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konigbabe · 1 year

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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 · 3 months

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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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makemeimmortalwithahug · 1 month

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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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morningberriesao3 · 2 months

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A THOUSAND FLOWERS COULD BLOOM

Eddie Munson X Steve Harrington

A Snippet for the Steddie Big Bang @steddiebang2024

A/N: Happy Sunday!! Here's another short snippet of the fic I'll be releasing in two short months! Mark September 23rd in your calendars if you want some classic morningberries angst, and a whole lotta smut, too. That's when chapter one will be released in all her glory.

I'll reblog this with an official posting schedule for all the chapters after, but the whole fic will be wrapped up by October 15th, meaning there'll be a new chapter every few days!!!

For now, here's Eddie pining because Steve is perfect and can do no wrong (yet)

Go to my AO3 to subscribe if you want to receive emails when I upload a new chapter.

The first time could have been a fluke, Eddie thinks. Seems even more outrageous that it's all happening again, that Steve could be into this, more than once, maybe even more than twice. That it might actually be real life and not just a fantasy that Eddie got to flesh out one time in a moment where emotions were high.

Saying goodbye is never easy, it could have been the only way Steve knew how all those months ago. Eddie wouldn't have held that over Steve's head—if things had changed, if they went back to normal.

But this isn't goodbye. Now isn't goodbye.

Maybe Steve could be like this to say hello, too. To say good morning, happy birthday, congratulations, I'm sorry, thank you.

Maybe Steve could just be like this.

It's almost as if Steve hears Eddie's thoughts, as if he can read them like fine print all over his face. He tugs on Eddie's restraints, pulls them back and back and back until they're looped behind his own neck. Until he and Eddie are nose to nose once more, so close that Eddie might melt and fuse there permanently.

"Eddie," Steve murmurs, lost in the air of the room. He brushes a stray curl from Eddie's forehead, tucks it behind his ear. "I tried to tell myself that I wouldn't—that I couldn't—do this again. I—I tried. But you live inside my mind, Eddie. You're here physically, yeah, but it's like you never left Hawkins, how much I think about you."

Eddie circles his hips, crams his lids shut because looking at the honesty in Steve's stare is too much. "Fuck, Steve."

The hand that fussed with Eddie's hair wraps gently around his neck instead, thumb burying inside the line of Eddie's jaw. The pressure wakes him up, makes him choke out a sound way too similar to a moan.

"But then I got thinking." Steve runs his lips over the same place his fingers are squeezing. They're soft as he speaks against Eddie's skin. "Why would I want that? Why would I not want to feel this way?"

Eddie tries to capture Steve's lips, because he can't physically restrain himself. He can't wait another second when Steve is speaking sweet words that sounds like he might want Eddie half as much as he wants Steve.

Those fingers tighten further, though. Stop Eddie in his tracks.

Steve must see the urgency written all over Eddie's face, because he grants him the tip of his tongue, slicks it over Eddie's lower lip. No doubt making it shine like it's glossed, like Eddie is all made up for his date with Steve.

He pulls back, smiles as if he likes what he sees.

"Damnit, Eddie. I'm... I'm confused all the time. All the fucking time, and this thing between us isn't helping." Fingers move from the straining tendons of Eddie's neck, pressure easing as they trail up his chin. To his spit-soaked lips. Curling inside, hooking over his bottom teeth, opening his jaw wide. "All I know is that it's impossible that it's a bad thing. Not when it feels so fucking right."

The noise Eddie makes might be one that he'll be embarrassed about later. Loud, garbled around Steve's thick fingers, the sound of spit bubbling in his mouth because he can't stop fucking salivating.

But right now, his mind is slipping off to somewhere else. Some paradise far away from his shitty one-bedroom, away from Indy, away from this country, this planet, this galaxy.

It settles in a universe where his soul and Steve's are intertwined. Not even that—to a universe where they were never separate in the first place. Always one being, destined to live and die together, to become a star that Eddie in this universe can see shining in the night sky. Can see speckled on Steve's skin. In his sparkly eyes.

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kai-malewife · 2 years

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A Lazy Saturday Morning

Alhaitham x gender neutral!reader

Summary: There is no better place to wake up than in his arms. Shrouded in his scent, intoxicated by his warmth, nothing feels more like home than your lover, Alhaitham.

Warnings: None, just sickingly sweet morning fluff with our favorite scribe <3

Cross-Posted on Ao3 @ Zhonglis_cake_saves_lifes

Link here!

Not too proud of this fic, might edit it later!

It is to the sound of lively twittering that you rouse from your peaceful slumber, stirred to consciousness by the carefree melody of the early morning birds. The sun had already risen, as warm, golden rays filter through the blinds, casting streaks of light across the room and onto your lover.

Alhaitham, sprawled out next to you on the bed, winces faintly in response to the fierce gleam prompting him to awake in turn. His hold on your waist tightens and he buries his nose in your neck, breathing in your scent in a feeble attempt to cling onto any last remnants of sleep.

‘’Mornin’.’’ Your hand glides through his silver locks, voice permeated with drowsiness.

It elicits a mellow hum from him, and before long, quiet snores fill the room once more, calm and steady.

You simply cannot resist marveling at the serene expression on his countenance; his typically puckered brows now relaxed, mouth slightly ajar, and porcelain skin tinted in the enchanting morning glow.

The hand which was previously stroking his hair leisurely trails down, its thumb and forefinger now delicately tracing the curve of his face, flesh smooth beneath deft fingertips. The vision bearer quivers briefly at the touch, nevertheless he does not withdraw from it.

For such a prominent figure in the Akademiya, Alhaitham was by no means a morning person. On the surface, one might expect him to be an early riser, up by the first glimmer of dawn to make the most out of his day, given that he valued his precious time above all else. Truth be told, however, reality was otherwise.

All those lazy mornings spent in one another's embrace spoke for themselves; laced with loving pecks pressed on your temple and tender, lingering caresses that never failed to set your skin ablaze, occasionally resulting in either of you almost turning up late for work.

Minutes pass with the Scribe snuggled up to you, chest expanding and contracting against your own at a regular pace. But who can blame him? It's Saturday morning, and there's nothing scheduled for the day.

While you wish to loll in the comfort of his muscular arms for a little longer, surely any sign of fatigue has already worn off, and merely lying here, wide awake, was growing rather irksome. Instead, you opt to roll out of bed and get started on breakfast, hoping to greet your beloved with a cup of steaming hot coffee once he awakens.

You struggle to extricate yourself as silently as humanly possible from the iron grasp enclosing you, eventually succeeding only after strenuous exertion. Yet, much to your surprise, no sooner do you set foot on the floor than something pulls you back onto the cushy mattress.

‘’Mm… Don’t go…’’ Alhaitham splays out on top of you, allowing his weight to press against your body, effectively restricting your movements as he grumbles in the shell of your ear, still half asleep.

This scenario was hardly foreign to you, having occurred countless times in the past. A wry smile tugs at your lips as you find yourself engulfed in the warmth of your partner.

‘’Haitham baby, you’re heavy.’’

‘’I know.’’

It earns him a meek jab on the shoulder, which in turn draws an amused chuckle from him, one that you feel reverberating in his chest along with yours. You heave a defeated sigh, like you always do, and yield to your fate; ensnared in his affectionate grip until he finally decrees that It’s time for his daily caffeine fix.

‘’You’re unbelievable.’’

‘’Love you too, honey.’’

And perhaps this is not so bad after all.

Azur irises lock onto yours as you plant a final, chaste kiss on his forehead. And so, lulled by the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat, an unexpected weariness resurfaces, gradually carrying you back to the land of dreams together with the one you love…

#alhaitham #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham fluff #genshin x reader #al haitham x reader #al haitham

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sgt-tombstone · 3 months

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About Me:

Hello! I'm Sgt Tombstone, you can call me Tomb or Tombstone! This is my CoD sideblog, my main is @chiron-crow (all likes/follows come from there)

I'm a fic writer (AO3 here), chronic researcher, and multishipper, so expect to see a variety of different ships on this blog. My main ship is Ghoap, but I also love Ghost/Price, Price/Gaz, Nik/Price, Soap/Gaz, Farah/Alex, Ghost/Roach, etc. If that’s an issue for you, the back button is in the top left corner.

As a disclaimer: I am not a member of the armed forces, nor do I support the armed forces, especially in today's political climate. I fully recognize the Call of Duty games as tools of propaganda. Please stay critical of the games and their messages and whatever you do, don't join the military (no matter how cool tiktok makes the military look).

That being said, I have been entranced by the gay military men and I know far more about both the UK and US armed forces than I truly wish to. My inbox is always open! If you have a question about the British Army, I probably either know the answer or know where to find it and I'd love to share! I'd also love to bounce fic ideas, headcanons, and other CoD ramblings back and forth. Please be respectful and patient, though; I'm a grad student, so I have lots of time constraints.

I hope you enjoy my blog but if you don't, the block button is free and far easier than dropping hate in my inbox. I'm here for fun and I'm far too old to engage in fandom bullshit. I don’t give a fuck if minors interact (fandom is for y’all too) but don’t blame me if you see something you don’t want to see. I am 18+ and I post/reblog explicit material. This is your first and only warning; I can and will block on sight and I highly recommend that everyone else curates their online space similarly.

