#might flesh it out later and post on ao3 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

konigbabe · 1 year ago

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steal the thunder - I -

Pairing: Hajime Kashimo x fem!sorcerer!reader Word count: 5.8k Tags/warnings: no y/n; unhinged reader; manga spoilers (Culling Games + Perfect Preparation arcs); fight description; canon-typical violence; there will be eventual smut in the later parts fyi Summary: There's murder in the air – with the Culling Games underway, a simple task of finding an angel turns to a fight for life when you meet a certain, static and 400 years old sorcerer with cyan hair and wicked intentions.

Artwork by poro (poro06625649) on Twittter [source]; divider by @skylightlantern [source] For a better understanding of the reader's CE and CT, visit this Tumblr post.

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There's murder in the air – an unsettling undertone that pollutes the atmosphere. Gentle breeze carrying the metallic fragrance of blood within its currents.

The dockside keeps quiet. Sky clear, devoid of seagull calls. Walking by colossal steel shipping containers, stacked high, the scent persists. Clings to the air like a persistent specter. Each step accompanied by the gentle lap of waves against the pilings, their rhythmic cadence a stark contrast to the horrors you've seen.A soothing lullaby in the midst of chaos.

The maze-like layout of the quayside comes to an end when your muscles strain, lifting off the ground and landing atop the steel structure.

A giant panda comes into view. Its relaxed posture, perched on hindlimbs, contrasts with its impassive countenance as it gazes your way.

"Panda," you address what some might believe to be an actual animal; innocent, cute and completely harmless. Except for this Cursed Corpse – your subordinate – is none of those things.

He fixes you with your very name; a disturbing familiarity in his eyes, then the words escape his lips.

"The smell of blood's so thick," he voices as you draw near, words cutting through the tension. "There must be about three people dismembered here–"

You hold up two fingers, the other hand nestled in your pocket.

"Two actually," you intervene, voice a measured interruption, "walked past a man with a hole the size of a soccer ball in his chest."

The memory resurfaces – the sight of the man, head drooping, neck bent at an unnatural angle. Eerie web-like burns sprawled across his bare flesh. The smell of singed skin and ozone hangs in the air, a pungent reminder. Yet, it's not just that which jolts your senses. It's the residual static of someone's cursed energy, an unsettling presence that lingers.

"But that's not what troubles me," continuing, you stand next to Panda, arms now crossed as both of you watch the lifeless skies, "something bad's here. I tried following the remnants of the cursed energy of the perpetrator but it was very faint."

"Could be an expert who can turn their cursed energy on and off at will…" Panda thinks out loud.

You let the idea sit for a second. Could it be the case? Could someone in this colony be capable of doing it? Known, registered sorcerers are absent here. The majority are newly awakened, scarcely equipped to comprehend a sophisticated notion like this. And why would they feel the need to hide their cursed energy?

No.

Dismissing your doubts, you shake your head and stride toward the edge of the shipping container.

"Don't think so. Nevertheless, we're here to find that angel girl and negotiate with her." Stepping onto the container's edge, unfazed by the high drop; balancing skillfully, you extend one leg over the edge, about to step into empty space. In a seamless motion, you touch down on the solid concrete ground below.

Panda follows suit, rolling off the shipping container with agility, landing right beside you. Then he stands, an odd combination of human-like stance and panda appearance, more akin to a person in a panda costume than an actual animal.

"Our safest bet is to leave the docks. Fast. Just play pretend, avoid any unnecessary conflicts and make it out of this colony in one piec–"

The sentence's left hanging as a sudden shift in the atmosphere catches your attention. Panda falls on all fours, frozen still.

"Ah," a deeper, resonant voice rumbles from your right, the words echoing as the familiar sensation washes over you. A sudden buzz inside your mind, an abrupt surge of awareness regarding another sorcerer's presence. Heart mirroring the rapid flutter of a startled bird's wings.

Their cursed energy, concealed and latent, manages to evoke an almost primal response within you. A sense of fight or flight.

You pivot to face the uninvited presence before you.

A cascade of hair, vivid as a robin's egg and kissed by the hues of a clear summer sky, is gathered into twin buns atop his head while tendrils of untamed locks dance freely in the breeze, resembling a stormy sea. Longer bangs frame the contours of his face, softening his visage.

He stops when his eyes – the same uncanny shade as his hair – bore into yours. Carrying what you'd guess is a Nyoi staff slung over his shoulder, he stands at a slight angle. Excludes casual confidence, a sense of poised readiness.

"Another one," he breaks the silence. You stand your ground in response to his observation.

"Not interested in a fight," you remark, hands risen in a defensive gesture. Yet you don't dare take your eyes off the sorcerer. Ready and composed.

Panda, ostensibly cautious, inches closer to you, fur bristling in sync with his unease towards the newcomer's presence. The air tightens, charged with the unspoken potential for violence.

"Kogane," he calls out to the shikigami, summoning it like a wisp from the aether; the small creature materializes, its hue the shade of a serene lake, light and amicable as it floats near his head, "is the panda a player too?"

The shikigami screeches its answer, its words setting everything in motion.

"Indeed!! A player! Yep!!"

"That's a function," your pondering voice meets a forced silence. The state of perturbed ambiance vanishing as your thoughts are cut off.

A flesh of white. Empty space occupies the spot where the sorcerer was standing less than a second ago.

You sense his presence before your eyes even settle on his countenance; his eyes, framed with short zig-zag lines reminiscent of lightning bolts underneath them, a furious cauldron of murderous excitement as they lock onto yours. They widen with a manic intensity. An undertone of madness lurking deep within their depths.

A predator's gaze fixated on its prey.

In a heart-stopping moment, time stands still. The world around you fades into a blur as a primal instinct takes over. Your body reacts; a precision born of pure reflex – muscles coiled like springs, you counter his attack with a swift and calculated movement.

His volatile energy crackles in the air. Your hands snap up. Fingers attempting to curl around his bandaged forearm. Channeling your cursed energy to your clavicles, the place where his palm lays flat against you –

But your reactions prove inadequate. You're too slow. A shocking speed and heavy push; a surge of force is sent through your body, catching you off-guard. The ground beneath you becomes a temporary adversary. Your balance disrupted as you're sent flying backward.

Back colliding with the hard, metal steel of a shipping container – you watch in horror as the sorcerer mercilessly attacks Panda. Using his staff as a weapon. With unnatural speed and agility, Panda struggles against him; his valiant resistance a testament to his determination, his form a blur of motion as he evades the sorcerer's attacks and manages a few good blows of his own.

Your body feels light. A tingling sensation surging through your veins. Electric current's rushing beneath your skin, setting your pulse racing and your focus to a razor's edge. The metallic taste of blood floods your mouth. Mingles with the adrenaline in your body. Every nerve firing in response to the raw energy pulsing through your body.

It hits you then–

"Heh, electricity," you mumble, the word slipping from your lips as you raise your palms, clenching your fists. Feeling the tingling in the tips of your fingers. The slight buzzing in your ears.

–his cursed energy has a special trait. One certainly hard to defend against.

Barely seconds have passed since your body was forced to rest against the ground. It still feels too long with Panda barely matching the man's speed and force.

Gritting your teeth, the urgency of the situation anchors you, overriding any pain or disorientation as you fight to regain your footing. A sense of pride fills you when you watch Panda use his technique, striking the sorcerer with enough force that'll easily knock him out cold. One of Panda's winning moves.

Except it doesn't.

"Nice one," the man's voice rings out. A taut smirk playing at the corner of his lips. Your teeth clench, disbelief intertwining with unease as you watch. With a predominated precision, the sorcerer maneuvers his staff, entwining it with Panda's arm in a smooth motion that catches you off guard.

Exerting a forceful pull, he forces a grimace from Panda. Right arm caught in the vice-like grip, a sickening crack underscores the moment. Followed by the nauseating sensation of Panda's arm being torn from his body. Violently. And mercilessly.

Panda stumbles. Pain and agony escaping in a cry. The sorcerer doesn't waste a second. Hurls the arm back at Panda, using the momentum to charge forward. Palm aiming flat against his chest, he sends Panda flying backward – the same way he did to you. Causing your junior to experience a similar sensation to yours.

The cyan-haired man straightens, seemingly relaxing, already content with winning the fight.

"But I'm not impressed," he taunts, words an ominous echo of the violence just unleashed, "It's too ordinary."

Feeling the concrete beneath your feet, you take deliberate steps forward. With an inkling of Panda's potential strategy, you expel the pooled blood from your mouth, spitting it onto the ground.

"...Sukuna, you know where he is?" The man's words flow, attention diverted, ignorant of your presence.

A fortunate circumstance.

"No clue," Panda responds. His reply burdened with weariness and defeat; yet his gaze remained fixed on you, a silent exchange of understanding passing between you as you position yourself, tension radiating from his weary form.

The sorcerer scoffs; a contemptuous tilt of his head, a gesture laden with superiority. "Sounds like you know something, then," he snarls, his grip on the staff constricting as his fist clenches, "Spit it out. I'll be merciful."

With the sorcerer's back turned you raise your arm. Your gaze remains fixed upon the convergence point of the two delicate lines, their path crossing at the very heart of the expanse that's the upper part of his broad back.

"I won't be," you declare; voice carrying a firm tone. A deft flick of your wrist – the current of cursed energy takes the desired shape before it's hurled toward your target. Slashing the air in front of you, aimed right at him.

His gaze veers to the side. And in a fraction of a heartbeat, he moves; executing a skillful sidestep. Body positioned to face you from the side, both hands now gripping his staff, aiming it at you; a glint of fervor ignites his eyes as they widen, locked onto the shipping container stationed behind Panda. The unforgiving force of your attack rends the shipping container apart, leaving two gaping slashes that could bisect a man.

You don't give him time to react properly.

The moment blood begins to stain his white robe crimson red from the nick on his shoulder, you lunge forward. Like a bull being waved a red flag. Feet imbued with your cursed energy, reinforced to ensure protection.

As you close the distance at a breakneck pace, you sense the distinct composition of his cursed energy. With your fingers curled around the staff, your eyes meet his, a faint grin playing at the corners of your mouth as you tug on his weapon with your full body weight. Lifting your legs off the ground, you use the staff as a fulcrum. His body feels resilient, akin to forged steel, against the soles of your shoes.

With the potency of your cursed technique coursing through your strike, the man is propelled backward, his body hurtling through the air. The Nyoi staff clings to the concrete. Left untouched upon the impact.

Flying through a shipping container, he quickly finds his footing. Stance shifting in response to your aerial maneuver. Legs splayed to establish a firm foundation, you focus your intent on targeting his jaw. Fists charged with cursed energy, you hit once; knowing how troublesome the push-and-pull effect of your technique feels once your flesh makes contact–

"Not bad," he manages to spit out, the corner of his lip stained red. A smile tugs at the corner of his lip as you sprint toward him.

The surroundings blur into a muddled backdrop, irrelevant in your unwavering concentration. The sorcerer becomes the sole axis, a focal point in a world that seems to slow to a crawl, even though only a fraction of a second has passed.

The tip of your foot touches his; a mere whisper of contact between two opposing forces.

"Not bad at all."

–he counterattacks. Hand darts forward. Grabs your wrist. With an economy of motion, he employs your own momentum against you. His grip becomes a pivot, briefly throwing you off-balance, diverting your forward surge into an unexpected spiral.

Fluidity. That's how you'd characterize his movements. A seamless transition from being a passive target to an active agent.

His chest brushes against your back as his right hand remains locked around your right wrist. Single-handedly swinging your body like a marionette, you exploit the vulnerability of your position. Using his grip as leverage to move backward, simultaneously grabbing hold of his bandaged left forearm and pulling. Crashing your body into his, redirecting the movement into a collision.

With a potent surge of intention, you force the prepared rejection and attraction effect within your clenched fist, propelling it like a bolt toward the rear of your skull. Teeth gritted, you throw your head back.

Crack.

He stifles a groan, a step taken back but footing resolute. A red trail paints his nose as you swivel to confront him. Pausing briefly to charge your energy again, you grant him a moment to speak. His expression freezes as he locks eyes with you

"You," he speaks up, his voice textured with the tang of iron as his tongue grazes his lips, "Have we met before?"

With your hand still tingling, the ripples of sensation spread up your arm, an electric current tracing a pattern beneath your skin. Your head sways subtly, dispelling the notion of a previous encounter. "Unlikely. You'd be history."

A chuckle dances from his lips, a response to your retort. "What's your name then?"

You share it deliberately, each syllable a measured beat in your dance around one another. He nods, his head tilting with self-assured grace. It's then that he takes his stance – feet planted firmly, palms outstretched, a grin playing on his lips.

"The name's Hajime Kashimo."

The words hang, a telltale echo–

Hajime Kashimo.

–recognition snaps into place when you repeat his name in your mind.

The Hajime Kashimo, the sorcerer whose score reaches a hundred points; a mark that sets him apart from any other Culling game player (except for the intricate Hiromi Higuruma). Hakari's elusive target.

And here, right before you, stands the man himself.

"Hey," you call out, a new determination blossoming, your stance embracing the challenge; retreat is no longer a consideration, "if I beat you, can I get your points?"

The corners of Kashimo's lips twitch, smile fading like a wisp of smoke carried away by the wind. Expression blank, with only his brows furrowed as he responds, "Sure, but you tell me everything y'know about Sukuna," his voice lowered to a dangerous undertone, a velvet threat veiled in words, "that is–if you're still alive."

He charges then. Doesn't spare a single consideration. The air crackles with tension as his presence engulfs you. His hands make contact – not with fists or strikes – but with the calculated pressure of his open palms. You feel the weight of his touch on your skin. Pressure on your left, then on your right ribcage.

"Don't disappoint me now," breath tickles your ear, voice a tantalizing, dangerous melody. His fingers anchor firmly onto your right shoulder, an assertive grip that both commands and unsettles, while his other hand exerts a calculated force on your left shoulder guard, propelling you into a spin.

Your training surges forth, a symphony of muscle memory and instinct harmonizing within you. With the resilience born of countless battles, you swiftly adapt your stance, shifting your weight to face him.

An annoyed huff leaves your now-bruised lips. You channel your own cursed energy, a torrent of power surging through your veins.

Detain an attack when it comes,–

Knees bending, body swaying to evade the incoming fist; your left hand grips his left wrist, fingers tightening with determination, followed by your right driving into its intended mark.

–and send it away when it retreats.

Your palm meets the solid plane of his chest with a resonant thud; pushes and then pulls him back to you before sending him away again; successfully pushing back against Kashimo's pressure. It's a momentary reprieve. One that sends the sorcerer tumbling back, makes him roll on the ground, lending on one knee.

"Here I thought we were just getting started," you quip with a hint of playfulness amidst the dance of combat. Moving swiftly towards the target. As Kashimo's force ebbs, you seize the opportunity, your muscles coiling like springs.

"You're getting me–" he barely makes it back to his feet before you're at him again. With enough cursed energy imbued into your foot, utilizing the momentum of your motion, leg rising up in a calculated kick – only for Kashimo to shift; a fraction of movement that proves decisive. His arm weaves beneath the arc of your thigh, a sinuous and serpentine maneuver that seeks to entwine and subdue. As his grasp tightens, his fingers snake around your throat, lifting you from the ground, suspending you momentarily.

"–quite excited," he concludes, his voice tinged with an eerie excitement.

Once the hand is freed from contact,–

A heartbeat's pause feels like an eternity. With your legs rendered weightless and no stable ground beneath you. Despite the vulnerable position, your mind remains steadfast, honing in on Kashimo's Achilles heel. His hands are preoccupied, his grasp unwavering but his neck and face exposed.

–carry out a strike with it.

Seizing the opportunity, you make the most of the opening. Your palms press against the sharp contours of his cheeks, each hand finding its place on one side of his face. In one swift and deliberate motion, you channel the wellspring of cursed energy that resides within you into your technique. The currents of your energy converge between your palms, weaving a tapestry of arcane force that manifests as a palpable vacuum, centered precisely where his head rests.

It's an intentional manipulation. One – if done right, that is – could even lead to a cataclysmic implosion. A violent severing of life from the body. But you don't want to kill him; not yet at least. You need the points. And so, you temper your approach, exerting only the necessary amount of energy to induce a sensation of compression.

As the feeling envelops him, Kashimo's expression shifts, a flicker of realization that dances within his eyes. He instinctively withdraws. Bandaged forearms push at your body, sending you hurtling backward; a testament to his strength and strategic finesse.

"You cheeky little thing," a bead of blood traces a path from the corner of his eye. At the same time, another droplet emerges from his nose.

This time it's him who doesn't let you regain enough control as he charges at you. His approach swift and unrelenting. The tables are constantly turning – now being his time to dictate the tempo.

Another dance of offense and defense plays out as the two of you clash once again. Each move a deliberate response to the other's actions.

Chase the movement of the opponent–

As the flurry of his strikes slices through the air, you find yourself navigating the ebb and flow with a synchronicity that borders on the sublime. With a hawk-like focus, you track the trajectory of his hand, your senses attuned to his every motion.

While his hits continue to swing through both empty space and meeting your body, a fleeting opportunity presents itself. With the precision of a seasoned sorcerer, you follow the path of his hand with your own, fingers closing around his forearm as it narrowly misses your cheekbone, the other digging into the open slash wound on his shoulder.

–to continue the attack.

It earns you a hiss. A "Tsk," coming from his damaged lips.

One fluid motion; one that belies your strength. You capitalize on the momentum of his own swing, utilizing your grip to exert control. Your foot surges forward with unbridled force, the sole of your shoe connecting with the vulnerable juncture of his knee.

Kashimo's reflexes kick in as he instinctively leaps back the moment your foot makes contact with his leg. His visage bears the marks of battle, a canvas adorned with streaks of red, the vestiges of blood from the prior exchange. A mirror to his appearance, your own face likely reflects a similar narrative. Marked by the intensity of the confrontation. By his pure, physical prowess. One that, even if you use all your cursed energy, you're certain you couldn't match.

The shadows of weariness begin to cast their subtle touch on you. A weight that tempers your movements and shadows the clarity of your thoughts. Each calculated step, each strategic strike, seems to bear an additional burden now.

Still, resolute, your unwavering determination fixated on Kashimo, persevering in the face of creeping exhaustion.

Then you take off.

With a surge of action, you propel yourself into motion. Pivoting on your heel, you sprint toward the towering container crane a mere few meters behind. Kashimo's quick thinking registers in the corner of your vision—a flash of white on your right, drawing nearer.

"Running so soon?"

His taunting words reach you.

"Just limbering up," you reply. Muscles tensing, you feel his energy almost brushing against your own. So, with a leap, you vault into the air. Fingers curling around your ankle.

Time seems to slow as Kashimo's grip tightens around your ankle, his fingers like a vice attempting to anchor you to the ground. The world spins around you, the crane's towering structure becoming a blur as your body is abruptly yanked back, denied the freedom of flight.

Instinct kicks in, your mind racing to find a solution. With a swift twist of your body, you channel the energy within, your cursed power surging to your fingertips. A burst of force courses through your arm, the concentrated energy propelling your free leg forward in a powerful kick. Your heel connects with Kashimo's face, the impact forcing his grip to release.

In the split second of regained freedom, your body soars toward the container crane.

Muscles strained, you manage to grab hold of a protruding metal edge, fingers gripping with an iron determination. The harsh clang of metal meeting metal reverberates through the air as your body comes to a halt, swinging slightly from the momentum before you propel yourself higher onto the structure.

A smirk tugs at the corners of your lips. The distance between you and Kashimo now a tangible reminder of your evasion. His frustrated gaze meets yours, the tension between you electric and palpable.

"Nice try," you retort, voice laced with a mixture of weariness and defiance. There's an undeniable satisfaction in defying his grasp, in proving your prowess even amid exhaustion. Without wasting a moment longer, you hoist yourself up more, using the crane's structure to propel your body upward. Your form melds with the steel as you ascend, a maneuver to gain the vantage point.

Gotta limit his movement to the minimum.

Kashimo's expression shifts, a glint of admiration piercing through his irritation. "Impressive," he concedes, the words carrying an unexpected note of respect, "but you can't run from me."

He follows your lead. The two of you ascending the crane in a synchronized rhythm

"I told you, Kashimo–," you declare, your voice echoing between the steel beams as you reach the crane's zenith, standing face to face on the narrowest edge.

Now standing face to face on the crane's uppermost beam, the narrow back reach providing only small support. Your breath heaves, each inhalation a reminder of the intense exertion. Across from you, Kashimo's gaze remains fixed upon you, his expression deceptively relaxed.

"–that I'm only stretching."

His eyes, however, tell a different story – a depth of focus that cuts through your form. Anchoring onto you with an unwavering intensity.

A mournful melody weaves through the metal lattice, the wind's haunting whistle creating an eerie harmony with the tension in the air. The gusts playfully tousle both your hair in the process. You steady yourself into a stance, your body a testament to both resilience and purpose.

"Plus I want those points," you remark, a hint of determination coloring your words.

It's then that you charge — cursed energy flowing through your body like currents of compressed emptiness. A void. Unyielding. Relentless. And pneumatic.

With a flick of your wrist, you send it slicing through the air. A blade of nothing. A thin line etches across his chest, traversing from ribcage to his already wounded shoulder — a mark of your earlier endeavor. Nowhere to dodge now that he's standing between two metal beams.

Or so you thought.

Kashimo charges. The white of his robe tainted with scarlet. The cut isn't deep.

He must've reinforced his cursed energy.

"Tsk," you utter. A flicker of irritation crosses your features. Agitated. With waning stamina, the dwindling reservoir of cursed energy depleted by your previous usage; this could've been your last-ditch effort.

The final move.

And it failed.

It makes him smile. A sinister twist of lips that morphs into a grin. Moving fast, his expression resembles one of a predator closing in on its prey. The ruby stain on his robe seems to accentuate his aura of danger, a stark contrast to the pristine white it once was.

As your body contorts and arches backward, you skillfully evade the incoming fist aimed at your face. Your unwavering gaze remains locked onto his intense stare. With your palm pressed flat against the ground of the crane, you swiftly raise your leg, delivering a targeted strike to the meat of his thigh.

