#lots of callbacks to chapter one in these parts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

clubdionysus · 4 months ago

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[BAD DECISION #60] Obduracy

warnings: starlovers!!!! <33 i really luv jimin in this one hehehe, lots of callbacks to earlier chapters!! fingering, pretty tame by their standards!!! but kinda semi-public? i mean they're at home but like... kitchen?? i dunno up to you to decide!

a/n: this one doesnt have a little cover image :( had to make it fresh :( the first non wattpad chapter :( waaaa. im hoping to having something new ready for you tomorrow hehehehhe

wc: 8.3K

bd total wc: 540k (ongoing)

AO3 | MASTERLIST | MINORS DNI

Jeongguk wears his hangovers incredibly well. Like an oversized shirt draped over his broad shoulders, it billows down his body, leaving you to guess what's hidden underneath.

It's hard to tell if he's suffering like you are, for his face gives nothing but contentment away.

Hair messy and dishevelled, it sits like an unruly crown on his head as he washes dishes left from the evening before. A soft smile lingers on his lips as he hums along to the song quietly playing through the kitchen speaker, his voice far prettier than the original singer. The king of his very own kitchen, there's an innate flick to his wrists as he shakes water off steel bowls and pops them on the drying rack.

Chest bare, he pays it no mind when tiny flecks of warm water splash against his skin.

Vines of ink trail up his arm and onto his shoulder. His self-modification proves he wasn't born from gold but rather polished to resemble something like it.

In a way, it makes him so much more valuable. Or at least it does to you.

As you watch on from a bar stool on the opposite side of the kitchen island, chatting with him about the events of the night before, you wonder how it's possible for a man with a smile like his to have a body like that.

The maths just doesn't compute, but you've never been great with numbers. Have always been more drawn to art—and God, what a work Jeongguk is.

Quite the contrary, you wear your hangovers with far less grace.

There's glitter all over your skin, and your hair looks more like a bird's nest than a crown.

In front of you sits a barely touched glass of water and two Tylenol tablets yet to be taken. The thud in your head has only intensified since you woke up with a dry throat and achy body, but you're trying to push through it.

"You're only making it worse," Jeongguk softly scolds you when you whine and slump down to rest your head on the countertop. "Don't be so stubborn."

When he talks like that, all assertive and domineering, it only makes you wanna be even more stubborn. It's in part thanks to your defiant nature, but also in part due to your desperation to have him use that tone of voice with you again.

"I can defeat it," you whine against the cold stone, a pathetic moan humming in your throat.

With your hair still damp from your shower, you find yourself irritated by how quickly Jeongguk's hair dries compared to yours. It's your own fault, for you're the one who insists on changing its colour with the seasons, but it annoys you nonetheless.

Then again, everything irritates you when you're this hungover.

Truth be told, you'd happily get your hair wet all over again, if it meant you got to indulge in another shower with Jeongguk. Want nothing more than to relieve the way it feels for him to shampoo your hair, rubbing the pads of his fingers in circular motions against your scalp. If the restaurant doesn't work out, he could always opt to be a hairdresser, you think, then mentally reprimand yourself for daring to even think of a scenario in which the restaurant doesn't work out. Would never forgive yourself if you jinxed it.

Jeongguk doesn't mind the grouchiness that comes with your hangovers, 'cause they always come with an added side of clinginess, too. You had wrapped around him like a koala bear for that entire shower. Had your cheek to his chest, arms tightly locked around his back, eyes firmly closed as he washed your hair.

Gorgeous girl, he thinks to himself, then resumes the stern telling off he was giving you. Just wants you to feel okay, that's all. Knows you're too determined for your own good, sometimes.

"Clearly," he almost scoffs, not mean but definitely a little curt. His head's killing him, too. He just hides it better. Swinging open the fridge, he grabs a bottle of water—2 litres—and cracks open the seal. "Take your pills, or I won't get you anything when I order breakfast."

"Gguk," you whine, slowly sitting up straight to look at him with the biggest pout. Head tipped back, he's chugging on his water straight from the bottle at such a rate you're surprised he doesn't choke.

By the time he's finished, he's practically at the halfway point of the bottle. Shaking his head, he swallows his last mouthful down. Pants, a little. Says, "Water, pills, now."

Narrowing your eyes, you finally do as you're told, but make sure to say, "You're mean."

Jeongguk just shakes his head. "I love you."

With your eyes on his, you try your hardest not to show any sign of weakness—but when he presses his lips into a thin, curved line and smiles in a way that makes it impossible to fight, you can't help yourself.

"Fine," you strop regardless, tossing your pills back and swallowing them down with a chug of water.

"See," he softly says in a way that is both patronising yet ever so gentle.

He walks around the counter to stand beside you, and welcomes the innate way your hand reaches up to hold his waist. He's just the same in how his hand cradles your cheek, keeping your face angled to look up towards him.

"Wasn't so hard, was it, baby?" He gently toys.

"You're the worst," you assure him, 'cause he knows he's being a little git right now.

And so, just like the last incredibly soft insult thrown his way, he fends it off by saying, "I love you."

"If you really loved me, you would have let me stay in bed."

"We have shit to do today, B," he reminds you. "I forced you up because I love you. Now, don't be rude. Say it back."

Jeongguk's ability to demand you say such heavy, ardent words is nothing short of a miracle.

When you first met Jeongguk, the idea of him being so straightforward and forthcoming with his own feelings felt like an impossible task. Yet here he is, unafraid to tell you how much he cares for you, and unashamed to ask for reciprocation.

Tugging him a little closer, you rest your pointed chin against his sternum, and get him looking down towards you.

Quietly, you whisper, "You know I love you."

"Say it again," he demands once more, his heavy-lidded eyes trained on yours as he speaks.

"I love you."

He smiles, now. Nods.

"Good," he says, then pulls away to grab his phone and open up a delivery app. Has his favourite cafe pinned to the top. Clicks through to the menu without a second thought, muscle memory prevailing. "French toast? Iced coffee?"

"You know me so well," you hum with a pleasant smile, hopping off the bar stool and meandering over to Jeongguk's sofa.

He follows you without hesitation and tugs the blanket from the armchair as he does so. You're wearing one of his shirts, and he's just in a pair of sweats, so a blanket seems like a sensible choice for now.

Jimin still hasn't risen from his pit, and Nabi's clothes are still in the living room—just in a neat pile now, thanks to Jeongguk's innate need for a clean space to ensure he can power through his hangover.

"You reckon they're gonna wake up soon?" You ask Jeongguk as he snuggles in beside you, flicking on the television.

"Not a chance," he laughs. "Nabi's probably gonna escape out his bedroom window or something like that. Spent years denying there was anything going on, and I don't think her pride will be able to take the hit of being wrong."

"You never know," you begin to playfully theorise. "Maybe they're just friends."

"Have you forgotten getting home last night?"

"Well, yeah, but I mean, I shagged you plenty of times, and we've always just been friends."

"Oh, fuck off," he laughs. "We've never been just friends."

"No?"

"No," he says with a cocksure confidence that has been earned over many months of knowing you as intimately as he does. Smiling as you roll your eyes, you don't bother fighting back. It's a losing cause. "We're best friends. Duh."

If you could have it your way, the day would be spent exactly like this—cuddled up on Jeongguk's sofa without a care in the world—but you've got work to do.

The gallery needs to be cleaned up from the night before. It's not a huge amount of work, but still tedious labour that you'd rather not do with a raging headache. One of the reasons you're given such liberty with the gallery space is because you always make sure it's left without a trace, and so you know you need to get it sorted sooner rather than later.

Jeongguk's offered to help out, 'cause his day is empty. Other than discussing the business with Yoongi, his agenda is remarkably clear, and if he's being honest, the last thing he wants is to talk about the restaurant.

See, Jeongguk worries. He's got everything in the palm of his hand—his girl, his dreams, his future. All it takes is one misstep, and he could lose everything.

Comfort is found in you. Solace.

"Smell good," he mumbles, nuzzling his nose against the curve of your neck, sinking into a more comfortable position snuggled up against you. Doesn't kiss you, but he does let his lips trail up your skin in a way that promises he eventually will.

"Smell like you," you sweetly reply, 'cause none of your things have made their way into his home yet. The shampoo you use is his. The shower gel, the moisturiser, the suncream. It's all him—and you love nothing more than going home with such innocent reminders of him on your skin.

"Mhm," he confirms. That's exactly why he likes it so much. The silage of you is the signpost of him. "Mine."

Any gap between you (which admittedly isn't much at all) is eliminated with the way Jeongguk drags you into his embrace. It's the kind of hug that can only be described as acceptance: there is no you, nor him. Just the pair of you, together.

It's dangerous territory to embark upon, with such reliance on another person, but it's also a path that you just can't seem to resist.

Laced in berries, the hedgerows of this rambling walk you're strolling down together keep you going forward. Occasionally, you'll stop. Smell the roses. Pluck a berry here or there. Pause when you hear the noise of a wild beast in the forest that surrounds you, or the threatening echo of a farmer and his gun.

But then forwards, you'll go. Destination, unknown. Wherever you end up is exactly where you'll need to be.

The wait for food is wasted away together, dumb conversations about nothing and anything that comes to mind. Jeongguk toys with your fingers. Plays with your rings. Strokes the pad of his index finger over the small callous on your middle one.

"Used to be worse," you acknowledge, holding up your hand to study it. Back when you were in school, the amount of writing and doodling you did meant a callous was inevitable. Now that you're out of the habit of doodling, and far less likely to spend hours writing by hand, it's softened. Almost looks as if it wasn't even there to begin with. Part of your history that is slowly fading away.

One day, you won't be able to recall any part of your life that isn't inexplicitly saturated by him.

He holds up his own hands. Studies them against yours. It's like some juvenile flirt, comparing hand sizes, as if your legs aren't tangled with his, and his other hand isn't wedged between your thighs.

You're not learning anything new. Are revising, for a lack of a better term. Just like you used to do with the birds, when you wanted any excuse you could use to be intimate with one another.

It's different now, you suppose. Intimacy. How you view it. Just isn't what it once was.

Things that used to be sacred to you are now second nature.

Glancing across to Jeongguk as he natters on about the deep line that runs along his palm, and how it signals he's destined for greatness, you realise there's an ache blooming in your chest.

His pouty lips rabbit on, dark eyes occasionally fluttering across to you, then back to his hand.

There's a vulnerability to him. It's his eyes, you think, and their need to check in on you. He's making sure you're listening. Interested. Aren't bored or waiting for him to shut up. It's a somewhat nervous habit of his, stemming from the fact he doesn't ever really talk this much with anyone else.

In a way that no one else is lucky enough to experience, Jeongguk opens himself up to you. About the big and the bad, the emotional and the heavy, but also about the small, lovely, lightweight things, too. Weather talk, mindless chatter he'd never bother engaging in with other people.

He talks of superstitions and legends, movies he watched as a kid, and dreams he had overnight—a stream of consciousness, all for you.

See, Jeongguk talks.

Around you, he talks and talks and talks.

If his mother could see him like this, she'd be gobsmacked. He's always been the more quiet one of her sons. Reserved. Cautious to speak in fear of saying the wrong thing.

But he's childlike in his eagerness to share with you, Bambi eyes wide and sparkling, teeth nibbling down on his bottom lip whenever he leaves enough room for you to respond.

Time is lost in conversation until his doorbell chimes—a notice of food arriving.

"Go get changed," you say, tapping on his knee as you get to your feet. "I'll sort out breakfast."

Nodding, he does as he's told, lightly spanking your ass before heading to his room. Glancing over your shoulder, you feign a little hurt.

"I'll kiss it better," he promises, and you know he will.

The curse of his devotion to you means he can never lie.

He can, however, keep secrets. Small ones. Teeny tiny ones that will have no consequence other than to make you melt when he finally reveals them.

Checking his phone, Jeongguk smiles to himself when he notices a notification of confirmation—plans made now rolling into motion. You cope with surprises far better than he does. Appreciate the romanticism of it all. He's sure you'll like it.

When he comes back into the kitchen, you have to hold in a desperate groan. Who gave him the right to look like that? And how many cats did you save from trees in a previous life to deserve it?

Dressed for the gym, he's in a pair of dark shorts that sit on his hips as if they were made just for him. The contours of his upper body are on display for everyone to see, a tight black compression shirt outlining the ridges on his chest.

The silver chain he always wears is tucked outside of the shirt, 'cause he doesn't like the pressure of the fabric on top of it, and his hair lays flat against his head. He's perfectly undone.

As he's putting on a pair of socks by the sofa, he clocks you staring. Simply hums, "Hm?"

Eyes wide and unassuming, he's oblivious to the fact you feel like you might faint just by looking at him, even if the socks he's putting on have individual spaces for each of his toes.

We can't all be perfect, after all—though Jeongguk would argue his socks encourage correct toe alignment, which could only be a good thing.

"Anyone ever told you that you're a menace to society?" You painfully whine, the groan you were hiding making its presence known.

Almost bashful, Jeongguk tips his head to the side, eyes twinkling your reflection back at you.

"Flattery won't convince me to let you go back to bed," he teases, playing off the compliment. Socks on, he makes his way over to you without hesitation, his tattooed arm draping over your shoulders, as he presses a kiss to the side of your head.

"Was worth a try," you playfully tease him, even if you did mean it. Hooking your arm around his waist, you give him a squeeze and glance up towards him. A tender kiss is given and received, his lips softly curving into a smile against yours. "Eat up. Quicker we leave, the quicker you can get to the gym, and the quicker you can come back to mine afterwards."

The outline of your day is solid: go to the gallery and get it cleaned up, meander back to town with Jeongguk, send him on his way to the gym, pick up some groceries and then head home.

Small errands that will eat up most of the day, but an empty evening that can be spent exactly as you'd like: with him.

"We at yours tonight?" He hums, still getting used to just how easy it is to coexist next to you. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined a life like this.

"Feel like Jimin might need the privacy," you note, very much aware that he hasn't made a single appearance, which is very unlike him. He's normally reciting lines from The Notebook by this point in the morning.

You know he's fine, 'cause you heard the synthetic ding of his speaker being turned on a little while earlier, presumably to drown out any 'conversations' he might be having.

Jeongguk smirks, picking out a strawberry from the container next to the french toast, and says, "He never gave us privacy."

Tossing the strawberry to his back teeth, there's a smile on Jeongguk's lips that's impossible not to mirror. Turning slightly, you get yourself trapped between his body and the kitchen island. Wrap your arms around his neck. Encourage him down to nudge his nose against yours.

"Yeah, but he also never caught us having sex," you remind Jeongguk, lips brushing against his. Breakfast can wait. Or maybe the menu can just change. "We were incredibly well-behaved as far as he's concerned."

"We were?" Jeongguk quietly flirts, his hips pressing against your tummy, letting you know just how much he enjoys being with you. "I don't think you've ever been well behaved."

"Oh, but I am," you simper right back. Reaching down for his hands, you encourage them to roam your body. Squeeze them over your chest, then encourage them down to the tops of your thighs—or, more specifically, between them. "I'm such a good girl for you, aren't I?"

Pressing his fingers up against your thinly-covered cunt, Jeongguk smirks, the subtle markers of your arousal greeting him like they so often do.

"You are," he nods. "And you're gonna be good for me now aren't you?" His fingers hook the lace of your underwear to the side, and gently begin to tease your wet folds. "Gonna keep it nice and quiet for me, huh?"

Nodding, you let yourself succumb to your unbridled desire to have your lips on his as he sinks his middle finger into your cunt. With a small whine, you totally disregard the promise you've only just made.

And so Jeongguk shakes his head, still kissing you. Barely parts from your lips when he says, "Shush, shush, shush, baby. Quiet for me."

When he pushes a second finger into you, your brows furrow, but the whine you're dying to sound out just vibrates into his mouth.

"Attagirl," he praises as his fingers begin to pump inside of you. Deepening his kisses, Jeongguk strokes his tongue against yours, as if your body was just made for him to claim. Signed, sealed, delivered: his. Your hips roll into his movements, but it's not enough.

As much as he wants to keep you plugged, Jeongguk wants easy access more.

Pulling his fingers from your cunt, there's a satisfied grin on his pretty lips when you whine.

"Shush," he says with such affection it could make even the coldest heart thaw. Dipping slightly, he hooks his forearms just beneath your ass and swiftly lifts you up. Gets you perched up on the counter. Spreads your legs, and is pleased when you lift the hem of the baggy shirt you're wearing to fully reveal your pussy to him.

"Look at you, gorgeous," he husks. Genuinely thinks he might die just from looking at your cunt. Too perfect. Too fuckin' nice. Stroking his still-wet fingers up your folds, he wastes no time sinking two fingers into you once more. "Quiet, baby."

"Room," you breathlessly say, desperately trying not to make any sounds that could give yourselves away. "Don't wanna be quiet. Take me to your room."

Jeongguk just smirks. Looks in your pretty eyes and challenges you. "Say chess. I'm not going to my room, but you can say chess."

He knows there's absolutely no way in hell you're saying chess.

Narrowing your eyes, you reach to the front of his shorts, and stroke his hard cock through the fabric. If he's gonna make this hard for you, then you're gonna do it right back.

"If you're gonna torture me then you may as well do it right," you feign a little boredom, tugging his shorts down just enough to play with him over his boxers. "Your fingers are nothing, baby." A lie, but that's neither here nor there. "Make things difficult for me. Make it impossible for me to keep quiet."

"You really want Jimin to find out, huh?" Jeongguk teases, still playing on the idea that you've ever managed to convince anyone that you are, in fact, just friends. "You want him to know that we fuck?"

But then Jeongguk glances over your shoulder to the doorway that leads into Jimin's room, as the click of his latch goes. Jeongguk barely has enough time to pull his fingers from you, and definitely not enough time to pull his shorts back up over his boxer-covered boner, so instead, he presses up against you to keep himself covered. Thank God he's behind the island and not anywhere else.

