils as his eyes expanded.

"Welcome home, my son."

Both you and Diluc fall wordless at the sight that appeared like a miracle's blessing. Crepus stands at a distance, the graceful smile complimenting his warm features. He looked exactly how the court artists portrayed him in the Ragnvindr's family picture. Sharp face with gentle eyes and an aura that was as pleasant as what Elzer described.

"So this is why the locket was calling to us," you whispered, "I guess the mora really was worth it after all."

"...Fa...ther...."

You snuck a glance at Diluc. From behind the resemblance was as clear as dawn, like you were staring at a carbon copy of Master Crepus himself. Almost. He was a less hardened version of Diluc during uncommon situations. It made you think just how much you didn't know before his father passed away. What kind of person was this man during his days as a knight? You never had the chance to know.

"Father is that really you?" Diluc couldn't help his voice from trembling, paralyzed in place when he could hardly make sense of what stands in front of him. The person he longed to hear from, the person who left the world too quick, Diluc was afraid to get his hopes up in case his father suddenly disappeared and everything was just an illusion conjured by his mind. He was already used to being betrayed and dealt with disappointment too often. Which is why he learned to trust only himself. But, right now, can he really trust himself?

Feeling your hand gently on his shoulders, Diluc was brought back to reality. You smiled with warm reassurance that bled into your voice, "It's okay Diluc. Go, I'm here for you."

There was the faintest light shining in his eyes as emotions swell in his chest. Ever since you came Diluc never had to feel alone anymore, truly, you were the light that was brought back into his eyes, to his life when he gave up the thought of seeing it again. If he couldn't trust himself then at the very least, he could trust you.

"Thank you," he embraces you wholly like you were everything, and you were, before letting go and taking off to the otherside.

The air hits him in a rush and knocks the ones out of his lungs, "Father!" Diluc yells with tearful eyes. For the first time in a long while he was finally letting his feelings run free, "Father!" A name that felt foreign upon words that is pushes him forward, wanting to claim the truth that was smiling from afar.

"Father!"

Crepus lifted his arms and openly catches Diluc when he crashed into him. Here. He was here. He certainly was.

"Haha its been a while hasn't it my son?" He begins, encasing Diluc in a hug like he did the day he turned eighteen. Crepus was a tall man and his genes seemed to have went through. Back when they were younger, Diluc managed to only reach the blade of his shoulders, just barely. Now they were practically the same height, "Look how much you've grown over the years. There were so many things I planned to say but I don't know where to start."

Seven years. That was how long Crepus spent alone with his thoughts. He saw what happened through that time span, the truth about the Knights and Kaeya's origins. To say that none of that bothered him would be a lie. Especially when his son was the most impacted throughout all the events.

"Father I...I-" Diluc tries to speak but the words dissolved the moment it reached his tongue. He wasn't the type to be very good at expressing emotions. None of it could simply be communicated by sentences. For him, actions spoke louder yet somehow, they still wouldn't be enough. Nothing can comprehend the weight of seven years.

Crepus seemed to have understood and fills in the gap instead, "I have also missed you and Kaeya. More than I can even say. It must have been so hard for you both to endure it all by yourselves. Life hits us when we least expect it but despite that, you still chose to persevere."

Diluc clenches his hold, face buried in his shoulders and mouth quivering as he barely answers, "Yeah."

"You're both my pride and joy no matter what happens, as a father I cannot be more proud," before knowing, everything that was said came out naturally from his spirit. Crepus may have his own set of things to share but he knew what Diluc needed the most, "So please don't stop relying on one another, don't always think that you have to do everything alone. Stength is a virtue. However, its okay to let go and allow new people to come into your life. I don't need to be avenged, as long as you and Kaeya are happy, its all I ask for."

As if the world had been lifted from his shoulders, Diluc allows himself to break just this once. On the outside, he was known to be an unstoppable force, the Mondstadt tycoon, the uncrowned king and a hero who serves at night. But here you saw only a boy who dearly missed his father as he hugs him tightly. Although you couldn't hear their conversation clearly, just watching them from where you stood was enough to make your eyes glisten from pure happiness.

"You finally chose to open your heart, right Diluc?" You quietly note to yourself, "You don't have to carry everything by yourself anymore, you're free."

'Once you open it, you will be set free.'

He was able to dwell in this one in a lifetime experience, all because you unlocked the heart and dispersed the fog inside.

They spent a good amount of minutes bringing the distance back together after being seperated for so many years. You made sure to make minimal movements in the consideration of their time. It was only temporary until Crepus noticed you standing in the distance and he gave you a quick glance. Your whole body tenses in response, suddenly feeling guilty as if you were a third wheel who didn't belong in the moment between two family members.

He's staring at me. Diluc's father is staring at me! Your thoughts panicked along with your thrumming heart. What should I do?!!

"I see you've brought someone along with you," He comments, the playfulness rising in his tone, "She seems to have been waiting for quite a while already. If you don't mind, may you do the honours of introducing her to me?"

Diluc turns to see you stiffened in place with your hands tightly clasped below your stomach and heat pooling from your ear to your cheeks as you dipped your head down. His father was a kind man and he couldn't understand there the discomfort came from, yet found it endearing nonetheless. Diluc walks over to you and extends his hand, silently urging you to come with him. You complied, albeit hesitantly at first.

"It'll be okay my love," he whispered softly, causing you to be taken aback by the nickname he called you by. Diluc often reserves them for special instances and this was one of them, "Whatever the staff told you about my father, they're the truth. Trust in their judgement. Trust in me."

"Diluc..." you say, voice fading. You knew him to be someone who always kept his word and someone who would never lie to you. Taking in a short breath, you nodded, "Alright, I will," and followed his lead.

There was once a time where you indulged in the idea of facing Master Crepus in person. But never did you prepare yourself for the amount of pressure it came with. Now that you were together with his son, there was a high chance that he would also become part of his family too, sooner or later. You weren't just meeting Master Crepus. You were also meeting your future father-in-law.

"Father, this is (Y/n)," Diluc starts the welcoming exchanges. You felt his hand squeeze yours gently. He turns to you so that you caught glimpse of his face, seeing the reverance in his gaze that was hinted among his handsome features, "She's the woman I fell in love with and I would do anything to make her happy. I cherish her more than anything else."

"D-Diluc!" you flushed, your embarassment as red as his own hair. But he wasn't bothered by it in the slightest.

"I only speak the truth."

Master Crepus lets out a content chuckle, drawing both of your attentions back to him, "He can be surprising poetic sometimes but I'm sure that he got it from me. Even my wife reacted the same way," he reminisced shortly before sighing, "In truth I already knew that you were together. Staying in the after life gave me the chances to watch things from an omniscient standpoint, I was sincerely worried how Diluc would handle things when I suddenly left, I hope you don't mind. If you do, I apologize for making you uncomfortable."

"N-Not at all!"

"Haha, you're very kind. Thank you. I'm glad that my son was able to find a woman like you to be his fated partner. As a parent, it brings me great reassurance," Crepus remarked, "I know he can be stubborn and a little too headstrong when it comes to making decisions. It really must be a handful for you to deal with at times but I promise you that he means well. So please continue to watch over him in my stead, take care of my son while I'm gone."

"You can count on me," you beamed, "I'll give it my all."

"You have my gratitude (Y/n)," Crepus replies and turned to Diluc, "And listen to her every once in a while. I may have been the previous owner of our wine industry but even I always make sure to get me sufficient amount of rest. Son you know its bad to get two to three hours of sleep every day."

You blinked, "Two to three hours?"

Diluc clears his throat, "I understand Father. You don't have to say it."

Oh I think he does.

With a satisfied grin, Crepus took both of your hands together in his and gave you his blessings. The man once considered to be an artifact through the vast mansion was going to be part of the memories in your life. All of your expressions held as much happiness as the future can become now that he gave you the closure you both needed.

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wadjaya · 3 years

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He was awoken with a solid thwap to the back of his head, his eyes registering the bright lights in front of him as they opened in alarm. His legs were still sore from his encounter the day before, or was it two days ago now? As his eyes adjusted to the lights shining in his face, he recognized a few figures standing around him. Ahead, seated at a functional desk at the end of the room, Lucien Cote. The man didn’t seem to notice his prisoner being roused, instead eyeing what appeared to be some sort of revolver mechanism like you’d see in a gun.

To his right, a larger woman stood with arms crossed. Beyond her own frame, there were bits and pieces of what appeared to be bones orbiting at varying distances around her. Zara, the mean one.

To his left, a thinner frame leaning up against the wall. He couldn’t make out the details of her face, but her eyes caught his attention for seeming to glow in the relative dimness of the room beyond his lights.

(CW for torture, potentially upsetting implication of trafficking, sexual assault, drugs, guns, the stuff you’d expect from mafia themes)

“Oh look, he’s finally awake. Nice call, Zara.” The figure he didn’t recognize stepped forward as she spoke, inspecting him it seemed. Her glowing eyes reminded him of a cat’s as she came closer, and he almost thought he could make out traces of feline fur where the light ran across her face. He counted himself as fairly informed, but who exactly was this chick? Has Cote been recruiting? He looked back down to the floor and spit.

He felt a weird gap in his teeth, but no obvious blood hit the floor. Healed.

“And, uh, to what do I owe the pleasure?” The man’s voice was gravelly against his throat, just another sign that he had been hit pretty hard leading into this experience. “I don’t believe I have any dealings with the Cote family.”

“No dealings,” the stranger began. She finished examining him and stepped toward the desk at the back. She held her hand out before reaching the desk, to which the seated man nodded as she stepped forward to pick up a roll of paper. “But you did have something that belongs to us, and we’d like to know why you took it.” She walked back, turning one of the lights just a bit off his face to encourage him to meet her.

He remained silent, but glanced up toward her. He felt something sharp prod his spine, though no one else had moved. Zara’s bones, perhaps? Glancing toward the small swarm orbiting the figure in question, it was impossible to tell if they were all accounted for. Another prodding came, but this time harsher. He gasped and bit into his lip to keep from crying out.

“Well?” The thinner woman stepped forward again, holding the rolled document as though to refresh his memory. “What does the Covenant want with this design? Why send you, alone, to try and steal it?” The man didn’t stop biting his lip, so she continued.

“If you don’t cooperate with us, we can and will kill many of the people you care about. From what I’ve been made to learn about your ‘Family,’” she paused, looking toward the other woman for confirmation and continuing when she received a nod. “We’ve learned that most of you are hurting in that area. But your anonymous shtick ends when we’ve got you in chains. Whatever you do or don’t tell us, we can find however few you’ve got left. We can do to them what we’re doing to you- and no one can stop us. So tell me-”

The woman raised her leg to kick just below his sternum, placed so that nothing could break but it would all be felt- an expert, probably. He coughed and groaned, the sharp burr in his back ever-present with the small convulsions. He responded.

“We are the Covenant. We have no bonds from our past lives, we have no loyalties to anyone but those of us spurned. Our blood is thicker than any other bond. We will not answer your questions.”

“Covenant, eh? That’s a weird way to spell,” The woman paused as she unrolled the document and peered through it a moment. “Samuel Whittaker, son of Eilene and Matthew Whittaker. Brother to Marissa Townley and Brandon Whittaker. Three-time silver medalist for your middle school’s track competition. Very impressive.” She cast the paper aside, clearly unconcerned with anything else that might be written on it.

Good, he called the bluff then. They hadn’t found the document he stole. There’s a small, triumphant grin under the circumstances.

“You can threaten them all you want, they’re nothing to me. Those that still live, anyway.”

“Oh? And what about Marcus Brown, then?”

His breath hitched, his pulse quickened. How could they even know about Marcus? He had already taken the Covenant, they’d never met without their masks- not in public! His eyes darted to the man at his desk, seemingly now watching the proceedings ahead of him as a faint, reddish aura swam from around his shoulders to the items at his table. His eyes glowed, now, in the dark- a devilish gaze with his heavy magical exertion.

“So, it seems you do have names. We did some checking around, made some friends in your little outfit. Tight-lipped bunch, y’all are. It’s too bad, then, that Marcus hasn’t been especially loyal to you.” The woman kneeled down to force his gaze to meet hers, raising his face so he could not avert it. Samuel swallowed and forced his breathing to settle.

“We don’t know ‘Marcus.’ We are only the Covenant. I was given the designation ‘Jackson’ upon accepting my last task, and that is the only name I call my own.”

“Ah, right, you all and your morbid codenames. Let me guess, Jackson was one of those idiots we caught the last time you tried an assault on our businesses?” He bit his lip again, narrowing his eyes with the effort of holding his emotions back. God, how wonderful it’d be to lose a few hundred bucks to Jackson, again.

“We lost several of those who’d taken the Covenant in that….unfortunate misunderstanding.” Even as he said it, Samuel could feel himself cringe.

Not Samuel. Just me. “But our losses were only small sacrifices in the interest of the greater good. Between that misunderstanding and this one, it seems we’ve come upon something we want.”

Zara stepped forward, the orbit of bones shifting as a line of them began to form between her and him, several breaking off to float threateningly near his hands, throat, lower back. All at once, several points of searing pain erupted and he groaned with the force of it all.

“Tell us what we want to know, Faceless. Why take the blueprint? What do you even want it for?! Tell us, and we might be convinced to deal with you peacefully, even let you live.” Zara paused as she looked back to Lucien, who did not seem to react. “There is always a value to be put upon our goods.”

The man looked away from the woman threatening to gore him upon her own dismembered bones, the unnamed feline character who’d done most of the talking, and Lucien Cote himself. That blood red gaze seemed to cock sideways with piqued curiosity.

“You really don’t know? All that intel about my former self, but you couldn’t find out about the current operation?” The painful burrs at his lower back sharpened as he felt his own flesh part around them, pressing deeper into his body with an apparent lack of weight or force. How sharp are these things?!

“Answer the question,” came the rather non-encouraging demand from Zara.

“Unfortunately, while Marcus was very talkative about his ‘ex,’ he was less forthcoming about his designation and orders. If it would please you to know, he has been put to rest.” The thinner figure rested her back against the wall to his left again, lightly bouncing on her feet. Bored?

Interesting interrogation methods, though. Good cop, Bad cop sure- but she was offering a lot more ‘carrot’ than Samuel- ‘He-’ he was used to.

“Why do you care?” He finally asked.

He felt the thorns threaten to move again, the slightest shift as they were ‘unlocked’ from their resting position, but no pain came. Glancing up, he noticed Zara looking, agape, toward Lucien, who had lifted a hand. The glow in his eyes dimmed as he pushed his seat back, standing up and stepping around to personally view their prisoner a bit closer.

Lucien Cote was normally a rather unassuming man, perhaps a little scary to look at with his hardened gaze and obvious strong hands. Here, however, there was an absolutely terrifying presence to the man- the glare of a man who felt he had just lost everything to a bad cheat.

He glanced left, right, and the girls stepped back without a moment’s hesitation. There was bittersweet pain, followed by relief as the bones pulled themselves from his flesh with a soft groan.

There’s a pregnant silence as he looks Samuel over, eyes darting about his wounds and face as though judging for some sort of pet show. He was about to speak up when Lucien’s mouth opened. And he whispered, though his voice carried as though he was shouting.

“Why wouldn’t I care?”

The voice, soft and gentle, felt forceful. As though by whispering instead of screaming he was holding back instinct by sheer force of will.

“I- I mean, it’s just a gun. Not even any mutanium in it, nothin’ for us in it if there was.” He swallowed as he caught his mouth feeling uncomfortably dry. “Just a pea-shooter, really. But subtle. Cote’s never dealt in subtle, right?”

“Just a gun?!” Lucien shouted, and Samuel felt as though he’d just been placed in front of the blasting end of a jet engine. It wasn’t so bad that his flesh hurt, but his ears were ringing when the silence fell in the echoey basement. When Lucien spoke again, it was again at a whisper. “What you stole is not irreplaceable, perhaps not even particularly valuable to scum like you. But to me--” Lucien stopped himself as his face tightened, a vicious glare pointed to his captive before turning and nodding to the strange woman and proceeding back toward his desk.

The woman pulled something from her ears- ear plugs?- and stepped forward as Lucien leaned against the back of his desk, crossing his arms with displeasure. Once more, his eyes began to glow as that red aura surrounded his shoulders.

“Er, well, Lucien Cote is very protective of his intellectual property- as you know. While this particular gun design may not be….catastrophic, it sets a precedent we don’t particularly like. That the Cote Family can be fucked with, his designs stolen. We’d like to-” with a glance toward Zara, the larger woman sent a few more bones his way. She hardly so much as tensed any muscle that he could see to do so- kind of marvelous to be honest. He felt a drip of warm liquid on top of his head, never needing to even look up to know some of the bones were dripping with his own blood. “We’d like to fix that little notion, and let everyone go their own ways. And if that can’t be arranged, we will find out why you wanted that specific design.”

The prisoner looked between his captors once again, taking the pause in their ‘conversation’ to consider the opportunity costs implied in what they wanted. Samuel would be killed for leaking the Covenant’s plans, even to an organization which was likely to support it. If he did that, he’d need a ticket out of this god-forsaken city. Alternatively, he’d spend the rest of his short life in this room, probably. He thought about what even awaited him out there- and almost couldn’t think of anything worthwhile to him.

Brandon would miss him at the next festival, and so would his mother.

It’s not like Samuel would even be needed in the plan going forward. Medici would fall. He had played his part.

Cote couldn’t stop it- not short of vaporizing all of them, and all innocents. He sighed, and noticed everyone else straighten up a bit as they watched his resolve break.

Samuel looked directly to Lucien Cote- the man he had stolen from and ordered his capture. The man’s eyes were fading from a heavy fog of crimson, back to being hardly visible in the dimness of the room.

“The Covenant plans to fulfill our oaths. To destroy the organization which broke us.” He watched the three of them glance between themselves, entire thoughts being broadcast between the group without any words.

“Historically,” the stranger began, stepping forward once again to kneel at eye-level with Samuel, “the Covenant has been especially aggressive with the Medici Family. Is that who you mean? The organization that broke you?”

Samuel never met her gaze, speaking as though directly to the boss man himself. If he was serving himself up on a silver platter, he’d at least do it with a little pride.

“We swore blood oath to bring down the Medici Family, the family which took many of us from the safety of our own homes and introduced us to their menagerie in hell. They made animals of us, so we swore to rampage through their establishment as beasts.

Anthony Medici will bleed before his time, and with him anyone who could even lust for his estate.”

Samuel remembered his time under the Medicis’ watch as he spoke of the generational hatred the Covenant all held for him. As he went on his voice grew louder, more confident, daring them to argue with his personal hatred. The personal hatred baked in from every single person who’d taken the oath, joined the Covenant. He recalled the cages, the drugs, how he had been ‘rented’ to the lowest scum with money.

“We all hate the Medici, for what they did to us. We will see them eliminated, no matter the cost.”

Uncertain gazes joined his fanatical smile in looking toward Lucien, who kept his eyes locked on the prisoner. After a long silence, the man allowed his soft voice to reverberate painfully about the room at a seemingly normal speaking volume.

“Where is the document you stole?”

“If it’s been as long as I think it has, long gone. I dropped it in the postbox on West Chicago and North Wells. It was to be recovered the morning after.”

Lucien slammed a fist against his desk, an obviously painful thud. The women to either side began plugging their ears in the brief moment of pause before Lucien stood again.

“You Covenant have been a thorn in all of our sides for decades. You fools dabble in interfamily politics that keep this city under control- only to play vigilante and get under our skin! You threaten to disrupt the balance.”

“Balance means nothing if people like them benefit from it! We would see the city in anarchy if it meant protecting those they would hurt!!” His protest fell upon deaf ears- including his own as the ringing overpowered his own voice. He hoped he sounded as confident as he felt. “There isn’t a hell man could imagine that is worse than what Medici does to some of its animals!”

Lucien stood, collecting the few items he had taken in here with his unhurt hand, and nodded to the women. From the way the two looked between the men, they hadn’t likely seen the man so angry in a very long time.

They looked to him again, his breathing ragged as his last hope of getting out of this seemed to fall apart. The stranger nodded to Zara, and he called out.

“Wait! I know her, and I know him.” He nodded toward Zara and Lucien. “But if I’m going to die anyway, who are you? It’s been bothering me since I woke up.” His fanatical gaze fell onto the stranger, someone so elite amidst Cote but so unknown.

“Oh, honey.” There was a satisfied smirk on her face as she checked the placement of her earplugs. She stood, stepping between Samuel and her boss. He watched her reach behind herself, pulling a small handgun from the waistband of her slacks. Deftly switching off the safety without so much as a thought as the weapon never once leaves its target upon its reveal. Him.

“If Lucien pulls the trigger, then I suppose you could say I’m like the Hammer.” As she said so, she mimed the motion of pulling an imaginary hammer back on her firearm, though that was clearly just to punctuate her point. “But this little gun has a name, y’know? Since you die with it anyway, I’m Eliana. Sorry about this.”

She offered a sympathetic smile. He heard the loud boom, saw the muzzle flash as she pulled the trigger. He imagined a hammer hitting the back of the weapon.

And then, nothing.

#therabloggin #evoearth #eliana fenwick #lucien cote #zara volkov #oc #dako writes

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everythingoesnk · 5 years

Text

Once in Rockfield Farm (1/5)

summary; you own Rockfield Farm and your bf Mary Austin asks you if you can help her friends with an enormous favour that will lead to a much bigger unprecedented change into your life. Thanks to a cute guy specifically.

word count; 6 126

disclaimers, PLEASE read them; don’t forget this is fiction. i’m using queen‘s 70s era as a base for the story but it won’t be historically accurate. the song mentioned towards the end of the chapter is from Taylor Swift, i don’t claim those lyrics as mine. sorry in advance if u find a f*cked up grammar mistake or whatever. feedback would mean everything, it’s the first time i’m posting something i’ve written it feels like i’m giving birth looool

warnings; minor violence at some point and mention of abuse

********

Mary didn’t stop until she convinced you to give green light to her proposal.

She called it like that, but it seemed more like an order. Both of you knew she wouldn’t let it pass until you agreed to.

Taken aback, you refused at first.

The idea of four strangers living in your house, coexisting with you in the only safe space you knew, wasn’t appealing whatsoever.

Even though all they needed was a studio to record, they’d have to stay until the album was finished. They could afford to rent a proper one, but Mary made it quite clear that getting out of town was crucial to avoid possible distractions.

You’d been fired from your job because the restaurant bankrupted, so the money they were going to pay for rent was welcomed.

Your grandfather passed Rockfield Farm on to you when he died.

It was a lovely place full of good memories, mainly concerning hours on end together in the studio he built in the attic throughout the years. The relationship you had with him had always been special, but ever since your nana passed away at the age of 70, your bond became stronger.