But before your maneuver can fully unfold, his hand seizes your ankle, pulling you towards him and locking your leg in place as he maneuvers over your body. Kashimo's grin widens, a predatory glint in his eyes that triggers a ripple of unease down your spine.

As his fist whizzes past your face, you seize the opportune moment to mount a counterattack. His fingers, still harshly locked around your right ankle, you push and pull against his grasp. Leg successfully moving to close over his thigh, the other hooking around his hip.

Legs now firmly encircling his waist, you use every ounce of your strength to push. Destabilize the sorcerer. Break his foundation. Disrupt his equilibrium.

The outcome? Both of you soaring through the air and down the crane. Kashimo's form aligns perfectly with the approaching solidity of the dockside concrete.

A rapid free fall, gravity's pull unrelenting.

If you're not getting the points, he's not getting his answers either.

His eyes momentarily flit to the ground below. Unspoken recognition of the shared peril that binds you both. The realization dawns in his eyes, widening them momentarily, before his gaze settles onto your face once more – unimpressed. Jaded.

"Oops," you jest under your breath, fingers finding purchase on the fabric of his torn clothes. An unhinged smile on your lips, eyebrows lifting in a mix of audacity and exhilaration. The wind sweeps through, rustling your hair with a cool caress that contrasts starkly with the warm stickiness of blood on your skin.

"It's accumulated enough."

That's the only forewarning you get. In an instant, the atmosphere shifts; an electrifying tension that dances along your skin. You sense the already familiar tingling as the static charges from the man beneath you. Kashimo's cursed energy now gaining intensity.

His open hand thrusts towards your face, a surge of energy gathering at his fingertips. Only to get countered by your own palm. Flat against each other. Forcing a focal point of energy converges and resistance to form. As the push effect comes into play just in time with waves of electricity.

The crackling intensity escalates, its tendrils reaching out with an insatiable hunger. Only to be pushed back by your own manipulation acting as a steadfast wall. It's a symphony of sensations — the tingling of your skin, the hum of power in the air, the gradual crescendo of pressure between your palms. The vortex throbs and pulses, a living embodiment of the forces you both wield.

The thing is – The conductivity of the vacuum…depending on how you look at it, it behaves in two different ways:

Firstly, when you examine the motion of charged particles with a constant velocity within a vacuum, you encounter an interesting phenomenon. Unlike in other mediums, there is no opposing force acting against these particles. Consequently, maintaining a steady current across any surface within a vacuum demands no additional effort.

However, a contrasting phenomenon manifests when we consider the existence of free charges within conductors. When an electric field, denoted as E, is imposed upon a conductor, it triggers a flow of electric current. This internal charge movement gives rise to a current density described by the equation: J = σE, where σ symbolizes the conductivity of the material. Notably, within a vacuum, σ assumes a value of 0; hence, electric fields lack the capacity to spontaneously induce current flow.

In this context, the vacuum departs from the role of a conductor. Even materials known as insulators, which typically restrict the flow of current, possess conductivity values that are low but not completely absent.

As a result, the resistance exhibited by a vacuum effectively amounts to infinity—particularly when you define resistance through the lens of how charge carriers in a substance respond. Viewed from this perspective, you could liken the vacuum to an insulator, given the absence of charge carriers that are essential for the propagation of electric current.

So in the end, your innate ability functions like an antistatic force.

It should be enough to counter his attack. Neutralizing his endeavor and ricocheting it back to him. Only if his other hand, clenched into a fist, suddenly hasn't entered your line of sight, aiming for your jaw.

The controlled push-only effect falters. Then crumbles. The void's pull reclaims all that Kashimo had imparted, drawing it back with an insatiable greed.

"Damn you." It now comes down to the last aspect of your technique.

Implosion.

The energies within your vacuum field converge, collapsing inwards with a blinding intensity. A jarring impact against the back of your head – or it might be the ending of your fall. Everything's just confusing. Everything blurs into a disorienting haze of continuous events.

The unforgiving touch of concrete grates against your scraped back. Each breath, now shallow and ragged, causes pain.

Above, the sky stretches wide and boundless. Until the sight is blocked by a mop of cerulean blue hair. Two buns somehow still in place. Same-colored eyes staring at your form. Arms folded and a countenance marred by bloodstains and scrapes. Each leg positioned on either side of your hips before one presses against the flat of your clavicles.

"You're quite durable," Kashimo retorts, pushing his weight down on you, "that should've killed you right there."

"Heh," you manage a wry chuckle, your voice strained but defiant, "guess I'm full of surprises."

He raises an eyebrow, a flicker of almost-amusement dancing in his eyes. The world around you seems to blur at the edges, the strain of the plummet combined with the failed attempt of your innate technique taking a heavy toll on your senses.

"It's been a while since I've encountered someone who can keep me on my toes this long. Now tell me," your name rolls off his tongue in a taunting lilt, "where's Sukuna?"

The distant sounds of the dockside begin to fade, replaced by an eerie emptiness. Despite your unwavering determination, a tide of dizziness threatens to engulf you, and you struggle to maintain your focus on Kashimo's face.

"On vaca–"

The weight on your chest vanishes abruptly. Kashimo's foot makes fleeting contact with your cheek before returning to its original place.

"Don't play with me. Spit it out."

"Oi," a voice calls to your right. A voice you know; Hakari's, "It's not very chivalrous to strike a lady like that."

From here, everything dissolves into darkness.

The world sways, a disorienting dance of shadows and sensations. Light pressure settles on your stomach with sounds echoing faintly in the distance. A gentle, steady rhythm envelops you as if you're being cradled in a cocoon of safety. Your limbs feel weightless, as though the ground beneath you has transformed into a soft cloud that carries your burdens away.

Your mind struggles to tether itself to the present, grappling with the fragments of consciousness that slip through your grasp. Colors blur, merging into a hazy kaleidoscope of fleeting images. The arms that encircle you exude warmth thought. One that lulls you back to sleep.

Yet you manage to summon the strength to part your heavy eyelids. Through the haze, you see a blur of black and white on top of you. Head resting upon something firm and solid – a breastplate, you realize. The rhythmic cadence that envelops you is accompanied by the subtle rise and fall of breath, a heartbeat that resonates beneath your cheek.

"Panda," you murmur, voice a tentative whisper as you attempt to comprehend whether or not you're dreaming, considering the creature on you is now a size of an actual teddy bear.

The toy-sized Panda remains seated on you but looks your way, emitting a surprised yelp at the sound of your voice, before swiftly turning his gaze forward again, "Hakari, she's awake!"

Your vision – still blurred – manages to trace a figure walking at the edge of your peripheral sight – left arm missing, shirt gone (he's shirtless, you discern), and crowned with purple hair. Hakari. But if Hakari's walking in front of you. Then…

Lifting your eyes, you suddenly lock onto a fleeting sight of vibrant cyan hair. The once-pristine white attire now soaked and marred with splotches of vivid red, creating an unsettling contrast. Your heart skips a beat as the realization dawns upon you.

It's Kashimo who bears the weight of your limp form.

"She's gonna pass out soon again," his voice carries vibrations that travel from his chest to your cheek with his gaze fixed upon you.

And he's right as your body, weary and battered, succumbs once more to the embrace of slumber.

#moni writes #hajime kashimo #hajime kashimo x reader #kashimo x reader #hajime x reader #jujutsu kaisen #hajime kashimo x y/n #hajime x y/n #kashimo x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jjk imagines #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fanfic

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theharrowing · 7 months ago

Text

Carnival of Terror 🎪 4: I make them dance

The carnival is in town, and it is unlike anything you have ever experienced. Will you make it out alive?

🎪 Jungkook x Female Reader, Jungkook x Yoongi

🎪 word count: 11.7k

🎪 choose your own adventure, friends & strangers to lovers, carnival and circus au, dead dove, horror, possible minor & major character injury & death, supernatural elements & magic realism, nsfw, 21+

🎪 warnings: use of recreational drugs (mdma - time it takes to kick in is sped up for the narrative; feeling unsettled and paranoid; overwhelm); some of you might find Jungkook's behavior to be akin to infidelity, but in the context of their relationship, it's not; explicit smut (vaginal fingering & sex against a wall; multiple orgasms; not quite a blow job; cum swallowing) teasing & use of the word "whore"; being fed water from someone else's mouth; marionette horror; mirror horror; bloody slice across a face.

🎪 note: at best, everyone is a little toxic. at worst, they're a monster in human flesh with dark secrets, that can only exist in this magical realist world. likely, they are something in between. also, if you're in my time zone and see me posting at 2 in the morning, no you don't lmao.

🍧 food note: idk if everyone grew up eating "snow cones" but they're literally just balls of ice and flavored syrup. bingsu and shaved ice are kind of similar, but the ingredients and presentation can differ.

🎪 if you need a little refresher on what happened in the last chapter, i made a handy dandy recap post.

🎪 beta read by @neoneunnajimin!

🎪 posted june. 2024 | read on ao3

PREVIOUS | INDEX | NEXT

WELCOME BACK TO THE GREATEST SHOW IN THE WORLD!

We left off making questionable choices with Jeongguk. Just how many of our intrepid characters can get lost at once?

POLLS THAT SWAYED EVENTS IN THIS CHAPTER:

ducky & rabbit 1 | ducky & rabbit 2

The little pale crystals taste bitter on your tongue, and you wince in disgust as you reach for the open water bottle that Jeongguk holds in his fingertips, arm outstretched. He eyes you curiously, more openly than you have grown accustomed to, and it excites you.

"Have you rolled before?" he asks, leaning close as you swallow down two large gulps of ice-cold water.

"No," you admit with a shiver.

Not that you know of, anyway. After what you have seen and felt in Seokjin's hypnotic trances, you are beginning to wonder whether perhaps your memories are not the extent of your experiences. Of course, there is a possibility that Seokjin has somehow planted those memories of you in bed with him and Namjoon, but that is a matter for later. For now, you have other matters to attend to.

"You'll like it," Jeongguk insists, stepping close.

The two of you stand under the shade of the Hall of Mirrors building. With your back inches from the wall, you are unable to hold any space between your bodies.

Your breath feels heavy as you ask, "How do you know?'

Jeongguk smirks. "You like it when your mind is a little fucky, don't you? I mean…you let Yoongi hyung dig his claws into you for long enough."

"What's your excuse?" you ask, equal parts curious and defensive.

"I love the game," Jeongguk shrugs, easy enough. "Sure, sometimes he breaks my heart, but he always comes crawling back. And in the meantime, I have plenty of distractions."

"Distractions?" you ask.

Jeongguk is far too close, and his lightly floral musk is cloyingly sweet. You find yourself swaying toward and away, toward and away.

"Drugs," Jeongguk says with another shrug. His gaze is pointed as he adds, "And sex."

It feels like whiplash the way Jeongguk so easily shifts into a completely different person. If you didn't know any better, you would think he and Yoongi were in on something together, and that Yoongi is just off in the periphery somewhere, enjoying the show.

"How long does it take to kick in?" you ask, ignoring Jeongguk's dark, smoldering eyes and attempting to gaze out at the carnival grounds past him.

The sun should be going down by now, but it continues to hang high and bright. All around you, music blares, and voices shout. It no longer overwhelms the senses; rather, it feels commonplace.

"Could take an hour. Could take fifteen minutes. With this cut, it's hard to tell."

That is not reassuring.

"Why is it so inconsistent?"

Jeongguk shrugs. "This cut is strange."

You sigh and accept your fate; what more could you do at this point? Jeongguk seems amused, chuckling a light, twinkling sound – pitchy and melodic. He almost looks childlike with the striped scarf hanging around his neck, tied neatly in the front.

"Want to walk around and wait to come up, or go inside and get lost?"

Get lost feels like the wrong way to describe precisely what you want, but perhaps it is somewhat accurate.

You take Jeongguk by the hand and go to the left, toward the back door to the Hall of Mirrors – the door that is closest. From the outside, there is no handle, but you instinctively reach for the edge of the door and run your fingers along where there is a small groove in the black-painted wood, allowing you to hook a finger in and open the door.

"Whoa," Jeongguk mutters, and you think the same, surprising even yourself.

The room that the door opens up to is dark, and it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust. You pull Jeongguk to the right, whereas the hallway leading into the attraction is on the left, and you find a thick black curtain that you pull out of the way, then discover a small black door. You knock lightly, wait for several seconds, and then yank it open, gaining entrance into an empty space that is clearly not meant for the general public.

"How do you know about this place?" Jeongguk asks.

"I don't know," you admit. Your body is simply running on autopilot.

The room the two of you find yourself in is rather small and dimly lit, with black walls and nothing to sit upon. There is a small metal hook that locks the door, and you slide it into place. Music plays overhead – the same dizzying organ tunes you have grown accustomed to hearing in this place – and the air feels unusually heavy.

"I'm surprised you agreed to this," Jeongguk purrs as he crowds your space.

Instinctively, you step back, knocking your foot against a wooden wall. You stare at Jeongguk as he towers close, keeping your hands to your sides as you try your best to steady your breath.

"I am too," you admit.

"Yoongi hyung not enough for you?" Jeongguk teases as he leans close enough to press his body into yours. Warmth radiates, and you melt a little into the wall, allowing yourself to relax.

Holding firm, steady eye contact, you reach up to rub your palms over Jeongguk's chest, dancing your fingertips over taut muscle concealed under the light, soft, greenish-blue fabric of his shirt. With your left hand, you finger the scarf, giving it gentle tugs.

"Yoongi is more than enough for me," you say, tilting your head playfully. "But he's not here, is he?"

Jeongguk grabs your waist and spins you around. You barely have time to steady your hands against the wall to prevent your cheek from smashing into wood. He presses into you, yanking your hips back until his crotch rubs against your ass, and you sigh a shattered breath as your eyes flutter closed.

"More than enough, hmm?" Jeongguk groans in your ear, voice just above a feral growl. "If that were true, then why are you so eager to let me have you?"

You shrug and whine, "I'm bored."

"Bored," Jeongguk snarls, reaching around to undo your slacks.

His fingers are quick, and he shoves the material down, then reaches a greedy hand between your legs to rub over your clothed pussy. The material is cold to the touch and still slightly wet, and he tsks in your ear.

"This all for me, or this from earlier?"

"From earlier," you admit.

"When?" Jeongguk asks in a sharp, angry tone.

You grin. "Tunnel of Love."

Jeongguk chuckles, but the sound is deep and swimming with fury. If you didn't know any better, you might think he is planning on ripping you apart.

"I knew it," he all but growls.

Your body simmers with excitement and something else – something that might feel like panic if not for Jeongguk's long fingers roughly stroking over your soiled undergarment. You sigh and press your ass back, feeling the way his erection tents in his pants, tempted to offer to get on your knees and beg for it.

"He told me all about you, you know," Jeongguk says sweetly, voice far more tame and welcoming. "I know everything."

You hum a curious sound and ask, "Like what?"

"Like how tight you are," Jeongguk says as he pulls your panties aside and lets one finger explore your folds before it dips deep inside. "Fuck," he sighs, breath hot against your neck. "So fucking wet."

"That's all for you," you whine as Jeongguk pulls his finger out and slowly presses it in deep.

"Yeah?" he asks. "You sure about that? Or is it just me talking about Yoongi hyung that turns you on?"

With a sigh and a light giggle, you say, "Maybe it's a little of both."

"Yeah?" Jeongguk asks, pulling his finger out in a broad stroke that rubs across your clit, making you tremble with pleasure. "You like being hyung's little whore?"

You wonder if Jeongguk is attempting to hurt your feelings despite circling his finger over your bud in firm strokes. All you feel is amusement.

You attempt to look over your shoulder as you ask, "Are you?"

Jeongguk dips his hand down and slides two fingers in, this time making you hiss. The stretch is not enough to really fill you the way you like, but it feels good. It feels promising.

From behind, you can hear Jeongguk's other hand at work on his button and zipper. Fabric rustles, his hand pulls away, leaving you empty, and then you feel his cock pressed against your ass.

"I saw you first," he groans, knuckles brushing over your skin as he strokes himself. "I was the one who pointed you out to hyung. I wanted you first."

He takes you by the hips in both hands and pulls back, forcing your back to arch. You feel trapped in your slacks, unable to spread your legs, but Jeongguk does not seem to mind. He bends and slides his cock against your semi-clothed cunt, causing the two of you to whine in tandem.

"But Yoongi hyung always gets what he wants," Jeongguk says as he lines his cock up with your hole and thrusts, rubbing his length over your folds and clit.

A shiver runs along your spine, and you sigh, enjoying the slide even without penetration. Then Jeongguk lines up again and presses slower, steadier, spearing you open.

Arousal floods quickly, making you moan as pleasure quakes through you. You know that you should be quiet, but it is hard to hold back, and you bite your bottom lip in an attempt to clamp your mouth shut and muffle your sounds.

Jeongguk is thick, and he moves maddeningly slow, making you feel every little vein and curve he has to offer. Everything is heightened with how sore you are from earlier.

"What was it about me?" you whimper, attempting to keep your voice low and steady.

Jeongguk pulls back and thrusts forward, coating himself in you, making the slide much smoother. Then he buries his nose in your neck as he straightens you from the half-bent position you had found yourself in.

Your back stays somewhat arched, but you attempt to stand tall and allow Jeongguk's hands to grip your hip and chest, holding you in place. You anchor your palms against the rough wood wall, feeling its tiny grooves filled with paint.

"Everything," he groans as he pulls back and thrusts quickly forward, making you moan in dizzying pleasure.

The hand on your chest slides up and firmly plants over your mouth. You sigh into the feeling, breathing in the faintly sweet scent of his skin as he sets a steady pace and fucks you.

"Your smile," Jeongguk grunts, hips slapping against your ass in a punctuated rhythm. "Your laugh. You were so—" Jeongguk's hand slides from your hip, reaches forward, and pinches your clit, "—intoxicating," he growls as you moan desperately into his palm, feeling pleasure burst inside you.

Jeongguk fucks you hard and fast, groaning against your neck while your hot breath creates a pocket of condensation coating his calluses, his life lines, and his heart lines. Surely, you could be heard by anyone who may approach the little black door hidden behind the velvet curtain, but you cannot bring yourself to care.

You feel euphoric. You feel lost.

"Cum for me, baby," Jeongguk commands, fingers pinching and rubbing your clit in rough but pleasant motions.

Ignoring the way your chest flutters at the sound of Jeongguk calling you baby, you nod and close your eyes, relaxing as best as you can, eager for release. Fireworks of light and pleasure seem to explode within you, and as you climb higher and higher toward bliss, you feel awash with warm, overbearing ecstasy.

Desperately, you moan into Jeongguk's palm. You attempt to beg him to make you cum, muttering a muffled prayer of, "Please, please, please."

Jeongguk angles his hips, pressing himself impossibly deeper, causing your eyes to roll back. Orgasm explodes and you squeal and shake, worried the pleasure might knock you down to the floor.

But Jeongguk holds you firmly and keeps you steady. Your blunt fingernails dig into the wooden wall, and you quake as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you, threatening to drown you in its undertow.

"So fucking good," Jeongguk groans against your neck. "You feel so fucking good cuming on my cock."

You are unsure whether it is the drugs or simply Jeongguk, but as soon as you feel as if you are able to relax and come down from your high, another explodes inside you, causing your legs to go weak as you tremble and squeal.

"Holy fuck," Jeongguk growls. "That's it, baby. Keep squeezing me."

You attempt to moan Jeongguk's name, but your voice is too muffled. The sound of your release squelching with each thrust fills you with shame and excitement, and you wonder whether you have ever cum so hard before. You want to tell Jeongguk as much – want to praise him for how incredibly he fucks you – but all you can do is moan and sob against his damp palm, and take what he has to give you.

"Gonna cum," Jeongguk warns. Then he slides his hand away and asks, "Will you swallow it?"

Without thinking twice, you nod, voice broken and weak as you moan through the last of Jeongguk's firm, deep strokes.

He pulls out, and you turn, dropping to your knees haphazardly, which are stuck together in your bunched slacks. Your knees sting as they kiss wood, but all you can focus on is Jeongguk's pretty, uncut cock glistening above your face as his fist slowly strokes up the shaft.

"Open," he commands, leaning with one hand against the wall and towering over you.

You open wide and do your best to sit high, but a steady tremble works through your entire body, causing you to feel dizzy and disoriented. Jeongguk takes your chin in his hand and slides his cock along your outstretched tongue, and as soon as you close your lips around the tip and suck, tasting your own heady flavor, he pulsates against your lips and cums.

Jeongguk moans, fingers digging into your jaw, and you do your best to breathe through the gentle thrust of him along your tongue, spurting into your throat. When he sighs heavily and pulls back, you look up, heavy-blinking and holding your mouth open wide.

The sight above you is heavenly. Jeongguk pants and stares, covered in a sheen of sweat that sticks his shirt to his firm, muscular chest and arms. His face is rosy-blushed, and his dark eyes are wide.

"Fuck," he mutters, leaving his cock to hang heavy and deflate while he moves his hand to your mouth and presses the pads of two fingers against the mess on your tongue.

Something is clearly on his mind, and you stare up in waiting. Then he pulls his fingers out, and nods, cracking a smile.

"Hyung mentioned you were a fucking dirty girl. I bet I could spit in your mouth and you wouldn't mind."

You roll your eyes and retract your tongue, smiling at Jeongguk's audacity. You absolutely would not mind, but he doesn't need to know that. Not when he seems to feel so superior over you.

Jeongguk tucks himself back into his slacks and then helps you stand. Your legs feel like overcooked noodles, and you stumble back against the wall as you reach to pull your pants up with trembling hands.

Around you, the sound of the music swells and sways, and you would attribute the disorienting nature to the drugs, but this is how it sounded when Namjoon held your hand and pulled you through these halls earlier. You wonder if, perhaps, Namjoon is nearby.

"Feel the effects?" Jeongguk asks, grabbing the bottle of water from where it seems to have been tossed to the floor.

You stretch your arms over your head, feeling how simultaneously heavy and light they are. "I think so," you mutter.