If you thought it was torture before, then now must be a whole new level, just a few layers of fabric keeping you apart.

"It lingers, y'know," the grouchy voice of Jimin echoes from behind you.

Turning your head, thighs squeezing against Jeongguk's hips to keep his dignity protected, you try to hide your embarrassment.

Jeongguk's hands rest on your thighs, and the one that's out of sight to Jimin is being wiped against your skin to rid his fingers of your arousal. This could have been so much worse than what it is.

"The smell of sex," he adds with a little disdain. "I always knew."

As if the God of Thunder personally gave birth to him, Jimin's face is stormy as can be. His scowl is so deeply ingrained into his expression that you're certain the wind must have changed in his direction as he was first pulling the face. Whatever you drank last night, he must have had it too.

Hair all haphazard, face a little dewey from a warm slumber, there's an unusual dishevelled nature to Jimin. He's not even bothered to put on clothes. Is quite literally in just a pair of boxers.

It's quite unlike him. Then again, so are the hickies on his collarbones.

"Well, that's weird, 'cause me and Jeongguk have never had sex," you reply without even thinking, the lies ingrained into your reflexes at this point. Even Jeongguk looks at you with confusion this time.

"Firstly, we eat off that counter, sickos. And secondly, I heard," Jimin simply assures you both, walking to the counter and picking up a plastic fork. He sticks it into a chunk of the french toast, and doesn't ask permission. Just chows down on it. Speaks with his mouth full. "Like, so many times. In fact, I've heard you at it so many times I can almost predict what's happening when."

"Bullshit," Jeongguk laughs—and he'd be right. Jimin's never heard, not properly at least, unless you count the muffled groans in Pohang that put him off his food for an entire day. He just hates the embarrassment of being walked in upon by the pair of you. The one time he needed privacy the most and he didn't even think to bolt the door—or better yet, go to his own bloody bedroom. He wants you to know what his embarrassment feels like. Jeongguk is unphased, though. "Nabi still here?"

"Shut up," Jimin replies, pulling the rest of the french toast towards him, closing the lid. He narrows his eyes, then snatches the box right up. Holds it to his chest. Scowls at you both. Turns on his heel and returns to his room, grinning now that you can't see him, shutting the door behind himself.

Neither of you stop him.

"Is he…"

"Okay?" Jeongguk finishes off your query. "No idea."

But one thing for certain is that Nabi's possessions are still very much inside the apartment. She's still here, and you're willing to bet he shut the door with a smile, holding his stolen breakfast with all the triumph of a cat who got the cream.

"On that note," you begin to tangent off, knowing you've already wasted too much of the day. "You okay to drive? Or would you rather take the subway?"

"Subway," Jeongguk immediately responds, reaching over to take a sip of his coffee. "Don't wanna risk it."

And he also wants any excuse he can find to spend time with you. Takes three times as long to get to The Ryu on public transport than it does in his car, especially with how he drives.

"Alright," you don't argue against him or bother suggesting a taxi instead. "And am I cool to leave my things here? I'll pick them up next time—"

"You know you don't need to ask," Jeongguk grins, the ring in the corner of his mouth flipping ever so slightly in that heavenly way it so often does.

"Well, yeah, but—"

"Keep it here," he says. "Don't take your stuff home next time. Leave it. I'll clear a drawer. Some hangers."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he nudges his nose up against yours. "You've been leaving glitter here for months. May as well move onto something more substantial."

As if your heart isn't enough.

"Plus," he considers. "At least that way you can stop stealing all my favourite shirts."

"You love it when I wear your shirts."

"B, I love it when you wear nothing at all," he smirks. "Clothes have nothing to do with it. But on that note, go put some clothes on so we can actually do something with our day."

Reluctantly, you agree.

And just as reluctantly, he lets you go.

The subway is always crowded at this time of day. Jeongguk insists you sit while he stands in front of you, holding on to the railing that runs overhead. It's a small kindness—the kind you never really thought about until you met him and learned how lovely it is to have someone actually care about your comfort and well-being.

He doesn't spend the journey on his phone like so many of the other commuters. Instead, he focuses on the windows, and the small glimpses indicating where you are along the subway line. Occasionally he'll look down at you and smile. Though you're not sleeping, your eyes are closed, cutting out the harsh lights of the tin can you're situated inside. You've never been more desperate for your bed.

Once you reach your stop, Jeongguk tightly scoots in behind you on the escalators.

"We can have a quiet night in," he softly promises. His hand rubs at your waist, and the elevated position of your body allows him to press a kiss to your shoulder.

Even despite the fabric of your shirt—one that belongs to him, of course—it still feels like a star is burning through your very being.

Nodding, you place your hand over his and squeeze ever so gently. Reciprocate his warmth.

You don't mean to be so grouchy and unexpressive, the hangover just really is killing you. If it wasn't for the video Jeongguk insisted on assessing after waking you up this morning, you might not have even recalled exactly just how raunchy you'd been with him at Dionysus.

Fucking someone at work had always been one of his covert fantasies; the kind of thing he wanted to do just so he could say that he had. Wouldn't mind leaving the box next to it unchecked on his mental to-do list. Would happily do it all over again.

His notice has been handed in, though. Dionysus is no longer his place of work. His contract runs until the end of the month, but he saved up holiday time. Never has to go back, if he doesn't want to.

As his fingers squeeze a little tighter on your waist, he can't help but wonder if he's making the right choices. He's been comfortable at Dionysus. Wasn't making great money, but was making enough.

But when you squeeze your hand over his, he knows it doesn't matter. He can make all the bad decisions in the world as long as he doesn't make any that'd result in him losing you.

The weather's slowly been getting warmer over the past few weeks. As you exit the subway station, the sun confronts you with such aggression that you almost stumble from the impact of her punch.

"I'm never drinking again," you whine, bringing the hand of yours that's holding his up to cover your eyes a little. He lets you dictate his movement freely.

"You say that every time," Jeongguk reminds you, playfully nudging into your side, before rounding the corner up towards the gallery. "C'mon. Fake it till you make it. Pretend you don't have one."

"Impossible."

The remainder of the morning is slow. Every time you glance at the clock, it seems only a few minutes have passed.

Cataloguing and processing the sales of art from the night before is laborious. It takes a lot of mental energy that you can't seem to conjure up.

Jeongguk doesn't really know how to help, but he is far stronger than you. Does all the heavy lifting as you prepare various canvases for shipping.

Eventually, he's left twiddling his thumbs, so you insist he heads straight to the gym.

"I'll meet you after," you tell him, as you sit on the floor of the gallery, crossed-legged, a pencil behind your ear and a million documents scattered around you. Jeongguk has no idea how you can work in such chaos. Finds himself getting stressed out by it.

It takes a solid fifteen minutes of assuring him you'd be fine on your own, but eventually he leaves for the gym. The way you see it, the quicker you both get your tasks for the day done, the quicker you can go back to yours, make some dinner, and call it a night.

"Call me when you're done, yeah?" He says, lingering by the door because he just can't bear to leave you. As the sunlight peers in through the windows, small speckles of glitter sparkle on his skin. "I'll come meet you halfway."

With an ever-sincere smile, you just laugh. "Go."

Finally doing as he's told, Jeongguk walks backwards until you're out of sight. Feels his heart physically ache in his chest. Doesn't understand why he's so damn pathetic all of the time when it comes to you, just knows he wouldn't change it for the world.

Despite the solitude of an empty gallery, you're perfectly content. The lingering scent of paint and paper isn't too far removed from your place of work. Makes it easy to imagine a life where this could be your work.

Devoting yourself to this is easy. Passion has always yielded a higher reward for you than wages, so you don't mind burning the candle at both ends.

The situation is becoming strained at best, you know. Eventually, something will have to give.

For now, though, you finish off your jobs. Arrange couriers to pick up the artworks sold, and make sure the names and numbers match the deposits with a copy of Jeongguk's business account bank statement, of which you made him print out for you.

"I can just log into my bank on your phone," Jeongguk had shrugged when you'd first asked him for it, seemingly not realising just how insane he sounded. When he clocked your look of bewilderment, he laughed. "What? It's not like you're gonna run off with all the money."

While this is true, looking at the sheer amount of money in there could make you cry. It's all so attainable now; Jeongguk's dreams and a reality in which they come true.

So engrossed in your own thoughts, you almost jump out of your skin when a knock sounds at the doorway into the office.

"Sorry," Shinwon hums ever so pleasantly, a smile on his face, thoroughly bemused by how startled you look. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"No, no," you shake your head, endearingly playing off your embarrassment. "I just didn't expect to see you here! Or see anyone here, for that matter."

Between exhibitions, the gallery will be closed for the next couple of weeks. It's partially to allow for the staff to reset, but mainly to allow for careful considerations of how the space will be used.

As Jina's maternity leave cover, it's Shinwon's job, but you're yet to see any plans from him. You don't even know which artists are due to be showcased. She did say that a new vacancy would probably open up around this time, and if Shinwon doesn't start putting some tangible hard work in, you wouldn't be surprised if it's sooner rather than later.

There's been no mention of it, though. The big bosses don't seem to care about his underperformance, probably 'cause they know he's temporary.

"Just coming by to drop something off," he explains, holding up a small white envelope. Pressing it down on the desk, he looks uncertain, as if there are words dancing on the tip of his tongue. "It went well last night, didn't it?"

With a tight-lipped smile, you nod. Feel your cheeks swell. "Yeah. Went really well."

"Good," he nods. Is about to leave. Pauses when he reaches the door, and awkwardly turns to face you. Nods towards the letter on the desk. "There's gonna be a position opening up soon. You should apply. I'll put in a good word."

Furrowing your brows, you glance over the white envelope, then back to Shinwon. "But they're not hiring any—"

"Letter of resignation," he concedes with a tight-lipped smile. "I've got an overseas opportunity that I don't wanna pass on. I'll work my two weeks, but then there'll be a position to fill until Jina is back from maternity."

By overseas opportunity, he really means that some of his private school buddies are going travelling, and he wants in on the fun. This was always an opportunity of convenience for Shinwon. He was never passionate about it. Not like you are.

"Apply," he encourages. "You basically do my job as it is for free, anyway. May as well get paid for it if you can."

He doesn't stay to chitchat. Probably won't even remember your existence once he heads off on his trip. Was never in this for the right reasons.

You've resented him on plenty of occasions. Been annoyed at the fact he does fuck all and gets paid for it. Yet the idea of actually filling his (albeit incredibly small) shoes is fear-inducing.

A job at the gallery would be the first step to actually doing what you love for a living—being around art and artists. Sure, you could argue that the art cafe gives you that, but a highschooler nervously painting by numbers on a first date has nothing on the works that you see here.

There's joy to be found in your current job, though. Fun. Safety. Home.

But nothing remarkable ever happened to people who choose to remain comfortable.

Quickly finishing your to-do list, all you want to do is speak to Jeongguk about it. See what he thinks. You know it's a no-brainer. You have nothing to lose. You just want him to give you the green light that you're making the right choices.

The headache you've been battling is weak in comparison to your racing thoughts, now. You're thinking of the possibilities—of all of your hard work actually being for something. You've proven to the gallery that you can bring in punters, and that you can utilise their resources for profit.

It's always been a case of who you know, not what you know, but you know the gallery, now. They know you.

It could really happen.

By the time you reach the gym, fantasies of a life with a staff ID card and access to the archives, you can't stop smiling. It'd change your life. Flip it upside down in the best of ways.

The gym is just the same as it always has been. There's a new girl behind the front desk. Not someone you recognise. Smiling as she greets you, she's keen to help, long dark hair tied into a ponytail, her branded shirt tight to her curves. You're reminded that the gym is a breeding ground for beauty, but it doesn't matter. You'll get your cardio in later beneath your sheets.

She's also got the kind of smile that you just can't help but reciprocate.

"I don't have a membership," you begin to explain, knowing just how troublesome it was on your first ever visit and not wanting a repeat of it. There's no way you're paying for a month, 'cause now you don't need it as an excuse just to see Jeongguk. You also can't help but overcompensate, and give far too many details in an awkward, endearing mess of an explanation. "Well, I mean, I used to have one so my details are probably on the system. Sorry, not important. I know you guys don't do day passes—"

Furrowing her brows, she kindly interrupts. "We do."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," she says, nodding towards a sign in the corner of the countertop. Clear as day, daily and weekly memberships are listed. "We've done them for as long as I've been here. Don't think it's a new policy. Anyway, happy to help—just a day membership?"

Jiyeong might be a distant memory now, but thoughts of her will never fail to irritate you.

"Yeah please," you smile regardless, sliding your card out from your pocket—and then you're over explaining again. Probably habit from the Jiyeong era. Is also probably why you make a point to mention Jeongguk by a title only you have the privilege to use. "I'm just joining my boyfriend for a session. He's—"

"Oh, he's a member?" she chirps, not rude in her interruption but efficient.

"Yeah," you nod, and are about to mention him by name, but the girl speaks too quickly again.

"Oh, you should have said! Members get a monthly plus one. It's not a free session, but it's half price, so better than nothing," she smiles. "I'll just need his gym ID—or name, I can search the system—so I can put it through."

You know she really ought to ask Jeongguk's permission. You could be any random woman.

But you're not, and so you tell her. "Jeon Jeongguk?"

"Ah," she nods, vaguely aware of his existence. Unlike Jiyeong, she hasn't spent a substantial amount of time fawning over Jeongguk. To her, he's just another dude who comes in and leaves her alone. She appreciates it, given how some guys can be, but she also doesn't care to reward bare minimum.

She asks you to confirm his phone number, which you can do without issue, so at least there's some level of security in place.

It's a perfectly pleasant exchange, and it thankfully rids you of woes you didn't even realise you had. The Jieyong debacle had left a mark on you, but it feels like it's been rubbed clean. Your mind tends to jump to thoughts of her whenever he goes to the gym, and so at least you can sleep well knowing that the new girl isn't interested in any way shape or form.

Buzzing you through, she tells you to enjoy yourself—but as you start heading up the stairs to the main gym section, you already feel your regret looming. A hangover is still a hangover.

You clock Jeon Jeongguk almost immediately. How anyone isn't immediately drawn to him, you'll never understand. Just finishing up with some weights, he's re-racking the ones he's used, skin glowing with sweat.

There's a beauty to seeing him like this. Primal desires.

Glancing up to the mirrored wall behind the rack, Jeongguk eyes are on yours just as quickly. It's like you're magnets, destined to meet.

A confused smile etches into his exhausted face, brows furrowing as he turns to face you.

"What are you doing here?" He mouths, head puppy-like in the way it tilts.

Shrugging your shoulders, you walk towards him. Mouth, "I just love the gym."

"Liar," he simpers when you're within earshot, reaching his hand out for you to take so he can pull you closer, of which he immediately does.

One hand clasped in his, your other hand rests on his still-heaving torso. He's gone hard today, to make up for the night before. His compression shirt is silky beneath the palms of your hands, the strong ridges and contours of his body yours to hold. Other people can look all they like. None of them get to feel. Not like you do.

As he looks down at you, there's a softness to his gaze. A smile that he doesn't care to hide. A sparkle in his eyes that shines even out of direct light. Just a consequence of looking at a star.

"You shouldn't be here," he quietly hums. "We both know you hate it."

"I can go, if you like?"

Jeongguk just shakes his head. Smiles as he turns you both around and begins to walk backwards, pulling you with him.

"You're the one who hated being here," he reminds you. "I loved you being here."

"Obsessed," you grin, gingerly letting him drag you anywhere he likes. "And good, 'cause I used your monthly plus one."

"Yeah," he confirms, ignoring the curious glances of other people in the room as he leads you back to your old 'spot'. "Thought we'd established that already? And that's fine. Use it every month."

Funny, how you used to hypothesise over the lives of other people in this very room, and how you know others must be doing the same for you now. You hope they all think you're besotted with him.

When you look at him like that, all love drunk and starry-eyed, how could they not?

"Was just about to finish up, anyway," Jeongguk tells you, heading in the direction of the treadmills. Glances back to you, then nods in their direction. "For old times sake?"

"For old times sake," you beam, following his lead, stepping up onto the treadmill closest to you. They're all vacant, but Jeongguk steps up on the one beside yours, 'cause of course he does. He'd go on the same one as you, if it were possible.

God, he loves you being here. Can't stop smiling.

You don't mention the potential job opening. For old times sake.

Instead, you revel in what it used to be like whenever you came to the gym, 'cause it just makes you so much more grateful for what you've become. Like Dionysus, these four walls saw the groundwork of your relationship being laid.

You've already lost access to one of the most important places to you both with Jeongguk leaving the club.

If you change jobs, you'll lose the art cafe, too. The lease is coming up soon on your place, and if Danbi chooses to just move in with Tae, that'll be another safe haven gone. One by one, places of your past are closing their doors to usher you forward into new spaces.

Life can't always stay the same. Change is needed. Necessary.

You've changed. So has Jeongguk. You'll continue to change for years to come.

The difference now is that you'll change together. Adapt. Merge, in some ways, just like a pair of orbiting stars so often do.

On the way home, Jeongguk picks up a bunch of wildflowers from the market stall he once bought you apology flowers from. His fingers are intertwined with yours as he pays, hands lightly swinging.

It dawns on you all rather quickly, as Jeongguk nibbles on his bottom lip and waits for the payment to go through, that maybe this is a change that you needn't fight. Perhaps it's okay to look forward to your future instead of being hung up on the past.

"C'mon," he tugs on your hand as you leave the market stall, encouraging you to gain a little momentum. "I'm starving. If we don't get me food soon, I'll turn into you with a hangover."

"Cute?"

"Oh, so close," he grins, then shakes his head. "But no. Grouchy and unbearable."

"You were practically begging to shag me," you remind him. "Can't have minded that much."

