RUINS AT DUSK
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Caius/Didyme, Didyme/Marcus, Aro
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Gods help me, I've begun a Caius/Didyme fic. Really, I blame the entire thing on Merina2, who invented the pairing and made the mistake of telling me about it. The chapter headings and title are borrowed from the 2x5obsessions community over on livejournal.
This fic comes with a handful of warnings: it isn't canon, the ending won't necessarily be happy, and an M rating is warranted.
As ever, please let me know what you think.
"She's beautiful," Marcus breathed.
The memory of Aro's prone sister, a thrashing, screaming scrap of a girl, wandered through Caius' mind uninvited; she was not lovely. There was a shadow of the unformed, a blurred and hasty softness about her features, as though she was a rushed statue. The artless product of a distracted sculptor.
It was true, in the worst of ways. Cautious had never been one of Aro's epithets.
"You need to be careful," he said mildly. "I doubt Aro will appreciate your intentions."
"What intentions? Did I say anything about intentions?" Marcus laughed, blissfully transparent in his joy.
The creature in question had not yet opened her eyes, and the conversation meant little to her, Caius hoped, with the sinking knowledge that he was probably wrong.
Caius watched Didyme, a slender, night-haired catalyst, as she re-shaped the bonds between his brothers. Talentless though he was in that regard, he could sense something cutting the air, sharp as drawn steel while Aro and Marcus silently sparred over the restless hurricane of a newborn, the terrain they owned in her heart.
Her gift, Aro decided, had that unfortunate side effect. Caius wanted to call him a liar. He knew the taste of happiness, the familiar and vivid warmth of it. What Didyme summoned from him was something else entirely.
This was fire, ugly and starved and impossible to stop.
She consumed him from within. Stole thoughts and peace, diverting them into an endless contemplation of her. He couldn't say whether he wanted to touch her, kill her or flee from her.
Touch her won. Every damn time.
In his fever dreams, she was so pretty beneath the spring-coloured dresses she wore, all pale and curving and eagerly innocent. The dark riot of her hair slipped everywhere, tickling his face and falling over her spine, until he wound his fingers in it tightly and tugged it aside. When her throat was revealed to him, he did not spare the teeth, marking and biting until her venom coated his lips and she moaned and mewled in half-pain.
Which isn't to say that she didn't enjoy it.
His hands, not quite gentle because they never had been, slipped over her shoulders and onto her breasts, pinching and stroking peaked flesh while her words turned to chaos. His mouth pressed against the honey-scented dip of her shoulder and murmured how perfect she was, how beautiful and sweet and good.
Only when Didyme turned pliant beneath his palms would he consider lifting her—she was so delicate, so breathlessly fragile, after all— onto his bed. Her little hands stopped being dainty then and clutched, stumbled, tore the sheets to rags. The smooth slide and opening of her legs was a revelation of slick heat and fluttering want, the taste of summer and her enough to drive his mind into darkness.
Caius wondered, almost absently, how he would occupy his fingers and mouth when he was deep inside her. Perhaps she preferred gentle words, lips upon the shadows of her throat, bites that scarred, heavy hands cradling her hips.
He did not know. The fantasy turned pale then, as though leaving spaces for Didyme's contribution.
The aftermath, after he snarled her name into the black crown of her hair when he came, was a tangle of limbs, Didyme curled up beside him a little like a kitten. He knew, with a besotted certainty that frightened him, that he would kiss her everywhere, especially those places where he had closed his teeth too hard, then tell her precisely what she wanted to hear and mean all of it.
Caius caught himself free-wheeling, utterly rudderless, between fear and desire too often. The nights were clawed and clotted with blood, the days of feigned normalcy worse.
His jaw a rigid line, he told himself coolly and repeatedly that Aro could not touch him again, that he could not speak freely to his other, enamoured brother with the too-knowing gift.
The girl would not be thought of, until the madness passed and she became Marcus' mate.