Jeongguk takes a drink of water, then steps forward crowding your space. You open your mouth to ask what he is doing as your head bumps against the wall, but Jeongguk simply opens his mouth and dribbles ice-cold water from his lips to yours.

Most of the water makes it to your mouth, but some drools out to the side, and as the two of you swallow, Jeongguk kisses you, licking deep and causing you to melt into the wall once more.

You lift your hands to rub against his chest, palms grazing over clothed pierced nipples, making Jeongguk hiss. He licks firmly over your tongue, then pulls a moan from your throat as he sucks on its tip.

"You taste good," Jeongguk mutters against your lips, urging you on.

You slide one hand up to scarf around Jeongguk's neck and pull him close, licking fervently into his mouth, tasting and teasing; taking as you please. Jeongguk presses his hips against you, and you chuckle, breaking the kiss.

"We should get some fresh air," you mutter, feeling warm and increasingly claustrophobic.

"Alright," Jeongguk mutters, sucking your lower lip between his teeth. You whine until he releases, and sigh as he says, "Let's go."

Jeongguk takes your hand in his, and you can feel residual cold on his palm from when it held onto the water bottle moments ago. It feels nice and grounding as you attempt to get your feet to cooperate and assist you with leaving this place.

Only, when you exit this small room and walk toward the door that should lead back outside, all you find in its place is a wall. Jeongguk presses and rubs against the black wood, and he sighs when he finds nothing. High on the wall is a blinking red Dead End sign, and you wonder whether there is a proper back exit, or if this attraction is only meant to have one way in and one way out.

"I want to freak out about this, but I feel too high to care," he grumbles, making you laugh.

You would also like to freak out about this and all the other oddities that you have experienced. But you know that it will do nobody any good, and so you sigh and yank Jeongguk toward the hallway that leads into the attraction.

"Only way out is through, I guess," you sigh.

Jeongguk falls into step beside you, and as you enter the first hall full of glass and reflected light, dizziness overtakes you. The two of you stumble and giggle, stopping to gawk at your warped reflections, warping them further as you bend and twist.

You are a little surprised that Jeongguk continues to hold your hand, firmly keeping you close, leading at times, and following at others. It feels nice. Warm and steady. Secure. You nearly forget all about Yoongi.

But then a flash of blue and black moves in the distance ahead, and although you do not clearly see it, you feel it. It has to be Yoongi.

Jeongguk is giggling as his reflection when you grip tightly to his fingers and pull, causing him to stumble to your side, muttering something under his breath.

"This way," you insist, staring ahead for any sign of the blur that you could swear is Yoongi.

You turn your gaze every which way, looking into rooms and staring as far as you can along paths, but all you find are strangers. Amused couples, bored third-wheels, and giggling shapes pressed closely in dark corners.

"What is it?" Jeongguk asks, slowing and creating resistance.

"I need fresh air," you sigh as your chest tightens and the air feels constricted. "I just…I need to get out of here."

Time seems even more warped as the drug shimmers through your system, and you search and search, though for what, you slowly forget. All you know is that there is a deep, pounding need in your chest, but as you turn corners and examine rooms, you question whether that need could ever truly be filled.

Far ahead, down the long hallway and past several doorways, you spot a bright shining light appearing and disappearing. Sunlight.

You yank on Jeongguk, who follows along obediently, holding onto your palm as it increasingly begins to sweat, slickening your hold. He allows you to pass through doorways first and slides easily behind you to allow others to pass.

When you reach the exit, he steps ahead first and presses the heavy wooden door open, holding it for you. All at once, the air is hot and dry, and as you take in a deep inhale, you are unsure whether you feel better or worse, squinting against the bright sun.

Jeongguk hands you the bottle of water, and you finally release his hand, lamenting the familiar warmth as your trembling fingers struggle to twist the tiny plastic cap free. You stumble into some shade beside the entrance of the building, and Jeongguk follows.

He crowds your space and takes the plastic bottle cap, sliding it into his pocket for safekeeping. As you lift the bottle to your lips, you quake and sigh, shivering despite overheating.

"The come up is sometimes just as rough as the comedown," Jeongguk mutters sweetly. "You probably didn't feel it as badly inside because you were distracted. It'll pass soon."

"Why are you being so nice to me?" you ask, voice weak and pathetic against the small round rim of the bottle. You take a large cold gulp and refrain from finishing off the water despite feeling thirsty enough to want to drown.

"What are you talking about?" Jeongguk asks, laughing.

As you sigh through the cold gulp, you hand over the bottle, watching as Jeongguk drinks from it with steady hands, much better equipped to handle the drug than you.

"You called me a whore," you pout, suddenly feeling upset despite not caring before.

Jeongguk finishes the water and crushes the bottle in his hand, crinkling the plastic as he steps forward to crowd your space. A crazed grin tugs at his lips, and with a lift of his brow, he mutters, "I was only joking," sending a chill down your spine.

"Are you sure?" you ask, doing your best to appear unaffected but feeling jittery.

Jeongguk's look fades and he begins laughing. "You're too much," he mutters, shaking his head.

Affronted, you attempt to swat him on the chest, but Jeongguk grabs your hand and holds it close.

"Why are you so annoying?" you grumble, attempting uselessly to yank your hand away.

"You like it," he responds, grinning as he lets go, causing you to stumble back into the wall from your semi-frantic movement.

The world feels off. Glimmering and electric. Overbearing yet underwhelming.

"What time is it?" you ask, making no move to reach for the phone in your pocket.

Jeongguk sighs. "I suppose we should find the others. How long were we fucking?"

His candor makes you shy, and you feel the way heat burns up your neck, to your cheeks. You would attempt to smack him again, but you know it is pointless.

You look around, wondering whether your friends are still at the game booths where they said they would be. "Where did you tell them we were going?"

"I told them the truth," Jeongguk shrugs.

Anxiety rises. "The truth, as in…"

Jeongguk smirks. "They already know about what hyung and I do. No need to act like such a prude about it."

Petulance rises, and you actually lift your hand with the urge to smack, but Jeongguk watches the movement and lifts his eyebrows. He is far too quick, and for your own sanity, you need to minimize the amount of time he spends touching you from this point forward.

"I'm not a prude!" you grit through your teeth, eager to get your point across without being too loud.

Jeongguk rolls his eyes. "Look, Tae hyungie originally pointed you out to me. Nobody is going to be shocked by this development."

"Wait…" you grumble, mulling it over. "What?"

Jeongguk shrugs. "He said you would be my type, which of course made Yoongi hyung pounce first. I doubt that he or Jimin hyung would be alarmed or upset if they knew we ended up together, as intended."

You frown, running Jeongguk's words through your mind. The night you met Yoongi, you were with a friend at a house party. That friend introduced you to Yoongi, who later introduced you to Jeongguk. It would be another week before you were introduced to Taehyung and Jimin. What does he mean Taehyung pointed you out?

"Taehyung?" you ask, cocking your head to the side.

Jeongguk shrugs again. "I don't know," he concedes, seemingly disinterested in dwelling on the details. "He said you were my type, but I'm sure he just meant visually. It's not like you two knew each other."

You softly ask, "What is your type?" and then berate yourself silently, wishing you could just let what transpired in the Hall of Mirrors stay there.

Regret sinks its claws in as Jeongguk licks over his lips and says, "Pretty. Bratty. Tight."

You roll your eyes and shake your head, scoffing in disbelief. Despite knowing you should bite your tongue, you tilt your chin up as a challenge and ask, "Well? Did I live up to the expectations?"

Jeongguk cracks a smile and says, "Yeah. You're bratty as fuck."

You shove at Jeongguk with both hands, causing him to stumble back into the hot sun and nearly crash into a couple walking by. He laughs, doubling over with his hands on his knees, and stays there for what feels like a very long time, causing you to laugh as well. And then he straightens out and motions for you to follow him while he begins to walk in the direction of a food cart.

The biggest downside to the drug seems to be how thirsty you become. You also seem to struggle with regulating your temperature, shivering in the shade and feeling stiflingly hot in the sun.

Jeongguk stands tall on his toes and leans his arms against the high metal shelf of the food cart while he orders a bottle of water and a couple of lollipops. You allow yourself to study his body, noting the way his tiny waist cinches above the band of his slacks, and how his torso curves up into broad, muscular shoulders.

Tattoos peek out from under his sleeve, littering his hand, and you remember the feeling of metal under his shirt when your palms felt his chest. There seems to be a lot about shy, sweet Jeongguk that you do not know. Perhaps it is no wonder why he and Yoongi get along so well.

Yoongi. Thinking about him makes you frown. You wish you knew what happened to him when Jeongguk told him to get lost. Everything has felt like a fever dream since you walked into the carnival grounds, and you continuously wonder when you will finally wake up.

Jeongguk holds out two lollipops, pulling you from your thoughts, and you examine their colorful wrappers, given the choice between grape and cherry. You pick grape, considering how good cherry might taste if you have the chance to suck it off of Jeongguk's tongue later.

"Thanks," you mutter sweetly, moving away from the food cart to a more secluded area as you pick at the little plastic wrapper with your fingertips.

With a sigh, Jeongguk sidles up close to you, blocking the sun. You stand near the backs of various trailers, some hitched together, and it feels nice to be away from the crowd.

"Do you feel guilty?" you ask.

Jeongguk takes his time to fuss with his wrapper, then asks, "About what?"

You turn your head to glance at Jeongguk, but find you would rather keep your eyes on your wrapper, finally peeling it open as you say, "About what we did."

"Why would I feel guilty?" he asks.

You twist the wrapper between your fingertips, feeling the slick plastic that bunches roughly. Your body is warm, and you become increasingly aware of your fixation, bunching up the wrapper and shoving it into your pocket.

"I think I'm high," you mutter.

Jeongguk snickers. "We already established that."

Your entire body shivers, whether you are cold or not. Right now, you are unsure what you are. Each time a breeze hits you, goosebumps break over your skin, and you reflexively lift your shoulders to your ears. But otherwise, the heat almost feels palpable, like you could cut into it with a knife.

The fact that it still feels like noon with the sun blaring high overhead starts to rattle around in your head, and you glance up at the sky, searching the clouds for movement. Even the sun does not seem to hurt your eyes as you stare directly into it.

How is it possible that time seems to stand still within the carnival grounds? Or have you completely lost your mind? The illusions show begins at 5, and there is no way it is close to that time.

As you lift the sucker to your lips, sugary grape flavor bursts on your taste buds more intensely than you could have possibly expected. You suck on it, coating your tongue and lips, then pull it out with a wet pop and mutter, "Wow."

"Good, huh?" Jeongguk asks.

You glance up and notice how the cherry lollipop has already stained Jeongguk's lips red. You want to stand high on your toes and trace your tongue over the color in search of just a hint of flavor.

"There you two are!" Jimin's voice pulls you from your thoughts, causing you to jolt.

He and Taehyung eye the two of you suspiciously, and you suddenly worry about your appearance. Despite spending so much time in the Hall of Mirrors staring at your warped reflections, you have no idea how you look.

"Having fun?" Taehyung asks, voice low and curious, eyes mostly on Jeongguk, who shrugs.

"We did some molly," he says plainly, yawning. "She's struggling to adjust, but we should even out soon."

You return the too-sweet sucker to your mouth. Taehyung hums and Jimin gives a worried glance at you before looking around.

"We don't have to go to the next show if you think it will be too intense," Jimin offers, bringing his concerned eyes back to you.

You shake your head, muttering around the candy, "I wanna go."

Jeongguk gives Taehyung a glance and the two of them seem to communicate telepathically. You lament briefly over not having close enough friendships to be able to read one another in such a way, but you do your best to shove away the thought.

Taehyung very softly asks, "We still have some time before the show, want to see this weird tent Jimin and I found?"

Something about the thought of a weird tent makes you uncomfortable. You ask, "Weird, how?"

Jimin nibbles on his bottom lip, eyes wide and staring at the ground, and Taehyung says, "You just have to see it. It's hard to explain."

"Where is it?" you ask, feeling as if your entire body is weighed down with lead and unwilling to move as the others turn to walk in its direction.

"Come on," Jeongguk insists, grabbing for your elbow and yanking you along.

You expect your newfound weight to hold you in place and keep you anchored in the shade, where it is safe, away from the weird tent, and you are disappointed to discover that you are still merely human, and easy for Jeongguk to drag along wherever he pleases.

The warmth radiating through your sleeve from Jeongguk's palm to your skin should feel comforting, but you find that it is too warm and somewhat oppressive. You remember rough calluses pressed against your lips.

You do your best to yank your arm away, keeping with his pace, and you are relieved when he lets go. You follow Jimin and Taehyung past the game booths, and you are startled when you see it along the edge of the space: a small tent with stripes that are red and what you assume used to be white, but now look more like a rusted off-tan.

A shiver runs along your spine, and you instantly feel a sense of ick and dread work its way through you, but your friends are undeterred. In fact, they seem to have a pep in their steps as you get closer.

"Should we be over here?" you ask.

Jimin turns, frowning as if you have just said something completely ridiculous, then rolls his eyes and giggles. "There's an opening on the side, and there is no explicit warning to stay out, so I don't see why not."

"You already checked this place out?" Jeongguk asks with a bit of a dreamy slowness to his speech.

"We started to," Taehyung responds, voice almost too soft to make out over the cacophony of carnival sounds. "But then we decided to come get you two."

Jimin rounds the tent along the right, and the rest of you follow him. Sure enough, the flap is open, and there is no indication that carnival guests are not allowed to enter. Strange, you think, since the tent is sitting somewhat secluded from the rest of the carnival attractions, a peculiar sight that you would think would cause people to want to investigate.

The tent is not too large, especially compared to those the Kim brothers use, but it is certainly not tiny. The opening is just shorter than your height, but the ceiling is raised several feet higher, and as you duck down and peer inside, just past Jimin's crouching body, it is large enough to contain what looks like a tiny living quarters.

"Are you sure we should be over here?" you ask again, eyes trailing from the small mattress at the far end of the space, past a kerosene lantern and several closed wooden trunks. There are books strewn about and a pair of boots on the floor. Something about the setup seems personal. Intimate.

"I assume it is meant to be one of those prop tents," Taehyung says from behind you, peeking to get a look. "To showcase how carnies live…or something to that effect."

"You know how, like, when we visit the historical park that has the buildings still styled the way they were in the Joseon dynasty?" Jimin says. You nod faintly. "Like that."

It is true that this tent may be just another prop, but something about it is strange. Perhaps it is just the molly making you feel so creeped out. Either way, you stand up straight and wiggle away from the entrance of the tent, allowing Taehyung and Jeongguk to step closer.

It is Jeongguk who walks all the way into the tent, and something about it makes your skin crawl. You shout, "Wait," and reach for him, but before you can react further, Jeongguk jolts backward and trips over himself, nearly falling to his butt on the grass.

You think you hear him mutter, "What the fuck?" causing goosebumps to break out on your arms and neck.

"What is it?" Jimin asks at the same time Taehyung says, "Whoa," and Jeongguk shakes his head and takes two steps backward.

"That was…" Jeongguk trails off, staring at the tent and then shaking his head and chuckling. Only, the sound is less mirthful and more unsure. "Damn. I need to lay off the drugs."

"What happened?" you ask, walking close to Jeongguk and turning your head to glance into the tent.

Everything looks normal, but you are unwilling to step any closer to inspect it. The unsettling feeling has only managed to grow.

"I thought I saw something," Jeongguk says, chuckling with unease some more. "Or, rather…someone? I don't really know."

This makes Jimin sigh loudly and stand up, turning to face you and Jeongguk. "Oh, give me a break," he groans. "You're just trying to scare us."

Jeongguk's face brightens as if he has been caught in the act by Jimin, but there is something in his eyes that seems scared and distant. Still, you remind yourself that the two of you are high, and you are definitely feeling heightened paranoia.

"Okay, well this has been fascinating," you say, walking slowly backward and away from the entrance. "But I still feel like I might be peaking, and I don't think I can handle any more of these creepy ass tent vibes."

To your delight, Jeongguk nods and follows you. Jimin seems intrigued by the tent, however, and it appears as though Taehyung is pointing into it, whispering something to Jimin.

"Should we just ditch them?" you ask, only half joking.

Jeongguk pulls out his phone and glances at it, then says, "We still have a little time before the illusions show. Wanna get in line for a snow cone? I saw a cart on the way over here."

A snow cone sounds amazing and you nod, feeling relief and excitement replace all the earlier dread. Out of stress, or possibly impatience, but likely the thought of enjoying something new, you chomp down on the grape sucker, crunching it between your teeth. Unsure what to do with the sticky grape-stained stick, you twirl it between your finger and thumb.

When you turn to see whether the other two are following, you are disappointed to find they are still bent at the hips and staring into the tent.

"We're gonna get snow cones," you try, but Jimin does not react, seemingly stuck in a trance.

It is Taehyung who glances past Jimin toward you and says, "We'll catch up to you."

Jeongguk shrugs and begins to lead the way, so you follow. With each step you take, the ground feels further and further away, and you are beginning to sweat quite a bit. Jeongguk sways his arms as he walks, and you wonder whether it would feel nice to do the same, but as you approach the paths where more people are, you feel too self-conscious to try it.

"What did you really see in the tent?" you ask, eyes on your feet as they step from grass to gravel.

"Yoongi hyung," Jeongguk says, causing you to nearly trip over yourself.

You halt and turn to Jeongguk, whose brows are knit and eyes are downcast. His toe kicks at a small rock.

"Be serious," you mutter.

Jeongguk looks up at you, frowning. "I am serious."

You roll your eyes, reach for his hand, and begin to yank in the direction of a medium-sized rectangular freezer box covered in ice cream and snow cone stickers that is shaded by a tall red and white umbrella. The person working the stand wears a light blue jacket and slacks that match the color of the freezer box.

The two of you get in line, and you realize you are still holding hands. Sweat drips from where your palms connect, and you attempt to pull away, but Jeongguk holds on tight. You feel gross as your wet skin slides against his, and you yank a little harder until he lets go.

Your mind wanders to Yoongi. Specifically, to Jeongguk and Yoongi. You wonder whether they hold hands as much as Jeongguk seems to want to hold yours. You like the idea of the two of them being so affectionate toward one another.

There are two other people in line ahead of you, and you watch as a person in a sunflower sundress reaches for a tall paper cone with a ball of bright red ice on top, grabbing it with two eager hands. The person beside them pays and receives their own snow cone – that one orange – and then you take a step forward as the person ahead of you leans forward to place an order.

"You don't believe me," you hear Jeongguk pout, but it takes a moment for you to acknowledge his voice and realize that he is talking about seeing Yoongi inside the tent.

You snicker. "Of course I don't believe you. Nobody else saw anyone in that tent, much less someone who looked like Yoongi."

The person ahead of you in line steps away, and you and Jeongguk step forward. He orders a small cup of vanilla soft-serve ice cream and you order a lime-flavored snow cone, suddenly feeling drawn to how green it is on the display images.

The attendant mutters about the total, which you can barely hear over the carnival songs that play nonstop and the shouting of people both near and far. You think you hear that it is 4,000 won, and you reach for your wallet, jabbing yourself in the hip with the sucker stick that you continue to hold onto, but Jeongguk swats your hand away before paying with his card.

The two of you stand in silence, and you wait for the paper cone filled with ice and syrup to be placed into your hands. You lament briefly over not considering the flavors more closely, wondering if you should have picked a berry flavor over a citrus one.

But when you take a frozen bite from the top, you are delighted by how bittersweet the lime flavor is – how different it is from the grape that lingers in sticky shards against your molars. It is perfectly refreshing for a hot summer day.

As you walk away from the ice cream booth, you notice that Jeongguk seems to be moseying in the direction of the larger carnival tents rather than where you left the others back at the small weird tent. You have the urge to look over your shoulder to see whether they are still there, but something causes you to continue forward. Unease, you think, of what you may see if you look back there again.

The thought sends a shiver down your spine, and the little hairs on the back of your neck stand tall. Although the snow cone seems to be evening out your high despite the flavor being incredibly intense, your mind continues to race in strange directions.

A lot has happened since you arrived here, and as much as you want to dwell on all the oddities and attempt to sort out what could be going on, something seems to be stopping you. It is as if each new event is being shoved into one of the various trunks you have seen inside each tent, and it is being locked away for safekeeping.

You are aware of what is being placed inside the trunks, but without the key to allow you access to each one, your mind is not fully allowed to perceive anything. The notion that your mind palace has become a circus tent filled with trunks makes you snicker.

You turn to Jeongguk, who has more or less inhaled his soft serve, using his tiny pink plastic spoon to scrape melted dredges from the bottom of the cup. He tips the edge of the paper cup back into his mouth and slurps the final drops, then lowers his arms to his sides and crumples it in his palm.

Suddenly, you feel self-conscious about the state of your own treat, and you wrap your lips around the small orange straw that sticks out from one of the sides and suck down melted ice and syrup. Cloying lime flavor bursts over your tongue, and you stop sucking in order to bite off some of the top ice that is more diluted in order to wash some of the taste away.

Jeongguk stops in his tracks, and you look up from your lime-flavored ice as you do the same, turning your gaze to him. His eyes are wide, and he stares ahead.

You glance to where you imagine he is staring, but only see a crowd of people separating you from the tents, which are now just across from you, on the other side of a wide pathway.

Looking to Jeongguk again, you ask, "What is it?"

"I told you I saw him," Jeongguk responds. He looks at you, lifts an eyebrow, then tilts his chin back to where he had been staring. "Look."

This time, when you follow his line of vision, you clearly see what – or, rather, who – Jeongguk was staring at. Standing beside the nearest red and white striped tent, wearing the same blue shirt and black slacks you last saw him in, is Yoongi.

He seems to be staring back at you, and you blink heavily several times, unsure whether it really is him.

Without another word, Jeongguk takes off walking briskly, twisting his body this way and that while narrowly avoiding strangers whose paths he cuts across. Your feet hesitate, then you begin to walk as well, more slowly and excusing yourself before stepping into someone's path, doing your best to keep your eyes on the back of Jeongguk's head and refrain from dropping your snow cone.