Navigation:

#tombstone's epitaphs (all original posts)

#tombstone's silly hcs (self-explanatory)

#tombstone talks (asks, personal posts, etc)

#tombstone's ficlets (self-explanatory)

#tombstone’s skeleton fics (fic ideas that might get fleshed out later) (key word: might)

#i like queue alive (queued posts)

Writing References:

These will be updated periodically as I do research for my own fics.

General Military Info/References

Military Realism Info/References

Fic / OC Ask Games:

I always love talking about my fics, writing process, characters, etc! Feel free to drop by my inbox with prompts from any of these! Every answer will come with your preference of a kiss on the forehead, a loving head pat, an enthusiastic high-five, or an excited thumbs up.

Get to know the OC Asks

Details about OCs Asks

Whump OC Asks

OC/Writing Art Asks

Fanfic Writer Ask Game

Meet The Team!

I have a collection of OCs that make up an Air Force Pararescue Section of the 86th Rescue Squadron. You can find their info (introduction posts, tags, etc) here!

86th rqs

oc: dex flatline murtagh

oc: francis vulture boone

oc: cade narco knight

oc: anastasia babs edwards

oc: moses lego cabrera

oc: hhavoc

#call of duty #cod #about me #tombstone talks #tombstone's epitaphs

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nat-seal-well · 26 days

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sweet tooth

(or, less than 900 words of Nat/Ava. this might get posted to ao3 later.)

When Ava kisses her, Nat tastes rich. Not the kind that comes with living for as long as their kind does, but rich in all the ways that her second-in-command seems to revel in.

Ava tastes the cocoa of the cake Nat had at the cafe during their stake-out earlier, under the guise of coffee and lunch: cocoa, and the sweet cream filling between the sponge layers. She closes her eyes at the sensation of Nat’s lips slotting against hers, warm and soft, and recalls the way Nat had run her tongue over the silver fork; an action as innocent as it was impossible to look away from as she savored every bit of the dessert before her.

In all of their centuries together, Ava still cannot understand it, even as she tangles her hand in Nat’s hair to keep her close to chase the taste on her lover’s tongue. Food is wasted on them, and yet Nat still indulges anyway. She prefers sweet over savory, Ava has learned after countless observations, but has a penchant for baked goods, like the cake she ordered after an unneeded Cobb salad lunch.

He’s still there, she’d said, referring to the pawn shop across the street that their target had vanished into. We can’t very well leave until he does, can we? Besides, if we don’t get dessert, we’ll raise suspicion when we linger.

It was sound advice, even when Ava knew it was just because Nat wanted to satisfy a craving. She still insisted on being the one who paid the bill anyway, slamming down a handful of bills on the metal table when they had to go chasing after their target not even five minutes later. Nat had to leave her cake only half-finished, a fact that she was still mourning, even though they turned their zip-tied and subdued man over to the Agency two hours ago. Up until Ava kissed her, that is.

When they pull away, Ava takes a moment to relish the taste of the woman she pulled into her lap. She nuzzles at the underside of Nat’s jaw and traces the sharp edge with her nose. It makes Nat laugh. With them as close as they are, Ava can feel the sound as it washes over her.

“It’s unlike you to be so forward, Commanding Agent.” Nat purrs. She only likes to invoke Ava’s name when she wants to be flirtatious, a fact that does not go unnoticed.

Ava presses her lips in an open-mouthed kiss to Nat’s throat, and tastes the perfume there. “You were going on about how lunch ended; I only wanted to see if it was as good as you were making it out to be. I know how you are.”

Manicured nails undo the knot at the back of Ava’s head to comb through her hair. They scratch deliciously over her scalp. “Oh? And what’s your verdict on the flavor profile?”

“Delicious,” Ava responds, but it is not the cake she is thinking of.

“I didn’t take you for much of a sweet tooth,” Nat teases as she toys with the hair at the nape of Ava’s neck.

Ava turns her head to kiss the soft flesh at the inside of Nat’s elbow. “I am not, under normal circumstances. But you are always the exception.”

It is a truth too close to her heart—she cannot bring herself to make eye contact afterward, afraid of what this fragile hint of admittance might bring, but her concerns are chased away by a hand wandering down her side. It ghosts over her shirt, down one thigh, and comes to a halt only when Nat reaches the silver buckle of her own leather belt.

Of course, Nat does not linger on the implications of what Ava said. She smooths them over instead, the way she always does, and focuses on what she can expand on in order to keep Ava from running. Even when she knows what Nat is doing, she finds she is unable to do anything but freeze and wait for her orders.

“Well, then,” Nat says, low and for no one else in the world to hear but her. When Ava finally scrapes enough courage together to look up, Nat’s eyes are as dark as the cocoa in the cake they have both had the pleasure of enjoying. “If you’re still in the mood for something sweet…”

Pale fingers replace Nat’s own, and the metal buckle jingles as Ava allows her hands to lapse into motions that have been repeated so many times, they are nothing but muscle memory. This, she can face: the physical action and sensations Nat wants to offer. The easy way out, rather than the tender part of herself hidden away, bricked up and safe between the junction of her fourth and fifth rib.

Perhaps one day Ava will be able to face her without feeling like a coward, but for now, she must settle for the squeeze of Nat’s thighs around her waist as she carries her closest companion to the bed that waits for them.

It is enough, she tells herself, and she almost believes it.

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc fanfic #nat/ava #n sewell #nat sewell #a du mortain #ava du mortain

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voxofthevoid · 2 months

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Poll time, yet again ❎

This isn't what I'd call a problem per se, but I'm writing at a pace my posting cannot keep up with, even with me currently posting 5 fics a month—4 for JJK from a roster of 5 and 1 for MCU/Bleach. This'd be fine, but posting for MCU and Bleach long after leaving those fandoms has made it clear that I will significantly slow down on posting for those regardless of the size of my backlog. While I continue to love sharing those stories, the editing process becomes more of a chore than usual, and I just...sit on those. I'd like to avoid that as much as possible with JJK.

I'm still very firmly in the JJK sauce and haven't slowed down any, but I'd rather do this while I'm at the zenith of my inspiration, so these fics (which are the longest among my unposted JJK fics) can see the light of Ao3 while they and I are both hot, so to speak.

I'm upping my ongoing JJK roster from five to six, though whether the updates will increase to five a month or stay four a month remains to be seen. I can handle both based on monthly energy levels and have drawn up schedules for each, but I might run another poll for that to see what y'all can take. But that's for later.

For now, pick a fic ✨

Descriptions, titles, and choice WIP Wednesday links for the fics under the cut. I'll reblog the poll once a day or so till it's over.

Amnesiac Yuuji

the ghost in me was true (but you were haunted too): No-Shibuya AU where Gojou sends Yuuji out of the country after he eats all the fingers. Yuuji goes AWOL a year in and reappears 12 years later without any memories. Gojou doesn’t deal with that too well. Goyuu.

Shibuya Swap

(this is also part of the story) how the story changes: Just as the PR ensnares Gojou, canon!Yuuji switches places with his older self from an alternate dimension where he’s Gojou’s teacher. Goyuu.

Mundane Unclekuna

bloodstains on the collar means just don't ask: Mundane AU Yuuji’s sexual awakening is his big, mean uncle and then his high school teacher makes him realize he just has a specific type in men. Goyuu and Sukuita.

Surprise Rut Sex

taking the flesh is the only virtue: Yuuji goes into premature rut after the vs Mahito arc, and Nanami ends up “helping” before Gojou shows up to escalate matters. Goyuu and Nanaita.

#poll #goyuu #sukuita #nanaita #jjk #my fic #fic: flesh is the only virtue #fic: bloodstains on the collar #fic: how the story changes #fic: the ghost in me was true

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starfall-spirit · 10 months

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Summary: After picking up on Violet's attraction to Liam, Xaden proposes an arrangement.

Read on Ao3

CW: Sex, light bondage, dom/sub undertones

AN: My first Violiaden fic! It was written very quickly, with little editing or fleshing out, but it's still a fun piece so I'm going to go ahead and post. Enjoy!

"I want to watch you."

Violet quirked a brow. "Watch me?"

"I want to watch you with someone else." That confession about floored her and she found herself fumbling with the laces of her corset as she dressed for the day. Xaden approached her from behind, smoothly taking the laces from where she held them, her arms frozen at a rather uncomfortable angle, flexibility be damned. "I may act like a possessive ass at times, but I've been watching you, Violence. You can deny it all you want, but I know there's something between you and Liam."

She blinked rapidly before turning to face him as he dropped his hands from the finished knot above her tailbone. "I haven't touched him, Xaden."

"I'm not questioning your loyalty. I'm trying to figure out if you'd let him join us for a night or two."

She bit her lip, trying to gauge his sincerity. Xaden wasn't the type to test people. Not his friends, and certainly not her. Not like this. "And this night or two, we'd be doing..."

