#ECHO AND BALLAD CONVERSATION. SCREAMS

[touchstone-telephone]

TM59 cargo scene......

[remembrancer-of-heresy]

The Killing Moon (Magnus The Red, Leman Russ)

Summary: There's nothing worse than a smart savage animal.

Magnus The Red/fem!Reader, Leman Russ/fem!Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession

Word count: 896

Song: Echo & The Bunnymen - The Killing Moon

Did you think that crazy yanderes would only be traitors and heretics? :) It turned out quite small, but tasty. Ah, Leman, you have every chance of getting a long fic.

You were one of Magnus' remembrancers. Not a psyker and thanks to you for that. Still, he couldn't stand weak upstarts of your kind. Give them an ax and they will help. But the Emperor decided that they would contribute “in another way” and Russ had to come to terms with their presence.

He actually had to come to terms with a lot. Parades in honor of warriors, drinking mjød with his sons and hunting xenos are one thing. Real fun for his soul! Meetings with powdered aristocrats and chirping remembrancers are sheer horror. The only thing he liked was that Magnus was even more bored than the fenrisian. Well, when Jaghatai wasn’t around, he became completely despondent.

But with your appearance everything changed. The one-eyed sorcerer still did not like mandatory events. But now you were at his side. Leman was famous for his character, his bestial nature, if mortals willed it. But like a wolf he could watch. Track. Study. Wait. Right before delivering the killing blow.

You kept yourself apart from other remembrancers. Just like they are from you. You were a calm and almost sad girl. Felt out of place. Of course, until you looked into Magnus’s only eye. Oh, the fenrisian was sure that you two would happily run away from this event like lovers from the old ballads and hide in the library. But instead of... intriguing activities, you would probably just read ancient tomes.

The primarch found you a little better than other remembrancers. Useless. Besides, you clearly loved psykers, something Leman didn't approve of. Still, he had fun for a while, looming over you like a wild animal. He joked about obscene topics and breathed directly into your face after a sip of mjød, enjoying how your eyes watered and you coughed.

Leman was sure that he would soon get tired of you and he would stop pestering you while Magnus wasn’t looking. Moreover, you clearly did not complain to your patron. But time passed and Russ continued to pull you out. And he continued. And continued. Until one day the conversation turned to the one-eyed primarch.

Either he called him a coward, or a witch, or he called him a freak, couldn't remember. This is how Leman would begin his story before mortals, but he was a primarch. He remembered very well that he had complained that the Emperor still kept the psykers and had not killed the red-skinned lord's legion. He also remembered how you threw the contents of the cup on his face. He could taste the sweet mead. Tasty like you.

“Don’t you dare say such things about him!” - you screamed, your eyes were burning, and your face was twisted with anger. - “He is kind and sensitive. The smartest person I knew. He believes that only a better future awaits the world. And you, and you..."

Your index finger rose in a threatening gesture. And if Russ were the size of a mortal, you would probably poke your finger right into his eye.

"SAVAGE!"

You scream as loud as you can, but your voice, not used to such emotions, lets you down. You were supposed to sound like a lioness protecting her lover. But looked more like an angry little kitten. He just wanted to take you with one hand and squeeze.

Stamping your foot, looking at the fenrisian with the most contemptuous look, you leave the corridor. He feels, he sees in your gestures and posture the hope that this was your last meeting. Russ feels an anticipatory smile coloring his face and he wants, terribly wants, to lick his teeth.

What a disobedient doe. Leman wonders what he needs to do to get you to let your emotions out again? Magnus probably treats you like a lady. Sickeningly tender and neat, like a feather. This was alien to Russ. No, he would throw you over his shoulder and carry you to his den. He would take you roughly so that everyone could hear your screams. They knew you were his.

One day Malcador told him about an ancient Terran virgin goddess. Mistress of the forest and patroness of hunting and the moon. The doe and the bear, whose naked beauty enchanted the mortal hunter. Then the goddess turned the man into a deer before the dogs killed him.

You were not a warrior or a huntress. But your graceful beauty turned into righteous anger... excited him. And aroused. Never before had Russ thought that he would be seized by the desire to possess and subjugate a mortal girl. Flexible and thin as an arrow. Daring to stand up to him despite her weakness. Just to protect the honor of your loved one, and he knew that you loved the damned psyker, even if he was a primarch.

Yes, you belonged to a witch. Well, another reason for enmity with the one-eyed brother. Who apparently did not understand that with his unreasonable actions with the warp he was only digging his own grave harder. And when he retreats, takes the wrong and disastrous step... then Russ will finally be able to deal with him. He will put psyker in the dirt and take you to him. He will even be gentle with you. To care and cherish. At least after you satisfy his... “savageness” with a tiny voice.

Yes, that would be nice.

[burritello3000]

Batman/TMNT Comics 2 Scene

You know that one scene in the Batman/TMNT 2 comics where Donnie is almost killed by that foot soldier and he starts doubting himself and that starts the whole thing off? Well, it’s that scene but Riseified. I couldn’t get this idea out of my head but I didn’t want to write a whole fic so I decided to just write this one scene. (PS: I apologize in advance if your name is are Daryl or Wilbur) This takes place during Season 1, after Turtle-dega Nights: The Ballad of Rat Man but while Baron Draxum has just taken control of the Foot Clan.

“Cowabunga!” Mikey yelled, as the turtles rode one of Donnie’s new inventions, the Sewer Slider, down the subway tunnel. The guy that had run away from them screamed and sprinted off into the darkness.

“I think we gave that guy a heart attack or something,” Leo called out from Donnie’s left. Wind whistled past the purple-masked turtle’s tympanum, whipping the slider’s words away immediately.

“It’s his own fault for walking through the subway with the lights out,” Raph pointed out. “And he should h— MIKEY IS THIS REALLY THE BEST TIME FOR A SNACK?!”

“You know what the ancient proverb says about pizza on a bagel,” Donatello’s little brother replied, snacking on said pizza bagel and pulling farther ahead of Leo and Donnie. 

“That’s from a commercial,” the snapper growled, his forehead creasing. “Remember, no eating on missions. We need to stay alert and vigi—”

“No fair,” Leo whined, interrupting him and pulling up alongside Mikey. “I want some! You gotta share little brother or I’ll take Raph’s side in the argument…”

The sharp wind carried Mikey’s response away as Donnie rolled his eyes. “Sigh, guys remember what I said about focusing when riding highly dangerous experimental machinery at eighty miles per hour?”

Only after Raph echoed Donnie did they quiet down. Dumb-dumbs, Donnie mentally grumbled. Why do they only listen to Raph? They should at least listen to me regarding my tech, right? … Right?

Donnie’s self doubt pity party was interrupted by a familiar raspy voice. “We agreed to leave! Why does Draxum want us dead?!” The far away conversation echoed down the tunnels, allowing the Mad Dogs to eavesdrop.

“You and Brute are not fit to lead us, Lieutenant,” an unfamiliar person responded. “In fact, you don’t even deserve those titles anymore, Daryl and Wilbur.”

“Daryl and Wilbur,” Leo snickered. “I would keep Lieutenant and Brute. Oh man, I’m totally going to tease them after we save their butts.”

A roar of rage echoed down the tunnel. “I think that we should hurry,” Donnie snapped, before more petty squabbling could break out between his brothers. 

“Donnie’s right!” Raph shouted, his bright red ninpo lighting up the dark tunnel. “Mad Dogs, ahoy!”

“I thought we agreed to save that for ship-based adventures, pal,” Donnie reminded his older brother. “Please don’t make me say that again; the viewers don’t like repetition.” ——————————————————————They were going so fast that tears stung at Leo’s eyes. They sped down the tunnel just in time to see some bulked up foot soldiers kick Lutentiant out of the ragged subway car. “No!” Brute yelled, just missing his friend’s out-stretched hand.

“Leo!” Raph barked.

“Already on it,” the slider said with a wink, picking up speed and catching Lutentiant on his Sewer Slider. “Hey, Wilbur!” He crowed smugly. “Need a lift?”

“YOU!” Lutentaint screeched, struggling out of Leo’s grip. “I had him! I do not need the help of children!” The flames on his head blazed with anger. “Also, how dare you suggest that my name is Wilbur, it is Daryl.”

Leo laughed, a smirk on his face. “Whoa, harsh, I thought we were pals. Well, not pals, but I thought that we were done trying to kill each other with this Baron Draxum thing happening. At least for now. Enemy of my enemy and all that jazz!”

Lutentiant finally freed himself from the blue-masked turtle’s hands and straightened, brushing himself off before pointing an accusing finger at Leo. “You turtles started this mess! It’s your fault that Draxum got the armor piece at the Botanical Gardens instead of us. Not to mention the fact that he is obsessed with you.”

Leo just rolled his eyes and surfed towards the subway car. “Whatever dude,” he called over his shoulder. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go save your boyfriend.”

The wind drowned out the former Lutentaint’s hoarse protests as he raced after his brothers. 

Leo arrived just in time to watch the show. “Hey losers!” Mikey called, jumping into the car, surprising and wrapping up the soldiers, paper and real, with his kusari-fundo. 

“I think this is your stop,” Raph finished, tearing up the paper soldiers. In the snapper’s haste, a few real foot soldiers broke out of the chain and fell out of the subway car.

“Hey, Raphie?” Leo called, joining them and dodging a hit. “I think one of the dudes that fell out of the car was the leader, the one with the freaky mask. Didn’t we leave Donnie back there?” He opened a portal, causing the paper soldiers that one of the human ones made teleport somewhere else. “Do you think…”

“Don’t worry, Leo!” The red-masked turtle responded, smashing a soldier into one of the walls and knocking her unconscious. “Donnie’s smarter than the rest of us put together. I’m sure he’s got something up his sleeve…” ——————————————————————Donnie equipped his newest invention to the train tracks, thrill at getting to test it out sparking through him. His weapon charged up as his quarry stumbled down the tunnel. “Y’know you guys should watch where you step down here,” he mused, his new invention making a buzzing noise and warming up in his hands. “The third rail can be quite deadly.”

He pointed the purple painted gun at them, artwork courtesy of Mikey, with a smug smile on his face. “And I only need a fraction of its power to charge this taser rifle I designed last night.” The tunnel lit up with electric green light, a sign that it was powered up and ready. “One hit, and you’ll be out for hours. Who wants to go first?”

His confidence vanished immediately as the ninja in the lead gave him a look of contempt that Donnie could see even through his weird mask. “Foolish child,” he spat, picking up his weapon and moving faster than the softshell could blink.

Donnie fired the taser, but it was too late. “You face ninja,” the foot leader sneered, nimbly leaping out of the way with his companion. They threw a couple of shuriken, one piercing Donnie’s shoulder and the other cutting through his power supply.

“Oh that’s not good,” the softshell yelped, trying to salvage his invention. “I can fix this! I can fix this! I CAN TOTALLY FIX THIS—” Donnie’s rambling was cut off as he took a blow to his plastron, flinging him across the tracks. “You know it turns out I cannot fix this…,” he finished weakly.

“You are not true ninja.” Pain ripped through his jaw as Mask Guy bashed his foot into his face. “You mask your deficiencies with cheap tricks. That is the way of the weak. You cannot best true strength and skill!”

“Scoff! I’m just smart enough to use every tool at my disposal,” Donnie retorted, pulling out his tech-bo. “Now eat plasma!”

The purple-masked turtle expected to use his battle shell to fly up into the air and blast the foot soldiers with his tech-bo. However, to his dismay, his battle shell gave a rumble and then fell off, exposing his vulnerable shell. His tech-bo short circuited and fell apart in his hands. “NO!”

“We have tools of our own,” Mask Guy continued triumphantly. His partner threw two more shurikens at the softshell. Donnie hissed in pain as one embedded itself in the edge of his shell. “Tools that our forebearers have mastered over centuries. Elevating the skill of their use into an art form. I can’t imagine what the great Lou Jitsu must think of you.”

Mask Guy’s words cut into Donatello’s heart, opening old wounds and bringing back long buried insecurities. His words hurt so much that the softshell didn’t see the chain that swept his legs out from under him. He let out a cry of pain as his shell hit the hard ground, gravel digging into it. The rail probably interfered with my tech! Donnie realized as he feebly attempted to block more shurikens as they cut into his arm.

He tried to activate his panic button, but Mask Guy knocked it out of his weak grip. Blood flew from his mouth as he took another hit to the face. “Perhaps this is mercy,” Mask Guy said maliciously, pointing his spear at Donnie’s throat. Panic clouded his senses as he stared at the sharp point as it lunged downwards…

His twin’s voice cut through his stupor. “GET AWAY FROM HIM!” Leo put Mask Guy in a headlock, his eyes narrowed with fury. 

Mask Guy grabbed the slider and threw him, smashing him into the opposite wall. “Don’t you see, boy? I am freeing you!” Fear sent Donnie’s heart racing as he turned back to him, his spear ready to strike again. “Imagine how strong you would be if you never had to protect the runt of your litter.”

Raph appeared out of the darkness, his face twisted with anger and fear. He punched Mask Guy in the face, so hard that he was sent flying farther down the dimly lit tunnel. “I’m plenty strong enough already,” he snarled, baring his teeth.

Leo helped Donnie up as Mikey turned towards the unconscious ninja, pure rage flashing across his face. “Just because Donnie’s as good a fighter as the rest of us, doesn’t mean that he’s not a million times better than bad guys like you!”

He then turned back to Donnie, his eyes wide with concern. “D, are you okay?! We totally thought you were a goner for a second there. Thank pizza supreme in the sky that we got down here in time!”

“Y-yeah,” Donnie stammered, shock still slowing his thoughts. “Thank pizza supreme in the sky…” ——————————————————————When they got back to the lair, Leo patched up his wounds as he and April chewed him out. “You’re lucky we got there,” Leo growled, not looking up from his wrapping. “You could have died, Donnie.”

“Ooooo I wish I was there,” April ranted. “I would have taught those jerks a lesson they would never forget! But seriously, D, you need to be more careful.”

“I know,” Donnie mumbled again, unable to meet his sister’s gaze. “I’m sorry.”

Her face softened. “We’re just worried about you, Donnie.”

“I know,” the softshell repeated, shifting around so his twin could treat his shell.

As April fell silent, the only noises for a few minutes were Raph and Mikey stuffing their faces with pizza. “Don’t listen to what that guy said,” Leo advised, putting the rest of the bandages away. “You don’t slow us down, Donnie. You’re all set, just no training for you for the next few days.”

As his twin and April retreated for pizza, Donnie was left alone with his thoughts. Leo might not believe it, he thought, shame burning a hole in his heart. But I do slow us down. He just doesn’t want to admit it. Dad probably is embarrassed by me, I bet all he said at that Demolition Derby was just another thing to get me to let him control the tank. Don’t worry, he comforted himself. That's all going to change soon, because I have a plan…

I thought about making this into a whole fic but I don’t want to. I feel like Donnie would try to become stronger by building a giant robot to help him fight. But the robot becomes sentient and almost destroys New York. Donnie would use more robot parts to try and stop the giant robot but the AI almost takes over his brain, forcing Donnie to believe in himself to break the control. He would also need the help of his brothers and FINALLY get even more approval from Splinter. Anyways, thanks for reading :)

[snowfinches]

(based of this idea i had lol)

it had been a long time without scaramouche.

you moved on, moved onto a region free from baal’s reign. a region full of nature. you were loving it. zubayr theater had become a huge part of your life. everyone there was like family. the theater troupe's lives had intertwined with yours, distracting you from the distant memories of a lover that had been gone for so long.

you were content to forget him. even if your heart longed for the past, you were taken by the whims of theater and dancing, trying to focus your attention elsewhere so that you wouldn't hurt so much.

it was comforting, how regular your routine was. you got up, you ran a few errands for the theater, had lunch, composed ideas for nilou's next dance and tried not to fret over how hurt you felt over scaramouche.

everything was going fine. though his words continued to echo in your head, you still held onto the false hope that he'd come whisk you away again, take you to have the prettiest, calmest nights with him where eerything felt okay. you hoped, wished and prayed that the harsh words he spoke were false, words said in the spur of the moment, though you never really had any way of knowing. as much as you hated to admit it, scaramouche was on your mind more than ever, and you missed him.

you were fine, until you heard about the fatui's deeds in sumeru.

you didn't mean to eavesdrop. no, you were simply passing by, and you happened to overhear an interesting conversation nilou had with the mysterious traveler. something about the fatui. whispers about il dottore, the harbinger. you were reminded of a harbinger - but you sighed and went about your routine, resisting the urge to inquire about it. it was probably just dottore anyway, scaramouche was long gone and probably trying to take over inazuma for all you cared.

well, that was what you believed until you heard his name.

again, you hadn't the intention to eavesdrop. but, somehow, conveniently, the traveler was within your earshot again, and you just happened to hear scaramouche's name. you were simply curious about the commotion near pardis dyhai, and happened to overhear his name. the balladeer was becoming a god.

hope, uneasy and unwanted, bloomed within you. your heart screamed at you, hoping that you'd see him again, hoping he would make it up to you, hoping he would take back his harsh words. but you dismissed that hope, huffing to calm your inner turmoil. life was going great, and you didn't need a harbinger to come waltzing back to ruin your accustomed routine. 

that was until you heard word of scaramouche's involvement in the whole plan.

this had been after the grand sage had been arrested. you were so intent on not focusing on your mixed feelings for scaramouche, going about your daily routine, that a week or two had passed. you were fairly aware of the fatui's presence in sumeru, as well as slightly aware of the akademiya's odd behavior. though, you still didn't think scaramouche was in sumeru, until you were told so.

surprisingly, you hadn't been conveniently within earshot this time. no, you had been approached by katheryne from the adventurer's guild, who seemed to have hinted scaramouche's involvement, a possibly indication that he wanted to see you, as well as where he was.

how katheryne (someone who was, again, from the adventurer's guild) knew about any of the fatui's plans, was foreign to you. but that wasn't on your mind for long.

a rush of impulsiveness, a careless act. you had decided to find him, and katheryne's hints were of great help.

and there he was, laying unconscious, looking so peaceful.

"is he okay?" you quickly asked the small child that was residing next to him, who knowingly smiled at you.

"he's okay." she whispered, motioning for you to come forward.

hesitant, you obliged, walking closer to observe his sleeping form. as if he heard the footsteps, he stirred, and you, startled, were almost afraid of waking him, almost afraid of him seeing you. you considered leaving, but scaramouche's voice, fragile and quiet, had stopped you. he had murmured your name.

"i'm here." you mumbled to him, taking his hand in yours. barely noticeable, but still there, there was a small smile upon his face. “i’m here.”

[bokettochild]

I Am My Master's Sword

So... I ended up having feelings about Fi. Mostly because of a a post that was shared before my Tumblr break about her. Like, we talk about how Fi might have felt when Wind pulled her, and I know- I know! I talk about him a lot but-

Legend.

Legend was a kid, maybe even younger than Time was, when he pulled the sword. And unlike in the other timelines where Fi's decision hurt the hero, in this one, he died!

Fi is dedicated to, and assigned, one task; to help her master protect the world. So how would it effect her to fail in that task and let her master die? Only to be given another one, just as young and small and weak, to try and guide?

Anyways, I caught Fi feels and wrote her a little thing. It is TTTB compliant, but you don't have to read that 30+ Chapter mess to read this.

Hope y'all enjoy!

Perhaps it was not the goddess’s will, but Fi had favorites.

Logically, a sword should not have any attachment to her many masters, she should have been cold and loyal to all of them, granting them her power and aid until they returned her to her rest, and then waited for the next one to come and draw her blade.

But even so, there were a few of her masters that she had an especial fondness, for, even despite her attempts to remove her own feelings from the equation.

Master. Matdas. Link. The Hero of the Surface and the Sky. Chosen Hero of Hylia herself, her dearest and closest friend, easily stood at the top of her list of favorite heroes. He was the one to forge her to her fullest power and stand by her side. Certainly, he was an eternally exhausted and somewhat easily distracted young man, but in her lengthy experience, it seemed that was simply Her Grace’s preference for heroes. The point was that her first Master was her favorite, and dearest of friends, and despite his flaws; his tardiness and inability to focus for long periods, his utter cluelessness when conversing with other individuals, and his (honestly endearing) love of danger; she adored him.

They could not remain together forever though. She may be her Master’s sword, but a knight only requires the use of his blade as long as he is in battle, and with Demise defeated, there was no need for her power to be continuously used. It was with great sadness that Master had laid her to rest, and had Fi ad a heart, she had little doubt that she would have shed many a tear at their parting.

She lay at rest for many years.

The hero after her Master had no need of her power, forging his own blade like his ancestor before him and defeating evil without her aid.

It was the hero that followed after that that weighed heavy on her mind.

The young Hero of Time was both her greatest regret and her greatest sorrow. A mere child, one too young for her voice to be of any aid to him, her calculations and estimates nothing in comparison to the orb of blue light -a fairy she had determined- that filled the air with chatter and guided the boy along. Had she had her way here, he too would have gone on without having to wield her power. Such a choice was not in her metaphorical hands however, and when small fingers had clasped her hilt the possibilities of the future had overwhelmed her.

In another world, the sleep she sent him into saved him. In another world, her strength was enough. In another time, the hero survived and moved on with his life. In another world he grew up and was married and was happy. The echoes of that world resounded within her, but they were not the life that she saw in this time. No. In this time, her blade clattered to the ground amid the churned-up dirt and seeping blood as a boy too young had released his last breaths in an agonizing scream.

The princess defeated the monster that was Ganon, sealing him away. The princess took her blade in her hands and carried it far away from the castle, hiding it in a grove with a bitter curse on her lips for the blade's failure to protect its master.