Once you are out into the clearing, on the grass beside the large tent and no longer dodging passersby, you take several quick steps until you are standing beside Jeongguk, whose arms are outstretched and shaking. You feel overwhelmed, the sun is bright, and you squeeze your eyes closed before opening them and taking in the scene before you.

Yoongi stands still staring at Jeongguk, arms to his sides. His shoulders are in Jeongguk's hands, and although Jeongguk shakes Yoongi, shouting something you cannot make out, Yoongi just looks at him blankly, unmoving aside from the jostling he cannot control.

"Say something," Jeongguk demands. He shakes harder, and Yoongi moves along like a ragdoll. "Yoongi! Hyung, say something!"

Everything about this feels wrong. You absentmindedly drop what is left of your snow cone and reach up with two heavy hands to place them on the arm closest to you, yanking it away from Yoongi's shoulder.

"Stop," you mutter weakly, eyes glued to Jeongguk's arm. "Jeongguk, stop."

Jeongguk drops his arms and then forcefully shakes your hands away from him. The harsh movement surprises you, and you take a step back, dizzy and concerned.

"This has nothing to do with you," Jeongguk says in a tone that feels hurt and angry and a myriad of other things.

You cannot bring yourself to look up, and instead, you stare at Jeongguk's black boots. "That's not— I just don't think you should be jerking him around like this," you say, almost to yourself as tears prickle your eyes.

Jeongguk scoffs. "Our relationship has nothing to do with you." His voice is calmer and quieter, but there is still an edge to it. "You're just a pretty little plaything we both enjoyed. Nothing more."

You shake your head. Jeongguk is understandably emotional, but you will not allow yourself to be pushed away so easily. "No. I care. You can't just—"

Jimin and Taehyung have appeared and are shouting while wrapping Yoongi in a hug. And then, in a blink, the sky is dim. It appears to be evening time, but the air holds the same oppressive heat.

You feel disoriented from the sudden change and consider sitting down on the lime-sticky ground, but a familiar man clad in white appears before you, and you lift your head to find his head cocked, eyes watching you intently.

"It is time," Jack says, lifting a hand and pivoting to point somewhat to the right, ahead of you.

You turn your gaze to find one of the Kim brothers rolling back the end of a large red and white tent flap and securing it so that it rests open. A black top hat on his head prevents you from telling which one he is until he lifts his head and his eyes meet yours.

Namjoon stands clad in red and black. His gaze is soft and attentive and familiar in a way that makes your heart ache.

"Are you ready?" Jack asks.

Trepidation fills you. "I don't know," you mutter.

Jack laughs. "Come, then," he says, placing his hand on your arm while his other hand continues to point toward the tent opening, which you can see from the periphery; your eyes are still on Namjoon. "No sense in wasting time."

You glance around and realize that Jeongguk and Yoongi are no longer standing nearby. The back of Jeongguk's head is with Jimin and Taehyung just ahead of you, in line to enter the tent, but you do not see Yoongi's tuft of dark hair with them. You attempt to look around, but the group of eager audience members has closed in on your right side, and you are unable to see past anyone.

You decide to keep up with your friends, and as you approach the entrance, Namjoon reaches a hand and takes one of yours. His warmth feels like home, and you stare at your hand in his.

"After the show, I would like to speak with you," he says. "Come to the tent. Jack or Hoseok will show you the way."

You nod, eyes on Namjoon's hand, which gives yours a squeeze, and then lets go. As you look up, ready to ask why Namjoon wants to see you, he turns in a flash of red velvet and enters the tent ahead of you, walking briskly into the darkness on the left. You are ushered inside and to the right.

Your group follows the familiar path by rote, along the back of tall wooden bleachers, then to the left and down a path leading to the front row, in an area where nobody else is seated. Seokjin is standing in front of the seats but on the stage floor, speaking with Hoseok, the twin in black. Jack stands on the outside of the row of seats, palm held upward, signaling where to go.

As Jimin settles, then Taehyung, and then Jeongguk, you realize there is definitely no Yoongi. The seat to your left is empty, and it is the last one in the row. You glance around, wondering whether he is off somewhere just in the distance. Perhaps, you think, he will join you once the show starts.

You turn to Jeongguk, who stares down at his open hands. His eyebrows are pinched, and he appears lost.

"Jeongguk?" you ask, voice low and hushed.

"He just…disappeared," Jeongguk mutters.

You look around, watching as people fill the seats of the tent, then return your gaze to Jeongguk, who is unmoved. "What do you mean?"

Jeongguk blinks several times, then shakes his head in shallow movements. "I was shaking him. Telling him to say something. Anything." His voice is monotone. He almost sounds programmed to speak; emotionless. "Hoseok hyung said something to me, and I turned to look at him for only a moment, and when I turned again, Yoongi was gone. It was like he vanished into thin air."

The notion is so ridiculous, you feel your lips crack into a smile. You want to shove at Jeongguk and tell him to quit the act. "What do you mean, vanished? Your hands were on him. Didn't you feel him go?"

Jeongguk turns his gaze to you. His eyes are filled with tears, and he appears devastated. Your heart sinks at the sight of him – at the gravity of his gaze – and you tear your eyes away, to Seokjin standing about ten feet away on the stage floor watching you.

Seokjin pulls his black top hat from his head and lowers his gaze as he bows. He wears a dark green jacket that matches Namjoon's red one, and as he stands up straight and places his hat back onto his head, he stares at you, grinning.

The lights in the tent go out, but you continue to watch Seokjin's grin. A spotlight shines onto the center of the stage, behind Seokjin, and you want to lift your gaze and look – to confirm whether it is Namjoon standing in the spotlight – but your eyes remain glued to the devious smile before you.

“Come one, come all!” Namjoon's voice calls, booming over the cheers and clapping of the audience. Seokjin lip-syncs along, matching Namjoon's timing perfectly. “Welcome to Carnival Bizarre! The greatest show in the world!”

A symbol crashes, piano keys pound in a cacophonic crescendo of sound, and you look up to find Namjoon standing in the spotlight, arms outstretched, with fireworks bursting and crackling up from his outstretched fingertips.

When you look back to where Seokjin had just stood, nobody is there. You glance to the left, to the darkness of the bleachers across the path, then behind you as far as you can see, twisting this way and that, but no familiar faces greet you aside from Jeongguk, who watches ahead with tears in his eyes.

Delicate piano music plays, and Namjoon holds his left arm out in front of him, palm downward. You see something shimmering below his hand, glinting in the spotlight, but you are unable to make out what it is.

A golden glow of light fills the area, not enough to brighten the tent, but enough to allow you to see faint shadows cast all over. They remind you of wooden drawing mannequins with rounded shapes for hands and feet, and ball joints between each limb.

"Strings," Namjoon says, voice soft but booming in the surrounding speakers. You blink, returning your gaze to him, and you think that you can make out thick, dark strings hanging from Namjoon's fingertips that glimmer in the spotlight. Namjoon dances his fingers up and down, causing the strings to jump and sway, and you stare intently. "I control them with my movements. Small and deliberate. I make them dance."

All around, the silhouettes dance. Their legs spread strangely, and their arms jerk around, showing that they are all being controlled by strings. Your eyes move from left to right, watching the figures move, until you notice something.

To the right of Namjoon is a large dark mass. It is mostly in shadow, hard to make out, and you stare and stare until finally, you realize that it is a large piano. The music that plays throughout the space is predominantly that of a piano, and you squint and strain your eyes, trying to see whether someone is sitting before this one, but you see nobody.

"Will my lovely volunteer please join me?" Namjoon asks, and you tear your gaze back to him, then glance eagerly around the dark tent.

A new spotlight shines behind Namjoon, just to the right, past the piano. There, a figure stands near an entrance across the way that you imagine could lead to the backstage area. The figure has short, dark hair, but his head is tilted downward. He makes you think of Yoongi.

He wears a dark blue fitted jacket with rows of gold down the front that you imagine may be frog knots – hussar style. But from this distance, feeling as high as you are, it is hard to be certain.

"Yoongi?" Jeongguk mutters, adjusting in his seat and making you glance to your right.

Jeongguk frowns, and you open your mouth to speak, but your attention returns to the center of the tent as piano music picks up to a medium tempo and you notice Namjoon moving his hands.

It appears as if Namjoon is only lifting certain fingers, causing certain strings to respond. And, it appears as if with each movement, one of the legs of the volunteer moves, causing him to walk forward into the space.

In fact, you think you can see something shimmering in long strings from the tops of the man's black shoes, from the backs of his hands, and from the crown of his head. But as your vision moves upward, the strings seem to disappear. It is some illusion, indeed.

"Small movements are easy to control with just my fingers," Namjoon says.

He raises his right hand and seems to touch two of the strings hanging from his left. You notice the arms of the volunteer sway. The man truly appears as if he is a puppet being manned by Namjoon, and there is a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that this may not be an illusion.

Heavy-blinking and shaking your head, you attempt to clear away the errant thoughts and focus solely on the show. Of course, the man is not really a volunteer. Clearly, this is a practiced routine between two actors.

As the man approaches the piano at the center of the floor, it is hard not to notice all the ways in which he reminds you of Yoongi. The hair seems a little shorter – a little straighter than he had been wearing it. But his broad shoulders and large hands…his lithe waist and long legs…the resemblance is there.

And then you remember it: the card Seokjin handed you while inside Namjoon's tent. There was a figure with dark brown hair wearing a blue jacket, and he was playing a piano. The bottom of the card read, The Fool.

"Large movements, however…" Namjoon trails off.

The man stops just before the instrument – which you now realize is an organ. Namjoon raises his right hand at the same time his left hand makes a sudden movement, and all at once, the man lifts his head and a round curtain falls around him and the organ, causing you to gasp.

Namjoon continues, "Large movements, I must control with my mind."

You sit up straight, holding your breath, certain that it has to be Yoongi behind that curtain.

"This volunteer of mine is a regular man," Namjoon insists, using his right hand to lift the hat from his head and tip it as he makes a small curtsey motion, showing that he is a man of his word. A gentleman. "He has no formal training, and he has never visited this circus before. He is—"

Namjoon stands up straight and looks forward. You think, directly at you.

"—a stranger."

There is a harshness to Namjoon's tone that is matched by a solemn note echoing throughout the tent, though you do not think it is from the organ behind the curtain. The music is soft and fleeting, arriving and dissipating for dramatic effect, likely from a soundboard backstage.

And then, the music is gone entirely. Silence hangs, save for your heaving, anxious breaths.

"Volunteer," Namjoon says magnanimously. You and Jeongguk shift in your seats. "Play Passacaglia in D minor by Dieterich Buxtehude."

The round curtain lifts with the movement of Namjoon's hand, and sitting before you in a blue hussar jacket adorned with golden embroidery, is Yoongi. He begins his song the moment he is commanded to do so, and with the organ angled just so, you can see his hands moving over the keys. Namjoon's right hand sways in small conductor movements, up to the center and down to the side, as if keeping Yoongi's tempo.

Shimmering strings appear to jut out from Yoongi's hands and the crown of his head. You swallow thickly, watching Yoongi play, never making a single mistake, as if he has practiced this song over and over again. All around, in the periphery, you can see that the silhouetted mannequins are dancing.

Your heart is a caged animal thrumming behind your ribs. The song Yoongi plays is somewhat slow-paced, with both bright sounds and sad ones, tugging you between highs and lows, making you feel extremely unsettled. There is a sort of discordant nature to the song that strikes a deep, hollow longing inside you, as well as a sense of hopefulness.

You wonder whether Jeongguk is as enraptured as you, feeling the same way you may, but you do not turn your gaze. You do not dare so much as blink for fear of Yoongi disappearing again.

"Faster, now," Namjoon commands, moving his hand much more quickly. Yoongi's tempo increases, matching Namjoon's movements. Although you do not take your eyes off Yoongi, it is clear that the shadows are moving faster, too.

Lights swirl, and there is something like glitter sparkling in the air, threatening to distract you, but you do not fall prey to the petty tricks of the illusionist. You sit on the edge of your seat, elbows digging hard into your upper thighs, mouth dry and hung open, and you watch intently.

"That's it," Namjoon says, speeding his movements again. "Faster, now! Faster!"

Although you can still hear the song that was playing earlier – can still make out the familiar modular rhythm and predict each sound that comes next – it is harsh and cacophonic. Dizzying. At last, you blink and lick your lips. Your shoulders are tense and raised, and you breathe slowly, nearly holding your breath.

Around you, the shadows are tangled and chaotic, and it is impossible not to avert your gaze whenever a head rolls or a limb snaps. You think you hear wood splintering and cracking, and although Yoongi is made of flesh and bone, you worry for him.

Namjoon shouts, "Enough!" and uses the fingers of his right hand shaped like scissors to cut beneath his left hand, where strings would be hanging from his fingertips.

Yoongi falls limp and the song ends in an abrupt crash as his hands and forehead meet the keys. You gasp. Beside you, Jeongguk stands up from his seat.

The round curtain falls over Yoongi and the organ, and the spotlight cuts out, leaving just the one on Namjoon glowing. There are no silhouettes on the walls.

All around you, shimmering silver strings fall like snow from the ceiling, landing on your hair and in your lap, draping over your limbs and creating a sort of mist that obfuscates the stage just long enough for everything but Namjoon to disappear.

Jeongguk looks as if he is about to jump over the shin-high wooden railing and down onto the floor in search of his boyfriend. He grumbles and fights with Taehyung, who appears to be holding him in place and muttering something low and angry.

On the stage, Namjoon lifts both arms, which are covered in silver strings, and he bows. The audience stands, claps, and cheers. You feel glued to your seat.

Upbeat organ music plays and the lights come up, but it is only when Hoseok appears clad in black before you, that you move. You heavy-blink, eyes struggling to take in the brightness of the overhead lighting while silver glitters all around you. The air feels heavy and oppressive, and you are suddenly eager to leave.

"Kim Namjoon would love to see the two of you," Hoseok says, eyes trailing between Jeongguk and you. Then he glances further past Jeongguk, to Taehyung and Jimin, adding, "If you don't mind."

You neither hear nor see their responses. Hoseok steps over the wooden railing and walks past you along the path, leading the way. Jeongguk walks without waiting for you, slamming into your right and causing you to trip as you twist to follow. Then he wraps his arms around you, pinning your arms to your sides and steadying you, causing you to flush hot from head to toe.

Hoseok does not wait, and you hurry ahead, yanking from Jeongguk's arms to make your way along the path. Rather than turning right, to the entrance, he turns left. You follow Hoseok into the darkness, around the inner perimeter of the tent, toward an opening from which a red light glows.

Your stomach churns, and you swallow the trepidation that builds and builds. Behind you, Jeongguk mutters, "Where are we going?" but you do not have the answer, so you pay him no mind and continue forward.

Before you can worry further, Namjoon appears in the doorway. His gaze is soft and inviting, causing your worry to dissipate. As if being pulled on a leash, you hurry to him, stopping only when the toes of your shoes meet the tips of his.

Namjoon looks at you with reverence, smiling softly. Then he looks past you, expression painted over with something more neutral and polite. He nods to Jeongguk, then pivots to walk into the red light.

"This way," he says, leading you through a hallway to the wall of the tent, which he reaches for and pulls away, revealing the outside world, which is still somewhat dim and feels like the evening. There is another tent opening just across from this one, which Namjoon steps inside of, pausing in its entryway to wait for you and Jeongguk.

You turn in time to see Namjoon pull the tent flap down. You watch as it seemingly disappears and becomes the tent wall; no seams or hems giving its edge away.

"I have something that the two of you must see," Namjoon says, walking toward his desk on the right side. You realize that in the past, you have entered on the opposite end of the tent, and you gaze around at the newfound view, taking in the trunks and clothing to the left, the piles of books to the right, the bed just ahead.

"Where is Yoongi?" Jeongguk insists, walking past you to Namjoon. Jeongguk stands up straight, squaring his shoulders, and you notice a tremor in his balled fists.

Namjoon appears unfazed and simply blinks at Jeongguk before belatedly offering him a friendly smile.

"Yoongi is safe. Once he is finished backstage, you will see him again."

"Finished with what?" Jeongguk demands, chest heaving. "What is he doing back there?"

Namjoon turns to face you and lifts a hand, beckoning you forward. You had not realized you stopped walking about halfway, and you slowly make your way toward the two of them, each step feeling heavy.

You approach and round the desk somewhat, putting the bed behind you, keeping it from view. The bed brings back flashes of Seokjin's hypnosis show and cause your cheeks to burn hot, so you do your best to tamp the images down. Jeongguk stands to your right, anger pouring from him as he waits for a response.

"Take this, ducky," Namjoon says. "Peer into this mirror and tell me what you see."

Sound becomes fuzzy, and you lean forward as Namjoon lifts a mirror from his desk and holds it out to you, cradling it carefully in both hands. It is an oval hand mirror with an ornate brass frame and handle.

You take the mirror in both hands, gripping it tightly around the handle while the fingertips of your left hand cradle the back. At first, you only see your face. But then, you see something in the reflection behind you, hanging from the ceiling.

Pale limbs are wrapped in bright red rope. The patterns and knots appear artistically done.

"Rope," you mutter, squinting and tilting the mirror past your own face. For a split second, you glance over your shoulder, expecting to see the suspended visitor, but all you see is an empty space beside Namjoon's bed.

Looking at the mirror again, you hold it so close that your breath fogs the glass. You think that you can see dark hair hanging on one side, and pale feet on the other. Once again, the figure you see reminds you of Yoongi.

"Is that…a body?"

"Yours?" Namjoon asks.

You shake your head. "Not mine."

"Interesting," he says. "Good. This is good."

You look up, over the edge of the mirror, to Namjoon. Silver strings hang from your hair and glimmer over your eyes, and you think about pale limbs wrapped in red rope – about the snowfall of silver strings inside the tent.

His gaze is on you, and there is an easy smile on his lips. You tilt your head, asking, "What is it?"

Namjoon watches you, eyes slowly darting back and forth as if taking you in and deciding what to say. His soft, familiar gaze returns and your body yearns for him. Curiosity and arousal simmer through you, and you cannot help but stare directly into his dark brown eyes – sharp as a dragon's but deep as the sea.

"Try as I may to weave the strands together in any order I wish," Namjoon responds, lips down turning to a gentle frown, "you are the one who chooses the order of the strands. I am merely a conduit."

Namjoon's words roll over you in a tall, slow wave. They crash, covering you and breaking around your feet, only to dissipate into nothing. He is speaking in sentences you should be able to parse easily – uses phrases that some part of you understands.

But you know that there must be a deeper meaning, and that part of you who you are certain knows what that meaning is, feels buried, somehow, and all you can do is blink owlishly and mutter, "Huh?"

Namjoon laughs a soft quiet sound that dies in his mouth but twists his lips into a beautiful, genuine smile. You stare, confused as ever, waiting for some sort of explanation.

"Jeongguk," Namjoon says instead, reaching for the mirror and taking it from your grasp.

You feel caught in a daze as you allow the mirror to be taken, putting up no resistance. Your arms fall limply to your sides.

Jeongguk does not handle the mirror with care. Rather, he grips it on both sides, thumbs digging into the glass as he peers into it. At first, he appears angry and impatient. But then his eyes widen with fear, and his hands begin to shake.

"Jeongguk?" you ask, stepping forward.

Jeongguk shakes harder, his grip on the mirror turning his fingers white. You reach for it, but stop your movement when you hear the sharp sound of the glass cracking.

Namjoon lets out a sigh and says, "Oh, dear."

You glance from Namjoon to Jeongguk and notice a jagged red line opening across Jeongguk's forehead, over the bridge of his nose, and down to his cheek. Jeongguk gasps, lets out a crazed shout, and opens his hands.

"This is no good," Namjoon says as the mirror crashes to the floor.

* * *

My blossoms are falling What a strange feeling When it's so early in the year As soon as they are flowers They go and leave forever Sweet blossom Where is your tree? * Their happiness will shine Their happiness will grow And I hope you don't mind if I let them go

🎵 visit the playlist!

HELLOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 💜💜💜 i am no longer going to promise to be back sooner bc it is always a lie. 💀 i had the writer's block/getting straight As/grief trifecta all year, but i am............well, i shouldn't even say it bc i don't wanna jinx it but i hope i am back??? god, this chapter was so much fun to write and it genuinely invigorated something so 🤞🤞🤞 fingers fricken crossed.

POLLS WILL GO UP SOON!!! i only have one so far that is planned, but i am going to outline a bit and see what other fates i can place in your hands. polls will run for 7 days and i will do my best to reblog!!!

thanks for your patience. i love you. i have missed you.

COMMENTS AND REBLOGS MEAN THE WORLD, AND LIKES ARE APPRECIATED, TOO!!! STAY HYDRATED. 🤍

tags will be in a separate reblog! 🎪 visit the master post to read the disclaimer & request to be tagged! tag list includes the polls!!!

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Carnival of Terror is a Goosebumps-inspired fic, copyright theharrowing 2023 - 2024. no translations or reposting allowed!

#jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #jungkook angst #namjoon x reader #seokjin x reader #yoongi x reader #bts horror #bts angst #bts circus #choose your own adventure #fic: carnival of terror #bts poly

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rottencherrypie · 2 months ago

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R-18+; The Watchtower (Alpha!Bard x Omega!Fem!Reader)

Summary - Sprinting through the town, you find yourself in desperate search of a place within reach for you and your lover to "reconnect" in. It just so happens, the watch tower is the only one with an open door.

Warnings - Smut, language, female reader, afab reader, omega!reader, alpha!bard, dom!bard, mention of breasts (reader), mention of female genitalia (reader), mention of male genitalia (bard), momentary voyeurism, oral sex (reader receiving), weird descriptions (I got in a weird zone), the reader's pussy is referred to as "she", vaginal sex, unprotected sex, size play, pet names, name calling, slight praise kink, slightly rough sex, biting, knotting, creampie, slight breeding kink.