"You and I will negotiate the baseline if you say yes. I won't bring this up with Liam until I have your consent. Ultimately, I have the same end goal as usual." Her heartrate doubled as he stooped down to whisper in her ear. "I want to watch you lose control, preferably while you're filled with my brother's cock."

Holy. Fucking. Gods.

~~~~~

A smirk. A smirk was all it took for Violet to know Liam was well aware of Xaden’s proposal when he met her at her door two mornings later. “Liam.” She cleared her throat awkwardly. “Good morning.”

“Morning. Ready for breakfast?” She hesitated. “This is hardly the place to discuss the reason behind that look, Vi. I’m flattered by the invitation and I did accept, but if this is going to be awkward or you only said yes to make Xaden happy, then I won’t be upset with either of you for putting this behind us before anything starts.”

“I wasn’t going to—”

“Hey, thanks for waiting guys,” Rhi cut in. “Let’s go. I’m starving.”

“Yeah, for Tara’s—”

“Honestly, Ridoc!” It was hardly a secret and Rhi didn’t appear the least bit ashamed or embarrassed, but Violet was already on edge without thinking about other people’s sex lives. Let them think this was a best-friend-defense or something. The pair blinked back at her. “Sorry. I just need food before I deal with the morning crazy today.”

Liam snorted from beside her, but said nothing more, scanning the route ahead of them as they made their way to the mess hall. “So you really are interested?” she murmured.

He swallowed, his jaw locking as his throat bobbed. “Violet, if you keep pushing all I’m going to be thinking about is the things I plan on doing to you tonight and I’d really like to enjoy my meal and attend formation and classes without a hard on.” She winced, feeling simultaneously guilty and turned on. “I will say this once,” Liam continued. “I am more than pleased by this arrangement so long as it’s what everyone wants. Any other concerns?” She shook her head. “Excellent. Get your food.”

~~~~~

“You’re nervous. Are you sure about this?”

“Yes, Xaden. I’m not having any doubts. All of us are fine with this, but the anticipation is killing me.”

He hummed softly, continuing his path alternating between massaging knotted muscles and peppering tender kisses over her bare back. “And as good as that feels, you aren’t distracting me. Again, he gave that quiet hum, this time parting her thighs. Oh that might help distract her. His fingers just dipped between her legs when a patterned knock fell on Xaden’s door. She rolled onto her back. “Pity,” he murmured, licking his fingers clean. “But then, this will be just as fun, won’t it?”

He grinned as he opened the door to let Liam past the wards. “Hey, come on in.”

“Thanks.” She watched the pair closely, hunting for any signs of tension between them or hesitation on Xaden’s part. Though she hadn’t known either of them for very long, she could read them well.

This was going to work out after all. “Hey, Vi.”

She felt her face heat as he did nothing to hide his slow assessment of her bare figure. Compared to the two of them being fully dressed, it was a bit awkward. Hopefully they’d be joining her soon, before things started feeling truly embarrassing. She cocked her head as Xaden sank into a chair about five feet from the bed.

“Don’t tell me you two are going to sit around and chat while I sit here naked.”

He chuckled softly, exchanging a look with their guest. “Violet, I’m not touching you again tonight. I’m watching, remember?”

Her mouth popped open. “There’s no way you’re actually going to be able to keep off of me while Liam and I have sex.”

His smirk broadened. “Challenge accepted, my Violence.”

“Do you two need a moment?” Liam drawled, somehow reading into the levity of their mental conversation.

“No,” Xaden said. “Don’t mind me. The limits are set and poor Violet’s been wound up all day.”

“Believe me, brother, I noticed.”

“No reason you can’t put her out of her misery.”

The corner of Liam’s mouth tilted up, almost imperceptible in the low lighting. He cocked his head slightly, making a small noise in his throat and slowly rolling his sleeves back—fuck, didn’t he know what that kind of shit did to women—as if he was contemplating how to start in on her.

“Come here,” he finally said. She almost shivered. Though he kept his soft tone, there was no room for hesitation or defiance. No, he and Xaden were two peas in a pod when it came to that. “Violet.” She shuffled forward on her knees, instantly relaxing when he cradled the back of her neck, his long fingers tangling in her hair, already free of it’s braid thanks to Xaden. “Okay?” he murmured, anchoring his other hand at her left hip. She nodded. “Words,” he ordered in that quiet command.

“I’m okay with this.”

“Good girl.”

Before she could say a word his mouth sealed over hers, tentative for a moment. Or perhaps she was the one hesitating, because only a moment later he was adjusting the angle of the kiss, the stroke of his fingers dropping from her hip to rest between her thighs, the friction there and the soft sweep of his tongue coaxing her to give into him entirely. She whimpered, leaning into his steadiness, yet aching to be drawn higher.

She’d grown so used to the wild desperation she and Xaden shared that she was slightly off kilter now, both pleased by the change and all sorts of needy for more. Frustrated he wasn’t letting the intensity of the kiss grow further, she aimed for the one thing she could control, snaking her hand between them to try to stroke her clit. Liam caught onto that too, his grip around her wrist just firm enough to keep her hand pinned behind her.

Dragging his tongue against the roof of her mouth, he drew back. “This,” he began, cupping her center, “is mine tonight. Did I give you permission to touch what’s mine?”

Brothers indeed.

“Answer him, Violet,” Xaden growled from his chair.

“No. I wasn’t given permission.”

The consequences were already making themselves known, bands of shadow folding her arms behind her back so her fingertips were brushing the opposite elbow. She pouted, wanting to touch him freely. “Be a very good girl for me and I might ask Xaden to let your hands free.” Without warning, he sank two fingers deep into her core. “Soaked for me, needy thing.”

“Liam, let me come, please.”

“Begging already?” He hummed softly, drawing out a squeal as he swept her off her knees and pressed her flat to the mattress, careful not to strain her arms. Xaden already had the thought to redirect his shadows, pinning her arms over her head. “Good things come to those who wait, Violet. Believe me when I say I’m going to take my sweet time with you.”

His fingers slid home once more, pumping in and out of her as he urged her to spread wider, making room for him to dip his head, his tongue flicking out and tugging her closer to the high she was so desperate to reach. She clenched hard and he paused, letting her fall away before reaching her climax. “No!” she wailed.

Gods, he was a fucking sadist.

She let out another cry as he lifted one leg over his shoulder, holding her open so she was forced to take the next round, his fingers curling and his tongue stroking deep enough her thoughts could only come in fragments. She was so fucking ready. “Liam!” His teeth pinched down on her clit and she shattered, her orgasm rolling through in sharp waves.

“Go on. She’s ready.” She gave another deep groan, still trembling as the rustle of clothing fell away and Liam’s fingers were replaced by something much thicker. “Such a good girl, taking his cock so well.”

“T-told you you couldn’t stay away.” She groaned again, surrendering to the sensations around her, Xaden’s nails scraping over her scalp as Liam dragged in and out of her, agonizingly slowly. Realizing her hands were free again, she reached for Xaden’s waist. “I want you both. Please?”

He smiled down at her. “Who am I to deny you when you ask so nicely.”

It only took a moment to maneuver them, getting her in a position she could tilt her head back over the edge of the bed. It gave Liam and Xaden full control over what happened, even without shadows pinning her. Xaden stripped out of his clothes. “You won’t have much control like this, sweetheart. If it’s too much I want you to pinch me, okay?”

“I will. I trust you both, Xaden.”

His worry softened to pure adoration. “I know, sweetheart. But I take no risks with you if I can help it. Ready?”

She nodded, dropping her head back as Liam slid into her once again, a little sigh leaving her as Xaden slipped his thumb past her lips, coaxing her open. “Our perfect girl.”

Her eyes fluttered shut as he guided his tip past her lips, gliding over her tongue. She dropped her jaw, opening her throat as best as she could. “Good, Violet. Doing so well for us.” That came from Liam this time. She liked pleasing them both. He jerked his hips without warning, startling her enough she lost her rhythm and Xaden once again had to center her.

She let herself go, focusing only on what would bring Xaden to the edge with her, accepting the overload of sensations as they increased their pace, bringing her to her second orgasm. Neither of them had finished yet. And they seemed deadset on pulling another out of her. She whined softly. “You’re doing so good, baby,” Xaden encouraged her. In all honesty, she was hardly doing anything to pleasure him anymore. “This isn’t about me sweetheart. You’re giving us everything and more right now. All I need you to do is give in to what your body is telling you.”

“I can’t come again.”

“You can, Violet. You’re gonna come one more time, sweetheart.” Another whimper left her. She wanted to obey. To please them. “I know you’re feeling a lot, baby. So I don’t want you to try and think anymore. I want you to close those pretty eyes and let your body tell you what to do. You’re not going to fight what your body needs. You’re going to let Liam and I take care of you.”

“Just relax, sweetheart,” Liam said, cradling her hips as he quickened his pace. She was getting closer, riding the edge as they alternated their movements, setting a rhythm that would let them all finish without jostling her too much. She was lost in it, pride filling her as Xaden let out a sharp breath, spilling down her throat. She clenched around Liam, hard, not bothering to muffle her scream as they took her over again, Liam deep inside her as he finally snapped. “Fuck.”