Still stained in blood and dirt, Fi took the admonition of Her Grace’s incarnate, fully aware of her own failure in the gristly matter.

She sat alone in that grove for centuries.

Trees rose and fell and hand after hand tugged at her blade, curious but unworthy to remove her. Children had played at her base, uninjured by her dull blade as stories were shared about where the youngsters thought the broken and neglected blade had come from.

“A princess put it there.” A pink haired child had told his playmates. “I saw her in a dream once.”

“A princess?”

“Sure, Link, an’ my Gran’s a duchess!”

The other children had laughed and teased, eventually tiring of their play and wending back to where their parent’s and families gathered on the edge of the grove, half-way through a journey, no doubt to a festival or event in castle town.

Fi had watched with a stiff little smile. They were precious beings, Her Grace’s children, she could understand why Master and the Spirit Maiden had been so dedicated to protecting these people if such small beings were possible. She enjoyed watching them, as much as a sword spirit could, perched, invisible to the mortal gaze, on the hilt of her blade, watching games of tag and hide and go seek with dull eyes.

None of them should have been able to see her.

Purple eyes met hers regardless, shining and curious, and so painfully innocent.

Had the spirit had a heart, it would have sunk in her chest at the smile and shy wave cast her way.

“By Miss Blue Lady.” The boy had whispered, darting off with his playmates back to their caravan.

And just like that, she’d known that evil would again rise soon.

None but a Hero of Hylia ought to have been able to see her.

She dreaded the day that the hands of the pink haired boy would wrap around her blade. Would he be a child still, like the last one? Would he have aged at least as much as her beloved Master? Still young, but old enough to at least bare the weight of her blade without stumbling? Would Her Grace be able to hold strong long enough that her Chosen Ones would be allowed to age enough to bare their heavy burden?

Her soul wavered when the blade was pulled at last, and had she been capable, she would have cried tears of sorrow when she saw her new Master.

He was still so small...

She was far too big for him, just as the hero before him, but the very thought of sending him off, putting him to sleep like she had the last one..... The Hero of Time’s soul would have stirred and roamed free to find and shatter her should she do so, she had little doubt. And she would wish it. Never again, never again would she trap a mind in a body too old, nor would she so illy prepare her master as she had her last.

In another time, another world, a place covered with waves as far as the eyes could see, her choice was the same, and when a small boy, only twelve or so years of age had come, she had breathed her blessing on him even as a soul foreign to the Hero’s Destiny had pulled her free. In that world, her Master had not fallen, but the world had been corrupted in the wake of their victory, and it was left without a guardian to save it from the evils of the world.

But in this world, she had held herself aloof from the young one in her care, careful to not impress on him the destiny he neither chose not embraced. Duty pushed this child, orders of one above him and the glimmer of hope that whatever sorrow burdened his young heart might be relieved. There was little she could say or do to him regardless, after all, she was not meant to be locked into stone, away from Her Grace’s power and touch, where her blade could not regain its power and where she grew weak and damaged.

There was little she could do to aid the little hero, her Young Master, but Hylia’s wisdom touched the young one’s mind and he, rather than forsaking her for a better blade, took especial care to clean and care for her blade, gathering supplies and taking her to a smithy who strengthened and brightened her blade, and who’s hands guided her Young Master to mend her ailments and restore her to power.

Again, under caring fingers and a soulful gaze, she was restored to her true strength, and when little fingers had set to work, etching away a name in her steel, she’d never done a thing to stop them. He had never seen, but she had smiled at the little one as he looked down at his work with a firm nod.

His smile was so much like Master’s own, it made her spirit sing.

Her new master, her little master, the youngest she had known yet (in this time and in this world) was a good one. He tended her blade with all the care due by a young smithy, and even after he had replaced her to her resting place, his enemy defeated and his world saved, he’d taken care to visit and tend to her blade.

While he worked, he’d sing.

Sometimes the Ballad of the Goddess that he hummed, sometimes an old song she didn’t know. Sometimes he’d chatter, telling her about his day and how the world was. About the apple orchard beside his house and how it prospered, about the princess that was his sister, and about the things they’d seen on their journey.

Unlike before, violet eyes did not rest on her when she perched on the sword’s hilt, attentive and silent, but that did not stop her from watching him as he attended to her blade and the stone it was set in, as he cared for the ground and the area around it with all the worry and knowledge of a budding gardener.

But then he had stopped coming, and only the princess had come to her once and again, until Farore’s Oracle herself came, taking her blade in hand and whisking them away to a faraway country where her little hero, a bit older and a bit more experienced, waiting to take her on another adventure.

He had had help this time, there were friends and a mentor at his back as he fought the corrupted Golden Goddess that had been Nayru, but now acted only as a puppet to the evil Veran. There was no small amount of pride in the spirit’s soul as she watched him lead an army to destroy Ganon once more, to defeat Koume and Kotake and destroy the Tower of Evil that Veran had caused to be built.

Adventure after adventure, she had watched her little hero grow in skill and body. But with each task, each fateful quest, she had seen light leave violet eyes until they were hard and cold as stone. Eyes that lacked the purity and innocence to see her when at last her strength had fully returned. He no longer spoke to her, even as his hands worked dutifully over her blade. Only a set jaw and harsh stare met her gaze when she tried to catch his eye again, and again the spirit’s lack of a heart to break was felt as she watched bitterness and anger take over the boy as he cast aside any faith he may have once held for the Oracles and Her Grace Hylia.

Like a mother whose child has gone astray, she mourned, watching as task after task had consumed the innocent child and fueled the anger of the troubled teenager.

Sword spirits were not meant to have feelings, or to love and grow fond, and perhaps this was why. Because any Hero who must wield his blade for too long will change and grow callus and bitter towards those he loves, and she would have to watch the life fade from them as anger took hold. Hylia had attempted to grant her peace, to save her from the curse that was feeling, but she had pushed just enough to taste it, and now it was hers and a curse that weighed heavily on her as she was carried to and fro on quest after quest after quest.

Fi should not have known all of this, should not have known the heroes that she would meet in the future. Her memories should not have swum to her as nine heroes gathered, each baring his own blade as once more her Master had drawn her from her place to join with his fellow heroes to fight an evil that danced through time with no regard for its sacred pattern and the delicate lines cast between worlds. By all calculations, she ought not be able to know each in all of their individual splendor and lack thereof. She should not have known that the last of their number was once the youngest to wield her blade, or that in his time her strength was nothing to the world it was needed to save.

She shouldn’t have known that the boy’s father was a knight who’s power had been corrupted with her strength, a man brought near to ruin in her desperate attempt to right the wrongs she had done to those before him. Her strength was returned in his time, and it had nearly saddled her with the weight of another hero’s death.

She shouldn’t have known the beast that tamed himself with her power, the wolf that stirred inside the heart of a Hylian who had drawn her strength to himself in a time of shadows and twisted evils that spread far beyond the corrupted worlds and into Her Grace’s blessed land itself.

And there was her Master, and the child hero who she had killed and saved and ruined and lost all at once, alive from the time he had moved on from when he had left her yet returned her, his life tangled in the web of time and leaving holes and breaks across its surface. There too was her young master, angry and bitter and harsh, and two heroes whose fingers had never borne her strength; a hero whose power had forged his own blade and another who’d yet to find her in his desolate world.

Could a sword spirit sing in more than battle, she would have cried her thanks to the goddesses for a chance to see all of her masters, both claimed and not, gathered. Something stirred in her, although what it was was anyone’s guess, and no calculations and algorithms could determine its source, but Fi would smile as she danced in battle on her Master’s fingertips, protecting those that she had failed and who had been called too young, with the aid of one who she had grown and learned with.

It was her honor to aid them, to travel at their backs and to protect them from the darkness that followed and attacked them. To cleanse evil from their forms and return them too how they ought to have been. But her joy came when at last she could see her heroes connect.

A battle gone wrong, a misstep from one of the heroes and Master had been gravely injured, left unable to carry her and leaving her to be held and wielded by another until he was healed. There was arguing for who had a right, for who had a cause and who would wield her best, but at last she was landing in familiar hands, ones that fingered the etching on her hilt with a knowing and bitter look, but who treated her kindly as he pulled her baldric and sheath over his thin shoulders and followed along behind.

She should have kept silent, she ought to have. She had not spoken to any but the first and the last of her many masters, but she was unable to prevent it when she heard the thoughts of her Young Master.

It’s not like Sky’s actually just my Great-grandfather or something like that, he’s just... I just... I don’t want him to scold me is all. The royal family doesn’t last that long, Hyrule is wrong.

Since watching Master re-unite with the Spirit Maiden, she had not known such curiosity and -maybe it was joy- at hearing the thoughts of one of the heroes that had wielded her.

“So, you are Master’s offspring?”

Despite how the young hero -one of her favorites and the dearest to her soul, beside his ancestor in what might pass as her heart- might complain, she knew he found comfort in hearing her voice. It brought something to stir within her as well.

After centuries of silence, yet from master’s time no time at all, she was freed from silence and able, again, to converse with one of those to which she had been bound for eternity, and through him, Master.

Sword Spirit’s weren’t supposed to have favorites. But the pink-haired child that bore the Gift of Hearing and Understanding, be it animal, plant or spirit voices that he spoke to, was the connection to herself and her Master, a Link, if she might dare jest, to both her past and future, and to the heroes who she had been promised to protect. He stood beside the Chosen Hero in her memory, a favorite. And she too must have been dear to him, why else would he take such care to keep his mark on her hilt, a poorly scrawled name, only four letters, but ones that meant everything.

L-I-N-K.

The mark of ownership. A claim. A promise, and one that she would also keep and honor in kind.

She was her Master’s Sword, but she was also the blade of his descendent, and if pride could be felt by the Goddess’s blade, then Fi would have been bursting with it.

[thearvariblues]

Of all the flowers you picked

Inspired (unsurprisingly) by The Amazing Devil’s beautiful Elsa’s Song

*

Geralt didn’t believe the news about Jaskier’s death at first. He never did. Those rumors came and went all the time, spread mostly by wannabe-bards wanting to earn more money by claiming that their mediocre attempt at a ballad is the last work of the one and only Jaskier, or by Valdo Marx, who probably thought that if enough people believe in a thing, it will come into being.

Oh, no, Geralt didn’t believe his Jaskier was dead.

He was very much alive, as always, probably charming his way into a pretty boy’s pants right now.

And Geralt would meet him in Oxenfurt in a month, just as they’d agreed before parting ways, and they would have a good laugh.

*

But this rumor didn’t go away. It was actually becoming more and more widespread the closer he got to Oxenfurt.

He couldn’t get away from it. In every tavern he went to, at every market, he heard the same. The White Wolf’s bard had died.

With every step taken towards Oxenfurt, Geralt’s hope grew dimmer and dimmer, flickering feebly in his chest.

The accounts of what had actually happened to the bard differed, of course, from being stabbed by an angry husband of one of his conquests to drowning in a river while trying to save a student. And while Geralt could see the former being true, he couldn’t, for one second, believe the latter.

When the dying flame of hope in his chest finally went out, he was two days away from Oxenfurt, sitting in a tavern he had stopped at for night. He would have preferred to ride on, but he had pushed Roach enough during the past few days, and she needed her rest.

That was when he heard the whispered conversation between a young patron and a traveling minstrel.

“I’m telling you,” the patron was saying. “I study there, I know. He was just lying there in his bed like a ragdoll, staring. Someone must’ve poisoned him, I don’t know. Or it was magic. He was what, sixty? And he didn’t look a day over twenty. Maybe he just couldn’t afford whatever was keeping him young all that time.”

“Might have been a revenge,” the minstrel suggested. “He must’ve pissed lots of people off when he was alive.”

“I dunno,” the patron said. “If it was, I probably means he shouldn’t have got separated from that stupid Witcher of his.”

Geralt took a long, shaking breath.

He drank himself into oblivion that night. And the night after. And the next.

*

When he finally reached Oxenfurt, tired and reeking of cheap vodka, it didn’t take much to find someone who would point him to the place where they buried the bard – a little hill in a wood just west of the town walls.

Geralt knew from Jaskier’s stories that the bard always loved going there, either to think, compose, get drunk or, on several occasions, have a romantic midnight rendez-vous.

It was on his way there when he realized that he probably should have brought flowers. It was what people did, wasn’t it? Geralt didn’t really know. He mostly dealt with dead monsters, and those didn’t really care about common courtesy.

But then of course, Jaskier would rather see him bring the cheap vodka than some flowers.

And it didn’t matter, anyway. Because Jaskier was dead, and no matter what Geralt would do, he would stay that way.

But then he passed a window, and on its windowsill sat a flowerpot full of sage, and what harm would it do to just take a few of those little purple flowers and bring them to his bard? So Geralt did.

And then, a few minutes later, he also took several white lilies from a flowerbed near another house.

And then he plucked several red roses from a bush by the city gate.

And then, as he was crossing a stream in the wood, he saw little blue blooms in the grass, almost the same color as Jaskier’s eyes.

Geralt looked down at his mismatched bouquet and sighed. He heard an echo of a drunken conversation he and the bard had several years ago.

“One day, I’ll be dead,” Jaskier had said. “And you, my dear Wolf, will forget me. Boom. In a heartbeat.”

“No. No, Jaskier. No,” Geralt had insisted. “I will never forget you.”

“Prove it.”

“Prove it? How?”

“When I’m dead and you come to lay flowers on my grave – shut up, you will – I want you to bring me forget-me-nots.”

“But you won’t know if I did it or not. You’ll be…” he had gulped, unable to say the words.

“Dead,” Jaskier had finished for him. “I’ll be dead, Geralt. But I will know. Trust me. I will.”

“Fine. I’ll do it. Whatever.”

“Promise me, Geralt.”

“I promise.”

And now, Geralt bit his lip, staring at those tiny flowers mocking him with their color, and then he ran, ran away from the stream and the horrible blue blooms and his foolish promise.

He ran until he reached the hill, and on it, a simple grave with a little headstone, so unbecoming of the frivolous bard that Geralt wanted to scream.

He fell on his knees in front of the headstone, breathing heavily, and placed the tiny bouquet on the ground, hand shaking.

So this was it. This was where his bard would forever rot.

Geralt closed his eyes, feeling the tell-tale prickle of tears.

His urge to scream grew stronger, memories of Jaskier rushing through his mind no matter how hard he tried to stop them. Everything they’d been through, great adventures and small ones, and everyday moments, too. He could almost hear Jaskier’s melodic voice, see his bright smile, and his eyes, blue, so blue…

“I love you,” he said, words he’d never dared to say, to even think too loud. He threw his head back and looked up to the sky. “You hear me?” he shouted. “I fucking love you you dead bastard!”

He didn’t know what he expected. A rainbow? A little bird singing the melody of Toss a Coin To Your Witcher? Some fucking sign that the bard heard?

He knew what he didn’t expect.

He didn’t expect to actually hear Jaskier’s voice by his side.

“Of all the flowers you picked…”

Geralt gasped for breath as a man stepped into his line of vision – and it was Jaskier, looking just as he did he last time Geralt saw him, but also different somehow. His eyes seemed brighter, his skin was almost glowing, and his smile…

Geralt’s medallion hummed.

“I knew you would forget,” the bard said, his inhuman face grinning, “forget-me-nots.”

[seventfics]

Love your writing. Prompt: Jaskier has abandonment issues, which he tries and fails to hide. Angsty shenanigans ensue

[Thank you! ☺️ I normally don’t do prompt requests but this is right up my alley of emotional suffering, so,]—x

So it’s true that Jaskier has everything anyone could ever want in life. He was born into comfort, held status and name, and had the fortune of education, though that last one was beaten into him mercilessly because he was not an easy child. He had it all—

He still has it all, if he wants it. Nothing stops him from returning to teach in Oxenfurt. No one will deny him his family title, of properties or inheritance. On the contrary, he’s earned even more renown by his lyrics and poetry and Continental ballads, his name known to every court and tavern. People flock to him for his tales of the White Wolf—and that too is part of his renown, for he turned the Butcher into a hero at no cost of his own but a few sore throats after eveningfuls of encores—

They invite him for festivals, banquets, courtly affairs. They propose to him, bed him, threaten him out of towns for having bed the wrong person. He is famous. He is the bard Jaskier. And when his fame and his charm are no longer a novelty, people are quick to move on. 

In Lettenhove, in his early years, there was a tutor who praised him for his sharp musical ear. The old man spent many hours of the day showing him the value of the arts, something that left an imprint in his very soul. Not a year later, his parents sent him to temple school to learn his letters. He never saw the old tutor again—

In Oxenfurt, there was a girl who loved him for his voice. She was beautiful and sweet, her laughter like winter bells. By Summer’s end, she found a painter who worshipped at her feet like a dutiful priest at the altar of the gods. He doesn’t remember her name—

There were many like that girl since, and every time, he learned to accommodate a little better to keep them longer, to no avail—

In Posada, there was a witcher who huffed and groused at his company, and yet allowed him to come along on his journey. He was kind in a guarded way, a way familiar to Jaskier—the echoes of someone who has given himself up many times, only to suffer loss and rejection. Heartbreak hangs about him like a cape. And it takes Jaskier some time but he accommodates, learning the witcher’s limits, his preferences, what’s a jest and what’s a jab at old wounds—

 “What’s this, you’re going to hunt the drowners now?”

The witcher is packing his bags neatly by the door. He offers a brief nod. “It’s early. They’ll be sluggish.”

“Give me a moment, I’ll come with.”

He’s given a strange look that says nothing of the sort will be happening. “No you’re not, bard. You’ll get yourself killed.”

Jaskier takes the threat of life in stride. “I’ll hang back, I swear, who wouldn’t want to see the great White Wolf in action!”

Sometimes the witcher huffs, indulging him. Other times, dreadful times, he orders him to stay put. So Jaskier waits in taverns, sitting on his hands. It’s the hardest thing for him to do. To wait. He does not sing, not while his gut twists and his fingers flutter nervously on wood. He simply waits and thinks about all the reasons why his company is but a burden on coin and travel, the witcher so used to traveling alone.

And every time Geralt comes barreling through the front door wet with gore, his mind and his chest empty of all aches.

“Oh thank the gods, you’re—still in one piece,” he says, because shouting you’re back, you’re alive, you didn’t die and leave me behind is far too much of a weight to throw on Geralt’s shoulders, he knows. 

Geralt merely grunts, shaking off some of the grime. “Of course I am.”

 It’s like that. The witcher leaves on a hunt, and on the times Jaskier cannot follow, he waits. Geralt always comes back—if not for him, then at least for the reward. It’s at the end of every crossway where they part face to face, never knowing if they’ll meet again.

And Jaskier continues his own journey, in search not of home, but its opposite. Of a place that will forever change to the years and the seasons and never bore him. Never bore of him. No one should know him any more than he is allowed to know another, except—

Except the witcher Geralt of Rivia who he meets again and again. Knowing him more with every meeting—

—A noise in the forest, distant, and Geralt gets up with his swords from camp.

Jaskier just fumbles, “You’re not just going to leave me here twiddling my thumbs in the dark, are you?”

“I’ll be right back, bard. I have to check—”

—A shared room on low coin, and never a problem between them. Jaskier stirs awake to the bed moving. 

“Sum’thing up? Y’have to go?” He tries to mumble through a dry mouth. Geralt nudges his head down.

“No, I just need to eat. You keep sleeping, Jaskier—”

—A storm, and they’re both holed in a damp cave. Geralt looks ready to throw himself out in the rain and hunt for the Kikimore queen anyway.

“Geralt, please don’t leave in—in this storm.”

Geralt does listen, perhaps because he sounds a bit more shaken than usual. They’ve already gone low on provisions because the rain soaked through their bags. They need the coin. And it would have been fine, if Jaskier hadn’t insisted they go through this town—

Foolishly, dangerously, he becomes attached. Years go by. A decade. Two. There is no one else Jaskier knows more in his life. Geralt’s mannerisms, his expressions, his disquiet. He knows them all in the silence across a campfire, and he hopes he is known in return. 

He hoped at the banquet in Cintra, barely whispering of a need that he dared not tell anyone else. 

He hoped in the chaos of Rinde, of the djinn and the witch, begging for the witcher to choose him first. 

And he hoped in the mountains of King Niedamir. 

And his hope is not enough.

Jaskier knows to bear smiles and jokes for the right crowds, and he knows how to be serious in certain company. He learned to accommodate a little better to keep people longer, of course, to no avail. Even with Geralt—

He should never have grown complacent, believing that things would be different this once. He became attached—beyond attached, beyond need, beyond affection—

“I'll go get the rest of the story from the others,” Jaskier says in parting on that mountain, because if he makes light of it, then it will sluice off his frame like water, undamaging. He can pick himself up to keep searching for that place—of that someone that will never bore of him, that will never forget him and throw him aside.

Despite his efforts, there’s a chasm in his chest. A breathlessness like a wound that doesn’t want to heal. And he lingers at the foot of the mountain when he sees Roach nibbling on dry grass, tethered by the inn’s poor stable poles. 

He doesn’t know how long he stays with her, petting her coat. She indulges him, preferring his company over the stablehand’s. There’s a joke there somewhere, about her being as obstinate as her rider, but he can’t bear to say it. Can’t bear to speak through the stone lodged in his throat—

And he shouldn’t be with her, not if he wants to avoid the witcher who so clearly and plainly told him to take off for good. But Roach is sweet. For once, she doesn’t bite his wrists. Instead she nickers, snuffling his dusty doublet. Maybe she’s learned to accommodate for heartbreak too, as it seems to follow where Geralt goes, whether caused by his hand or brought upon him—

“Jaskier.”