Pronouns & POV - None (unless you count the reader's cunt being called she), third-person-ish

Word Count - 3,890+ (I got carried away)

A/N - I got a bit carried away, this is a bit all over the place but I wanted to get it done so it could be posted today. There was originally going to be a different direction this was going to go into, so I might write that at a later date, but for now this is the part that it went. Smut under the cut.

Read on Wattpad Read on AO3

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The thump of your beloved's steps approaching you pulled you out of the temporary daze.

The pace of your limbs fell back into rushed strides as your gaze darted from building to building as you sped past, desperately searching for an open door to run into. And then, as if sent by the gods, you saw it.

The Watchtower.

Without a second thought -- as if you could form another -- you rushed in.

The sight of you before the guards made them pause in their tracks. The robe slid down your right shoulder, exposing the glistening bare skin that lay beneath the smooth fabric, as your glazed-over eyes bore into their frames with a mixture of desire and urgency.

"Out." The word left your lips in a strained pant, as your chest rose and fell at a rapid pace while the tips of your nails began to embed themselves into the door's wooden frame for a sense of stability. The sickeningly sweet scent of your need weighed heavy within the watchtower. An aroma so potent that it sunk deep into the old oak walls.

The guards were not allowed a chance to utter a single question, though if they could they would not know where to start, for the moment the command left your swollen lips, your beloved appeared behind you. His sturdy, toned arms snaked themselves tightly around your waist, hands resting against your center as his thin lips met the flesh of your neck, teeth lightly nipping against it as his calloused hands began to glide up and down the front of your covered figure.

The weight of your head tilted back into your lover as you allowed his warm, dominant hands to explore your flesh. Flesh kept away from the fullness of his warmth by the mere thin fabric that shielded you from the full nip of cold.

"Out!" He snarled against your neck, the vibrations of his anger sent a shiver down your spine. The guards stood there for a moment, mouths agape like fishes plucked straight from a stream as the flesh of their cheeks began to burn at the erotic display before them. "Or stay and watch. But stay out of my way!" The pure dominance of his tone, how his calloused hands toyed with your body, and the warmth -- and hardness -- of him pressed against you made a whimper fall from your plump lips.

The guards quickly snapped from their trance at his dominant command. The rushed tap of booted feet scrambling to the exit echoed throughout the watchtower as they scurried away from the flustering sight as if they were stray dogs being shooed away from a delicious piece of meat.

As the final guard scurried out the door, the air quickly filled with the rip of fabric. Bits of the smooth fabric fell upon the stone wooden floor as your bare flesh was revealed to the full nip of the chilled air.

A sensation that was soon paired with the warming embrace of your lover's harsh hands engulfing the flesh of your chest. A harsh, possessive grasp as his hands began to need at the mounds of flesh as his rough thumbs traced slow circles around your hardened nipples. The nip of the winter air lightly bit against both sets of sensitive nerves, the ones above and lower, as the hypnotic sway of your lover's ministrations continued, further dampening the slickened flesh between your inner thighs in anticipation of what was to come.

But, as soon as the hypnotic ministrations began, it soon ended as your lover released you from the warmth of his grasp.

"Love--" The name for him had barely hung in the air before the clatter of objects hitting the floor replaced it. The sight of your lover frantically shoving various maps and strategizing pieces from the table with harsh clinks and clatters filled your view before the blur of his tousled auburn hair replaced it as he whipped his head back to face you.

The flame of lust within his emerald eyes burnt ablaze, the muscles in his jaw flexed as he clenched his teeth down together as his nostrils flared, filling his lungs with that sweet, erotic scent of your need for him.

"Y/N." The growl of your name leaving his hungered lips worsened the slickness between your legs, nearly soaking the flesh between your thighs as you clenched them together tightly. The weight of your body threatened to sink to your knees, yet your grasp upon the door's frame was the one thing that held you steady.

"Please." You breathed, your nails scratching against the wood surface as your chest arched outwards to your beloved. As if your body was attempting to sway his decision with the delicious sight of your exposed breasts. "I can't, I just...please." The words left your lips in a pitiful whine as you relented to your desires, much to the satisfaction of your lover.

Not an ounce of resistance was left in your veins, nor was there an ounce of care as you verbally, and physically presented yourself to your betrothed.

"Get on the table. Now." The harshness of his command made the weakness in your knees further if such a thing was possible. Yet, your limbs moved to his command as you scrambled to the table like a rat desperately rushing for a piece of cheese.

The corners of his thin lips curved into an amused, lustful smirk as he watched you clamber onto the table. The rough scratch of the worn-down wood dug against your sensitive, slick skin as you positioned yourself before him.

The flesh of your back was thankfully still covered by the thin fabric as you laid against the harsh wood, back flat upon the table, yet the soles of your feet felt the harshness of the wood as your knees stuck up to the air, legs falling open slightly leaving your glistening, hungry cunt on display for your alpha to see.

"Good omega." He purred, the loud thump of his steps nearing bounced around the old wooden walls. A pounding which the blood within your skull began to sync with as you watched him with the utmost anticipation.

The harshness of the wood dug into the flesh of your palms as your nails burrowed into it, your lustful gaze shooting up to meet his as beads of sweat trickled down your brow.

The table creaked as your lover rested his elbows down against it, leaning down into you as he positioned himself between your legs. The alluring scent of his deep desire flooded your nostrils, the deep aroma full of salty sea air and desire so overpowering that it muted all other scents to you.

"My good little whore." The heat of his breath grazed against the sensitive skin of your neck, the old wooden table creaking as the weight of his body pressed into yours. The wetness of his tongue meeting the sensitive spot on your neck made a shiver wrack throughout your body, one which extended onwards as the glide slowly made itself down from your neck, across the flesh of your abdomen, and down the inner flesh of your right thigh as he sunk onto his knees.

There was no time wasted by the hungered alpha, as he quickly shifted his head, his tongue gliding against your drooling hole.

A hungered growl vibrated against your sensitive, gushing cunt as he began to lap up the sweet tang of your nectar. The prickle of his stubble grazed against the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs, the hair of his upper lip becoming moist from the sweet nectar that flowed from your cunt, as he continued to feast upon the heavenly nectar. A sensation that began the electrical waves of pleasure to splash throughout your body, starting from the tips of your toes and slowly beginning to move upwards.

The wet caress of his hungered tongue soon shifted focus. No longer did it lap at the entirety of your aching cunt, but it began to trace the surrounding flesh of your entrance, the tip of the muscular organ now only grazing the hole the sweet nectar dripped from.

The sound of lapping wetness echoed throughout the once-silent watchtower, accompanied by your desperate mewls and whimpers as your alpha continued to feast upon your heat. Pressure began to build in the tips of your nails, nearly splitting as they desperately clawed into the harsh wood beneath you. A similar pressure rose within the center of your core, a weight that squeezed and tightened as the alpha continued to taunt you with his tongue.

The tip only ever grazed the entrance of your dripping cunt, never delving into its depths regardless of how you swayed your hips to lure him in. He was swift and clever, like a cat chasing after a rodent for fun rather than for the thrill of the kill. The moistened muscle would always be a hair away from delving in, giving you a falsehood of hope as the tip would plunge a millimeter inside of your overflowing hole before he would shift his head ever so slightly after your nectar coated the tip of his tongue. Refusing to give you the moistened caress of his tongue within you, the relief you craved.

The harmony of whimpers soon turned to irritated whines and grunts, a burn began to burn within your hips from how frantically you chased after the sweet relief of his tongue. Yet the bastard refused to give it to you. Any inhibitions gone from your now lust-raging mind, the only thoughts being processed in the deep depravities within of how good the stretch of his cock would feel inside you.

"Alpha." His title left your lips in a breathy whine, you looked as you sounded: pathetic. Eyes glazed over with lust, chest rising and falling with desperation, legs quivering with each lick around your dripping hole, and plump lips in a frowned pout as you stared down at your auburn-haired lover. "Please, just fuck me already." No longer mincing your words as your gemstone-colored eyes bore into him.

You could feel the corner of his lips curving into a smug grin against your gushing cunt as his emerald gaze shifted up from the beautiful waterfall of your lust, to meet your desperate gaze.

The weight of his head shifted back from your aching entrance, the chill of the air nipping against your sensitive bundle of nerves causing your body to quiver. The fog of his heated breath filled the air as he rose from his knees, the floor creaking at the shift of his weight as he stood before you.

"Oh?" He purred, the heat of his breath grazing against the flesh of your exposed chest as he leaned down, towering over you. The rough glide of his hands moved out from your inner thighs, trailing up from your hips to the dip of your waist; gliding up and down between these spots as he gazed down upon your lustful form.

His left hand hovered around your waist as his right continued to slide up and down, trailing up to the top of your ribs before gliding back down to the lower flesh of your hip.

"Let's see what she thinks." The words sent shivers down your spine, the tips of your toes beginning to curl as you knew exactly who she was. Your cunt.

His hovering left hand slowly slid down your hip, the calloused sensation of his fingertips gently caressing every mark, indent, and scar upon its trail downwards filled you with a sense of love and anticipation as he silently admired you. After all these years, and all the pups you bore him, you were arguably more stunning than the night he first claimed you.

Your body was no longer as youthful, nor as untouched, but that is what he loved about it. That is what fueled his lust. The stretch marks that decorated your hips and stomach, signs of the pups he put inside of you, the signs of aging upon your skin -- the sign of life you swore to spend with him and only him. It filled the alpha's heart with a sense of pride and possessiveness as only he got to see these changes, got to make these changes with you.

And though this action was sweet, you could not help but groan in anticipation. You knew well how deeply your alpha loved you and the life you made with him, but now was not the time for such novelties. You needed his cock, and you needed it now.

The rough caress of his hand eventually found its way down to between the flesh of your drenched inner thighs, the heat of his hand radiated against the sensitive flesh of your pussy, protecting it from the bitter air.

The sudden pressure of his thick fingers pressed against your desperate hole, a heavenly sensation as you were mere breaths away from the stretch of his thick fingers carving inside of you. Yet, they remained halted, resting on the entrance despite his futile attempts to push into you.

"Too tight." The words left his lips in a snarl as he continued to press his fingers against you, finally slipping the tips of his fingers inside. The bitter, burning stretch of his fingers made your body tense. Had they gotten bigger since he had left? Or had you merely tightened in his absence?

A whine left your lips as you felt his thick, calloused fingers pump into you slightly, not even a third of their length slid into your sopping cunt.

"Shh, shh." He shushed, the soft press of his lips landed on your neck as he kissed against the sensitive skin. "Relax for me, omega. Open up for me." He breathed against your neck, continuing the trail of kisses and nips against your scent gland as his fingers continued to slowly carve their way into your clenched walls.

"If you want my cock, you need to be a good slut and relax for me." The words vibrated against your neck, his left hand continuing its slow ministrations as his right one slowly slid up and down your side sending a shiver down your spine.

The lids of your gemstone-colored eyes slowly fluttered shut, a soft exhale slipped out of your lips as you allowed your tense muscles to give into the sensations. The sensitive, drenched flesh of your inner walls relaxed around his thick fingers, allowing them to carve themselves deeper into your throbbing cunt. Calloused tips grazed against your most sensitive spots as they explored your depths, the weight of your body sinking further back into the harsh wood of the table as your thighs fell to the side leaving your soaked pussy on display.

"There she is." The alpha growled in pleasure, feeling the tension of your inner walls ease as it engulfed his thick fingers. The tight clench around them was replaced with a snug squeeze as he continued to pump into you, curling his fingers upwards into your most sensitive spots to watch your body quiver at the sensations.

"That's it, just like that, omega." His praise sunk you further into the depths of pleasure, your inner omega practically cooing over praise from her alpha. A soft mewl escaped your lips as the weight of your skull sunk further back into the harsh wood, melting into the glide of the bowman's fingers as they struck your core repetitively. A familiar knot began to weave itself within your belly with each motion as you lay there, at the mercy of the alpha who loomed over you. His sharp teeth nipped at your scent gland, not enough to pierce it but enough to send a familiar electric heat throughout your desperate body.

As the heat began to burn hot within you, it was suddenly doused by the departure of your beloved's fingers exiting your hungry cunt. A pitiful whine left your lips, the lids of your gemstone-colored eyes snapping open to find his smug-filled ones.

"Patience." He taunted, the heat of his hand sliding away from your throbbing cunt exposing it to the chilled air as he stepped a foot away from you. Before any whined protests could leave your lips, the swish of fabric falling onto the floor graced your ear. The mouthwatering sight of your beloved's thick, throbbing cock blessed your line of sight. The aching wetness of your heat flooded from your core as you sucked in a breath through your teeth, the anticipation near torturous to you.

The fat, cherry-colored tip throbbed within the bitter air. White pearls of precum rolled down from the mushroom-shaped head, as his large, calloused hands wrapped around his thick base, slowly pumping up and down the large shaft as he inched closer to you.

A smirk rested upon his thin lips as he made himself comfortable back between your thighs, grasping at his cock as he slowly slid the fat tip up and down your entrance. A final taunt as he spread his precum across the glistening folds as if marking you externally before allowing himself to align with your entrance.

The slow, stretch of his fat cock pressing inside of you made your back arch at the relief you had been craving. The lids of your gemstone-colored eyes began to flutter as he bottomed inside of you, the throbbing tip pressing up against your most sensitive spot as he gave you a few moments to adjust to the familiar, heavenly stretch of him.

"Gods..." The word left your lips in a pleased moan, the grip you once held upon the table loosening as it began to creak with the shifting weight of his thrusts. "The gods aren't the ones fucking you, omega." The alpha growled into your ear as he leaned into you, his weight pressing into you allowing the force of his thrusts to deepen.

The watchtower flooded with the squelching snap of his cock carving itself deep into your pussy. The once tight entrance now choking upon his thick cock as he continued to feed your drooling cunt, the stinging stretch of being filled to the limits made your toes curl further, the joints within your toes straining as the tenseness in your lower body returned as your inner walls embraced the bowman's mighty length.

A throaty growl vibrated against the most sensitive spot of your neck as he felt your sopping cunt clench around him, his lips circling the sensitive spot as he suctioned against it. He had no mercy on your aching hole, he had waited far too long for this moment and was not about to give you mercy after you had begged oh so sweetly for his cock.

The harsh slap of his hips meeting the flesh of your ass bounced throughout the watchtower's walls, the sound accompanied by the string of your squeaks and gasps of pleasure as his throbbing, thick cock continued to stretch you out. The blushing tip bounces against the most sensitive spot near your cervix, beating at it as if his cock was a boxer and your sweet spot was his opponent.

"Bard!" His name left your lips in a sob of pleasure, the strong grasp you had priorly held on the table now found its way to his sturdy, toned arms. The tips of your nails buried themselves into the toned muscles of his forearms, a pleasurable sting that further fueled the pumping of the bowman's hips. His thick cock pulsated within you, a rhythm that whisked you away, nearing you to the edge of pleasure.

The sound of skin meeting each other in a slap grew louder, the sound flooding out of the watchtower and into the streets of the quiet town alerting all town-goers that an omega was in the process of being marked. A familiar fire began to burn within the alpha's hips, a sign that he was nearing the edge of his own as the base of his cock began to swell, threatening to knot you early.

A snarl vibrated against your neck, a sign he was not ready to let go until you did, and you knew what was next. The sudden sting of his teeth sinking into the most sensitive nook of your neck shoved you down into the glorious depths of pleasure.

The familiar pleasurable static you had yearned to feel for months finally roamed throughout your body, his name glued to your lips like a prayer as your body quivered like a scared sinner begging for forgiveness, yet your quivering was from the blessing of pleasure.

A pleasure you would extend unto him, as the milking sensation of your inner walls fluttered and clenched around his cock, coaxing him to continue moving into the tight grasp of your cock, to keep pounding his worries away into the sweet nectar that flowed through you.

A loud, guttural moan fell from the bowman's lips as he sunk his teeth deeper into your scent gland, the pleasurable burn flooding your body as he pushed deep into you. The sudden stretch of his knot swelling inside of you, blocking any cum he was about to spill from escaping your drooling cunt, pushed you further into the depths of pleasure as the familiar, hot gush of his thick seed flooded into your core.

A small bump distended from your lower abdomen as the white-hot ribbons of his seed continued to paint the inner walls of your womb, showing that the bowman yearned for you as much as you had for him during his time away.

As the waves of pleasure faded away for the alpha, the lingering scent of sex danced throughout the air as the bowman released your scent gland from his teeth. The swell of his knot still throbbed deep within you, ensuring that not a single drop of his cum would be wasted and that another pup was sure to come from this.

Yet, you were still stuck in the throes of heat. A soft whimper slipped through your plump lips as your grasp tightened around his toned arms, your gemstone-colored eyes desperately peering up at him, pleading for more.

"Shh, shh." The alpha soothed, the deep rumbling of his chuckle vibrated in his chest as the warmth of his calloused hand encased the side of your soft face. "Let's get you home, omega." He spoke, his words full of tender care as he slowly began to lift you from the table. The man was strong, there was no denying that, after all; he had fought against orcs, aided in lifting a dragon out of the lake, and had hauled hundreds of pounds of wine and fish, you were like a feather to him.

The warmth of his sturdy arms encased your lower back as your legs wrapped around his, the gentleness of your weakened arms looped around the back of his neck as you leaned your head against his sturdy shoulder.

"We still have a few hours before our dwarven companions seek us out to deal with our pups." A hidden promise lingered within his words as he carried you off to your home, ensuring that the tattered robe kept the sight of your bareness shielded from prying eyes on the way.

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#bard x fem!reader #bard the bowman x fem!reader #bard x reader #bard the bowman x reader #bard x y/n #bard the bowman x y/n #alpha!bard x reader #alpha!bard x omega!reader #x reader smut #smut #omegaverse smut

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makemeimmortalwithahug · 6 months ago

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How Could You Think, Darling, I'd Scare So Easily?

Painland Week Day 2 - Myths/Legends

Charles/Edwin - post-canon

y'all remember how I said a few days ago that day 2 for @painlandweek was almost finished? Yeah,, when I went to bed two nights ago, this fic had 500 words. When I woke up again, I thought, hey, just write another 500 words and get back to it to flesh it out sometime later. Yeah, I finished this at 3am and it turned out to be *checks word count* almost 4000 words! Whoops?

Word count: 3726

ao3 link will be added

Title is from Hozier's "Francesca"

TW: body horror (Charles changing forms)

summary:

Hell has made them stronger together, Edwin is sure of that. It has, however, also made Charles anxious to leave Edwin alone for longer periods of time. When Charles doesn't return home for hours and neither Crystal nor Edwin know where he might be, everything leads to a familiar witch who wants to find out how strong the bond between the two ghosts really is when tested.

It had been exactly two months, three weeks and five days since they escaped Hell, found and lost enough to last another lifetime or two and realised the possibility of relative peace existed for them in the form of a trans-dimensional being who had never learnt what “tranquillity” even meant. Edwin agreed that most times, there was too much paperwork to be done to even try to achieve some peace of mind.

For the most part, though, it was just an excuse. In reality, Edwin struggled with the idea that he could stop running now. After decades of looking over his shoulder, it took an immense amount of effort to direct his gaze at what’s in front of him.

Looking ahead now, all Edwin could see was the empty office, dust dancing over the furniture. The boxing gloves lay forgotten on a table near the entrance door and the football Charles always played with inside despite how much Edwin complained haphazardly rolled under the couch. Everything was still and that was only the beginning of the long list Edwin formulated in his mind of Things That Were Wrong.

Exhibit B: Charles was nowhere to be found. Which, while not particularly sitting right with Edwin, was not an unusual occurrence these days. Charles spent a lot of time with Crystal, helping her get used to her new flat or just keeping her company, watching movies. Crystal always made sure to extend her invitation to Edwin as well and he agreed every once in a while, sitting next to Charles on Crystal’s small but cosy couch, thighs touching. He also enjoyed his time spent with Crystal. She had grown on him and he was quite glad to call her his friend. Edwin lent her the detective novels he loved and in return he listened to what she called “podcasts” about psychology.

But even so, he knew that the needling to “come over to hers with me, yeah, mate? The movie’s s'posed to be aces” was solely Charles’ doing because he did not like letting him out of his sight ever since Hell. This resulted in Charles excessively checking in on him via mirror every few hours, which most times was met by Edwin with a fondly annoyed eye roll. Edwin was quick to give in when confronted with Charles’ pleading eyes. It was not like he was any different in that regard. Spending time with them was no hardship whatsoever and Edwin had to admit that he found it quite sweet how Charles would look after him.

Which brought him to exhibit C: Charles had been gone for more than five hours and had not checked in on Edwin once in this time. Which had Edwin more worried than was probably warranted. Charles would be just fine, he was sure. He would just take a quick trip to Crystal’s and then he could calmly get back to his work for the Night Nurse.

Edwin stood up and put the files under their paperweight. Mirror travel had been one of the most fascinating aspects of being a ghost. It required to be precise and focused while not putting any strain on his energy. It took just a fraction of a second until he found himself standing in the middle of Crystal’s living room.

“Holy fuck!” The resounding thump alerted Edwin to their psychic who was clutching her shoulder that she probably hit against the door frame she was currently leaning against, mouth twisted in pain and eyes wide with shock and irritation. “Edwin! How many times do we have to have this conversation until it sticks?”

“Yes, yes, no sudden mirror jumping into your room. I know.” Edwin pursed his lips, looking around. Better get to the point quickly. “Is Charles here?”

“No, he isn’t. I don’t know where loverboy is, why?”

“He is not home either, has he said anything?”

Crystal flopped down on her couch. “Well, he said he wanted to come ‘round today to help me fix the sink but he didn’t show.” Reaching onto the coffee table for her phone, she checked the time. “Yeah, Charles said he’d be here around two.”

Edwin felt his stomach lurch in anxiety. It was half past five. A chilled silence filled the room as they looked at each other in question.

“Let me grab my jacket.”

“Doesn’t seem any different, right?”

The agency lay completely untouched, nothing out of the ordinary. Normally, this would ease Edwin’s nerves, seeing as it was his sanctuary, his safe space along with Charles. Now, though, this also meant that there were no clues as to where Charles had gone.