He leaned down, his breath rattling softly as he kissed her brow before easing out of her and letting Xaden step back in to cradle her against his chest. “Can you get that water off the dresser?”

She peeled her eyes halfway open as Xaden shifted her in his arms. “Here, sweet girl,” Liam said. “Water first. Then you can have some chocolate, hm?” She didn’t bother trying to grab the glass herself since Liam seemed so keen on hand feeding her the water and candy. “Good girl. Rest now.”

She sunk down into the pillows, relishing the warmth the men on either side of her seemed to radiate. “You’ll stay?”

There was a heavy pause and she peered up to find him waiting for Xaden’s cue. “This shouldn’t be… just one time. I like you here.”

“Sleep, Violet,” Xaden finally said. “We’ll both be right here all night.”

She sighed. “Good.”

#fourth wing #the empyrean #xiolet #riorgail #violiaden #liam mairi #xaden riorson #violet sorrengail #smut

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streetsweepershenanigans · 8 months

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Street Sweeper's Icemav Masterlist

Updated 2/1/2024

Fics are listed in order of most recent to oldest.

Oneshots:

(Posted to AO3):

Wanting for Home- Very whumpy, as with everything, please heed the tags and warnings. Features Mav going through a sexuality crisis with internalized homophobia mixed in due to the time period and his position in the United States Military. Happy ending, though, don't worry. Hurt/Comfort.

Silence Is (Not) A Virtue- Another whumpy one, this time with some past child abuse resulting in selective mutism. Hurt/Comfort.

Third Time's The Charm (Oblivion AU)- A purely self-indulgent Oblivion AU with Top Gun characters. This is a companion piece to In My Dreams I See Us Falling, told from Ice's point of view.

In My Dreams I See Us Falling (A Top Gun Oblivion AU)- The first of my Oblivion AU's. If you have seen and enjoyed Tom Cruise's Oblivion, I highly recremond these.

No Use Crying Over Spilt Milk- A single!parent Maverick fic wherein he is forced to come clean to Ice about having a kid after they've been seeing each other for a while.

Here Lies Iceman's Personal Space- A fluffy domestic fic about Maverick invading Ice's personal space and somehow endearing himself to Ice even more.

Caught In The Headlights- A whumpy hurt/comfort fic featuring parental Icemav and baby Bradley. After Maverick is seriously injured in a car accident, Ice has to contend with the reality that he might be all Bradley has left in the world.

It's (Not) Okay (But It Will Be)- Maverick suffers a life-altering injury during the events of the uranium mission and now he and Ice must learn how to contend with the past and move forward together.

Just Like The Song- Drunk Maverick finds his way to Ice's house in the middle of the night and shenanigans ensue.

Mother Goose Knows Best. - Stranded in the rain after class, Maverick can either walk home or accept a ride from the last person he wants to be stuck in a car with.

The Winner Takes It All (I Don't Wanna Talk)- A sweet, soft, fluffy, domestic one-shot- my first ever Icemav fic. Sometimes, actions speak louder than words.

(Posted to Tumblr exclusively):

Baby Goose's First Swear Word- The story of how Baby Goose learned his first swear word.

One Day (An Icemav Fic)- Iceman and Maverick always find their way back to one another- even decades later.

Lunch Mix Up- Ice and Baby Goose's lunches get mixed up one day.

How Do I Say Goodbye? - Angsty short one-shot featuring Maverick having to come to terms with losing the closest thing he's ever had to a father.

Multichapters:

Caught In Oblivion- Chapters: 4/6- A full-fledged and fleshed-out Oblivion AU with our beloved Top Gun Characters. Very self-indulgent, but you can read it too. 4/6 chapters.

Icemav Imagines (Open for use if you feel inspired by any of them, just tag me so I can read):

Italian Maverick

Maverick vs the smoke detector's dead batteries-

#icemav #top gun #iceman x maverick #maverick #iceman #top gun 1986 #top gun maverick #pete maverick mitchell #tom iceman kazansky #icemav fic #street sweeper's master list

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sleepisapriviligethatidonthave · 2 months

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MegOp Week 2024

Day 1: Memory/Gift

Continuity: Generation One

Rating: General Audiences

Relationships: Megatron/Optimus Prime

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence,

Idiots in love, Enemies to Lovers, Established relationship, Fluff, Domestic Fluff

Summary: Optimus is being sneaky and Megatron is annoyed.

In the end, both of them get what they wanted

Also posted on: AO3

Check it out on ao3 if you want to see the Notes

Enjoy! ^^

Megatron leaned against the railing of the balcony and sighed.

It had been a rough decacycle, but luckily, it was his off shift tomorrow. If he had to listen to Starscream's screeching one more time, he would need to find himself a new SIC.

He had gotten home just in time to watch the sunset. It painted the horizon in colours that made it look ethereal. The balcony had the prefect view of the newly reconstructed parts of Iacon, which shone beautifully, a stark contrast to their still ruined counterparts. It never failed to make him proud to see the bots on the streets hard at work during the day and socialising during the night.

If Optimus was here, he would've let out one of his melancholic sighs as he tried and failed miserably at not being sentimental.

'Heh, always the fool.' Megatron thought to himself, chuckling softly. Where was his conjux anyway? He ought to have come home earlier than him. After all, he had slipped away from the last meeting for the day with some lousy excuse that he wasn't feeling well, and Megatron knew damn well that was a lie. The glitch refused to ever get sick, and it somehow always worked.

He contemplated on comming his mate, but decided against it, he wanted to catch him 'red handed' as those humans said.

Megatron huffed, he never understood Optimus' infatuation with those ugly little fleshings. They brought nothing but helmaches to them all.

It made him smirk, he could almost hear the defensive tone of his Prime as he valiantly defended the pests.

In the end he decided on reaching through their bond, feeling the emotions of his mate, which were...giddiness? What was Optimus up to?

His curiosity got the better of him

::What did you do?::

::Whatever do you mean, love?:: came the innocent sound of his lover's voice through the comm line.

::You know damn well what I mean, now spill it.:: his words held no actual malice aside from his annoyance. He was way too tired for this.

::Don't be a killjoy Megatron. You'll learn soon enough. Also, if you are hungry, don't wait for me.:: Optimus sent waves of reassurance and love through their bond, soothing Megatron's souring mood.

He chose to stop the conversation and instead wait for his mate's return. Slowly he made his way into the kitchen, taking a cube and filling it up almost to the brim, before moving to sprinkle a generous amount of tritium flakes. Hook would have his helm if he found out, but oh well, you only live once, right?

He sat himself on one of the stools around the island behind him and took out one of his personal datapads from his subspace. Might as well do something for himself.

_____________

A joor later he heard the sound of the entrance door open, inviting in a suspiciously happy Optimus Prime with a plastic bag in servo.

"Look who decided to finally show up." teased Megatron, setting down his datapad and stylus.

"I got held up, apologies for that." He made his way to Megatron and kissed his helm crest.

"I see that you listened to me for a change." Remarked Optimus and set the bag on the counter right beside Megatron's empty cube, before making his way to the energon dispenser to make one for himself.

"Do pray tell Prime, what took so much of your time?" Megatron made no move to touch the bag, instead opting for a facade of indifference.

"A few days ago, I had to go to the hospital, remember?" Megatron gave a grunt in acknowledgement, urging him to continue.

"Well, on the way there I saw the most peculiar sight," Optimus made his way back to the counter and opened the bag, pulling out a box with a silver bow tie on it, "a confectionery shop." said the Prime happily.

"When I was heading back, I made detour and went in there. The owner told me that she had set up the place not too long ago and I ended up placing an order for today." He took the lid off of the box and gave it to his mate.

Inside there were quite a few different assortments of sweets, it took all of Megatron's self control not to drool all over them.

"What's the occasion?" asked the ex-warlord suspiciously, ever the cautious one, all the while not tearing his optics away from the candy.

"No occasion, I just remembered your love for everything sweet and decided to treat you to something nice." admitted Optimus and let his field wrap around his stunned mate, letting his unspoken feelings of adoration known. "After working so hard I thought that you deserved a reward."

Megatron looked at his Prime silently, contemplating him as he hesitantly took one of the green jelly-like sweets and popped it into his moth, he almost moaned at the sickeningly sweet taste of what was apparently a magnesium flavored one.

It had been so long since he'd had the chance to indulge with such things that he couldn't help but stuff another one of the candies into his intake, this time, one with a hard outer shell and a gooey inside, that tasted like lithium infused with cobalt.

Optimus settled on the stool right beside Megatron, sipping his energon silently as he admired the sight of his mate's optics, alight up with happiness.

'I ought to do this more often.' thought Optimus to himself.

After half the contents of the box had disappeared into Megatron's tank he finally slowed down. He leaned back on his stool and let out a content sigh while he nibbled on a bismuth covered copper cake.

"Enjoying yourself?" asked Optimus as he took one of his Megatron's servos and intertwined it with his, stroking it with his thumb.

"Very much so." Admitted Megatron as he finally swallowed the remains of the treat in his servo. "Though I do wonder why you haven't touched a single one yourself."