He freezes in place. He cannot turn. To see his blazing expression would be too much—

“Sorry. I won’t be staying. I’m just,” his voice fades as it starts to shake. How can he explain why he’s touching the witcher’s mare, for the simple comfort that she offers in not shying away from his touch?

“Jaskier.”

It is a demand for him to turn. He recognizes it in Geralt’s voice. Jaskier clenches his hands on Roach’s mane—

Refusing doesn’t work, as the witcher takes his shoulder to pull him back—

There are no fixed smiles left in him. No jest, no shrug. He hurts too deeply to put forth the effort. He is the bard Jaskier, but in front of Geralt of Rivia, he’s just alone. He has everything anyone could ever want in life, and not a lick of it matters with no one to stay for him, no one to call a friend—

But Geralt is not angry. He doesn’t quite look like anything except intense, keeping his wide yellow eyes on Jaskier’s own as he grips his shoulder tight. 

“Let me go,” Jaskier says because he cannot take being seen so deeply, so closely, and not being wanted—

“No.” Geralt’s grip turns painful. “You—don’t want me to.”

Something breaks in him at the words—the truth in them—and it burns in his eyes and it burns his throat—and burns to tears shed pressed to black leather, his hands scrambling at the hard surface of Geralt’s armor. 

He doesn’t want to be let go. Geralt holds him to his chest and he feels like stone cracking under pressure. Like gravel being crushed—

“I was angry,” the witcher says, swallowing against Jaskier’s ear, “I didn’t mean it,” tucking his face into Jaskier’s hair, “I don’t want you to go.”

And maybe it’s cruel or greedy but he wants for Geralt to ache like he does. To feel terror at being left behind. At it being Jaskier who walked away—hurting, choked by his own surging feelings—from the mountain first, by his offense—

Another part is relieved. Because Geralt does know him, after everything, after Jaskier’s efforts to know the witcher. He knows him well to strike where it hurts the most. He knew where to tear into with harsh words—

And that by doing so he went too far and tore into Jaskier’s heart too—

There are no apologies, but there are amends. There is a wavering conversation and one more stay at the inn.

At the crossroads they’ll part again, but not with goodbye. Not with tears or screams or hidden fears. They’ll meet again, like they always have. Better than they always have—

Because this time, and every time since, they part with a promise to see each other again.

[bigkyloenergy]

𝙃𝙊𝙉𝙀𝙔𝙀𝘿 𝙑𝙀𝙉𝙊𝙈

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐘.

a witcher!kylo x reader fic. dark themes, smut ahead. 18+.

summary: you are a barmaid / stablewoman at an inn in toussaint, kylo ren, one of the last of the witchers from the school of the viper regularly stays at the establishment. you wonder what keeps him coming back.

read on ao3.

O Valley of Plenty, O Valley of Plenty….

This song was going to be stuck in your head for weeks. How many times had the bard sang it in the last 24 hours? You could hear him even as you stocked the tables outside, grabbing one of the plates a little too tight when you picked it up. 

It wasn’t as if the man was a bad singer, he had such a following for a good reason — out of all the songs in the land, his favorite was a ballad of Witchers. Reminding you of the last time you’d seen yours, how well you’d memorized the outline of his lips even in the quick look you’d gotten under a setting sun.

Only a few days passed, it felt like weeks. While work would usually occupy you, you spent extra time turning your head toward every incoming guest, just to check if it was him. 

Betty couldn’t stand you working so much, she nearly kicked you out every time dawn began to pass over Beauclair. After you finished the placewear, you said a quick goodbye to cook while you grabbed your things from the kitchen before passing the crowd that was gathered tightly in the inn, warmed by ale and good company. 

Usually, you’d stay after when entertainment was hired at the Pheasantry. You loved music, the tales behind the tunes, letting your body sway and your mind find silence. Ruek didn’t put up an argument either, you figured he was just about as sick of you as the inkeep. And your bed didn’t sound so bad with thoughts of the Viper occupying your mind. 

The cobblestone shined with the reflection of the night sky, the town dressed in a somber silence while your boots clicked down the street. 

Every time you blinked, you saw him. Leading the horse as he fucked you, using the instability to his advantage, leaving you with a bruised cervix, one that demanded you yield every step you took. You weren’t shy to your carnal desires, but he awoke them in a way that seemed unearthly. 

Crickets began to stir in the grass, your walk not being far so you took your time, enjoying the way the buildings looked at night, walking in zigzags since you didn’t have to worry about anyone to run into. Your thoughts were quickly proven wrong when you spotted a hooded woman right in front of your building, like she was looking for something at the bottom of the door.

   “Hey. Can I help you?” You knew the neighbors that lived above you, and the other flat was vacant, and you couldn’t help the suspicion considering the woman wasn’t even trying to ring the bell. 

Her hair fell in raven curls around her face, side profile sharp, and you could tell that her eyes were beautiful even from here. 

  “Are you looking for someone?” 

Again, you tried to gauge her attention, taking a step closer. 

Maybe she was hurt, maybe this was a grandchild of the elderly couple that you didn’t know about. You remembered them telling you that their family was still back home in Novigrad, but maybe you’d missed something in the last conversation you had with the wife.

Reaching your hand out, you barely brushed your fingers over the cloaked shoulder before she was turning, snapping your arm back into your chest. 

What was a regular woman had glowing, white eyes, mouth opening in a hiss — revealing jagged teeth. As you stepped back, fear making you trip over your heel, she advanced on you. In her motions the hood fell, dark hair surrounding her face, and the last thing you saw was her desiccated beauty before everything was black. 

—

    “.... and you, the Witcher who prefers vampires over monsters, come here for a girl?” 

Your head hurt. The ground was hard under you, pebbles indenting your skin while you rolled onto your side. Barely able to register the voice, let alone what they were saying. Blood rushed between your ears. You heard a pop, wondering if it was in your head or wherever you were, trying to recover the last thing you remembered. The woman. 

  “Why don’t you let her stay here, with me?” You cracked an eye, a wall looking back at you, behind you a quick shuffle of feet somewhere before a high pitched shriek burst the tension that was making the room sound like it was underwater.

  “Not as nice as the others say, I thought the first time I met you would be special. A dance of two monsters.” 

  “I don’t dance.” 

His voice, even in your state, had your brain crawling with urgency, looking for the crack of light in confused darkness. 

You rolled again, releasing more tiny rocks that had burrowed in your skin, just in time to see the woman disappear. 

Her clothes the only evidence she was there, Kylo shattering a glass bulb in the same place she’d left. The man grunted, now making eye contact with you. 

The cave began to echo with distant noises of the bruxa. Your head whipped, trying to find the source, adjusting your hindered sight in the darkness. Kylo was turning on his heel, unclipping something from his waistband, another splintering against the floor.

This time, it puffed with silver dust, leaving the air sparkling — and that was when you saw her.

She was decorated by whatever he’d just tossed in that direction, yet you couldn’t completely recognize her, you knew it was the woman outside of the door. The bomb only outlined her frame, but it was enough for him. 

Jumping against the caved walls, she used them to get above the Viper, dropping from the ceiling just as he caught the dagger that was in his left hand between his two forefingers, holding them both to brace for her impact.

Claws scraped along his side, and he took advantage of her weight to grasp her wrist — sending her into the wall next to you. She shrieked, then disappeared again.

Kylo stood above you. He used the curve of his boot, right where your ribcage met your hip, only to toss you farther toward what you assumed was the entrance. 

You gasped, rolling against the floor, trying to protect your softer bits from the collision with the ground. 

Scurrying to the wall, you shrunk yourself against it, pulling your knees into your chest. Still in your skirts from work, you clutched them in clammy palms, the dust burning your nostrils as you swallowed air. 

It was as if you couldn’t completely focus your eyes, Kylo blended with the darkness, his sharp movements as he dodged your captor the only thing spotlighting him. You were too afraid what may come if you looked away. 

His offense was fluid, as if he’d had this fight a thousand times. It was almost like… he wasn’t trying. Kylo would mock her without speaking, his blades barely catching her as she passed, earning gurgling objections from the monster. 

Each time she attempted to invade his space, he was shrugging her off in a lithe twist of his burly body.

The Viper’s very stance was taunting, flicking his daggers outward as if to challenge her. The silver caught in the sliver of moonlight, before it was being tossed through the air and landing directly in her chest. That pissed her off. 

She teleported behind him, jumping onto his back before you could blink, and latched into the side of the Witcher’s neck.

You screamed. 

He shook her off, stumbling forward, gloved hand coming over the wound as she circled him. Crimson dripped from her mutated face, chittering all the way, as if she had already won. You felt your eyes burning with tears, and you refused to let them pass. Monsters was a light term for the cloaked woman who was now besting the Viper. 

Suddenly, her demeanor changed, she was recoling. The noises were turning painful, and this was Kylo’s signal to advance on her. He dropped his hand from his shoulder, grabbing the dagger that was still in her chest. You knew Witchers practiced magic, so you were hoping that would be his big finale to this nightmare. 

It wasn’t.

Kylo coiled his arm around her neck, bringing her back to his chest. She thrashed, and you watched him lock a leg around hers for good measure. He took a few steps like this, making sure that he didn’t lose his grip, and he began to drag the knife upward. Blood splattered at the hilt, splitting open her chest, breaking every bone in its wake. You could hear the cracks between her feral blubbering, snapping her teeth in the air, clawing at any part of him she could find. 

And in one more graceful movement, her top half was completely severed, dropping to nothing in front of her bloodthirsty defeator. And for what seemed like good measure, he pulled out another glass from his pouches, pouring a thick liquid over the body. 

  “What’re you doing?” Your voice broke as you finally spoke, unclutching the skirts that were your only security.

He didn’t even look up.

  “She isn’t dead.” He snapped his fingers, a ball of flame dancing from them, fire sealed her skin before it devoured it, leaving it to ash. 

You opened your mouth again to speak, only nothing came out. So much was on your mind, yet you felt so empty. Numb. You stared at the burnt spot on the cave floor, but Kylo didn’t move. He was watching you, blood still dripping from his shoulder, his mask still perfectly placed over his chiseled nose. 

Through all the adrenaline you were harboring, the desperation to see his face again stayed stubborn.

  “How did you find me? Did you follow.. Where the hell did she even take me?” You stayed in your position, “and what the hell was she? I — thought… you were… She bit you. What were those glasses you were breaking all over the place? Did you just make fire with your fingers? Was she naked?” 

A puff of air through the mixed material in his muzzle was all you got in response, taking a few wide steps to lift you to your feet. You quickly pulled your arm from him. 

  “No. What the fuck? Why can’t you literally answer any questions? Don’t you think you owe me that?” 

  “The second time I’ve saved your life.” he reminded, “I owe you nothing.” 

It was now when you finally got clear vision of his eyes, expecting the golden gaze you memorized, only to nearly collide against the wall when nothing but black looked down at you. Your throat dried, switching between the heavy purple veins under them, and back to his unidentifiable pupils. 

You took a long breath, letting the fear sink into your belly, before you stepped forward, aiming your chin up toward him. 

  “You’ve been in Beauclair this whole time, haven’t you? You just haven’t checked into the inn. Are you avoiding me? You know, you’re the one who decided to pull your dick out on your horse.” 

He growled, taking a deep breath, which only dwarfed you further. 

  “Tell me,” he tipped your chin up, forcing you to meet his dark stare, “are you angry because all you can think about is my cock? You want me to show up at that dull inn and fuck you delerious every night?” Your lips parted, saliva building in your mouth.  

He dropped his hand.

  “Come, or be the next bait for whatever finds home here.” 

Kylo passed you, stepping up the incline that was the exit, even still, you stayed. You crossed your arms over your chest, gauging a reaction from the Witcher. 

  “Maybe whatever comes will show me more mercy than you have.” 

The Viper stopped dead in his tracks, twisting on his heel, before he was closing the space between you at a menacing rate. 

Macabrely stoic, you stared into the abyss that were his eyes, unwavering in your feigned bravery. 

  “Mercy.” He chuckled mockingly, before he snatched you at your throat. Lifting you off of your feet, bringing you level to him. You couldn’t help but think that he looked beautiful like this, his pupils broken, the black matching the armor he wore.

 He surveyed you like this for a moment before releasing you, leaving you to a pile at his feet. 

You grasped at his legs, bringing yourself to some type of stability while you filled your lungs, finding yourself at your knees in front of him. Anticipation breathed at the back of your neck, gooseflesh dressing you. He grabbed your face in exchange, his hand taking the entirety of your jaw with no effort. 

  “You’ll beg for mercy when I’m done with you, little müna.” 

Pushing his leathered fingers into your wet mouth, Kylo forced your jaw open, flattening your tongue while he began to unzip his pants. You churned at the thought of seeing his cock again, ignoring every ounce of morality you had. The dirt under your knees was hard, pinching your flesh as you adjusted your weight. You stared up at him, willing, and he grunted, releasing himself. 

His cock was already hard, waiting, and with the way he prodded your tongue you knew exactly what he wanted from you. But he didn’t give you a beat to do it yourself. 

The Viper removed his hand, shoving his cock in its place, filling you to the base of your throat. You gagged, your fingers reaching to brush against his solid thighs before he smacked your hand away. He reached back up to the shoulder that hadn’t stopped bleeding, coating the glove in the fresh liquid before he smeared it along your face. First your eyes, forcing you to close them, then down your cheeks, painting you in him. 

  “Don’t touch me.” Kylo warned through clenched teeth as he began to push himself into your face, finding a steady rhythm. 

You whimpered against him, leaving your hands in your lap while he collected the majority of your hair in one hand. He snaked his fingers against your scalp, starting at the nape of your neck, letting them lace through the strands before he wrapped it around his knuckles. 

The Viper gave a good tug, forcing you to take every inch of him, bury your nose in his pubes, inhaling his musk, hindering your senses. You were being swallowed by this man, every bit of you knew it, you wanted him in any way he’d give. 

Even if it meant fucking your face on a cave floor after he’d just saved you from a damned vampire. 

“That’s it, choke on it, slut.” He groveled, shimmying your face in a way that would make the tip of his cock bounce along your esophagus. 

Your eyes welled with tears, hollowing out your mouth so you could take this monster’s perfect cock as it should be. Appreciating every inch forced into you, tongue rolling to steal tastes from his slickened skin. 

His sounds egged you on, the low moans that were drowning between his primal growls. You wanted him to go mad with the feeling of your mouth, and this wasn’t enough. You attempted to force your head further, though his hand was doing all the real work, reaching yours up again to cup his balls in your hand. 

You heard a muffled breath before he was ripping you from his erection, forcing you to gaze straight at it, and you were sure no torture device had anything on this. Your spit dripping from his swollen head, the veins protruding and garnishing his dick in the most delicious way. Some saliva dripped from your bottom lip as you looked up at him with confused, desperate eyes. 

Kylo dragged you by your hair, your ass skating across the textured floor, until you met the wall you’d been recoiling to earlier. 

“I told you not to touch me, already stuffed with cock and can’t stop being a disobedient whore.” He spat, before he slammed his cock back into your gaping mouth. 

His thumb hooked at your jaw, over your bottom teeth, dislodging it from your face. You whined, the pain shooting down your neck, through your head, making it harder to breathe when you began to panic. But this didn’t stop the Viper, every time you fussed he would smack his hips hard enough against you that your skull would crack against the earthly wall. 

As you shifted, trying to mask the pain with the pleasure you found in him using you like this — you felt the wetness ruining your undergarments. You squeezed them together in a futile attempt for some pressure, any sort of relief, and Kylo quickly kicked your legs back apart before you could even finish your thought. He held your hair right at the top of your head, forcing stillness, leaning over your body, using your mouth as his personal fuck hole. You could feel him getting harder in your mouth, which only could mean one thing. And you wanted it.

You wanted to feel him shoot down your throat, invade your insides, make home in your belly and know the taste of his spend. 

Excitement was getting the best of you, nipples poking through your blouse as it slipped from your shoulder. He looked down at you, his eyes still plagued with whatever concoction had done this to him, and came in your mouth. 

You tried to open your throat, but the brunt force had swelled it enough to object to swallow. Coughing, you used his cock as a cork to keep the seed down. It was only when you began to feel him softening that he finally pulled out of you. You were more dazed than when you’d woke up here.

Kylo zipped up his pants, watching you all the while. You were beginning to get used to that, the way he looked to you as if you were going to say something earth shattering at any point. Closing your mouth, your jaw clicked back into place with a harsh pang.

Your hand clutched over it, whimpering, trying to move it to make sure that he hadn’t just broken your face trying to use it as a human cock toy. 

Unsure if your feet would even register standing, you lifted yourself to them and your knees immediately wobbed.

The Viper sighed, grabbing you at your hips before he slung you over your shoulder as if you were extra cargo. 

Stepping out of the cave, ducking under the passageways so he wouldn’t hit you along them, his head already reached the top so you were a dangerous addition to his exit. When he mounted Luxe, he didn’t bother with the courtesy of letting you into the saddle in front of him. 

And for the second time, he dropped you at the inn without so much as another word. 

[hawkinsindiana]

i should go

ALMOST PARADISE: PART TWO - CHAPTER FOURTEEN OF FIFTEEN

pairing: steve harrington x henderson!reader

word count: 2.5k

a/n: these are scary and confusing times. so here ya go. i hope everyone’s staying safe and healthy, i love you all <3

masterlist

You don’t know why you thought things were going to get better. You should’ve known better; you’ve never been able to catch a break, even before all of this happened.

The dreams have been getting worse, and more frequent; now, they’re about the kids too. You’ll be back in those tunnels, the ones crawling with vines, and their voices will bounce against the walls. They’re calling out, desperately crying for you to help them, but they’re never found. 

It feels like you run in circles for hours on end, throat going hoarse from screaming their names until you wake, pebbles of sweat dripping from your brow and body frozen in terror. 

Those seem to scare you more - the ones about them. Because it’s your duty to protect them, and you’ve come so close to failing so many times. 

Those ones never let you sleep; you’re left to lie there until morning, fear bubbling inside that something’s happened while you were asleep, thinking they’re gone now and there’s nothing you could’ve done.

Your brother hears it every time. When your careful footsteps approach his door at those ungodly hours, and the door creaks open just a touch so you can quiet your restless mind; Dustin’s always there, safe and sound underneath the sheets, Tews tucked against his feet.

You’ve done that six times now - he figures he should ask what that’s about. Maybe he’ll bring it up to Steve, see if the older boy knows anything. 

But with the town buzzing with holiday cheer, they’ve barely seen you around. Extra shifts at Radio Shack have filled your schedule as the people of Hawkins flock downtown for gifts, especially now that Bob’s no longer there for his usual hours. 

Dustin thinks you should take a break while you’re off from school. He can tell that it’s exhausting when you come home and don’t have the energy to return Steve’s call, but you always have the same answer:

“I need to keep myself busy anyways.”

And Steve - he understands the circumstances. But that doesn’t make it hurt less when Dustin has to deflect and apologize on your behalf.

God, you hope it’s not too much on him-

Your mother snaps you from your trance, tapping the phone against your arm before placing it in your hand, “It’s for you.”

You hadn’t even heard it ring. You don’t know how long you’ve been standing here, shoulder pressed to the wall and eyes focused on the evening news.

You answer it with a sigh, “Yeah?” A perky voice flows easily through the receiver, unfazed by your delivery.

“Hey, it’s Stacy, from the dance committee? We’ve got an emergency over here.”

Mike and Lucas thought it might be a good idea for you to help organize and plan the Snow Ball. Since the group of middle schoolers would be attending this year, they wanted your help to ensure that it was the best one thrown yet. You weren’t so keen on the idea, until you remembered how lame it was a few years back when you went.

“I don’t have to come down there, do I? I thought we took care of everything last night.”

The girl nervously laughs on the other end; you can hear the music from the gym echoing in the room. It almost makes it hard to listen.

“Turns out we need three more bottles of soda. Simon only got five. Since you’re the only one with a car-”

“Yeah, of course,” You interrupt, “I’ll grab some and bring it over. Be there in a jif.”

After ending the call, you grab your cash off the counter on your way to the bathroom. 

“Hey Dustin, I gotta bolt. Can you find-” 

You’re greeted with the sight of your brother, putting the finishing touches on his look for the night - a can of Farrah Fawcett hairspray in one hand. You can’t help the laugh that bursts from you. 

“What, Mom buy you that?”

His head snaps to you in an instant, cheeks turning bright red as you lean your weight against the doorframe. The product’s out of sight immediately afterwards, quickly shoved behind his back, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Dustin swallows harshly at your squinting eyes, arms folding over your chest as you study him. You decide not to ask.

“Uh huh.”

A few tense, silent moments pass as he waits for you to comment further; he hates that smirk on your face, “Did you, uh, need something?”

You clear your throat, shifting on your feet before replying, “Yeah I gotta get to the school now, can you find another ride? Maybe Mrs. Wheeler can come take you?”

Dustin’s expression grows confused, “What are you talking about? I already have a ride.”

Your brow raises in surprise, “You do.”

He shrugs, “Yeah, Steve’s takin’ me.”

And then it clicks; your grin grows. 

“Oh… okay. I’ll see you afterwards then,” You go to grab the door on your way out, but not before adding something else with a wink.

“Don’t worry,” You say, “I won’t tell anyone. And keep this open a touch, yeah? I’d hate for you to suffocate on the fumes.”

—

The gym’s loud and filled with prepubescent teenagers. You can’t wait to get out of here, back to the comforting security of your home.

That feeling intensifies when you lock eyes with who’s standing behind the punch bowl; you already feel yourself retracting inwards before a conversation even begins.