Jeongguk can't argue against this one. "I didn't—but working out increases like… all the hormones that were working overtime this morning. If I don't eat soon I might die, but if I don't shag you soon, I also might die. Honestly it's a lose-lose situation, B. There's only one solution."

"Sixty-nine?" You offer, 'cause it's perfectly logical. He gets to eat while you get him off. A win-win, you'd argue.

"You're a disgusting pervert," he tells you with stern sharpness, paired with a smirk he just can't help, as if he totally wasn't angling for you to say it. "But now that you mention it, yes. That'd be ideal."

"I don't shag boys who call me disgusting," you reply, knowing that he absolutely didn't mean it like that. You just like winding him up.

"I'm pretty sure I've called you worse before," he reminds you, then holds the flowers out in front of you both. "These can double as apology flowers instead of just my-girlfriend-is-really-pretty-and-I-love-her flowers."

You narrow your eyes as you look across to him, but the smile on his face is just too hard to resist. Thin lipped, his dimples are present, lip ring flipping in the corner of his mouth.

It's like his lip ring does the thing and you're reduced to jelly.

"Lucky you're cute," you grumble.

"You can thank my mum for that one," he offers, fully aware of how often people would coo over his cuteness as a child and then proceed to tell his mum how similar they are. "And for how pretty I am, too."

Though he's just joking, he's right. He really is the prettiest man you've ever known, inside and out.

You won't tell him this, though. Would give him far too much negotiation power.

"Who do I thank for how annoying you are?"

“Jimin,” Jeongguk says. "That's a learned behaviour. Nurture over nature."

"Figures," you accept, before tugging on Jeongguk's hand to lead him into a grocery store. "I've got nothing in. Need to pick up food or else you'll be going hungry."

"I thought we already agreed on six—"

"A little decorum please," you cut him off. "We're in a public space."

"You said it first!"

Playfully shrugging, you let go of his hand and grab a basket as you enter. "Watcha fancy?"

"You."

"For dinner, idiot."

"B," Jeongguk sighs as if he really is hard done by. "We've already discussed this. Literally, you."

"Shut up," you laugh, and let the shopping trip descend into chaos.

Jeongguk just puts whatever catches his eyes into the basket. Gets a kinder egg and a hot wheels car. Will surely just run it over the curves of your body when you're in bed later that evening. Also gets an entire pineapple, and when you raise an eyebrow, he just shrugs.

"If I don't have a snack before I shower I will die," he assures you. "I'm craving a burger, so you should really be thanking me for the noble sacrifice I'm making. It benefits us both."

"You're an idiot."

"Fine, I'll get a burger."

But when he goes to put the pineapple back, you stop him. Smile. Say, "Pineapple is good."

"That's what I thought," he stands tall and proud, chest puffed, head tilted back. He looks like an asshole but god damn, does he look good doing so. As he peers down at you, you know it'll be a miracle if you even make it to the shower by the time you get home. Want him too bad.

"Stop bickering," you tell him. "Quicker we get home, the quicker we can—"

"Say no more," he nods, taking the basket from you, then zooming off up the aisle. "C'mon, B! Places to be! People to see!"

As he darts off to the next aisle, all you can do is wonder how on earth this is your life.

But it is—and when you finally find him again, standing in line to pay, basket full to the brim from his supermarket sweep, you know that all these changes happening around you really don't matter as long as you have him.

"Alright," you quietly say as you stand beside him, flicking open your phone and heading for your taxi hailing app. "I'll order a taxi. Don't want you to die on the way home."

"Teamwork," Jeongguk smiles.

"It makes the dream work, or so I heard," you hum with a somewhat smug smile, pleased to be getting exactly what you want: time spent with Jeongguk away from the prying eyes of the three fates.

"Yeah," he quietly says, leaning over to press a kiss against the side of your head. "It sure does."

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laxmiree · 2 months ago

Text

[CN] MLQC’s Lucien - Fragment Date - English Translation

⚠️ SPOILER ALERT!! ⚠️

This post contains a detailed spoiler for a date that has not been released in EN yet! Feel free to notify me if there are any mistakes in the translation~

[Warning]: The content of this date is pretty explicit and may not be suitable for individuals under the age of 17 (CN server). It is recommended that those who do not meet this age requirement refrain from proceeding beyond this point.

He traces a trail of delicate nibbles along my neck, kissing the path where life itself flows.

I feel those affectionate yet slightly demanding marks being etched again and again. For some reason, I find myself speaking without thinking.

"Bite me, Lucien."

Translation under the cut!

[T/N: This date references some dates in the past; like his Prison Date, Monochrome Scenery Exclusive Past and its Event Story, “Lab Koi” call, his Last year’s Birthday Story, and The Sea No Longer Distant MQ. Since this date has a lot of callback, I think it’d be better if you read those dates, events, and phone calls first if you haven’t :>; or at least the MQ and birthday story one because this date is also some kind of extension to those]

[Subbed Video]

youtube

[Transcript Ver]

=[Part 1]=

I wake up to the faint whirring of the fan and the subtle scent of a fruity fragrance lingering in the air. I turn over in bed, slowly blinking my eyes open.

The brilliant sunlight filters through the lace curtains, casting iridescent patches of light that dance playfully across Lucien's body.

He sits in a rattan chair by the window, flipping through a book in his hand. An exquisite purple clay tea set rests on a side table nearby.

For a fleeting, dreamlike moment, I feel like I've traveled back to the 1970s.

As if sensing my gaze, Lucien turns his head, and a hint of a smile appears in his eyes as he looks at me.

Lucien: It seems a certain lady hasn't adjusted to the time difference yet.

Lucien: It is now noon in U.S. time.

My foggy brain finally starts to turn sluggishly. I leave the bed, drag a chair over to sit beside him and yawn again.

MC: It can't be helped. It's already the wee hours in Loveland City.

Lucien: [teasingly] Oh? But as I recall, a certain night owl sometimes doesn't go to bed obediently even at those hours.

MC: [pouts] ....Hmph, you're one to talk, Mr. I-Don't-Need-Sleep!*

[T/N: MC actually calls him 进化了睡眠的人 here, which literally means “evolved sleep people”, it might be referring to him seemingly have evolved beyond the need of sleep😂]

Lucien: I've been quite well-behaved lately, haven't I? And when it comes to sleep duration, well, let's just say you're the ‘expert’.

Lucien blinks at me innocently, and I quickly take a sip of the tea he offers, hoping he won’t delve deeper into this topic.

A sweet and sour sensation blooms in my mouth. Perhaps there are other unknown herbs added, as I also detect a hint of honeyed sweetness.

✂———————–

=Flashback start=

Ten hours ago, in the dim and quiet cabin, the only sound was the occasional soft tapping of a keyboard from the seat next to me.

I lifted a corner of my eye mask and leaned closer.

MC: It's time for sleep, Professor Lucien. Didn't you say the seminar doesn't start until next week? We arrived three days early.

Lucien: That's true, but I don't plan to use this time for conference preparations.

Lucien: After all, a certain classmate expressed a desire to take this opportunity to visit my lab from my master's and Ph.D. days. I want to dedicate my time fully to you without any interruptions from other matters.

Beyond his words, I sensed other emotions in his earnest tone.

MC: [curiously] Is our Professor Lucien nervous because I'm going to visit the places where you once studied and lived?

Lucien: Yes.

He admitted it frankly, his eyes lit up as he looked at me.

Lucien: That place is very important to me.

Lucien: This feeling is like... inviting you to step into a chapter of my past.

Lucien: It should be a proper occasion, something worth your anticipation.

=Flashback end=

✂———————–

As I step out the door, a wave of heat washes over me. Thankfully, the house is nestled among the trees, providing some relief from the sweltering heat.

Lucien leads me down the stone steps, deeper into the verdant greenery. The lively apple trees grow abundantly, and even the breeze seems to carry a sweet fragrance.

The bed-and-breakfast he booked is located within Carver Estate Farm, not far from the lab. Since it's still early, we decided to take a stroll in the farm's orchard first.

MC: Now I finally feel like I'm truly on an American farm—

Lucien: The furniture and decor in that room can indeed be a bit misleading.

Lucien: That said, the radio and clock in the living room are just decorative pieces, and the stainless steel kettle in the kitchen is also fixed to the table.

Lucien: As for the fan and the TV, including the sewing machine, they actually work and can somewhat be considered "antiques.”

MC: When did you…

Lucien: [chuckles] The wait while you're asleep feels endless*, so I have to keep myself busy.

[T/N: Lucien uses the word "难熬" (literally means hard to bear) to describe his feelings while waiting for MC to wake up. Rather than feeling annoyed, the original sentence conveys a sense of longing and impatience, emphasizing how much he misses her so the wait feels unbearable]

Seeing him speak so seriously, I can't help but give his palm a gentle pinch.

Lucien: To be honest, I was a bit curious. I didn't expect the owner to maintain this style, or rather, deliberately preserve it.

MC: Have you been here before?

Lucien: Mm, Dr. Lawson brought the entire lab here before.

✂———————–

[T/N: Dr. Lawson was Lucien's mentor during his Master's and PhD years, in those years Lucien also had some seniors like Colt, Caroline, and Elliot. You can read more in Monochrome Scenery Exclusive Past. It can be said that the time during his Master’s and PhD years was the 'happiest' for him, after he abandoned his name and before he met MC. This young boy discovers that he’s not the only genius in this world. Surprisingly, this isn’t a bad thing; because being considered a genius had previously isolated him from his peers, but being surrounded by other geniuses provides him with a taste of mundane life… although he can’t fully taste it due to Black Swan’s pressure :"]

✂———————–

=[Part 2]=

Lucien: I remember it was autumn. We had just finished a phase of our experiment.

Lucien: The process of this experiment was very prolonged, and almost everyone expended a lot of effort. Fortunately, the results exceeded expectations.

Lucien: As a celebration, or perhaps simply out of a need for a break, Dr. Lawson suggested an outing after the experiment concluded.

MC: Sounds like a team-building activity?

Lucien: [chuckles] You could say that.

Lucien smiles lightly.

Lucien: At first, we all thought it would just be a matter of finding a nice restaurant, having a meal and chatting, or going to the theater to watch a performance.

Lucien: It wasn't until everyone received an email from Dr. Lawson that we realized we had been granted a mandatory five-day vacation. And the destination was this very farm estate.

MC: Pfft, Dr. Lawson is quite ceremonious about giving everyone a day off~ So, did everyone just obediently accept the arrangement?

I notice Lucien pausing, lost in thought, which is unusual for him. Then, a smile spreads on his lips.

Lucien: [chuckles] Not exactly.

Lucien: Eventually, everyone practically treated this place as a lab annex, almost bringing in equipment. Fortunately, the farm owner was an old friend of Dr. Lawson's, so we weren't kicked out.

MC: Hahaha, I knew it!

As we walk deeper into the apple orchard, the intertwined branches and leaves block out the sunlight, creating a vast expanse of shade. Vibrant red apples dot the lush greenery, looking especially tempting.

Lucien: The farm owner is an elderly Chinese gentleman. It's said that he and his wife came here to live when they were young, and this apple orchard was also planted by them with their own hands.

MC: No wonder. I think I suddenly understand why the house's decor feels so nostalgic.

Lucien: Perhaps it's precisely because they've been away for so long that they need tangible things to solidify those memories.

The swaying shadows of the trees dance in his deep eyes, and even though he's talking about someone else, I feel like I'm hearing unspoken words meant for himself.

So I rise on my tiptoes and cup his face, turning it towards me.

MC: So today, little Lucien is revisiting his old stomping grounds~ And as such an accomplished young professor, no less!

MC: This memory is very precious, and it's important to solidify it well.

Lucien: Is that so?

His voice is soft as he lowers his eyelashes and gazes into my eyes.

I feel like my entire being is almost seen through by him. He doesn't say a word, just keeps looking at me.

MC: Why are you staring at me?

Lucien: [chuckles] I'm solidifying this memory.

MC: Um?

Lucien: Because I'm not just here by myself.

Lucien: Today, I'm revisiting this place with my girlfriend. I want to look closely, carefully, and remember your appearance clearly.

I can't help but laugh, my fingertips brushing against his earlobe.

MC: Then how about remembering a bit more~ What else did little Lucien do here?

Lucien: I ate the apples.

MC: ....That doesn't count!

Lucien: Of course it counts. To be precise, it was an apple feast, with apple pie, apple muffins, apple salad, apple stew…

MC: Stop...! You're making me dizzy just looking at these apple trees now.

MC: I feel like they're saying to me, "I'm apple pie, I'm apple muffin…”

I dramatically shake my head and point to the huge fruits hanging above us.

Lucien seems amused by my actions. Seizing the moment, he smoothly takes my hand and plucks the apple hanging closest to us.

Lucien: [chuckles] Then let's eat them all, one by one.

He finishes speaking and even "conjures" a thin blanket from his bag, spreading it on the ground. He pulls me, who is still processing the moment, to sit under the tree.

His seamless actions leave me completely unable to keep up with him, and my questions come out in a jumble.

MC: C- Can we just pick the apples here? And sit down like this? And this blanket…

Lucien: I told you waiting for you to wake up feels endless, and I wasn't lying.

He looks as if he knows I can't do anything about him, and his tone, though seemingly aggrieved, is full of triumph.

We sit side-by-side under the tree, falling into a brief silence. The wind gently blows, as if not wanting to disturb this tranquility.

Lucien & MC: What are you thinking about?

Suddenly, we speak at the same time, and the unexpected coincidence makes us look at each other and laugh.

MC: You go first~

Lucien: I was wondering if an apple might fall on my head.

He says it so seriously that I find it rather cute. On a whim, I get up, pluck an apple, and then gently tap him on the head.

MC: Knock knock…

Lucien seems surprised by my action, the light in his pupils flickers.

Lucien: [gently] What about you?

MC: Me…

I smile sheepishly.

MC: I thought of a fairy tale, Prince... Snow White.

Lucien: But that's not how I remember the story?

MC: Because… this is a story I imagined!

Lucien nods thoughtfully, not minding my nonsense at all, but instead curving his eyes in a good mood.

Lucien: Then in your story, who are you?

This question stumps me for a moment, and I pause to think seriously before answering.

MC: I'm the magic mirror.

Lucien: Because the magic mirror knows everything?

MC: [smiles softly] Not really, it's because the magic mirror only looks at...the prince.

MC: And if I were the magic mirror, I wouldn't need you to ask, I'd tell you that—

MC: Lucien is the most handsome, the most intelligent, the most amazing, and the person I love the most in this entire world.

My voice is not loud, yet it feels like the entire orchard of apples has heard it. Their already gorgeous red blushing even deeper, making their vibrancy impossible to conceal.

My clamorous heart seems to be thoroughly exposed by the sun, allowing me to distinctly feel its beating and clearly see the smile filling Lucien's eyes.

He lowers his head, takes a bite of the apple in his hand, and lies down without hesitation.

Our hands, which have been holding each other all along, pull me slightly forward because of his sudden movement.

MC: …!

Lucien lies lazily on the plush blanket, each strand of hair scattering softly, as if quietly outlining his innermost feeling at this moment.

His already loose shirt falls open completely, revealing a patch of skin.

He gently blinks and the corners of his lips slightly curl up.

Under the scorching heat, the apples hanging from the branches exude an even more enticing fragrance.

The wind gathers from afar, wave after wave, sweeping through the villa, the woods, and each apple tree, carrying an increasingly rich scent toward us.

His fingertip traces mine, gently caressing the sensitive skin between my thumb and index finger.

It's like some kind of seduction.

Lucien: [whispers hoarsely] Miss Magic Mirror, I've been poisoned.

His voice is soft as if melting into the sunlight, yet it possesses a bewitching power that makes one willingly lean closer to him.

Lucien: You can kiss me now.

✂———————–

[T/N: Prince Snow White and Miss Magic Mirror… it’s a reference to his second Halloween date; Prison Date! Also, I love the way it seamlessly fits in the theme of ‘lover is like a mirror’ from last year's kiss SP; Blooming Amidst Turbulent Desires MQ... perhaps by seeing your lover's eyes you can see the real and complete you :”. And unique to Lucien, it could be that only through seeing his reflection in her eyes can he perceive the colorful version of himself]

✂———————–

=[Part 3]=

After buying some apple cookies at the farm store and making a reservation for apple cider making tomorrow, we drive to Dr. Lawson's lab.

The asphalt road under the shade of the trees glistens in the summer light. In the distance, sailboats glide on the river and people cycle along the riverbank.

Perhaps it's due to the fluttering anticipation in my heart, but the half-hour drive feels like it's over in the blink of an eye.

✂———————–

Lucien: Dr. Lawson is giving a lecture in London this week, and the current head of the lab is my senior, Colt. After graduation, he stayed on to continue the research.

Lucien: But he happens to be leading a group of students in an academic exchange with another lab today…

Lucien pauses for a moment, moves the gift bag he just placed on the desk to the side, and takes a sticky note off the computer screen.

Lucien: [quietly reading the sticky note] …..

He waves the sticky note at me, and I can clearly see the lively handwriting on it: "Enjoy: )".

Lucien: It seems like no one will be back today. In that case, let's graciously accept this invitation to enjoy ourselves.*

[T/N: "恭敬不如从命" means “it's more respectful to follow a request than to decline it out of politeness.” In this case, rather than refusing Colt's invitation, they graciously accept and agree to enjoy the day as requested]

✂———————–

The white walls make the spacious corridor even brighter. Along the way, the walls of classrooms and laboratories are adorned with various awards and patent certificates.

It seems that just by passing through, one can feel countless figures with unceasing footsteps, moving forward persistently and rationally, knocking on one unknown door after another.

✂———————–

Lucien: The desk by the window was the place I most often sat in the lab. Because I always sat there, it eventually became my ‘workstation’.