"I didn't want to take one that you might enjoy, and besides," Optimus opened his subspace and took out another two boxes, "I brought plenty."

The way that his sparkmate's optics sparked with happiness made him feel like the luckiest mech on Cybertron. He took a few quick snapshots and saved them to a folder named 'Sparkmate: beloved'.

"Oh, how thoughtful of you." muttered Megatron, as he attacked the rest of the sweets with such viciousness, one would think they had done something to offend him.

Optimus let out a low chuckle, catching the attention of his mate whose intake was full of rust sticks. Megatron cocked a brow ridge at him, looking puzzled.

"It's nothing, I'm just reminiscing."

_____________

The first time he got a glimpse of Megatron's love for sweets had been an accident.

It had happened some time after the official end of the war, the leaders and their entourage were wrapping up a trading deal with another species on their home planet.

Prowl had advised him against going and leaving Cybertron without its leaders, but he had persisted.

The aliens themselves had been very respectful, welcoming even. They had given them accommodations that were their size and had even supplied them with decent energon.

One late night he and Megatron had stayed up, arguing over some clause of the agreement, entirely inconsequential, but Megatron had persisted that it was important.

After joors of arguing, they finally came to something resembling an agreeable compromise. While Optimus was clearing out the carelessly discarded datapads, from the corner of his optic he saw Megatron reach for one of the sweets which the aliens had so kindly gifted them with.

He stared silently at his soon to be mate as he bit into the sweet.

If he had been a less observant mech he would've missed the way his frame had relaxed a fraction and his optics hooded. It had been a surprising sight, bit not an unwelcome one.

Megatron froze in place, seemingly remembering that he was not alone in the room. Optimus made the split nanoklik decision to play dumb, "Are you ready to go? We spent way too much time on this, and I wish to retire for the night.”

Megatron gave a grunt in response, grabbed his datapads and made his way to the door, not waiting for Prime.

When he knew that he was out of audialshot Optimus couldn't help but let out a chuckle. That had been an interesting reaction. He debated silently with himself whether he should try and replicate that again, this time on purpose.

_____________

Optimus let his EM field envelop Megatron again, assuring him of the truthfulness of the statement. He only got a huff in return before the mech turned his attention back to the now almost empty box of sweets.

'Yes,' thought Optimus to himself, 'I really should do this more often.'

#megop week #megop week 2024 #g1 megop #megop #g1 #megatron #optimus prime #transformers #maccadam #my first actual attempt at writing something #first fanfic

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mychoombatheroomba · 6 months

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Hard Truths

Between the Bones (Leon x GN! Reader) - Chapter 37

The squad learns what they're up against, and Krauser gives Leon some brutal advice. As per usual.

(Cross-posted from Ao3)

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Chapter Index

There was no return to normalcy. No getting back into a comfortable cycle of pain and perseverance. How could there be, when the squad reported for First Call and you weren’t there? Leon had always felt galvanized in your presence. Your strength was his own. When he felt like he wasn’t sure he could go on, you’d been there, urging him forward. As morning drills began that first day, it wasn’t just his aching muscles and bruises that held him back.

You can’t let yourself fall behind with me.

His time in STRATCOM had taught him that he had a bit of a problem with authority, but he obeyed your words anyway.

Even if it would mean moving past you.

Even if it meant listening to the teachings of the men who did this to you, because true to his promise, Hellman was there to greet the squad for morning drills. Krauser looked just as angry as he had the day before. If the Major’s smile meant a world of hurt for the recruits of the US Strategic Command, then what did his scowl mean?

Leon supposed he would be finding out soon.

It was the final phase of training. That was what Krauser announced that first morning; that in eight weeks, if he and the others could pass the tests, they would graduate and be assigned into service. He would be an operative of STRATCOM. An agent of the United States.

Not a soldier.

Not what you or any of the others had been before this, but an agent, like Reed and Hellman. The two would indeed be assisting Krauser in training, offering lessons in the more shadowed of services. Secrets and broken locks and false names. The blacked-out text on a report. That was what he would become.

That was what he would become without you.

Six weeks until you recovered.

Eight weeks remaining in training.

The number was sobering. Staggering. The other recruits, the rest of his squad, didn’t know what that meant yet. They weren’t aware of what they were about to be facing down.

They would learn soon enough, though.

They would learn about Raccoon City, about the bioweapons created by Umbrella, and then they would graduate and be sent off to fight nightmares made flesh. They would be forced to see and fight and kill things that Leon had never imagined before that one night last September.

Eight weeks before they were all sent to hell.

And while he would be out there, fighting, you would be stuck here, trying to catch up for the time you lost. He tried not to let himself get lost in that thought too much as he pushed his injured body through Krauser’s ever-more difficult exercises - and Krauser’s still-sharp glares. The pain of it all was familiar enough now that he could endure it. He ran harder and faster, strained through the near-failing of his muscles as he carried the ammunition case across the obstacle course, not letting himself drop the added weight. He did all of that because he knew that, in eight weeks, his newfound strength and speed might be all that saved his life from some newfound horror.

And, however he felt about them, he knew that whatever skills Reed and Hellman were here to teach might do the same. So, he swallowed his anger when he reported to the two agents with the rest of the squad later that day, gathered together in a room that reminded Leon of his time in the police academy, with desks and a projector.

He didn’t bother to hide his sneer when Hellman began his speech. Even as he was reminded of who the real enemy was.

“You were all chosen for STRATCOM based on exemplary performance or impressive feats,” Hellman began, and again, Leon was put off by just how different he sounded, now. How genuine. “Most of you have served with distinction, and I have no doubt that you would have had impressive careers - that you still will . . . but now that you are on this path, it isn’t glory that you’ll be getting. There won’t be medals or ceremonies. What would have brought you accolades before can never be spoken of, now. Your service will be hidden from the world, because you will be keeping that world safe from threats that it can never know are real.

“You will be the first line of defense against things the world has never seen. You may not receive glory for it, but your country will owe you a debt it can never repay.”

The noble sacrifices.

Leon tried not to scoff at Hellman’s wording, because he made it sound so heroic. Leon knew better. He knew that they wouldn’t be the unsung knights in shining armor. They would be the living shields for the world. Ones that would be cast aside when they broke at last, just as Andersen and the others already had been.

But who else could it be?

“And what exactly is it that we’re going to be fighting?” Valeria asked, not bothering to offer respect to the man who hadn’t earned it. “Who was so dangerous that you had to fucking torture us to test our strength?”

Hellman didn’t react to her insubordination, but Leon tensed because Valeria very nearly hadn’t been allowed to be here.

Just like him.

We’ll need every soldier we can get.

That and Krauser’s influence had been all that spared them. That knowledge that the fight they were preparing for was unlike anything the world had seen before, against an enemy unlike any other.

“The Umbrella Corporation.”

Confusion was the first thing that Leon felt in the room. “The pharmaceutical company?” Alejandro clarified with a raised brow. “We’re going to be taking down people in lab coats?”

He didn’t know. None of them did. But Leon had reacted the same way, once. He’d not believed Ada when she’d told him that the company had created the horrors that now haunted his dreams and waking moments alike. Then he’d seen it firsthand. He owed a bullet-sculpted scar on his shoulder to one of those people in lab coats. And he owed months of restless nights to them too.

“Not the scientists, necessarily,” Hellman shook his head, and Reed stepped forward.

“Breathe a word of what you see in this room, and you will be tried for treason.” That was all the warning that was given before he reached forward. The agent flipped a switch on the projector to turn it on, and laid a semi-transparent image over the glass. There were murmurings of disgust. Surprise. Confusion. For Leon, though, it wasn’t some newfound terror. Even blurred and black and white, the image was one Leon recognized immediately. Rotting flesh falling away from bone and muscle. Teeth bared and darkened with viscera. A hand with bloodied nails reaching towards the camera.

Leon’s body reacted before his mind. Muscles tensing. Heart stuttering. He had to repress the urge to run. To aim his gun and fire desperately, even if he was sitting in a room miles and months away from Raccoon City. Even if he was just looking at an image taken from what had to have been that night or the days before it.

It was good - or, perhaps, not so good - to know that his memory when it came to the zombies was clear. Crystal and cruel.

“You’ll be fighting the bioweapons they create.” Hellman announced, letting the knowledge sink in.

There it was. The truth that Leon had wanted the men and women around him to know. And now that it was there, he almost felt guilt for that, too. Guilt, because he wished he didn’t have the knowledge he possessed.

No. Better they know. Better they’re prepared.

“This image was taken during the Raccoon City outbreak, and is just one of many reported variants of bioweapons that were found in the city.” The energy in the room shifted, then, because even if they didn’t know the truth of the matter, everyone in the country had heard of Raccoon City. The strange disease that had broken out, and the city’s destruction to keep it from spreading. Not untrue, Leon supposed. Just omitting key details. Redacted information. Cover-ups. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that this was the path his life would take, going from one ghost-story to another. And even now, it seemed there would be more lies of omission. “According to our intel, there was an accidental release of viral weaponry in Umbrella labs beneath Raccoon City. Reanimation of corpses as well as drastic, fast-acting mutations were characteristics of said viruses. They were transmitted through water contamination and, later, through bites or scratches. The viruses escaped into the city and reports of violent individuals started popping up in mid September. By September thirtieth, the situation was deemed uncontainable.”