“I didn’t realize you were coming tonight,” Nancy speaks first, letting a small smile spread over her face as you approach the beverage station. 

She seems so much lighter, so much happier since you last saw her. You’re glad that she’s been able to finally move on, even if it is at Steve’s expense. Nobody deserves to be trapped in a relationship they don’t want to be in; you can’t blame her for that. You just wish it hadn’t happened the way it did.

“Oh, I’m not,” You answer, gesturing to the liters of soda you carry in your arms; they’ve started to grow tired from the weight, “I’m just dropping these off.”

Nancy’s expression drops a touch as you place the bottles on the bleachers behind her, “I figured you’d be bringing your brother.”

You brush the condensation off onto your jeans, “No, uh, Steve did that already.”

Confusion is evident as she grows speechless, turning back to face you; the expression she has on her face is enough to explain her emotions - that doesn’t seem like something he’d do.

You laugh at her, “Yeah, I know. Trust me, no one’s more shocked than I am.”

Nancy shakes her head in awe as your back straightens, and she chews on her lip as she debates bringing it up. She decides to.

“Remember when we came to this thing?”

Your eyes move to see her, leaning back against the table, knuckles turning white as she grips the edge. A scoff escapes your mouth as you nod, “How could I forget? Jimmy Hawthorne spilled punch all over my dress twenty minutes in.”

Nancy laughs at the memory, remembering the priceless look on his face as you threatened him, right in the middle of the dance floor, “God, it took my mom all night to get that stain out.”

The silence between you that follows her comment isn’t… uncomfortable. If anything, it’s another step in the right direction. But you still chose to retreat; it’s almost too much, seeing her look at you like that again.

“I guess I’ll see you around, Nance,” You mutter before moving past her, jingling the car keys in between your fingers. All she musters back in response is a wave as she’s swarmed by an incoming gaggle of girls.

The cold air invigorates you as you exit the school building; you don’t know how much longer you could’ve been cooped up in there, surrounded by all the memories. And as you’re making your way to your mother’s car, that’s when you spot him.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?” You raise your voice while you approach, arms crossing over your chest. Steve’s attention is brought up to see you, walking across the parking lot, a lazy smile growing over your rosy cheeks.

“I could ask you the same thing, Henderson,” The corner of Steve’s mouth quirks up as your brow raises at his response, “I asked you first.”

He sighs before running the hem of his sweater between his fingers, “Oh, I figured I should stick around just in case. You never know...”

You snort lightly after Steve allows his sentence to trail off, “Jesus, you’re starting to sound like me. I’m supposed to be the protective one.”

“There are worse things to be,” Steve’s focus is gentle as he watches you come to his side; he’s appreciating every single little detail about this moment. 

The snow is just right - there’s enough of it to create a picturesque scene around you. The muffled love ballads that echo from the school make him feel warm in his chest - he thinks about you when he hears them. The streetlights illuminate your face enough for him to notice when the bridge of your nose scrunches at his words, “Aw, I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“The kids,” You nudge Steve before your gaze drifts to him; your heart skips when you catch him already peering your way, “They’re making you soft, Steven.”

Steve’s grin spreads wider as your laugh fills the space between, rolling his eyes as he falsely acts annoyed by your observation, “Great, just what I need.”

“Oh, also,” Your tone makes him meet your mischievous look, and it ignites a bit of anxiety in him, “Farrah Fawcett, really? You thought I wouldn’t figure that one out?”

Steve grows shocked by your deduction in record time, further spurring on your joy; it almost counter-balances his embarrassment.

“Relax, your secret’s safe with me,” You say, and Steve just shakes his head, “You and your brother are so dead if anyone finds out.”

You bring your fingers to your lips, faking to lock them before throwing the invisible key over your shoulder. And then it hits him - he hasn’t seen you since that night, after the funeral. That night where you almost kissed him.

”Why aren’t you in your car?” 

Your words catch him off guard, and he simply shrugs in response, “The snow’s nice, dontcha think?”

“I guess, but Christ, aren’t you cold?” You ask Steve as you shiver and pull your hooded sweatshirt tighter against your frame. 

He inhales before going to answer, but he decides that his words aren’t enough. His arm gets extended outwards before he gestures for you to move closer, “Come on, get over here.”

You feel your heart beat in your throat as a misty breath expels itself from you and into the night sky. It’s almost like the air gets thicker the closer you get to Steve, but you can’t stop yourself from tucking your body into his side. 

His arm drapes heavily over your shoulder as soon as you’ve settled, and you decide to pull him closer with the limb that would’ve gotten trapped between you. Steve emits a light laugh at the feeling of your arm wrapping around his middle, tugging him in further; you both relish in the heat that emanates from the other.

A few silent moments pass - neither of you has the courage to comment, even though both of your minds are running wild with what to say. 

Steve shifts beside you, adjusting his feet against the parking lot pavement. The action prompts you to spin your focus in his direction and you freeze as he does the same - his eyes landing on your gentle expression.

Seeing Steve look at you like that makes you feel like you’re floating - the admiration in his eyes is enough to silence any doubts you had about… well, whatever this is. Your heart thuds against your ribs when he somehow inches even closer and you tighten your hold on him after he does so, hand curling around the material of his sweater. 

You want to pull your gaze away from him, because fuck it’s getting to be too much; the way he feels by you side, the way you slid into him to protect yourself from the chilly December evening, the way that neither of you can find any words to describe how you’re feeling.

But then it clicks inside your brains. And maybe, you think, nothing needs to be said at all.

You lean in first, and it doesn’t take Steve much longer to react and do the same. He grows surprised when you pause, mere millimeters away from meeting your lips, brow creasing as your nose brushes his.

Even though you’ve been craving this very moment for about a year, you can’t shake the thought that hovers like a cloud over your psyche. This changes everything. There’s no going back if you continue down this road - it almost makes you afraid, no matter how much you’ve wanted things to be different.

It dissipates quickly, as Steve doesn’t give you much time to ponder; he takes the leap. His lips are pressed to yours. And it’s just like the first time you fell for him - every doubt you’ve ever had about Steve vanishes instantly. 

The kiss is so soft and so filled with emotion that you feel like you could cry. His presence is overwhelming your senses and you melt against his palm that slides up your jaw, past where the bruises faded. 

You can’t process when your fingers begin to card through his hair, pulling him closer to you because you’re desperate to let him feel everything that’s been churning inside for over a year. You’re still so in love with him that when he finally pulls away, you feel like he took a piece of you with him.

The music starts to fade and your little bubble along with it; you struggle to find something to say. 

You don’t know how long you’ve waited to be able to do that. None of your daydreams could have ever compared to this; you’re almost lost in the moment. All of that heartache, all of that pain - it’s finally been released.

Neither of you knows what to do.

But then Steve clears his throat, his thoughts jumbled inside his head because holy shit - he wasn’t expecting it to feel like that. 

The silence afterwards is deafening. Your breaths fan against the other’s rose tinted cheeks, still barely inches apart. 

“I should uh,” You mutter, fingers trailing down his arms, slowly pulling yourself away from his warmth. You’re suddenly overwhelmed with far too many emotions, all of which you can’t even begin to decipher while standing here in front of him. 

Steve grips your hands in his as you lean back; he knows what you’re going to say, but God, he wishes that you didn’t have to.

“I should go,” You finish. It shatters his heart a bit to hear you say it, but he only nods. 

“Yeah,” He manages, “I’m sure your mom wants you back.”

You swallow harshly before your touch leaves him completely. Steve can still feel where your fingers were pressed on his palms - it lingers as you turn to leave, and begin your walk to your car.

—

taglist: @stevebabey / @mrs-skywalker / @hannarudick / @crazycookiecrumbles / @hellisateenageheather / @alewifex / @l0ve-0f-my-life / @naomiiiiiiiiiii04 / @daddystevee / @thecaptainsgingersnap / @let-the-imaginationflow / @asianravenpuff / @im-a-stranger-thing​ / @mikariell95​ / @pilunb​ / @harringtherin​ / @royalestrellas​ / @ultrunning​ / @buggs177 / @poutfull​ / @yoheyyosup​ / @duchessdaisybat​ / @janieavalos / @sassisaluxury​ / @beththebubbly​ / @i-bitch-you-bitch​ / @captainstilinskis​ / @juliebean247​ / @im-nada / @whatabeautifulsurrender​ / @rexorangecouny​ / @pass-me-jeez-it / @ahoy-scoops-troop / @halefirewarrior​ / @jointhehunt67 / @wallacetdog​ / @ketchuplukehemmo​ / @m-a-r-i-n-t-p / @fangirl485 / @emmegirl827 / @lookalivesunshine-x​ / @elite4cekalyma​ / @marjoherbo​ / @just-my-fandom / @idumpyourgrass​ / @alafolieee​ / @mochminnie​ / @phantomalchemist​ / @dustyblueboo​ / @alonewolfsblog​ / @ggclarissa​ / @hufflepuffing-all-day-long​ / @bippityboppitybabe​

if you wanna be added to the taglist, just lemme know!

[wordsablaze]

4~ i’ll stand there so brave

tell me your problems (i’ll chase them away) Internal scars can be difficult to deal with but Eskel vows to heal any that Jaskier is weighed down by if it’s the last thing he does…

A/N: so this took me a while to update but you can blame the sun for being too warm for me to function... yay summer (!)

@random-nerd-3 @betaray-jones @w-s-kibela @cloudspeck @in-love-with-writing002 @screaming-flapjacks @booboomuffin

previous chapter

-

They reach the next town a few hours before nightfall.

Jaskier perks up as soon as they see an inn, all but jumping to the ground and almost toppling over entirely in his haste. He manages to carefully take down his lute before Eskel has even brought Scorpion to a stop.

“I’ll get us a room!” he declares before promptly freezing on the spot, looking up at Eskel as if waiting for permission.

Eskel sighs inwardly but smiles as softly as he can make himself. “Sounds good.”

It’s obvious Jaskier was wondering if Eskel would even want to share a room with him and somehow, that thought stings more than most injuries he’s faced on the path. Because of course he does, there’s no reason for him not to.

He’s glad it’s almost dark because it means the stableboy doesn’t have a chance to be scared off by his scars, simply promising to ensure Scorpion is taken care of properly.

“Go find a corner, darling,” Jaskier whispers to him as soon as he enters the inn, gently pushing him towards one of the walls.

Before he can even think to ask if there’s a room available, Jaskier has started performing, his voice carrying perfectly across the rather large room and causing most people to at least turn to look at him, if not start smiling or singing along.

Eskel doesn’t recognise the song but it seems plenty of people do because there are soon enough drinks going round for one of the barmaids to place on in front of him with a smile. “Free of charge, as promised.”

“Promised?” Eskel echoes, frowning.

She frowns back for a split second before nodding her head at Jaskier, who’s currently moving around the room to take requests. “You’re with him, right?”

Eskel nods.

“Well then, as we promised him: food and drink with no charge if he can liven the place up.”

She disappears to serve someone else before Eskel can thank her so he just accepts the ale and sits back, tracking Jaskier as he switches songs after stopping by two young women who look like they’re on the verge of tears.

They’re laughing by the time the song - something about a princess slaying the beast instead of being rescued from it - has finished, as much to Jaskier’s credit as it is to Eskel’s amazement.

“Play the one about coins!” someone shouts.

“Yeah, let’s hear about the devil!”

“Go on, bard!”

Eskel bristles as Jaskier pauses, biting his lip hard enough to break the skin that had barely healed from before; apparently, it’s some kind of nervous habit of his.

For a moment, Eskel thinks Jaskier will refuse. But then Jaskier exhales slowly and grins. “Why, of course! A great choice to end the evening!”

His ale - both the first and second mugs - long since finished, Eskel focuses entirely on Jaskier.

“When a humble bard…”

Focuses on the way he’s the perfect picture of professional.

Focuses on how his fingers play the right tune but his heart so clearly isn’t in it, not that anyone seems to pick up on that as they laugh or sing along, a few of them even tossing coins Jaskier’s way as he passes them.

Focuses on how there's something so brave in Jaskier singing about someone who'd hurt him so deeply. And not only that, but he's doing it to support witchers despite everything - it seems only logical to be impressed.

“A friend of humanity… ” Jaskier finishes, bowing ceremoniously as he grabs his lute case from he’d propped it up to keep it safe.

Moments later, he rather unceremoniously collapses into the seat opposite Eskel.

“You okay there, bardling?” Eskel asks softly, once he’s sure there are no prying eyes left.

Jaskier nods, but the way he lets his head fall onto the table between them says otherwise.

He stays in that position until two plates of food are placed on their table, at which point he sits up straight and positively beams at the woman who’d brought them. “Our most sincere gratitude for keeping your promise.”

She laughs, glancing between the two of them. “The gratitude is mutual.”

Eskel smiles at her. “Thank you.”

“Is that basil?” Jaskier asks incredulously, surprising both Eskel and the woman, who nods slowly, as if expecting a complaint.

But Jaskier only grins cheekily. “I shall have to write a ballad in my gratitude to your hospitality and whoever is in charge of your skilled kitchens.”

The woman blushes before grabbing Eskel’s empty mug, muttering something about it being their pleasure before leaving them to their food. And as soon as she’s gone, Jaskier lets his head fall back onto the table.

“Jaskier?” Eskel asks, briefly worrying if there’s a hidden injury he should know about.

Jaskier groans softly but sits back up again with a small and oddly insincere smirk. “I believe that’s what most people call me, yes.”

This time, Eskel can tell exactly how much Jaskier is affected by having to relive Posada, even if he doesn’t always show it. But he doesn’t want to address it, knowing that it might mean Jaskier shuts himself off again. Or worse, decides not to travel with him after all.

Instead, he gestures to their plates. “Aren’t you going to try the basil?”

Jaskier blinks slowly before laughing, the shadows in his expression halfway replaced with amusement. “Only if we both do, darling,” he agrees.

And so they do.

It seems neither of them are used to taking their time, though, because the inn is still relatively buzzing by the time they’ve both finished their very satisfying meals.

“There’s someone with a siren problem that wants to meet you tomorrow,” Jaskier tells him as they make their way upstairs.

“What?” Eskel tilts his head to the right, confused.

Jaskier is immediately surrounded by waves of panic. “Oh, gods, I didn’t mean to assume you’d want to take the contract or anything. I was just- I mean, she’s the one that came to me and I thought you- But we can just, uh, decline if you already had plans or-”

“It’s okay, Jaskier, I’m not mad,” Eskel interrupts, placing a hand on Jaskier’s arm.

He doesn’t know what he’d expected but he hadn’t predicted that Jaskier would melt the same way his panic does, letting out a soft sigh as he leans into the touch.

“Which room is ours?” Eskel asks, not really wanting to continue this conversation, or any other one for that matter, where they could be overhead.

Jaskier instantly snaps out of his guilty daze and leads them to the room he’d gotten them, a smaller one with only a bed and a window. But it’s still better than nothing at such late notice and Eskel is grateful for it.

“Did she tell you it was a siren?” Eskel asks eventually, not liking the uneasy silence between them.

Jaskier looks almost startled to be addressed but then shakes his head. “Not exactly, but there aren’t exactly a lot of creatures that specialise in luring handsome men away with songs in the middle of the night, are there?”

Taking a risk, Eskel smirks. “You would know better than I, bardling.”

“What? I wouldn’t know more than you witchers even if- hey!” Jaskier’s confusion transforms into an affronted pout as he folds his arms. “I do not lure anyone anywhere. It’s hardly my fault if they offer me their company, is it?”

Eskel is just glad Jaskier hadn’t taken offence. He’s also pretty surprised that his idea of a joke had matched someone else’s idea of a joke but he’s aware it might just be Jaskier and his rather unique personality.

“If you say so,” Eskel settles for.

Jaskier grumbles and throws his doublet at Eskel, who barely manages to catch it despite his enhanced reflexes.

But as soon as he does, Jaskier’s eyes widen and he steps closer to Eskel. “Wait no, don’t crumple it!”

“You’re the one who threw it,” Eskel points out, bemused.

Jaskier pouts again, and Eskel swears that no other man would be capable of looking so childish in such a surprisingly dignified way.

But he throws it back anyway. Or rather, hands it back, since Jaskier is close enough to do so. He’s also close enough for Eskel to feel the surprised relief that radiates from him as he carefully folds the doublet and places it atop his lute case.

It hadn’t struck Eskel until now that Jaskier doesn’t have any other belongings with him. But now he feels self-conscious at having two bags worth of possessions where Jaskier only has a lute, even though he knows that he needs the potions and the spare clothes and the extra room for rations.

And Jaskier must have pulled the shirt he’d given to Eskel from somewhere , right? Eskel figures he’d stashed his belongings somewhere before they’d set off and resolves to ask him about them later.

“Are you going to keep your armour on all night?” Jaskier asks after a minute or so of Eskel being rooted in the same spot.

Truth be told, he was just wondering whether they’d share the bed again.

“You know, I’ve heard that sleeping is far more comfortable when you’re not covered in spikes,” Jaskier continues, smirking again.

Eskel makes a face at that but Jaskier only takes it as an invitation, helping him out of his armour before pulling him to the bed and flopping down onto it, raising an eyebrow up at him. “Care to join me?”

“No,” Eskel replies just for the sake of it, “move over.”

Jaskier laughs before doing exactly that, folding his arms under his head as he shifts his gaze to the ceiling and Eskel settles besides him.

“You don’t mind, do you? That I arranged a potential contract on your behalf?” Jaskier asks softly, still staring at the ceiling.

Eskel shakes his head, wondering how Jaskier doesn’t know that it makes life so much easier to have a middle man in the equation. But then he remembers that Geralt is probably responsible for Jaskier not knowing how valuable his social skills are.

Honestly, he’s never wanted to hit someone so badly.

“Of course not,” Eskel replies, wishing he could explain better but still not quite used to the whole talking-for-so-long thing.

Jaskier smiles regardless and turns so he’s facing Eskel, already curling closer to him. “And you won’t leave before I wake up?”

Eskel suspects Jaskier is either a little more tired or a little more drunk than he’d intended to be so he just humours him and shakes his head. “No, I won’t. I’ll be here,” he promises.

Almost like a child, Jaskier nods, shuffling even closer. “Thank you, Eskel.”

The warmth that spreads through Eskel is most likely due to Jaskier’s presence rather than his words because why would someone using his name be powerful enough to change his body temperature?

Jaskier is filled with so much trust, Eskel notes, that he falls asleep within a few minutes. And it amazes him as much as it saddens him for he can’t imagine why Geralt would give up someone so awfully kind at heart.

But he doesn’t want to think of his brother’s idiocy unless he absolutely has to, which he currently doesn’t, so he just wraps an arm around Jaskier and closes his eyes.

It’s definitely strange to have someone choose to be as close to him as possible, especially when they’re both at their most vulnerable, but he can’t deny the smile on his face that only the darkness will ever see.

He also can’t deny one of the best nights of sleep he’s ever had.

-

i lowkey feel they get more ooc every time i write them, oops. sorry about that...

-

thanks for reading! masterlist | witcher sideblog: @itsjaskier | next chapter

[1albumaday]

2020

2020

The Chats - The Clap

Easy-peasy punk rock album 

Loving - If I am only my thoughts

Charming sun-dappled folk-pop, clean, gentle melodies

Steve Spacek - Houses 

iPhone/iPad recorded, latino and jazz accented dance/house beats

Ghali - DNA 

Total Flop and failed expectations. Mishmash of bland and frivolous lyrics and arrangements.

King Krule - Man Alive!

Alienating, violent, romantic, anguishing, doomed, noir / jazz, post-punk, soul, dubstep, electronic, garage rock, hip-hop

Justin Bieber - Changes

Disappointing comeback - boring r&b with zero sex appeal and cheesy lyrics and all-the-same songs

Guided by voices - Surrender your poppy field

Unusual time signatures, song lengths, and baroque-prog structures - mature rock and sometimes pixie / 80s dreamy

Corrections - Simply Activities

80s new wave and post punk nostalgia - cheesy vocals at times - first half more solid than second

Swim Mountain- If

A lovely mix of indie and funktronica, synth pop, r&b

Caribou - Suddenly

Sly and sofishticated sound design flits between uk garage disco and more - some tracks way less strong than others

Grimes - Miss Anthropocene 

Mix “Ethereal nu metal”, ambient, dance, electronic, drum’n’bass, country - is violent and dark but sexy, delicate and dreamy

Porridge Radio - Every Bad 

A dissonant lush indie rock sometimes dreamy sometimes dark and ironic with mantra-litany dusky lyrics from peaceful to desperate

Four Tet - Sixteen oceans

Wind instruments, synths and drum patterns gradually fade to calming ambient sounds, intense and meditative but also danceable and powerful

Kamaiyah - Got it made

Short, stripped-down, bubbling keyboards and drum-machine handclaps. NO current rap trends. windows-down bass-rattle record of one person’s confidence in her own sound and charisma

Poolside - Low season

Funk percussions, retro synths, pop and disco influences + indie vocals

Morioh Sonder - Is this psychedelia?

Surf pop and psych rock, dreamy post punk influences, danceable and whimsical 

KEYAH/BLU - Sorry, I forgot you were coming 

Perfect blend of rap, rnb, experimental pop, dark rhythms textured electronics, intimate tales 

TOPS - I feel alive

Pop, radiant and 80s romantic with a contemporary experimental palette

The Chats - High risk behaviour 

Classic old-school pure punk / cheerily undemanding fun

NIN - Ghosts V: Together

Buzzy ambient, melodic hooks, emotional palette of sounds 

NIN - Ghosts VI: Locusts

Together’s opposite, anxiety-inducing, despairing horns, breathing and devouring sounds.