He also wasn’t there anymore, and you tried not to think too much about it, just were glad that you met someone like him. He was the main reason you loved making music so much.

Sadly, as you grew up, although your talent for writing songs and producing music was undeniable, you realized you needed to be realistic and pursue a more down-to-earth career.

Medicine was another thing you were slightly attracted to, it wasn’t your passion but it would have to do.

The music business was too complex and difficult to get in, and wasting your time wasn’t on your plans. It’s not like you were a prodigy or a diamond in the rough, anyway. That was your honest opinion.

But now and then you’d succumb and compose. It was an effective way to forget about the rest of the world and vent whenever something would make you sad, grumpy, anxious, angry… Rarely did you write about happy feelings.

What’s the fun in claiming how fulfilled you are with your life? Which you weren’t, but still.

Ballads and songs that’d leave you with your heart aching on the floor were your daily bread.

Mary was the only one allowed to hear your little creations. She’d try to get you to show them to the world, to step out of the comfort zone and perform them in public, to rush out of those same four walls.

You were quick to brush her comments off every time, content with her and your dog being the only ones to get to listen to your babies.

“How long they’re going to take?” you asked using a fake uninterested tone, pretending not to care whether they needed weeks, months or a year.

The truth was that you wished for the album to be done quite fast.

“Who knows,” Mary said. “When the album’s finished I’m the first to know, but in the meantime Freddie won’t give me any clues”

You nodded, unsatisfied with the answer.

“Thanks for agreeing to this. I owe you big” her eyes found yours and yours softened.

“If anything it’s them who do, don’t you think?”

Mary grinned and offered to cook something for tonight’s dinner.

She left you alone with your molecular pathology notes resting on your lap.

It was your last year in University, thank the Lord. One last effort and you would be a doctor.

After memorizing various concepts you found yourself staring at the horizon wondering how was Freddie Mercury like.

Obviously because of Mary you sort of formed this idea of him, but hadn’t had a face to face yet. About the other Queen members… yeah, Mary mentioned them sometimes, vaguely: she described John as a nice fella to have around, Brian as the only one with common sense, and last but not least, when it came to Roger’s personality, she told you hesitantly to judge him yourself.

You thanked her when she handed you the pen you forgot inside.

Mary gave you an encouraging smile, placing her hand on your shoulder and squeezing it.

As soon as she turned around to go back inside, you called her name, squinting your eyes to try and get a better sight of the vehicle that kept getting closer to your property.

“What?”

When she spotted the van she sighed happily.

“Finally”

Mary ran to wait for them in the parking area. She was over the moon, clapping and waving effusively to welcome them.

“Are you coming or not?” Mary shouted, gesturing you to go and stand next to her.

You took your time to get up from sitting upon the grass and do just that.

Not a single second since they pulled over went by and Mary was already imprisoning Freddie in her arms.

You chuckled, completely sure he would be dead in a matter of seconds if she wouldn’t loose her grip.

He lovingly wrapped her in his and stroked her hair.

All of a sudden, running from the backyard where he usually played in the mud (this time was no different), your dog appeared on scene. You asked him to remain quiet and by your side, which to your dismay he did not obey.

He went and greeted Queen, who pushed him away with no bad intentions, they just didn’t want to get dirt on their trousers.

John, nevertheless, got on his knees and began patting him. It did not take long for him to regret it when Sherlock seemed to be captivated by his face, licking it non-stop.

You cleared your throat. It would be nice of Mary to introduce you, being the one who organized this whole of a mess in the first place.

Apparently she read your mind. The next thing she did was link arms with you.

“This is (Y/N)” she spoke. “Freddie, come here”

“You have no idea how happy I am to finally meet you”

Freddie gave you two sweet kisses, one on each cheek.

“Same here” you nodded and mirrored his smile when you saw it reached his eyes.

In a heartbeat you were fascinated by him.

There was this intriguing strong aura he projected that made you feel like you were in the presence of someone from the royalty, someone important.

Freddie examined you from head to toe and fell in love immediately with your outfit, a pastel blue dress with tiny sunflowers printed all over it. He did spot your exposed feet and smiled pleasedly at your choice of painting your toenails with the colours of the rainbow.

“Boys, don’t be rude and come say hi” he gestured his bandmates, who were taking a rapid glimpse of their new temporary home, and stepped aside.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Brian”

“Nice to meet you too” you kindly responded, shaking his hand.

“Thank you very much for allowing us to record our album here. If we win a Grammy expect you to be the first one we address in the speech” he joked, face beaming with a heavenly smile.

Damn, you were so soft for him already. And you wanted to touch his curls.

“You’re welcome, Brian”

“Yes, we’re endlessly grateful” another gentle voice joined the conversation.

John stood now in front of you.

“Hi, I’m John Deacon”

“I know” you laughed, tilting your head to the side. “I hope your stay here is… productive”

“I hope so too” he smiled big, and it made your heart melt. He was so cute.

Roger was next.

He was wearing a black leather jacket that fit him like a glove. One silver bracelet hugging his right wrist, matching the necklace around the neck. What caught your attention the most was the glittery rosy shoes, though. He had long blond messy hair (like the others, except the colour part), and prominent sideburns.

They looked ridiculous, you thought, although every second you spent contemplating his face the less they bothered you.

He was gorgeous, what the hell?

You got somehow a little nervous.

“Productive it shall be. I’m Roger” he spoke, referring your words from before. He took your hand and held it to his lips. “We’ve come to the right place, guys. With such a pretty face like hers we’ll never run out of inspiration” he snorted when he heard John face-palming himself.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Sure Roger didn’t mean that at all, it was just his constant flirty mood Mary warned you about taking over him, you reasoned.

“Don’t get it started, Rog. We don’t want her to kick us out the very first day” Brian scolded him like a father would his children.

Roger laughed, his silly expression never fading away, and soon he was again observing you.

“I was joking, I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable,” he said, taking some of the heat out.

“It didn’t,” you said back, confident.

You followed the others when they headed to the house carrying their respective suitcases with Mary as the leader.

Roger was fast to grab his and catch up with you.

“You live alone?”

“I have Sherlock”

He was still in ecstasy, trying to get everyone’s attention.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it” you shrugged. “It’s not as tragic as it sounds. I enjoy my own company”

“Oh. Anyway. This is a farm, right? You do all the, huh… you know, farm work on your own?” he looked around, scanning a bit the surroundings. He pointed with his chin at one big rooster. “The guardian of the house, eh?”

You let out a vague chuckle that made Roger proud, already eager to make you like him.

The reason was obvious: you were so eyecatching he almost tripped when he missed one of Sherlock’s toys on one of the porch steps, too engrossed in how the sun made the freckles in your face stand out.

“My grandfather baptized this piece of land as Rockfield Farm, but it hasn’t been a proper farm for years. Now it’s just… my house”

“You know,” he began, digging deep around his mind to come up with something so the conversation wouldn’t end, “years ago I had this summer job in a much more immense place than this. I had to watch over 200 sheep every day”

“Was it as entertaining as it sounds?”

“Clearly not”

Roger extended his hand to stop the door from closing after John came in. He motioned you to go first and winked, but you didn’t notice the last part, which slightly bothered him.

“(Y/N), this place is precious!” you heard Freddie praise.

Mary interrupted you before you could thank him.

“Then you sure are going to love the studio even more! C’mon”

“How did your grandfather manage to get this studio together? It’s pretty impressive” Brian enthusiastically asked, taking a small sip of tea.

The six of you were now chilling in the living room. It was the perfect time for them to rest since the road trip had been long.

Moments before they finished unpacking and settling down, Mary and you gossiped in the kitchen. She remarked how attentive Roger acted towards you, and asked if you were into him.

“Are you stupid?” you couldn’t believe her. “We’ve known each other for what, ten minutes?”

“I was just wondering whether there was desire at first sight or something”

“Desire at first sight?” you repeated slowly, taking in every word.

“It was a softer way to ask if you’d give him a ride or not” she laughed watching you gesture her to lower it down. “I’m just asking because I can tell he would”

Before answering Brian, you looked over at Roger.

He’d taken off his jacket and was rolling up the sleeves of the white tee he wore underneath.

Your lips parted, finding that mundane action quite amusing and sexy on him.

You looked away, guilt taking over you for having stared too keenly. There was nothing wrong about it, and you couldn’t explain why you felt agitated. Maybe you were self-conscious about whether the others noticed.

Forcing yourself to remember Brian’s words and with a sense of pride, you smirked behind your cup, gazing at the wooden floor.

Your grandfather poured his soul into this studio, which he also referred to as a sanctuary. It made you happy to hear Brian acknowledging its value.

There were several electric and acoustic guitars, a generous collection of microphones your grandmother enjoyed saving, two trumpets, a synthesizer -to which Freddie and Roger scoffed loudly at-, a drumkit, one saxophone, and a bass.

Not to mention the tape machine that still worked perfectly plus the recording booth.

Mary told you that John Reid, who was looking after Queen at the moment, managed to convince the label to provide them with a significant amount of money. You assumed they’d brought enough tapes to record on, therefore yours would remain intact.

“He bought half of the instruments”

“The other half?” John inquired.

“He stole them” you answered, not much of a fan about it.

“Whew!” Roger whistled.

You took a short sip of the tea and turned slightly towards the window, presencing a flash of light.

“A piano?”

Freddie dropped the question with no high hopes.

“Pardon?” you turned your head and looked at him over your shoulder with your body still facing towards the window.

The head movement was so fast that a clip you wore to hold a fraction of hair in place loosened a bit, letting the lock to fell down your face.

Roger stared at you in awe.

The light illuminating the room had a warm cosy tone, which surely helped to make your skin look softer and smooth. He wasn’t aware of the heart eyes he was giving you, but Brian, John and Mary were.

When you batted your lashes, he looked away and saw Brian try and fail to hide a smile when they locked eyes. He’d been caught.

“Do you have a piano?” Freddie questioned again, eyebrows raised a little.

A tiny playful smile made its way to your lips.

“Of course I have a piano” you cockily answered.

When you saw Fred’s satisfied grin appear you instantly knew he liked you as much as you liked him. It wasn’t in the attic; you’d show it to him later.

To be honest, the piano was your favourite instrument to play. So delicate, so powerful and majestic.

“Excuse me for a second” you got up from your seat, everyone confused by your sudden urge to leave, but not alarmed.

That light from before wasn’t a bolt of lightning, you came to realize, it was a car that parked outside.

A little voice popped in your head guessing it could be him, but it couldn’t… right? There were approximately two hours from Cardiff to get there.

It sure was someone lost, or maybe they were stopping by to beg to use your bathroom because they couldn’t hold it in anymore. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“How about we start dinner? I’m starving” Mary added.

Their voices kept getting lower and lower as you crossed the corridor, oblivious to Roger’s eyes following your every move.

You stepped outside and closed the heavy door behind you, but not completely.

The silhouette of the last person you’d want to see in the entire world was leaning against a red car, one you did know very well because you lost your virginity in the backseat. He was humming to a tune you didn’t recognize, head facing downwards.

Picking at the fabric of the sweater you put on to forbid the cool air of the night from touching your skin, you opened your mouth.

“Leonardo!” you whisper shouted.

He definitely heard you, although he turned a deaf ear.

“Leo, what the fuck!”

“You’re a stupid whore”

Shit. He’s drunk? You prayed he wouldn’t make a scene, not now, with Mary and the guys around. The shame to have them complicit of whatever could possibly happen would be unbearable.

“You’re miserable” he went on with his speech, voice thick, which made it difficult for you to understand him.

You called it quits three months ago. Apparently he wasn’t any close to getting over the fact you ended it.

“Leave”

After what felt forever, he abruptly raised his head.

“What?” the expression on his face revealed he wasn’t happy.

What his eyes showed freaked the hell out of you: they revealed an intense desire, either with words or physically, to hurt you. He wasn’t sober, and you were aware that he had struggled with alcoholism when he was a teenager. It was fair to say Leonardo never put a finger on you in that way before, but alcohol was the push he needed to do it and his body was full of it now.

A lump formed in your throat.

“Get out of here”

“I just want to talk” lifting his hands up in an attempt to seem harmless, losing balance doing so, he took a few steps forward trying his best to sound convincing so you wouldn’t move and listen to him.

“I don’t want to hear what you have to say”

“How do you think I felt? Huh? When I saw you making out with that moron? You’re so selfish. A fucking slut, (Y/N). You disgust me”

That was the final straw. You promised you wouldn’t give in and start an argument, but he fucking did have to bring that up. He had the nerve to blame you for moving on and having some fun with a guy a few days ago at a party.

“Are you serious right now, Leo? How dare you?! We’re not together!” funny enough, this time it was you walking up to him not giving a damn anymore about the consequences.

When you raised your fist to punch him, even in his state, he managed to catch your wrist on time.

“How wrong you’ve done me” he hissed, tightening the grip. That’d leave marks for sure.

He pushed you against the car, causing your back to crack roughly. The situation was so tense not even the tears were brave to roll down your face, your vision blurry and unclear.

“Please, Leo!”

Mary’s voice never felt so good in your ears.

You totally forgot about them, that you could’ve screamed for help instead of dealing with Leo on your own, too absorbed in rage to be able to think things through.

“Do something, help her!” she pleaded the boys.

Four arms were fast to catch him and throw him to the ground.

Everything was happening so fast, almost as fast as your crazy heartbeats.

Brian came to you and held you by the shoulders, checking you out entirely, looking for bruises. He was asking repeatedly if you were alright, if that man dared to touch you. You could hear him, but it felt like he were miles away from you, his words echoing in the back of your mind.

Mary grabbed your arm and the two guided you, treating you like you had some kind of disability.

Before letting them drag you inside, you quickly turned your head to see what was going on, and saw a fuming Roger threatening Leo to disappear and never come back.

Freddie and John remained behind him in case he’d lose his temper. They looked at each other in astonishment; it was the first time they saw Roger like that.

“(Y/N)” Mary called you, once in the common room. “Fancy a glass of water?”

“I’ll be right back with it,” Brian said, his long legs taking him to the kitchen.

“Sit down, babe”

“I don’t want to. I’m fine”

She could perfectly see the tension in your shoulders.

“You’re not. But it’s fine, it’ll be fine” she sympathized, caressing your hair.

At this point you were lost for words. You were confused, angry, stunned.

“Here, take it. It’ll do you good, (Y/N). Is there anything else you n—” Brian began, offering you freshwater to maybe comfort you and make the knot you felt in your throat go away.

“For fuck’s sake!” you felt choleric. Maybe you were about to pass out.

Freddie, John and Roger came in and stopped dead in their tracks when they heard you complain.

Brian blinked a few times.

You were desperate for some time alone to process the last couple of minutes, but that wasn’t any excuse for you to take it out on Brian when all he wanted was for you to get better.

“I’m sorry” you lamented, ashamed at your behaviour, and took the glass not looking at anyone in the eye. That’s when you saw you were indeed shaking a little bit.

He smiled comprehensively, not giving too much attention to your outburst.

“Who the fuck was that?” Freddie wondered.

John elbowed him and mouthed “not now”.

“I’m so embarrassed. I’m sorry you had to witness that” you sighed, choking back the agony.

“Don’t apologize. That piece of shit shouldn’t have treated you like that. He looked mad” Freddie condemned.

Another heavy sigh escaped your mouth when you saw everyone staring intently at you, hating the feeling of their unasked pity.

Roger hadn’t said a word. His muscles were tense, mind way too far from the scene recalling something from the past.

It’d been several weeks since Queen came to stay.

To your surprise you had no complaints. They helped you without hesitation with the housework and kept their rooms tidy. More or less. The only thing you could protest about was that after the sessions it seemed like the studio had been the target of a fateful hurricane.

However, they were too cute to stay mad at for more than ten seconds.

Coming out of your shell was easy because of them. It didn’t take you long to feel comfortable enough to show your true self instead of hiding in your room like you did the first three days.

Reading a book easily kept your mind busy, except now; it was unbearably hot outdoors and indoors. Without taking your eyes off the page, you held the Coca-Cola can against your neck seeking a refreshing sensation.

“Mind if I join?”

You lowered the sunglasses until they were fitted a little bit below the bridge of your nose. The sun was hiding behind a cloud now, making it easier to adjust your vision and get it focused on whoever that was.

A shirtless Roger stood before you, with a towel around his neck that he rushed to spread on the hammock next to yours.

His skin glowing due to the sweat made him look rather tempting.

Your brain lent a helping hand forcing you to smile and nod because you wouldn’t, couldn’t do that yourself.

A small grin tugged at his lips when he noticed your eyes on him longer than usual.

“You’re always studying, angel” he pointed out, lying down and crossing his arms above his head.

You let out a loud sigh you’d been holding in, cheeks red at the pet name he chose. Anytime he’d call you something sweet rather than by your name, it was always how you tended to react.

There was no denying that you’d sort of developed a small crush on him.

Nobody could blame you, though; the same thing would happen to any human being with feelings.

He always treated you as one of them, making sure you didn’t feel left out. His sense of humour was similar to yours, and you appreciated it when he included you in their plans even if he knew you were occupied with Uni and probably wouldn’t be able to join.

Also, he was hot as fuck. You swore you’d never seen a man so beautiful in your life so far.

“I have to if I want to pass my exams”

“Sure, but you’re always studying” he emphasized. “It cannot be healthy”

It couldn’t, but everything was so difficult and you were so lost at some points you thought the world as you knew it could end if you took the smallest break.

“(Y/N)”

“Tell me”

“Seeing you stressed out stresses me” he sat straight, took the book from you and shoved it away. “Fuck this. I suggest you have some fun before the pressure ages you”

“And what do you recommend, ay?” you questioned, crossing your arms across your chest.

“We could play Frisbee”

“Frisbee? Really?”

“Why not? I’m sure you’re not that bad” he teased, getting to his feet.

You faked a laugh and stood up.

“Don’t underestimate my skills”

He used his hand to mimic a mouth talking nonsense, and approached the pool since the frisbee was floating in the water. But he stopped when he felt he stepped on something, proceeding to lift his foot to see what it was.

Roger knelt down and picked a piece of paper up, which said in messy handwriting together with scribbles here and there: You tell me ‘bout your past, thinking your future was me.

His brows cocked in surprise and your eyes widened. You grabbed it out of his hand and held it close to your heart reflexively, as if protecting it. It must have flown out from within the pages of the book when he first threw it away.

Roger watched you curiously, crouched down still, as you breathed slow and deep avoiding eye contact. You could feel your face getting hotter.

He got up with an unnoticeable smile.

“That’s yours? It’s decent”

You waited for something to get out of your mouth, but this time your brain didn’t find a way to help you out, speechless at the fact that he liked it.

“Do you have more? I’d love to hear” he continued, glancing at you.

“Oh, n-no” you forced a laughter. “I don’t”

“I’m glad you’re not as bad as a lyricist as you are as a liar”

You gave him a dirty look and the corners of his eyes crinkled at that. He puppy-eyed you.

“Please?”

“No, Roger”

“We don’t protest when you’re in our recording sessions, you could return the favour”

“Excuse me? You’re in my goddamn house. Watch your tone”

He giggled, fascinated by how cute you turned out to be when poked at.

“What do I have to do for you to say yes?”

“Nothing. It’s not happening”

“(Y/N)!” he pleaded. “I want to hear you sing”

You shook your head.

“And I want to own all the dogs on the planet. Guess we’re both stuck”

Roger groaned in defeat and turned around to get his hands on the frisbee.

For some odd reason, it made your heart dance in your chest knowing he was willing to sit down with you and listen.

A sense of enthusiasm and confidence moved you and shockingly enough you found yourself considering the idea.

Roger gave you a quick head nod.

“Ready?”

You didn’t know what the hell you were doing but you whispered a small “okay”. It couldn’t be that bad, right?

“Take a few steps back first, you’re too close”

You pulled a face at him but quickly shook your head.

“I said I’ll do it”

Roger wasn’t getting it.

“Do w—“ he stopped mid-sentence, his sapphire eyes widening in understanding this wasn’t about playing Frisbee anymore. “Yes!” he took you in his arms and spun you around.

Since he was shirtless you could feel how well built he was. Although he wasn’t the most athletic man out there, apparently drumming on and on was enough to keep him fit.

“Rog, Rog! Enough! I’m feeling dizzy”

You were wearing a mini skirt that had a tiny slit on one of the sides. Seeing it rolled itself up a little you adjusted its length, avoiding any extra space to anyone’s imagination. Too late for Roger though.

When satisfied with how your skirt fitted, you looked up and saw a subtle wink roaming his lips.

“I’m ready when you are” he announced, bending over to grab his shirt and put it on.

At first your legs wouldn’t cooperate.

Roger followed you closely.

He saw you toy with your hair, questioning yourself why you agreed to do this when you weren’t a hundred per cent sure about it. He placed his hands on your shoulders and slowly massaged the back of your neck with his thumbs, relieving some of the pressure.

Every single hair of your body stood on ends.

“Don’t be nervous, love. We can drop it whenever you want” he conceded, tossing an arm around your shoulders.

Opening the door to the studio you felt sick, already regretting your decision.

Roger took a sit on the couch, watching you like you were about to do a mind-blowing performance that’d change the meaning of his life forever.

Feeling like a rat in a laboratory with the doctors waiting to see if the experiment was successful or not, you shifted weight from one foot to the other, discomfort intensifying.

The piercing electric blue of his eyes triggered something in you when they met yours. You didn’t know how but it seemed like he was speaking to you through them, encouraging and imploring you to open up to him.

“Take it easy, (Y/N). It’s not a big deal”

“It is for me”

You sank down on one of the chairs next to the control room, poorly trying to hide how intimidated you were.

“You’re singing, then? Or reading the lyrics out loud?”

“Singing” you muttered. God knows if you went downstairs to pick up your notebook you wouldn’t come back.

A very cheeky expression overtook his face.

“Okay, go ahead” he gestured, rubbing his chin.

You clenched your jaw and snapped your eyes shut. It was easier to do it if you weren’t looking. You’d just imagine it was your grandfather in the room with you instead.

“Time won’t fly, it’s like I’m paralyzed by it I’d like to be my old self again But I’m still trying to find it

After plaid shirt days and nights when you made me your own Now you mail back my things and I walk home alone”

Roger’s fingers fidgeted at the sight of you tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, silently wishing it was him doing it.

He saw how your angelic features relaxed along to every word you sang. When it comes to your voice... He had to remind himself he didn’t die nor was leaving a dream, because it felt like he were in the very gates of heaven.

His breathing quickened, well aware he was witnessing something intimate.

Leaning closer, elbows resting on his knees, he allowed your voice to transport him to the place and time you were describing.