Lucien: Even if I arrived late, everyone would save this seat for me;

Lucien: [chuckles] But I don't really have a fixed seat in the library. I've never known if those people who are already looking up information early in the morning are actually early risers or if they just never went to bed;

Lucien: Occasionally, when the weather was nice, professors would take us out to the lawn for class;

Lucien: This vending machine used to swallow coins. I wonder if it's been fixed…

Lucien leads me through the corridor, past the small garden, into classrooms, laboratories, and the library…

Perhaps even he himself hasn't realized it, but returning here has made him happy.

It's in the little things he doesn't even realize he's doing: the way his steps quicken without him noticing, the instinctive caress of his fingertips against my palm, the soft murmurs he makes when he notices something different from his memories.

And even the hint of joy as he reveals those past memories with me.

He leads me by the hand through every nook and cranny of this place, making me feel as if I'm walking through his youth.

Finally, we arrive at the dormitory building.

Lucien: Generally, everyone lives here. They're mostly single rooms, so you have a lot of privacy.

MC: I remember you mentioned it before, so is this the common lounge area?

In this not-so-large space in front of us, several sofas and coffee tables are neatly arranged, and the bar counter displays simple everyday items.

Lucien: Mm, usually everyone relaxes here while waiting for experiment results. Occasionally, we also play a round of NOU.

MC: Pfft, I didn't expect this kind of leisure activity.

Lucien: [chuckles] To be precise, it's a traditional activity.

Sensing an interesting topic, I quickly shake his hand and press for more details.

MC: What else? What other things do you do?

Lucien thinks for a moment, then suddenly smiles.

Lucien: There's actually one interesting thing.

Lucien: In the past, before important experimental results were concluded, everyone would tacitly let a certain colleague touch the experiment machine a few more times, and then pray to it.

Lucien: And often, the results wouldn't be too bad, and there was a high probability of exceeding expectations.

MC: Hahaha, so he's the ‘lab koi’ you were talking about!

[T/N: It’s a reference to the “Lab Koi” call from last year!]

Lucien nods, the warm white light tracing the contours of his face, making his features appear even softer.

I can hear the nostalgia in his voice that he unintentionally revealed, and I know that he might be thinking about a lot of things at this moment.

I'm reluctant to break this brief silence*, my gaze subconsciously drifting towards this lounge, as if I could catch a glimpse of the genius boy who had once been here.

[T/N: The phrase "不舍得" (bù shě de) expresses a reluctance or unwillingness to part with something precious or cherished. While the English translation "reluctant" conveys the general idea, it might not fully capture the way MC cherishes this rare moment of Lucien being so nostalgic that she's reluctant to break🤧]

Suddenly, my attention is drawn to the wall next to the bar counter.

It's a small display wall. Besides showcasing some achievement certificates of past researchers, there's also a handwritten message board and some photos.

It turns out there will always be someone who earnestly preserves and longs for the past, with all its time and traces.

I quickly find a familiar figure among them.

It's a slightly blurry photo, almost as if it were a frame grabbed from a video.

The boy surrounded by the crowds slightly widened his eyes, a bouquet of flowers was thrust into his arms as he let the others boisterously tease and laugh around him.

Lucien: [chuckles, his voice exclaims a little in surprise] ...So, I really was quite surprised back then.

Lucien quietly walks up behind me at some point, his gaze intently fixed on this photo.

The world is truly a wondrous place. It appears to operate according to established principles, yet it often defies logic.

Those emotions that he never understood in the past are now brought before him in some fateful way, regaining their meaning and significance.

Lucien gazes at the girl beside him, observing her happiness and surprise, witnessing all the beautiful emotions that have blossomed because of him.

But she has no idea that her existence has allowed him to see how beautiful the world is.

Lucien's gaze slowly returned to the photo.

Countless colorful ribbons flutter in the air, shimmering and sparkling. The colors, engraved with blessings and well-wishes, seem to transcend time, flowing into his eyes in this very moment.

He speaks softly.

Lucien: It turns out that day was actually so lively.

✂———————–

The last scene is about his Last year’s Birthday Story! He graduated with his PhD on his birthday. This graduation was celebrated by his seniors and professor. At that time, everything was monochrome in his eyes. However, visiting the place with MC and seeing his graduation photo with her brings color to a memory that was once only in black and white. He now realizes how lively and vibrant that day truly was.

✂———————–

=[Part 4]=

MC: Are you saying that Senior Brother Colt and Senior Sister Caroline being together was something specifically emailed to you?

Lucien gives a helpless smile.

Lucien: Their reasoning was that I'd receive the information faster by email, and it turns out they were absolutely right.

MC: Hahaha!

We walk back, laughing and chatting. Along the way, I listen to Lucien share stories from his past that he seldom opens up about, about the later developments of his companions, and their current situations.

Some things he tells me without much recollection, while others he needs to think about for a moment. But it seems that the process of remembering makes him a bit happier.

One intersection away from the farm, we pass by a market and stop to buy some food.

Lucien: I'll take the things to the car first, wait for me here.

MC: Okay~ I'll be right here at the market.

While waiting for Lucien to get the car, I notice a stall at the market.

A silver-haired grandma is engrossed in weaving bracelets, her stall filled with dazzling beaded ornaments that shimmer under the soft glow of the glass lamps.

Suddenly, an idea strikes me, and I walk towards the stall.

✂———————–

MC: Ah, it's so hot.

As soon as I enter the house, I hurriedly turn on the air conditioner and fan.

Although the temperature here is still quite pleasant compared to the summer in Loveland City, I’m probably still jet-lagged that I feel a little dizzy.

Struggling to fight the rising drowsiness, I sort and organize the purchased items with Lucien.

Lucien: How about having dinner at the farm's eco-restaurant tonight? That way you can sleep earlier and won't be too tired.

Lucien: Or should we go somewhere farther to try some local specialties?

MC: Either is fine with me~ But before we eat, I need to do something important first.

I arrange the washed apples in a fruit bowl and pull Lucien to sit down with me.

I fish the woven bracelet I bought earlier from the stall out of my pocket. I pull his arm towards me and carefully, with a sense of cherishing, fasten the bracelet around his wrist.

Lucien clasps my wrist in return, his gaze shifting from the bracelet to me, as if waiting for an explanation.

MC: It's just... I suddenly wanted to give you something.

MC: Maybe it's because I saw your photos in the lounge earlier, or maybe it's because I heard so much about your past today.

MC: Even though I knew what those days truly meant to you, it wasn't until I actually went there that I realized…

MC: Everything about Lucien has been well treasured.

He's looking at me, hanging on to my every word.

MC: I'm so lucky to have picked them up again and to have pieced them together with you.

MC: To let them become you, the complete person standing before me.

Gazing into his eyes and seeing the one and only figure reflected there, I feel surprisingly calm and settled inside.

I gently caress his wrist twice.

MC: You see, I tied this knot myself! And I picked out this little agate bead super carefully. Don't you think it's pretty?

MC: It can be like the apple that falls on your head and sparks inspiration or the one that tempts you to be curious about everything.

MC: But now, it is also the "apple" I am giving to you.

MC: [smiles softly] Lucien, I hope the present me can also become a special fragment, forever remaining in your memories.

Pinkish-purple hues gently paint the horizon, and a beam of light happens to fall in, illuminating the agate bead.

The smooth texture is brightly highlighted, making the color seem to dance, leaping into those beautiful dark eyes.

Lucien: [softly] Indeed… very vibrant.

Lucien: Like an apple.

As he says this, he looks at me, his brows and eyes curving into a beautiful arc, leaving me momentarily unsure of what exactly he's referring to.

MC: Then let’s go eat…!

My cheeks start to feel warm as I belatedly realize what he means, and as I try to rise from his embrace, an irresistible force pulls me back onto his lap.

The arm wrapped around my waist tightens slightly, deepening the embrace.

Lucien: [whispers seductively] Before that, I also have something important to do.

He lowers his head, kissing the little agate bead cherishingly, then gently moves his kisses to my fingertips resting on his wrist, his lips slowly trailing upward, inch by inch.

Each kiss is feather light and slow, as if he’s carefully tracing every detail, until every part of my skin is stained with his warmth.

Lucien: MC.

He gives my earlobe another gentle peck before pulling back slightly, creating a small distance between us.

Lucien: [softly] Today, I've felt the significance of those seemingly meaningless moments from the past.

Lucien: It turns out there are many other people in my dreams.

[T/N: This part is what I mean by the date being the extension of last month's MQ (The Sea No Longer Distant MQ). It can be said that on this date, Lucien finally understands what MC means in that MQ. It's like... growing a 'heart' and feeling emotions that he doesn't comprehend before. He's lucky to have many people willing to ‘dream’ together with him🥺]

His abrupt change of topic leaves me momentarily confused as if he’s speaking in riddles. It takes me a moment to catch up and understand what he’s talking about.

Memories of the beach from a month ago flood back. I look into those eyes that are still fixed on me, and I seem to see emotions in them that weren't there before.

Lucien: You're right. People are complex, and they're also greedy.

Lucien: Because of you, I've accepted many things, and as a result, I desire even more.

Lucien: I'm curious about what other changes I'll experience because of you, and what surprises you'll bring me.

Lucien: And besides curiosity, there's also expectation.

I tilt my head up and kiss the corner of his lips.

MC: Then keep being curious about me.

MC: I like that you're curious about me.

I reach out to touch Lucien's face, wanting to look more clearly into his eyes.

Lucien: [whispers softly] Miss Magic Mirror, can you tell me…

Lucien: In your eyes, what am I like at this very moment?

I can't help but laugh.

MC: Right now, your eyes are the color of the entire sky. They're so beautiful.

MC: Your hair is bestowed with the warm glow of the setting sun, looking soft and fluffy. Your lips…

As I talk, I give him another kiss.

MC: It makes me want to do this.

Lucien also starts laughing.

MC: Lucien, right now, everything about you is complete in my eyes, and I can see you clearly.

He leans down again, his warm and moist breath brushing against my neck as he kisses me, causing subtle tingling sensations on my skin.

I instinctively try to pull away, but as I reach out to hold onto the back of his neck, he firmly holds me in place.

My legs dangle, unable to find a foothold, forcing me to use all my strength to hook onto his lap, while my other hand blindly grabs onto the curtain.

The crimson sunset spills over us unrestrainedly. As if dazzled by the spots of light, Lucien lifts me towards him, shifting a little as he holds me.

Amid the rocking motion, his leg accidentally touches the nearby coffee table, making a noise.

The sudden weightlessness makes me instinctively tighten my arms, causing him to gently bite my collarbone.

His scorching breath brushes against my neck like a feather, his scent overwhelming and filling every corner. It mingles with the fruity fragrance in the air, creating an even more alluring aroma.

Out of the corner of my eye, the goldfish in the fish bowl seem startled as well, swaying and swinging, leaving behind two tangled and intertwined trails*.

The skin grazed by my fingertips starts to burn, and I'm getting hot too.

Lucien: [whispers hoarsely] MC, you make me feel a gentle gaze.

Right now, we probably can't see each other's expressions, but it's as if we can see everything.

His low, hoarse voice resonates against my neck, and his moving lips make my throat vibrate, as though his words and voice have become my own.

Lucien: [x2] Make me feel truly seen by you, deeply loved by you**.

Lucien: [x3] Make me… feel happy and satisfied.

He traces a trail of delicate nibbles along my neck, kissing the path where life itself flows.

I feel those affectionate yet slightly demanding marks being etched again and again. For some reason, I find myself speaking without thinking.

MC: Bite me, Lucien.

The rustling of clothes suddenly stops, and his breathing also ceases, as if he is holding his breath.

I know my face is burning bright red, but I only shyly embrace him, moving myself even closer to him.

MC: I've also been seen by you and possessed by you.

In the sweaty air, I hear his long, drawn-out breath.

But in the next moment, they are all swept into my lips and tongue, obtaining all my oxygen in a different way.

Lucien: [kisses and pants] It is because you possess me that I am complete.

Lucien: [x2] Please keep possessing me forever… MC.

Lucien: [x3] In this world, only you will possess this kind of me.

———FIN———–

[T/N]

*: The fish in the bowl description might seem out of place, but it's not! It alludes to '鱼水之欢' (lit. 'the joy of fish and water'), which is a Chinese idiom that describes the joy and intimacy of sexual intercourse or the metaphor for the act itself. It's also an idiom that is a metaphor for the intimate and harmonious emotional or sexual life of men and women.

**: This is my favorite line in this because of the way it emphasizes Lucien's feeling of being understood and cherished 🤧 “看见" (kàn jiàn, to see) has the connotation of being acknowledged and truly understood. I think, for Lucien, being ‘seen’ and understood is significant; understanding the world is his thing as a scientist, so when someone makes an effort to understand him, it means a lot to him. Then the use of directly spoken “爱” (ài) which is a very, very sentimental word to say compared to how the west uses ‘love’ regularly… and the way it also encompasses a sense of enduring love, a sense of care, cherishing, and protectiveness🥺

Those last lines!!!!! Under her gaze, he feels utterly seen, completely known, and thus, entirely himself. It's because she possesses him fully that he feels complete. While others in his life may hold only fragments of him, she alone possesses his entirety. As the fox says in "The Little Prince," “But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world.” It is through her 'taming' that his completeness becomes something uniquely hers and hers alone.

And as Lucien mentioned in the Radio Broadcast Date, his form of possessiveness goes beyond one-sided control or dominance. Rather than just possessing her, he longs even more for her to possess him. To let her influence and 'change' him. Their possessiveness is a two-way thing: just as he is insatiable and wants all of her, he also craves to belong to the one he loves and to surrender himself entirely. After all, possessiveness is also a form of exceptional cherishing of the other party (his words in radio broadcast date, not mine), and he enjoys the feeling of being cherished and loved in this way.

#those last lines are CRAZY with the panting and kissing noises hjdhjbdsbsdhsf #why this man happiness make me more teary-eyed than when he straight up sad sob sob #his unconscious happiness just make me WEEP #mlqc lucien #mr love queen's choice #mlqc cn #mlqc spoiler #mlqc #mlqc translation #mr. love queen's choice #mr love lucien #mlqc xu mo #mlqc spoilers #Youtube

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themusingsofacurlyhairednerd · 6 months ago

Text

Datura Pt 14

Author's Note: If your read ACOSF and got to that part where Cassian is mind controlled and thought, hmm how could this hurt me more, look no further. Had to make it angsty before we get fluffy, right?

Warnings: Allusions to Assault, Character Death, Canon Typical Violence/Blood and Gore. A lot of angst; like a lot.

Masterlist/ Previous Chapter

There's a callback to Chapter 1 in here, but since it's been so long since I wrote it, here's the chapter again, just for a refresher ;)

---------------------------------

Revenge had kept you warm all those nights in the dungeon, had kept your chin up during every humiliating thing that red headed bitch had put you through. You’d spent hours and hours dreaming up all the ways you would make her pay for turning your life upside down, for tearing the Courts apart, for laying a hand on your mate. In your dreams it was a swift, clean death that wiped away any chance of survival. But standing in the dark tunnels of the Mountain’s lowest levels, the blood of her men dripping from your claws, this is the last thing you want.

This is not swift justice, this is not satisfying revenge, it’s a bloodbath. Males reach for their swords and you tear them apart with your hands, claws cleaving through armor and flesh with little resistance, the splatter of it chilling against your changed skin. Every sense is heightened, every smell and sight changed and distorted, the splatter of blood stings like pin pricks, and yet the beast that has lived caged within your chest all these years delights in it. Your head screams at you to stop, yet your body moves as if it enjoys the hunt.

Hybern said all of them, and your collared body responds accordingly, leaving nothing left of the sentries that patrol the lower levels of the Mountain. There are beasts and monsters here too, hiding in the dark corners, huddling around fires to stay warm as autumn creeps in, all dispatched with a ruthless efficiency that makes your stomach churn, and yet you still can’t force yourself to stop.

The darkness of this place that had once felt so soul crushing and disorienting now makes the muscles in your shoulders relax. The beast within you chuckles as it slips into the dark shadows as if they’re a caress of a lover.

A sentry walks your direction, unawares. He’s dead before his next breath.

With no physical control of your body, you try desperately to call for your mate, to find whatever shred of a bond is left, if there even is one, but you feel it go nowhere. Before, it was like dropping a bit of water into a pond, the echo of your call disturbing the ether of the physic plane until something out there felt the ripple. But there is no ripple here. It is as if your calls bounce off a wall of steel. If there is a bond left, it is as much a prisoner to Hybern’s will as you are, no matter how much you mentally bash yourself against it.

Your body moves without your consent, deeper and deeper into the Mountain. Your hands move on their own volition, yanking previously locked doors off the hinges to allow you to tear apart whatever prisoner, guard, or beast lays within. Some of them are still sleeping when you come, completely unaware they’re being hunted until it’s too late. Some try to fight. None get far. These newly awakened powers leave little room for fighting, all you have to do is direct some of that ether between your fingers in their direction and they turn to a bloody mist. You are a far greater monster than anything in this Mountain has ever been, and there’s no chance that anyone will be warned you’re there until it’s too late.

Time is a concept that exists outside of you, however long it takes to clear the lower levels, the winding, endless tunnels filled with bodies, feels like both a blink and an eternity. It had been sunrise when you’d entered, it very well could have been evening already and you’d have no idea. All this body knows is the hunt, and it moves tirelessly through floors you’ve never seen, with soldiers and war bands and monsters you’d never known existed, until the halls start to look familiar. The prison first, your old cell still damaged. The training room, with its dust stained weapons and crumbling pillars. Every floor up is a new terror, a possibility to come across a face you know.

“Please,” you beg whatever entity will dare listen to you. “Please, let him be out. Let him be anywhere but here.” Everything you touch dies, if anything happens to Rhys…

Blood drips off your aching skin. Moving like this makes your muscles feel like they could pull away from your bones, this form too much for your mortal body to keep contained. It should be tiring, yet, your legs still move you forward as if you haven’t been tearing through an army for hours, unhindered by your discomfort.