“Quite,” he agreed. Walking in circles around their desk, he eventually walked up to the window and peered outside. “Maybe there is something outside, he didn’t leave through the mirror.”

They made their way downstairs, Crystal barely holding onto the railing to not slip on the steps in her hurry while Edwin simply opted to let himself fall through the floor to get to the entrance door as soon as possible. The night creeped in steadily, the shadows growing longer, twisting at their ankles. Their office was located a little off the beaten path, but not too far. When they first started flat-hunting, they were conscious that they had to balance on an incredibly fine line of finding a place just secluded enough to not bear the brunt of the daily London tourism but also don’t attract anyone who might be searching for lost places to scout out.

This resulted in a beautiful view from their window but dark alleyways that led to seemingly nowhere, cobblestones streets with missing stones and cracks in them. The walls towered over them here, making it harder to distinguish the darkening sky from the roofs and edges. Their living neighbour had hung their bed sheets on the washing lines on the balcony and whenever Edwin blinked and tried to bring his eyes back into focus, they reminded him of David the Demon when they first exorcised him.

It was dark, dirty and daunting. Nothing looked to be amiss. Except, of course, for the backpack that was sloped against the gutter. Edwin snatched it up and true enough: Charles’ bag of tricks. The straps showed various scratches and the top was stained. Decidedly not a condition Charles would leave his most prized possession in. Crystal was aware of this as well and carefully reached out to read it.

The few seconds that passed while Crystal’s eyes turned white and she stared into the distance were the most agitating of his existence.

Crystal gasped, letting the bag fall to the floor again, supporting herself on her knees. Edwin crouched next to her with his hands fluttering around her, not exactly knowing what he was supposed to do to help her.

Resurfacing, she stood up again, shooting Edwin a small grateful smile that quickly blinked away again.

“Esther’s back,” she announced and tucked her jacket tighter around her. “She ambushed him here and took him.”

And Edwin’s world broke into pieces, shattering from the sky onto the puddle-ridden street and breaking the moonshine.

He didn’t say anything at first, every word vanished from his mind.

“I might know where they are, though. Or, I can find out.”

“How?” His voice sounded rough - harsh, but Crystal didn’t get angry. She knew that this was not borne of anger but sheer gripping despair.

“She had a business card on her and when Charles tried to defend himself, he caught a glimpse.”

This, more than anything, gave Edwin the determination needed to hoist the backpack onto his shoulder.

“Let us not waste any time, then. Do you think this internet you have might be of help?”

“For sure, Edwin,” she answered, petting his shoulder.

If Edwin hadn’t been out of his mind worrying about Charles, leaving him with sparsely any mental capacities to think about anything else, then he could have admitted that Coupeville, Washington was a tranquil but charming little town. With its little art stores and cafes, it gave a delightfully unassuming appearance.

Edwin hated every moment. For the sake of not leaving Crystal alone - he tried to silence the voice in his head that whispered you couldn’t take care of Charles either -, he had suffered through another flight, a ferry and multiple train rides.

Crystal huffed as she dragged her suitcase up the stairs.

“She couldn’t have been less creative, huh? Relocating one ferry-ride away.” Which was true. Port Townsend could be reached in less than an hour.

Personally, he could not care less whether she called this town or the bloody Empire State Building her home. All he cared about was getting Charles back as soon as possible.

They quickly checked into a hotel to get rid of the suitcase. Insisting that she had slept enough while travelling, they immediately headed to the address that Crystal had found out using the business card - a brewery.

It must have been well visited only a few weeks ago, the dust had not properly set yet. But the lights were out and the doors were barricaded. Quickly nodding at Edwin, Crystal got on the way to find a window she could climb through while Edwin seized the opportunity to phase through the doors. Darkness enveloped him and he could not hear a single sound.

He slowly made his way across the reception area, trying to get a feeling for how big the building really was and where Esther might have been hiding in here. If there was actually any connection to Charles’ disappearance and this place, anyway. But Edwin couldn’t stop and think about this very real possibility.

Focusing on his surroundings, he noticed suspicious lines behind a grandfather clock on his left. And sure enough, upon examining them up close, there was a small door hidden behind it. Anxious excitement coursed through his body and he waited impatiently for Crystal’s arrival.

“Searched for the entrance for celebrities, did you?”

“Shut it. Let’s move this clock.”

Despite taking a few tries, at last they found themselves faced with the entirety of the door. The handle was made out of iron, but Edwin didn’t hesitate to grab it despite the pain and the indignant screech Crystal let sound.

“Are you out of your fucking mind? You might still need that hand.”

“Irrelevant and inaccurate, I won’t lose it by touching iron for a few seconds, do not be silly. And regardless, Charles does matter more right now.” He tried to hide the red swelling on his palm but he was not ignorant enough to think that Crystal actually hadn’t noticed.

“A plan is needed. I would suggest you wait here, in case Esther is not here and tries to surprise us.”

“Alright.” Crystal nodded. “Don’t do anything stupid, yeah? Charles wouldn’t forgive anyone if you got hurt.”

Least of all himself went unsaid but they both heard it all the same.

Edwin inclined his head, opened the door and went inside.

The room unfolding in front of him was surprisingly spacious but shockingly empty except for the enormous carpet. Sliding onto his knees, he felt the cloth and without a doubt: laced with magic. It was easy enough to counter the spell that acted as both a means to soundproof and seal without a lock whatever lay underneath it.

Moving it aside, he was faced with a basement and without a second thought, jumped down.

Like a moth to a flame, Edwin’s eyes immediately found Charles in the completely dark room.

“Charles,” he breathed, the name echoing off the walls like a prayer.

Charles was slumped against the far wall, hands in cuffs mounted next to head which was lolling unoriented. When he finally looked up, Edwin was met with a disbelieving smile. But before Edwin could reciprocate, a look of blinding terror coloured Charles’ face pale.

“Edwin!” he hissed, pulling at his cuffs which brought tears to his eyes in pain. “Please, please leave, Edwin, she’s after you.”

Edwin didn’t even think about leaving without Charles. All it took was the span of a blink and Edwin fell to his knees beside him, trying to find magical leeway for him to put the cuffs out of action, but to his dismay he realised that Esther had reinforced her strategy, not just opting for simple iron but also a curse.

“What? What do you mean by that?” he asked, only half listening as he mentally flipped through all the knowledge he had on this kind of magic.

“She,” Charles began, coughing, “She said she was impressed that we escaped last time. She wants to get rid of me first and see how much it’d raise your pain level to drain you again. Put a curse on me too, in case you showed up.”

That got Edwin’s attention. “What?! Do you feel alright? What kind of curse?”

“Eh.” Charles’ head lolled to the side again, as if he was losing consciousness. “She wants to try sacrificing me and if you tried to rescue me, I’d turn in all kinds of horrible beasts. Wouldn’t want to hold onto me then, she said. Wants to see how far you’d go.”

“Charles, Charles!” Edwin held him by the shoulders, careful not to jostle him. “I’d go anywhere for you, do you understand? A curse is not going to stop me.”

But Charles was barely there anymore, teetering on the edge of oblivion. “S’ planned for t’morrow. I won’t blame you for letting go, mate, you were scared for so long, don’t need any more of that, yeah?” And then he fell into something close to sleep but what most likely resembled unquiet rest.

There was nothing he could do against the cuffs, not with no grasp on what exact kind of magic he was dealing with and no idea how much time he had left until Esther would show up.

Edwin put a hand to Charles’ cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll hold onto you, Charles, stay strong.”

With one last glance to his love, he began climbing back out of the basement.

Upon reading up on locations with magical and sacrificial history in Washington, Edwin concluded that their best chance was a secluded part of coastline, the stony beach along with the clear view of the sky providing the perfect atmosphere.

Edwin and Crystal were hiding in the underwood, watching Esther where she was standing near the shore, when suddenly, something moved right in front of them.

Crystal gasped. “Did- did the path just move?”

Quickly, he shushed her. “No, there is no path,” he whispered, “there is only the beach. That is a snake.”

True enough: a black snake slithered up to the ritual circle Esther had set up. This snake was even bigger than the one in Esther’s house in Port Townsend and tied to its back, there was Charles.

“Okay,” he said softly, “wish me luck.”

Consolingly, Crystal put her hand on his shoulder. “You don’t need luck. Go get him. I’ll deal with Esther.”

They stood up and sneaked closer. From a safe distance, Crystal started tapping into her powers. Edwin trusted her, therefore he turned to Charles straight away.

Edwin had also found a remedy for the cuffs’ curse, which made it easy to pull him off, hugging him close and making it just far enough away to give Crystal the opportunity to handle the snake.

Tightening his arms around Charles, who was panting against his neck, it didn’t take long until he could feel Charles’ body morph.

When Charles told him that he’d turn into various beasts, Edwin had thought about what he had been afraid of when he was still alive. After seventy years in Hell, any scary children’s story he had heard lost its appeal. When he was ten, his neighbour’s children had told him a story about Spring-heeled Jack who’d haunt the streets of London but also other areas of Britain. They told him about his terrifying looks with his claws, jumping at passersby to scratch them and then back into the night.

Thinking back now, though, Edwin would gladly face a hundred variations of Spring-heeled Jack all alone if it meant that Charles would be safe and sound in their office come next morning.

“I’ve got you, Charles,” he mumbled. He didn’t respond and as Edwin looked up at him, he came face-to-face with a doll version of Charles, his eyes unseeing and mouth twisted in a numb smile, a hollow feeling to his body. Edwin could see his own face reflected in Charles’ eyes, unease boiling slowly under his skin. Where Charles’ hold on him had been strong and desperate only moments ago, now it was stiff and felt like porcelain. Edwin’s fear of dolls was real and tangible but he was far more scared of letting Charles go and shattering him on the stones.

He pressed Charles closer to him.

He stayed in this form for a while until Edwin felt a shift again. This time, Charles resembled the demon that had dragged Edwin to Hell. He was a familiar sight albeit an unpleasant one, so Edwin just put his forehead to Charles’ shoulder and waited it out, the haze around them slowly dissipating.

Next was the thing one of his demons had traded him to. He maintained that it was worse than a demon, for the simple reason that there were characteristics one could apply to a demon, it was possible to create a definition and know what to expect when one encountered a demon. This thing, however, was less a physical form and more a foreboding. The feeling deep in the bones that something horrible was imminent and no matter how hard one would try to work against it, failure was predestined. A looming presence - a threat. There was a voice in the back of the mind, whispering knowingly about every mistake he ever made and it was all your fault, right? Niko dying, Charles getting hurt, Crystal being dragged along to all of this, having been in Hell? But you don’t need me to tell you that, you already think so.

It was a sick trick and his only enemy in this was his own mind. But Edwin had grown, he had realised that thinking something didn’t have to reflect reality. And while he did blame himself for all these things from time to time, it was a passing sorrow. None of the people involved in these thoughts would want him to condemn himself and after his second time in Hell, Edwin had understood that he needed to show himself self-respect as well. Hell was an error Edwin had had no control over.

He did, however, have control over not letting Charles fear that he would be afraid enough to leave him. Because he was quite sure that underneath these appearances, Charles was conscious of what was happening and scared out of his mind.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “It’s alright.”

The fourth form was the spider-doll-demon. Its many arms were gripping Edwin’s back, the dolls’ heads pressing into his chest and neck. Edwin tried to slow his breathing. He spent more than seventy years running away from this demon and being so close to it was associated with blinding pain, being torn apart over and over again.

Maybe now was the time to finally stop running and face his fear head-on. And so he looked straight at it, staring lovingly beneath its surface where he knew Charles was.

One second to the other, the demon was gone. There was no other figure, but Edwin still felt Charles’ presence and he tensed up at once, realising what this particular fear resembled: Charles was invisible, gone from his sight. No means for him to see him again, the only thing left for him to do was anxiously grip where Charles’ shoulders were supposed to be and not let Charles jerk away if he saw the horror on Edwin’s face. This was the only shape that compelled Edwin to screw his eyes shut.

Time passed until he felt Charles change one more time. This was the only one not tailored specifically to one of Edwin’s fears and it showed him that he had been right in assuming where Esther had drawn her inspiration for this act from.

Charles resembled a burning coal, the heat licking at Edwin’s skin. He embraced him tightly, stood up with him and dragged him into the water. Below the surface, he could see Charles turning back into himself, his bright eyes the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Nothing had ever felt as right as holding Charles in his arms.

Bubbles appeared in front of Charles’ mouth even though he didn't need to breathe and Edwin erupted spontaneously into laughter at the ridiculous sight of Charles trying to speak underwater. Despite being in the water, he felt himself get teary-eyed. He didn’t even try to fool himself into thinking that they would not both be sobbing messes as soon as they resurfaced. But for now all he needed to do was drink in Charles’ smile.

Back on the shore, Crystal was busy brushing off her jeans.

“Boys!” she yelled as soon as she saw them, running towards them and pulling them both into a hug at the same time. “Esther’s gone, let’s hope for good.”

“Yeah,” Charles whispered, putting one arm around Edwin’s hips.

Crystal pulled back, smiling knowingly but in a comforting way. “So glad you’re both alright. I’ll go check to make sure no one here accidently saw me fighting a huge snake and a witch. Meet me at the hotel, yeah?” With that, she walked back in the direction of the trees.

Charles turned to Edwin, smiling shyly. “So, you kept holding me,” he stated.

“Nothing has ever been easier, Charles.” He put his hands on Charles’ shoulders again. They fit so well there.

They hugged once more.

“You know,” Edwin mused, playing with Charles’ hair, “it was like Tam Lin.”

“Mhh?” Charles mumbled, he sounded tired. “What’s that?”

“A legendary Scottish ballad. Not letting your love go, no matter what.”

“Oh.” Charles’ eyes were wide. “Does that one end in tragedy too?”

Edwin smiled. “No, it ends precisely like this.” And Charles’ smile was brilliant as he leaned in and kissed Edwin.

#dead boy detectives #edwin payne #charles rowland #dbda #dead boy detective agency #payneland #crystal palace #painland week #painlandweek

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vividiana · 2 months ago

Text

come along with me (and put your mind at ease)

pairing: Astarion x f!Dark Urge

rating: M for canon-typical Durge thoughts, mild gore, and sexually suggestive language

word count: 11k

summary: flirting seems hard enough even without a voice in your head urging you to eviscerate anyone who gets too close. so when Astarion approaches Eve with a proposition, she's... a bit frazzled, to say the least. but despite what she promises herself, she can’t seem to stay away from him.

a/n: hi! I usually only post on ao3, but a couple of you seemed to really enjoy the wip snippets I've been sharing of this piece, so I decided to post it on tumblr as well. hope you enjoy!

the title is from "a little less conversation" by elvis presley

read on ao3

________________

Alright, perhaps they didn’t have to kill Gandrel. How much of a threat was a monster hunter who couldn’t even recognize his own prey? He was clearly clueless, so they could have just left him to stumble around in that desolate bog, and they might have never crossed paths again.

But Eve recalls vividly the sinking feeling that gripped at her heart the moment the man revealed his intentions, how she feared for Astarion’s safety, how enraged she was by the mere thought that someone was setting out to hurt him. Surely, she would have reacted the same way if this concerned any of her other companions… She had simply started to grow protective over her group. That’s all there was to it.

And who knows—if Astarion’s suspicions were correct and if the man really was sent out by his former master, then surely it was better to err on the side of caution (and violence.) Perhaps Gandrel recognized Astarion when he saw him, but realized he had lost the element of surprise and was outnumbered. Perhaps instead of attacking right there and then, he decided to track them later and capture Astarion under the veil of night.

Of course none of these considerations occurred to her at the moment, but they did help Eve justify her decision later. Even with all the mental acrobatics involved, that was still easier than admitting to herself that perhaps she was starting to care about Astarion more than she would like to.

It’s been two days since that encounter and two things have been bothering her ever since. First, Astarion had grown strangely quiet, which was quite alarming. He of course still delighted the group with a snarky quip and a healthy dose of complaining every now and then, but most of the time, he seemed absent and lost in thought. He also seemed to be staring at her a lot, though perhaps that was just Eve seeing what she wanted to see.

The second thing, far more unnerving, is that the murderous voice in her mind has been particularly active, very pleased with the Gur blood she spilled. Her head has been pounding, far worse than usual, and overall she’s been… well, a mess.

And it is while Eve is in that disheveled state that Astarion decides to approach her and start perhaps their most bizarre conversation as of yet.

Eve is crouched by a hyena’s corpse, working to cut off both of its ears—which, as Gale reminded her earlier today, were quite valuable alchemical ingredients. As she slices through the animal’s flesh with her hunting knife, the voice in her head won’t shut up about how beautiful the whole bloody image is.

“There you are.”

Astarion’s voice comes from right behind her, and Eve jumps, the clean cut she was working on now jagged.

Child’s work. The voice reprimands her. You can do better than that.

Astarion crouches beside her, strangely close, then puts his hand on hers, the one gripping at the knife. The sensation sends a shiver down her spine and Eve realizes that this is the first time he’s ever touched her outside of drinking her blood or being caught in the whirlwind of battle (and that one time he ambushed her, of course.) She stares at his hand on hers, dazed by the novelty of it.

“May I?”

Eve nods, letting go of the knife and watches him take over and cut off the remaining parts with one skilled flick of his wrist.

“There you go.” He hands her the ear and she stashes it away into her alchemical pouch.

They both rise to their feet and look around this stretch of the Risen Road, scattered with corpses and wrecked carriages with lost merchandise. Wyll and Karlach are still nowhere to be found—the two decided to scope out the path to the northwest as Eve and Astarion stayed behind to loot whatever they deemed useful.

But Astarion doesn’t seem to be in a rush to return to his task, instead looking at her with a strange intensity, as if pondering something.

“You’ve been quiet,” Eve notes as she picks some pieces of gnoll entrails off her clothing. “It’s unlike you.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“About?” She stops and looks up at him, realizing how close he is standing.

His lips curl up into that annoyingly delightful smirk when he says:

“About you. About the time we’ve spent together, the moments we shared… And I don’t just mean that lovely neck of yours.”

The sudden shift in tone takes her aback at first, but Eve can’t deny that she isn’t captivated by the way his voice lowers, eyes narrowing dangerously as they glide down her body before meeting her gaze again.

“I’m growing to like the whole package, honestly,” he continues. “And you clearly like me too, so…”

“So…?” Heat kindles just below her skin, and Eve curses herself for blushing so easily.

“So, I think it might be time to turn some fantasies into reality—we’ve been waiting long enough.”

As if activated by a keyword, the voice in her mind returns, dripping with excitement and bloodlust as it echoes in her mind:

Yes. Don’t keep your beautiful fantasies to yourself. The world needs to see what you’re capable of.

“Oh. Um. What– what do you mean?” Eve asks, partly to stall so she can collect her thoughts, partly because all of this seems too absurd to actually be happening.

“Oh, don’t be coy,” Astarion drawls and leans in to whisper directly into her ear: “Your body has already given you away.”

He knows. He knows about the twisted, bloodied visions birthed by your brilliant mind.

“Umm.” Eve swallows hard, warmth blossoming in her chest at his proximity, at the way his voice vibrates on her skin. “Has it?”

“Oh yes,” Astarion chuckles as he leans away, now reaching out to trace a finger down the column of her throat. “I could feel it when I was getting lost in your neck. Your little… shakes of excitement. You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

How excitingly he would shake beneath you once you wrap your hands around that pretty pallid neck. How sweetly he would scream.

Eve chuckles nervously, taking half a step away, not sure what to do with her eyes.

“Oh, I think that’s just… one of the symptoms of blood loss, you know?”

“Mhm…” Astarion steps closer, his gaze unwavering. “So you’re telling me that all those nights I’ve held your squirming body, pressed my lips to your flushed skin… Not once did you wish for something… more? Because I certainly did.”

Yes. Yes. Something more. Something filthier. Something more vile.

Eve just stares at him, trapped between his words and the incessant, pestering thoughts.

Astarion seems to lose his patience, dropping his seductive cadence for a moment when he says:

“I do mean sex, to be clear. Are you familiar with the concept? Or is that another thing you’ve forgotten about?”

At that, the voice in her head finally falls silent and Eve is left with the intensity of Astarion’s stare and the warmth rising up to her cheeks.

“Sex,” she repeats blankly. “With me?”

The moment the question leaves her mouth, she mentally rolls her eyes at herself. Fuck, why am I like this?

Astarion blinks, his mouth slightly agape.

“No,” he says, visibly exasperated. “I’m just practicing my seductive spiel on you before asking out our resident gith.”

Eve finds herself smiling involuntarily now that her mind has quieted down, and Astarion’s snarky self has returned.

“I applaud your courage, then. Let me know how that works out for you.”

“Thank you,” he says with a chuckle. “Honestly, I can’t say that the thought has never crossed my mind. I think I would either end up murdered or have the best sex of my life, there’s really no in-between with that woman– Nevermind.”

Astarion drops the subject with a shake of his head. He presses his fingers together and closes his eyes for a second, as if praying for patience. Finally, he opens his eyes and continues, gesturing animatedly between them:

“Let me put this as plainly as I can. I like you. I have reasons to believe you like me. Come tomorrow, we might be dead or sprouting tentacles. Might as well… indulge a little, while we can.”

Eve stares at him for a second, not fully believing that this is happening.

“And you chose to tell me all of this over a dead hyena while we’re both covered in its blood?”

Astarion looks down at the corpse by their feet and clicks his tongue disapprovingly.

“Well, yes, perhaps the scenery is… subpar. But I think you underestimate how enticing you look when you kick and punch your way through a horde of gnolls twice your size. Plus, red is your color,” he adds with a smirk.

“You’re ridiculous,” she laughs.

“Perhaps I am. But I also have impeccable taste, so don’t question it.”

To be honest, Eve gets it. She can’t deny the fact that witnessing him in battle also does something to her—how he blends into the shadows and takes down enemy after enemy with arrows that seemingly come from nowhere. How he flips his dagger before striking, in a way that clearly offers no practical benefit but rather, an opportunity to show off his dexterity. Her appreciation for his stealth and finesse is entirely benign of course, just like one’s appreciation for fine art or craftsmanship, and it is definitely not distracting, and it certainly does not leave her wondering what else he can do with those–

“Now,” Astarion continues, mercifully snapping Eve out of her thoughts that have only served to deepen the pink shade of her cheeks, “if you have any doubts about my prowess, I assure you, you needn’t worry. I will make it worth your time. Satisfaction guaranteed, as they say.”