“But you keep my old scarf From that very first week 'Cause it reminds you of innocence And it smells like me You can’t get rid of it

'Cause you remember it all too well”

You swallowed before opening your eyes and speaking.

“There’s more but that’s the part I’m most proud of”

Roger’d fallen silent, his brain on fire.

He seemed to be absent, daydreaming probably.

Your heartbeat could make you go deaf any second, partly because you allowed him to have a peek at your heart partly because you were dying to know if he was any positive about it.

“You sounded like an angel” he stated in the softest voice, working on coming back to his senses.

There was nothing you could do apart from blushing and awkwardly shaking your head, yet on the inside you were saturated with a strong feeling that filled you completely: his opinion was relevant to you and the reaction he had was more than enough.

“You’re exaggerating. Thank you though, for your words. You’re very kind” you said, entwining ankles.

“Is it…” Roger was afraid this would ruin the mood. He decided to give it a shot and solve any doubt. More importantly, he wanted to make sure you were alright.

You weren’t stupid and knew where he was going.

“About Leonardo? Yes. Next question” you explained bitterly cutting him off, and pressed your lips together making an effort to not roll your eyes and appear rude.

He did ruin the mood.

Roger felt bad now.

“I’m sorry. Forget it”

“It’s fine” the flat tone you used before switched to a more delicate one.

It was overwhelming that he cared. He didn’t have to but he cared.

“I experienced something similar. I know how fucked up domestic abuse is” Roger confessed, bowing his head.

Wait, what? He what?

“Rog…” you got up and carefully sat next to him.

It shocked you how quick the atmosphere changed.

“It’s nothing, dear, it was a long time ago. She was… she was crazy” he laughed drily and cleared his throat. “You know what I mean”

“I do not. What you saw when Leonardo showed up was a one-time thing. He was drunk and barely himself, but I’m so terribly sorry you had to go through that”

“Ah, good for you then” he tapped you on the knee with a small smile on his face.

It broke your heart. How could anyone be so goddamn evil? You just couldn’t understand why they were people like that out there, willing to harm others deliberately.

Your mind drifted to Leonardo, did he become one of them?

Glancing at Roger, you hesitantly got closer to rest your cheek against his shoulder, letting him know mutely you were there in case he needed to vent more often. You intended to cuddle for just a few seconds before it turned out weird. That was until he wrapped an arm around you to keep you in position.

“Thank you” he whispered.

It sent shivers down your spine hearing for the first time his voice discreetly cracking up. You weren’t entirely sure about what he was thanking you for, though.

Roger didn’t quite understand why such information slipped out his mouth. Maybe he thought it was appropriate to share it since he contemplated you went through the same thing after what he saw. He just wanted to make sure you knew you could count on him as well.

The boys knew about the matter, obviously, but there was this thing about you he hadn’t figured out just yet that pushed him to speak to you about it.

That’s what his mind was saying, his heart on the other hand defended the idea that he felt comfortable with you and that since he presenced the incident with Leonardo he remembered his experience. Hence the fit of anger he had.

The thought alone of that scumbag hurting you made his head collapse. He was very sensitive about the subject.

“Better?” you wondered out loud after a while of snuggling, yet you didn’t move, finding the proximity significantly pleasant.

“Yeah, uh, sorry” he cleared his throat and released you.

“It’s more than okay”

He nodded, not really looking at you yet.

You tried to think of something that could distract him from those undeserved and heartrending memories.

There was no point of comparison to what Roger had struggled with, but every time you argued with Leo during the year your relationship lasted, you were grateful that your friends organized sporadic plans to help you forget about the fights.

You had to do that for Roger. You had to entertain him. To keep his mind occupied.

“Freddie explained to me drums are much more complicated than what they seem”

Roger glanced over the drumkit.

He was suspicious at first about the topic change, and looked at you from the corner of his eye.

“It can be very ambitious if you don’t do try for real, instead of goofing around. There’s too much going on. People believe it’s just hitting the drums and you’re good. Wankers”

It was unmissable how his face lit up, talking about his passion.

Crossing an ankle over your knee, you bent forward to get a better sight of his much more eased features.

“I’m sure it requires a lot of hard work, the coordination on hands and feet and all that stuff. Singing along as well must be tiring”

Roger’s eyes bored into yours, as if studying and reflecting upon your words. A corner of his mouth lifted.

“Yeah,” he replied amused, “physically it can be tough”

He knew what you were doing.

Just when he was about to ask you if you wanted him to teach you some basics, John came flying through the door.

“For God’s sake, there you are. Roger, I need you. Freddie and Brian are arguing again. Help me out spreading some peace before Freddie slaps him”

****

end of part one, lemme know what you think ! ♡

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morris-magus-merry-miller · 4 years

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Chapter 3: The Kobold in the Cavern

Our band of adventurers tumbled down, down, down, into the darkness below. When he hit the hard stone ground of the deepest depths of the dank dark dungeon, a voice echoed through the cavern.

“The trap out front had been activated. Be on the lookout for INTRUDERS!” The sophisticated yet rather high pitched voice rang out.

This was quite the pickle we’d found ourselves in. In the middle of enemy territory, our presence already known by this rather loud disembodied voice—it was not the ideal situation.

Despite this, we kept our chins up. A good adventurer never lets a little set back slow them down! And so we didn’t. I sent forward a chain of dancing lights to lead the way—after all human and halfling eyes aren’t quite as adept at seeing in caverns as those of our half-orc and goblin fellows’. Vigo, proclaiming that a goblin emperor must lead from the front, took point—despite his decided lack of armor. Truly he is the bravest of us all.

When we came to an intersection, Issac stopped us, and took a moment to listen into the nearby doors on our left and right. He warned that he heard voices, it sounded like two people were having a heated conversation within. Candy offered to take care of them.

I admit, I wasn’t certain if she could ‘take care of them’ quickly and quietly enough. Oh ye of little faith! Our dear girl Candy burst into that room, taking the two Duergar within by surprise. With a flurry of kicks faster than my eyes could follow in the darkness she sent both flying back, knocked unconscious by the swift and unexpected attack.

Within the room were two metal doors, which on inspection I surmised were for a lift, although there was no button to call the lift from this landing. We also found a key on the Duergars, which allowed us access to the door across the way. We found a tidy sum of treasure, likely pilfered from the Duergars’ past victims. With that tucked away and the threat of an attack from behind nullified, we set onward, continuing our search for the disembodied voice and Cleric Ringwald.

Our mighty band ventured ever deeper into the bowls of the earth, down a ladder and through a number of dark tunnels. I must say I am grateful for my small stature, as I believe if I had been Issac or even John’s height I would have been feeling rather claustrophobic at this point.

I didn’t have much time to think about this, as the others found another door. Vigo and I inspected the room beyond for magic, and found that there was something behind the bookcase. We requested that Candy move it aside to investigate, which she did with ease and grace. Behind the shelf (with held such fine works as The Starless Knight by yours truly) a large tome was hidden. Detect magic revealed a faint magical aura, and I later learned the words on the front were the draconic words for ‘spellbook’. Vigo rushed forward to snatch it up from its small platform. He flipped it open…and it exploded in his hands as Vigo set off an explosive rune set within, which also caught poor Candy in the blast. Vigo was in a surprisingly chipper mood after getting thrown against a wall by a fake spellbook—he was pleased to know that after we did away with the caster, he would be able to get the real spellbook and learn the spell we’d just had an unfortunate preview of.

After John kindly patched up our injured friends, we continued down the tunnel. Up ahead it opened up into a larger area. There was a large set of double doors ahead, but Candy also found some loose stones which proved to hide a secret tunnel off to the side. After investigating, we found that the hidden passage had a small window out into the next room, where four Duergars were arguing in their native tongue in front of four hostages. The bound men were all wearing Port Town guard armor—clearly the members of Captain Gladshire’s guard who had disappeared recently.

They still didn’t know we were here, and the small window provided us…well, a window of opportunity, so to speak. I offered to use some of my bardic talents, with the intent to fascinate three of the four baddies. Unfortunately that would leave one unattended. John spoke up, he had a trick that could keep the final one occupied. We agreed to share the window, and once the others were in position to rush in, I called through the window to gain the attention of the beings within.

“Excuse me, may I have your attention please? Hello. Please, allow me to read an excerpt from my manuscript for your enjoyment!”

All four Duergars turned their attention to me. Two seemed to slip into a daze as I laced magic into my dramatic reading. One of the targets, however, proved more strong-willed than expected.

“What the hell, there’s a guy in the wall!” he shouted.

Before he could do anything else, John let loose his spell on him. It was a…unique spell, not the sort I expected of a holy man, but I am certainly not one to judge a man on how his god gives him magic.

I later learned this spell was called ‘murderous command’. It is, well, exactly what it says on the tin. The affected Duergar quit shouting, and instead turned upon his only non-fascinated companion, using some form of mental magic to go on the offensive in attempt to brutally murder his former friend.

Fortunately the other two didn’t register the potential danger, and remained fixated on my reading.

Vigo dashed into the room, much faster than I would have expected for a man with shorter legs than my own.

Vigo dashed into the room, like a little green comet, and got himself into just the right angle to keep the fascinated individuals from seeing him as he let off a quick flash of lightning at the Duergar who was currently being assaulted by his murderous companion. I took the moment to make sure the Duergars remained distracted, and tried to request one of them untie the hostages ‘so they may better enjoy the show’. Unfortunately, the magic didn’t stick, and he refused. A moment later he snapped from his trance as he realized his companions were fighting each other.

Candy and Issac leapt into the fray, as it was now clear we weren’t getting through without a fight. Candy got hit by whatever terrible mental powers these beings had, but still managed to harry the angry little Duergars with knees and kicks each time they went to cast.

From our place behind the window, I knew I needed to help in any way I could. I intended to disable the one who was doing the most to Candy, to give her an opening to finish him.

“And then the dwarf-guy fell into uproarious laughter as the mighty adventurer told a most hilarious joke. I don’t *actually* have a joke to tell, but you’re going to laugh because it’s the spell.”

Note to self: Less honest—think of an actual joke. Something hilarious the audience will judge the Duergar for not laughing at. Actually, scratch that, maybe just don’t mention this spell since it was a total bust anyways.

It was an uphill battle, with psychic magic, kicks, and less-psychic-more-fire magic flying through the room. But finally the last Duergar fell, and we were free to rescue the prisoners.

The guards thanked us, and told us that the disembodied voice we’d heard was an unpleasant little fellow by the name of Grumblesnout. They hadn’t gotten a good look at him, and only knew that he was about Vigo’s height, and wore a very tall pointy blue hat. A shame, both his fashion sense and his taste in literature sounded rather impeccable although he was a rather nasty little fellow.

The guards also warned us not to go into the small room nearby as it was a ‘kitchen’…a room where they’d been butchering captives to eat…

Just thinking about it makes my stomach churn. I have a hardy constitution for many a thing, but turning people into food just isn’t one of them. I mean besides the obvious moral implications, it surely must taste just awful.

We did as the directed and did not go into the…kitchen…despite Vigo’s protests. Candy declared that if Vigo wanted to eat people, he wouldn’t get any more homemade bearclaws from her. A dire threat, her bearclaws are superb. When I return to my bakery I will have to get some tips from her.

Note to self: No more mentions of the bakery. They think you’re Mattie. She’s an adventurer. Not a cook/adventurer like Candy. An author/adventurer. No bakery.

Note to self 2: I miss my bakery…

We sent the guards back the way we came, promising that once we did away with the ‘Grimblesnout’ fellow we would find a way to send the lift up to them. Then we continued forward, which lead us down another ladder, and into yet another tunnel.

The monotony of tunnel walking was broken up partway through as the floor caved in beneath Candy’s feet—who was now leading the way, rather fortunately for us as she has quick feet and was able to easily jump free as a pitfall opened beneath her. The rest of us jumped over the deep but narrow pit with ease.

Not far from the pit a voice echoed through the tunnel. Not the snooty high pitched tones of Grumblesnout, but a deep booming voice. It beckoned us to enter its domain.

“Maybe it’s friendly,” Candy offered.

“Silent Terror is not friendly,” the voice warned ominously. It was, if I may be so bold, an excellent line, and I told the voice as much. He seemed rather pleased to hear it.

We entered the room ahead, in which a cyclops known as Silent Terror stood before another pair of lift doors. These ones were open.

“You must get past me to proceed,” Silent Terror warned, his voice so powerful it positively shook the room with his very presence. (That is so say, he had a very nice theatre voice, he was very good at projecting)

“Can you let us past?” Candy asked.

“If you would be so kind,” I added. Politeness is always key, you see.

“Your boss seems like a jerk,” John added, less politely but very honestly.

Silent Terror stared down at us, his enormous form looming above even the tallest of us. Then he shrugged. “Yeah, sure. The boss is a jerk. I mean, he makes me call myself the ‘Silent Terror’…I actually really like talking, it sucks,” he said. “And they make me stand in this room with all these corpses and skeletons. ‘Haha throw them in here’ they say ‘the cyclops will love it’ they say. Well I don’t. I hate it. All I want is to leave.”

(Note to self: …Maybe I should add a fight in there to make it seem like a bigger more epic struggle. I hate to besmirch our cyclops friend after he was so nice though. I’ll think on it.)

We offered to send the lift back down so he could leave once we’d dealt with his boss, which he was happy to agree to. He warned us of how Grumblesnout had the next area of the cavern set up, and also mentioned that we’d set off an alarm. Candy pipped up at this, and said that we didn’t set it off—an invisible person did—she’d seen the trip wire go off on its own back in the last tunnel.

Vigo swept the room with detect magic, but didn’t see any signs of an invisible person.

(Note to self: learn glitterdust)

Satisfied that we’d done all we could, we entered the lift and began the descent into the bowls of the earth. As we waited, my companions began their magical prep. Vigo turned himself tiny and cast fly on himself and haste on all of us—so he was a lightning fast squirrel sized flying goblin by the end of it. Issac went the opposite direction and turned himself into a huge dire bear—like Peanut times four. John also insisted that we donate some blood to a contingency spell of his, which could potentially keep one of us from death’s doorstep. It seemed an odd component for divine magic, but I don’t really know anything about divine magic so who am I to judge? He’s a follower of Pharasma, the goddess of death, so I suppose blood and death tend to go hand in hand. I didn’t have much in the way of that kind of magic to assist with strengthening the others myself, so instead I started up a reading to help steel my companions’ nerves for what was to come.

Oh, but dear reader, we couldn’t have possibly been prepared for what was to come…

We burst into the large cavernous…cavern. Inside a number of duergars with crossbows and explosives awaited us, along with their leader: Grumblesnout. A very loud, very angry little yellow kobold wearing a rather impressive wizard hat.

Grumble and the duergar general were arguing at the back of the cavern…or as close to the back as they could safely get, as there was a rather large lake of lava disappearing back to the actual back of the cave far beyond what eyes could see. Between us and them was a large…well, at first glance it appeared to be a diamond, but closer inspection quickly revealed it to merely be a very large crystalized salt deposit.

…Oh bother, I never told Candy about that, we might have been able to take some for cooking…

Sorry, off topic a tad. More importantly, with them was one Cleric Ringwald, who was bound and gagged and looking worse for the wear. When the little kobold spotted us, he pushed Ringwald into a cage, which zipped her off into the darkness above the lake of lava.

Our band of heroic adventurers charged forward, prepared to face destiny and finally free Ringwald from the clutches of the underground band of villains. Candy and Issac went on the offensive, charging forward in a flurry of kicks and claws. I snuck around the other way, intent to disable the kobold, who had began flying high above the battlefield via the same arcane means Vigo had used.

Speaking of Vigo, I had expected him to go for the Kobold as well, but his fast tiny form disappeared into the darkness in the direction of Ringwald’s cage. I found out later that he’d intended to set her free to assist us with whatever potent magic she had at her disposal, but she told him she presently had no magic to cast, so it ended up being an unfortunately wasted venture.

My attempt to disable the kobold with a hilarious joke for the Hideous Laughter spell unfortunately fell upon deaf ears—for he must have been deaf to not have been sent to the ground in fits of laughter. He rather rudely ignored me, and turned his attention instead upon Candy, who was fighting the duergar general just below. With a familiar burst of fiery arcane might, much as we’ve seen our goblin friend do on many an occasion, Grumblesnout let loose a barrage of fire blasts, which sent Candy to the ground. John’s contingency activated, and I felt a small prick of pain as some of each of our lifeforces, bound by blood and John’s divine magic, were transferred to Candy. She remained motionless on the ground, and for a moment I feared it had not been enough. John was too far from the front lines to heal her further, and the duergar general was looming over her, ready to make sure her life was snuffed out.

Then a certain dire bear druid charged in and crunched the duergar’s skull in his very large bear jaws. It was a gruesome display, but it was exactly the opening I needed to get to Candy’s side and begin healing her injuries.

“Not today, my friend. Not today!” I proclaimed, as I cast the strongest healing magic I knew into her charred form. The worst of the burns healed, and Candy’s eyes flickered open—the shadow of death receded for today.

Or, perhaps it is more accurate to say Death turned his eyes upon someone else in that moment…

As I focused my efforts on Candy, Vigo had flown back across the lava lake and had called out Grumblesnout in the most heroic way possible—by counterspelling a fireball that the Kobold had been about to aim at myself, Candy, and Issac below him. I must say, I have never even seen a successful counterspell before in my life. It was quite quite exhilarating. The kobold didn’t take kindly to his magic being interfered with, and he and Vigo began a battle of will, wits, and lots of fire in the air above us.

It didn’t last long, as Vigo did a little trick we’ll call the ‘reverse dragonbreath’. That is to say, he shot a fireball directly into Grumblesnout’s mouth and let him detonate from within. “What’s yellow and blue and dead all over?” Vigo asked, just before the flames engulfed the flying wizard lizard, leaving nothing but ash and his magical items behind.

The rest of the riffraff that had worked for him and refused to simply lay down their explosives and leave were easy enough to clear out with the wizard no longer raining fire from above. Then we flipped the switch to call Ringwald’s cage back to us.

When it arrived Ringwald’s body fell out of the cage before us.

Dead.

Another figure leapt down from atop the cage. A drow woman, holding an open music box from which a haunting melody played. She tossed the music box aside, and admitted with no hesitation that she’d killed Ringwald. She spoke of doing a favor for an old friend—clearly speaking of Ulong. I attempted to hold her in place with a spell, but the magic failed before it had hardly left my lips as she locked eyes with me. The eyes of a remorseless killer, someone who would so casually take a life and allow the one hope for a frozen town to be torn away from us. Even after hearing that John’s daughter was in the town, she told us that it would be in our best interests to forget everything and just go home.

Candy wouldn’t accept that—surely couldn’t accept that. She leapt forward and managed to land a kick to the woman’s chest. The assassin didn’t even flinch. She just repeated her threat that we should go home and drop our quest, while threatening pulling out a number of shuriken. Instead of attacking, she suddenly vanished, and not a moment later we saw the lift activate, going up to the surface. Out of our reach.

We gathered at the edge of the lava lake, standing around Ringwald’s body which had been very much alive mere minutes prior. John cast a spell upon her: gentle repose. He informed us that if we could find a more powerful cleric in town, perhaps they could revive her. At the very least, the spell he’d cast would give us some time before the body got to a point where resurrection was no longer viable.

We made the grim decision to put her body in a bag of holding we’d found on Grumblesnout’s person so we could bring her to town inconspicuously. As we did so, we found a note on her person. It said to “Find the Wizard of the ★. Ask him for help. He can help.” We figured out that this was referring to the Wizard of the Stars, who was known to live near Port Town. His divination magic was so astoundingly powerful and well known that his name had been lost and everyone knew him simply by his title. It seemed that if we couldn’t find a means to bring back Ringwald, we at least had a new lead.

After a few more minutes commiserating and trying to think of a plan of action, the lift returned. It would seem though the assassin was a coldblooded murderer and a cad, she at least had the decency to not trap us miles below the earth, helpless as we slowly waste away, unable to interfere with her ‘old friend’ and his machinations…

The very thought makes me ill, so I think I will leave this chapter at that.

#entry #pathfinder #pathfinder campaign #dungeons and dragons #d&d campaign #Morris 3M

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awritingrose · 5 years

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Burn Everything You Love

(Then burn the ashes.) Celine is haunted from the moment she is born, and spends the rest of her life chasing answers.

Celine character study. 9.1k.

Warnings: abusive parent (non-explicit domestic violence, psychological/emotional abuse, racism); unhealthy coping mechanisms; toxic behaviors + relationships; illness/death/hospital scenes; this is not quite Dead Dove territory but we sure are pushing it

Read on ao3 or continue under the read more

Celine is haunted from the moment she is born.

There are creatures in the corner of the nursery that stare at her while she is paralyzed between waking and dreaming. She watches shadows try to suffocate Damien in his bed with their mere presence. She learns to speak from the spirits that whisper in her ears of dangers yet to come.

It makes her an eerie child, frighteningly intelligent, with raven hair and shifting hazel eyes. She watches the world around her with a flat affect, studying everything she sees.

Her father, simmering red, teaches her rage and defiance. Perhaps she should learn to cower instead, like her gray mother and blue-tinged brother. Perhaps that would make things easier. Keep her from spending the next twenty-odd years of her life always tense, always bracing for a fight—always looking for one. But she favors her father too much for that.

(She thinks, when they’re grown, that this is why Damien tries to control her in his gentle way. He favors their mother, in spirit and in face, while Celine is a mirror of their father’s sins. The heir he would have wanted, if only she’d been a man.)

By the time she is fourteen, Celine has grown so used to seeing the unseen that it barely makes her flinch. She learned quickly that no one else, not even her brother, sees the auras that cling to everyone.

(“Synesthesia,” the doctors call it when she is small.

“Hysteria,” they call it after she turns twelve, with an edge to their voices. If she were not rich, she knows, if her father’s name carried less weight, they’d lock her up in an institution and leave her to rot like the women that wail half-baked prophecies in her ears.)

She and Damien stand beside their father at a society dinner one night, dressed nearly identically in a white dress and white suit jacket. Damien takes to holding her hand at times like these, when she’s at her most unpredictable, half to comfort himself with her presence and half to try to rein her in.

(Later, she’ll unleash her temper on him for it. It’s the only time she ever does, because as angry as he might make her, she cannot stand the pain in his eyes.)

Tonight, his pinky is looped through hers. Despite his easy charisma, crowds still make him nervous. She and the voices in her ear both know that the world will eat him alive if she gives it half a chance. She can protect him from it, thrust her hand out and force everyone to hear her, but she cannot keep him safe from what really frightens him: the monster in their father’s skin.

“Arthur!” Celine watches their father’s spine stiffen at the sound of his name, echoing from the other side of the room. “There you are!”