“Please stop,” you whisper when you find sleeping quarters for Amarantha’s servants, fangs bared and claws swinging. “Please!”

A blue skinned fae with crooked wings drops to their knees before you, tears streaming down their cheeks. “Have mercy! Please!”

Stop this. Stop this. Stop this!

The collar hums at your hesitation, metal burning, it’s dark power pulsing through your veins like living flames. A growl of pain slips out of you as you extend your hand and mist the begging fae.

Others sprint from the room, screaming. None of them make it farther than the outside hallway.

You can feel blood and gore beneath your feet as you walk past, looking for anyone else on this floor. There’s a couple hiding in a closet, hands pressed over their mouths to keep quiet. A soldier drunk and stumbling with his pants around his ankles. A courtier slipping from a secret lover’s room. All gone.

You’d cry if you could, but nothing slows you, your body moving ever forward until it comes to a hall you recognize, your own claw marks dragged across the walls.

The more you try and fight it, the more the collar burns.

Most of the rooms around your old cell are empty, your own included. In all your revenge plans you’d always pictured yourself destroying it before leaving, but the collar doesn’t care what you want. It shuts the door and leaves the bed and the book written about you for the dust to once again claim as it begins its ascent to the Throne Room.

There are plenty of obstacles getting there, their faces all a blur of sudden terror and agony. No amount of bathing will ever cleanse the feeling of all this gore from your skin, from your soul.

The Throne Room doors finally come into view, the noise you’ve been making in the lower levels attracting the attention of the guards, who stand at the closed doors with their spears drawn. They’d been so imposing, that day the Attor had dragged you into Amarantha’s chambers, but now, they’re as dangerous as flies. You turn them to mist with the same blast of power that shatters the doors, the ancient rock around you screaming in protest. This draws some attention from the dancing crowd, but it’s not until you’ve misted a large chunk of them that the music finally stops playing.

No. No. No.

The crowd parts with a scream, pressing against the walls, scrambling for the exits as you step into that all too familiar room, dripping blood behind you.

“What is the meaning of-” Amarantha’s shrill voice echoes off the chamber walls, rattling the decaying bodies still pinned to the ruined stones of this once sacred hall. There had always been a strange energy to the Mountain, the magic that kept it alive, old and strange, always hidden beneath the surface, but with your new found powers, you feel the echo of it beneath your feet. This place is twisted, the once holy magic from the Cauldron itself rotten and decaying, you crinkle your nose at the smell of it.

The Queen still sits on her throne, the sheer fabric of her blood red dress clinging to her meager curves, as she takes you in. It takes her a minute to understand what she’s seeing, to process the magnitude of what you were and what you now are. Her gaze flicks to her side… where she keeps your mate chained to her throne.

The screaming of the crowd, the pounding of your heart, it’s all a dull, distant echo in your ears. Rhys is wearing a collar, his dark hair messy, knotted atop his head, violet eyes glassy, red streaked; he’s not wearing a shirt, or pants, stripped down to his boxers, his tattooed chest bruised and littered with claw marks.

Oh gods.

What had she done to him?

Mentally, you bash against the wall between the two of you, screaming for him, begging anybody who will listen to let you out, to let you save him.

If he can hear you, he gives no acknowledgment. Even if he could break through that wall between you, there’s no way he could do it in this state. It takes him a long time to process what he sees when his gaze finally drags to you, as if it’s an effort to move his head. His glassy eyes blinking too many times like he’s trying to clear the haze from them to ensure that what he’s seeing is real. He’s as much himself as you are, both of you locked behind a wall of someone else’s making. You’re sure your heart is breaking, if it works at all it’s a ragged, bleeding thing that sits uselessly in your chest.

Amarantha stands and Rhys sways on his knees, trying to get out of her way. You can’t tear your eyes away from the way he flinches away from her hand, the way he dips his chin to his chest.

“What is this?” She snarls. “Guards!”

If there are soldiers coming for you, or just the crowd scattering to let them pass, it doesn’t matter. You raise a hand and mist all of them, the rock above your head shuddering as your power obliterates everything from flesh to rock.

Amarantha’s red painted lips part in shock, a small gasp of surprise slipping out of her.

There are a dozen different things you want to say to her, a thousand different things you mean to make her pay for, but you can’t open your mouth to say anything. There are no words able to pass beyond the burning thrum of the collar fused to your throat.

“This is a new look for you, Little Mouse,” she croons as a ring of fire emerges to wreathe her hands. “Who’d you have to fuck to make that happen? Certainly not Rhysand.”

She’ll pay for every cut, every bruise, every damn hair out of place on his head. The carnage behind you, around you, the blood that drips from your body, it’ll stain your very soul for the rest of your life if you manage to escape this, you know that for certain, but her death? You and the monster that lives inside, will relish every last one of her agonizing breaths. You’ll make her beg for mercy, as you had begged on your knees before her in this room, and you’ll take your time doing it.

Amarantha assesses you with the surety of a seasoned warlord, every step closer intentional, getting in range to take a shot at you. You wait, letting her get close enough, and just when she’s sure of her place on this new battlefield, you lunge for her with a speed that shouldn’t be possible, even for a fae. She barely has time to blink before you slash your claws across her face. You go right for her eye, aiming to maim, to make it hurt. She screams as your claws tear through flesh and bone, body spinning to get away from you and your free hand comes up to grab her by the hair and hurl her back towards the dias. She stumbles, barely managing to catch herself on the steps leading to her throne.

Rhys scatters as far back as the chain will allow him to avoid her, but his gaze remains fully fixed on you. A familiar brush of night chilled power brushes over your mind, asking for entry and you try your best to throw a door open, to let him in, but that wall remains between the two of you. You can feel him there, on the other side, trying to reach you, but the wall won’t come down.

There’s no time to try another way to reach him either, not when Amarantha starts throwing fire balls at your head. “You stupid, little bitch!” She screams. “I take you in, I offer to train you, to befriend you and you thank me like this?”

The eye on her ring swivels to look at the damage you’ve made in its master’s face in a move that looks strangely… impressed.

You dodge the first couple of throws she makes, letting them hit old cushions and tables. The next throw, you reach out a hand and catch the ball of flame. The fire would have blistered your skin, should make you scream in agony, but in this form, like this? You draw that power inside you as easy as you draw a breath, the crackle of flames like a drug in your veins. It’s intoxicating. When she throws more, her anger becoming more and more tangible and her shots more wild then the last, you take those in too, savoring it until it bubbles up in the pit of your stomach and you have no other choice but to hurl it back at her in a blast she just barely manages to shield herself from.

Distracted with keeping the shield up, you rush her again, drawing in the power she expels from her shield with ease so that there is nothing stopping you from getting a hand around her throat, lifting her up into the air and slamming her down against the marble floors so hard they crack beneath her. Amarantha screams around the hand clamped down around her windpipe as you pick her up and slam her down two more times.

She is still a formidable opponent, she manages to summon an ice pick and jam it into your wrist to free herself as you reel away with a howl of pain.

Rhys is still trying to reach you, throwing all his mental energy into breaking through, even as you watch his body slump a little more and more next to Amarantha’s throne. You want to scream for him, tell him to stop before he hurts himself anymore, but the words get lost as the collar’s power burns through you in retaliation for not immediately killing Amarantha. The pain of her ice pick in your wrist is nothing to the heat that emanates from the collar, the pain the only thing in all this time to make your legs shake. The pain doesn’t dissipate until you land a punch in Amarantha’s face, her nose breaking under your knuckles. The collar demands blood and it will have it.

No one in the crowd moves to help her, those that remain stay pressed against the walls, watching in horror as the two of you fight it out. There’s a strange sort of glee in the air, as the oppressed relish in their oppressor’s certain demise. If there are any guards left, they don’t come to save her.

You swing for her head again, but she dodges at the last second, your fist cracking the marble beneath you a second time.

Spitting blood, she manages to get off the floor, fists raised to protect her ruined face.

You snarl at her, one of the few sounds the collar will allow, and she throws as much ice and snow at you as she can, mingling it with bits of fire. She lets her claws sharpen at her fingertips, trying to make herself into a beast as formidable as you, but it won’t save her. Her blows do little and you can take satisfaction in the fact that she can no longer hurt you in this form, at least. You absorb what you can and let the rest bounce off you as you stalk closer, pushing her further back until she stumbles on the steps leading to her throne. Fitting, that she die here at the base.

She throws a blast of darkness at you, a blast of your mate’s power, twisted and wrong in her hands and it’s the only thing she’s thrown thus far that makes your body tremble. The collar rattles at your throat, shaken but not loosened. You growl out a shuddering breath as you push through the waves of energy and push your hand right into her chest. Bones break and split beneath your hands, her blood warm as your hand sinks into her chest cavity.

Amarantha gasps in surprise, in pain, as your fingers wrap around her still beating heart. Her dark eyes widen with fear, mouth hanging open as blood pools in the corners of her lips.

“Please,” she gurgles. She knows she’s going to die either way, but now, for the first time, she’s powerless. As powerless as all the people she has harmed over the years.

Your fingers tighten, her body as resistant as her shields beneath your hands. All those powers she’s stolen lash against you: A bit of light and darkness, ice and fire and water in a last ditch effort to save herself. Yet, your body pulls it in greedily as you get a solid grip on her beating heart.

None of this feels real, possible. This is something out of your books back home.

“Please,” she rasps. As if she had ever shown any of you mercy, as if she had not demanded that you beg at her feet and then laughed in your face. “Please.”

And there, at the foot of her oh so precious throne, in front of her dark court, you rip the Queen’s heart right out of her chest, silencing that grating voice for eternity.

You don’t even get to relish in the victory, to appreciate for even a second that you are all finally free of her, not when all that power she’d stolen swirls around you. The void that makes up your skin draws it in, waves of ice and water and flame swirling like a tornado around your body. The collar hums gleefully in your ears, as if this was its plan all along. It’s too much at once, bringing you to your knees as the influx of power in your veins has your head pounding mercilessly in your skull. Spots dance around your vision, the world spinning and flipping. There is not enough air in Prythian to help you breath against the influx of power. This was why she was always smoking the mirthroot. No one person could hold this much power at once. It will tear up your insides, ruin your mind, your soul.

“Y/N?” Rhys reaches for you, despite his shackles, his voice slurred. Just like in the Pit, you think it will be horror you see on his face, but it is only concern for you, not of you.

Your mate, wearing a collar just as you are. Your mate who was punished for not keeping you beneath the Mountain. Your mate who’s powers now swirl around beneath your skin like the dark whisper of a shadow. Your mate now splattered with Amarantha’s blood as he reaches a hand out to you, as if he could somehow save you from this wild thing tearing up your insides. The Cauldron had been merciless, cold, and empty, but this is like being roasted alive, the fire too hot, making the water churning around you boil and steam. Ice pricks against your sensitive skin like a thousand tiny needles. It’s too much. It has to be released somewhere.

Rhys calls for you again, crawling towards you, body so much slower than it should be. Distantly, in that small part of you still aware of yourself, you know you need to give his powers back to him. His powers will speed his healing; his powers might just save him from you, but that wall is still there between you and your body. When you try to reach for him the collar pulses so intensely with heat you jerk back away from him, sliding down the steps with a whimper.

Rhys manages to get on his feet, swaying under all that mirthroot. “Y/N!”

His voice is so loud in your ears. Everything is too much. The brush of the throne’s steps against your feet, the swirl of water around your body, even the air in the room feels like it’s pressing against your skin. You throw out a hand, trying to make it stop, sending spikes of ice in all directions.

It must have hit the chain around Rhys’s neck because a moment later he’s stumbling down the steps to take your face in hand, the powers swirling around you be damned. “Focus on me,” he orders.

Your head is going to explode.

His strong hands grip your face, “Right here. Breathe. You’re ok. Just breathe.”

Why is he screaming? Your hands move despite yourself to shove him off you, to try and make the world quiet for five seconds. This is too much. You can’t bear it. You know you’re screaming because the collar retaliates against it, using the powers you’ve stolen to wound you further for the rebellion, but you can’t stop. The Mountain begins to shake and rumble, loose rock and debris falling in waves overhead.

Light and darkness pour out of you in blinding waves, the swaying movement in sync to your heartbeat. It’s a pulse that slams into the Mountain’s own magic, beating relentlessly until more chunks of the rock get hurled away, letting more light in. More people scatter, their screams mingling with your own.

“You can do this,” Rhys encourages, and when you finally manage to get your gaze to where he still kneels beside you. “Just breathe.”

“This is a new side of you Rhysand.” The world tilts. The pounding in your head makes the echo of approaching boots feel like every step has been made atop your skull. “I never would have thought you’d be offering up your services as a teacher, I thought you’d prefer to be on your back.”

Hybern walks into view, armor glinting, sword in hand.

No!

“Stop this,” Rhys begs and the sight of him like that, on his knees, makes you want to rip your father to shreds. “Let go of her! That collar will kill her.”

“Only if she fights it,” Hybern says with a shrug.

Blood trickles out your nose in inky black droplets, splattering the floor. When you lean forward and heave, more black goo comes out your mouth.

“I will give you anything,” Rhys pleads.

“Is this love?” Hybern sneers.

He does not wait for an answer as he turns to you and says, “Kill him, Y/N, I’ve waited long enough.”

No amount of mentally bashing yourself against the walls that cage you stop you from reaching out a hand and using a bit of Rhys’s own power to throw him across the room, his body bouncing off the marble.

It feels as if you’re lifting the Mountain just to get back on your feet, body swaying. Blood still drips from your nose. There might never be enough release of all this power to make the pain in your temples fade.

Rhys struggles to get to his feet, arms shaking beneath him. You’ve split open his cheek and temple. He’s barely managed to get up before you hurl more shadows at him, the dark mist lashing like a whip, cutting open his shoulder, his side.

Stop! Stop! Stop! By the Cauldron, he’s your mate! You can’t do this to him!

“Y/N,” Rhys slurs, voice breaking and you’re sure it’s the cracking of your own heart in your chest.

“Stop playing around,” Hybern orders.

Your body moves despite your efforts, lunging forward, fists flying. Rhys does his best to dodge, but he puts up no real effort, letting blow after blow land when he gets too tired to keep up.

Fight back. Please, by the Cauldron, fight back!

You manage to get a hand around his throat and you slam him so hard into the wall it cracks, his body nearly limp in your grip.

Stop. Stop. Stop!

“It’s ok,” he rasps. He’s not even trying to pry you off. “It’s not your fault.”

You’re going to die. If he dies, at your hand, you will not recover from this. Hybern might as well have killed you back at the Temple, there will be no saving you.

Violet eyes meet yours. There is no fear there, only understanding, only compassion.

You mentally throw yourself at the wall stopping you from regaining control over your body, bashing against it with everything you have. The collar’s power burns through you like boiling water in your veins. For your mate, your selfless, self-sacrificing mate, you’ll take whatever agony it can throw at you. It can’t end like this!

“I love you,” Rhys says, hands brushing over your claws. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

No. No. No!

Your claws tighten around his throat, drawing blood, as he gasps for air.

The collar rattles against your skin from how hard you’re fighting it, the metal hissing and screaming in your ears. You’re not going to let this happen. After everything you’ve been through, you can’t let Hybern win. He’s just a man. You’re a goddess, you will not be shackled to some mortal’s will. He will not take your mate from you, even if you have to fight Death yourself for him.

Darkness leaks from you. Your other fist slams into the wall next the Rhys’s head as your body spasms under the collar’s control.

“It’s ok,” Rhys whispers.

Spots swim across your vision, so damn fast they start to look like shadows. The world spins. The fire in your veins is unbearable. So much so that your body’s self-preservation finally kicks in and the hand around Rhys’s throat finally unlatches to let you grasp at the collar.

Rhys collapses, coughing at your feet as you tug at the metal fused to your skin, trying to pull it off. It’s not full control, but if you can keep pushing…

The room keeps spinning, end over end, the blood red marble at your feet now at the ceiling. Your stomach’s in your throat as your knees give out beneath you. You think you might be screaming again but the collar hums so loud you can’t hear anything over it. Still, you claw and yank at it with everything you’ve got.

“Stop fighting, Y/N,” Hybern orders.

Every breath feels like a battle. “Fuck…” the metal peels away from your skin like you’re ripping off a bandaid, skin coming with it. “You!” You snarl, voice ragged and gone.

He’s not going to beat you.

You get a claw beneath the metal, tearing through your own skin, it’s the only thing sharp enough to reach through the void.

“That’s enough!” Hybern screams.

The High Lord’s powers are yours, not Hybern’s, not the collar’s, not a product of the Cauldron. Yours. You push as much of Rhys’s darkness into your palms as you can, let that dark, glittering power slither its way beneath the collar.

Rhys manages to get up again, face bruised and bloodied. “Y/N!”

After everything, you’re not going to let him die, no matter what it costs you.

You get both hands around the collar, push whatever power you have into your palms until the heat of Autumn’s flames make the metal soft in your grip. Hybern is still yelling orders, but the don’t matter. If this kills you in the end, at least you’ll go knowing he didn’t get his precious Death Goddess. If you go, he looses.

With one last, rattling scream, you rip the collar off and the darkness pulsing from your body swallows you whole.

---

It’s all darkness. Not the Cauldron’s darkness. Not the Void that makes up your being. Not the darkness of your mate. It’s empty. Cold. Quiet. It has no beginning or ending, no borders or boundaries. It flows and ebbs like a tide, carrying your broken body along.

Broken. It’s a strange feeling, teetering along the edge of death itself, the pain a reminder that you’ve not fully topped over into nothingness yet, but it is there, pulling you closer and closer with no tether to the living on the other side of this dark veil.