Eve scoffs, attempting to play it cool, a task which is somewhat complicated by her now obvious blushing.

“You seem very confident in your abilities. I can’t say I’m not curious.”

“Oh, the confidence is warranted, trust me. You’ve… trusted me before, haven’t you? Have I given you a reason to regret it?"

Eve smiles weakly as she thinks back to the night he first asked to feed on her.

Could you trust me… a little further?

Her mind remains blissfully silent and she can actually, properly think about this. She knows Astarion is right—they could be dead tomorrow. And she can’t lie to herself that she hasn’t felt strangely drawn to him, wondering what it might feel like to–

The words spill from her lips before she can think of a reason to say no.

“I trust you. Come find me tonight.”

“Excellent,” he drawls, the edge of his lips curled up.

“And just so you know, you have set the expectations unreasonably high,” she laughs.

“Good. I don’t think your standards will ever be the same again. I’m afraid you will find any future lover an utter disappointment.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“OI!” Karlach’s voice echoes off the rocky ravine and they both turn to see her and Wyll waving at them from a distance. “Stop flirting and get over here! We have a shit show on our hands.”

“Ugh. Let’s hope it’s not another poor wretch that needs saving,” Astarion groans as they collect their belongings and start to head over.

But his hopes are shattered the moment they catch up to the rest of the group and notice a building in the distance, a thick column of smoke rising from its red tile roof.

“Come on, let’s get cracking!” Karlach orders as she starts heading in the direction of whatever misfortune has befallen the area.

“And this is our problem how, exactly?” Astarion scoffs, dragging behind.

“Astarion, if you are so allergic to altruism, perhaps you would rather go back to camp and help Gale with dinner?” Wyll asks sweetly.

Astarion just rolls his eyes in lieu of a response.

“Fire means dead bodies,” Eve says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Dead bodies mean loot. Does that help?”

At the mention of loot, Astarion’s ears perk up and he dons his signature smirk.

“Now, there’s an idea. I do love the way your mind works.”

“That makes one of us,” Eve mutters under her breath as she turns to follow Karlach.

The next hour passes in a blur of smoke and revelations. The woman they rescue from the burning inn seems to be someone important and she knows Wyll and his father, who was apparently captured by the drow and goblins who wreaked havoc in this place.

Ulder Ravengard. The name should mean something to Eve, as it does to the others. But instead, her mind is blank and she is once again reminded of how little she remembers of this world.

What matters is you know which arteries to slice. Nobility or not, they all bleed the same.

As Karlach and Astarion flood Wyll with questions about his upbringing, Eve detaches herself from the group and crouches beside one of the dead drow aggressors. She retrieves the skull-adorned amulet from her pack in hopes that she might get some information out of the corpse about the Duke’s whereabouts. Ready to cast the spell, she assesses the drow’s face, frozen in a final expression of horror, his long white hair stained with crimson–

Before she can utter the incantation, she is hit with a vision of Astarion’s face instead of the drow’s, his silvery locks covered in blood. Blood that she spilled. His eyes are two open wounds, his chest and stomach massacred in a repulsive recreation of what she did to Alfira.

Eve doesn’t register her mouth stretching into a wide grin as a wretched thought sprouts from the wasteland of her mind:

You can make it happen. He would be the prettiest corpse you’ve ever had.

She straightens up suddenly, the gory vision slipping away, leaving behind naught but the drow’s cold body. Her chest tightens as the words echo in her mind, petrifying, nauseating. What in the Hells does that me–

Eve shakes her head. Given the few glimpses she’s caught of her past, she figures that some questions are better left unanswered.

But the voice is incessant as it whispers:

Trust your instincts. It’s time to stop giving him your precious blood and spill his instead.

Shards of ice splinter in her stomach, her vision blurry as she turns the words in her mind over and over and—

Eve jumps when she feels a hand on her shoulder.

“Apologies,” Wyll says, a hint of concern in his eyes when she turns to face him. “I didn’t mean to scare you. We should start heading back now if we want to make it to camp before dusk falls... Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she replies a touch too hastily to sound genuine. She grabs her pack off the ground and swings it over one arm, nodding decidedly. “Let’s go.”

Eve turns and starts heading for the gate, every lively step helping to ease the tightness in her chest, if only slightly.

She doesn’t get far before Astarion catches up to her.

“My, my, why the rush?” he drawls, walking beside her. “You seem awfully eager to return to camp. Do you have any plans for the evening you’d hate to miss?”

Gods damn it, not now.

“I’m not feeling well,” she blurts out, picking up the pace.

Astarion makes a curious noise but doesn’t press the matter.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, Karlach gets bored and starts questioning Astarion about the logistics of the “invitation only” rule for vampires entering private property, presenting him with increasingly specific hypotheticals.

“Say if I’m renting—would you need an invitation from me or my landlord?”

Much to Eve’s relief, this line of questioning keeps Astarion occupied and away from her. Not to mention that it offers a much needed distraction from the mess of her mind.

“If you wanted to go into a stable, would you need to talk to the horse or the horse’s owner? It’s the horse’s house after all, isn’t it?”

When they finally make it to camp, they convene for dinner as Wyll catches the rest of the group up on all of today’s revelations. As they’re finishing up, Eve makes some poorly-veiled excuse and heads to her tent much earlier than usual.

Once inside, she buries her face in her hands and closes her eyes for just a moment–

The second she does that, the bloody visions flash before her, ever so vivid, and she groans in frustration as she opens her eyes.

She fetches the first book she can find and tries to occupy herself with it, but the words on the page melt into an incomprehensible mass of ink. It might as well be written in Celestial, for all she knows.

Eventually she tosses the tome aside and stares at the ceiling, failing to calm her racing heart.

She listens as the conversations outside slowly die down.

In the sole company of darkness and her fractured mind, Eve decides she can’t trust herself enough to go through with it. Being alone with Astarion away from everyone… It’s simply too risky.

If he comes to her first, she might not have the volition to decline him. She needs to tell him now, lest she gets any second thoughts with potentially lethal consequences.

It can’t happen.

Not for her.

With a heavy heart, she gets up and tries to remind herself that this is the right thing to do, all while wishing that she didn’t have to worry about what is right, but rather just what feels right.

As soon as she exits the tent, she bumps right into Astarion and loses her balance.

His hands immediately grasp at her waist to steady her, and she prays he did not notice how her heart skipped a beat at the contact. Though who is she kidding? He has supernatural senses and her chest is pressed up right against his. Gods, he really is so close, close enough for the sunny hints of bergamot to hit her nostrils, close enough to see the laugh lines around his lips and eyes despite the dim light–

“Not wasting any time, are we?” Astarion asks, his mouth curling up.

Focus.

Against every nerve in her body, Eve takes a step back, her skin already mourning the loss of his touch. She clears her throat, suddenly unsure of what to do with her hands.

“Hi,” she blurts out.

“Hello, darling,” Astarion says, clearly amused by her nervousness.

“How are you doing?”

“Is this your idea of foreplay?” he chuckles. “Trust me, there are more exciting ways to spend our time than exchanging pleasantries. On that note: I’ve found a lovely little spot out in the woods—perfect for two people who would like to… indulge in one another.”

There it is again: that sultry tone that makes her feel like he is undressing her with his voice alone. She wants nothing more than to take his hand and follow him, but instead she shifts uneasily, remembering her decision.

“Right, umm… about that. I… I don’t think we should do that, actually.”

Astarion suddenly drops all pretense, sounding genuinely dumbfounded when he says:

“Excuse me?!” He shakes his head and manages to compose himself slightly. “Well, this is a first. Are you feeling okay?” He presses his cool palm against her forehead as if checking for a fever. “Is this early ceremorphosis or have you finally lost your mind?”

“I’m fine,” she says, swatting his hand away. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea, given…”

But the words catch in her throat when she realizes she isn’t ready to explain it all to him yet. Astarion looks at her inquisitively, and Eve sighs, before finally deciding:

“Look, it’s not because of anything you did. I meant what I said earlier today, I just– Can you please not take it personally?”

Astarion seems to have regained his footing because he leans in and says in that familiar, low tone:

“Listen, you don’t have to explain yourself. It’s your loss after all. Just so you know, you will come crawling back and I will greatly enjoy watching you when you do.”

Eve lets out a frustrated groan and says:

“Fine. Just. Are we…” She clears her throat and continues in a softer voice: “Are we okay?”

Astarion’s eyes widen and he gestures vaguely around them.

“Darling, we sleep on the ground and have mindflayer parasites in our heads. ‘Okay’ is probably the last word I would use to describe our circumstances.”

“Yes, thank you for the recap. I meant: are things okay between the two of us?”

Astarion scoffs and Eve tenses at the sound, bemoaning the turn the evening has taken.

“Why? Are you worried that I will resent you for not wanting to sleep with me? Is that the kind of person you take me to be?”

“No, I just–” She stutters, wishing she could just tell him the truth, but the words don’t come. “I don’t know.”

“Let me know once you do.”

And then it looks like he might say more, but instead, Astarion shakes his head and bids her goodnight before heading for his tent.

“Wait,” Eve blurts out and it makes him stop in his tracks, turning half-way to look at her. “You can still drink my blood if you would like. This doesn’t change anything.”

Astarion seems to consider this for a moment, his expression indecipherable in the dim firelight. His tone is detached when he finally responds:

“That’s sweet. But I’m not really hungry.”

“We both know that’s not true,” she insists.

Astarion chuckles dryly before continuing the walk towards his tent.

“That we do. Goodnight, dear.”

Eve slumps as she stares at the fabric of the tent falling shut behind him, before the familiar, wicked voice snaps her out of it:

Missed opportunity. But there will be other ones.

The visions of Astarion’s mangled body come back to haunt her and Eve knows she won’t be able to fall asleep any time soon, so she heads to retrieve some logs to keep the campfire going.

The voice eventually quiets down, but as Eve keeps watch, she tries and fails to push away thoughts of a much different nature—of the arms that would have held her, of how soft his hair would have felt under her touch.

But her broken mind seems to have a different definition of carnal pleasures, and Eve resigns herself to a solitary night of wondering what could have been, had there not been something deeply, fundamentally wrong with her.

Over the next couple of days, Eve’s mind had blissfully quieted down and she began to wonder, rather selfishly, whether what she denied herself might actually be possible. It was foolish, she knew, but be that as it may, there was not much she could do about the pull she was feeling towards Astarion, about the way her heartbeat quickened in his presence.

As she predicted, Astarion was unable to not take it personally and he suddenly seemed very cautious, as if he didn’t really know how to act around her. It’s like he couldn’t quite comprehend how she could be both attracted to him and choosing not to sleep with him, the elements of the puzzle not adding up to a cohesive whole.

Eve tried her best to act normal, or as normal as someone of her proclivities could reasonably be. She strove to show him that she still valued his company, that she meant it when she said her decision was not about anything he had done.

They were just two people who were both acutely aware of their mutual attraction and determined not to do anything about it. That seemed like the responsible thing to do. And definitely sustainable in the long run. Right?

And so they engaged in this awkward dance around each other, neither of them willing to bring up the obviously touchy subject. At some point, Eve had begun to lose hope that things would ever be the way they had been before.

Until one night when Astarion came to her with another proposition, albeit much more innocuous.

The camp is quiet save the distant chirp of crickets and the crackling of the fire. Everyone has retired to their tents, readying themselves for another day of chaos—everyone except for Eve, who, for the last two hours, has been fighting an unfair battle against her own hair, and she is done. She spent the better part of that time picking out pieces of goblin brain from it, and now, when it is washed and finally dry, she can still smell that heavy, metallic scent of blood. She snaps a twig off a nearby bush and is trying to get it to hold her hair up in a bun, when she hears a familiar voice.

“So this is what you do when you volunteer to keep watch? I feel safer already.”

“What?” She turns towards Astarion, hands in her hair, trying desperately to pin it in place. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Try to contain your excitement.”

“Sorry, I’m just–” she stops, pretty sure she finally got it right, but then her hair falls over her shoulders again. “Gods damn it!” She yanks the twig out and tosses it into the underbrush.

“This is quite painful to watch,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Would you please let me help you?”

“What exactly do you mean by helping me?”

“Well, what exactly are you trying to achieve?”

“I just want my damn hair to not stick to my face all the time and not smell like goblin insides,” she huffs.

“Get up.”

“What?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Would you please do me the honor of getting up?” he rephrases, his tone theatrically proper. He walks up and reaches his hand out to her, bowing.

Eve rolls her eyes, attempting to draw attention away from the flush in her cheeks as his cold hand closes around hers. Astarion helps her up and gestures towards the campfire.

“After you.”

She walks over, unsure of what to think, wondering if this is one of his little games, and trying to decide whether she would mind that. Astarion heads into his tent to grab a small ornamental rug, then places it in front of one of the logs by the campfire.

“It’s not exactly luxurious, but I suppose this is the best we can do, given the circumstances.”

He sits on the log, looking at her expectantly.

“Well?”

Eve settles on the rug hesitantly, her back towards him. She suddenly becomes very aware of his legs on either side of her body and she finds this position oddly vulnerable, dreading the possibility of any of their companions getting out of their tents and seeing the two of them like this.

“I don’t see any goblin brains left. You did quite well on that front.”

“Why, thank you.”

Astarion gives her hair a hesitant stroke, then halts.

“Is this alright?” he asks and it catches her off-guard.

“Yes?”

“I would rather make sure,” he says, his tone surprisingly earnest.

Why is this man, sometimes outright insufferable in his flirtatiousness, who manages to turn nearly everything into an innuendo, suddenly so careful about touching her? Eve considers asking him, but then bites her tongue and chalks it up to the recent shift in the energy between them.

Astarion clears his throat, sounding almost embarrassed, and continues to comb through her hair with his fingers, his movements gentle, almost caring. Eve fails to remember the last time anyone touched her like this.

“Hm.”

“What?”

“So much wasted potential,” he sighs.

“Excuse me?” she asks, turning to face him.

“See, the color is fabulous and your hair has a nice thickness to it, but you choose to leave it at the mercy of the elements and then you’re surprised when it collects all sorts of grime. And it always seems to get in your face when you fight. It’s neither practical nor beautiful, but it could easily be both if you just showed it enough care.”

Eve can’t tell if she’s supposed to feel offended or flattered. She waits for the snide punchline, but it does not come. She shifts uneasily in her seat, trying not to think too much about Astarion staring at her hair mid-combat.

“Alright, so what do you suggest?”

“Well, I’ve always been partial to a braid or two. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You said it smelled of goblin brain?”

“I did.”

She hears Astarion shift in his seat and inhale deeply.

“Did you just sniff me?” she asks, her cheeks burning hot.

“Yes.”

“Um, okay. And?”

“It’s not that bad.”

She can’t help but laugh.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s not great, but I have something that might help. Hold on.”

He gets up and heads into his tent. Eve’s gaze follows him there, eyes gliding over his form, and she smiles softly when she sees the points of his ears peeking out from the carefully orchestrated disarray of silver curls. Once he emerges from the tent, he meets her eyes and smirks. Her stomach flutters and she turns away, suddenly very focused on the fire.

Astarion returns to his seat behind her and places something on the ground. Eve turns to see a small, unmarked bottle and an ivory comb with intricate floral carvings on the handle. She picks up the comb, cool to the touch, and holds it up to the fire to admire the design.

“Where did you get this?”

“I snatched it from Kagha’s room.”

Eve turns towards him, wide-eyed.

“You did what? When?”

“Well, we’ve only been there once, haven’t we? So it must have been more or less when she was threatening that tiefling girl with a viper… Oh, don’t look at me like that! I knew you were going to handle it, I didn’t feel the need to get involved. So, I was just looking around and, while everyone was distracted with a child in mortal peril, I helped myself to this pretty little thing.”

“You’re unbelievable,” she says, shaking her head and turning back towards the fire.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Like a magpie, you just see a shiny thing and you can’t help yourself.”

“Again, thank you. I like to surround myself with beauty. It makes sleeping on the ground just a tad more bearable.”

“And what’s in the bottle?”

“A little concoction I crafted to hide my… condition. A mixture of bergamot, rosemary, and a hint of aged brandy. The perfect olfactory disguise for a corpse. It can certainly help with the smell of goblin viscera, plus rosemary oil can do wonders to your hair. But enough talking.” He reaches for the comb. “Shall we?”

"Go ahead.”

He catches her hair mid-length and starts working on the ends with the comb. Despite the many knots she knows must be there, it seems that he tries his best not to snag at her hair, to cause her the least discomfort possible. Once he is done with the ends, he runs the comb through the whole length, massaging her scalp. They don’t speak and she focuses on the sensation, eyes fixed on the fire.

Eventually, Astarion puts the comb away and reaches for the bottle. As the cork pops off, the familiar scent fills her nostrils. It is unmistakably his, the scent she first smelled that day after the nautiloid crash, when he put a dagger to her throat. He dabs a tiny bit onto his fingers and works it into her scalp, and she can’t help but think about the implications of her hair smelling like him. Would the other companions notice? Would Shadowheart smell it as she tended to Eve’s wounds after a battle? What would she make of it? She doubts anyone would be surprised, seeing as Astarion was so blatant in his efforts of seduction, so unabashedly convinced she would say yes. Admittedly, there is not much to gossip about at camp and she is almost certain people have already assumed that the two of them had slept together.

She decides that’s a problem for another time and she focuses on the feeling of his fingers against her scalp, gentle yet focused. She relishes the unfamiliar sensation of being cared for, pampered even, and she does not notice the moment her eyelids flutter shut, her head falling to the side to rest against his thigh.

“Are you about to start purring?”

Eve’s eyes snap open and she sits up, moving away from him hastily as if his touch burned.

“Sorry, I–”

“No need to apologize, dear, I tend to have that effect on people. Just try not to think about all the bliss these fingers could bring you.”

That familiar silky tone makes Eve’s stomach tighten, heat rising to her cheeks, and for a moment she considers letting her guard down, a flirty response forming at the tip of her tongue. But then she remembers why she said no to Astarion’s advances in the first place.

Why this can never happen.

She contemplates getting up and leaving, cutting this short, but her legs don’t seem to follow as she remains seated in front of him. Though the pragmatic side of her is determined to decline him, the reckless, selfish part just wants to enjoy this. And truth be told, her pragmatic side rarely won these disputes.

This is harmless, she tells herself and almost believes it.

She scoffs, rolling her shoulders back, and Astarion takes it as an invitation to resume his work.

“You are aware that if you tell someone not to think about something, you make them think about it, right? Just so we’re clear.”

“Oh really?” he gasps, voice dripping with self-contentment. “How inconvenient for you then. I’m sorry dear, I had no idea”

“Of course you didn’t,” she says with a smile. “Your confidence is quite enviable, you know.”

“How so?” he asks, amused, as he reaches for the comb.

“It seems you’re under the impression that anyone in their right mind would want to sleep with you the first chance they get.”

Astarion chuckles as he parts her hair down the middle and begins to braid one side.

“It’s not an impression, darling, it’s the truth. With centuries of experience to back it up.”

His tone is light, but there is a tinge of bitterness to his words and Eve realizes that he’s not bragging—he’s admitting something he’d rather not be true.

“I see. Well, we have talked about this.”

“Oh, I know, and I respect your decision, however baffling it is. But that doesn’t mean I can’t… entertain the idea from time to time, hm?”

“Right.” She nods, warmth spreading down her chest to her stomach. “So, do you entertain that idea often?”

“A gentleman never tells,” he responds as he finishes the braid and ties it off, the ends brushing softly against Eve’s shoulders. He moves to the other side, gently tugging on her hair.

“It’s quite bold of you to call yourself a gentleman. Bold, or just delusional.”

“You hurt me, dear,” he gasps. “What did I ever do that made you think of me otherwise?”

“The list is quite long.”

“We have time.”

“For one, you snuck up on me in the middle of the night to bite me.”

“Touché. Not my proudest moment.”

“Not sure why you thought having teeth in my neck wouldn’t wake me up. But alright. Let’s see… you also ambushed me and threatened me with a dagger.”

“I did apologize for that one.”

“Oh, and you also insisted on opening the door to that godsdamned barn and now that image will forever be burned into my memory.”

“Don’t pretend that wasn’t funny, though.”

“Yes, all of these encounters were quite exhilarating. It’s impossible to be bored when you’re around, I’ll give you that.”

“The feeling is mutual,” he responds, and suddenly Eve is not sure if it is an innocuous comment or a more earnest admission. His words settle heavily in the pit of her stomach, but before she can overthink them, Astarion ties off the braid and declares:

“I think we’re done.”

Eve reaches up, her fingers tracing the weave of the braid, trying to decipher its shape. It feels taut, but not uncomfortably so.

“Look at me,” he says and she turns to face him. He assesses the hairstyle, cocking his head. “Come.”

Eve follows him towards the outside of his tent, where an ornate mirror rests on top of a small table. He guides her to stand with her back towards it, then hands her a small mirror, the same one she saw him stare into just a few nights ago. An odd thought occurs to her and she voices it before catching herself:

“Why do you have so many mirrors lying about?”

It’s an obvious question, but one she doubts has a simple answer. Eve assumes the others might see it as Astarion trying to uphold a certain image of himself, one of confidence and vanity, even if the mirrors are just useless props to him. But she knows it must mean more.

There was an undeniable sense of longing to him that night when she saw him looking into the mirror, when he confessed to her that he did not recall what his face looked like before it grew fangs and his eyes turned red. He asked her to be his mirror then and it was one of the first times she felt she was actually seeing the real him.

While she has never cared much about her reflection, she cannot imagine being unable to see it. As indifferent as she was about the face staring back at her, she did appreciate being able to confirm that she was still herself, that despite all of the chaos in her mind, there was a sense of physical continuity that grounded her. She reckons that not being able to do this would be hard for just about anyone, but perhaps especially for a man of Astarion’s background.