The man coming towards them has his arms open as if he means to embrace her father. He radiates golden warmth from the top of his balding head to his stout legs, and somehow the kindness of it all makes her tense.

It is the daisy chain of three teenagers following him that truly captivate Celine.

The first of them is a boy, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with the whisper-thin beginnings of a mustache. Around him swirls a sunset corona, pinks and yellows in shades Celine never knew existed. She can barely resist the urge to try to bury herself in the colors. She can barely tear her eyes away from him and his infectious smile.

“I’d like to introduce you to my son, William,” The man says. He ruffles the boy’s hair, and Celine feels Damien’s pinky tighten around hers. “And my nephew, Mark.”

Mark is slightly taller than William, and completely clean shaven. There’s an intensity to his dark eyes that threatens to swallow Celine whole, just like the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. She recognizes a kindred spirit from the set of his shoulders and the faint circles under his eyes—he’s the older sibling like she is, always on guard, always ready to pack up everything he loves and run. A muted rainbow surrounds him.

“And who’s this?” Her father asks, not even trying to hide the disdain in his voice. “Another foster?”

The senior Barnum laughs, loud and from his belly.

(His name is William, too, whispers a voice. His wife is everything you will never be.)

“She might as well be!” He looks down at the girl with a fondness Celine has never seen in her own father’s eyes, and for a moment, she is struck with jealousy. “No, this is Tess. Grace is sponsoring her for all these parties—the debut balls, and whatnot.”

Tess, holding Mark’s hand, cannot seem to meet Celine’s eyes. Celine knows the trick of staring at a person’s forehead too well to not be able to recognize it. There are freckles across the other girl’s nose and cheeks, the kind that come from too many hours in the sun, the kind that Celine is always put into wide-brimmed hats to avoid. Tess’s cheeks are flushed with sunburn and not cosmetics. She’s not, Celine realizes, chained by the expectations of wealth, and again that dark jealousy rises in Celine’s chest. It’s beaten out, barely, by fascination: there is no aura at all surrounding Tess.

And around each of the teens’ throats is a writhing black tendril.

(Learn, cries her very soul.)

“I’m Celine,” she says. She steps out of her father’s reach. “Nice to meet you all.”

She lets go of her brother, and she does not look back.

The Barnum manor is silent, and for months, Celine thinks that is a blessing. It’s the only place she’s ever been where she can hear herself think, where there are not so many spirits clamoring for her attention that she almost thinks an institution’s sedation would be a relief.

“Let me show you something,” Mark says when she tries to explain this to him.

He takes her hand, and Celine is caught between the rush of heat it sends to her cheeks and the shock of how cold his skin is.

He leads her deep into the woods surrounding the property. If she were a different girl, Celine thinks, she’d worry about his intentions or her reputation. It’s the sort of thing Tess would focus on (Celine would call her prissy or prudish, if she hadn’t seen Tess and William sneak out of sight more often than Celine has ever been alone with Mark).

When they finally stop, it is in a clearing ripe with wildflowers and cloudy sunshine. There’s a humid haze in the air; she can taste a summer storm on her tongue. It’s the most beautiful place she’s ever seen, and the same part of her she’s tried to repress thinks of how dreamily romantic the whole thing is.

“William and Tess used to come here all the time. They said the birds sound prettier here,” Mark says. He looks at her out of the corner of his eye.

Celine frowns. She lets go of his hand to take a step further, eyes closed and head tilted to listen.

“I don’t hear anything,” She replies, turning back to him.

She can’t read his aura like she does everyone else, the soft colors giving him the appearance of experiencing every emotion at once. But she knows the flash of relief that goes across his face. It’s the same one that went across hers when Damien admitted he’d seen something in the darkness of their room one night. The relief of knowing you aren’t crazy. You aren’t alone.

“Exactly!” He grabs her hands again with a fervency that keeps the butterflies in her stomach from waking up.

He’s giving her a look that she knows is supposed to convey some deep meaning. He’s trying to tell her something that the writhing blackness wrapped like a noose around his throat will not let him say. She has no idea what it is.

(When it’s much too late to save either of them, she’ll understand. She’ll think about how prey animals fall silent when a predator is near. She’ll wonder what it means that the things she always thought were predators fall silent in the manor’s presence. She’ll find out.)

So instead, she leans forward and kisses him, because the consequences of that are easier to deal with than trying to understand why William and Tess hear birdsong in a place too perfect to be real.

That winter, she and Damien are invited to the Barnum’s second home high in the mountains. It’s not the first time they see snow, but it’s the first time they see so much of it.

Celine falls in love.

Damien can’t seem to put enough layers on to keep himself warm, while Mrs. Barnum (Grace, she wants them to call her) has to nag Celine to bundle up. She loves sticking her hands into the snow until her fingers burn and turn red.

(Someone should notice she’s self-destructing, but no one says a word, and so she buries herself deeper and deeper beneath the ice.)

She and Mark sit on the porch most of the time. They watch Tess run about up to her knees in snow, pelting anyone foolish enough to look away from her with snowballs. She shrieks with laughter when William dumps some down the back of her dress. Anger brings heat to Celine’s cheeks; it’s not fair that Tess is so free, but even holding hands with Mark seems scandalous.

On the third day, William rushes up to them. Tess runs past him into the house—Mrs. Barnum’s voice echoes from a distant room, reminding her to take her shoes off.

“Are you ready?” William asks. His aura rotates around him, like fairy floss at the carnival. It makes her nauseous, yet the intensity in his eyes keeps Celine from looking away.

“Ready for what?” Mark tilts his head.

William throws his hands up like they’re both missing something obvious, and a smile pulls at the corner of Celine’s mouth.

“Skating,” He enunciates each syllable carefully.

As if on cue, Tess appears in the doorway again, one hand carrying five pairs of skates by the laces, the other hand pulling Damien along behind her.

And though she’s seen it coming for months (even if she couldn’t see his aura flare pink anytime Tess looks at him, his cheeks doing the same would be enough of a giveaway), Celine can’t stop the ugly, unnamable feeling that rises in her chest.

“How thick is the ice?” Damien asks as they trek through the woods.

Tess shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s never cracked, so we don’t worry about it.”

“Thick enough,” William offers, with a wink that makes Celine roll her eyes.

They skate for hours in the silence of the frozen lake. Mark tries to help her get her balance at first, but Celine throws his hands off. He doesn’t try to force it; he simply lets her do as she wishes, and she loves him all the more for it.

The boys go to sit together in the snowbank when they tire. Tess turns dizzying spirals across the ice with her dancer’s grace that Celine envies. Celine circles the exterior of the pond, stubbornly pushing past her aching muscles.

“Watch this!” Tess calls to pull the boys’ attention away from whatever they’re discussing.

Celine watches something dark shift beneath the ice. It's as if some great fish were trapped within the lake. Yet nothing could be alive there, certainly nothing so large, certainly nothing with a half-rotten face that smiles at her as it passes beneath her feet. It comes to a stop under Tess, draws its melting hands back—

She thinks she screams Tess’s name. She’s never sure, even years in the future. But if she does, the warning comes too late; Tess launches herself into the air. The thing in the water slams its fists against the ice. The crack echoes like a gunshot when she lands.

There is a deafening roar in Celine’s ears as she propels herself towards Tess. The boys are shouting, Mark barely holding both Damien and William back for fear their sudden weight will plunge the girls through the cracks. They cannot see like Celine does. They don’t see the laughing face, the burning eyes, the creature that pounds against the ice, the thing that wants nothing more than to grab Tess’s ankles and drag her under.

And for all the things Tess does that Celine hates, Celine will not let her come to any harm.

She slams into Tess with a force she’ll regret later, but it is enough to throw Tess into Damien’s arms. A fraction of a second later, bony fingers wrap around Celine’s ankle, and frozen water fills her lungs.

(She thinks of those moments under the lake in the distant future, when she and Damien and Tess are thrown into an abyss. She takes them back to that moment. She tries to conquer the fear she felt, the echoes of her father’s voice that told her she would drag everyone around her to Hell if she kept acting the way she did, the realization that he’d been right.)

Celine wakes in the smallest bedroom in the house, lying in a cot and buried under a mountain of blankets. Tess sits upright in the second bed, similarly dwarfed beneath the covers. The ends of her thick hair are still wet, and that’s strangely infuriating to Celine, because Tess should be the only one without the bone-deep cold on her skin.

“What did you do?” Celine hisses. Her throat stings with the effort.

“Saved you!” Tess snaps back.

(She hadn’t hesitated; she’d wrapped her scarf around one wrist, handed the other end to William, and jumped into the water. The boys had pulled them out once Tess had a grip on Celine’s waist, both of them weightless in the ice. It was William, Celine finds out later, who pressed his lips to hers to help her breathe.)

“You shouldn’t have! I was trying to save you! You should’ve left me!” She shouts. It’s a little too close to a confession of something Celine isn’t ready to deal with. “You should’ve just done what you were told!”

(She hears her father’s words come out of her mouth. They taste like vinegar and blood. She does not try to take them back.)

“I don’t need you to tell me what to do!”

Celine has never heard Tess shout until this moment—she’s not sure she’s ever seen Tess pass a stage of “mild annoyance”. She always assumed Tess was too soft, too feminine, for something as uncivilized as anger. It feels…good to see Tess finally crack.

It’s good enough that Celine begins to laugh, though it quickly turns to raw coughing. Tess stews on the other side of the room. She doesn’t have to have an aura for Celine to feel the anger coming off of her.

“So you aren’t perfect,” Celine finally says.

Tess’s eyes widen with panic. “Shut up.”

“Why are you still pretending?” Celine doesn’t even lower her voice. She’s certain most of the house has heard them yelling. She’s surprised Mark or Damien hasn’t burst in to try to calm them down.

Tess looks away, fidgeting with the corner of one of her blankets. “They’ll get rid of me if I’m not.”

Celine knows about Tess’s attempt to run away—Mark had told her. He’d mentioned how lucky Tess was to be able to leave, how angry he was that she’d come back. Celine had agreed. If she ever had half a chance, she would throw everything she could into a bag and run. She wouldn’t look back. She never has.

But at the same time, she knows Tess’s fear more intimately than she knows anything else about the other girl. She’s felt it too. Tess made the choice to bend to it; Celine broke it.

“Can we...can we start over?” Tess asks softly, several hours later.

Celine wants to say no out of nothing but spite. To feel that rush again of seeing Tess break, of making her feel a fraction of the pain Celine has learned to live with.

(They’re not friends, Celine tells herself. They will never be friends.)

“I’m Celine,” she says instead. She smiles and stretches her hand out across the space between their beds. “Nice to meet you.”

The light in Tess’s eyes is a gift.

Celine falls through worlds only once.

The furniture floats away from her with the slightest touch. She rests her fingers on the keys of the piano and they begin to play a symphony from a memory that isn’t her own. The room on the other side of the door shifts as she thinks of all the places in the house she’d like to go.

It does not frighten her. It feels good. It feels right. This is what the power in her veins is meant for. She is meant for so much more.

Color returns to the world when she steps through the doorway and into the kitchen. That power still drums beneath her skin, though the counters do not move when she touches them and her fingers can no longer remember how the song began.

“Celine?” Mrs. Barnum’s voice makes Celine jump. The older woman stands over the stove, stirring something into the soup. “What are you doing in here?”

The real question is how she got into the kitchen. There is a look in Mrs. Barnum’s eyes whenever she asks anything like this, as if she already knows the answer and only wants to hear what the children will tell her. Celine has no patience for the games.

She has never gotten along with Mrs. Barnum. She’s a woman loved by her family, the heir to the Barnum fortune, so powerful that her husband had taken her name instead of the other way around. She’s everything Celine wanted to be as a little girl. She’s everything Celine will never be, and the voices are fond of reminding Celine of it.

(They are wrong—Celine is just like Grace Barnum, in all the worst ways.)

“Through the door,” Celine replies.

She won’t tell Mrs. Barnum of what she saw. She can’t stand to be looked at like she’s crazy, not again, not when she’s finally found a place she feels she belongs.

Mrs. Barnum’s brows lift. She doesn't point out that Celine's answer doesn't make sense. “I see. I thought I heard someone at the piano.”

Celine shrugs. “Must have been Damien. I can’t play.”

She can’t, not like this, but if she can only find that place again, she can learn. Learn everything her soul has ever needed to know.

(She spends another decade trying to find her way back. She doesn’t regret a moment of it.)

Her first attempt is with the ouija board, when she is fifteen, when she and Mark have finally declared to their parents that they are courting, when William still winks at her while no one is looking.

(Her father disapproves. Says that Mark isn’t a suitable match. She looks at her mother; she looks at Damien; she knows what he means.)

She smuggles the board into the manor with Mark’s help.

“My aunt hates those things,” he’d said, looking at it with a reluctance that almost gave Celine pause. She didn’t care if Mrs. Barnum didn’t like the board, but Mark’s obvious discomfort was nearly enough.

“Then I won’t let her see it,” Celine had reassured him.

He refuses to touch it, so Celine stuffs it into a bag and hides it beneath her skirts; Mark simply provides enough distraction to allow her to shuffle into the parlor.

William, Tess, and Damien are already gathered around the low table, Tess perched on a cushion she’s pulled into the floor.

Celine feels that power rush into her body as soon as she unveils the board. She does not feel the eyes that watch her; Tess feels them, Mark feels them, but Celine is too focused on finally, finally, getting answers to pay attention to their apprehension. The world shrinks to the thrumming in her veins and the whispers of the board.

William is the first to speak. “A seance?”

“Does anyone have any objections?” Celine’s tone makes it clear it is a challenge, not a question.

Tess and Damien trade a look that makes Celine want to roll her eyes. Tess speaks for the pair of them. "Are you sure about this?"

Instead of snapping, Celine smiles, soft and reassuring. “You know there’s something strange about this house, Tess. The spirits could tell us what it is.”

(She doesn’t mention that the spirits have never spoken to her in the manor before.)

There’s suddenly something strange in the way Tess is looking at her, too. That black tendril around her throat tightens and Tess reaches out for the planchette, her eyes glassy. It’s like she’s…empty.

The parlor door bursts open a second before Tess’s fingers reach the board, and Celine spins to face the door with a frustrated growl low in her throat.

Mrs. Barnum looks over the five of them. When her eyes land on the board, she flares such a bright red that Celine has to squint to see. For a moment, Celine is scared. She can’t recall the last time she felt anything other than anger or a crushing numbness.

Celine leaps to her feet when Mrs. Barnum snatches the board from the table, the heat of her own anger rising to burn against her skin.

“Give it back!” Celine shouts. “We didn’t even get started, there’s so much to--”

She feels the power draining from her fingers and she has to get it back, she finally has answers, she can find out what’s wrong with her, what all this means.

“You are done!” Mrs. Barnum shouts even louder, and Celine’s shoulders draw inward out of an instinct she’s not yet conquered. “Whose idea was this?”

Celine can feel herself start to shake with rage as all five of them look at one another. She wants to scream that it was her idea, of course it was her idea, and damn the consequences. Damn the fear in Mark’s eyes. She opens her mouth to speak—

“It was me, Mrs. Barnum,” Tess says from across the circle. Her eyes are cast downward at the floor and Celine sees her tense.

“Tess,” Damien whispers.

(They’re not friends, they’ll never be friends, they’re not friends, why does she do these things?)

From the look on Mrs. Barnum’s face, she knows it’s a lie. They all know it’s a lie. But Celine isn’t going to say anything.

Mrs. Barnum’s lips press together into a thin line. “Alright. I’ll have the driver take you home.”

Celine watches her go.

Their mother dies when they are seventeen.

Damien holds Celine’s hand again at the funeral. He stares into the distance, through the trees around the cemetery, into a spot that does not exist. He is trying not to cry.

Celine is glad for the mourning veil on her hat. It hides her dry eyes. It hides her rage. It hides her disappointment that the name carved on the stone is misspelled, and that she does not know enough of her mother’s language to fix it herself.

(She keeps the hat and veil. She dresses in black long after society says she should have put it aside. She is not sure there is a name for what she mourns.)

When the others speak of their futures, she speaks only of all the places she will travel to, all the people she will meet. All the spiritualists she will see and the questions they will answer. She glares at her brother and Tess when they trade looks behind her back.

(The voices in her ears scoff when she speaks of it. They tell her that she is the only one that has ever been like this. She is alone; she has always been alone.)

Mark is the only exception, the only one that doesn’t make her feel crazy, the only one that doesn’t question her. He simply smiles at her the same way he always has, like she hung the moon and the stars in the sky. Celine teases that perhaps, if he behaves, she’ll take him with her when she travels, and they will see the world together.

(“I can’t leave,” he snarls, in a rare display of temper that makes her skin prickle. She doesn’t understand what he means until she realizes the tendril around his throat has grown so large that she doesn’t know how he can breathe.

Something dark and ancient laughs when she decides that she will free him from it.)

It shouldn’t surprise any of them when William declares his intentions to volunteer for the war effort; he’s talked for months now about joining the service to find adventure in the world. Still, it grips Celine with a sense of panic that is foreign to her. All the news reports say that they are winning, that it will be over by Christmas, but the voices in her ears tell her they are lying. There are horrors to come that none of them could imagine.

He kisses her forehead at the train station and Celine finally learns what his aura feels like. It wraps around her for seconds that stretch into hours. It’s like the first time she got drunk on champagne; the bubbles had gone straight to her head, and she’d felt like she was flying, like everything was the funniest joke she’d ever heard, like the world was good and warm and she was finally happy. William feels like euphoria.

(It’s why she comes back to him, again and again, over the years. He makes her forget.)

While he’s gone, he sends letters home to Tess. She reads them out loud in the parlor. After the Barnums go to bed, she shows the rest of them the bits that she’s censored for his parents’ sake. They try to laugh at his stories of rats as large as cats that live in the trenches even as they pray he is only exaggerating.

And then influenza comes.

Tess moves into the manor permanently when her mother is the first to die. Damien is the one that found them, and Celine thinks it hurt him nearly as much to see Tess catatonic and staring at a corpse.

“I had to carry her out of there,” He tells Celine in a low voice. Mrs. Barnum gives Tess a glass of hot chocolate in the next room. “She was just...waiting to die.”

Celine has seen that hollowness in Tess’s face before, when the tendril around her throat tried to guide her movements. She is struck by the strange notion that the darkness is gorging itself on Tess’s sorrow; it grows larger and larger, though not nearly as large as the noose around Mark’s neck.

(Something cruel and ancient growls when Celine decides she will free Tess from it, too.)

The Barnums fall ill soon after, and Mrs. Barnum insists with a fervency Celine doesn’t understand that they go to the hospital.

It almost suffocates Celine as soon as she steps through the doors—screaming spirits, pain that smothers the world, so many emotions and colors and feelings that she cannot stand it. She lasts an hour before she begins to hyperventilate and runs from the hospital.

She is three blocks away, sitting in an alley with her knees pulled to her chest and tears streaming from her eyes, when she feels Mrs. Barnum die.

Tess grieves by working until she can’t feel anything at all, and Celine is happy to go with her. The second time she enters the hospital during the pandemic, she conquers her fear of it. She forces herself to breathe evenly. She puts walls up around herself until she can no longer hear the screaming.

She and Tess sneak out from the manor while Damien and Mark are at work. The boys would keep them locked up forever to keep them safe, but neither girl can stand it anymore. They’re starting to go insane from the solitude and volunteering as nurses seems like a good way to wash their hands of their guilt and grief. They learn quickly how to care for the dying. There is no saving most of their patients. All they can do is try to alleviate their suffering.

It works—until Tess collapses.

She’s been coughing for a few days, but Celine had ignored it; Tess had told her not to worry. Now she gathers Tess into her arms and drives her back to the manor because she doesn’t know what else to do. The hospital didn’t save the Barnums. But she can save Tess, if she can just channel enough power, and she’s strongest at the manor.

(If she can’t—if she can’t, this will be her fault, it was her idea to volunteer at the hospital, she’d just wanted to prove she wasn’t afraid and her selfishness will have killed Tess.)

“We need to take her to a doctor!” Damien shouts outside of the door to Tess’s room. Celine peers around the corner at her brother and her partner; they look half ready to tear each other apart.

Mark shoves Damien back into the wall. “I’m the master of the house! She stays here. The hospital is where people go to die.”

Damien storms past her on his way down the staircase. His permanently blue aura churns with streaks of red and purple. There is disgust in his eyes when they look at one another, though she knows it isn’t directed at her. He doesn’t say a word.

(She finds him later, at the writing desk in the study, penning a letter to William.

“He should know,” Damien says. “They didn’t let him come home to bury his parents, they’re not going to let him come home to bury--”

Celine wraps her arms around him for the first time in a very long time; he can no more stand to say the words than she can to hear them. He sobs into her shoulder.)

That last afternoon, Celine knocks on the locked door and waits for Mark to answer it.

“Chef has dinner ready. Go eat something. I’ll sit with her.” She leaves no room for argument in her tone.

Mark is too tired to argue, anyway. He shuffles out of the room and down the stairs like a zombie, his hair uncombed and his eyes red and sunken. Tess’s death will destroy him. Celine always found it silly that Tess was afraid Celine would take away everything she loved, but now Celine understands. Tess will take everything Celine has left with her to the grave. She has to stop it.

Tess looks terribly small in the bed, drenched in sweat. Her eyes flicker rapidly beneath her lids. If it weren’t for the blood and mucus drying on her lips, she would almost look like she was having a bad dream.

Celine sits down in the chair by her bed. She slips her fingers through Tess’s and gasps—it feels like Tess is going to catch fire. Celine wonders, for a strange moment, if that wouldn’t be better. Burn the manor down with them all in it. Die together instead of this long, slow process where they are damned to watch one another suffer.

She takes a deep breath. The power is there. She closes her eyes and thinks of how much she wants Tess to live.

(They are not friends. They’ll never be friends. This does not mean anything. She just—she just doesn’t know what to do without Tess, damn it.)

Nothing responds. Celine can feel it, so very close to her, just out of her reach. It gathers around Tess’s throat. It gathers in her lungs. It does not flow into Celine’s hands.

Tears roll down her cheeks unbidden. How dare she cry, how dare her power not obey her, how dare this happen again and again and again, this isn’t fucking fair—

(In the morning, Mark tells them that Tess is cured. She smiles at them all, but Celine sees that the darkness around her throat has hooks now, digging into her skin. Celine realizes she will never free Tess from that cruel, ancient, hungry thing.)

Mark takes her out into the woods behind the manor, back to that place that is too perfect to be real. He drops to one knee and pulls a ring from his pocket. The diamond is carved in the shape of a crescent moon, with smaller yellow stones on either side of it like stars.

“Marry me,” he says. It is not a question. There are no flowery declarations of love.