And yet…

There, above your aching head, spins a single, glowing flower.

In this haze, it’s hard to remember where you’ve seen it before, yet you know, somehow that it’s meant for you.

“Come. Come and see.” It’s that phantom voice from your dreams again, always beckoning, tugging that tiny, little thread you feel blooming in your chest.

You reach for the flower, every muscle feeling like it might tear apart the more you move. It spins just out of reach, drawing you along, against the ebbing tide. Perhaps your eyes are playing tricks on you, but the darkness feels as if it’s getting lighter somehow.

The flower continues to beckon, further and further into the light until you have to shield your eyes against it…

---

Gaining consciousness feels suspiciously like being dropped from nothingness against the icy bite of the marble floors. Even being remade inside the Cauldron didn’t feel entirely as jarring as whatever that was.

Strong hands stroke your cheeks, moving your hair aside from your aching forehead. “Please, please, come back.” Rhys whispers, voice cracking.

His tears drip along your cheeks and it takes all your effort to drag an eye open to look at him. “I’m not…” it feels like you’re talking around a throatful of gravel. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your mate lets out a sob as he drags your aching body into his arms, chest heaving as he cries into your hair. Over his shoulder, you can see the destruction behind him, the Mountain in shambles, what’s left of Amarantha near her throne. But Hybern is nowhere to be found.

Rhys pulls away just enough to kiss your forehead, your cheeks, “I thought you were dead.”

“I am a goddess after all,” you grumble. You certainly don’t feel divine by any means. “Kinda hard to kill me.”

He laughs through his tears, as he holds you tighter.

You let yourself lean into his touch, eyes closing. The worst of it is over, and yet, it all hits you at once. “I’m sorry,” you rasp into his skin. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re safe,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “That’s all that matters.”

“Hybern-”

His arms tighten around you, “Don’t worry, Darling. We’re going to make sure he pays for everything he’s done.”

------------

*Thank you all for sticking with this story, I know my posting times have been sporadic lately, rest assured I will see this through. =)*

Tag List:

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#Rhys x reader #rhysand x reader #Rhys x reader angst #rhys x reader smut #UTM!Rhys x reader #acotar rhys #rhysand fic #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #my writing #my fic #datura series

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shiraishi-kanade · 29 days ago

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AWAKE NOW: an (almost) line by line analysis by yours truly, pt.1

If you've been following me at all, you probably know that Awake Now is my favourite An Shiraishi commission and that I always ramble how symbolic and incredible its lyrics are, among other things. Well, it's time for me to actually explain why I think it's so great!

This is part one tackling only in-game version; I'll later make an addition to this post expanding on the full version lyrics, because there is also a lot to unpack there and I don't want to do all what work in one sitting. Sorry.

[Disclaimer: for a quite a long time, the commonly accepted translation of this song has been facing criticism, and quite a lot of lines have been changed into what I believe is more accurate later. More corrections may be yet to come, but this post will use the translation available at 27.10 by Hiraethie, with edits by Violet and 25239x.]

Lazy Rainy My Soul is

now in a bad mood

From this new feeling called Lament

(New feeling called Lament)

The first verse of the song is referencing An's growing unease she experiences during the time of Bout to be Beside you; while she doesn't know why she feels that way at the beginning, a big emphasis is made on how she never felt that way before, because even having a partner is something that is a new experience for An.

The supposed relationship full of perfection

got complicated on its way

This line references the way An perceives her own and Kohane's partnership, as well as just their general dynamic: they started off strong but already faced some conflict during Singing in Sync, the very first event of VBS, during which An had to confront her overprotectiveness; now this relationship is starting to get even more complicated with An's anxiety and "hazy feelings" thrown into the mix.

Not only that, it's also important that this line went to Touya - who went through his own issues in his relationship with Akito.

Still staying passionate, I Try

A general callback to An's attitude to losing and having roadblocks:

🎧: I hate to lose, but I usually take a more positive approach to think and work harder to do better next time.

(btby episode 4, official tl)

As well as, in this particular situation, she only sees one way to get over her feelings: to stay passionate and keep singing. This line is later brought up again in Rekka with "My silence and passion, I kept them inside my heart" line.

It's not like you're the one at fault

This is An's admitting that Kohane is never at fault for making An feel the way she does; that she has the full right and ability to make progress and keep improving as much as she wants to, and An could never blame her for it. At the same time, An is bitter at herself for having these feelings at all, which we later see in WTWG.

Trip Step, I want to do that again and again

If we could light up the night together

For eternity, then...

An wants to be Kohane's partner and keep singing with her despite the anxiety she brought into her life. If we look at the phrase "light up the night" to mean performing and bringing excitement to people (which it very well could be, seeing the overall symbolism of fire and light has in VBS's story), it becomes apparent this refers to An wanting to stay partners with Kohane forever, especially considering these lines in the event itself:

👤: Have you found a good partner yet, An?

🎧: No, not yet... It's taking longer than I expected...

🎧: But I have a feeling that we're gonna be singing together forever once I do!

***

🎧: That she's [Kohane] the only one who can be my partner...

(same event, chapter 5)

An is willing to go to extreme length to keep being Kohane's partner - so they can "light up the night" together.

Falling in love with the sound of my wings

that I outstretched to the skies,

This line goes to Kohane as well as Touya, but refers primarily to Kohane's discovering her own talent and (rightfully) enjoying all the new experiences and emotions it has brought into her life. It's also a clever play on Kohane's name, seeing as if she had a kanji spelling instead of hiragana, it most definitely would have included the character 羽 - "wing" or "feather". This same wordplay is then later used in Hollow:

預かる背中のその羽が

azukaru senaka no sono hane ga

This is confirmed by the song's producer and the very same character is used in Awake Now, so it's very unlikely it's just a coincidence - at the same time, "outstretching her wings" definitely refers to Kohane gaining new abilities and exploring new opportunities with Taiga.

the flowers of my dreams start overflowing.

I’ll make them sublimely

beautifully bloom so,

Seemingly, An has gotten everything she's ever wanted: she found a partner and a team, and townfolk are starting to take her dream more seriously - but her feelings about Kohane are overwhelming and distracting her from that, even during practice. Even so, An is determined to make that relationship work.

The first line here also went to Kohane and Touya, likely reflecting how their dream was found somewhere later than An and Akito's was, so that development is even more spontaneous to them than to the first two.

don’t forget that I’m right next to you, okay?

This is both reassurance to Kohane that An will always be by her side and believing in her, and a plea by An for Kohane not to forget her as she keeps growing and moving forward, and for Kohane to keep An by her side. It's a very nice double edged sword of a line and probably one of my favourite ones in the entire song.

Also, it also has Akito in the background, which is just... *Gestures at Stray Bad Dog event*. And this moment in BTBY too:

🥞: She's having an effect on the rest of us, including me, which means you, her partner, probably have it worse...

🥞: You feel like you're getting left behind... Like I did a while ago...

Akito went through something very similar, though not identical - that's likely the reason he was able to notice An's worries and help her in the first place.

Even if our touching backs begin to separate

Kohane is starting to pursue training with Taiga outside of An's reach, and An is starting to bottle up her feelings about Kohane - they're no longer as emotionally close as they used to be, and that's okay. Might also refer to the difference in skill level that is not there yet but will become quite apparent soon: their touching backs begin to separate... Perhaps even going in different directions.

Awake Now

The name drop and the meaning behind the song title: An is now aware of the feelings she experienced back in Awakening Beat and the true reason behind it, as unpleasant as it may be.

This doesn't end with my longing alone

This is perhaps one of the most interesting lines in the song, as it's the one that has faced the most misinterpretation, previously being translated as "I will never stop yearning for you."

Nevertheless, a corrected translation makes a lot more sense. An refuses to be the only one "yearning" in her and Kohane's relationship; she wants to keep inspiring Kohane and make her go even further, for Kohane to keep yearning for An and her singing, too.

🎤: Since you want to be someone she can “respect and be proud of”, An, you want her to like and be excited by the way you sing.

(same event, chapter 6)

This later comes back as a major theme in WTWG:

🎧: (But you know what, Kohane?)

🎧: (I'm not satisfied with that.)

🎧: (I want to drag it out of you, too.)

🎧: (This new power of yours, all sorts of feelings you've never felt before, all of it, all of it!)

🎧: (I want to drag it out of you, with my song!)

(WTWG, chapter 7, tl by Lozy Bug on YouTube)

...and more throughout the same chapter. In other words, while Kohane's singing make An experience new feelings and emotions, An doesn't want to be the only one of the two this happens to - so... She starts working towards doing it right back at her. But in BTBY, this specifically refers to the "I want to keep singing with you forever" feeling, too.

In other words, even the game version of Awake Now is basically An's Shiraishi character arc condensed into one song; it breaks down the point of conflict in BTBY down to it's bare essentials, and expands on motives that will later come back in play over a year later - and that is why I consider this song to be the best An Shiraishi comm.

And we haven't even gotten to the full version.

#jay rambles.txt #jay's character analysis #jay's character analysis.txt #an shiraishi #project sekai #pjsk #proseka #project sekai an #puroseka #vivid bad squad #I spent an unreasonable amount of time on this and it's not even done. anyway #*sips cocoa* I love Awake Now So Much can you tell

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canmom · 13 days ago

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booksbooksbooks - "yeah ok uh. you're worthless! how about that!"

I read Tell Me I'm Worthless by Alison Rumfitt! I have previously talked about Brainwyrms on here, her second novel; this is her first, and honestly they are such similar books (thematically, structurally, stylistically - it's possible even that they are in a shared continuity) that a second comment almost feels redundant - but then it turned out I had a lot to say when I got into it. Spoilers below, though I think most of the effect of this book is how it's told rather than what happens.

(Also: the recent bookcrit posts will sometime soon be making their way to canmom.art for easier reading - I've rather dragged my feet on that but Soon(TM).)

So this is a haunted house book that's about fascism. You know it's about fascism before the book even begins, since it says as much in the content warning. More specifically it's about British fascism, personified in an evil house called Albion at the edge of Brighton that corrupts all around it, drawing people in and bringing out the fascist mindset in them.

It would be reasonable to fear this might end up as a polemic loosely packaged as a novel - even if an absolutely on-point and warranted polemic. You can absolutely see how characters fit into the 'argument': a white trans woman who has not fully escaped her racist upbringing on the one hand, her Jewish-Pakistani girlfriend* who runs into the arms of the TERF movement on the other, their blonde cis third wheel who is the first to be fully corrupted by the House. A plot hinging on conflicting accusations of rape; the house itself being established through a series of eugenicist murders. And on top of that, in between parts you get some quotes from, variously: Félix Guattari's Everybody Wants to be a Fascist, Isabel Fall's Helicopter Story, Umberto Eco's Ur-Fascism, a Stewart Lee skit, and William Blake's A Little Boy Lost (primarily for the 'Albion' pull I think).

*actually a deep closeted trans guy, wouldn't ya know it

I think it would be easy to find this directness kind of annoying, but what makes it work for me is largely its style. Rumfitt has a hell of an ability to set a mood and environment, to convey the all-too-real bitterness and pain of its characters in circumstances I recognise. It is a story more than willing to veer into delirious fever-dream streams of consciousness or to spend a few pages quoting some fetishist imageboard rant at length. But more important is the genuine and raw anger of the author that seems to run through it: when the narration slips into addressing the reader, it feels like the intensity of feeling can't be contained in fictional devices anymore. The word 'sharp' is surely a cliché, but this is the kind of book to leave you looking up and going 'phew' between chapters. It works because it is able to make you feel the bleakness that its narrative demands.

(Possibly a relevant comparison at this point would be Sálo, but something to develop another time.)

At the same time, it's a book that is so blatantly About Stuff that it's almost impossible to read it simply as a novel. It has a certain degree of mystery structure (what happened in the House? what became of Hannah? who raped who?) and escalating waves of intensity to pull you along, it's got setups and payoffs and callbacks as the ideas raised early in the story bloom again in the final blast of words, but it's not really something you can simply take as a haunted-house story. Some of the biggest horror scenes would be kind of completely ridiculous without the metaphor-drenched context.

We can describe the main beats, all the same.

the bit where I summarise the plot

Alice and Ila are two survivors of an ill-fated expedition into an abandoned house. Alice (trans girl) is haunted by something which manifests in the form of a stain on the wall, and when she covers it by a picture of a racist singer from the 80s who she once admired, his phantom (it's presumably Morrissey, but they book doesn't ever name him). she gets by through shooting sissy hypnosis videos for clients who have her say all sorts of dubious racist shit. Ila (cis) has been welcomed as a token brown woman for the TERF movement, getting interviewed on the radio and invited to conferences. Both of them remember being raped and multilated by the other during the visit to the House - more on that anon. The third member of the party, Hannah, entered with them but never left the House.

Alice's closest thing to friends are a hetero couple of hard partiers; the guy Jon is into knifeplay and it's clearly not something his partner is all on board with. She tries to hook up with a girl but the Morrissey-haunting scares her away, providing some setup for the concepts of haunting this book will use. Ila, meanwhile, is almost raped by another TERF after recounting her story at a conference; the woman in question preemptively DARVOs her on social media so she won't tell. Some other cis(?) girl who Ila had deliriously called a tranny during sex (thanks House!) seconds it. Throughout all this, Ila has been frequently messaging Alice asking to talk again.

The narrative jumps around; we gradually learn more about the circumstances of their previous trip into the House (named Albion by its first two inhabitants), and its history: built by a gay guy in a period that would get you arrested and named Albion by his 15-year-old lover, then the site of a series of eugenicist murders (with explicit allusion to Bluebeard); in modern times, the random suicides it inflicts on the people in the buildings around it, etc. It's a real bad House

So, Hannah (cis, straight) had been feeling third-wheeled by the couple Alice and Ila. We get some flashbacks as Hannah: that time Alice and Ila had sex on the beach and Hannah totally heard it all, that time Hannah hooked up with a black guy and Alice and Ila were kind of assholes to him... When they enter the house together, Hannah becomes separated and drawn to the red room at the heart of the house. When Alice and Ila enter, Hannah is fully claimed by the House and physically transformed into a human swastika, and the narrative splits in two as both Alice and Ila enact brutal rapes on each other; in one version, Alice cuts 'ARBEIT MACHT FREI' into Ila's belly, in the other, Ila cuts a symbolic vagina into Alice's scalp. The two of them leave the House with these injuries, and the narrative pointedly refuses to tell us that one is the real course of events, or that something else happened.

Ila contacts Alice and convinces her to return to the House to put an end to it. They try to have sex and they're not feeling it; then they have nasty politicised sex, which gives the book its title:

“Call me it, please,” she says. “Call you what?” “You know. You know you want to, as well.” She hesitates for a moment. But Alice is right. She does want to. “You fucking tranny,” Ila moans. “God. Fuck. Please.” The pleasure is nearly unbearable for Alice. “Do it again. Tell me what you think of me, what you really think of me. Tell me I’m nothing. Tell me I’m worthless.” “You,” Ila grabs Alice’s hair, “are a fucking worthless tranny.”

Finally the two go into the House and we enter a kind of fever dream of an alternative fascist-ruled timeline in the green and pleasant lands where Mosley plays on the radio, Alice never transitions and marries Hannah and kills herself, Ila is deported to unknown quarters, and then in a parallel vision they both embrace while respectively self-disembowelling and bleaching -

then, finally we get a version where they escape alive and burn the House, only for its curse to continue to affect the next building to be built there, which gives rise to a bomber who bombs the Pride parade where Alice and Harry (formerly Ila) are walking together. But they hold each other in the ashes. t4t end.

You get all that?

I'm leaving out various dream sequences, flashbacks, and meditations on the state of things, like the factory or the, 'shitty transvestite pigs', which could honestly be said to be more important than the narrative itself.

fascism then

So for a book that is so much about fascism, what does it actually have to say on the subject? The facet of fascism examined here is mostly of the online-radicalisation or unspoken-sentiment type, the thing you tell yourself is a joke until you stop telling yourself that. The characters are carrying intrusive patterns of thought, taking different but similar forms for each. The House, or the ideology, feeds on their interpersonal resentments and drives them towards self-destructive cruelty.

In the narration that is (at least at times) their train of thought, they ask themselves why they stay in the House, or get drawn back. The closest thing to an answer comes, in Hannah's point of view, shortly before the dual rape scene:

Alice tried to kick open the door, but it wouldn’t move, however hard she kicked. It felt like there was nothing on the other side of the door – that it wasn’t a door at all, but the border to the world, and the inside of this room was the entire world. If you were to open the door you would find… what? The world outside is dark and unknowable. In the room you are safe. You are subject to violence, abuse, mistreatment, hurt, pain, all of the above, but you are safe from what is outside the room and that is what matters, inside the room is the pain you know, outside the room is the pain you do not know, it’s not a hard choice to make in the end, to sit here ‘neath the burning sun of her body, (...)

But more than that, fascism is some kind of permanent infestation. The House itself is at once England (as the name Albion suggests) and the persistent, seemingly eternal infestation of fascist ideology, which are pretty much one and the same - a country so racist that it will vote to kill its own immune system right before a global pandemic, a country so racist that the very ground stinks, a country so racist that your seemingly left-liberal parents have a map of the British Empire hanging on their wall (excerpted from the middle of a run-on-sentence too long to reproduce here).

So Alice and Ila confront their dalliance with fascism by returning to the House, and in a sense purge themselves through this catabasis; but fascism is not destroyed when the House is ruined, or burned down, or replaced with flats, and keeps growing back to consume more lives.

Mostly the thing the book seems to have to say about fascism is it's fucking everywhere and it's terrifying, a sentiment that is hard to disagree with. But it also has a fair bit to say in depicting its dynamics in the modern world.