Roger and Brian Eno - Mixing Colours

Feels like a balm for these anxious times

Fiona Apple - Fetch the bolt cutters

Handclaps, chants, makeshift percussion, echoes, whispers, screams, breathing, jokes, dog barks, rattling blues. Contains no conventional pop forms. freeing and powerful. 

The Weeknd - After Hours

Satisfying collision of new wave, dream pop, R&B, synth-pop nostalgia

BC Camplight - Shortly After Takeoff 

Jazzy eighties rock with some icy funk and electronic pop, painfully personal and uneasy but so self-deprecating it speaks like your best friend

Rone - Room with a view 

Deft splicing of beats-based electronics and dance music with classical influences. 21st century baroque chords, snatches of conversations, speeches, children’s voices

Other Lives - For their love

Bluesy acid-rock, dreamy meditation sounds, eerie string-crescendos, music for the afterlife

Lil Uzi Vert - Eternal Atake 

Drill-influenced rapping, melodic crooning, trends-aware hip-hop beats, untouchable pop sound production

Squarepusher - Be up a hello

Frantic breakbeats littered with echoes of classic jungle, hardcore, and drum’n’bass, ’90s drill’n’bass, glitchy 8-bit chaos

The Orielles - Disco Volador

Cosmic, playful, funky dreamy indie pop, shuffling organs, woozy guitar, shimmy-shimmy hand percussion

Portico Quartet - We welcome tomorrow

Perfect dreamy sequel of ‘Memory streams’

Charlie XCX - how i’m feeling now

Quarantine creation / 2020 romance manifesto of club-pop, trap, k-pop, video game sounds, fuzzy synths and crackling bass

Holy Fuck - Deleter

Trippy, psychedelic tapestry of euphoric escapism, ‘90s dance, glitchy beats, airy vocals, experimental electronics 

Luge - Luge

Energetic and playful avant-garde and quirky math rock, zolo? 

Good With Parents, Triple Stephens - Comments & Reflection

Playful indietronica synth pop + classical instruments 

Wishing - None of this was your fault 

Lo-fi indie, ambient, slowcore w/ fragile lyrics 

Bibio - Sleep on the wing 

Indie folk treated like ambient / a gorgeous soundscape of strings, guitars and flutes, feelings of loss, hope and escape. Perfect picture of tranquil countryside memories

Piotr Kurek - A Sacrifice Shall Be Made / All The Wicked Scenes

Electroacoustic experimental, meditative-ritualistic atmospheric music / conceived for theatrical performances 

Military Genius - Deep Web

Meditative ambient, retro-futurist soundscapes / hypnagogic pop, dark, abstract and mysterious / early ‘70s folk interjecting jazz-brass sections 

Jockstrap - Wicked City

Melancholy waltz and winsome ballads, fluttering strings, soft piano glissandi mixed with gnarly and distorted hip-hop beats, buzzing guitars and synths / cherubic vocals, pcmusic-style manipulated at times

Georgia - String Token 

Experimental ambient electronic, minimal, melodic, futuristic, hypnotic and grim

EVOL - Madball Manners

Lingering experimental rave electronic, hardcore, techno 

Upsammy - Zoom

Playful, sampling, abstract IDM, ambient techno, melodic and rhythmic, surreal, futuristic, sparkling synths and billowing pads

Tomasz Kunicki - Muzyka dla Świątyń

Playful and abstract IDM, glittering synths, obscure pads, glitchy and bleepy

Tomasz Kunicki - The sound is gone, where did it go, I have no idea

Very bassy and very dubby IDM, atmospheric ambient and loopy electronics

Kate NV - Room for the moon

80s new wave, progressive electronic, synth pop, cornucopia of melodies and genres. Wriggling synths, chirping flutes, warm baselines, jazzy sax, woodwinds, marimba. Russian girly vocals cartoon theme-song-like.

Khruangbin - Mordechai 

Psychedelic / funk rock with some soul, dub, lounge, poolside disco - exotic and atmospheric 

Dalai Lama - Inner world

Chanted mantras rhythmically woven into wafting new-age flutes, chimes, strings and free-form guitar picking. 

K-Lone - Cape Cira

Tropical ambient house, warm, lush, soft. Zen yet bouncy rhythms. Digital and analogue recordings, at times feels like you’re underwater. 

Arca - KiCk i

Experimental industrial club rhythms with reggaeton and folk influences

The Beths - Jump Rope Gazers

Sleek and personal indie rock, romantic ballads, more sentimental and slow than the previous album

J Lloyd - Kosmos

Tasteful soul and funk pop in 25 tiny tracks, charming low-key, rich textures, good vibes

Julek Polsk - Tesco

Dissonant, ominous, dense, post industrial ambient, noise, sound collage, deconstructed club music

Taylor Swift - folklore

Folk/chamber pop, indie folk, bittersweet, mellow, melancholic ballads

Bill Callahan - Gold Record 

Contemporary folk, warm and deep vocals, pastoral, peaceful and melancholic 

Mura Masa - R.Y.C. 

Indietronica, post-punk revival, catchy indie/synth pop, early 2000 EMO, lots of hip collabs

Fontaines D.C. - A Hero's Death 

Post-punk, indie rock, art punk, gothic rock, raw deadpan male vocals, darkish and melodic

RAMzi - cocon 

Tribal House, ambient dub, balearic beats, downtempo, hypnotic and tropical 

Auguste - Indust 

Experimental ambient electronic + field recordings, glistening and splintered sounds 

Paul Blackford - Betamax

Dreamy and hypnotic trip hop, downtempo, synth wave

A.G.Cook - 7G

49-track archival collection of sketches, cover versions, volatile lab experiments, divided into 7 discs. a glimpse at the whirring cogs beneath hyperpop’s pristine casing.

Clap clap - Liquid Portraits 

Experimental musical tapestry and collage / high-energy concoction of unpredictable and wavy rhythms, exotic vocals and heavy, relentless bass and drums / UK Bass, ambient dub, footwork + far-flung field recordings

E.M.M.A. - Indigo Dream 

Progressive electronic, ambient house / 80s melodic atmospheres, goosebump-inducing synths, whimsical melodies and classical leanings

Leif - Music for screen tests 

Performed live @ Barbican as a 54min session ambient / drone film soundtrack (Andy Warhol's Screen Tests)

Crack Cloud - Pain Olympics

Post/art/dance punk, experimental rock - energetic, anxious, apocalyptic, dark, male vocals

Document - A Camera Wanders All Night 

Post-punk, noise rock, past-hardcore, distorted and raw male vocals

Keisuke Matsuda - Clumsily Back Up

Experimental electronic with playful hummed vocals, lo-fi beats, melodic, youthful, dreamlike

Coi Leray - Now or Never

Gen-Z superstar, melodic flows, bouncy trap, energetic killer lyrics 

The Ophelias - For Luck

Artful, string-laden indie-pop EP, grungy dream-pop, a quarantine remake and a Joni Mitchell cover

Romare - Home

Deep house, UK Bass, groovy and detailed sonic palette + soul and funk influences - dancefloor highs and after party wind-downs

Mulatu Astatke, Black Jesus Experience - To Know Without Knowing 

Ethio-Jazz, Cuban, funk, reggae workout + rapid-fire rap or Afrobeat drums 

Good Doom - Spider Temple Valley

Experimental psych-wave, gentle and peaceful lo-fi, dreamy and oozy with flute, sax and field recordings

Ralph Kinsella - Abstraction

Dark ambient experimental / instrumental electronic

IDLES - Ultra Mono

Post-punk, garage punk, hardcore, noise rock, raw male vocals, dense, energetic, angry, political

Mild Orange - Mild Orange 

Alternative, Indie rock, dream pop, 

Skinshape - Umoja

Experimental psychedelic rock - afro beats - afroswinig - funky - world music

Vulfpeck - The Joy of Music, The Job of Real Estate

Mixed bag of funk, jazz, soul, self-indulgent? classical reworks, progressive electronic, melodic and uplifting, groovy drums and bass lines 

OPN - Magic OPN 

Manipulated and sequenced archive radio and sounds collages as interludes, uncanny processed voices, poppish trope ballads, art pop, sentimental and surreal, dense, progressive hypnagogic electronic and more

Pa Salieu - Send them to coventry

Combined dancehall, Afrobeats, hip-hop and grime. Scattered drums, stop-start energy, handpicked words and rhymes. skips from trap trills to baile breakdowns.

Mama Ode - Tales & Patterns of the Maroons

Classic hip-hop album with jazz, funk, blues and reggae influences. Creole Sega Rap Roots music, afro-drum patterns and grooves

Tony Allen, Hugh Masekela - Rejoice

Live sessions of unique fusion of afrobeat and swing-jazz with lyrics in English, Yoruba and Zulu 

Miley Cyrus - Plastic Hearts

Pop rock, 80s synth-rock, grit and freewheeling sense of fun, rough-hewn panache of vocal performance, bittersweet eclectic and sentimental / collabs with rock idols

2019 

LCD Soundsystem - Electric lady sessions 

Live recording with some new wavy covers 

Harry Styles - Fine line 

Not catchy / mediocre pop 

Boothe - 8 or 9 Walled Room

10 minutes of playful electronic and soft vocals

Good with parents - Good with parents 

Clever indietronica synth pop, fun + ironic + millennial + sax 

Taylor Skye - Kode fine & sons 

Synth, beats and pop vocals 

Famous - England 

Wonky pop punk mixed to electronic sounds and raw spoken vocals

Orville Peck - Pony 

Simple pop rock Johnny Cash style ballads and 80s

Sassy 009 - Kill Sassy 009

Distorted electro pop with strong vocals + post-punk notes

J-Walk - Mediterranean Winds 

Jazzy electronica with glassy synth pads cheesy and chilled out

Mattiel - Satis Factory 

Punky garage rock strong female vocals

Ross Backenkeller - Come Around

Country dreamy and melancholy guitar and vocals 

Legss - Writing Comedy 

Art rock and a dark underbelly of post-punk + topnotch spoken track and electronic sounds

BEA1991 - The Lost Demo EP

Trip-hop with Bjork-style vocals

BEA1991 - Brand New Adult 

Chamber folk and yacht rock meld with R&B and trip-hop

Matt Maltese - Krystal

Lo-fi flowy bedroom pop breakup album

Faye Webster - Atlanta Millionaires Club

Folk-pop, mellow and melancholy soul with an r&b tinge

Infinite Bisous- Period 

Soothing and warm bedroom night album 

Achille Lauro - 1969

Trap changed into rock with romanticised lyrics 

Jerkcurb - Air Con Eden 

Indie-psych and retro Americana, atmospheric, sensitive, wobbly

Octo Octa - Resonant Body

Breakbeats and house bangers

ALASKALASKA - The Dots 

Jazz fusion, disco rhythms and high-gloss art rock

Orphan - Yijoda

Glitchy and sharp electronics + ambient-atmospheric sounds

Honeymoan - Body

Avant-garde pop tapestry of beats and synths with playful vocal

U-Bahn - U-Bahn

Traditional new wave DEVO-moulded, Hypnagogic pop, art-punk, some vaporwave synth sounds

Hail Conjurer - Erotic Hell

Obscure and raw Finnish black metal 

Ride for revenge - Chapter of alchemy 

Quality black metal with long and short tracks pretty smooth 

Boys Age - Neverchanging, Neverending 

Lo-fi, slow-tempo, soul, r&b, mellow tracks with sad very low vocals

MorMor - Some place else 

Indie-pop with sweet synths and delicate vocals 

Felicita - hej!

Overproduced pop dance hits broken down into harsh and jarring staccato melodies, hissing ambient and screams

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - Ghosteen

Endlessly giving and complex meditation on mortality and our collective grief, scored by synths, pianos, and electronics

Portico Quartet - Memory Streams

Ethereal keyboards, hypnotic grooves, layered post-rock textures mixed with electronic, ambient and magnetic jazz build-ups

Charles Rumback + Ryley Walker - Little common twist 

Mellow and pastoral folksy guitar melodies and soft drums + ambient tones, drone electronic

Shadowax - Nikolai Reptile

Effervescent techno and mutant bass jams

The Rhythm Method - How do you know I was lonely?

Ostensibly witty and warm pop songs from hip hop to indie and electronic about romance and millennial youth

Martin Dupont - Accident of Stars

80s kinda goth new wave full of electronics, guitars synths and clarinets

Raime - Planted

Latin American and Chicago footwork influences merged with alien sounds, half-heard voices, dark and rhythmic bass and percussions

Sunn 0))) - Pyroclasts

Sunn 0))) - Life Metal

Slow-motion drone feels like a religious ritual / pipe organ and cello, guitars webbing together the space between notes

Special Request - Vortex 

Breakbeat barnstormers and house epics, with room for bleep, electro and gabber

Caterina Barbieri - Ecstatic Computation

Oscillating sequencers, rhythmic pulsations, cascades of synthesiser melodies echoing dance music/new age

Battles - Juice B Crypts 

Playful electronic wizardry, dense array of beats, bleeps and squelches, loopy keyboards and guitars, ecstatic vocals

Haruomi Hosono - HOCHONO HOUSE

Home-recorded aesthetic, funk shaped into minimalist space-age lounge music 

Florist - Emily Alone 

Thoughtful, calming and melancholic, full of hushed, enveloping guitar sounds and gentle vocals

Spencer Radcliffe - Hot Spring 

Alt-country, indie falk americana, very relaxed,pastoral and wry poetics

Ciamkam - Play-doh Dog 

Noise ambient / screeching, dissonant, surreal, ominous 

Equiknoxx - Eternal Children 

UK soundsystem style, reggae groundings, earthy dancehall with a vast range of puzzling vocalists

Eh hahah - Fissure

Experimental deconstructed electronic, sound collage, glitches and post-club music

Upsammy - Wild Chamber 

Lucid shades of IDM, bleep techno, perky synths and frazzling hi-hats, polyrhythmic drum patterns

Otik - Blasphemy

Fresh, vibrant, dark experimental club music, techno + dance + electronic 

Shanti Celeste - Tangerine

Tech / ambient / deep house, breakbeat, rhythmic and mechanical yet dreamy 

Bez - Banki Mydlane

Dream pop, shoegaze, noise pop, space rock, reverberated female vocals + spoken word

Yu Su - Roll with the punches 

Ambient dub, downtempo, tribal ambient, sampling, mellow, atmospheric with female vocals

Drive45 - Dried up 

Bitpop, Artpop, indietronica, quirky and playful, androgynous vocals 

Lala &ce - Le son d’apres 

French hip hop, trap, cloud rap, alternative b&b, dancehall / sparse dark and ominous, warm female vocals

Leif - Loom Dream

Tribal ambient / ambient techno + field recordings / pastoral, ethereal, atmospheric 

deathcrash - Sundown (a collection of home recordings)

Slowcore, drone ambient, post-punk, fragile male vocals

FEET - What’s inside is more than just ham

Post-punk, indie-rock, dance-punk, sarcastic, playful, technical, male vocals

Coi Leray - EC2

Trap, hyphy, pop rap

Ariwo- Quasi 

Dub techno, afro-cuban jazz, ambient techno, chants, programmed beats, pulsating relentless rhythms and percussions, loud sax

Floating Points - Crush

Strikingly melodic and elegant, cinematic, frantic and distorted rhythms, shuddered synths, vibrant breakbeats, sampling, UK garage nodding

Jacques Greene - Dawn Chorus

Bittersweet, sad but triumphant, mix of experimental electronic and lightweight techno + field recordings, hazy sampled textures, distorted drones + disco house + percussions + spoken word

Men I Trust - Oncle Jazz

Indie electronic, minimal, chillout downtempo, dreamy female vocals, jazzy

Raveena - Lucid 

R&B, soul, experimental, pop, groovy, jazzy and dreamy, with some field and spoken words recordings

2018

Shit and Shine - Very high 

Lazy hippie funk with slowed rnb vocals 

Saloli - The deep end

New Age-inspired delicate only-synth music 

Adrianne Lenker - abysskis 

Guitar and sweet and warm vocals 

Ever ending kicks - Ideas relayed 

Sweet lo-fi similar to the previous two 

Negative Gemini - Bad Baby 

Solid synth pop with dreamy intimate vocals

Okay Kaya - Both

melancholy bedroom-pop sarcastic and harsh lyrics

Trust Fund - Bringing the Backline

Witty yet melancholy self-aware pop-rock

Jockstrap - Love is the key to the city 

A fusion of Bossa Nova, 1930s Disney-esque orchestra, and coarse electronica

Noah Cyrus - Good Cry

Pop and rnb debut album with a bit of gospel and melancholy

Carla dal Forno - Top of the pops

Alternative indie electronic, subtle instrumental backdrops with plaintive vocals

Lala Lala - The lamb 

Alternative/Indie rock with grunge tones and personal and warm vocals

Diamond Thug - Apastron

Progressive but dreamy pop, graceful vocals

Denh Izen - Storage Solutions 

Dark and charming sounds with warm and distorted vocals, desperate but calm

Imperial Triumphant - Vile Luxury 

New York Jazz mixed with top-notch black metal great for a sci-fi dystopian movie - especially Cosmopolis

Oliver Coates - Shelley’s on Zenn-La

Beat-oriented electronic music, sublime cello and synths

Dylan Carlson - Conquistador

drone-metal imaginary Western mostly solo electric guitar

Project Pablo - Come to Canada you will like it 

Dozy laid back deep house with  jazzy chords and subtly swinging drums

Ryley Walker - The Lillywhite Sessions 

Dave Matthews Band tribute with proggy folk, primitive guitar, free improv, Chicago jazz-rock on darker tones 

Grouper - Grid of Points

Empty room, piano and voice slip through your fingers like water

Kali malone - Cast of Mind

Glacial synth tones mapped to acoustic woodwind and brass 

Likes - New Pedal

Short tracks of fun glitch / hypnagogic pop

Jake Tobin - Fifth Thought

Fun and whimsical take on classical sax sounds and guitars

Jake Tobin - 135

Avant-prog / jazz fusion / romanticism / off-kilter melodies / psychedelic chords with the emotion and aesthetic of bedroom pop

Twig Twig - Darkworld Gleaming

Experimental pop, whimsical instrumentation, lo-fi uplift, beats and loops

George Clanton - Slide

Cult 2020s electronic born from vaporware influences mixed with whispery chillwave and downtempo R&B, feels like a 90s rave in an open field, no irony

Good Doom - Mood Life

Unique, very chill, dreamy sound, incorporates world music, trip hop beats, lo fi bedroom pop, krautrock and noise

Ex:Re - Ex:Re

Husky and mellow ambient pop, dream pop? Lethargic and melancholic 

Zaumne - Emo Dub

Minimalistic ominous and repetitive ambient house with ASMR-like spoken words

Ehh hahah - And the weather so breezy, man, why can’t life always be this easy?

Progressive experimental electronic, deconstructed club music, EDM, bubblegum bass, playful yet dark

Kate NV - для FOR

Progressive electronic, ambient, new age, minimalist, surreal, otherworldly and playful. wet, fleshy bleeps; bubbly, liquid noise

Leon Chang - re:treat

Mellow lo-fi hip hop, downtempo, electronic, future bass, sampling 

Coi Leray - Everythingcoz

Pop rap, trap, hyphy tunes, powerful + well produced 

Domenique Dumont - Miniatures de auto rhythm 

Sophist-pop, balearic beat, chillwave, dreampopish, soft female vocals, lush, summery and rhythmic

Big Joanie - Sistahs 

Pretty standard textbook indie-rock, post-punk with female vocals 

Darto - Fundamental Slime 

Haunting and spacious, deep male vocals, intriguing eerie melodies, dream state lullabies + sax and spoken word bit

Old Maybe - Piggity Pink 

Chaotic post-punk, unusual time signatures, strong shouted female vocals

Brad Mehldau Trio - Seymour Reads the Constitution! 

Elegant and melodic modal jazz - post-bop album, fragmented but coherent, ever changing time signature and tempo

2017

Ross Backenkeller - Bardo

Folk indie guitar melodies with honest and gentle vocals

Maruego - Tra Zenith e Nadir

Italian trap with disillusioned and ironic lyrics + cool collabs

Nervous Condition - Untitled 

Forceful drums, wails of sax and commanding vocals - mix of experimental rock, post-punk, no wave, jazz

Powerplant - Dogs Sees Ghosts

Synth punk, garage punk fast and fun

Wool & The Pants - Wool & The Pants

Experimental r&b / soul / hiphop vibez pretty smooth and lo-fi

TOPS - Sugar at the gate 

Soft rock tunes, vintage atmosphere, fuzzy, honey-dipped songs 

Slothrust - Show me how you want it to be 

Covers album with grungy sounds and good arrangements 

Rone - Mirapolis

Misty synths and heavy bass lines, dreary and melancholic industrial electronics, packed with doomed vocals of all sorts of guests. 

Ada Babar & Kasra Kurt - Nino Tomorrow

Weird pop and experimental DIY with MIDI keyboards and guitar, playful lyrics, video game menu music

Good Doom - New Shapes for you

Evocative, dreamy and atmospheric melodies, warm at times, chilly, spooky, grungy, dark at others, synth buzzes, glitchy drums

Phoebe Bridgers - Stranger in the alps

Atmospheric ballads for sad times, deeply personal stories of heartbreak and loss 

Florist - If Blue Could Be Happiness

Indie folk, soft and atmospheric, pure gentle quiet and soft female vocals about understanding light and darkness. Swooping guitar, dots of piano notes, gentle beats that recall Simon and Garfunkel

Wishing - Heat Death 

Ambient pop, lo-fi indie beats w/ soft vocals that make you feel things you haven’t felt in a while

Martyn Heyne - Electric Intervals

Ambient in the broadest sense, calm instrumental downtempo guitar-centric with electronic flourishes

Equiknoxx - Colón Man

Vivid and tactile masterful sound design, syncopated loops, wonky and scintillating rhythms 

American Pleasure Club - I blew a dandelion and the whole world disappeared 

Lo-fi acoustic guitar with raw male vocals

Andrea Laszlo De Simone - Uomo Donna 

Progressive pop, baroque/psychedelic pop + field recordings / bittersweet and pastoral 

Drive45 - Have you seen me? 

