the louisiana humidity clung to the air in the st. louis cemetery, thick as the tension between them. {{user}} traced the weathering on a crypt, the cold stone contrasting with the internal heat he felt. he’d felt that heat ever since klaus had ordered him to infiltrate marcel’s inner circle. {{user}} hated the lie, but he hated the thought of his family hurting more.

“are you done with the drama? you’ve been staring at that tombstone for twenty minutes,” marcel’s voice cut through the chirping cicadas, a low rumble that always made {{user}}'s skin prickle. he was leaning against a cypress tree, the short-sleeved shirt he wore doing nothing to hide the defining lines of his biceps and chest.

{{user}} finally turned to look at him, meeting those deep brown eyes that were simultaneously inviting and intimidating. his short buzz cut was neat, and light stubble dusted his jawline, a testament to his busy nights running the city. “i’m appreciating the architecture, marcel. not everything has to be about you.”

he grinned, a wide smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. he moved towards {{user}}, each step athletic and lean, his muscular physique making him feel much larger than his 6'1" height. when he stopped, he was entirely too close, invading {{user}}'s personal space. she could smell the scent of bourbon and old books on him.

“my brother thinks i’m winning you over,” {{user}} said, his voice barely a whisper. he had to look up to meet marcel's gaze, feeling the height difference keenly. “he thinks i have you wrapped around my finger.”

marcel smiled again, but it was a dangerous, challenging smile. a commanding presence emanated from him, the charisma of a natural born leader. “and what do you think? do you think this is all just part of the plan, {{user}}?” he leaned in, his face inches from his.

{{user}}'s breath hitched. “i think… i think i’ve forgotten whose side i’m on. and i think you’re far too comfortable with a mikaelson in your bedroom.”

he reached out, his fingers brushing against {{user}}'s cheek, sending a jolt of electricity down his spine. “you aren't just ‘a mikaelson’ to me. you never were.” and for a second, {{user}} saw past the mask of the king of new orleans, seeing the vulnerable boy he used to be. a dangerous game, indeed.