What of this dual rape scene then? There is a scornful paragraph at one point about how the social-justice rules of engagement totally fail, mockingly describing how you could plug the two characters into an intersectionality calculator to determine who has narrative authority here, ending with this remark:

So, there’s just two girls leaving a house and maybe you don’t have to take a side, maybe you can empathise with them both and hope they get the therapy and help they need and can learn to forgive one another. No. You can’t do that. Are you a fucking idiot? Are you that fucking stupid that you genuinely think you can do that and that something like that is possible?

At the same time as presenting this situation of absolute ambiguity, the book doesn't seem shy about acknowledging there are straight up bad actors, whether Jon or the older TERF; recurring more than once is the idea of the moves a rapist might make to silence a victim or witness. All sorts of lines: "I'm too important to the movement, think of what would happen", or blatant lies, "it's the only way [the unconscious person] can get off".

All of this, frankly, accords with my experience of the world; these are all things that happen. If it revels a little in setting up these little ironies in its account of the TERF movement (elsewhere we see Ila making up stories to post on a forum that is obviously Mumsnet), it is also painfully cognisant of the ugly dynamics of accusations. Elsewhere this very website gets a shoutout! In an Alice POV chapter:

When I was about fifteen, I used the website Tumblr. It still exists, as far as I know. It was a strange place, and it’s hard to even describe how the culture of it felt when you were part of it: at times welcoming and at times unbearably tense. It was the first time I really read about what being trans was, and it was also where I was sent endless anonymous messages telling me to kill myself. People would often accuse others of things, baselessly, and those accusations would stick to them however much they tried to shake them away. One of my Tumblr mutuals was accused of being a paedophile and a Nazi. We hadn’t really talked much at all – she’d re-blogged my selfies a few times, and I hadn’t thought much about that until people started to accuse her. I began to wonder what her intentions had been when she shared a fifteen-year-old’s selfies. She denied these accusations, of course. Anyone would. She claimed that the people accusing her of being a paedophile and a Nazi were TERFS – and the problem was that some of them were. Or had, at least, started to share TERF rhetoric onto their blogs. Which made sense… they had just been exploited by an older trans woman, and suddenly these other older women were telling them, oh, come join us. There’s a pattern to this, and we don’t have to accept it as normal. I didn’t understand it at the time, I was just angry, angry and confused, but I get it now, with Ila spooning me. I understand why she is the way she is. I hope she understands why I am like I am, too. (...dialogue about the House happens...) I stopped using Tumblr shortly after that whole affair, and after having other people creep on me too – most notably a nineteen-year-old fat rights activist who seemed obsessed with my hair. I turned to 4chan and other forums in that vein, where, even if there were Nazis and paedophiles, at least they were generally honest about being those things, even as they remained anonymous. It felt better to know that I was talking to someone who liked to masturbate over little boys than to talk to someone and find that out about them later.

I was a bit older than the fictional Alice when I arrived on here, and I've never had the sense to leave lmao, but this accords well enough with my experience - notably, I strongly recall how a certain opposed accusation of rape/abuse (with knifeplay involved!) torpedoed the simplistic 'believe accusations' worldview I had held onto up to that point. The girls involved became a cause célèbre for two rival factions in the trans scene at the time, with who you believed largely depending on who your friends were, each rallying to defend theirs and cast the others as apologists. Ironically, both those groups would later fall apart.

Whatever parallels I might draw to touchy real life history, we can certainly see here some of the devices this book likes to use: a long personal illustrative anecdote of some messy shit, seguing into a moment of narration and a remark that connects it to the present, and helps sketch its characters as the extrusion of much-larger social forces. It is not easy to adequately capture complexity without getting completely lost in mush, and I think this book manages solidly. (I am tempted to draw certain parallels to works like Psycho Nymph Exile which address similar dynamics, but that would be way more than I want to get into right now).

It is strange reading this book, in many ways. I have only been in Bright a few times, but once was indeed for a Trans Pride, and I remember sitting on the beach described in the book (I went home before anyone started fucking). I may not have shown up to some anti-TERF demo, but I know well the 'tuneless chants' that Ila derides in her early POV chapter. So many trans books are American, and here is one that is furiously British, and that certainly strikes a chord.

With everything so caught up in magic and metaphor, what can we pull out of our own immersion in this book's wash of terrible images? Simply to love each other defiantly, in the spirit of the old songs? I recall talking with @thesiltverses on how horror and dystopian fiction undermines itself by presenting a relief at the end, and I am inclined to agree. There is no relief here, no 'this is what we need to do to counter the rise of fascism'; it is a story that ends only in a tragic moment of defiance, tinged with that little cynical detail, after a fascist bombs a Pride parade:

He goes to her, on his hands and knees, rubble and blood and bodies all around them. The police, the ambulance, the news crews. They are coming. Photographers are taking pictures of them, and they will put these pictures on the front pages of newspapers, and the picture will be with them forever, they won’t ever escape it, two trans people covered in blood and embracing amidst the carnage. The photographer who gets the image wins a prize for it. They don’t know that yet. They only know this: Harry crawls towards Alice with the last of his strength, his arms outstretched and reaching. The rain will come. When it does it will be bloody. The future will be red-tinted and unknowable, but they will be together. Come to me now, mouths Alice. Hold me.

I feel like this is the tone of a lot of recent tranny-adjacent fiction: we cannot stop them coming, but we will live furiously all the same: a story about the possibility of a pocket of change, that two people so thoroughly corrupted by the House could move past it. Is that all we can hope for? If we can win more, it's probably not for a horror novel to say so.

I know I know at least one person who has known Alison Rumfitt, the UK trans scene being what it is. I'm glad her book is resonating with people, if it is only those who show up at queer bookshops (shoutout to Category Is books where I got my physical copy). We are certainly experiencing a moment for grimdark fiction, and while that suits my tastes rather more than the 'cosy', I distrust any self-congratulation about being soooo transgressive and nasty compared to those pathetic wimpy steven universe gays. This, however, is something quite different: it's nasty because it's simply extremely pointed and the subject kind of demands it.

A couple of weeks ago I was discussing with some people at the film festival about how you'd do a film adaptation of this book. Having now read it, I'm scratching my head - it seems rather unfilmable, because so much of what it's saying is caught up in internal monologues and devices of narration that would hardly translate to the screen. But hey, you know what, if someone tries, I want to see.

#fiction #horror #alison rumfitt #novels #sff

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mighty-ant · 3 months ago

Text

A Good Landing, chapter thirteen

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ao3

The Drake of three years ago never could’ve imagined that he’d be someone’s husband one day.

To be fair, a wedding would be tough to plan when one didn’t technically exist. He had Drake Mallard erased from record nearly a decade ago, reduced him to less than a ghost, less than a footnote. It wasn’t particularly difficult to do, with as little impact as Drake Mallard had made on the world. A rejected son, a failed actor, a selfish, bitter, friendless loser.

He fell into SHUSH by chance, by sheer, brilliant happenstance.

As a former stuntman, he knew how to throw a punch. And a lot more than that. He wasn’t proud of it, but after the 8th pointless audition for a toothpaste commercial with no callback, he took to slipping out of his crummy basement apartment in a ski mask and whaling on petty criminals in his neighborhood, St. Canard’s East End. He tried not to punch above his weight, going after would-be muggers or your typical creeps, and every dawn, as sickly, gray sunlight spilled out over the city, he would trudge back home with sore muscles and a gaping chasm in his chest that no amount of violent retribution would be enough to fill.

But he was getting pretty good at beating up crooks, to the point where regular people took notice. He started showing up in the news as ‘the dark masked duck’ more than Drake Mallard ever did, and even as the emptiness yawned within him, he liked it. The attention, indirect as it was. And he wanted more.

Beating drug dealers bloody didn’t pay the bills unless he wanted to turn into some sort of hitman, so he kept up his stunt work during the day. His after hours activities kept him sharp, and there was no end to the mindless action flicks in need of nameless stuntmen.

There was one flick, some old school vampire thing, that had him flying around on wires for Vampire Thrall #1-4 and the Vampire King. The costume department put him in a cape, a long, flowing thing that flared with his movement, made him look bigger than he really was. He startled more than a few techs with a perfectly timed swing of his cape, the snap of fabric especially jarring when all else was silent.

And just like that, Drake knew what he had to do.

As a former student of a theater department with a dwindling, near-nonexistent budget, he’d performed in every role, from lead actor to stagehand. And borrowing one of the vampire capes from set to use as reference, he made Darkwing Duck’s first costume.

The gas guns and the catchphrases developed over time, through trial and error. He flubbed his lines more than once and set off his apartment’s fire alarm an embarrassing number of times. Until one night, when Darkwing Duck became fully realized.

He started noticing a pattern with a certain number of thieves, most of them teens or kids barely out of high school. He followed them for about a week, not interfering since they never actually hurt anyone, before they led him to the warehouse where they were dropping everything off.

Drake burst in, expecting to beatdown a few scary gang types who thought it a swell idea to recruit kids to do their dirty work, only to stumble headfirst into a smuggling ring that (he’d later learn) spanned the entirety of Calisota. With his cover blown and the exit blocked, Drake did the only thing he was good at. He fought.

As he launched one of their own tear gas canisters back at the last of the goons, SHUSH agents came storming in. Apparently he’d interrupted what had been a multi-part sting five months in the making, but in doing so caught the gang so off guard that nearly all of the bosses were there to meet his fists, and the rest were caught when their business partners squealed on them.

“We’ve been watching you,” the lead agent said. He held his hand out to Drake. “How would you like to continue your work somewhere other than a basement?”

He accepted, barely waiting for the agent to even finish speaking, and Drake Mallard disappeared into Darkwing Duck’s shadow, gleefully casting aside everything that made for a normal life in favor of casefiles and chemistry sets. Who needed friends or neighbors when Quackerjack was robbing the federal gold depository? Or Megavolt was stealing the city’s power, or Bushroot was turning everyone into vampire potatoes (you get the idea)?

Darkwing Duck had the tech, and the secret base, and the costume, and the fear. By design, the average citizen was meant to consider him a myth; the criminal underworld, they knew who he was all too well.

The years went by, years of living out his secret, selfish fantasies, and…he felt nothing. That hollow, carved out space inside him didn’t go away, or heal at all. If anything it became a constant companion, a pain that festered into numbness.

After the adrenaline high burned itself out, he felt the ache of his bruised, bleeding body, drowned in the yawning emptiness of the Tower. There was so much crime in St. Canard, not just supervillains but cruel, petty evils that made it feel as though he were battling the tide with a bat and a cardboard shield.

But he couldn’t go back now. Back to small, sniveling Drake Mallard who nobody gave a damn about. Who would have him? Who would want him?

And then.

A Darkwing-shaped hole in the roof of a plane hangar. A jet, presented as a gift. Smiles over coffee and warm hands holding his aching body close.

Launchpad, who had far more reason to turn jaded and cruel than Drake ever did, but stayed good despite the way the world chewed him up and spat him back out. Launchpad, who offered his bruised heart with trembling smiles, trusting Drake even as he risked further pain.

Launchpad, who made Drake want to try.

Try to be good, too. Try to be whole. A worthy partner.

And then.

An orphan with boundless spirit. Lullabies, hugs that left him breathless, a blazing red portal and a tiny, fragile hand clasped in his own, trusting him when everyone else had failed her.

He never saw Gosalyn coming. How could he? Fatherhood was a foreign concept, a cruel joke, his frame of reference poisonous and pointless. But then Gosalyn fit into their life like a missing puzzle piece, as if he’d been waiting for her all along and he’d only just glanced down and taken notice. Her happiness began to matter more than any number of stakeouts or foiled plots. To keep her safe, he would kill and die for her.

Before his eyes, the empty numbness inside him transformed into a well of rage, of love, so powerful it made him wonder if he’d ever truly been alive before now.

For them, his heroes, he had to do more than just try.

Then of course Launchpad just had to show him up by proposing first, but that was just par for the course. And Drake could admit that a moonlit flight in the Thunderquack was probably more romantic than anything he could’ve come up with.

All that mattered was the end result was the same. A family, his family, unlike anything he would’ve been capable of imagining for himself. Just the thought of how he used to be shamed him, and on especially bad nights, he worried about regressing into that shell of a man, a cold, caustic version of himself and the bitter loneliness he enforced.

But that fear seemed insignificant when they were flying to Des Moines for their wedding, and for Gosalyn to meet her new grandparents. When they went house hunting and found a two-story marvel with a lovely kitchen backsplash and a tree out front for Gosalyn to give him a heart attack by climbing.

They still had their rough days, obviously.

Something might remind Gosalyn of her grandpa, and the life that was stolen from her, and she would lash out over any little thing in dramatic teenager fashion.

Launchpad’s nightmares about his old life could keep him from sleep for days at a time and in his exhaustion he would turn withdrawn in their own home, hesitating before every kiss, every hug or high five, staring at Drake and Gosalyn as if they might vanish if he were to dare reach out and touch them.

Drake would get overwhelmed by the muchness of it all—fighting crime had nothing on back-to-school shopping, meal prepping, hockey meets, and the dreaded potlucks. PTA meetings made him want to give up on this whole ‘reenter society' schtick and lock himself back in the Tower for good.

The crime fighting part was no walk in the park either. For all that Gosalyn was growing into the role of Quiverwing, making it her own, with the help of the two best teachers she could’ve asked for, there was a lot she just still wasn’t ready to face. Things that Drake hadn’t been ready to face, and haunted him still. Demons, alternate dimensions, a monster carrying out evil while wearing his face, Bulba lumbering back from the dead, more machine than man.

Safe to say they saw their fair share of danger, and weirdness, in St. Canard. But sitting in the Thunderquack with Launchpad’s boss, his former SHUSH handler, and a fellow worried father was…something else.

For almost two years, Launchpad’s job in Duckburg had been just that: a job. One that came at the request of SHUSH, and more specifically the buff Mary Puffins currently sitting in the copilot seat. The life of the richest duck in the world was apparently in danger, at risk by FOWL and their shadowy machinations, and everyone knew McDuck wasn’t the same man he was a decade ago.

Drake didn’t care about McDuck, much less whatever was going on in their perfect sister city of Duckburg. As great as a second income would be for Gos’ college fund, he wasn’t about to pressure Launchpad into accepting a SHUSH assignment now, after everything he’d told Drake, and all the worst bits that he’d probably left out. If Drake’s own SHUSH stipend as an independent contractor wasn’t enough to suit their needs, then Launchpad could open another garage in the city, or an online shop for his knitting, or even a damn lemonade stand.

But no. As a favor to Beakley (who didn’t deserve Launchpad’s time of day, but that was just Drake’s opinion), he accepted the position as McDuck’s chauffeur. And it was…fine.

Launchpad drove the old coot to and from his meetings, collected dry cleaning, the usual. He would pick up Gos from her hockey practice on the way home, nap with Drake for a while, and then they’d either suit up as a family or someone would stay behind to help Gos with her language arts homework. It was their routine, and amid various potentially life-altering catastrophes, it was nearly perfect.

And then McDuck got it in his head to start adventuring again at the ripe old age of 800 years old, dragging an entire spontaneous gaggle of children and Launchpad along with him. Suddenly, Drake could go entire days without seeing his husband, or Gos her father, as he gallivanted off to parts unknown at the beck and call of an old man who’d never appreciated him in the first place.

Now, Launchpad was the kindest soul Drake had ever met, open with his affection, and ready to make friends with everyone from derelict superheroes to business-minded witches. But Drake’s darling, beautiful husband was not the most forthright individual, and this was coming from the reigning champ of emotional stuntedness.

Launchpad liked to feel useful. Scratch that. Launchpad needed to feel useful. It was a compulsion born from his years at SHUSH, where his skills were all that mattered to people. Even allies, friends (and some more-than-friends), would drop him as soon as the mission was complete, the day was saved. Launchpad would be left in the lurch, told to pack his things, move onto the next mission, and wonder why he hadn’t done enough for them to let him stay.

So Drake, grudgingly, understood why Launchpad hadn’t just told McDuck to buzz off and find himself another pilot. He cared about the miserable old miser, and he cared about the kids, who sounded nearly as spirited as Gos from the way he described them.

More than once, Launchpad actually floated the idea of holding some kind of get-together for all of them, but Drake had been…resistant. He didn’t like meeting new people at the best of times, and he was still so traumatized by the Muddlefoots that he would’ve forced them to move years ago if it wouldn’t mean earning ‘Worst Father of the Year Award’ for separating Gos from Honker.

Of course, Launchpad’s disappearing act forced the dreaded introduction anyway, because Drake’s life was nothing if not a series of jokes played at his expense. At the very least, once he entered the coordinates into the Thunderquack’s navigation system and the cockpit sealed, none of the three other ducks on board had much interest in smalltalk.

From the copilot’s seat, Beakley turned toward him sharply, expression tight and any indication of stress tucked away. Back to business then.

“Who is this enemy of yours that you suspect to be responsible?”

Beneath them, Duckburg blurred past in shades of ochre as the distant sun inched toward the bay. Drake stared straight ahead, gripping the yoke just to have something to do with his hands, as the autopilot took care of the actual flying.

Technically he could only suspect who might be responsible. If based on a simple process of elimination it was almost a foregone conclusion, taking into account who wasn’t currently in jail but also had the cunning and/or intimidation factor to gain access to SHUSH systems. Not to mention a single-minded hatred of Drake that would motivate them to ignore every bit of actual highly sensitive and ultra-classified intelligence up for grabs.

For once, Drake desperately hoped he was wrong. He prayed they’d get to this SHUSH blacksite and find Lilliput lying in wait instead. But he could never be that lucky.

“Negaduck,” he muttered, the name escaping him on a breath. In his peripheral vision, he saw McDuck and Donald stiffen at his tone, more apprehensive that he would’ve liked.

“He’s me,” Drake explained haltingly. “Sort of. At least, he’s a version of me from an alternate dimension.”