There are no voices in her ears to yell at her. Her stomach turns anyway, and every bone in her body screams at her to run. She is not the marrying type. She will never be a good wife. She will never be like Mrs. Barnum. It’s better to run now than to drag it out.

“Yes,” Celine hears herself say.

(She knows what he meant when he said he couldn’t leave.)

Damien looks like he might cry when he sees her in her wedding dress, even with her brows pinched tight at all the bridesmaids trying to help pin her veil into her short hair.

He shifts the tulle to lay flat over her back, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “I wish mom could see you. You look amazing.”

The reminder that he is the only family she has left makes her stomach turn. It isn’t much different from the rest of their lives; he’s always been all she has. But he’s always had so much more.

(“I won’t allow it,” their father had shouted when she’d told him about her engagement. She’d been foolish to tell him, she knows. Some stupid part of her she had yet to bury had wanted him to walk her down the aisle. Had hoped for it.

“I’m not asking for your permission,” she’d snarled back. It was the last thing she ever said to him.)

One of Mark’s cousins scrapes a hairpin against her skin and that’s all it takes for Celine to break. “Everyone out!”

Damien lingers. He’s never counted as a person.

“Will you--” Celine takes a deep breath and curls her nails into her palm. “I need you to send Tess here. And go help William get ready.”

She sees the hurt that flickers in his aura; it is the first time she has sent him away. But he is dressed, coiffed, picture perfect as he always is, and she knows for a fact that the best man is still drunk from the bachelor party the night before. William will need all the help he can get. Damien is the only person she can trust to take care of things. And there are—there are some things she cannot tell him.

Tess is a vision, even in her wheelchair. As soon as the dressing room door closes behind her, she is on her feet. The doctors may have forbidden her from standing for long periods of time, from walking, and from dancing, but she refuses to rest like they want. She usually has Damien or William’s arm to help her instead.

Celine knows that restless feeling. The chair is a cage to Tess, a cruel reminder that she can no longer do the things she loves--so she will do them anyway, and damn the consequences.

“Cold feet?” Tess asks gently. She takes the veil off of Celine’s head and frowns at the state of her hair.

Celine wants to hate how easily Tess sees through her. “No. ...Yes. I don’t know. I-I said yes, so I’m going to marry him, but I just—I don’t want to end up like--”

She chokes on the words. Like my mother. Mark is not her father, Mark is nothing like her father, Celine knows this, but at the same time, he could be. She’s seen that darkness in enough people to know that anyone could become a monster. And nothing scares her more than being seen and not heard, being buried in a grave with her name misspelled and no one able to fix it because she has been stripped of everything that made her her.

“Hey,” Tess says, resting her hands on Celine’s shoulders. Celine turns to look at her, and the determination in Tess’s eyes takes her off guard. “Listen to me. Tell me right now. Do you want to marry Mark? Because if you don’t, my car’s out front, and we’ll make a run for it.”

“He’s your brother.”

“And you’re my sister.” The love in Tess’s voice steals Celine’s breath away.

(They are not friends, they will never be friends, this is—this cannot be friendship.)

Celine takes another deep breath and closes her eyes. She focuses on the weight of Tess’s hands on her shoulders. Focuses on all the times she’s felt warm in Mark’s arms, all the times he has let her fight her own battles, let her rebel all she wants. Mark knows she is strange and eerie and cursed with wanderlust. He has never tried to change her. He loves her.

When she opens her eyes again, Tess is smiling at her.

“Alright. Then let’s get your hair fixed—what were they even trying to do?”

(Celine tells herself that Mark will not become a monster. She convinces herself of it, and she does not see it until it is too late.)

Damien walks her down the aisle. William cries when he sees her. Mark’s hands shake when he puts the ring on her finger. Tess leaps from her wheelchair to catch the bouquet.

For a moment, Celine is truly hopeful.

Everything is perfect for the first few years.

Mark’s career skyrockets. It makes him happy, and in turn, Celine is overjoyed. When he’s home, he hangs on her every word, does everything she wants. She can finally travel. There are no locks on the manor windows. She has a key to every door. Mark has never tried to control her.

She is free of the voices, too, now that she lives in the manor. They cannot reach her there.

Mark starts to throw wild parties on the weekends for his coworkers. Networking, he calls it. He doesn’t ask her to come. Celine is much happier staying on the second floor of the manor, setting up her work room or reading. He’s always been better at those sorts of things. Telling people what they want to hear. He comes to check on her periodically throughout the night whenever he has a party, kissing her forehead.

(After a while, it is Benjamin that comes to check on her, bringing her dinner and a drink at “the master’s” behest. She always thanks him.)

She sees when Tess meets Julian, when the man turns her across the parlor floor without any care for Tess’s breathing. His aura is golden and glowing, tinged with pink. It is love at first sight. It sickens her, though Celine can’t explain why. She retreats back to her study.

When they discover what Julian has done to Tess (when she turns up on the doorstep of the manor after not seeing any of them for weeks, bruises on her throat, tears in her eyes, carrying nothing but the clothes she’s wearing), it takes Mark and Damien both to hold Celine back. William paces the floor with his pistol in hand. Damien takes away their car keys, to keep she and William from driving to Julian’s home and showing him how it feels to be powerless.

When the man himself comes knocking, they hide Tess in the study with Mark and Damien. Celine and William greet Julian at the door. William’s pistol is in hand, and one of his medals is pinned to his lapel. It is Celine that steps forward.

“She’s not here,” Celine says. It’s clearly a lie, one they must tell as a sort of ceremony.

“I just want to talk to her. She’s been sick—I don’t think she’s in her right mind lately,” Julian replies. He runs a hand through his tousled hair. Celine supposes it is meant to be charming.

It infuriates her instead. He fooled her once. He will not do so again. Celine steps forward, into his space, and to his credit, he does not back down. His aura is brown with rot and black with pride.

“She isn’t here,” She repeats. “It’s a good thing she isn’t. Because if she ever tells me that she so much as thinks she sees you, I’ll kill you in your own bed.”

Something bubbles up inside of her. Power. Rage. He is just like her father. He hurt her pride when she realized he’d tricked her into believing he was good. He is not her father, but her father is six feet underground, and Julian is here, where she can reach out and strike him, where she can give him all the retribution he deserves—

Dry lightning strikes one of the trees in the yard and sets it alight.

Julian’s eyes are wide when he looks back at her. “You’re crazy. Where the hell is my--”

Whatever he was going to say is drowned out by a deafening gunshot. William has stepped out of the manor, his pistol pointed up at the sky.

“Oops,” he deadpans, as if he could’ve pulled the trigger by accident.

Julian runs, and he does not come back.

She dreams of his voice.

Celine is adrift in a void. She knows she is sleeping, but she cannot find her way back to consciousness. It’s almost pleasant in the darkness. Like she’s been there before. Like she’s always belonged there.

“Trust me, let me in, and I can make you happy just like Celine.”

It is Julian, and yet it cannot be. He should have no reason to speak her name, let alone make an offer like that in her dreams. It’s the sort of thing he’d say to—

She suddenly knows how to move through the void and she flies as fast as she can towards his voice. If he is here, if he has found Tess again, then surely he means her harm. Celine will kill him before he gets the chance.

Tess sits at a dinner table in the void, though there is no food in front of her. The man across from her looks like Julian. It should be Julian, Celine knows this. But the more she looks, the more Julian’s appearance falls away like water, and the monster beneath it is revealed.

It’s...formless. Endlessly shifting into shapes that should not exist, twisting around itself and inside itself. Millions of eyes blink lazily across it.

“No,” Tess says.

The entity surges forward to nearly envelop her. Celine watches the tendril that has always been around Tess’s throat tighten until the other girl’s lips turn blue. A thousand of those eyes see her all at once, and Celine realizes she must have cried out. She cannot move under its gaze, cannot help Tess, cannot save her—

Celine wakes and tumbles out of bed moments before Tess’s scream pierces the silence of the night.

(I know what you saw, Celine writes to Tess a few months later, after Tess has run far away, when Damien is the only one of them that knows how to contact her. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you from it. I love you.)

It is as if Tess was the last thing holding them all together. With her gone, everything begins to fall apart.

William is rarely around; some strange animosity has grown up between him and Mark. He is always in search of the next big fight, the next war to be won, relishing in the violence of it all. There are moments, late at night, when he and Celine are the only ones awake in the manor. They sit together on the kitchen counters like they did when they were teenagers. They don’t speak about his nightmares. They talk about her work instead, and how phenomenal he thinks her research into the manor is.

(Mark forbids her from speaking of it in his presence. That is the first time she packs a bag and runs.)

Damien is more upset by Tess’s disappearance than he wants to let on. Instead, he wants to talk about all the things Celine is determined to avoid. She doesn’t want to speak about their father or his death or the strange, guilty mix of joy and sorrow it left them both with. So when he needs to borrow money from her, it is a relief, and she does not ask why. She simply lets him take it from her half of the inheritance, or she gives it to him from Mark’s bottomless coffers. When things get too rough, she takes the money to the speakeasy herself, more comfortable amongst the debauchery than she’s ever been amongst high society.

(She knows it is cards. She knows his tells. But he does not ask for help to get away from it, and so she does not give it. Mark is both too rich and too busy to notice.)

And Mark—

Mark is not the man she married anymore. He is gone from the manor more often than not, and Celine tolerates it for longer than she thought she would. Even when he is home, he may as well not be. They do not go on weekend trips anymore; it's rare that she can convince him to leave the manor for dinner. He spends all of his time locked in his study with script pages scattered across the floor, obsessively going over his lines. Sometimes he stumbles to bed with ink smeared across his hands from whatever new writing project consumes him.

(They start sleeping in separate beds when she shouts that she is tired of him waking her up in the middle of the night.)

Celine feels as if she is drowning. The marriage was a mistake. She should’ve taken Tess’s offer to run before the wedding. It hadn’t been cold feet—it had been a prophecy. The world is not a good or kind place. The only person she’s ever been able to rely on is herself.

In hindsight, she thinks that she wanted to get caught.

William has the same wild spirit as she does. Neither of them have ever looked for safety. Every time he kisses her is like the time on the train platform, like being drunk on champagne, like the world fades away and reality doesn’t matter for just a little while longer.

He runs from the manor when she screams at him to go, blood streaming from his broken nose. It is smeared on Mark’s knuckles as well.

William would kill Mark if he stayed, she knows this. His temper is too unpredictable, his tendency towards violence more frightening than intriguing now. Still, when Mark turns on her, Celine almost regrets being alone.

He takes a deep breath and smooths down the wrinkles on his shirt. He's pretending to be calm when he looks at her. His hands still tremble with the force of his rage. Celine keeps her weight on her back foot, ready to run.

"Now," Mark says. His smile is too wide--it is deranged. "Let's talk about this. William has always been...well, jealous. I know you wouldn't hurt me on purpose. I know this is because of him, so why don't you and I let bygone be bygones?"

How is she meant to respond to that? His eyes flicker with manic energy. Something dark shifts behind his irises. it is like all the times she's seen Tess go hollow, only worse. She does not recognize the man she once loved.

"I'm leaving," Celine manages to say. She backs up to the edge of her bed and pulls out the bag she's kept packed for the past six months.

(She should have left the moment she packed it.)

Mark follows her through the house as she makes for the front door, a demon nipping at her heels. Like all the shadows and spirits she's never been able to outrun.

"What's this about, Celine?" He laughs. "Whatever you want, just name it! Is it a child? Will that make you happy?"

In the future, the only credit Celine will give herself is not hitting him. He has become the thing she fears, the husband that wants her beautiful and home and caring for his children; the husband that does not know the first thing about her. Or, worse, the husband that simply does not care.

He catches her in the foyer. He grabs her shoulders and forces her to turn and look at him. The tears in his eyes are half rage and half sorrow.

(That is how all things will end.)

"I'll die without you." Mark's voice breaks on the words.

He is an actor, Celine tells herself. He's made his living by lying to people. This is just another lie. Like all the times he's said he loves her.

So she looks up into his eyes, and lets out that awful part of her that always screams to go for the jugular. "I don't care."

He stumbles back a step like she's punched him. Celine finally breaks into a sprint towards her car.

She looks back, just before she peels away. Mark still stands in the doorway, staring at the spot where she'd been with the same stricken look. For the first time, she sees the full extent of the darkness that has wrapped itself around him. It winds around his wrists, between his ankles, chaining his limbs together and rooting him to the floor of the manor itself.

Save him, shouts the part of her that still loves him, that knows they are not themselves. She could save him. She has the power.

But that’s not her job.

Celine does not plan on ever coming back. She sees Tess and Damien in brief flashes whenever she stops off at home to retrieve funds. They are still dancing around one another. Nothing else has changed. She is growing, becoming more powerful, but everyone else is...stagnant.

Tess corners her only once about what had happened, and for a moment, Celine is angry that Damien told her.

“I wasn’t happy, Tess,” she says, and it is far too close to the truth than she ever planned to admit. “You of all people should understand that. I regret it, but I’d do it again. I had to get away from there.”

There’s a flash of understanding in Tess’s eyes that makes Celine feel almost guilty. No, she wants to say. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like you. I wasn’t a good person. But it is easier to let Tess think what she will.

She drives into the strange storm that lingers over the hills. The spirit in her passenger seat has a smile that is too wide. It urges her to hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, aren’t you curious?.

(She will have her answers.)

The void is no longer familiar as she falls through it. It is everything she’s feared; it is being forgotten and being lost; it is her soul severed from her body and a name that will be misspelled on a grave and no one left who cares enough to fix it; it is the light of every bridge she has burned along her way; and worst of all, it is Damien falling with her, clinging to her pinky like he always has even though this is all her fault—

The ice groans beneath her as she sits up.

It is not really the lake she fell through as a teenager, nor is it really that forest. It’s her mind, her power, this place, all coming together to make something of nothing. It flickers and distorts even as Celine tries to hold on to it.

Cracks form beneath her feet as she stands, spiraling out towards the two prone forms lying too far away for her to help. Tess, bloodied, sprawled, moaning weakly. Damien, eyes closed, silent.

“Celine?” Tess’s voice echoes across the lake. With it, the world around them shakes, and the cracks deepen. “Celine, I can’t—I can’t move, please--”

The lake remains, but the trees around them flicker and warp and twist into—into places Celine doesn’t recognize. When she tries to pull it back to the forest, to hold on to anything familiar, Tess sobs.

She sees Tess clearly, now. Her eyes are sunken and red, the skin around them turning grey; her cheeks are hollow and her lips are cracked. Blood and a thin layer of foam have dried on her mouth and nose. The blood on her chest is still fresh, still oozing from the wound.

(It hits Celine in a rush. Influenza Tess has died before Tess has been here before Tess is fighting me for control Tess has a stronger connection Tess will win and I will lose Damien--)

If she and Tess keep playing tug of war, Damien will be dragged to the depths. Celine feels her feet sink a fraction of an inch. She has to act. There is a choice to make and no time to make it.

She runs to Tess.

Tess smiles up at her and Celine wants to recoil from her blood-stained teeth and rheumy eyes. But she remembers that moment, a lifetime ago, pushing Tess to safety and taking the plunge in her place.

(They are not friends. They could never be friends. They are not friends, so why are there tears frozen on Celine’s cheeks?)

Celine jumps. The ice shatters. Tess has enough time to realize what Celine’s done and scream in terror before she vanishes beneath the surface.

A thin crust of rime forms over the cracks, and the ice no longer protests when Celine runs across it to pull Damien to the shore, to pull him into her arms. The world no longer resists as she forces it into as much of a shape as she can manage.

And by the time Damien wakes in that one-room cabin, Celine has nearly convinced herself she doesn’t regret a thing.

#markiplier #who killed markiplier #wkm #wkm celine #celine the seer #i posted this on ao3 and then went camping before i could share it here

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sleepyfan-blog · 5 years

Photo

Blackmail

dreamswap by @onebizarrekai

Fandom: undertale AU, dreamtale

Characters: Dreamswap Blue, Dreamswap Dream, Dreamswap Nightmare

Warnings: Blackmail, Drueswap (maybe?)

Summary: DS Blue wants to make a deal with DS Dream.

Word count: 2,152

"Oh Dreamy-boy~! I hope that you're not busy, as you and I need to have a little chat." Blue sang, squatting on the open windowsill, grinning at the golden angel, his eye lights shining brightly with a genuine glee that sent a cold shiver run down Dream's spine.

"And why should I talk to you, Blue? You are a criminal - one raised voice or pulse of my magic, and you'll be thrown in the dungeon, while it is decided what to be done with you. I do have power restraining cuffs and chains that hold you, and given the crimes that I know for a fact that you have committed..." Dream threatened, turning to face the other with a scowl "And for your information, I have a great deal of paperwork to do, and am in no mood to entertain your nonsense. I will grant you a thirty-second head start out of here before alerting the guards to your presence. Starting-"

"I know why you won't kill Nightmare. Despite everything that you say to your loyal followers about how you will kill him when you capture him, you haven't yet. and I know that you've managed to capture him at least a dozen times. You've even had him in your grasp for months a couple of times, and yet he still breathes. Tell me, did your lackeys ever question you, or are they too blinded by your light to understand the truth?" Blue purred, cutting Dream off as he hopped down from the window and sauntered over to the powerful CEO. He draped himself across the back of the other's chair, one hand coming up to lightly cup the other's jaw, leaning so that he could whisper into the other's non-existent ears "You can't live without him."

Dream deliberately suppressed the panic clawing at his soul, so that it didn't affect his aura. The last thing that he needed was for this miserable, slippery outcode to know for certain that he had something on him, voice hard and implacable, not betraying the tumultuous feelings and thoughts he was struggling to suppress "I have been living without Nightmare as a permanent person in my life for over a hundred years, Blue. I can, and have quite handily, been living without him for quite some time. I don't know what you think you have on me, but you are wrong.Cease touching me, or I will break your hands."

Blue clicked his tongue condescendingly at him, shaking his head a little "My powers allow me to see parts of the code of the people and universes I interact with. I hadn't had the pleasure of meeting your other half until quite recently. He is in possession of one of my favorite toys - who I was unable to retrieve due to his and another's meddling. He's managed to acquire a pair of adorable misfits - I wonder if he'll find more. I am sure that there are more out there. But that's not the most important thing I discovered that day. I'm not quite sure how or why, but your life and his are bound together. If one of you dies, the other will die immediately as well. Given that the two of you have opposing but complementary powers, I suppose that the multiverse decided that the two of you had be closely bound to prevent one of you from killing the other... Perhaps for the emotional balance of the multiverse?" The outcode grinned as he waited for the other to respond.

Dream continued to suppress his emotional reaction. There couldn't possibly be a way that the other could prove a word of what he was saying. He was fairly confident that he could out bluff the other. "I have never heard of any other being's life being so closely bound with another's in the entire time that I have traveled throughout the multiverse. Why would anyone believe you? You are known to be a liar and manipulator.. Whereas I am the head of JR, and have helped millions of beings find safety and happiness." He was glad that he was able to keep his voice and aura calm and steady, though he had tucked his hands beneath his desk, as they had treacherously started to shake a little.

"If I was lying, then you would have immediately called the guards, no matter what I said." Blue retorted back "The fact that you're still talking to me - rather than trying to use violence proves that I am correct. Besides, though my lovely toy and that knife were able to escape, I did steal something from the three of them." He snapped his fingers, and Nightmare appeared before the both of them, struggling and cursing in the other's blue strings.

"I DON'T KNOW WHO THE FUCK YOU ARE, YOU SHITHEAD OR WHY YOU - of fucking course you work for Dream! What fresh hell did you pull this asshole out of? Ink wasn't enough, you had to find another fucking psychopath to add to your collection!" Nightmare ranted, starting to struggle more against the blue strings holding him captive.

"I work for myself, and I would have had him pay me up front before capturing you, oh guardian of negativity. No, I brought you here because I need to give him proof. Once he's made aware that I know his dirtiest, darkest secrets I'll send you off to an universe that you'll be able to run around in causing mischief for some time to come." Blue cooed, voice full of false sweetness. "What I need from you, Nightmare, is your soul." With a flick of his wrist, Blue dew out the other's soul - a violet colored apple, with blue and gold flecks in it. He then used his strings to pull out Dream's soul - which was a golden apple.

Dream hissed a little in pain - those bright blue strings dug painfully into his soul, and he had summoned his claymore on instinct "Stop this, right now! wh-what are you trying to prove?"

"Oh hush. I was just about to show you." Blue responded dismissively, lightly touching both Nightmare and Dream's souls, pulling out their code information - prompting nearly identical whimpers of pain and misery "let's see... power levels, abilities... Ah, here we go. Mortality and lifespan. See?"

Dream swallowed hard, as written very clearly in Hands, was the fact that his fate and Nightmare's were tied together. That he and the guardian of negativity were unable to live without the other. Their spirits would cease to exist, and a new guardian or guardians would be created to replace them in Dreamtale. "S-stop this... R-right now... It... hurts..." Dream answered weakly, his voice trembling a little. It wasn't quite a plea, but it wasn't a demand either. "What... what is it that you want?"

The smile on Blue's face widened considerably and he purred in response "There, that's better! Now that I'm done with you for the time being, Nightmare, I will be letting you go. Ta-ta!"

"Wait, hold on, what the fu-" Nightmare hissed, his eye lights wide with worry and confusion as a portal opened up behind him.

Blue first dismissed the guardian of negativity's soul back into his body, and then flung the other through the portal with his strings "Oh, do be quiet. I'm done with you. For now at least. This is between me and the leader of JR." Blue closed the portal, turning to look at Dream again, still holding his soul in his strings, watching him with that unsettling grin on his face.

The CEO kept still, despite the instinctive desire to try to fight the being who was holding his soul hostage - but that wouldn't help the situation at all. "Just what is it that you are after? I dislike repeating myself. Unless of course, you're just enjoying holding my soul with your magic?"

"I want so many things, but to start, I would like you to tell your people that I work for you - that way they won't harass me when I am doing something that could be... Misconstrued as something that is illegal, as I would be doing it to help your organization. I also want to be paid to keep this information quiet, as I doubt that your followers will take very kindly to the fact that you can't actually kill Nightmare, since you've painted him as the true source of all negativity in the multiverse. Not that's actually true but that's a different issue and one I don't particularly care to try to correct other beings on." Blue responded, his smile widening a little further as he slowly released Dream's soul.

"How much money do you want per month? I will tell the accounting department that it is your salary for working for me." Dream responded, scowling a little as he continued to glare at the other, crossing his arms defensively over his chest, dismissing his claymore, despite wanting very much to run the smug glitch through and be done with it... One never knew how hardy outcodes were, and Dream sincerely doubted that a failed attempt at killing the other would mean that the other would ask for less, the next time that Blue worked up the brash courage to approach him like this.