Bitpop indietronic, glitch pop, sequencer, dance pop

Drive45 - System Format

Bitpop indietronic, playful video game sounds

Leon Chang - bird world 

Bitpop electronic, sequencer, videogame music, future bass / uplifting mellow and playful 

dynastic - SPACE/SUMMER 

Glitch hop, electronic bubblegum, kawaii future bass, mellow and uptempo, cheesy sax, chaotic sounds + dance floor dnb

Darto - Human Giving 

Spacey experimental electronic mixed with post-punk, warm tones, 80s synths, soft melodic vocals + spoken bits

Pregnant - Duct Tape

Indie/art/soft rock, electronic, brilliant pop tunes, dreamy yet rhythmic

2016

Ever Ending Kicks - Music World

DIY colourful dreamy hazy songs 

Mild Eye Club - Skiptracing 

Low-key folk dreamy with 60s 70s vintage links

Loving - Loving 

Easy and dreamy pop melodies, wavy, warm and mellow

Lala Lala- Sleepyhead 

Alternative/Indie rock with grunge tones and personal and warm vocals

Gruff Rhys - Set fire to the stars

Soundtrack to the homonym 2014 film set in the 50s - soft romance rock, jazz-inspired, elegant and familiar

Oliver Coates - Upstepping

Deep house, techno, footwork blended with sharp and experimental classical strings 

Garden Center - Garden Center

Erratic pop music, fun and playful electronic sounds, silly vocals

Raime - Tooth

Ominus and gloomy sound of dub, electronic and post-rock / stripped down to the flesh 

Amiina - Fantomas 

Violin, cello, drums, percussion, metallophone, harp, ukulele and electronics fused in a contemporary classical post-rock gentle melody-focused experimentation

Jake Tobin - Sorta Upset

Short tracks of experimental rock, avant-prog - eclectic and dissonant, technical and manic

Jake Tobin - Accidentally on Purpose

Post-modern experimental pop, jazz influenced sounds, off-kilter saxophone, silly humour 

Vanishing Twin - Choose your own adventure

Swathes of percussion, exotic drum beats and funky guitars merge into a cosmic blend of reverberating bleeps with jazz skits / heady voyage across sound influences

Good Doom - Hug

Good Doom - Naps

Both off-beat lo-fi with a rock twists, spacey, fuzzy, grainy sounds

Zeal & Ardor - Devil is fine

Top notch black metal merges African-American spiritual slave music and some electronic beats and sounds

Shield Patterns - Mirror Breathing

Haunting vocals and sensual cello, clarinet and piano, all wrapped up in ethereal synths

Ashley Henry - Ashley Henry’s 5ive

Complex and uplifting post-bop jazz, imaginative flare, delicate and soothing piano

Florist - The Birds Outside Sang 

Lo-fi indie, ambient-dream pop,sparse, minimalist keyboard leads bordering on chilly drones + intimate and personal songwriting

CBMC - OOR

Acustic lo-fi bedroom pop with an airy tone and somber feel but still feels fresh and lighthearted 

Told Slant - Going By

Slowcore indie pop/folksy emo, ‘intimate spaces in which small town kids write memories of touch, togetherness, loss, love, depersonalisation’

Kate NV - Binasu

Art pop, progressive electronic, sequencer, joyful grooves but also atmospheric and ethereal sounds, eclectic and dense, melodic female vocals

Zaumne - Przezycia

Minimal ambient techno with a couple of spoken word bits 

Mauno - Rough Master

Enticingly and eclectic indie rock, smooth vocals, strings and moody guitars, delicate piano, powerful drums

Susso - Keira

Tribal house, tribal ambient, folktronica, Mande music, rhythmic and powerful chants

Phern - Cool Coma  

Psychedelic pop, lo-fi, mellow and playful 

Hellier Ulysses - Ulysses Hellier 

Experimental rock, math rock, jangle pop mixed with post-punk, technical, lo-fi, uncommon time signatures

Brad Mehldau Trio - Blues and Ballads 

Deceptively sweet-sounding jazz album, songs are played with variations and every phrase is a cliffhanger - gracefully executed + bonus of my fav song <3

2015

Adeodat Warfield - Pacific, Missouri 

Synth pop with electronic beats, vaporware notes

Ross Backenkeller - Rare Please

Folk indie guitar melodies with honest and gentle vocals

Grimes - Art Angels

Immaculate and authentic, synthetic and unreal but also super pop, folk, and dance / POST-art pop?

Jake Tobin - Third and Fourth Thoughts

Short tracks of weird avant-prog where the vocals follow the melodies all the time

Florist - Holdly

Vocals move slowly and sweetly through gentle meditation sound and soft guitars

Starry Cat - Starry Cat

Indie pop, lo-fi indie, wavy and shaky, bitter-sweet and personal male vocals 

CBMC - FOOTWEAR

Acustic lo-fi bedroom pop with a somber feel but still feels fresh and lighthearted nearly asmr-like vocals 

Wishing - To Forget

Lo-fi indie slowcore, fuzzy synths + acoustic sounds mixed with short electronic tracks / lyrics are whispered and very intimate 

Oren Ambarchi - Live Knots 

Two very long live recorded tracks of propulsive drumming full of tensions and releases + droning notes, plucked strings and mournful guitar 

Juxta Phona - we will not be silence 

Ambient, electronic, minimal melodies over crisp, tactile beats

Khruangbin - The Universe Smiles Upon You

Psychedelic / Funk rock, rhythmic and jazzy, tropical warm and peaceful

Red Sea - In The Salon 

Indie experimental rock, psychedelic pop, math rock, melodic yet uncommon time signatures 

Eyeliner - Buy Now 

Synth-pop/funk - vaporwave / instrumental, melodic, uplifting, lush, futuristic / great bass lines! 

2014

Ricky Eat Acid - Three love songs

First half found sounds, experimental electronics, fuzzy piano loops. Second half IDM beats and keys, choir-like vocals / “might be the sound of music having a dream within a dream about music”

Jake Tobin - Torment 

Jake Tobin - Life as a Clerical Error

Weird dissonant mix of avant-prog, art punk and jazz fusion but in an amazing way

Richard Dawson - Nothing Important 

Brittle, crudely amplified nylon-string acoustic guitar, experimental drones, folk sketches, imitation field cries, and free jazz diversions

2013

Ever Ending Kicks - Weird priorities

Sentimental chill instrumental and colourful with gentle vocals

Gruff Rhys - American Interior

John Evans-themes concept album - witty folk oriented retro-futurist music 

Michael Andrews - Spilling a rainbow

Well-crafted pop tunes, nostalgic and lighthearted memories of folk rock with a dash of avant-garde electronic haze

Pill Friends - Blessed Suffering

Lo-fi indie/emo noisy and raw with existential and stark male vocals 

2012

Told Slant - Still Water

Lo-fi/bedroom-punk with folksy guitars and delicate vocals as if they could break down in tears at any moment

2010

Hype Williams - Find out what happens when people stop being polite and start gettin reel

Ypnagogic vortex of incredibly canny hard to pinpoint music with distorted spoken vocals

Zach Hill - FACE TAT

Constant restless drumming, squiggly melodic instrumental hooks, mosaics of disconnected noises, fuzzy sounds and vocals

2008

Amplifier Machine - her mouth is an outlaw

Half-improvised ambient - drone - experimental - electronic - post-rock

E. Bandel, Victory & Good Hunting - s/t

Classical, piano, folk, melancholic, haunting

2007

Seabear - The ghost that carried us away

Indie/folk multi-instrumental dynamic floating sound, warm melodies, calm and gentle vocals

HEALTH - HEALTH 

A masterful noise/experimental rock with elements of post-punk, drone and electronic - disorienting rhythms, tempo-shifting, noisy outbursts

2005

The Darkness - One way ticket to hell

Hard / glam rock ballads and pop tunes 

2004

The Emperor Machine - Aimee Tallulah is hypnotised 

Mix of electro euro disco, post-punk, krautrock, sci-fi scores, jazz-funk. Thick dance rhythms and mind-altering synths

2002

ESG - Step Off 

Sweet soul with a punk attitude, jazzy sassy vocals

Hella - Hold your horse is 

Non-stop, indie-audio assault / Nintendo music / midi and electronic beats / head-spinning leading drums, very fast guitars

1998

Eels - Electro-Shock Blues

elegantly sad grief and death themed album, deeply personal, yet brilliant pop tunes, post-grunge, jazzy arrangement, archive sounds, electronics

Duster - Stratosphere

Bashful slowcore lo-fi experimental space/indie rock

1975

Bobbi Humphrey- Fancy Dancer 

Funky jazz with forms of world music, soul, club music and pop

1973

Kevin Ayers - Bananamour

Progressive pop, art rock with mix of soul, r&b, reggae - choirs and country type ballads

1972

Kevin Ayers - Whatevershebringswesing

Experimental new age prog rock, semisweet tunes, lighthearted, skewed sounds

1970

Kevin Ayers - Shooting at the moon

Experimental, progressive, avant-garde, rock with jazz influences, sound recordings, excellent songwriting

[ivegotbreadinmypants]

you hover like a hummingbird, haunt me in my sleep

a little soul-baring never hurt anyone (2/3) Part 1

Find it here on AO3

Geralt/Jaskier - Soulmate AU

Word Count: 5622

I can see through you, we are the same

It’s perfectly strange, you run in my veins

How can I keep you in my lungs

I breathe what is yours, you breathe what is mine

“You should know you two are not very subtle,” duchess Emylya comments, sipping her wine with delicate hands, peering over the rim at Geralt.

Amber eyes narrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Yes, denial. That always works.

The duchess laughs as she tips her head back. Geralt grits his teeth, peering into his goblet of ale that he wishes is full right about now.

“People can tell when two are soulmates. It’s prevalent in everything they do,” she says once the amusement has passed, idly picking apart the empty stem of grapes on her plate.

“For instance—” she starts, leaning over her armrest, nodding to the court, “you have looked over to your bard six times since the start of our conversation.”

Geralt resists the urge to prove her right, but even then, there is an itch to stare into those playful blue eyes.

“He needs protection from jealous husbands,” he says blankly, as if it excuses the fact he hasn’t taken his eyes off of the bard. Emylya adopts a knowing smile.

“I thought you said your bard has never been to Mellaburn,” she wonders out loud, an innocent sparkle in her eyes. “I hardly think he would know anyone here.”

Geralt grits his teeth, averting his gaze—not to look at Jaskier, mind you.

“And—” she swipes a finger over his sleeve, as if she’s wiping dust, “I’ve never seen a Witcher as relaxed as you when your bard merely brushed his hand against your back.”

“He’s not my bard,” he grounds out, almost too quick to retort. The duchess’ brows fly to her hairline.

“Not only are you insufferably unsubtle, I can hardly miss the fact the man is nearly two decades older than me and still looks like he just popped out of studying at Oxenfurt. Don’t take me for a fool.” She shakes her head, looking slightly indignant as she waves her cup of wine around. He wonders if she’s born royal or married into it. With the way she’s unashamed of acting regal at every moment, he’d bet it’s the latter.

“Also, not your bard? Twenty-three years of knowing each other and he’s not your bard?” she asks, a touch of mirthful confusion in her features. Geralt is silent, not unsure of what to say at all—considering he knows any word he says would be turned on its head.

“I was still a child when I heard of Dandelion’s first ballad of you.” At her snort of laughter, Geralt sighs, mindlessly wondering if he’d get hanged if he rolls his eyes at the duchess.

He hears the music come to a graceful end, the room echoing with applause. Geralt doesn’t need to look over to know they’re taking a break.

“What’s your point?”

If he gets drunk enough, he might be able to survive the rest of this conversation. He just hopes Jaskier’s next performance will have the room excited enough so that the duchess won’t be able to hear him over the deafening cheers.

“I am merely curious. Pray tell,” she leans back into her chair, looking far too amused for someone to be messing with a Witcher, “does the bard know you’re in love with him?”

Geralt chokes, ale dribbling from the side of his mouth. The duchess blinks, seemingly not surprised by his reaction at all. He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, sending a testy glare her way.

“Pray tell, My Grace, are all duchesses this nosy?” he grits out, grabbing a napkin to dry his ale-covered hands.

“No, Witcher, just this one. One who has a penchant for sad love stories,” she merely says, not at all sounding insulted by his sarcasm.

Geralt takes a risky and rolls his eyes for real this time, sighing once again. The evening feels much longer now that there’s the prospect of being meticulously studied by one annoying yet slightly endearing duchess.

“You two are going to grow old together for as long as you live. But…” 

“Why waste time?” Geralt scrunches his nose, the old thought from years ago wringing buried emotions out in his chest. 

“He may live long, longer than any regular human. But he’s still human.” The ale tastes like ash in his mouth and he glares into his cup.

“He’s vulnerable, Witcher. How much longer until he’s in mortal danger, real danger, and you realize that maybe… maybe you didn’t have enough time together at all.” Geralt’s fingers are taut around his goblet, dignity steadfast in not looking for those wide, blue skies.

“That may happen years, months or even days further down the road. You never know. That day might even be tomorrow.” The duchess’ voice is low, yet somehow it drowns out every other noise in the room.

“I’m not saying that this is a certainty.” Geralt fights the building urge to look at Jaskier, to quell his incessant clambering thoughts.

“But sometimes, it’s just better to be safe than sorry. Especially when it comes to the people we love.” 

Geralt stares at her, gaze flat and distant. “You’re oddly wise for someone your age.”

“Not wise. Just perceptive. And I, for one, learn from my mistakes.” The duchess finished with a sip of her wine, the knowing glint in her eye never fading.

Geralt has thought about it before. How can he not? The life of a Witcher is not something to laugh at. They are mutants for a reason; no human can achieve the feats they do, they can’t learn the decades of training and rudimentary magic without wrecking their body along the way.

He made a promise to Jaskier years ago, to keep him safe from harm. And he’s yet to break it.

It’s why Geralt often tries his best not to bring Jaskier along to his dangerous contracts (which is most of them, much to the bard’s chagrin). Jaskier may be his soulmate, but he’s human and vulnerable and susceptible to things Witchers wouldn’t even blink an eye at.

It’s also why Geralt and the other Wolven Witchers decided to teach the bard the basics of combat. They don’t ever use their true strength on him—not even close—but even then, Geralt can see that that pushes Jaskier to his limits. He’s getting better with every training session but it’s still a far cry from being a master.

And that terrifies Geralt. If Jaskier can’t hold his own on an uneven match against a nearly defenseless Witcher, what would happen if Jaskier has to face something much worse than that? And that Geralt won’t be there to protect him?

It’s a string of thoughts he tries not to get tangled in.

Over the years, the fear only grew, especially when nowadays Geralt gets more heat from Nilfgaard because of Ciri. His daughter may be vulnerable, but she’s powerful enough to kill crowds of people with a scream. But Jaskier? The man may be able to jump into a tavern brawl and leave with barely a bruise, but what can he do against monsters? Swing his lute blindly and hope he wins?

Geralt shakes his head. It’s a funny image, but it’s a reality Geralt can never bring himself to laugh at.

But it does beg the question why he doesn’t reach out and bridge the gap between them, growing their friendship into something more—something he denies he wants. He just imagines it would hurt less if he lost Jaskier as a friend rather than as the love of his love, his everything.

He knows his reasoning is utter horseshit, though. He can’t quite fully fool himself into thinking that—because really, how can he? When Jaskier is already both of those things?

His eyes roam the room, looking for a mop of brown hair within the crowds.

He spots Jaskier, but his brows furrow when he sees another dark-haired man come to stand next to him, the mysterious man’s back towards Geralt.

Geralt exhales heavily, exasperated. Another jealous lover.

Considering the many times he’s saved Jaskier from this particular predicament, Geralt is actually curious how the bard has survived this long. Geralt wonders if he can talk his way out without him intervening.

He takes a sip of ale from his goblet, staring inconspicuously at the conversing pair. They seem to be in deep conversation, which has him leaning forward in his seat, curiosity piqued. He convinces himself he will step in if the man pulls out a knife or something that can maim his—the bard.

Amusement tugs at his lips when Jaskier looks more irritated than anything, his blue eyes rolling almost every time the other man opens his mouth.

Not a jealous lover then. They know each other.

Jaskier seems guarded but he doesn’t see the man as a threat; he’s not nervous like those other times Geralt pulled husbands (and sometimes wives) away from hurting the bard. Geralt snorts into his goblet when Jaskier grimaces like he’s grown tired of the conversation, picking up his speed to leave the man behind.

Only the man doesn’t let him go.

Geralt’s goblet stops half-way to his lips, following their movements with his eyes, the amusement dying away.

The man has his hand wrapped around Jaskier’s arm, his knuckles white. The bard snaps at something he says, drops his bread roll and jerks the man’s hand off him, looking furious.

Geralt slams his goblet down onto the table when the man snatches Jaskier back to him; leaning in too close for Geralt’s comfort.

He bolts from his chair, not answering the duchess’ startled inquiries.

The man is whispering something into Jaskier’s ear, and Geralt can feel a harsh tug in his chest—something hot and liquid sliding between his veins. It burns when he can see the man touch Jaskier’s face—who is wincing at it—like he belongs to him.

The court is big and crowded, Geralt doesn’t know if he can make it fast enough to get to his bard, who is—

Jaskier is—

Geralt can feel the twang of fear in his bones, their soul-bond trembling from the weight of Jaskier’s emotion spilling over to Geralt.

He’s ripping the man off the bard before he’s even thinking about it, placing himself as a barrier between the two as he shoves the man away.

“Ah—Geralt!” Jaskier breathes, relief rolling off him in waves, and—before Geralt can blink—slides up next to the Witcher, the bard’s arm winding around his waist. The tremor going through his arm (Geralt can even feel it through his doublet) betrays his self-assured smile. Geralt can hardly see through the fog of possessive fury creeping in.

“Darling, I was just about to tell you about my uh—my old friend,” Jaskier says, too bright and cheerful for that twinge of fear Geralt felt to be fake, the emotion having hit him like a wild wave against a cliff-side. Geralt’s sudden and aptly timed appearance flicked a switch in Jaskier, going from a shaking leaf to a dog happy to see its owner; not that Jaskier is happy—Geralt can sniff the anxiety on him—but the strong relief emanating from within Geralt’s soul is comparable to excitement.

The Witcher blinks, something crossing over his face when he hears Jaskier’s words in his head. Jaskier has many nicknames for Geralt, but darling is not one of them.

Geralt takes in his pale face, wide blinking eyes and quivering voice, and rumbles out softly, gentle words only for Jaskier to hear, “Are you alright? Did he touch you?”

Jaskier pauses, staring deeply into Geralt’s golden eyes for a moment, blue eyes impossibly shiny, but eventually nods. “I’m fine.”

Geralt waits for his next answer.

“Jaskier, did he touch you?”

Jaskier heart-stopping silence is drowned out by the roaring in Geralt’s ears. A deep, thunderous growl rattles in his chest, once golden eyes now looking like hot molten lava under his furrowed brows, his nose flaring as he snarls.

“I see you have your hound with you,” the man says, and Geralt whirls to face him. His tone deceptively light for the sharp look in his green eyes, still acting as if what he did won’t get him speared onto Geralt’s sword. He’s dusting his shoulders like the Witcher had dirtied him, and Geralt wonders if he’ll be able to see bloodstains on his red doublet.

Jaskier digs his fingers into Geralt’s side, the touch nearly sending Geralt keeling over, and the Witcher glances over to his bard. His smile is terse, but those cornflower eyes are seething.

“Excuse me?” Jaskier asks, tone dangerous.

The man looks between the two of them. “You’ve gotten your White Wolf to protect you again. How quaint. Really, I must congratulate you, flower, for picking a perfectly apt name for your pup.”

Geralt doesn’t remember the number of times Jaskier has stood up for him; he’s lost count. And every time, without fail, it stuns Geralt that a person like Jaskier—someone who loves everyone and everything, someone who feels so much—can have the seemingly infinite capacity to genuinely care for a white-haired Witcher and take the harsh words of narrow-minded people in Geralt’s stead, even throwing some biting ones back.

This time is no different.

“You should watch what you say, Valdo, ‘cause I won’t hesitate to cut that tongue out,” Jaskier hisses, the threat sounding sour with resentment in spite of the shivers running through him.

“Do you need your wolf with you all the time? It seems like you’ve only a spine when he comes to your rescue.”

Geralt glowers, stepping to the side to better shield Jaskier from—wait, Valdo? Why does that name sound familiar?

“Believe it or not, I’ve had to stop Jask from hurting people more than he had to me. Even then, I don’t think he’ll stop me this time,” Geralt grumbles, rolling his shoulders, fingers curling into fists.

Valdo tuts. “Careful, Witcher. Would you truly hurt me? In a room full of witnesses? I thought you smarter than the bard.” His tone is patronizing, inherently chafing Geralt’s temper to smithereens.

“It would be a shame, after all the little flower’s done for you. Singing about your… adventures and all that. Practically birthing your reputation.” He grins, a slimy thing. His voice is grating, talking about their life-threatening journeys around the Continent as if they were innocent little children’s trips to the town’s well.