She has heard stories about high elves and their complicated self-care rituals, how they could spend hours tending to their appearance. On multiple evenings now, she has seen Astarion mend the elaborate embroidery on his clothes, something that the others might have deemed as vain and impractical, but that was so obviously important to him, so imperative to him remaining himself throughout all this madness. She wonders if that’s partially why he misses his reflection so much, how he can no longer see the result of all these efforts.

But of course, why would she expect a real answer?

“I like to intimidate my interlocutors,” he says, not skipping a beat, as if he had a practiced response at the ready. “Whoever approaches my tent must first be met with their own reflection, before seeing all this.” He gestures theatrically to his body. “It tends to bring people down a peg.”

“Sure,” Eve says with a hesitant smile. She has come to accept that the scarce moments of Astarion’s genuineness never come up as requested, always catching her off guard instead.

“In all honesty though,” he begins, and her stomach dips at the prospect of learning something real about him. “I have changed so much these past few tendays. I can walk in the sun, wade through rivers, enter homes uninvited…” he trails off, gaze fixed on something far beyond her. “I wonder if maybe one of these days, as I walk back to my tent, I might catch my reflection. Who knows what the tadpole has in store for me?”

He chuckles at the end there, but it is a solemn sort of laugh, one that does not hide whatever longing is raking his undead heart.

Eve thinks about all he has lost. All he has gained. How the parasite, a source of great distress to their companions, has been nothing but liberating for him. They were so hell-bent on finding a cure, but who knows where that would leave him?

“Now, will you please admire my work?” he asks impatiently, tilting the mirror in her hand so she can see the back of her head.

It is neatly parted down the middle, two braids at either side finishing off in short ponytails. She touches it again, not sure if her hair was ever this contained, this deliberate.

“You should see it from the front,” he says, taking the small mirror away and guiding her towards the large one resting on the table.

Her reflection startles her. Eve is not sure when she last saw her face so clearly, not distorted in a river or puddle, all its imperfections clearly visible. She takes a step forward, taking in each and every one of her freckles, the scar running down the side of her face, the faint tattoo of a dagger lining her throat.

There is something unsettling in her reflection, something bare and shameless. For a brief moment, she sees her lips twist into a grin, and it’s as if the part of her she had longed to keep hidden, the part that relished the feeling of the bard’s warm blood trickling down her arms, is staring straight at her. It lasts a mere moment and she can’t tell if she had imagined it or not.

“I–” she stutters, taking a step back. “My face seems so bare now,” is all she manages to say and it is not a lie as much as it is not the whole truth. “I’m not sure I like it that way.”

“Well, you’re objectively wrong,” he scoffs, and the closeness of his voice startles her. She glances back and sees Astarion standing right behind her, but in the mirror it’s just her reflection staring back. “But, if it makes you feel better, you could always do this.”

He reaches his hand around her head and gently pulls out a strand of hair from each of the braids. Eve observes the reflection in silence, mesmerized as her hair seems to magically free itself, falling to frame her face. She likes the look of it—neat, but not too proper.

“That should help,” he continues. “But if it bothers you at any point, you could always tuck it behind your ear.”

Astarion hesitates for a moment, but then reaches out to do just that. It’s such a light touch, his fingertips grazing the shell of her ear for a mere second, but it still feels like an electric current sparking down her chest, lighting up every inch of her skin.

It strikes her then that there is no getting over him. And as much as she tried to ignore her attraction to Astarion, it only seemed to intensify.

“Like that.” His soft voice brings her back down to the Material Plane.

She turns to face him then, her chest tightening when she finds him standing closer than expected.

“Thank you, I– I appreciate this.”

“You are very welcome,” he says, taking a step back. “I prefer it when my allies can see whom they’re punching. Plus, it will make drinking from you that much easier, not having your hair stick to my face.”

“Sure, sure,” she chuckles. “Gods forbid you do a nice thing just for the sake of being nice.”

“Exactly, that doesn’t sound like me.”

“Well, thank you again.” And then, before she can do something foolish: “Goodnight, Astarion.”

She turns and starts heading towards her tent.

“Eve–”

Her name sounds so odd coming from his mouth that she can’t tell if he has ever uttered it before, usually opting for some unfoundedly affectionate pet name instead.

She stops and turns back to face him. Astarion opens his mouth and if Eve didn’t know any better she would swear it looked like he was about to tell her something important. But instead he clears his throat and says:

“Just try not to mess it up. It should hold for about two days if you don’t do anything too extreme. Goodnight.”

Astarion turns around and goes into his tent. Eve’s eyes follow his movement and a hint of disappointment sinks into her chest when he doesn’t turn to look at her again.

Two nights later, as Eve is distilling some potions of speed, Astarion approaches her, comb in hand.

“Darling, the state of your hair leaves a lot to be desired.”

She rolls her eyes and goes to sit in the same spot as last time, waiting for him to follow.

“You know, I could do this myself if you showed me how,” she says once he’s settled behind her. Not because she would actually prefer to do it herself, but because she is curious about his response. “I’m sure you have better things to do with your time.”

“Ha! Fishing for compliments, are we now?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Eve replies, shifting uneasily in her seat. She’s not sure what response she was expecting, but certainly not this.

“Oh, please. You’re waiting for me to tell you how much I enjoy your company, how I look forward to this brief shared moment with you, how the rush of ecstasy when my dagger stops a beating heart is nothing compared to the feel of your hair slipping through my fingers?” There it is: his theatrical cadence that she knows all too well. She bids farewell to the hope of any genuine revelation from him.

“That’s not what I–”

“I thought I made it abundantly clear that I am fond of your company. If you’re concerned that this is part of some ploy to bed you, rest assured that I can tell where I’m not wanted. Now, do you have any more asinine comments to make, or can I get to work?”

Eve tenses at his words. It’s not that he is not wanted. She considers telling him the truth about that night, revealing more than she ever has, but she decides it might not be the best moment. Instead, she just replies:

“No, that’s all.”

“Wonderful,” he replies, as his fingers start guiding the comb.

It becomes an odd sort of routine, but not an unwelcome one.

The tieflings sure know how to party. Whether it’s their general disposition or just the elation that comes with escaping the inescapable. The sheer joy of surviving another day when all the cards were dealt against you.

Either way, there is not a sober soul in sight. Eve is caught in a whirlwind of hugs, toasts, and dancing, and she is high on this victory, high on people calling her a hero—it’s not a word she would ever use for herself, but she doesn’t mind playing the part, indulging in the fantasy for one night.

Her mind is currently free of the insidious voice, and it feels like she finally proved it wrong. She can be good. She has a choice.

The alcohol is flowing, the music is captivating, and everyone’s inhibitions are lowering by the minute. Even Lae’zel, who initially ignored everyone and proceeded to sharpen her sword (be it out of duty or an attempt to drown out the music with the piercing sound of her grindstone,) was eventually convinced to join the festivities. A couple drinks in, she managed to drag Wyll onto the dancefloor despite his earlier sullen demeanor, and later challenged Halsin to an arm-wrestling match, which gathered quite the audience despite the current stalemate.

The only person who’s missing the frey is Astarion, who watches everyone from a distance, drinking wine by himself in front of his tent. Eve keeps feeling his eyes on her as she meanders through the crowd, realizing she doesn’t exactly mind it.

Quite the opposite, actually.

She is sitting at a makeshift table with Karlach, who pours them another round of beers and looks out onto the colorful crowd with a wide smile on her face.

“We did one Hell of a good job, mate.”

She goes to pat Eve on the back but stops midway, groaning in frustration as she takes her hand away.

“Fuck, sorry. I forget sometimes.” She runs her fingers through her hair and says: “Ahh, we are celebrating, I should be able to hug you all, I should be able to…”

“I’m sorry, Karlach,” Eve says, unsure of how to comfort her.

She takes another sip and watches as Karlach stares off into the middle distance, as if contemplating something. Eventually she turns to Eve and says:

“Do you think Gale could teach me how to cast Mage Hand before the night is over? You know, to help a girl out.”

Eve spits her drink out as she laughs, Karlach joining in.

“What? I’m serious!”

Eve clears her throat and wipes the beer off her chin.

“Oh I know you are and I totally get it. You should definitely ask him, even if just to see his reaction.”

“Oh my gods, I bet he would be so cute about it!” She straightens in her seat and dons a serious expression, lowering her voice to impersonate the wizard: “Why Karlach, I thought you’d never ask! May I inquire why the sudden interest in handling the Weave?” In her regular voice, she adds: “He would turn red in an instant, the poor bloke.” She sighs before taking another sip. “Well, at least one of us is getting some action tonight. Good for you, soldier.”

Eve stares at her blankly for a moment.

“What are you talking about?”

Karlach mirrors her gaze, looking genuinely dumbfounded by the question.

“That brooding prick over there!” she exclaims way too loudly as she points towards Astarion’s tent. “Who else? You two are not exactly subtle about it!”

Eve locks eyes with Astarion across camp and a flush blooms on her face the moment his lips turn up into that stupid, smug smirk.

“Gods damn it, stop yelling!” she pleads, shifting in her seat so she doesn’t have to look at him. In a hushed tone she adds: “We’re not sleeping together.”

“But–” Karlach’s eyes widen as she points to Eve’s neck. “But your neck is always bruised. You’re telling me he drinks your blood every night–”

“It’s not every night…”

“Eve, be for fucking real. It’s most nights.”

“Yeah, okay.” Eve shrugs, resigned. “It’s most nights.”

“And I’m supposed to believe nothing ever happens? I thought that was the whole point of the biting, that it was some weird fetish thing–”

“It’s not some weird fetish thing,” Eve insists, feeling her face grow even hotter. “It’s literally just food for him. There’s nothing sexual about it.”

But Karlach just throws her head back in laughter.

“Sounds like you’re in denial, babe. He is biting your neck, not your bloody elbow! That’s erotic as fuck.”

“Oh gods,” Eve sighs as she buries her face in her hands.

“So do you do it sitting up or lying down or what?”

“Well, the first time he sort of awkwardly hovered over me,” Eve says, gesturing vaguely. “But now usually I sit up and he sits behind me.”

“Oh, so he’s all up in there.”

“All up in where?!”

“Your space. You’re, like, pressed against each other and he’s biting your neck. And you’re telling me that’s not sexy? Snap out of it, mate.”

Eve takes a significant gulp of her drink so she doesn’t have to respond. But Karlach is relentless when she asks:

“So, what does it feel like?”

“Huh?”

“The bite. What does it feel like?”

“Well, it’s this sharp sting at first and then it’s sort of numb and… cool and…” She waves her hand, struggling to find the right words. “Almost pleasant.”

“Almost pleasant. Mhm.” Karlach pauses for a moment, then adds: “Does it get you all hot and bothered?”

Eve’s face gets even hotter, though she’s not sure how that’s possible.

“Wha– I–” she stutters and curses herself for it.

“HA! It does, it totally fucking does. I told ya.”

“Gods, fine. Yes, it does feel good, but I don’t do it to feel good, I do it to–”

“Yeah I know, you do it to help him out. I’m not doubting that, I’m really not! But it’s not wrong to enjoy it while you’re at it. What are you, Ilmater? You’re allowed to have some fun, for fuck’s sake.”

Eve stares at her for a moment, considering her words.

“What? Oh, come on! If not for this infernal piece of junk,” she says, fist pounding at her chest, “I would happily ride that man to the Feywild and back. He’s fine as all Hells. And you’re obviously into each other—who are you kidding?”

“Fine, yes, he is really hot.” Tongue loosened with ale, she just keeps going: “And funny. And smart. And thoughtful when he wants to be.”

“Oh.” Karlach’s eyes widen as she puts her hands up, and Eve realizes she said too much. “Oh girl. So you like him.”

“Well, yeah, I like all of you…” Eve says, unconvincingly.

“No, I mean you like like him.”

“Whatever.” She waves her hand dismissively. “I think you’re reading into it too much.”

“And I think you should stop being so godsdamn stubborn and just go talk to him. Come on, live a little! I’m not saying you have to marry the guy but at least see what that mouth can do, other than whine all the time.”

A loud cheer erupts from the crowd gathered around Lae’zel and Halsin, though from her position, Eve can’t see who is winning.

“Look,” Karlach continues. “All teasing aside, I know you’re not this clueless. I know you know you like him, and we don’t have to talk about it anymore, but I just thought… Well, this might be all new to you, what with your memory stuff and all that, but trust me, there is nothing bad or shameful about feeling this way. It’s perfectly normal! Liking someone is so much fun actually, just allow yourself to feel it!”

A weak voice from the back of Eve’s mind chimes in—not the blood-dripping one, but rather, the closest thing she has to a conscience.

Not shameful, no—just wrong. Selfish and dangerous to let anyone get too close to you when you’re–

But it gets drowned out by the pleasant buzz of alcohol, by the music and merriment around her, by the weight of Astarion’s gaze still piercing holes into her skin.

Maybe it doesn’t have to be this complicated?

“You’re right, I’ll talk to him. Can you just top me off first?” Eve asks, nodding to the wooden keg behind Karlach.

“Nah, mate. I think you might wanna start sobering up for this.”

Eve groans and stands up, leaving the mug on the table.

“I guess. Thanks for the pep talk.”

“Hey, you can always talk to Mama K. Now quit stalling!”

Eve leaves hesitantly and tries to make conversation with some tieflings on the way, but eventually she gives up the charade and just heads straight to Astarion.

With every step she takes, she feels the weight of his gaze, its intensity akin to that of a predator stalking its prey. But that doesn’t seem quite right, does it? Not when she comes to him so willingly, against her better instincts. Not when she is… well, herself.

Seeking relief from his piercing eyes, she looks down at the ruffles around his collar, at the deep cut of his neckline, never tied correctly, revealing way too much of his pale chest and she wonders how cold it would feel against her heated skin if they–

“My eyes are up here,” Astarion says, not without amusement, and the proximity of his voice snaps Eve out of her thoughts.

She shuffles awkwardly, taking half a step back once she realizes how close she’s standing.

“The lacing on your shirt is all messed up.” She points to his neckline, trying to distract from her not-so-subtle gawking. But Astarion doesn’t take the bait, eyes not leaving hers for a second when he asks:

“And that bothers you because…?”

“It doesn’t. It just seems like something that would bother you, but you might not be aware of it since…” She bites her tongue, the unspoken words hanging between them.

Since you can’t see your reflection.

“Here, let me,” she rushes to fill the silence and to her own surprise, steps up to reach for the leather laces.

Astarion flinches ever so noticeably the moment her fingers brush against his skin as she pulls the string out of the eyelets. But then he rolls his shoulders back, a familiar smirk blooming on his lips when he says:

“Any excuse to get your hands on me, I see.”

“Glad I could inflate your ego. You don’t do it nearly enough yourself.”

Eve takes her time as she threads the laces anew, making sure it’s all symmetrical, as Astarion watches her every move in silence. Her heart is pounding, his scent filling her nostrils, that godsdamned scent that has become hers, too, ever since he showed her how to care for her hair and gave her a spare bottle of the scented oils he always carried. The combination is alluring but strangely comforting, one she would not mind waking up to every–

Oh girl. So you like him.

“There, that’s better,” she says, taking a step back, and she is both relieved and disappointed by the distance that creates between them. Desperate to change the subject, she asks: “So, why are you sulking over here in the corner instead of joining the party? Is it not up to your standards, Magistrate Astarion?”

Astarion scoffs, but there is no real edge to it.

“It’s Magistrate Ancunín, actually. Or, was.”

“Ancunín,” Eve repeats, enjoying how the word rolls off her tongue. “All this time traveling together and I finally learn your last name. Maybe in three months I’ll know your favorite color.”

Astarion chuckles in a way he rarely does—every time Eve takes it as a small victory.

“Don’t get greedy.”

“So, can I convince you to join the party?” she asks, hoping he will say no. She’d much rather stay right here.

“I suppose it’s not much of a party, is it? Just a couple of hellspawn drunkenly twirling about, and all they have to serve is this vinegar.”

He raises the bottle in his hand with a scowl, and without much thinking, Eve grabs it from him.

“Excuse you–” he drawls with feigned offense, but makes no effort to stop her.

They lock eyes as Eve brings the bottle up to her lips and takes a sip. She lets her eyelids flutter shut, enjoying how the rich vintage blossoms on her tongue.

“The wine is fine,” she declares, placing the bottle on the small table that houses all of Astarion’s mirrors. “I think you just like to complain.”

“Well, I think no one here knows how to have fun.”

“And you do? It doesn’t look like it.”

“Fun can take on many forms, darling. This,” he says, gesturing to the drunken crowd behind her, “is just not my… personal preference.”

“And what is?” she asks, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible—an increasingly difficult endeavor.

“Well, sex, for one. A night of passion. Alas, the only person I would deem suitable for the task has already indicated her lack of interest. And now she has decided to come over here and taunt me.”

An opening. A snap decision, before she can overthink it.

“You never know—people change their minds.”

Astarion’s eyes glint curiously in the low light as he leans closer.

“Interesting. Have you? Changed your mind, that is.”

“I might…” Words spill out of her before she thinks them through: “If you say please.”

Bleeding Hells, I did not just say that outloud.

Astarion’s eyes widen with a delightful mixture of shock and amusement.

“What?” he drawls, voice hushed.

Well, there is no backing out now, is there?

“You heard me,” she says, crossing her arms for emphasis.

“I should say please?” He puts his hand to his still heart. “You’re the one crawling back just like I predicted.”

“Fine.” Eve shrugs, her lips turning up in what she hopes to be an easygoing smile.

Against every nerve in her body, she turns on her heel and starts to walk away. It only takes two steps before she hears Astarion’s voice from behind her:

“Please.”

Heat rushes to her cheeks, but then she takes a deep breath and tries to remain calm when she turns and looks him up and down.

“Good boy. I’ll see you later.”

Astarion laughs, a rare genuineness to it.

“Cheeky,” he says, the word near-sinful coming from his lips. “There is a clearing in the woods just five minutes north from here. Come find me there once the party dies down.”

“I might,” Eve says, but her attempt at nonchalance is instantly foiled by Astarion’s insistence:

“You will.”

“Fine, I will,” she blurts out. “BYE NOW.”

Astarion chuckles and says:

“See you later… lover.”

Eve walks away hastily, a part of her wanting to giggle with glee, the other horrified by the consequences of her actions. To keep herself from overthinking the whole affair, she heads to the sizeable crowd and pushes through to the front row of the arm-wrestling match that is still in full swing.

In the low light, Eve can see the faintest glint of sweat on Halsin’s forehead, while Lae’zel, half his size, seems thoroughly unbothered, her eyes narrowed in determination. Eve follows the firm lines of their flexing muscles up to their clenched fists that remain firmly above the center of the table.

“They’ve been like this for the past half hour,” Guex whispers to her, his eyes wide with awe.

“Perhaps it would be wise to acknowledge both of our strengths and proclaim this a draw,” Halsin suggests in his usual calm tone, though Eve senses it is taking him considerable effort to keep his voice steady.

“I didn’t take you for a coward, druid,” Lae’zel says through gritted teeth. “I don’t do draws,” she spits the last word out as if it were the most heinous insult. “I win. Or I die.”

“Well, that seems awfully dramatic,” Halsin says, a hint of a smile on his face that is otherwise tense with effort. “But I respect it.”

Eventually Halsin’s grip falters for a split second and Lae’zel doesn’t hesitate. Their fists slam against the table as the crowd erupts with applause.

“You bested me, Lae’zel of Crèche K’liir,” Halsin admits solemnly as he bows before the woman in question. Through the curtain of brown hair that falls around his face, Eve sees a flash of a smirk and suspects that Halsin just wanted to be done.

The crowd disperses, and Eve gets dragged out onto the dancefloor by Zevlor of all people, who looks relaxed for the first time since they’ve met him. To a collective delight, Gale and Rolan join forces and paint the sky with sparkling cascades of dancing lights.

In that moment, jumping to the music, magic glimmering above her, Eve senses this overwhelming gut feeling that everything might turn out alright.

In the crowd of people she helped, she doesn’t feel like an outlier, but rather, a part of something greater than herself. All this time she’d been worried about letting people get close to her, but maybe it is precisely because she has grown closer to them all that she has been able to fight her instincts and make her own decisions. Perhaps a solitary life is not the “responsible choice.” Perhaps what she needs is the exact opposite.

Eve follows Karlach’s advice and does not drink any further. She has some water and food and she feels herself sobering up as the party slowly begins to quiet down and Astarion disappears somewhere in the forest.

With this newly gained mental clarity comes a wave of second thoughts, and among them, a realization that she is not even sure if she’s ever had sex. Though if she had, she is grateful that she doesn’t remember the details, given the few gory glimpses she’s gotten into other aspects of her past life.

Would she even be good at it? Can you be bad at it? If she has done it before, will instincts and muscle memory just take over?

No, nothing taking over, no thank you.

She supposes that if all else fails, she can just make up for her lack of experience with enthusiasm.

Fuck, what was I thinking?!

Astarion certainly seems like he knows what he’s doing. Maybe she can just let him take the lead and hope she doesn’t embarrass herself.

Gods fucking damn it.

Eve takes a deep breath, the chilly evening air grounding as it fills her lungs.

It’s fine. It will be fine.

She doesn’t want to back out this time.

Thoughts of Astarion have been flooding her mind for longer than she cares to admit. And perhaps this is an opportunity to finally stop wondering what his chest would feel like pressed against her, what his fingers would feel like digging into her hips–

Surely she will sate her curiosity and then she will be able to focus on more important matters.

After all, they’re both adults. They could be dead tomorrow. That’s all there is to it. This doesn’t have to mean anything… right?

A single thought reverberates through her mind as she heads towards the treeline:

Just this once.

________________

thank you for reading! if you enjoyed, I have a whole series about these two, because as you might have guessed, it was not "just this once" :)

tag not-quite-list: @roguishcat 💕 (lmk if you'd like to be added!)

#my fic #astarion x durge #astarion x the dark urge #durgestarion #astarion fanfiction #bg3 fanfiction

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