"Oh, while I do like money, that's not the only form of payment that I want from you." Blue purred, leaning in close to Dream, lightly tracing a finger along the other's jawline, settling onto the other's lap. "Your magic is so warm, and your aura... It really does feel good. At least when you're in a calm or happy emotional state... I wish to experience that up close with you."

"So, what? You want to spend time with me while I am happy or calm? That is a... Strange request and not one I am sure I can grant you, given that you are blackmailing me so that you can continue to do illegal and immoral things throughout the multiverse, while being able to claim to do so under my banner." Dream responded through gritted teeth, eye lights flashing with fury. He shuddered a little at the other's presumptuous touch "What reasons do you have for touching me like this? Stop, now."

"Come now, surely you know that you're one of the most eligible and desired bachelors in the multiverse? Wealthy, powerful, a very popular image of an angel - down to the righteous fury and ability and willingness to smite evil and evildoers wherever you appear." Blue purred, his hands starting to wander a little before he pulled back, his eye lights shining with pure avarice. "But no. You're not comfortable enough with me yet, for the two of us to become better acquainted with one another like that. At least for now. I want an hour a day of your time, for every day of the week. Provided that you aren't on a raid of course, or badly injured. I'm sure that the more that we get to know one another, the more time that we will be spending together. during that time the two of us will talk to one another, explore different universes... Perhaps even have a couple of light and friendly sparring matches. I will find you when I have the hour to spend time with you - and I will do my best to come to visit you when you are alone. However if I do come and you are busy, it would be in your best interest to find a way to clear the next hour so that the two of us would be able to spend it alone... Unless of course, you'd like for me to give them an explanation as to why we will be spending time together. Not that I would tell them the truth. I want my monthly salary from JR to be... Oh, given my talents and information network - which I will share with you to an extent - ten thousand gold coins."

Dream twitched at the rather exorbitant price, before sighing. the bastard had him over a barrel, but Blue wasn't wrong in his assessment of his abilities, from what the CEO had seen of his skills and network of illegal contacts. "Deal."

"Wonderful! It's been such a pleasure doing business with you, Dream! See you soon~." Blue purred, pressing a light kiss to one of Dream's cheeks before teleporting away.

The CEO buried his face in his hands, elbows resting on the desk as he forced himself to go through a calming breath exercise. It wasn’t working, but he needed to get a handle on himself, particularly as he could sense someone coming. There was a knock on the door, and he heard a tentative “Sir?” from the person behind the door.

He straightened, pretending to be the calm, confident leader that many believed him to be at all times.

#bad things happen bingo #dreamswap #dreamswap dream #dreamswap blue #dreamswap nightmare #drueswap #sort of #tw blackmail #my writing

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tales-from-exo-planet · 5 years

Text

LYON II PATHCODES VOL. II

ACT III./Pt I. “Dirty Chai”

Length - 8,637

Mood - Amorous, Captivated

Pairing - Baekhyun x Reader

Warning - Mature for sexual references

“You’re perfect

I’ll fill up your empty heart

To the brim with me”

-Baekhyun “Stay Up” feat. Beenzino

You tucked the slim rose gold circle back into your pocketbook after checking your complexion once again.

The inside of the cafe he had suggested to meet, a blend of cream and taupe walls, sky blue ceiling and plates, silver and earthenware cups, and cherry wood furniture, a modern update to a cultural staple, was tranquil and enchanting as expected.

There were a mixture of students stopping to take a break from their studies, young couples side by side at tables sharing small café plates of tartine between them while enjoying a peaceful weekend, and elder patrons ordering an un déca to take to the terrace, the prime spot for people watching, the morning paper rolled and tucked against their side as they carried their cup out into the breezy afternoon air.

You’d taken a barstool window seat at the front, where you also observed the comings and goings of café patrons.

It was a non assuming, homey weekend in Lyon yet within your ribcage you felt as though your heart was spastically beating out of time every minute that he had yet to arrive.

You felt a jittery whirlwind of unbidden exhilaration and nerves after your chance reintroduction at L’ambassade.

You knew you weren’t fooling him with your, “my schedule should be clear soon. It’s just a crazy month,” texts.

In fact, every time you sent one of those after another “so what does your week look like?” texts from him he would call you after an hour, shifting the conversation to something entirely apart from what you had previously talked about, sharing an anecdote about his day, and always asking you more about yours. It was after one of those conversations that he met you again, somewhat at your invitation but moreso because you told him about the event, at a charity concert by a classical pianist spotlighting the entirety of Chopin’s Nocturnes. He came with a friend whom he introduced you to, an equally connected young man that disappeared from his side before the actual event leaving him alone to find a way to you without his wingman.

Later, on the phone, he continued to ask a lot about your hobbies; recreating Pinterest boards in your office as vision boards for potential clients complete with fabric and scent details, thrifting with your best friend whether here in Lyon or Marseille for vinyls, unique home decor, and vintage seasonal wear you liked as a reward to yourself for another happy customer, volunteering at the plant nursery you’d been going to since you were a child when they needed help, and told you about his; taking a foodie tour of the city with his grandmother and mother when she was in town to visit them, staying in after long stretches of activity for his radio broadcast to game, ordering in lunch and dinner at his studio’s practice room to try his hand at a new piano composition unbothered, spending time with his grandparents at their country home he had bought for them after his first paycheck to help around the house with their gardening only to be rewarded with a home cooked meal.

The conversations were unhurried and disarming, his tone of voice, always genial, growing warmer the more you shared.

Sometimes you were still confused at how two low key individuals would choose to meet one another in an environment altogether separate from their private big hearted, blissful personalities.

Why had he chosen to host that party?

Why had you chosen to go?

Couldn’t you have just as easily bumped into him while out thrifting with your mother and he, out on a foodie tour with his grandmother and mother?

Wouldn’t that have been more organic and natural to affection than to see each other as you had at L’ambassade, in the ambitious, commanding personas you reserved for the public?

”I hope to see you soon,” he’d say towards the end, in a hushed confiding tone and you’d pause hearing his hopes crumbling until you answered, “Mhm. If my schedule clears up.”

You confided in your best friend (Marseille Reader) after one such conversation, saying that “Mm what if it’s not all that I think it will be anyways. There’s nothing worse than having your time just...wasted. After all the anticipation…” But she made fun of you where you hoped to find someone to laugh with.

“I’m so through with you! After he hopped in the car to come have pizza and watch your favorite movie, your mother suddenly called and said that she had an accident at the shop in the middle of the night? I mean...I tried my best not to blow your cover but really____?”

You were sheepish at her blatant though truthful accusations about your dubious attempts to avoid being left alone with him.

“I thought you were IN LIKE with the guy! He was ALL you would talk about whenever you found the time and now when he hopped in the car, and ditched his own party, something Prince Charming didn’t even really do, need I remind you Cinderella, to get to know you, you’re going to text your mom and chicken out? I was too embarrassed to laugh.”

You took a breath to respond but knew that you couldn’t explain it away. You were out thrifting at the time and she had moved on to the next clothing rack by the time you’d thought of a response anyways.

As soon as she (Marseille Reader) had taken off from L’ambassade, you were texting your mother to call you with some excuse so that you could get out of this possible date slash round two of whatever you had started back at his party.

And much to your shame, she did call but asked you about “the spontaneous affair” later.

He was all you could talk about.

He was the person you had wanted to meet the most.

Well...one of the people you had wanted to meet the most.

It felt wrong to feel drawn to him, and to desire his presence as you did.

Whose presence do I desire?

It felt wrong now that he was looking at you, sharing not only your space but the sweat of your dance upon his own skin.

It felt too rushed.

Too soon.

How could you know something as surely as you felt within your soul that though he was a stranger to you in name, in touch, in scent, his aura told you otherwise.

Truer was he becoming to the drawing of happiness you had inactively but subconsciously crafted when thinking “this is the kind of man he will be.”

Could you trust that blueprint when you had failed before, falling for those who turned out to be fallen, faithless princes instead?

But I have known you before.

The whole world has known our story as some sugar spun fairytale but it’s real.

It’s before me, finally.

I can’t let the sun go down another day without being in your presence.

Without being by your side.

When he looked at you as you took that call from your mother.

When he called you after you sent another frightened “I need space” text.

You knew that he knew it.

He felt it.

And he waited.

More patiently than you honestly expected him to be.

His tone of voice was ever cheerful, ever sweet, ever thoughtful.

When you lied to him and to ___ (Marseille Reader) that you had to see about your Mom and hoped you could see him again another time, he paused. His entire being seemed to slow in motion, his head turning, though not suspiciously, but genuinely concerned that he had done something irrevocably wrong.

“I hope everything is ok?” Was all he said at first and the car was quiet as _____ (Marseille Reader) slowed at the light and made to turn the car around to return to the club.

“I’m sure it’ll be just fine,” _____ (Marseille Reader) sighed as she came to a stop.

You felt your breath coming in high and fast as you waited for him to go.

“I really hope everything is ok. Maybe we can see the movie another time?” He asked, his inflection, meant to be both compassionate and trusting, drew your gaze from your screen where you looked at your mother’s most recent text.

“I thought you were at an event tonight. Why would you need an excuse to leave? Is everything ok? Are you safe?”

You tapped the button to darken the screen.

His eyes took you in, gauging your false worry and concern over your mother’s shop.

But though you were sure the lie you crafted was clear as the night’s starless sky, and that he was merely seeing the extent of the growing anxiety you were sweating to contain, he only gave a small, tender smile that lit his eyes with knowing.

“If it’s ok, I’ll call you later? Just to make sure you’re ok. Ok?”

And after so many phone calls, later here we finally are, you thought to yourself as he entered the cafe, took a cursory glance around the place and upon settling his eyes on you, smiling a smile that was for you and you alone.

As if to say, finally.

“________,” he greeted you as he came closer to your perch.

“Hi,” you smiled back, remembering your Mom’s hands in your hair that same night you fled to her shop.

“Don’t be afraid to love someone, _______. There were boys you met in school. You have had some heartbreaks now as a young adult. Things don’t always appear as they seem to be. We’ve talked about those times. We’ll talk about everything that happens no matter who it is. But life is about experience. Life is to be lived in both joy and pain, no matter what happened before. Don’t be afraid, my darling, my baby girl,” she smoothed her hands through your hair, scratching gently at your scalp as you turned your face into her stomach and cried.

————

“Café allongé? Really? I would have thought…”

You knew you were pulling a face and his eyes watched as you playfully judged his choice.

He sniffed at the dirty chai you ordered too before leaving the café.

“That smells so good. The dirty chai you ordered.” Did he have a thing for scents too?

“It’s one of my favorites. Have you ever tried a chai before? If you like café allongé you might like a dirty chai. It also has espresso in it but has more flavor from the milk and spices used. Milk drinks are more for breakfast but ah well. My mom uses cloves and fresh ginger when she makes it for me at home,” you stated, stopping beside him where you walked to bring the steaming to go cup up for him to smell.

Stepping closer to where you offered him your uncovered cup, he took a hearty inhale, nodding once with his eyes closed, a fan of golden brown lashes against his pinkened cheeks.

“That does smell delicious,” he said as he opened his eyes.

His eyes resembled the spice blend swirling beneath the steam from your uncovered cup.

Delicious, he had said in English.

The slight spring breeze carried his voice high above you, above the square framed by the Cathedral Saint Jean to the sun, beaming brightly atop the clouds.

You stood still moving carefully to replace the top without wasting your coffee all over yourself from nerves.

“I wasn’t sure what you would like more,” he said after you finished.

You could tell that he had watched you until you successfully replaced the top.

The nonchalant way his hand slid back into his pocket that wasn’t holding his coffee cup as if he was braced to pull the cup from you if it began to fall.

“What do you mean?” You asked, sipping briefly.

“I mean...I didn’t know if you would like to go out dancing again. You seemed to have so much fun when we were out,” he tilted his head back to swallow a large gulp.

The way he winced afterwards let you know that it was as bitter as you thought.

“Ah well dancing is fun too...it’s nice to just be out today. Thank you for inviting me,” you shook off his assumption that you were bored with his choice when it was entirely the opposite.

It was a beautiful spring afternoon in Lyon for window shopping, most specifically at Les Jouets des Anges, for his nephew and niece who were visiting next month.

“It’s just...if I can be honest with you I don’t go to nor do I host events like that often. I’m more of a homebody,” he chuckled at his sudden confession but it was the expression that came over his face that made you chuckle too.

“I can relate to that. After the past couple months of back to back to back schedules, it is so nice to just do something low key like today. What kind of gifts are you looking for?” You asked as you neared the shop’s ruby red and gold lettered facade.

You followed him into the shop, greeting the shopkeepers and waiting for him to explain his reason for stopping in, that he was looking for a unique doll for his niece and potentially a new toy car for his nephew.

You noticed the pauses between his phrases, as if he were searching for the right words to use and remembered that he had mentioned still not feeling as comfortable with using French as he was his native language, a revelation that made you think back to the combination of English, Korean, and French you had heard him using during his evening broadcast.

The shopkeepers brought you around the shop, showing you the best that they could offer, and he was considerate of their offers though you could tell that none of them were exactly the items that he was looking for.

You left without purchasing anything at all, and continued to wander together, another swift breeze wafting the citrus like scent of magnolias your direction.

“Ah, that's a shame that there wasn’t anything there. I know that she does have a doll at home but it’s dress is older and so I was hoping to find a new one,” he frowned as he suddenly brought his phone from his back pocket, and swiped at the screen.

“Here they are,” he spoke softly, and again you came closer until you both were standing beside the bench where the magnolia blossoms had fallen from their tree onto the seat.

He gingerly brushed the blossoms to the floor, making space for you both to sit side by side so that he could show you the photo.

She sat in his lap in the photo, a little boy whom you assumed to be her elder brother stood beside them where they sat, his head leaned on his uncle’s shoulder, who had his arms wrapped around them both.

You saw the doll and action figure he had mentioned to the shopkeeper only moments ago on the floor in their boxes, newly unwrapped Christmas presents.

Their sincere smiles melted the last dregs of your anxiety and you allowed yourself another deep exhale.

“They’re beautiful. Both of them. How old are they?” You asked and he brightened at your question, telling you all about his brother’s children whom would be visiting soon to celebrate his birthday with him.

“So most of your family still lives in South Korea, where you’re from?” You asked, turning towards him and placing your pocketbook against your stomach so that you could cross your legs.

He nodded, turning towards you as you turned, crossing his opposing leg, his arm stretched along the back of the bench, his phone tucked into his front pocket, his left hand on his thigh.

“Yes my grandparents and I are the only ones who emigrated here when I started school. My parents could not afford to come too, otherwise they would have. My brother and his wife were just starting their family when I planned to move so they weren’t able to come too,” he spread the fingers of his left hand wide along his thigh as he pushed and pulled his palm along the fabric.

“Why Lyon of all places in France?” You asked, genuinely curious as he pursed his lips, a gesture that told you that he was again thinking about how to say what was on his mind in a way that you would understand.

“Well back home, my brother, my father, and I, and a lot of men in our country are required to enter military service within a certain time period. I decided to go in as soon as I was old enough to do so because my parents and I had discussed what I would like to do in my professional career.”

“I have always loved music and had learned to play the piano when I was very young. There was a piece I learned in school by a French composer and I thought that in addition to learning about genres from other countries that maybe it would be interesting to travel and live in a different country. I did not know any French when I decided to come here for my studies but I thought I could learn and just give it a try.”

“So my grandparents decided to move with me. My grandmother teased me and said it wasn’t realistic to send me off on my own to a foreign place where she could not be sure I would eat well.”

He paused at this part of the story as you giggled at another of his shameless admissions, a quirk of a meek smile spreading from one corner of his mouth to the other.

“How could you just uproot your grandparents like that for the sake of food?” You quipped and he laughed aloud, shaking his head and hands simultaneously, “아니, 아니!”

“But you haven’t even tried my grandmother’s cooking. There’s just something about home cooking, you know,” he said in his own defense and you laughed all the more, falling forward and doubling over at his shamelessness.

You hadn’t meant to reach out to brace yourself against him, one hand on his thigh while the other arm cradled your own stomach.

But he didn’t pull away from your touch.

Instead you felt him lean to shift his weight and allow himself to support you.

You sobered up, leaning back, brushing your curls away from your face.

His eyes followed your assent, his cheeks somehow pinker as a sudden glimmer took over his gaze.

“So you moved your dear grandparents here from their home and then you went to Conservatoire National Superieur de Musique et de danse de Lyon for piano pedagogy?” You remembered that had come up during one of your initial conversations after you confessed that you wanted to take your time before considering seriously talking to anyone. Especially with the way that you had met. It’s easy to get confused.

He apologized immediately, thinking that you were assuming that he was only interested in coming back to your place with you and your best friend potentially for...well.

“Yes, they moved with me and I stayed with them on the weekends especially when my family came to visit and during the holidays. I think my grandmother especially was worried not only about my diet but also about my being alone without anyone to talk to.”

“That was another reason that I started my radio program. I wanted to work on using French more and more often. I had experience during my high school years doing a radio broadcast for our school as well. But in college it was different as all things are. I had a lot more freedom in my programming and tried to make it more than just being about myself. I’m not sure when it started to be shared outside of the school circulation but eventually I was approached by producers to make this a regular gig after I completed my training. I was surprised to be received as well as I was and happy that my French improved, even just a little.”

His smile was shy when you nodded and said that you could understand him.

“I think it would be wonderful to learn a new language. I of course know French, but also English, and Portuguese. It would be interesting to learn Korean. The more you are able to rely on yourself and not have to hire outside to supplement needs, the more marketable you are. Definitely worth it to try to pick up a new language if you have the time,” you said, meaning every word that you said.

He seemed to take you at your word, leaning slightly closer to you.

“Also, if you’re still looking for a new dress for your niece’s doll, I...may know a dressmaker that can help you out. Would you be ok with sending me that picture? When would you need the dress by?” You asked, pulling your phone from where it was tucked within your pocketbook.

He gasped at your offer and looked shocked at the sincere way you looked at him, your phone cradled in your hands.

“I...you don’t have to do that. I have been looking on and off but just have not found anything that looks right for her. Or him. That’s so nice of you to offer. Really.” Again, his really was in English.

“Well I don’t mind. Really.” You intoned as he did, his shy smile beaming ever brighter.

“I…” he sighed, running a hand through his hair as a blush bloomed against his neck.

You tucked your hair behind your ear, placing your chin on your hand anchored by your knee, blinking at him expectantly.

He exhaled aloud, blowing a raspberry as he tapped through his phone and you felt your phone buzzing within your palms.

“Thank you,” he had written below the photo now in your inbox.

______________

The evening fast approaching, he drove you back to your flat after you took another walk along the streets, from which you had walked to meet him earlier that afternoon, his hand fidgeting on the stick shift where your hand rested on your own thigh only inches away.

___________

“So should I send the items to your grandparents or should I bring it to you whenever we meet again?” You asked after you shut the door to his Audi and met him on the sidewalk where he stood waiting for you.

He flushed again at your mention of meeting again.

Before you left the Cathedral’s square, he had asked you out to coffee again or maybe dinner out to which you had agreed.

“That’s up to you and also the dressmaker. Would it be ready when we see each other again? Did you want to go out again tomorrow? Or next week?” He asked, as you stepped closer, your heels clicking against the pavement as you went.

“Mm that is true. It would be a shame if it was not ready in time. Is it ok if I have your grandparents’ address then?” You asked, offering him your phone which he took, stepping closer still, to type the address in the note you’d left open under the title “Operation: Toy Delivery.”

He smirked at the title, slipping the phone from his hand to yours so that your hands overlapped and for a moment his hand held yours.

“I was serious about improving my French, if you were serious about learning Korean,” he said, your eyes dancing from his eyes down to his broad shoulders in his trench coat that towered above you, the sun crowning him in its rays.

You were a breath apart now but you spoke in your normal voice, feeling the vibrations bounce back to you as you stood within the cradle of his broad chest.

“So next time, French and Korean lessons?”

“Just next time?” He asked, the end of his question lifting in wonder.

You watched his lips form each syllable he uttered in English.

“Well...it depends on the level you want to reach,” you breathed.

And his smirk broadened.

“I want to be proficient,” he said, again in English.

Now you were flushed to the soles of your feet.

But you smiled all the more, relaxing ever more.

His gaze was ever watchful and when you smiled, when you really smiled, he took your hands in his where they were clasped in front of you keeping your pocketbook still where it rested against your stomach.

His touch was gentle, as you expected, his slim fingers weaving through yours.

“내 미소로 너의 미소의 아름다움을 만지고 싶다,” he whispered in the most tender tone.

“I...what did that mean?” You shivered, coming further into his embrace, the sun falling to insignificance behind him.

“I want to touch the beauty of your smile with my smile,” he whispered, his tone ever more tender as he waited for you to realize what he had asked.

You felt a quivering in your knees but held his hands more firmly, tipping forward and up towards him to kiss the corner of his mouth.

He bit his lip as you settled back on your feet, his hands still holding yours tightly.

You stepped further into his embrace and lifted yourself up again on your toes, feeling him bring you closer, his head turning just in time.

_______________

Two weeks later

He sent you a photo of the gift on his grandparents’ dining table, and a video of his niece and nephew opening the gifts while squealing in delight at the matching outfits for both of the children and each of their toys, crafted by your mother at your request, unbeknownst to him.

You looked at the tag “from your uncle’s good friend” you had written coyly and wondered if he had thought you were passively aggressively friendzoning him.

He called you later that night to thank you again.

“You really didn’t have to do that. I can’t tell you how much they loved the outfits and the extra toys you sent. My brother and his wife, my parents, my grandparents, they all want to thank you personally. It was such a nice gift, ______,” his tone reverent.

______________

A week later

Weaving his fingers between yours once you stepped up to the sidewalk from the car, you walked once again alongside the magnolias, a chattering of birds following you as you spoke together translating phrases and teaching one another new ones.

“너는 오늘 너무 아름다워”

“J'aime cette couleur sur vous”

“나는 너와 함께 시간을 보내는 것을 정말 좋아한다”

“J'ai hâte de vous revoir”

His kisses at your door that night were ever more demonstrative in their tenderness.

The way he cupped your cheeks in his palms, and cradled you into his chest, swaying slightly when you wrapped your arms around his waist, accepting his warmhearted embrace.

___________

Two days later

“But why didn’t you tell me that your mother made them? I...I would like to pay her back-”

“But that’s the point of a gift. It’s not about paying me back. I paid for the fabric and I did also pay my Mom for her time. I know better than that,” you chuckled, picking up your fork to get another bite from the cake you two were sharing.