Geralt casts an eye around. There isn’t a crowd circling them, but they’ve caused enough commotion to have the closest people glance over nervously.

“I don’t care,” the Witcher grits out, gold on green, ringing in his ears from how hard he’s clenching his jaw. “You touched him.”

All he sees is red—feels the echo of that twang of unbridled terror like a lute string tugged harshly—and it brightens to a rich golden fire, rage drumming through him as he thinks about how Valdo touched him, he touched Jaskier, he’ll kill that son of a whore—

Callused fingertips smooth their way into his sweating palm, ring-laden fingers lacing with his own, grounding him into earth. Jaskier’s hand squeezes around his, a tipped over boat finally having peace on choppy waters.

“Love, I don’t think the two-faced weasel is worth it.” The words are spoken to a riled-up dog, protective of its pup. He feels the words more than hears them, soft quivering breaths in half-whispers fanning across the side of his neck. It’s soothing, cooling against the red-hot cinders of his anger. But it also alights something dormant within Geralt, like a sparkling star in the darkest of nights.

Valdo’s face twists for merely a moment. Geralt tilts his head, curious. It’s the first sign of something other than cocky indifference.

It seems that Valdo has a weakness.

The bard seems to have picked up on it too and is quick to unmask it for what it is, because he’s now closing the distance between him and Geralt, pressing his front against the Witcher’s tensed side and back.

Valdo’s temples pulsate.

He doesn’t like how Jaskier isn’t his—isn’t an obedient pet.

Jaskier releases his right arm around Geralt and instead reaches up to slide it across and over his shoulder, hand coming to rest on his pec, practically draping himself over the Witcher—like a territorial cat. Jaskier noses the side of Geralt’s neck, goosebumps rising in the wake of Jaskier’s skin delicately running across his.

It’s a clear message.

Jaskier may not be Geralt’s

—but Geralt is Jaskier’s.

Geralt knows they must look ridiculous, what with Jaskier’s defensive posturing and Geralt’s cautious stormy gaze that would bring even the strongest man to his knees; but all he feels is the curl of satisfaction in the pit of his stomach, warming like a campfire when Jaskier’s cheekbone brushes against the scruff of Geralt’s jaw.

In spite of it, it seems to be working. Their staring contest has come down to Valdo’s withering glare, uncontrollable hostility clear in his green eyes. But then a smirk slides onto that whoreson’s face.

“Does he know about the times we spent in my bed chambers? After the times he would leave you?”

Jaskier goes stiff as a rock, his breath stuttering, clearly unsure of how to react to such callously thrown words, but Geralt doesn’t let the words phase him—

(—a quiet part of his mind rages, howls within its cage, desperate to claw the man’s throat out for making Jaskier feel this way—)

and only stands straighter, puffing his chest, broadening his shoulders.

(—that same part of him purrs at the way Jaskier’s fingers twitch and dig into his muscles, testing the Witcher’s strength like he’s dipping a toe into an angry ocean’s waters—)

He meets cornflower blue eyes, hardened amber sap melting into warm honey, and squeezes Jaskier’s hand. It’s his turn to settle the anxious bard back to the Continent.

His gaze snaps back to the toxic green, and the raging fire comes back.

“Do you know he’d once wished a djinn to kill you?” Valdo blinks, not expecting such a remark.

There’s a tiny puff of laughter behind him, tugging Geralt’s lips into a small smirk. “It’s a shame, really. I regret that they turned out to be my wishes. I’d much prefer it now if he’d had them.”

Geralt wants to crowd into the Valdo’s space, growling, prowling and intimidating him like the White Wolf he is, but because he’s held so gently and protectively by the bard, he won’t move a muscle as long as the bard keeps him pacified, like a docile dog kept on a leash. A small part of him withers from the lack of dignity in his thoughts, but he finds he mostly doesn’t care.

“Don’t underestimate my bard. It’s always a mistake to do so,” Geralt rumbles, the slight intonation of pride in his voice completely sincere. At the twitch of Jaskier’s fingers, he glances around and realizes they have a bigger audience now. They should leave since they’re attracting more attention. Only Valdo narrows his eyes, stepping closer, clearly not finished with them yet, opening his mouth to retort but Geralt beats him to it.

“I’d listen if he says he’ll cut your tongue out. You should just hope I’m around next time to stop him.”

Valdo turns his nose up at them.

“Geralt, do you think we get more pockets in all my doublets? I wished I had somewhere to keep the silver dagger on me this evening,” Jaskier says it so casually, so flippantly and Gods—Geralt wishes he can kiss the bard senseless at this moment.

He remembers that silver dagger, a gift for his fortieth birthday because Geralt knows he can’t always protect Jaskier from all types of monsters. He even remembers teaching him how to wield it. Another thrum of adorations rings through him as he recalls how Jaskier, with that particular silver blade, had saved his life more than once.

Jaskier had no problem with taking care of the bandits who threatened to kill Geralt, utterly ruthless with the blade. He doesn’t doubt that the bard would carry out his threat.

Valdo’s icy glare hardens. It’s disturbing to think how Jaskier used to love this person; but at the same, it isn’t because Jaskier falls in love with everybody, falls so freely with abandon, shares pieces of himself to people who don’t deserve it. 

They should leave the scene. Despite his constant complaints of needing to rescue Jaskier, he would never willingly leave the bard in danger. He needs to get him out of here, away from the whoreson.

He’s never felt Jaskier’s fear so strongly over the soul-bond before. This was the first time it’s ever happened. Not even on the more dangerous contracts did Geralt feel such horror over their bond. It rattled him to his core when he was making his hurried way to them, discomforted by how easily Valdo set off the bard.

Geralt stares at Valdo for a moment longer, disgust twisting his face. The man only has beady eyes for Jaskier, somehow looking eerie as he contemplates something.

The Witcher turns around to face Jaskier, but keeps a cautious side-eye on the threat, not trusting the man to stay silent. Geralt’s grip moves to Jaskier’s wrist, unwinding from his embrace—despite the strong urge to stay put. He brushes his thumb over the bard’s pulse point,

(—and tries to calm the beast when he feels the indentations of crescent moons dug into the skin—)

pressing a thumb into that little rhythmic beat of Jaskier’s life. A small weight lifts off of Geralt.

“You alright?” Geralt mumbles, staring deeply into the blue, blue sky. Jaskier nods and opens his mouth—

“You’re proud of that little whore, are you not?”

Fire burns his heart inside out, lightning striking back with a vengeance and Geralt is then sliding away from Jaskier and closing the distance between him and the fucking whoreson, intending to snap his neck and be done with the pest—no one has a right to talk about Jaskier like that—

“Geralt!” The desperate plea of a sweet voice stops him, freezes him in place, just a jerk of his hands away from clawing the eyes of a certain green-eyed bastard.

His fists are white-knuckled, tremoring as they clutch at Valdo’s collar with the suppressed temper of a hundred storms. He brutally yanks him into his space, golden eyes flashing.

Finally, there’s a flash of fear in those green eyes. For once, Geralt does not mind the fear directed at him, in fact he revels in it. He should be afraid. Geralt of Rivia is a Witcher, a cold-blooded monster-killing machine, and he’s a Witcher whose soulmate was just threatened, bullied.

Valdo isn’t taller than Geralt and neither is the Witcher, but his hulking size, bulging arms and barely restrained bloodthirsty mania paints a terrifying picture.

“If it weren’t for Jaskier, I’d castrate you with my bare fucking hands.” His growl comes deep from his chest, voice harsh, gnarly. His glowing eyes brighten, snarl baring a little more of that teeth. Then he smells it.

A slow grin stretching his lips, a dark wolfish thing he knows is a horror to look at. “I can smell it on you.”

The Witcher narrows his eyes. “Fear.”

The scent only gets thicker.

“What in the Gods’ names is happening here?”

Geralt doesn’t stray his gaze away from his target, the murderous glint in fiery embers still being stoked by the way the man heartlessly treated Jaskier. He’s never quite gotten worked up like this before, in regard to his soulmate—including the times the worst types of jealous lovers crowded Jaskier against his will, spitting bodily threats at the bard.

Those types of people would usually cower in seconds under the glower of one irate Witcher who has come to the bard’s rescue. But this, this is different. The violent threats can’t quite compare to the utter bullshit spewing from Valdo’s mouth; they’re more personal and targeted, aimed perfectly blow-for-blow to fish the desired reaction from Jaskier. It’s clear Valdo knows him well—they are, or rather, were close enough for Valdo to which of the bard’s buttons to push, words digging themselves to the hilt in Jaskier.

Geralt would rather not think about the other aspects of their closeness. But it’s clear they have a more than platonic history together.

And it absolutely enrages Geralt that the man would use their past relationship as a weapon, throwing words on a whim like they were daggers, with no regard for the bard’s boundaries—

(—and Jaskier is not known to have many of them; but that just makes the whole thing worse, doesn’t it?)

That a man like Jaskier, who is open and selfless and unabashedly loving, is reduced to—

(­—not weak, never weak—)

—such a vulnerable state, come apart by threats and unwelcomed manhandling.

“Ah—it’s nothing, Your Grace,” Jaskier blurts. Geralt looks at him over his shoulder, incredulous.

“Like shit it’s nothing,” Great grumbles. The whole room is staring at them now. Just for once, can he go to a ball without stirring any trouble and drink in peace?

“Witcher?” the duchess asks gently as she looks between the three of them, pausing at the sight of Geralt’s raised hackles and bared teeth. He meets the eyes of the duchess and, to his surprise, finds himself glad that this particular nosy royal has a soft spot for love stories.

“This man,” he nods jerkily at Valdo, “just insulted and threatened my soulmate.”

A collective gasp is heard throughout the room, and only by his sensitive hearing does he hear the incredulous whispers. Apparently, a lot of people thought Witchers can’t have soulmates; yet, here he is, evidence in the flesh.

Valdo’s eyes spark with realization, chuckling darkly. “At least now I know why you haven’t aged a day since we met.”

There are soft warbles in the back of Jaskier’s throat, words wanting to be spoken but unsure of its delivery.

The rage in his gut simmers. Jaskier never hesitates in dishing out the most cutting and outlandish insults. To know Valdo has such an effect on him—where Jaskier is second-guessing himself—only makes Geralt want to tear the man apart even more.

It’s so rare that people connect the dots between him and Jaskier, figuring out they share a soul-bond; but he doubts it would get any less disorienting when the fact is shoved in their faces, much less said out-loud. Their soul-bond is mostly left unspoken, a rule deemed by Geralt from the first day they met. It became clear to Jaskier that Geralt isn’t one to hold back his punches, literally, even when it comes to his soulmate.

Geralt once mused over the thought that Jaskier must assume the Witcher doesn’t see his soulmate differently from the next person when it can’t be any further from the truth.

The duchess’ lips are set into a firm line, eyes grim. She turns to Valdo and says, “Is this true?”

Valdo backtracks, voice light, “My Grace, I was not aware that the Witcher is his soulmate. And I was merely catching up with an old friend—”

“By insulting him and using emotional blackmail?” Geralt grits out, eyes glinting dangerously.

Valdo cocks a brow, as if he’s challenging him in front of the duchess.

“My Grace, whatever the bard and I discuss is only meant to be kept private, without a Witcher interrupting our conversation.”

Geralt’s hands roll back into fists. “I ­felt his fear over the soul-bond. You did something to him.”

At this, something heavy and dark is shown through the duchess’ delicate features. “You felt the soul-bond?”

Geralt nods, and more murmurs erupt from the crowd. It’s rare that one person of the soul-bond feels something so inherently strong, that their conscience calls out for their other. It’s a phenomenon not to be taken lightly. Everyone in the room knows the weight of his statement.

“Pray tell,” the duchess starts, her tone gaining an edge, “what exactly did you do?”

Valdo opens his mouth, but Geralt cuts in, “My Grace, no offence but I think we should ask Jaskier for the details.”

Geralt glances over to the bard in question, who stares at him for a long silent moment before gratefully nodding, something soft in those blue eyes. Geralt doesn’t want Valdo to spout details Jaskier wouldn’t want out in the open. He isn’t quite sure what Valdo did, but he knows it’s terrible if it ruffled Jaskier’s feathers enough that even Geralt would feel the repercussions.

He’s put the ball in Jaskier’s court, giving him control over the person who has ruined their evening.

“Master Dandelion?” the duchess softly inquires. Jaskier swallows hard, back going stiff again. He gapes and closes his mouth, deep in thought, probably trying to figure how to put what happened into words.

“Uh, well, he didn’t leave a mark on me,” Jaskier simply says, “not visible ones.”

The duchess goes stiffer than Jaskier. “But he laid his hands on you, yes?”

Something flashes across Jaskier’s eyes, meeting the royal’s gaze. The air thickens, and Geralt feels like he’s missing a part of the conversation between the two when Jaskier solemnly nods. The duchess straightens up, snapping her head towards Valdo with a cold gaze, similar to Geralt’s much more heated glare.

“My Grace, you have no idea if this bard is telling the truth,” Valdo points out, still playing the act.

“There are many witnesses. I am sure at least one person in this court has seen what transpired.”

She steps closer to Valdo and Geralt, her crown practically shattering the glass ceiling, a terrifying aura coming off the duchess.

“Even so, you shall show Master Dandelion the respect he has earned. He is one of the most famed bards, if not the most, in our time.”

The more the duchess inches closer, the further Geralt steps away from Valdo, certain the duchess can handle the man. Behind him, he hears the soft footfalls of his bard and he reaches behind blindly, groping for Jaskier’s hand, which squeezes his once their fingers lace together.

“My Grace, might I remind you I am Master Valdo Marx, also a bard of high regard.” The man does a graceful little bow, a little smug smirk on his face. Both Geralt and Jaskier don’t resist the urge to roll their eyes. Suck-up.

A finely shaped brow arches high on the duchess’ face.

“I’m afraid I’ve not heard of you.”

Snickers amongst the crowd break the silence, and even Jaskier can’t help the snort of amusement. An annoyed frown briefly crosses Valdo’s face.

“You should be aware that in Mellaburn, we do not tolerate any foul play against soulmates, especially if it’s against the most renowned bard in the Continent and Geralt of Rivia.” The duchess’ tone is one of incredulous disbelief, as if she’s reminding him how much of an idiot he is for going after a Witcher’s soulmate.

“I hardly doubt the two would hold back had I not intervened,” the duchess says, now standing in front of Valdo, somehow towering over him despite her petite stature.

“Not to forget, they are my special guests. I expect everyone to treat them the same way they do with the members of the ducal table. I do not accept anything less.” Her eyes flash, words cutting. She awfully reminds Geralt of lilac and the chaos behind violet eyes.

The look on Valdo’s face is one of subtle indignation, brows in a slight furrow as he stares down the royal. It’s a thorough dressing down even with the little words the duchess said. Valdo looks around, as if finally realizing he’s crowded in a corner, everyone’s eyes watching his every movement. The sharpness in his eyes dulls like a dagger being sheathed, and he puts his hands up in a placating manner, subtly surrendering.

Geralt’s snarl deepens. He does not want to spend another moment around this heinous snake or stand around getting gawked at.

“Duchess Emylya,” he calls out. She does not turn her gaze away from Valdo, still accessing him from head to toe.

“Yes, Witcher?”

“If you don’t mind, Jaskier and I will be taking our leave.“

Jaskier grips his hand tighter, cutting him off, “But I didn’t get to finish my performance—”

“Of course. I shall get a guard to escort you to your room and a handmaiden to provide as much provisions as you see fit for your trip tomorrow.” She shoots a look at Jaskier—like a worried mother chastising her child, and Geralt nods gratefully, but he pauses at the offer of a room.

It must be an apology of sorts, letting them stay at their palace even though they already have a room at the town’s inn. He doesn’t look at a gift horse in the mouth, however. The duke, having stood by watching the entire confrontation, calls for a guard.

Geralt lets go of Jaskier’s hand—and has to resist when Jaskier gripped it tighter at the last second to keep the Witcher close—to walk over to the speechless group of minstrels, picking up Jaskier’s treasured lute in his hands. He returns to Jaskier, a guard already by the bard’s side, who looks absolutely bewildered by the turn of events.

He passes over the lute, sharing a reassuring look—those soft blues warming in his gaze. Jaskier nearly ducks his head, lips twitching from a flat line to a tiny smile—the sight of it unfurls a knot in Geralt’s chest, one he didn’t know he had.

The bard mumbles a soft ‘thank you’ and trails after the guard who leads their way out, Geralt at his heels—who sends one last scathing look at Valdo before they leave the pin-drop silent room.

[deathvalleyusa]

the last bit of the basement chapter!! holy moly. i think i have a whole chapter of this done. wild. anyway, it’ll be a while before i post anything else that isn’t memes so enjoy!!

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She hated playing angry. Hated the energy it gave to the rest of the band, hated how it affected her voice. But Candy couldn’t find it in herself to calm down by the time The Misfire’s set rolled around. Everyone else was heated as well; Kyle, normally the most level-headed of the band, suggested swapping out a few of their more ballad-like songs for angrier ones. Rizz and Erin agreed.

So when their set came, The Misfire threw every hurt feeling, every ounce of anger, into their music. The banshee wail she had come to be known for echoed in the small space, an unfathomable noise from someone so small. Rizz slammed away on the drum kit, hard enough one song to break a drumstick. Erin took some liberties with the synth, switching her setting at the last moment to give it a grittier noise as she messed with the pitch bend. And Kyle. Beautiful, wonderful, Kyle let his voice distort in ways he hadn’t done since he had been a part of his last band. Growled out every response to Candy’s lines, strumming away at his bass as his face contorted with his added screams.

The energy the crowd gave back sent her back to a place of calm. This was where Candy was in her element; a good crowd dancing and yelling along to songs they remembered, seeing a pit form when they started up their signature song, Immolated.

Burn it all down No longer seeped in shame Immolated Smouldering in the dying flames (Who am I? Who am I?) (Who am I? What have I become?)

“Thank you guys!” she called out, flipping orange hair from her face. One more strum of her guitar, Rizz’s drumsticks crashing against the cymbals as the song ended. “You guys have been great tonight, seriously. Keep up the energy for the next band, Oct 29!”

God, she thought, I hope someone recorded our set tonight.

As they filtered off stage, Erin came behind her, giving a tight squeeze.

“You sounded ferocious,” she exclaimed, the shag of her pink hair slowly curly from sweat. “Oh my god. We totally need to re-record Immolated like that.”

“Agreed,” Kyle said, trying to get a grip on Erin’s Roland. “Seriously, fuck that Rhett guy, but we sounded rad with that extra push.”

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The last of their equipment had been loaded into their respective cars, a reminder to Candy to get back into lifting weights, running, something to make carrying Rizz’s set easier. A cigarette, and the band was back inside, taking in Oct 29’s patented chaos. Drinking, mingling, the stain of the night forgotten for now. 

For some reason, Candy couldn’t bring herself to truly enjoy it all. Maybe it was the heated exchange earlier, perhaps it was the reminder that for the past year, she had been attending these gigs with Devion. Now, she was without the man she had grown to love, lost in a sea of people. 

This place didn’t need her dour energy. She had done enough damage. With a sigh, she grabbed her jacket, giving hugs as she made her way out to the back of the house. It’d be easier taking the alley back to her car, anyway. As she made her way to the porch, she checked her phone, the slight blue glow illuminating her disheveled makeup before it made its way back into her jean jacket. 

There Rhett was, sitting on the crumbling steps of the back porch. Black hair hanging in ribbons off his shoulders, a stream of smoke dissipating into the air. Candy hesitated. Another fight wasn’t something she had the energy for. 

Rhett looked back, his faraway expression snapping back to reality, hardening at the sight of her. The intensity between them was almost as visible as the smoke coming from his cigarette. 

“You’re not staying for Boy Blu’s set?” he asked, voice tense although he seemed to try his best to keep it unbothered. “Thought they were pals of yours.”

Candy kind of hated how he was trying to act so casual. Like they could have a conversation after screaming at one another not even an hour ago. 

“They are,” she answered, jaw setting. “But they’ll be fine. Boy Blu plays all the time, one missed set isn’t gonna hurt their feelings.”

“Bummer,” Rhett said, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Heard from Jamie they’re gonna play a few new songs.”

“Again,” she said, patience wearing thin, “they’ll understand. Did you want something?”

“I’m just trying to be nice, Jesus Christ.” The anger was back in his husky voice. “We both got heated, isn’t good for either of our bands since, y’know, we play so many shows together.”

He had a point. As much as Candy wanted to stonewall Cain Is Able after this, they were often booked together. Playing nice for now might have its benefits. Heaven forbid The Misfire be labeled as a band that was hard to work with, especially in such a tight knit local scene. 

She gave a sigh, blowing wisps of orange hair from her face. “Hate to admit it, but you’re right.”

That got a chuckle out of him. “I’m right about a lot of stuff, Hawke.”

Jesus, the ego on this one. Candy rolled her eyes, breezing past him as she gave him the finger. “Get bent, Rhett.”

“Hey.”

Brown eyes narrowed, her head whipping back to look at him. “What.”

“You really thought my singing was good?”

It was such an earnest question. Worse was how sincere his face was, deep eyes nearly black in the shadow of the porch light. She almost felt sorry for her comment earlier. How many of her friends back in Madison had dealt with similar problems, having to step away from music entirely because of their problems? Rhett was fucking lucky. He had come back, albeit not in the position he left in. 

Candy would never tell him, but when she did catch Cain Is Able’s sets, she always listened closer for his voice, backing Perry. Wished he would let the growl of his voice overpower the crisp, pop sound of Perry’s voice. When she had first arrived in Milwaukee, it was impossible to not hear his distinct, deep voice coming from one of the clubs. Once it was gone, the hole it left felt enormous.