And then Raccoon City, along with the monsters in it and those people still trying to survive within it had been wiped off the map. Nevermind that this had happened because one doctor had offered the US that same viral weaponry in exchange for his safety. Nevermind that maybe none of this would have happened if they’d just taken the man into custody from the start.

Leon supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised by the exclusion of that information, either. These men needed everyone in this room on their side. On the country’s side.

“This is what the Major’s been training you for. Fighting against something that can wipe out a city in a week,” Hellman went on, clasping his hands behind his back. "We will endeavor to teach you how to avoid that fight. How to find the people responsible for the creation of these bioweapons before they can utilize them.”

Tracking down Umbrella before another outbreak could happen, in other words. Cutting the head off the snake before it could bite anyone else.

Too little, too late, Leon knew, because the cat was out of the bag, now. If the US knew, then other countries probably did too. Umbrella was a company. They would protect their interests, their assets. Viral weaponry that could “wipe out a city in a week” had to look good to someone out there. It had looked good to the US, after all.

“The training we give you in the following weeks will never be complete,” Hellman warned, pale eyes sweeping the room of soldiers in front of him. “We could never give you full CIA-level instruction in time to send you after Umbrella. What we can give you are the tools we believe will help you to find and stop them.”

Not soldiers. Not CIA. Something else. New weapons for a new war.

“They have facilities across the world,” Reed said, speaking in that usual cold timbre that made Leon’s hackles rise. “You’ll need to learn to adapt to new environments. Speak new languages. Pass where you’re not supposed to.”

“And if we’re caught somewhere we’re not supposed to be?” Alenko asked from Leon’s side, picking up on what Reed was implying immediately.

Leon already knew the answer before Hellman even spoke it. “The world can’t know about our operations any more than they can know about Umbrella’s research,” he said, adding to the gravity of the room. “But you were all chosen for your skill, and allowed to continue this training for the strength of your wills.” For holding out under interrogation. Leon didn’t miss how Reed’s eyes landed on him, then. He ignored that biting gaze, just as he’d been ignoring Krauser’s all day.

“So if we get captured, if we die out there,” Alenko went on, his usual jovial tone gone, “then we shouldn’t expect anyone to come get us. That’s what you’re saying?”

To his credit, the look Hellman gave in return actually looked understanding. Sympathetic, even. That didn’t change the fact that he was promising them unaided struggles and unmarked graves. “As I said, your work won’t bring you glory. But it will be more important than anything you’ve done in your lives.”

Lives that could be turned into hollow shells. That could be warped and mutated into mindless violence.

With or without the influence of a virus.

But with nowhere to go but forward, Leon tried not to let those thoughts rule him. There were other things to think about.

Things that the rest of the squad were thinking of too, by the time dinner rolled around.

It had been quiet for so many reasons since the interrogations, but now there was an added layer of heaviness. Worry had carved creases across the foreheads of Leon’s squad, a sharp contrast to the exhausted but otherwise unburdened lower-level squads sitting at other tables. Young men and women who didn’t know yet what they would be facing.

“So,” Williams finally said, trying to break the silence with hushed humor, “I guess we’ll all be able to put ‘monster hunter’ on our resumes after this. Not that anyone will ever see those resumes.”

Leon wanted to smile at that, but all he could think of was dead hands and rotting breath and gnashing teeth.

No one else laughed, either, their thoughts no doubt stuck on the images they’d seen earlier. The agents hadn’t told them everything yet. They’d have a hard time doing that in one day. Today was about fear, Leon knew that. Scaring everyone shitless so they’d respect the reality of the situation, like at Fort Benning when Cortez explained how a wrong move in a tank could earn you crushed limbs. With tanks, though, there was a field manual to understand; a list of knowns. With bioweapons . . . “How the hell are we supposed to fight those things?” Alenko asked, keeping his voice down so those cadets who didn’t know what awaited them couldn’t hear.

And Leon knew then that he could help. That he could give his friends an edge before even the CIA did. So, he answered quietly, trying to adopt the easy authority you used when giving corrections in sparring. “The zombies, you shoot in the head,” he said, and all attention at the table turned to him. “Higher-caliber rounds work best. The more of the brain you can destroy, the better.”

His squad looked at Leon like they were seeing him in a brand new light, realization slowly dawning across their faces.

“There are other things, though. Different weak spots. None of them go down easy.” Because even once you knew where to shoot, where to place those bullets, it all came down to whether there was actually an opportunity to do so. Whether one had the ammunition required, or the moment needed to aim. “You have to be smart,” he warned, letting memory weigh down his words, “and you have to know when to run.”

There was a beat of silence as Alejandro leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience, brother.”

All sorts of secrets coming out lately, Leon thought as he nodded once.

“I am. I was there. In Raccoon City.”

He knew how he’d been thought of when he first arrived. He wasn’t blind to the judgmental stares when he’d struggled. The whispers that that kid’s gonna get himself killed. It was strange to be seen by everyone as you’d seen him so early on.

“Son of a bitch,” Alejandro muttered, in disbelief.

“How the hell did you make it out of there?” Alenko asked, and Leon wished he had a better answer.

“Luck.”

That was what it had come down to. His skill with a gun, his ability to think on his feet, they’d helped, but it had been luck that he’d been near those who could save him when skill alone failed him. Luck that had given him the tools he needed to survive. Skill, certainly, but luck was the reason he was still alive.

He couldn’t change luck, though.

So, he would focus on the two of those things that he could control.

⧫⧫⧫

The Major didn’t look happy to see him. Not that it surprised Leon at all.

He’d held out for a few days. He’d been focused in that time on throwing himself into the new lessons Reed and Hellman led. Languages, communication, codes, hell, even some hacking and lock-picking. All skills that may save Leon’s life, but not the ones he’d need if he ever came up against another monster that could fold a helicopter in two. Not that a knife would do much against such power either, he supposed. Still, he wanted to be ready. Had to be. For a while, he thought that he could get away with only sparring with Williams, Valeria and Alenko. Alejandro had joined them, and every so often so would the other members of the squad. Sparring while Leon told them of the hard-earned wisdom he had collected that night in Raccoon City. They were good, there was no denying that. But they weren’t you. They lacked your speed. Your instinct. Your gift for violence, earned not because you were a violent person but because you’d had such unspeakable violence done to you. You’d been a whetstone for his skill, and if all he had was eight weeks, then he needed them to be sharper than ever.

So, he took your advice because you were right. Krauser was the best fighter on base. If you couldn’t spar, then Leon had to find other ways to become better. Even as Major Krauser scowled at him as he approached and all Leon could think of was the fact that he knew.

He knew, and he wasn’t saying anything.

Why wasn’t he saying anything?

How long had he known?

What had he seen?

Another set of thoughts to be set aside. If Krauser wasn’t going to make trouble for you and Leon, then it was a situation that Leon could ignore.

God, he really hoped he could ignore it.

It was a little difficult when the Major kept on looking at Leon like he wished he would cease to exist. Leon thought for certain that the man’s mood would brighten a touch when asked to spar. Beating the shit out of Leon had to be something he’d be interested in, right?

“What? Your friends can’t be bothered?” Krauser grumbled.

“My friends are taking the night off,” Leon shot back, because, frankly, he was tired of the angry glares. Tired of all the bullshit. His time here was ending, and it was Krauser’s job to make sure he survived after the fact. “I need a sparring partner.”

What he got was an ass-kicking. Not that he’d expected otherwise.

Still, Leon allowed himself to be proud of the fact that he actually put up a fight. He remembered sparring with Krauser all those months ago, how easily the Major had wiped the floor with him. It made each strike he earned against Krauser’s skin feel all the more vindicating. He’d gotten used to defeat thanks to you, and he’d always been able to get back up, even before that. A good thing, too, because Krauser was fighting like he had a score to settle.

A kick with the force of a freight train hit Leon in the stomach, sending him falling backwards with a grunt. The Major didn’t waste any time, rushing to the ground with an overhead stab. Leon rolled out of the way just in time, hearing the scraping of metal against dirt. Dust washed over him, sent in a wave by the blade of Krauser’s knife, just enough getting into his eyes that his vision wavered.

Unable to see, his heart rate spiked, trying to urge him to get up. To defend himself. He felt Krauser’s hand close around his wrist - the one whose hand held the knife.

Leon acted quickly, bringing his other hand up, taking the knife. Slashing out almost blindly. Luck was on his side once again as he felt steel scrape against steel, parrying Krauser’s attack. The force of the blades meeting sent tremors through Leon’s arm, and it was through sheer will and memories of your words that he held onto the knife.

His vision cleared and he was in a better position to attack, so he slashed at the Major’s wrist, freeing his own in the process.

The two men got to their feet, putting some distance between each other.