He pulled the plate of cake from your reach, so that you had to look at him.

“I’m serious, _____. I haven’t even met your mother yet. But my family knows all about these gifts and about you. I would like to meet her and tell her thank you, myself,” he insisted, his tone dropping into his chest.

“Well...ok then, Boss,” you said, reaching for the plate of cake, which he gave to you after holding it away from your grasp a moment longer, kissing and sucking away the cream at the corner of your mouth.

“Was that so hard,” he laughed at your bashful frown.

____________

Two weeks later

“This is my grandmother and mother. 할머니, 엄마 this is ____, and her mother,” he gestured between the three women, the jade green 청자 vases he had ordered and his brother had brought back with him on the center table of your mother’s floral shop.

Your mother, her eyes large as saucers at the size and variety of the vases, quickly began to ask the sweet women, his grandmother and mother, about traditional floral arrangements. He sat between his mother, grandmother and your mother and you sat opposite him helping them to understand one another in their mutual excitement that you felt had less to do with the vases the longer you listened.

_____________

That same week of your birthday

“I trust you, but I don’t trust the sidewalk,” you laughed, feeling his gait slow to awkward shuffling steps framing your tentative ones.

“I won’t let you fall. I promise,” he whispered, brushing his lips against the top of your ear before letting his hands fall.

“Lumière Fourmi closed for an exclusive event...” you gasped at the title, Ever After, showing in each of the window panes.

He took your hand in his, ushering you through the front doors where a banner sparkled under the pearl white ceiling lights.

“Happy Birthday, _____”

——————————-

After a shared bucket of popcorn while cuddling in the plush velvet seats

“Monsieur, Madame, your dessert has arrived,” your lone attendant of the evening announced as he wheeled the cake tray in, complete with a frosted ice bucket of champagne.

After handing the matches to him, they bowed and made their exit.

He sat up, lighting each of the candles one by one, spelling your name.

He sang you the birthday song, his voice like his embrace, warm-hearted, and buttery like toffee, in French.

You clapped enthusiastically, tears in your eyes as you leaned forward to kiss him in thanks.

“마음에 드세요?” He drawled, seemingly happily dizzy from your successive kisses.

“응! 너무 좋아! 정말 고마워!” You took his cheeks in your hands, leaning forward to kiss him again.

He held you to him after the last kiss, murmuring throatily, “Serez-vous ma petite amie?”

Though at this point you knew it was purely a formality, you sat back, his hands resting on your mid back.

“Mille fois oui,” you answered, your gaze straightforward and your heart clear.

_______________________

After a mouthful of cake sweetened kisses

“What movie did you learn that phrase from? I didn’t teach you that,” you joked, snuggling into his arms, as the credits began to roll.

He rolled his eyes, licking his lips after a beat.

“사랑에 빠진 사람은 한계를 모른다,” he murmured between kisses.

_____________________

Finally, at your apartment later that evening

“Wow, this is such a beautiful place, ______,” he said the moment that you led him into your flat.

“Thank you,” you said, pulling down at the hem of the sleeve of his trench coat as he stood in wonder.

He looked down at where you tugged at him and giggled as he shrugged out of his trench coat, and waited for you to hang it at the door before you let him know to make himself comfortable.

He stepped out of his dress shoes at the door, placing them so that their toes faced the door, before he walked towards the living area where your curtains were held open.

You moved through your apartment, dreamily, gathering blankets, pillows, placing a new unopened toothbrush on the bathroom counter that you bought for yourself but hadn’t opened yet.

He stood at the window, leaned against the pane, viewing the street below where his car was parked across the street after bringing you both back to your flat.

You stood, unable to move closer.

Though not entirely in fear.

But in peaceful stillness.

In absolute incandescent happiness.

“This has been such a great birthday,” you announced, seeing him jolt slightly at the sudden sound of your voice.

He turned to walk towards you, and you met him in the middle of your hardwood living room floor.

“I’m sorry that I kept you out so late. I hope it’s ok that I stay just this once,” he winced and you rolled your eyes at him.

“I insisted that you come by instead of driving all the way back to your grandparents. I would have been worried if something happened to you out there at this time of night. You forget that both your grandmother and mother have my number.”

He shrugged, his eyes drifting to the blankets and pillows in your arms.

“Let me help you with these then?” He offered and took them, placing them on your sofa and you followed to sit beside him.

Sitting which inevitably became cuddling.

“I’m embarrassed at how easy it is to end up like this,” you admitted into his neck, feeling his throaty chuckle against your lips.

“Is it bad that I’m not?” He murmured, wrapping his arms around you.

“That makes you sound like a player though,” you said, leaning out of his arms, to gauge his reaction.

His brow rose at your insinuation.

“I…?”

He released you from his chest, taking your hands in his instead.

“I don’t want there to be misunderstandings between us. I’m not here for any other reason than that I really truly like you. But I feel like there’s a barrier between us no matter how sincere I am. Please help me to understand that,” he spoke in low tones, the pads of his thumbs gently tracing the veins on the backs of your hands.

Could he feel the jump in your pulse at his heartfelt inquiry?

“...well…”

“We don’t have to go too fast. I’m not asking you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. I can leave if you feel burdened. I don’t want to harm you, ____. Ever,” he brought your hands to his lips, kissing the back and hearts of your palms twice.

“I’m not afraid of you touching me. Or holding me. It’s not the physical intimacy that scares me. I can feel our hearts becoming closer the longer we spend time together moving at a pace that seems rushed when I think about the amount of time we’ve actually spoken to one another.”

“But my heart says another thing. My heart wants more time. More and more time. It’s so easy to talk with you. To spend time with you. To just be.”

“But do you really, ____? Sometimes I feel that our hearts are in the same place. I feel that we both feel safe together. And that you’re beginning to trust me. But then I can feel you pulling away as if you want to hide instead of remaining in the same place with me. Is there something about me that makes you feel uncomfortable?”

He kept his eyes on the back of your palms, tracing your veins with his forefinger as he gradually let your joined hands drop between you both.

“I…”

How messy was it to explain the gaps between your fingers where he held onto you more tightly than you held onto him?

How soon was too soon to reveal all that you feared?

But he had become close to the entrance to your heart.

He chose to wait there.

Sincerely, just as he said.

“You don’t have to tell me everything at once. But I want you to know that when you are ready that you can tell me everything. I want to know.” He waited for some time before speaking, continuing his gentle rotations against the back of your palm.

Don’t be afraid to love someone, _______.

Life is to be lived in both joy and pain, no matter what happened before.

Don’t be afraid, my darling, my baby girl.

You fidgeted, pulling your hands from his embrace, to cradle his instead.

You brought his hands, the backs of his palms, his fingers, then turned his hands to their center to your lips as well.

He exhaled, slowly. Allowing you to turn him this way and that.

Closing your eyes, you repeated the gesture before bringing his hands to your heart, pressing down until you could feel your heartbeats, his through his hands, and yours atop his.

He leaned forward, brushing the bridge of his nose along the hill of your cheek.

“Please be careful with me,” you whispered, shivering as he kissed the center of your cheek, moving glacially towards your lips.

Then your hands, yours and his, pulled each other closer.

Breaking apart, he hummed against your lips.

“Please be careful with me, also.”

You answered in kind with another kiss.

__________________

7:00 am, the morning of your actual birthday

You awoke curled into his chest, feeling him shiver as you stirred again in his arms, turning into his neck.

Your clothes from the day before that you both still wore were rumpled where they had been pressed and freshly laundered for the surprise special showing he had gifted you the evening before.

His dress shoes were still at the door.

Your pumps had somehow ended up beside them.

He moaned as you shifted your weight, pulling yourself up to a seated position.

His arms followed you where you went, his hands drifting down to your waist, his fingers twitching slightly as you continued to move.

You turned to look at him, seeing that he was still asleep, his lips puffed and bruised as were yours.

You blushed as your eyes trailed to the right of his lips, focusing on his chin, his neck and where his dress shirt were unbuttoned exposing his clavicle.

There you had left your marks.

Seeing his made you bring your hand to your own that he had made; love bites on both sides of your neck, the top of your left shoulder and the stretch of skin just above the mound of your left breast.

Your phone chimed in your purse on the counter and you stood up quickly, hearing him gasp and groan in his sleep.

You made it in time to catch it on the third ring, answering it as you swiped your purse from the counter and hurried down the hall to your bedroom.

“______! Happy birthday love!” _____ (Marseille Reader) exclaimed as soon as you answered, blowing her kazoo into the mouth piece of her phone.

You laughed hoarsely, muffling the volume of the sound.

You thanked her as you started your shower, creating another barrier for your conversation.

“Am I catching you at a bad time? Are you on your way out already? Why is your voice so husky? Is he…? Wait!-”

“Could you be any more nosy?” You sighed to which she laughed.

“Well a very happy birthday to you girl. I’ll hang up now. Text me when you have a minute ok?”

You hung up after you both said goodbye, texting her quickly.

“We didn’t. If that’s what you’re thinking. He just stayed over after we came back from the theater. We slept together but not...not like that.”

Three dots.

“Are you ok? How do you feel about things? I know you’ve been anxious about it for awhile.”

You placed your phone on its designated dish for when you brought it to the bathroom, and went back to your bedroom to place your purse on its hook.

“I’m still nervous about everything. I don’t know why though. You’ve known me long enough to know what I am always like.”

The three dots flashed quicker this time.

“What makes it so different this time?”

You undressed, thinking about her question as you washed your hair, scratching your scalp in slow methodical circles.

When you were rinsed clean, you hurried to change into comfortable sweats, grabbing your hair brush from its holder in your bathroom but turning round in a circle stunned to see that your leave in conditioner was missing.

“Where-”

You went to grab your phone, swiping to open a happy birthday text from your Mom.

“Thank you! I’ll call you in a little bit ok?” You responded quickly before going back to _____‘s (Marseille Reader) text message from before.

“Obviously every situation is different. But...it’s just the way he completely reads me, _____ (Marseille Reader.)”

A question mark.

“Last night we talked after we got back and he wants our relationship to move forward. He officially asked me yesterday. And somehow he realized that though I said and meant yes, I was also still feeling wary about it. And he asked me why? And when I was wondering why he would be willing to trust me so completely, my mom’s voice came back to me telling me that trust is part of the process. No one can really guarantee that things won’t happen.”

“Mmhm”

“Trust is part of the process.”

You felt your hair dripping on your bare shoulder.

“You deserve to be loved the way he wants to love you, _____. Don’t you think you deserve to be wanted and loved like that? If you don’t think you’re ready for that then don’t lead him on. But if you want to love him then don’t be afraid to want and accept that.”

________________

“I’m sorry,” you cried out as you almost collided with him in the hallway.

“I’m so sorry!” He exclaimed also, catching you where you had almost fallen to jump away from him in time as he approached.

“I just wanted to come take a shower because it sounded like you were done. Is that ok? Can I use the towel that you left out? I should have brought some things with me but I didn’t think I would stay over,” his chuckle was nervous as if he was worried that you were going to rescind your invitation.

But you shook off your nerves, reaching out to take his hand in yours to lead him to your bathroom.

“Your hair is different from how it usually is ,” he said aloud, his eyes surveying every wet curl atop your head.

“Yea...I was coming out to get my conditioner that I left in the living room. I was hoping I wouldn’t wake you since you still seemed tired-”

“Oh no I’m fine. So what will you do to your hair now? Just let it dry?” He asked, reaching out a hand to touch one of your curls.

“I’ll be right back if you want to wait right here?” You asked, and left him to look around to find a chair to sit in, hurrying quickly to your guest bathroom to find your leave in conditioner bottle that you had left on the window sill the day before.

You returned to your bedroom to find him looking at the picture frames on your writing desk, those of you and your mother, _____ (Marseille Reader) and you on holiday, you outside of your university holding your diploma.

You moved around him, allowing him to see what he wanted, turning on your radio.

You went into the bathroom, hearing him stir at your writing desk as he watched you go past.

After hunting for your comb you went to sit at your bathroom bench, spritzing your hair with your leave-in conditioner spray you concocted before you began to comb through and part your hair.

You heard him before you saw him at the door of your bathroom, “you can come in. If you want to sit beside me?”

He came slowly, his footsteps soft on your marble floor.

You felt him come closer until he sat down beside you and you shifted over, giving him room.

He sat quietly, watching you as you braided your hair and put it into a bun.

“What’s in that spray bottle? It smells like coconut and something else delicious,” he asked, as you turned back to him, handing him the unopened toothbrush after putting your hair care items away and washing your hands.

“I’ll tell you as soon as you shower ok? What would you like for breakfast?”

__________________

After breakfast, your mother’s chai tea recipe, baguettes, strawberries, and 길거리 토스트, something he asked for but wasn’t positive of the recipe for, you cleaned up the living room and you both moved into your bedroom.

You called your mother back while he showered earlier and she planned to invite both him and his family if they were available for your traditional birthday dinner at her home.

When you asked him over breakfast, if he and they were available later this evening or tomorrow depending on their schedules, he immediately called his mother who called your mother to arrange the dinner for the following evening.

“Did you call off your schedule for the rest of today too?” You chuckled, when he announced that everything was arranged.

He sighed after a long sip of chai, rolling his neck side to side as if he were finally waking up, saying, “I didn’t have anything else scheduled for this weekend. I go back in on Tuesday to record again. I planned ahead. I have time.”

“Time for me?” You asked, enjoying the warmth in your hands from your cup of chai.

“Time for us,” he smiled in return.

_________________

“Come here,” you said, standing with his hands cradling yours.

He followed where you led down the hall past your kitchen, past the half guest bathroom, further down the hall to your bedroom, weaving his fingers between yours in a solid embrace.

You led him to your room, leaving him at the door to get your picture frame.

He waited by the door, not crossing the threshold, until you gave him permission.

_________________

“This love, this love

This love, this love

Let me feel the love, you get to know me

Figured that soul, I hold you only

Take him in and chilling, we keep it rolling

Let me get a hit of, you feeling on me

Let me feel the depth as you get to know me

Figured that soul, I hold you only

Take him in and chilling, we keep it rolling

Let me get a hit of, you feeling on me”

You laid side by side as Cassie sang, her voice tinging the light of the sun’s descent filtering into your bedroom from your curtains in bashful pinks, and deeper reds.

His hand held yours, slipping his fingers between yours, rubbing his thumbs against the inside of the heel of your palm.

You turned, your eyes finding his first where he watched you.

“이쪽으로 오세요,” he whispered, his other arm reaching up and over, creating within himself a circle for you to fill.

You went, snuggling into his chest with your ear over his heart. His arms held you close, one of his hands drifting higher to your now dried hair. At first he petted your hair, gently teasing stray curls from your bun, and eventually his fingers inched along your scalp, scratching you in all the right spots.

You moaned against him, writhing closer.

Until he suddenly stopped.

You opened your eyes just as he reached his hand that had been in your hair beneath your chin, tilting your face up to him, his kiss full and passionate.

You pulled him, by his broad shoulders, wrapping yourself around him, as he turned with you, bringing your thighs around him, his palms spreading along your skin.

“Mm,” he kissed the tender love bites he’d created earlier that morning at dawn, and nosed down further as you pulled at your sweatshirt.

You helped each other out of your clothes, down to your silk and his cotton, chasing each new reveal with another kiss, and another until finally you were free.

He shyly pulled away when you pulled him closer by his hips.

“I-”

“Are you ready or are we moving too fast?” He asked immediately.

You brought your hands to your chest, covering yourself.

“I don’t...if you don’t want to be together...I really don’t want to do this…” he said, his eyes looking and you hushed him with your lips realizing then that you were both nervous about whether you were in the same head space.

“I want to. Je veux.”

“Moi aussi.”

__________

“Mm…” he let out a long low moan as your kisses drifted from his neck.

To alternate between sucking and blowing hotly against his nipples, his chest, his stomach.

He bucked against your sudden kiss at his hips.

The way that you slowly opened your mouth, nibbling at the indent of his hip bone.

While he focused there, panting open mouthed, you reached, sliding an open hand down, past his belly button pushing past curls of hair, grasping him.

“____,” groaning your name at first, you felt him still against you as you opened your mouth.

“Ha...I,” he squirmed involuntarily but towards you.

____________

He was buzzing in your ear, humming as he breathed you in.

You turned into his embrace, your back flush against his chest.

He cradled you, making himself a throne upon which you reigned.

His hands were at your breasts where his mouth had been before he turned you over.

You pulled one of his hands from your breast, as his lips pressed into your neck, murmuring drunkenly against you your name over and over and over.

“Vous pouvez aussi me toucher ici,” you murmured rotating your hips as you brought his hand down further past your belly button, past the silk, past your curls, to you.

“Vous êtes si doux et doux même ici,” he bit at your neck, sucking the skin there as he placed his hand above yours, following your movement.

___________

He turned you to him, taking a handful of your hair in his hands, helping you closer with his other hand spread wide against your behind, as he rocked you higher and higher.

“B-Baekhyun!” in tears you said his name again and again.

__________

“Seeing you again at my party after that first winter we happened to meet left me empty. I tried to wait until we could see each other by chance. But I found myself asking and wondering more. I found every chance to ask about you. But how could I find a way to casually see you being that our careers are what they are?”

“When I saw you again _____. I can’t tell you what it meant to know you were coming.”

You pressed a sleepy, tearful kiss to his Adam’s apple.

“I’m surprised you didn’t give up…” you whispered huskily.

“How can I? My heart belongs to you. There’s nowhere I can go without thinking of you. Not even to sleep, ____. You’re with me always.” He kept a hand at the small of your back, circling from there to the rise of your bottom, while his other hand held your thigh ascending to your knee. He held you to him, with your thigh wrapped over his hip.

“Always?” You asked, your hand that rested on his rising and falling chest, moving up to turn his face down to you.

“Always,” he nodded, nuzzling you and turning until he rested his head on your breast.

You scratched at his scalp and neck, stirring and writhing against him as his drowsy kisses again became urgent.

“B-Baek-Hyun-Ah please…”

How did he know that you liked it like this?

How did he know that you needed him to touch you there?

“Ah foda-se...ha!”

Like that.

Again.

“...please”

More.

“Come here baby,” he murmured against your brows, one hand in your hair, as his other held your thigh, pulling you together until you were blissfully one, again.

____________

#EXO Pathcodes AU #baekhyun fanfic #Lyon x Baekhyun #Lyon #Human Realm #Universe Gamma

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hipachi · 5 years

Text

I made a dirty fucking fic

Ok this is just copied straight from my Ao3 (HERES THE LINK BISH) and the italics have all been destroyed which makes me sad. BIG FAT TRIGGER WARNING FOR RAPE / PAST CHILD ABUSE / INCEST / TORTURE so if this bothers you, just don’t :’)) ‘The Bakugou Protection Squad, huh?’ Katsuki ponders in his mind, feet dragging along the rough dirt of the path before him. His eyes skim over Midoriya’s battered limbs that hang limply from within Shoji’s cascading form. At Tokoyami’s exhausted, slightly catatonic expression. Tsuyu and Ochako are covered in scrapes and scuffs. Katsuki puffs with contempt. ‘More like the Protection from Bakugou Squad. I could take out any one of these nerds and they wouldn’t be able to do shit!’

“Heh.” Muses Katsuki aloud. A wide grin asserts itself upon his cheeks at the thought of his explosions sprinkling blisters among Deku’s freckles.

“Something wrong?” Tokoyami asks from behind, Dark Shadow creeping further from his chest to survey the surrounding woods, his dark aura smudging into the inky sky.

“Nah,” Strops Bakugou, lazily folding scuffed elbows above his head and stretching with a wide yawn, “I’m just wondering when these so-called villains are gonna show up, that’s all. I’m getting bored. If they think they’re so tough, why don’t they come out and fight me! Bakugou, future No.1 hero speaking here!” Katsuki’s bellows chase off into the surrounding forest, Uraraka’s worried glance fuel for his outlandish slur. “Come get my ass, you pussies! I’ll take you all on!”

“Hff~” Shouto’s eyes roll at the comment, obscured by the ever-present war of hot and cold enveloping his crown. Shouto initially harbours no intention of confronting the pent-up Katsuki, who’ll surely ask for a fight at any opportunity. If he can only hear how Shouto’s conscience is dragging his irresponsible actions through the mud. The students don’t have time to fight amongst themselves in this kind of situation, even a blockhead such as Katsuki should have enough brains to figure that out.

“That’s enough, Kacchan! This is serious.”

“Don’t Kacchan me, Deku! If anyone here is gonna get their ass beat by a bunch of loser villains, it’ll be you! Useless Deku, always getting himself fucked up by his own quirk!”

“Enough!” Says Tsu, her tone hushed and frantic, but Katsuki waves her off and continues on his rampage.

Shouto’s morals gnaw at his reflexes, tugging him into a backwards walk so his eyes can bore into Katsuki with a silent protest. Shouto presses a single finger against his lips in an attempt to silence the boy’s impulsive roars, met only by a wide grin from Katsuki. The boy seems momentarily satisfied with the attention gleaned from the number two hero’s son. “Don’t take any shit, do you halfie?” Shouto can’t find within himself the energy to respond to the taunts, his usual demeanour of indifference cloaking an irritated mind. Katsuki looks him up and down, ruby red eyes narrowed to challenging slits, fiery and confident above that wild grin of his. Shouto pivots back around with ease, the hunk of Class B meat who’s slung over his back weighing nought atop sturdy shoulders.

Katsuki is still bitter about the sports festival. Bitter at how Shouto found Deku of all people worthy enough to use his fire. But not Katsuki. He'd thrown that damn match and made him look like an utter fool.

“Heh, useless half-assed quirk user.”

Shouto’s upper lip curls and he shoots a controlled glare back at Katsuki. If only he knew what his left side meant to him.

Little does the squad realise, they are being watched, and any hope of escaping their current situation is about to crumble. Fresh ash sprinkled into the nights' breeze. Mister Compress lurks silently, brown eyes tracking Katsuki’s every move from within the canopy above.

Even a reaction speed as lightning fast as Katsuki’s couldn’t have caught more than a whisper of the villains' fleeting presence. The team advance, blind to the traceless ghost pirouetting across the night sky, stealing away their precious Kacchan and rear defender, Tokoyami. It’s not until the entertainer announces his presence that the Bakagou Protection Squad realise. Their friends have been captured inside two shimmering blue pearls.

Time has run itself stagnant from within the icy blue prison of the trickster’s pearl. A blanketing comfort begins setting into Bakagou’s bones, scraping itself a new home from within the catacombs of his marrow. Any notions of resistance are stroked gently into submission by unseen kisses, his head lulling towards the sensation of comfortable nothingness. Nothing but the muffle of disembodied voices manages to echo through the pearl’s surface, carried quietly along the non-existent breeze.