Behind him, Donald dropped his head into one hand. “Of course he is…” he despaired quietly. “Cuz being from this dimension would be too simple.”

“McDuck.” Drake turned his head slightly without facing the quadrillionaire directly. “Do you remember a scientist who worked for you three years ago? Thadeus Waddlemeyer. He was trying to create a machine to access other dimensions.”

“A-aye,” McDuck said slowly. “But he…passed, and his device was deemed too unstable after it was stolen and nearly destroyed St. Canard.”

Drake scowled at the windshield. ‘Passed’ was a kinder way of saying murdered, and as much as the reminder burned him, he distantly appreciated McDuck’s tact if nothing else. “Yeah,” he grunted. “Our dimension’s Waddlemeyer wasn’t able to crack the code, but the Waddlemeyer of the Negaverse did.”

“Negaverse?” Donald repeated.

Drake thought for a moment of how Bellum and his kid had first explained it to him, reeling after his first and last disastrous visit.

“Think of it like a mirror of our dimension, but the funhouse kind. Almost everyone, everything, is twisted so that they’re the opposite of who we are here, now. There, Waddlemeyer was a mad scientist, willing to sell the Ramrod to the highest bidder. There, SHUSH is trying to take over the world, while FOWL is a peacekeeping organization working to stop them, yadda yadda, you get the picture.

“There, the Negaverse version of me terrorized St. Canard. He stole the Ramrod, plus Waddlemeyer’s granddaughter, and used it to cross over into our dimension to try and take over here too. I found where he was hiding his Ramrod about six months ago, and destroyed it, trapping him here. Which he, uh…extra hates me for.”

“What can we expect from him?” Beakley demanded. Drake had noticed her expectant silence up until now, and his aggravation had been building steadily For all that she was ‘retired’ from SHUSH, clearly she still had access to mission briefings—his and Launchpad’s in particular, seeing how she just couldn’t leave his husband alone. She could probably guess Negaduck’s MO, if she didn’t already have his full psych profile memorized.

“Well he’s insane, for starters,” Drake said for the benefit of the ducks in the rear of the plane. “But don’t underestimate him—he’s dangerously smart, too, and just plain dangerous. He hides all kinds of weapons on his person: knives, guns, chainsaws, whatever you can think of that causes maximum pain.”

Donald’s breath wheezed out of him, and that got Drake to finally turn around. The duck was clutching a hand to his chest, looking ashen beneath his feathers. McDuck was reaching out to him but hesitantly, his hands hovering over his nephew’s shoulders without touching.

“What about the kids?” Donald asked shakily, and Drake accepted a rare pang of guilt.

He didn’t know Donald, had never cared to know him, but Launchpad always sang his praises as a father. How despite whatever nonsense McDuck dragged them into, Donald’s first priority was always his kids, whether that meant driving to every Junior Woodchuck troop meeting or fighting actual Greek gods to keep them safe. And now two of those kids were gone. Taken, purely through bad luck and worse timing.

Drake didn’t know how Donald could possibly be holding himself together as well as he was. Knowing Launchpad’s life was at stake because of him had Drake’s leaden stomach turning on itself, his hands trembling around the yoke and terror swimming poisonously through his veins. He could see Launchpad’s bedhead and sleepy smile in his mind’s eye and wanted to scream. Knowing Gos was safe in that damn mansion was the only thing keeping him sane. He couldn’t well imagine how he’d feel if she’d been taken too. Just the thought was enough to pour red-hot rage into his bones, enough for him to tap into the darkness that Negaduck wholly embodied and rip and claw and tear until he got her back.

But here, now, at least he had an idea of what to expect. Donald was going in blind, and the uncertainty must’ve been eating him alive.

“He won’t do anything to them, or to Launchpad, until we get there,” Drake tried to reassure, not sure if he was all that successful. This was usually more Launchpad’s wheelhouse. “Fortunately, he’s your typical megalomaniacal supervillain in at least one way: he likes an audience.”

He didn’t mention that Negaduck’s hatred of him was borderline obsessive. Creating this whole convoluted scheme just to lure him out by way of kidnapping Launchpad probably spoke for itself. But Negaduck had gone after Gos before with bombs and a shark on her first night out as Quiverwing, and that was before he learned she was part of his team. And now after that hack, he had to know who she really was.

Drake’s only guarantee was that Negaduck wouldn’t kill Launchpad or the two missing children (Dewey and Webby, he reminded himself), but he had no idea what state they would be in when he found them. At best, he hadn’t laid a finger on them, but Drake knew Launchpad, knew that beneath the surface of the gentle giant was Double-O-Duck, the spy, the bruiser, with all of his focus and skill. He wouldn’t have taken the kids’ capture lying down, so if anyone was already injured and especially at Negaduck’s mercy, it would have to be Drake’s husband.

Negaduck had no more love for Launchpad than he did for Drake, but this time he hoped to use it to his advantage. Once he knew Darkwing was in the building, he wouldn’t care about anyone else, beelining for his dimensional counterpart with fire and brimstone in his eyes and a chainsaw aimed for Drake’s neck. A brawl would be the perfect distraction while Beakley and the others searched for their kidnapees.

Then, once Launchpad was safe in his arms, he would be taking a leave of absence from the McDuck family, effective immediately. Drake was taking him and Gos to their cabin out by Launchpad’s parents’ house and barring the door, because Drake had been missing his husband and Gos needed her Papá. For too long, he’d been letting Launchpad burn the candle at both ends, journeying back and forth between home and Duckburg, jungle adventures and night patrol, because he knew how much Launchpad loved both of his families. But Launchpad always had more love to give than there were hours in the day (or night), and Drake had to put his foot down before Launchpad gave all of himself away.

And not to be petty, but Drake and Gos had first dibs.

He watched the gray arches of the Audubon Bay Bridge rise into view through the windshield, painted in shades of gold that only deepened the shadows cast by the towers. Relief flooded Drake at the familiar sight.

“Almost there,” he muttered aloud. The Thunderquack banked to the left, in the direction of the harbor. Launchpad’s last coordinates was leading them toward the spookier part of the docks that tended to have ‘MURDER’ written all over them, where the warehouses were crumbling and seemingly long-abandoned, but nearly all served as a front for some kind of smuggling ring or demon-worshiping cult or devout Quackerware salesmen. Just the place SHUSH would think to settle down in, for reputation’s sake if nothing else. But in the process of building their prison, they would’ve cleared out the surrounding riffraff too. Instead, neither had happened.

Drake glanced at Beakley. “Do you know anything about why this place was shut down?”

“I believe it was something to do with the foundations of the pre-existing structure,” she explained unhappily. “The prison was decommissioned and left unfinished as further construction put the entire building at risk of collapse.”

Drake grimaced. “Perfect. I think I’m gonna park on the warehouse next door.”

Just hold on, Launchpad. We’re coming.

“Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!”

A voice that sounded like it belonged to someone who gargled razor blades dragged Launchpad back to aching consciousness. Even before he opened his eyes, he was struck by the overwhelming pressure in his head, as if someone had put his temples in a vice. His chest felt tight, like his lungs didn’t have room to expand, and his breaths were short and labored.

When he managed to crack his eyes open, he found himself looking out into darkness. He thought he could see shapes moving amidst the black, formless and indistinct. But a spotlight switched on directly above him with a heavy clang, temporarily blinding him. He winced, jerking his hands up to shield his face, but all he managed was to make his body sway in place. Thick rope bound him from his arms up to his ankles and a latch of some sort on his back held him suspended several feet off the ground, upside down, like a worm on a hook.

“Look who finally decided to join the land of the living,” Negaduck crooned, his voice preceding him into the circle of light spilling out on the ground around Launchpad’s head. The shadows clung to Negaduck like oil, reluctant to leave his already dingy feathers and unpleasant smile.

Launchpad glared at him. At this height, they were nearly eye to eye. “Where are the kids?”

This dark reflection of his husband tsked, shaking his head. “Straight to business with you hero types, ain’t it?”

Negaduck didn’t stop moving, instead pacing around him, slow and quiet, just on the edge of the circle of light. Launchpad tried to hide how he tensed when Negaduck stepped behind him, out of his peripheral vision. It gave Negaduck the perfect opportunity to attack him any way he wanted: a knife to the ribs, a blow to the head, take your pick. Launchpad was bound like a mummy, unable to defend himself unless Negaduck got close enough for a headbutt.

But Negaduck leaned back into his line of sight without laying a finger on him, his smirk a mean, methodical thing. He knew exactly how rattled Launchpad had been. It was the intent. “No time to sit back and enjoy the moment?” he crooned.

“I’m not playing, Negaduck,” Launchpad bit out, struggling to keep his cool. “I’m gonna ask one more time. Where. Are. The kids?”

Negaduck snorted, less than intimidated. “Eugh, touchy, touchy,” he said mockingly, and gave Launchpad a hard shove that sent him careening back on the rope he was hanging from. Fortunately, he’d been bound in the center of the room, and didn’t smack his head on any of the walls. This time.

Launchpad swung forward with just as much momentum, and Negaduck smoothly stepped out of the way. “Fine then, if you’re gonna keep being a killjoy! The brats are fine. Still sittin’ pretty in their comfy cell waiting for rescue from old man McMoneybags.”

So Negaduck wasn’t so far gone as to hurt a member of the McDuck family. The relief that settled over him was short lived, but better than nothing.

The last thing he remembered was checking Dewey for a concussion, and then nothing. Negaduck must’ve come back for him at some point during that missing time; maybe Launchpad should be tested for a concussion. All the crashing he did had given him a strong stomach and a skull like concrete, but with the blood rushing to his head and pounding behind his eyes, all this spinning wasn’t doing him any favors.

He closed his eyes as his swaying slowed to a less extreme speed, trying to focus his scattered thoughts. Webby and Dewey were counting on him. They didn’t understand what was happening, what they were up against, because Launchpad never told them who he was, never warned them about the monsters that might follow him. Dewey didn’t even trust him anymore, and Webby couldn’t be far behind…

“What do you want?” Launchpad muttered, opening his eyes in a squint.

Just in time too, as any trace of levity vanished from Negaduck’s weathered face. He lunged forward with a snarl, grabbing a handful of the ropes binding Launchpad and dragging him close, until Negaduck’s bloodshot eyes bored into his own from inches away.

“What do I want? What do I want? What I’ve always wanted since I set foot in this craphole,” he hissed, razor teeth flashing yellow in the harsh light of the spotlight above them. “I want to see your world burn. Consider it payback for locking me outta mine.”

Time worked funny sometimes when you crossed dimensions. A few hours in their reality amounted to a week in the Negaverse, but it might as well have been a year for all that he and Drake saw, what they were forced to do. Enemies wearing the faces of friends, a desolate world overcome by evil and defended by a dwindling few. The brilliant little light they had no choice but to leave behind.

Launchpad sneered right back, thrashing uselessly against his restraints. “‘Your world’ is better off without you! Gosalyn is better off without—”

The glint of light reflecting off metal, and Launchpad became aware of the cut on his cheek at the same time he recognized Negaduck’s machete pressed against the tip of his beak. He had to admit, Negaduck had been quick about it. Launchpad hadn’t even seen him draw the blade.

“Keep her name outta your mouth unless you wanna lose your tongue!” he growled, expression gone cold and still with rage except for his eyes, which contorted and flickered. His own madness, made worse by the dimensional shift? They still weren’t sure. “She’s my daughter. Mine.”

“She was terrified of you,” Launchpad snapped, never one to back down even while staring death in the face. Not when it came to Gosalyn. Any Gosalyn. “And with good reason! You killed Bulba right in front of her—”

“That pathetic, wannabe hero was trying to take her from me!” Negaduck threw his hands in the air, machete and all, thankfully without slicing Launchpad up further. The cut on his cheek had started to weep, a trail of blood moving worryingly close to his eye. “He got what was coming to him,” Negaduck grumbled as he turned around, storming into the darkness that continued to loom around the narrow triangle of light surrounding Launchpad. He lingered there, all but consumed in the shadows, the lurid yellow of his suit a scant outline and only his machete occasionally catching the light.

Negaduck kept muttering to himself, but in the dark, Launchpad couldn’t be sure where he was, or what he was saying. Only that Negaduck was moving, circling Launchpad again, but more focused on talking to himself than actually intimidating him.

“All those heroes…ruining my city…”

And for a brief, tiny, inconsequential half-second, Launchpad almost pitied him.

He blamed the blood rushing to his head.

This poor facsimile of his husband, a black hole masquerading as a person, who only knew how to take: money, lives, peace. A monster who hurt others for his own pleasure because violence was all he knew. It was as terrifying to experience as it was exhausting.

Launchpad glared at a random spot in the dark, his head pounding and chest growing tight. If he stayed up here much longer, he was going to pass out. It was only a matter of when.

“What are you expecting to get out of this?” he asked plainly. “You know I can’t just give you the Solego Circuit, right?”

Negaduck came back to himself with a scoff, reentering the circle of light. He’d hidden the machete again at some point.

“Piece of junk wouldn’t even do me any good. SHUSH and FOWL are sayin’ the same thing—can’t use the damn portal without destroying this trash heap and my world in the process,” he declared, waving his hands theatrically. “So, until I can find a scientist willing to put their back into it, I’m still stuck here. Watching you and that cheap copy play house.”

Launchpad glare met Negaduck’s baleful glower unflinchingly, but internally, a rush of guilt left him breathless as a knee to the gut. He knew he shouldn’t have followed that distress signal. But what else could he have done? Communications were down, and Launchpad had begged Drake time and time again to just call him when he needed him, Darkwing didn’t have to be alone anymore. And Launchpad, terrified of being abandoned again, just couldn’t risk it.

He just wished that he hadn’t dragged Webby and Dewey into danger too.

“You made a mistake taking the kids,” Launchpad said, fighting against a wave of dizziness. He tried to keep his tone steady, like Double-O-Duck used to, his gaze piercing and locked on the wet shine of Negaduck’s eyes, cast in the shadow of his hat brim. “Instead of just Darkwing coming after you, you’re getting Scrooge McDuck. This is a guy who fights gods on a regular basis. How do you think you’ll do against someone like that?”

And Negaduck…laughed.

And not one of his long, rambling cackles that he followed up his evil monologues with. Negaduck snorted with laughter, expression one of mild amusement rather than incandescent rage or insult.

“Ah, doesn’t really matter,” Negaduck breathed, a chuckle still trailing on his words. He pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “This was all more of an experiment.” He stepped forward, until they were eye to eye, and grabbed a handful of the ropes over Launchpad’s heart. He was too dazed to even try headbutting him now, and by the razor smirk that split his beak, Negaduck must’ve known it too.

“The big, bad Double-O, scourge of SHUSH, turned into a pitiful little sidekick, and now completely at my mercy,” Negaduck murmured, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment. “I could kill you so easily right now. But where’s the fun in that? It’s one and done, until I can jump into a dimension where I haven’t killed you yet and do it all over again. There’s slow and painful, quick but bloody…we could do a round where I only use my knives, the really little ones. You ever heard of death by a thousand cuts? Cuz we can make that happen!”

Launchpad’s skull pounded like a second heartbeat had taken residence in his brain, and the bright bulb above him scattered fractured stars across his vision, bright to the point of pain. Overwhelmed and dazed, he sputtered, “So what was the point of all this? Hacking SHUSH, kidnapping us—”

Negaduck pushed Launchpad, with just the one hand on his chest, walking forward at the same time. They moved out of the circle of light and into the surrounding darkness, Launchpad’s stomach lurched as Negaduck kept moving, until his back nearly touched the far off wall. Negaduck only stopped when the rope keeping Launchpad suspended pulled infinitesimally taut.

He tilted his head to look at Launchpad then from under the brim of his hat, backlit by the lone, scorching lightbulb behind him. Negaduck didn’t smile as he spoke, all his twisted enthusiasm from earlier snuffed out between one blink and the next. His growl was quiet, a seething hatred beneath every word.

“I might not kill you right now, but make no mistake, I will kill you. And until that glorious day, I want you to go about every day of your insipid little lives knowing that you’ll never be safe from me.”

Launchpad clung to consciousness with a racing heart and a flagging will, his horror tempered by delirium.

“You’re insane,” he gasped.

Negaduck shrugged. “We’ve all got our part to play in this crazy game called life.”

Launchpad’s vision was beginning to tunnel when the deafening blare of alarms startled him back to partial awareness. Outside the door to his cell, the hallway was ablaze with strobing crimson lights. The distant pounding of running feet heralded the organized departure of the Eggheads, converging on the threat.

“There’s our hero,” Negaduck crowed. “Fashionably late, as usual.”

Before Launchpad could properly brace himself, Negaduck let go of him. Without the support pinning him against the wall, he swung forward in a graceless rush, letting out a yelp as bright spots burst across his sight.

Even in the midst of his disorientation, Launchpad caught a different flash of light, reflecting off the silver edge of a serrated dagger in Negaduck’s grip.

With a flick, he threw it upwards at the apex of Launchpad’s swing, severing the rope holding him suspended from the ceiling. He had the barest second to brace himself, tuck his head and curve his back so he landed on his shoulders instead of his head.

It still sent a painful jolt through Launchpad’s body, jarring every bruise and sprain at once, and the immediate drop of pressure on his skull left him lightheaded and woozy as his body set him to rights.

He rolled onto his side with a groan, forcing his eyes open in a narrow squint, looking up at Negaduck from upside down.

Making a show of straightening his suit, Negaduck reached inside and pulled out a shotgun. He grinned down at Launchpad with a mouthful of sharpened teeth as he loaded a round.

“Make yourself comfortable now, sidekick. I’ve gotta go and welcome my new guests.”

#posts this and runs #i did NOT mean to let 5 years go by #oops??#ant writes #ducktales #ducktales fic #ducktales 2017 #launchpad mcquack #darkwing duck #drake mallard #negaduck #donald duck #scrooge mcduck #bentina beakley

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