Krauser didn’t look impressed. “Thought with all that extra sparring you’d be better than this,” he said, and Leon wasn’t sure if it was a good sign that he was talking shit. Was it a return to form? Or just more anger? He might have gotten his answer when Krauser went on with words like a slap to the face. “Guess you weren’t really paying attention to the fights though, were you?”

Leon knew it was bait. He could recognize that. Still, it was a shock to the system to hear Krauser imply it so openly. Even as a taunt, Leon hadn’t expected to hear it. It was just enough of a surprise that when Krauser rushed him, the younger man fumbled.

The feint was just fast enough for Leon to fall for it, and as he chased Krauser’s blade with his own - or where it would have slashed across his stomach - he nearly didn’t move fast enough to avoid the slash across his throat. You were fast, but Krauser? It was fighting you but dialed up to eleven, and it was too much for a fatigued and still-bruised Leon to handle. The blunted blade grazed his neck as he threw himself backwards. Off-balance, he nearly found himself losing his footing as Krauser pressed the attack, switching the knife to his left hand and thrusting it forward. Leon twisted his arm, getting his knife on the inside of the attack, his other hand going for the replacement . . .

Too late, and he coughed and sputtered as Krauser swung his knife up and over Leon’s shoulder and sent it point-first into the side of his throat. Even if the Major was pulling the blow back, it landed hard enough that Leon knew he’d have a new bruise tomorrow.

“Sloppy,” the Major shook his head as he pulled the blade away, stepping back.

Leon retreated away, pressing a hand to the newly hurting spot on his neck. The pain was kindling for his anger - he’d moved past the frustrations of losing in these sparring matches, but he felt it now all the same.

So he attacked first, this time. Hoping to catch the Major off-guard.

He nearly had him, too, after a quick exchange. Nearly. Krauser twisted his knife inside Leon’s guard and switched hands again, kneeing the younger man in the gut and then running his blade up Leon’s arm in a move that would have filleted the flesh from his bones if it had been real. Then he pulled the knife away and drove it into Leon’s chest. Another bruise.

“Where’s your focus?” Krauser snarled into Leon’s ear. “Your Sergeant isn’t here. Keep your head in the game.”

Why the fuck was he pressing the issue?

Leon shoved Krauser away - no small feat to make that mountain of a man move - and dropped into another ready stance. Resetting into another round, even as his muscles pleaded with him to stop.

No. He wouldn’t be given a break out there. There would be no mercy.

That was why you’d told him to do this, Leon knew. Krauser was as close to the real thing as he was going to get, if you were unable to fight.

So, Leon charged again. Over and over, even if he ended up on the ground nearly every time. It was those first few weeks with you all over again. Near-victories followed by crushing defeats. All ushered in, Leon knew, by Krauser’s taunts. The Major was all too aware of that fact, as he swept Leon’s legs out from underneath him. His back hit the ground yet again, and this time Krauser didn’t even bother to go for a pin or a finishing move.

“What did I tell you about being distracted?” the Major sneered, tossing his knife up and catching it in one smooth motion. “Because it’s the people who get distracted out there that end up dying.”

“I’m not-”

“Don’t bullshit me. You have a weak spot and you’re letting me exploit it.” A weak spot. Leon had never once thought of you that way. You kept him going. You’d given him strength in the worst days at STRATCOM. Even during the days spent in those cells, the silent looks you would give him often felt like all that was keeping him sane.

And then they’d beaten you in front of him, and Leon had broken.

“You think I’m the only one who will figure it out?” The question was quiet, but cut straight to the bone. It was what you and Leon had talked about, all those nights ago. The last time in days that he’d seen you. And it was killing him. It hurt not to train with you. To get those reassuring looks when no one else was looking.

You’d told him from the beginning that this life didn’t guarantee that the two of you would be together.

He couldn’t let your absence drag him down.

But he was frustrated and hurt, so he looked up at Krauser from the ground with a glare. “Why not report it, then?” Leon challenged, because that question had been eating away at him. “Why not let Reed and Hellman kick me out like they wanted to?”

Krauser’s eyes flashed, and Leon knew that he’d overplayed his hand, admitting that he’d heard that conversation.

“Get up, rookie,” the Major ordered, “and focus, or maybe I’ll change my mind and let them send you home.”

Leon wasn’t sure if Krauser was serious or not, at this point.

Whatever the case, he pushed himself up with a groan anyway, part of him debating just walking away. No. He wouldn’t give in that easily. He never did. So he stood his ground, meeting that disapproving stare that had been fixed on him for the better part of a week. The Major wanted focus? He’d get it. He wanted to talk shit? Leon could give as good as he got.

So the younger man raised his knife, still keeping his gaze locked on his opponent. “Maybe you’re the one who needs to focus. Sure are taking an interest in something that’s none of your business.”

Krauser didn’t take the bait, but Leon saw his expression shift. His brow creased further, his eyes glinting. He thought that maybe he'd hit a nerve, but that moment of emotion was gone quickly. “That the best you’ve got?” he asked, and then Leon was on the defensive again, blocking quick strike after quick strike. Their hands moved fast, and Leon’s mind never once wavered from the task in front of him. Right up until he ducked under a swing, his blade held parallel to the ground, and ran it straight across Krauser’s side. He followed the move through, ending up at the Major’s back, going for a killing blow to the spine. It didn’t quite land as Krauser whirled around, knocking Leon’s arm out of the way. Another side kick distanced them, but Krauser looked down at his side for a moment, looking at where Leon’s knife had connected.

When he looked back up, he gave an almost reluctant nod of approval. “Not bad.”

It wasn’t much assurance, but Krauser wasn’t you. Leon would take what he could get.

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Chapter Index

A/N: Leon said "Why are you so up in my business?" and Krauser did not have a good answer to that question.

Speaking of Krauser . . . I did in fact cave and started writing his lil spin-off, it'll switch between Operation Javier and flashbacks of before, during and eventually after Between the Bones. Because I'm a hooligan. First chapter is out already! Even though I said I was gonna wait but I have no self control, oops. It is absolutely nonessential to the plot of this, and any references made to it will be fully explained in context but uhhhh I like the goofy beret man, so it exists now!

#leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy #resident evil x reader #resident evil 2 #resident evil 4 #resident evil #between the bones #gender neutral reader #leon kennedy x you #no y/n #jack krauser

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elizabeethan · 5 days

Text

Not With Haste

An Overboard Conclusion

Oh hi, where the hell did this come from? I'm wondering the same thing. in reality, @donteattheappleshook talked to me about oarfish maybe 2 years ago and I started writing something stupid. I always intended to finish it and post it for @the-darkdragonfly's birthday, but I never found it in me to complete it. Then tonight I found that stupid thing and I finished it. You never know when that funny little creativity bug might bite, I guess.

I've always wanted to write some form of conclusion for Overboard because it's one of my favorite things that I've written. I first published Overboard way back in May of 2021, and looking back, I've grown and learned a lot and there are things I would probably do differently if I started the story over again, but I can't see myself ever editing it because I love what I wrote. Would I rewrite it into a novel and really flesh out the story and the characters? A girlie can dream, never say never, you never know when the creativity bug might bite, etc.

I hope everyone here is well, I know I am for the most part, and I'll never stop being grateful for this little community that I found all those years ago. More than that, I'll never stop being grateful for the feeling of being able to come back after a time away. It's been fun to log back in to everything and pick up where I left off as if no time has passed. (It's been so long since I've done this so if the formatting is all messed up, I'm really sorry, but I barely knew what I was doing.)

Long story short, this story is finally complete. It's barely edited and it's not beta'd, so thank you for giving it a chance.