The sounds around Katsuki begin to transpire into a hollow, all-consuming hum, the likes of which similar to when he’d curiously pressed an ear against a seashell at Isshiki Beach when he was small. After a moment, Katsuki imagines himself suspended in fluid. Perhaps roiling within the scorches of an onsens embrace, or the flesh of his body diluting into the chilly white foam belonging to the sea. ‘Who am I?’ Arrives the echo of his distant consciousness, before retreating back home to oblivion. Not hot nor cold. Light nor dark. His thoughts spell whispers of approval, synchronising slowly with the suggestion of sleep spilling from unseen lips. It’s peaceful here. Or at least, it would have been had Katsuki not later found out that said fluid was, in fact, Mister Compress’s saliva.

An eternity or two… no, maybe mere seconds trickle by, Katsuki can’t quite tell. He feels as though time barely spares him a sideward glance from its unseen plane of existence, carrying on its merry way, leaving only himself. Reality may be readying itself to swallow him whole. At least, that’s what Katsuki imagines will come next. Awareness breaks in through the surface of his midnight ocean, reality dripping like water from his skin and hair. Once again, the familiar soles of Katsuki’s boots greet the balls of his feet. The rude awakening leaves his mind racing to keep up, to piece itself back into the cranium from whence it came as unholy chaos unfolds before his eyes.

That was the strangest thing he’s ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Or… did it even happen?

Before Katsuki’s eyes, blurred and bloody figures are engaging in a dangerous waltz, dancing amidst the slowly rising bubbles that remain burned in his vision. Echoes of the outside world begin to paint themselves in vivid colour, the entire scene set ablaze with an electrifying blue fire. Katsuki feels high.

‘The fuck?’

Without warning, hot fingertips grab at the back of Katsuki’s neck, snapping him back into existence. The lightly calloused digits begin to rake their way through the blonde hairs of his nape, blunt fingernails tracing dull scratches upon his skin before tightening into an iron grip. While instinct narks him to fight, to explode and erupt with rage, something about those hands whispers tales of what a terrible, terrible idea that would be.

Katsuki tenses reflexively, his mind flickering through what quirk this mystery hand could possess. ‘That’s right, the Villain Alliance was after me… that means it could be that bastard Shigaraki!’ Katsuki had imagined Shigaraki’s fingers to be cold and littered with broken skin, so he doubts such immense heat would radiate from his corpse-like palms. Though if these hands did belong to Shigaraki for example, the use of Katsuki’s quirk was sure to lose him his head. Something he’d surely need in order to surpass All Might as the number one hero.

His friends are fighting the villains, trying their hardest not to let these hands steal him away. And he can do nothing.

Katsuki chances a cautious glance to the left, attempting to identify his captor. He manages only a fleeting glimpse of bright turquoise blazing beneath charcoal lashes. Of ashen cobwebs studded by cold halos of surgical steel. And a cold, manic grin.

Captivated, Katsuki barely registers Shouto’s desperate attempt at rescue, the outstretched palm of his friend flying past his periphery. Katsuki hasn’t so much as noticed.

That grin. It’s so… Feral.

“What a shame…” Rolls the smooth, chilling bass of the villain’s voice, “Todoroki Shouto.”

Katsuki shudders.

The villain wastes no time yanking Katsuki back, leading him into Kurogiri’s fissure. A chill engulfs Katsuki, palpable oblivion forcing the hairs on his arms stand to attention. Of course, fucking Deku’s sobbing face is the last thing he sees before being engulfed.

The villain accompanies Katsuki through the chilly blackness of Kurogiri’s quirk, the pair soon collapsing with a thud onto solid floorboards. The ceiling above Katsuki swirls in little circles and he blinks in confusion, his head still spinning from being inside of that drug-sphere of a pearl.

Katsuki jolts as the same hot hands grab at his wrists, turquoise eyes flashing dangerously in the outer regions of his vision.

‘Oh fuck no.’ There’s no way Katsuki is going to let this asshole of a villain snatch him a second time. No. He’s going to fight, to kill the bastard if it means escaping.

“Get the fuck off me!” He roars. Both bodies wrestle in a knot of arms and legs, back muscles flexing and elbows jabbing all in an attempt to subdue the other. Katsuki supposes escaping might not be such a hard task if they weren’t both crushed under the weight of…

Of Todoroki. That’s fucking Todoroki.

And from that moment forth, Shouto Todoroki is crowned the stupidest person to walk this earth, ripping the crown right from Deku’s mop of seaweed-green hair. In Katsuki’s books, anyway. Those two have to be the only people dim enough to follow his ass through a Villain's quirk, right into the centre of their lair, no less.

A moment of awe passes before Katsuki realises he’s not moving. Shock perhaps, or fatigue, but neither is the villain at his back. In fact, the patchwork man might even look more gobsmacked than Katsuki does.

They have an audience. A room full of spectres, of scarecrows each stuffed full of death threats and torment. 'Villains', Katsuki assumes. The lot of them. Murmurs begin to stir the air, a few hisses and gasps exchanged between this court of shadows. “Another UA student!” One of them shouts.

“Oh? What a revelation.”

“How fun.”

“It’s the half and half brat!” Hisses the one Katsuki immediately recognises as Tomura Shigaraki, his speech is muffled from beneath the grip of a disembodied hand. “Get him!”

And with that, waves of blades and rampaging quirks come flying into Katsuki’s vision all at once, glitching across the already warped ceiling and making Katsuki’s head spin. There’s barely enough time to react and Shouto misses a knife to his side by a hairsbreadth, narrowly evading a nasty gash.

“Come here, you rascal! No! Stay away!” Exclaims Twice, leaping from behind the bar and over Himiko who wields her pair of combat knives.

“Eeek!” She squeals. “He’d look so much cuter covered in blood!” Somewhere amidst the commotion, a needle has slipped its way under Katsuki’s skin, releasing a chilly fluid to play chase with blood cells through the hallways of his veins. Shouto’s mismatched eyes lock on to Katsuki’s, only momentarily, before shields of ice scale their way over the three of them. Katsuki can only watch Shouto’s daggers of ice flying from crystallised fingertips. His every limb is crushed by the villain’s unrelenting grip, legs locked underneath his ankles and arms pressed to his sides. Katsuki struggles against these arms that have been eaten alive by a past too unspeakable, chewed up and spat back out again so the pieces can be stapled back into the vague shape of a human.

Katsuki kicks and he screams and swears and curses in an untamed rage, and his sparks litter the villain below him but this guy is fixed. Immovable and just. Grinning. And Katsuki is getting weaker, slowly succumbing to the drugs that rampage through his body. Again, Shouto spares him a despairing glance, before hurling more ice out into the surrounding room.

It’s impressive, really. But still half-assed.

Thinking back to the sports festival, this is nothing. Katsuki knows Shouto is restricting himself, defending, careful not to consume his weakened friend in an eternal tomb of ice or fire. If only Katsuki can find the strength to scream at him, to tell Shouto he’s strong and to burn these motherfuckers to ash. Still, his combat skills are articulate even when restrained. He flicks his wrists and arches his back, cutting the air in two with such commandment. Almost as if he’s dancing, and Katsuki wonders why Shouto doesn’t just move like that all the time. Rage camps within Shouto’s very soul, and is betrayed when the left side of his body flickers alive with flames, they flutter as he lunges towards Himiko, poised to incinerate the grin from her crazed face. “I think not!” Booms Kurogiri, quickly summoning an onyx vortex that consumes Todoroki’s upper body before any harm can come to him or Himiko. He constricts the size of his warp gate to hold Shouto’s waist in place. Magne hurriedly steps over Katsuki and the villain beneath him to secure a hold on Shouto, pressing uncomfortably close to the boys behind. Somewhere across the bar, Shouto’s head and upper body are popping out of another warp gate. He gasps in shock, greeted by the outstretched palm of none other than Tomura Shigaraki. Breath catches in Shouto’s lungs, forced back down into the depths of his chest by a hard gulp. The now furious blaze emitted by Shouto’s left side begins to dwindle, threatened into submission by nothing more than a gesture from the leader of the League of Villains. “Dabi...” Spits Shigaraki, annoyance quaking his vocal cords. “Get off the floor, you idiot! You’re the only one here who can melt this brat’s ice and all you did was watch him! I can’t believe you. Useless!”

The usually steady rhythm of Shouto’s heart begins racing out of control, fluttering like a little bird at the sight of Tomura’s fingers ebbing closer, destruction lying mere centimetres from his face. “Calm yourself, Tomura Shigaraki.” Booms Kurogiri’s assertive voice, Shouto’s heart skipping reflexively at the sound. “The mission was a success after all. This boy is merely a by-product of our attack, albeit one that works in the League's favour. We now have two UA students to barter with instead of one.”

‘Dabi...’ Ponders Katsuki, lips tracing around the remnants of curses he can’t quite remember anymore. The low notes of the warp Villan’s voice turn to slush in Katsuki’s ears, merging with the breaths that escape his lungs, becoming the last sound to mix into the blackness of oblivion. His head flops limply onto Dabi’s chest, who skims over his unconscious face in search of any movement.

“Well.” Huffs Dabi nonchalantly, swatting Katsuki’s limp body onto the floor beside him the way one would brush off a mosquito. “Someone had to inject this kid, and you sure as hell weren’t gonna do it.”

Tomura glares tangible daggers through slitted red eyes, before shooting a glance in Kurogiri’s direction in search of backup. Shouto swears he sees the veins convulse beneath the man’s skin. “Dabi stands correct in this matter, Tomura Shigaraki. I advise we tranquillise our newest guest until our course of action can be agreed upon. Until then, it would be wise to keep the boy unharmed.”

“Hnnnnn!” Shigaraki rages wordlessly, disturbing the dust on the floorboards with a childish stomp of his foot.

“Hey, creep. I wouldn’t go fucking up Endeavour’s son if I were you, he’s much more valuable to us if he still has a face.” Shigaraki contorts underneath Father’s palm, his frustration manifesting in twitching fingers. “Clearly you can’t be trusted with children.”

“I’ll kill you both!”

“Just give him here, ugly.”

‘Don’t get any closer!’ Shouto pleads internally. His heartbeat refusing to slow now that he’s able to count every individual groove that adorns the pads of Tomura’s dry fingertips. “Quiet, brat.” Snaps Tomura, hissing in Dabi’s direction.

“Hey now. I brought you this angsty little shit,” Dabi coaxes with words as smooth as the nod he gives in acknowledgement of the unconscious Katsuki, “It’s only fair I get to hold on to Todoroki’s kid whilst you have fun breaking your new toy.” The young man saunters in their direction, the thunk of his boots resounding in Shouto’s eardrums. His immediate intrigue in Shouto is enough to send a shiver coursing through the boy's spine. Surely such an interest can only invite misery.

“Or you could give him to me instead!” Chimes Himiko, grinning gleefully with canines that glint like polished glass in the dim light. Kurogiri ignores the syrupy voice of Himiko in favour of wiping his misty brow with a neatly folded handkerchief. The man takes up his usual residence behind his fort that is the wood of the bar as if pondering upon his thoughts. “As long as the boy is unharmed until we reach our conclusion, I can see no issue with Dabi taking responsibility. After all, he has just led the Vanguard Action Squad to a swift victory. We have succeeded in retrieving Katsuki Bakugo, so it would be wise to focus on our original goal of recruiting his explosive talent before worrying about Endeavour’s child. The final decision will be yours, Tomura Shigaraki.” For once, Dabi is thankful for Kurogiri’s intervention, his endless drivel can prove useful after all. At least, when he isn’t scalding Dabi for smoking in the bar or disappearing for nights at a time without so much as a whisper of his whereabouts. He watches smugly as Kurogiri’s suggestions wrap around Shigaraki’s body like a boa constricting its prey, conjuring skies of sweet calm above the man’s childish turmoil. Shouto can’t help but let out a sigh of momentary relief as the villain’s shoulders slacken, his hand reluctantly lowering an inch or so. Dabi grins at Shigaraki’s protesting growls, eating up his resentment.

Shouto fidgets under Dabi’s looming shadow, angry at his own inability to do anything but observe. He scours the room, wits on edge, observing how reproach now smudges Shigaraki’s formerly threatening aura. How Himiko turns her interest to the blood collated in the machine around her neck, how Kurogiri polishes his glasses tentatively, the ominous light of a computer screen seeming brighter than his and Katsuki’s future in this wretched place.

“Don’t you worry your ugly mug about it, boss.” Jeers Dabi, now towering over Shouto, “Neither of his quirks compares to the heat of my flames.” This, he says with absolute certainty.

“Yeah?” Spits Shouto, both of the men in front of him turning in subtle surprise, “Get me out of this guy’s quirk so we can find out!”

“So it speaks…” Tomura says, boredom now staining the corners of his voice.

Dabi makes no effort to stop a cold laugh from slipping past his lips, chilling their warm surroundings. The resistance - no, arrogance in Shouto’s eyes ignites a fire he didn’t realise exists within the confines of his soul. Dabi bends down, gaze level with Shouto’s, who’s heart has taken permanent residence in his throat. He hovers for a moment, the seconds drawing out, wearing an expression that Shouto could only compare to hunger. A crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as patchwork hands reach for Shouto’s jaw, jerking his neck up towards his own face.

“So brave. Don’t go getting feisty just because Kurogiri want’s you alive, Shou~to…” His last word makes the hairs on Shouto’s neck prickle in uncomfortable revolt. He feels slimy and disgusting like insects are crawling under his skin. But there’s also something… familiar about this human-shaped manifestation of malevolence. Something unhinged. An omen of death lingering behind turquoise pools and charcoal lashes. Tomura was a pretty intimidating guy to begin with, given his mental instability paired with that god awful quirk of his. Shouto understands why his heart might have skipped a few beats when faced with the threat of the villain’s hand so close to his face. But Dabi… Dabi is a different kind of threatening all together. Something about him makes Shouto’s bones turn in on themselves in an attempt to conceal a nameless shame.

“Get him out of my sight.” Waves Tomura, dumping himself on a bar stool in front of Kurogiri, seemingly in a sulk.

“Ooh!” Cries Himiko, giddiness lighting up her golden irises, “Does this mean Mr Icy-Hot is going in the blood room!?”

“No way, Psycho. You heard the man, no chopping him up.” At Dabi’s words, Himiko exhibits an exaggerated pout, attention then returning to her blood machine. “Yet.”

“Then what will you do with him? Kill him, of course!”

‘What’s with that guy talking to himself?’ Wonders Shouto, curious as Twice hangs tightly onto his mask ‘And who’s touching my ass!?’

“If you must know,” Drawls Dabi, rummaging into his pocket, though the brilliant turquoise of his irises never breaks from Shouto’s heterochromic gaze. “Giran gave me some pretty strong shit in exchange for my... services. Word is the Columbian’s have been developing something pretty gnarly, it’s meant to take you on a real trip at the expense of your quirk. Ichor, they call it. I was going to use it on myself, obviously, but I guess you’ll have to do since your crazy ass friend needed knocking out, and that was the last of my sedatives.” Shouto is presented with three small, red tablets, a skull and crossbones adorning the smooth surface of each capsule. Death pills, maybe. A part of Shouto thinks it’s probably better if they are indeed deadly. “Open wide, princess.”

When Shouto jerks his head away, purses his lips and thrashes in avoidance, Dabi grows impatient fast. A powerful thumb forces itself between Shouto’s lips, wrenching open his jaw, making room for fingers to force the pill into his mouth. Dabi’s fingers are rough at the tips, they’re wide and long and generally too large to be shoved so far down Shouto’s gullet. He winces, suppressing the need to gag around the obstruction in his mouth and a jagged grin splits Dabi’s jaw. He leaves an aftertaste of ash in Shouto’s mouth, and before the pill has a chance to dissolve, Shouto freezes a small area of his tongue, the capsule along with it. He flinches at the sharp chill in an expression Dabi can only assume is caused by the discomfort of swallowing a capsule without water.

“There we go, swallow like a good boy. Kurogiri, make room.” With his word, the gate constricting Shouto’s waist expands. Dabi hurriedly ushers the both of them back through the gate, appearing again at Katsuki’s feet where Magne’s hands are still wandering over Shouto’s butt. “You!” Shouto flinches at the ice in villains voice, though when he looks up, his gaze is instead piercing into Magne. “Back off, tranny. He’s mine.” His next words come as a growl too low for the rest of the League to hear, the vicious exchange hidden behind a pool of black.

Kurogiri inclines his head in curiosity.

Before long, Shouto allows himself to be whisked through the door by Dabi, hands securely plastered behind his back. The gazes of the League follow them until their point of exit, leaving burning scars where their eyes bored holes into his skin. Through the dank corridors of their hideout, Dabi says nothing, the echo of Shouto’s stumbling footsteps being the only proof the boys actually exist among muggy smells and rusting metal. The ice is fast melting, barely encasing the death pill by the time Dabi thrusts Shouto through a thick, iron door where he lands with a “huff” on crumpled sheets.

Dabi never expected to see fear upon Shouto’s face. He knows all too well that any son of Endeavour would’ve had all weakness ringed form his being at an age all too tender for hatred. Shouto glowers up at the young man through thick lashes, the hint of a smile creeping across closed lips.

“Looks like you’ve got something you wanna say,” Dabi remarks, his lips still split into that cruel, hungry grin. “Spit it out, sugar.”

And spit he does. Right in Dabi's face.

Dabi shakes his head, laughing while wiping the mixture of Shouto’s spit and water from his cheek, the half dissolved pill falling with a light pingonto the floorboards. “Heh… I like me a challenge.” The ferocity at which Shouto lunges for Dabi’s throat, deadly ice dagger bared beneath whitened knuckles, leaves no room to doubt his murderous intent. Dabi juts to the side, dodging the merciless attack with ease. “Gonna kill me, eh, hero?” He taunts. “What happened to throwing my ass in jail, huh? This makes us the same, you know. You’re a villain. Just like me.”

Shouto has long since decided that their exchange is not one of words, but of pure, oozing rivalry. From the moment Dabi announced that his heat could melt through Shouto’s quirks, the challenge was set in stone. The boys battle together, small room alive with blue flames and pillars of ice soon to be melted into steam, an animated corpse dancing with the product of Endeavour’s orchestrated ambitions. It doesn’t last for long, but then again it was never meant to. Dabi grins ferociously through the billowing heat, chest alight with burning anticipation for the moment when Shouto realises: he simply can’t win.

‘There it is.’

Hopelessness.

A tingling sensation webs through Shouto’s hands, then arms and then his head, skewing his world off to the side a little. Dabi positively leers at the expression on Shouto’s face. Disbelief diluting that insolent expression he’d perfected to irk Endeavour. Something is weighing on Shouto, shackling him and making his body hot and Dabi knows it. The feeling is familiar, an oppressive presence similar to the one Endeavour imposes on the boy to make him feel inferior. That coupled with the arrogance emanating from this raven of a man is enough to make his blood seethe.

‘He’s… he’s too strong.’

One last explosive attempt at burning his rival to ash leaves Shouto at his knees, arms charred and shaking, cheeks flushed from Dabi’s inferno. Before him, the villain emerges from within the pillars of smoke, a behemoth who’s stature can’t be ignored, even through eyes as hazy as his own.

As Shouto’s head lolls lazily to the side, Dabi catches him by the hair, graceful fingers entwining in roots of blazing crimson. He ponders over the boy's heat, the ocean of soft locks awakening memories of a mother’s tender touch, of ball games and blue flames, hot baths and freshly burned skin even hotter still.

He is a museum of sadness, a canvas mapped with bygone battles and blistering hostility. He’s an anarchist. A terrorist. But brilliantly free, nonetheless. The kind of bloodstained freedom that might still be open to the boy at his feet.

“You did well.” Mutters Dabi quietly, acknowledging his opponents exhausted puffs before reaching back into his pocket. He admires the boy’s resolve, even at the sight of another death pill, a glare of intense determination never leaves Shouto. “But it’s time to sleep now, little one.”

With this, Dabi slips the pill inside his own mouth, moving in to slide his tongue past the soft boundary of Shouto’s lips and deep into the back of his mouth. Shouto jerks, recoiling against the bed, consumed by the unfamiliarity of the slick tongue exploring the roof of his mouth. The smooth ball bearing of a piercing ushers the pill in further, until it chases any comments of resentment right down his gullet.

Dabi smells like fresh smoke left behind by a dying ember, the bitter taste of cheap cigarettes lingering on whisky tainted lips. “Mmnh!” Shouto protests to the man who’s deaf to any desires other than his own. Only to find his hair fisted and chin jerked back up to connect with Dabi’s, where their tongues remain locked in this dangerous embrace.

After an eternity, Dabi withdraws, a rope of spit lazily bridging the gap between both boys. Shouto breathes hard, fierce eyes wide with confusion, sheer shock keeping the tiredness gnawing at his bones at bay. Dabi draws back to admire the small seed of confusion he’s planted between naive ribs.

“You know why I chose a name that means cremation?” He muses in a cruel lullaby, stroking a lock of red hair gently behind the shell of Shouto’s ear. “So with it, I can purge even the strongest of flames.” He brushes aside Shouto’s exhausted attempt at struggling, smiling wide as the drug welcomes untainted senses with open arms. “It’s a name I’ll keep until my final obstacle has been burned to ash.”

Shouto’s eyes are glassy, the muscles that were tensed in resentment now mellowing beneath Dabi’s palms. The boy lets out a small whimper, brows furrowing as his senses drift atop uncharted Columbian waters, abandoning the island of sanctuary that is his sober mind. His vision is blurry, alive with blazing turquoise oceans and purple soot. The world begins to slur its speech, whispers of distorted impulse skip their way inside his ear, joined soon by the humming bass of Dabi’s voice.

“Sleep.”

Reality simply tilts a little, before melting and slipping out of Shouto's view altogether. The boy’s body droops, head cascading gracefully amongst the torrents of charred bedsheets, an exhibit of intoxication left to lie amongst the ruin of Dabi’s creation. The lightest of touches is all that’s needed to push Shouto’s boat away from the shores of abstinence, leaving him free to roam feverish dreams of death pills and defective parenting.

‘Would he really want to be a hero if he was free to choose his own path?’

Upon seeing the smaller body relax in his grasp, Dabi feels a hot pressure build up within his boxers, throbbing in a plea for attention. If it weren’t for the hungry firestorm swallowing the surrounding room, he might be tempted to wrap Shouto’s loose grip around his cock and chase the temptation of pleasure. But that’s a game for another day, he thinks, scooping the body into his arms and sauntering back down the hallways in search of a fire extinguisher. Not that it’ll do much good at this point, anyway.

#ao3 #ao3 shoutodabi #fanfic #bnha todoroki #bnha fanfiction

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