Rated T I think

~2300 words

Read on Ao3

Read my Other Stuff

~~~~

Even after sixteen years of marriage, Killian often finds himself wondering what on earth could possibly be going through his wife’s head.

The thoughts of wonderment and confusion strike him at the oddest of times, always in response to something she’s said or done and never with any sort of answer. The first time he knew he was in trouble was fifteen years ago, when he returned home from a trip to find she had adopted a rottweiler. Still, Ripple refuses to retire from her post as the Jones’ Harbor Tours’ mascot, and Emma often tries to convince him that it’s because she’s as stubborn as her father.

In truth, Emma Jones is the most stubborn person he has ever met in his life, a fact which will likely never be contested.

He finds himself confused so often that he can barely recount any examples of her free spirited nature. (She calls herself a wild child, although she often shouts at him whenever he uses the term in bed.) There was the time she impulsively began tearing up the tile flooring in the bathroom after watching three whole YouTube tutorials (her words), only to sob into his already sea-soaked sweater when she realized how physically taxing reflooring an entire room is without any experience, general tiling knowledge, materials, or help. Then there was the time she randomly asked him if he would still love her if she was a worm, and then became irrationally angry when he found himself unable to answer without first asking clarifying questions. And the incident when she questioned his loyalty to her when he refused to hunt down and kill the person who bumped into her parked car and drove off. He later discovered that the question came after she had finished some romance novel about the mafia. He chose not to dig any deeper into that one.

All this to say: Killian’s wife is a free spirit, a wild child, a confusing, strange, barely-readable woman who stole his heart in one breath and has yet to give it back almost two decades later.

And, he has no idea what the bloody hell she’s talking about more than half the time.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Emma (Trophy Wife): have you ever see this??? In the wild??????

Emma (Trophy Wife): Attached: 1 Image

Killian: What are you doing?

He shakes his head, as exasperated as he is filled with a warm sense of comfort, just like he always is whenever he sees the name she gave herself the moment their vows were exchanged pop onto his phone screen.

Emma (Trophy Wife): they inhabit the atlantic ocean. *vomiting emoji*

Killian: Stop watching National Geographic if it’s going to make you nauseous.

Emma (Trophy Wife): that’s where you worked!!

Killian: That’s also where we live.

Emma (Trophy Wife): you never saw one in your sexy fisherman days? LOOK at that thing.

Killian quickly discovers that she’s referring to an Oarfish. They’re the longest known bonefish and inhabit very deep water, are rarely seen or caught alive, and are thought to be generally harmless. Still, he knows that these facts will not prevent his wife from overreacting, so he chooses not to bother.

Though she’s always hidden it well, Emma has a strange fear of creatures of the deep, as she often calls them. She’s told him that the tuna he used to pull onto the deck of his boat didn’t bother her– even though they were often almost twice her height in length and weighed upwards of 1,000 pounds– because they were no longer in the water. But the thought of running into one of those slimy bastards while swimming gives her panicky symptoms— her words. He hasn’t bothered to point out the absolute impossibility of her ever running into a giant bluefin tuna while swimming, either. After sixteen years of marriage, he’s learned which battles are better left unfought.

Of course, there are times when his correcting her drives her absolutely mad, often to the point of her feeling compelled to kiss him in order to shut him up, and he navigates those moments very carefully and with a smirk on his lips.

Killian: They aren’t known to be predatory.

Emma (Trophy Wife) disliked “They aren’t known to be predatory.”

Killian: Attached: 1 Image

Killian: You see? They have small mouths and no teeth. Harmless.

It’s unlike her to wait so long to reply, as she’s often glued to her phone at least when she’s mid conversation. But it’s almost a full two minutes that he finds himself standing in front of the display of pasta sauce, looking like a complete fool and blocking the path of an elderly woman, breath bated as he waits for a response from her. Bloody hell, he thinks to himself as he shakes his head. He’s known the woman for eighteen years and he still can hardly breathe in anticipation of whatever adorably inane thought leaves her mouth without any sort of filter.

Emma (Trophy Wife): Attached: 1 Video

Lovely. Even as he watches the attached video of her silently dry heaving, he’s desperately in love with her. He watches it again.

Her blonde hair has gone lighter over the years, streaks of white coloring through the gold in a way that makes her look somehow even more sexy and playful than when he first laid eyes on her. There are soft creases beside her eyes as she squeezes them shut, her mouth open and her tongue out as she pretends to be so violently offended by the image he sent her that it’s made her ill.

Emma (Trophy Wife): expect consequences when you get home. even if you get the good mac and cheese.

Emma (Trophy Wife): you KNOW how i feel about serpents and sea monsters.

Killian: I do.

Emma (Trophy Wife): … and????

Killian: I’m sorry for traumatizing you with my serpent.

Killian: And for how that just sounded.

Emma (Trophy Wife): if you’re not home in 34 minutes i’m not touching your serpent for two whole days.

Killian: Well, now that I'm familiar with your gag reflex…

Emma (Trophy Wife): 33 minutes.

~~~~

Ripple is the oldest dog Killian has ever known. Her silver snout and eyebrows catch in the setting sun, and it’s painfully obvious from her gait how sore her joints are, but still, at his arrival home, she hurries her way towards him with as much enthusiasm as she can muster.

Their vet has told them that she’s the healthiest dog he’s treated in a while, considering her age, and Emma uses that as a point of pride for their perfect child.

“Hi, darling,” he says when she finally reaches him, her soft smile lighting up her face once he drops the reusable grocery bags in order to give her a scratch behind the ears. Killian’s getting up there in age, too, but he still manages to squat down to her level and kiss her nose.

The two of them make quite the pair while Killian struggles back into a standing position and then they both hobble towards the front door. His fishing career was lucrative and rewarding, but dammit if it didn’t lead to stiff joints that his wife pokes fun at. She’s never met a “my husband is older than me” joke she hasn’t loved.

“I’m glad you both made it,” she happily chortles from the kitchen, making him smile. He’s never smiled more widely than he does with Emma.

“The abuse I’m subjected to,” he mutters as he drops the bags on the floor for her to peruse. It’s a deal they made years ago; Killian does the shopping because the grocery store makes Emma too itchy, and she puts the groceries away in exchange.

She snorts when she pulls out the bag of goldfish, sending Killian a playful smirk. “Looks like a good haul.”

“Aye, love. I thought you might enjoy a fishy treat after our conversation.”

“Always so thoughtful,” she murmurs as she makes her way to him. The kitchen is small, but they’ve always had just enough space for the three of them.

“It’s a difficult cross to bear,” he nods, catching her wrist as soon as she’s close enough to pull towards him. “But anticipating your needs is one of the many responsibilities I take very seriously.”

Emma’s hands land on his neck, fingers tangling with the silver hair at the back of his head while her thumbs trace along his jaw. She likes to call him a silver fox when she’s feeling playful. “My perfect husband,” she says softly, voice syrupy sweet in that way that still manages to get him excited.

“I couldn’t be a perfect husband without my perfect wife,” he answers, earning a beaming grin that he barely catches before her lips press to his.

It never ends. The way he wants her has been an inferno so intense since the day they met, and it hasn’t been snuffed out in all these years. The moment she’s near him, his blood starts to simmer, and once she touches him, kisses him like she is now, he’s a goner.

Her tongue is soft as it sweeps over the seam of his lips, lazily working to deepen the kiss they share. She kissed him with urgency, but not with haste, never rushing but always desperate. It’s enough to have him pushing her backwards, her lower back softly pressing against the counter before he lifts her onto it. Emma’s legs part seemingly without her even thinking about it, and before either of them have a chance to put the rotisserie chicken in the refrigerator, he wonders if he should just carry her to their room. Part of him has this never ending need to show her just how desperate he still is for her.

But then, she speaks.

“Wait,” she breathes, chest rising and falling rapidly as her warm breath fans over his mouth, her forehead still pressed to his and her fingers clinging to the collar of the light sweater he wears.

“Yes, love?” he asks, perfectly prepared to answer whatever silly question she likely has as long as he can have her after.

“About the oarfish…”

He fights a groan. “I promise you, there is absolutely no chance of you ever seeing an oarfish for as long as you live.”

“I know, I did plenty of research while you were gone.”

He breathes out a soft laugh, his smile growing when she kisses it. “What’s wrong, then?”

“Would you still love me if I was an oarfish?”

His world stops for just a moment. Just a second, really, as he tries to right his mind and will a tiny bit of blood back to his brain so that he can answer this very unimportant and yet somehow very vital question correctly.

“If you were an oarfish,” he starts, hand sliding up from her hip to her ribs before finding her cheek, “then I would be an oarfish. And we would be married and have a pet… eel, perhaps. Named Ripple. And we would live in a tiny oarfish cottage and be happy and in love for as long as oarfish live.”

Emma sighs, the softest smile on her perfect lips making him crazy as her arms wrap around his neck in one of his favorite hugs.

“I love you,” she whispers into his ear. He’ll never tire of this. Of the soft, almost unfathomable way that the love they have for one another strikes at the most random times.

“I love you, too, Swan. Always. No matter what species we are.”

“And I love you, no matter how much older you are than me.”

He grabs her then, hoisting her against him to the best of his ability as her ankles cross at his back. “Disrespectful,” he murmurs, carrying her from the kitchen and happily forgetting about the frozen broccoli florets, not cuts she made him buy.

“You better teach me a lesson, then,” she taunts with a smirk, as if that isn’t exactly what she was after.

“Don’t act like that isn’t exactly what you want, love.”

“Don’t act like you don’t get off on giving me exactly what I want.”

To that, he just returns her smirk and offers a quick smack to her ass before dropping her onto the bed they share, because he knows she’s right. For the rest of his days, he’ll be happy, as long as he has his family.

~~~~

I'm using my old tag list from 2 years ago. If you don't want to be tagged, I'm real sorry and let me know if I should remove you

@kmomof4 @stahlop @klynn-stormz @laschatzi @emelizabeth88 @lfh1226-linda @timeless-love-story @captain-emmajones-blog @gingerpolyglot @ebcaver @ilovemesomekillianjones @teamhook @superchocovian @tiganasummertree @gingerchangeling @jrob64 @onceratheart18 @winterbaby89 @ultraluckycatnd @love-with-you-i-have-everything @shireness-says @snowbellewells @hollyethecurious @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook @jonesfandomfanatic @wefoundloveunderthelight @qualitycoffeethings @batana54 @sailtoafarawayland @deckerstarblanche @zaharadessert @pirateprincessofpizza @killianslefthook

#cs ff #cs ff au #overboard #not with haste #overboard ff #captain swan au #cs fluff #captain swan fluff

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