“Yeah,” she said. “You were really the only thing that made you guys stand out, man.”

She couldn’t tell if the answer pleased him or not. Candy wasn’t going to stick around to delve further. She dug out her keys, giving a nod in his direction.

“Later, Rhett.”

“Yeah,” he echoed. “Later.”

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TAG LIST: @erinbeatty​ @lunalove4537​ @alias-b​ @redjadequeen​

[golddaggers]

waking up the hotel

(not my gif but doesn’t my boo look cute?)

pairings: stiles stilinski x reader; scott mccall x malia tate; stiles stilinski x malia tate (mentioned only).

warnings: hmm, a darn cute fluff. but i must warn this is also a smut, it contains descriptions of oral sex (male/female), lots of french kissing, inside jokes and, obviously, sex. unprotected. (fictional means only, plus they’re married//wrap your stuff before tapping it).

A/N: i ran a poll a while back and this very one-shot was the winner, so i hope you guys enjoy it! :) if possible, of course, i would love receiving some feedback from y’all. i know i am the worst blog administrator in the world, but i have been busy. nonetheless, there’s fresh stuff coming! keep your eyes peeled.

(before you go on, i would like to give a massive shout out to my honey bee who always supports my work @slow-bee-at-play! thank you so much, hun <3)

word count: 4,8k

While Y/N was cheerfully engaged in a nice conversation with the Williams couple, Stiles could not help but think this picture was way too odd for him to feel comfortable in. The extremely well-decorated lounge, Bulgarian roses everywhere, large tables crowded with their acquaintances and a soft ballad playing in the background. He had definitely never imagined himself to be the leading role in a wedding, however, nothing felt more right than that moment, when they both said yes.

The brown haired man had his arm carefully wrapped around her waistline, watching the dimples show as she laughed to something the tall man had said. Stiles couldn’t find the will within him to focus on anything that wasn’t his beautiful wife. Eventually he shook his head, hoping he could still catch a glint of the conversation.

“Well, it’s a great pleasure to have you here!” Y/N smiled softly. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we still have a few people to greet! Also a phone call to my maid of honour who should already be here for my toast!”

Both Molly and Gordon began laughing out loud, which caused the newlyweds to smile as well, waving one last time at them before going over to where their families were situated. They greeted a few more guests in the way, quizzing them to know if everything was okay. Hosting a reception party was definitely a hard task. By the time they got to the last table, all Stiles wanted was to pour himself a dose of whiskey and sit back.

“Did something happen, honey?” The Y/H/C haired woman queried, her palms grasping his cheeks, melting instantaneously to those gorgeous honey brown eyes her husband had. “You look so down…”

“Nah, I’m just tired, babe.”

“Well, I have a little surprise in stock for you.” A wide, mischievous grin enlightening her traits.

“You do?”

“Yes, my love.” She winked at him, earning a light head shake. “Just wait here.”

Stilinski watched as his girl went over to the stage where the band was playing, not hesitating to request the microphone. A low giggle slipped past his lips, for he knew that she would always find a new way to surprise him. They had been together for six years, however, there was not a single day that his love wouldn’t give him a new thrill.

“Good night, my friends!” Her melodic voice echoed, the chit-chat ceasing to pay attention the woman. “As you know, there is a certain tradition in weddings and Stiles was very emphatic we did this one. It’s time to take the bride’s garter off, people!”

Glancing over to where he was standing, Y/N was able to see a small smirk pulling Stiles’, who she was yet to adjust calling husband, perfectly shaped lips up. After a some excited screams and claps, the woman went to the middle of the dance floor, crossing her arms while waiting for the brown haired man to take part on her dare.

“So, Stilinski, ready to do this?”

“Hell yeah, babe.” Once he was close enough, his lips brushed her cheek, sending chills down Y/N’s back. “Spread those legs for me, will you?”

She smiled, a thin layer of blush covering her cheeks. It was simply a teasing whisper, but the newlywed had heard that line before and it never failed to make her all flustered. Actually, everything that Stiles did was a turn on. His careless movements, the way he would constantly lick his lips… Urgh, only to be thinking about it, the girl saw herself having to rub her thighs together.

Without further words, Y/N took a seat on the chair one of the waiters had brought especially for the moment. People rushed to circle the couple, their eyes hungry for action. Stiles loosened his tie, slowly moving towards his favourite girl, earning to himself some encouraging yells.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you excuse me, I will take a peek at my bride’s private bits.”

“Mieczyslaw Stilinski!” She interjected, lips pursed to suppress a loud laugh.  “Instead of talking, I suggest you get your job done.”

While he got down on his knees, the band began playing an instrumental cover of Prince’s Kiss. Stiles grinned at Y/N, gently lifting up the dress’ skirt, fingers burning each patch of skin he touched. The girl was forced to bite her bottom lip; his nose finally came in contact with her inner thighs, head already lost under her gown. Teasingly, Stilinski grazed his teeth on the tender flesh, noticing as the woman’s muscles tensed up.

Finally taking a peek, the brown haired man immediately understood why his wife had said he would like the surprise. It wasn’t about taking off a stupid garter, more like the fact she wasn’t wearing any underwear. Deciding to not make a scene about it now, he merely clutched the white cloth with his mouth, slowly pulling down her leg, being welcomed back with enthusiastic claps and laughs.

To complete the tradition, he pulled one tip back so the tissue would fly high once he lets it go. The nice piece of garment fell straight into Richard’s hands, a cocky smirk plastered on his face once he grasped it, action that brought up a grunt from Stiles, who still couldn’t believe Y/N had invited him to their wedding. For Christ’s sake, she knew damn well how her second degree cousin wanted nothing but to steal his place. However, the brunette couldn’t deny he was glad to boast about winning that fight.

“Mal! Scotty! Hey!” Y/N howled, smiling at the gorgeous woman who was standing by her brother near the table. “You guys are awfully late! What happened? Did you have a quickie on the way here?”

“No. Shut up!” The exchanged confidant giggles, Malia’s rushed response swiftly letting the other girl know her assumption was indeed true.

“Naughty!”

“Nothing happened, Y/N/N!”

“Yeah, good, otherwise I wouldn’t ever accept a ride from you guys again.”

“Well… I said nothing happened today.”

“Ew!” Stiles crunched his nose, hugging his wife from behind. “Stop telling my baby those things, Malia.”

“Right, should I recall the time I walked into you two doing-?”

“No, you shouldn’t.” The girl quickly cut her friend, grasping Malia’s wrist. “Why don’t you come with me to greet my mum, huh?”

“Okay.” Her doe eyes narrowed, lips forming a straight line, probably in hopes to stifle a laugh. “By the way, I have the hottest gossip to tell you!”

Considering the boys weren’t interested in their conversation, they chose to head over to a table, pouring themselves some whiskey and enjoying some quiet time. But, a few minutes later, Stiles grew puzzled to why his best friend was so quiet.

“Did something happen, Scott?”

“No, dude. Everything’s fine.” The much tanned man sipped on his drink, energetically shaking his head.  

“Man, I know you’re still pissed about the wedding. Would you please get over it? May I bring the ‘you got married to my ex’ card?”

“My sister, dude? Really?” He rolled his eyes. “I mean, there’s probably more than three billion women out there, couldn’t you have chosen someone who wasn’t related to me?”

“Honestly? No, I couldn’t choose anyone else but her.” Stilinski’s answer was short and straight to the point. “I love her, Scotty! She’s my frickin’ soulmate!”

“Well, you better love her, because if you hurt my baby sister, I swear to God I will kick your ass.”

“Quit playing around, honey. We both know you love me way too much to hurt me…” The brown haired man winked, joking to take the edge of the situation off.

“Stiles, I’m serious!”

“I refuse to argue about this with you any longer. I’ve been in a relationship with your sister for six fucking years, I actually got married to her, do you think I’m kidding? Because I’m damn sure there’s enough evidence that I am serious about her.”

“Fine… You’re right. I’m just overreacting. She’s my baby sister, I want her to be happy.”

“And I will make her happy, trust me.” Scott folded his arms, nodding and caving in with a smile. “Now, let’s have a proper conversation, shall we? How has the married life treating you?”

“It’s fantastic!” A goofy grin enlightened his puppy face. “I can’t find nothing better than to wake up with her hair scattered all over the pillow, her legs tangled with mine, her small hands clutching my shoulders… Even the flower scent on our bed has got me hooked. I can’t describe how happy I am to have made this decision.”

“Has all the fighting dimmed down a little?”

“Hell no. Malia is one stubborn girl, she always wants to have her way and it drives me crazy.” McCall laughed, getting Stiles to join him. “But let me tell you something… The make-up sex? Incredible.”

“Yeah, that is totally right. Shit, whenever we fight, Y/N comes up to me a few minutes later, jumps into my lap and things just get rough. Scratching, biting… She is wild.”

“Alright, too much information! She is still my sister.”

The friends chuckled together, both taking a good gulp from their bitter drinks. They hadn’t gotten the chance to keep chatting however, for their wives returned, Y/N going straight to sit on Stiles’ lap, who fondly stroked her back. She smiled, kissing his cheek, her nose inhaling the strong manly scent emanating from him.

"Babe, it’s super late… What do you think about us sneaking out? It was a hell of a long day and I could use some rest before we travel tomorrow.”

“Hmm, yes. I definitely need to take those shoes off anyway…” She giggled, getting back on her feet. “I need to talk to my mother first, though, to see if she can keep hosting the people.”  

Nodding, Stilinski watched her walk up to Melissa, the two women cheerfully talking. He was incredibly glad they had made up; not long ago they had gotten into a fight saying that marrying a FBI agent was too risky. Of course everyone knew that her fit was due to the fact her ex-husband, Y/N’s father, was an agent as well. She just didn’t want her daughter to undergo the same stuff she did and end up with a failed marriage. Nonetheless, the two eventually talked it out and things went back to normal.

In a few moments, the Y/H/C haired girl went back with a wide grin on her face.

"Yeah, all set, hun.”

“Should we go, then?”

“Well, I’m going to change my clothes real quick. Why don’t you do the same and wait for me in the car?”

“Yeah, sounds like a plan!”

The smile stretched further on the girl’s lips; she briefly kissed Stiles and then went over to her bedroom, cursing lowly to the dull ache spreading on feet. As soon as she got inside her old room, she quickly kicked off the heels, moaning with the release.

For a swift moment, Y/N observed the place, mesmerised by the fact her mother hadn’t changed a thing about it. The purple covers, the band posters… It was like a mini Y/N McCall sanctuary.

Shaking her head, the girl went straight to the closet, picking out the beige dress she had brought and placing it on the bed, proceeding to remove her wedding dress; once it was off, her body quivered to the sudden change of temperature.

Y/N first slipped on some white tights, then the dress and lastly her old navy-blue all stars. Her clothing was very simple; after all, if everything happened as she was hoping, she wouldn’t be dressed for long. Especially knowing how wild her husband was in bed.

A naughty smirk appeared while McCall checked her makeup one last time. After she decided she looked good enough, Y/N took a shortcut to the back of her mother’s home, opting to avoid all the fuss.

The couple’s flight to France would only take place later today, around midday, which left the wedding night to an expensive hotel in Beacon Hills. However, before they were able to leave, they had to bid farewell to the whole family, exchanging hugs and kisses. The minute that was over, Y/N and Stiles hopped inside the man’s new Mercedes.

Not long afterwards, he had rose up to a fairly high speed, choosing a high road to arrive sooner at the hotel.They didn’t talk during the drive, but Stilinski made sure to maintain skin contact, his large hand stroking her thigh.

About half an hour later, the couple reached their destination. It was little past four in the morning when they checked-in; Y/N was actually surprised her husband spent so much money to bring her to this fancy hotel.

“You’re so quiet, babe…” The brown haired man mumbled, frowning, as they got inside the lift. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“No, nothing happened. I’m just tired and, well, a little bit scared.”

He brought his plump bottom lip to be chewed by his teeth, grasping his wife’s hand and softly squeezing it, to provide her with comfort.

“What exactly are you scared of, huh? It’s just you and me, baby, like it has been all these years.”

“I love you, Mischief.” She sighed, admitting.

“Hmm, I am confident that I love you way more, stupid!” A silky giggle slipped his mouth. “Now, what do you say we go enjoy our room, huh?”

She couldn’t stifle a loud laugh as the tall, dark haired man lifted her on his arms and walked them both inside the huge hotel room. It had a rather light decoration, the walls painted white, honey coloured furniture… Y/N thought to herself that this was the perfect place to seal their first night as a married couple. Stiles, on the other hand, could only imagine the nasty things he’d to do her on that majestic bed.  

As soon as the girl was comfortably lying on the smooth mattress, Stilinski didn’t hesitate to climb above her, claiming her lips hungrily. His tongue traced a wet line on her bottom lip, pushing inside her mouth and exploring the light champagne taste it had. God, he missed her so much! The couple had decided to, hm, remain chaste until the wedding day, thus the man was almost crawling walls.

His fingers fumbled carelessly along her back, looking for buttons or a zipper, whatever it was, to open up the piece of clothing that insisted on wrapping his gorgeous wife’s body. He sucked a hickey on her neck, eliciting a mellow moan from the girl, her digits tangling with his hair.  Finally, giving up on opening it, Stiles’ hands simply snuck under the dress, finding her tender spot and giving it a gentle rub. This time her response wasn’t low, actually, it was slightly louder than they were both used to, which caused Y/N to purse her lips, restraining the sounds.  

“Don’t hold in, baby.” Stilinski whispered, his thumb flickering the swollen nub. “I love when you moan to me. Especially my name. It sounds so pretty coming from your pretty mouth…”  

“Stiles… Don’t do this to me.” Her voice was desperate, losing the timing once his long middle finger slipped inside her dampen core. “Fuck.”

“Such a dirty mouth.” The index joined the other one within her pussy, the pace growing slightly, bringing out dense, girl-ish moans.

“Stilinski, when I-” She was cut off by the man’s lips finding hers in a rough kiss, his digits still vigorously pumping. “God fucking damn.”

Y/N threw her head back, moaning out loud as she watched her husband slowly move down. His hair was dishevelled, eyes hardened with lust; if there was anything in this world that she thought it was sexy, it was this image.

The man’s mouth was eager to slurp on her clit, his tongue flickering with care. Stiles hummed once he felt her entrance becoming slicker, the stretchy liquid pruning his fingers. The noises she was making were also a turn-on, he enjoyed how responsive she was, encouraging him to move further, his digits stretching her walls up.

Her hands snuck to his shoulders, scraping the skin of his of the brown haired man’s neck whilst her hips went up against his face to deepen the contact of his tongue against it. She felt so close to burst, it was amazing how he grew familiar with all her tender spots, rubbing just the enough amount to get her all worked up.

“Stiles…” The name fell out of her mouth in a mellow moan, he grunted. “I’m so close… Don’t stop, yeah? Just keep going like that…”

Stilinski hummed, the vibration causing the girl to clench, screaming in pleasure. Withdrawing his fingers, he licked a stripe down her core, exploring her entrance with his tongue, her taste flooding his mouth. They had been together for six years and not once he felt as if he could get enough of this. Of her.

He grasped the base of her thighs, diving deeper into her, savouring every bit of sensitive skin he could. Y/N bottom lip quivered, her back arching as the coil on her lower stomach tightened more and more, until, in one sharp movement, Stiles pushed over the edge, her orgasm shaking her entire body. The girl couldn’t help but scream, the pleasure filling her up entirely.

The mole speckled boy kept on kitten licking her pussy, riding her out of her high. She heaved in awe, her hands squeezing his shoulders while still heaving in awe, very much numb. Eventually, his kisses left the moist centre and came up to meet up with her lips, the girl groaning upon feeling her own taste on his tongue, his fingers grazing the soft flesh of her thigh.

“This was interesting.” She bluntly said, gently pushing him to get off her. “You have never disappointed me with that mouth of yours. Well… Except for that night, after Scott and Malia’s wedding.”

“I was drunk!!”

“Yeah, that’s your excuse.” Y/N giggled, slipping off of her cute dress and kicking off the sneakers.  “But I can remember plenty nights in which you were drunk and closed the deal.”

“Do you get your kicks when you tease me like that?”

“Yeah, you look adorable when you’re pissed.”

Stiles’ eyes glowed with hunger for that gorgeous body standing in front of him, with nothing on but a pair of thighs and a white lacy bra. Y/N grinned naughtily at him, walking back to the back and straddling her husband, the feeling of his hard-on throbbing against her warm slit. However, before they could continue the festivities, there was a shy knock on the door, snapping them out of their own little world.

“Fuck.” He cursed, rolling his eyes. “It’s four in the morning, who in the world would it be?”

The person knocked again, eliciting a huff from Stiles, who, as soon as the girl rolled off of him, went to the door. Y/N, curious to know what was going on, put on a robe and went to join the brown haired man whose voice was considerably louder than usual.  

“Hi, what is going on?” The woman queried, quickly analysing the angry expressions on Stilinski’s face and the scared ones on the hotel room maid. “Babe?”

“Hello, ma’am.” Poor thing looked so embarrassed. “As I was trying to explain to your husband… There has been a few complaints from the guests about some loud noises coming from this room. I was wondering if you could moan a little lower?”

“Oh!” A slight blush rose to Y/N’s cheeks. “I am so sorry! We will keep-”

“Excuse me, Miss Millis, but we are on our honeymoon and I recall paying three thousand fucking dollars for this room. The least I could get was to be left alone with my wife, but don’t fucking worry it because we will keep it down.”

Stiles proceeded to slam the door shut before being even able to hear what the maid had to say about his harsh answer, who looked as comfortable as a fish out of water. Y/N stared at the man livid, not believing be had acted out like that, like he was some sort of King. Even if he was, it was no excuse to treat anyone like that.

“Are you insane?”

“No, I’m not.” His shoulders dropped. “I just wanted to enjoy our wedding night, babe, fuck you real good and hear your sweet moans calling out to me. I can’t believe I can’t even do that.”

She couldn’t avoid the smirk that pulled her lips up, moving to where he was, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“Lose the angry face that you know makes me crazy about you.” The whispered was leaking lust. “And don’t babble about fucking me good if you aren’t going to do it. Either you do it or don’t bring it up.”

While Y/N talked, her digits worked on the not of her robe, allowing it to pool around her feet. Stiles took a deep breath, cocking his head to the right side whilst savouring the new found sight; he wanted nothing but to touch her, nevertheless, the moment his hand reached forward, she slapped him away, swiftly kneeling in front of him.

“What do you say I help you calm down, huh?” It was barely a whisper, but it served as a great stimulant to the man, who just nodded, agreeing. “Good, let me take care of you.”

“Be my guest, honey.”

She knelt down in front of him, not hesitating to remove his belt and pop his trousers’ button open, pushing it alongside his black underwear down. Stiles’ dick was only semi-hard; the previous events had certainly dimmed down all the pent up tension from before, nothing a good blowjob wouldn’t fix. The thought elicited a giggle as she grasped his length, giving it a few  pumps.

The brown haired man grunted, closing his eyes to entirely enjoy the handjob he was receiving. In a careless motion, he cupped her cheek, his thumb gently tracing her cheekbone, which brought a smile to her lips before, finally, leaning in to suck his tip into her hot mouth. Another wave of moaning filled the room, his hand leaving her face and going to grab her hair, tugging at it.

Y/N used her tongue to circle his swollen head, collecting the salty pre-cum already leaking. Stiles was a 27 year old with the sex drive of a teenager, so getting hard was definitely not a problem to him; actually, it often happened even though he wasn’t in a sexual content, granting the man some of the funniest moments.

Opting to tease him even more, she scattered kisses across his dick, wetting every inch of it. She then followed a vein back up to his tip, sucking at it hungrily. Forward, the woman curled her lips inwardly, swallowing just enough of him to feel herself gag. Her husband moaned out her name, tightening the grip on her hair, his hips thrusting forward. The girl instantaneously pulled away, frowning at him.

“Why did you stop?”

“Could you please not rush me like that?” She complained, shaking her head in disapproval. “Let me do this my way or you’ll have to deal with it by yourself.”

“When you ask so nicely!”

Not minding his witty response, she went back to what she was doing; his digits snuck into her hair, massaging her scalp. She groaned, taking her left hand, which was massaging his balls, to caress her own pussy. Stiles could swear he saw little stars every time she moaned, the vibration sending jolts of pleasure across his whole body.

It had something to do with the way she sucked and the way her tongue swirled that was driving him crazy. God, she was not allowed to be so good, he thought, loosening the grip on her hair, letting her Y/H/T fall, framing her gorgeous face.  

“Look at me, babe.” Her voice mumbled, breathlessly. “Watch me going down on you, sucking you so good you can’t even make sentences.”

“Shit. You’re so hot, Y/N.”

The woman spat on his cock, her hand working non stop whilst her lips wrapped themselves around his tip, craving nothing but to cause him to fall apart.

“God, fucking damn, honey. I’m gonna…”

“Just cum to me, yeah?”

“Not in your mouth… Please!” Stiles pleaded. “I wanna’ fuck you. I wanna’ feel that warm cunt strangling me.”

There was no way she could deny him when he talked like that, it was like he hacked her firewall and tore everything down. She was putty in his hands.

Stiles have her a hand, helping her up and swiftly pulling her into a breathtaking kiss. Their tastes mingled while their tongues rolled together, the noses brushing lightly. Meanwhile, never breaking the contact, he gently pushed her to the bed, taking place between her legs, descending his kisses to the woman’s collarbones. He sucked a few love bites there, not even thinking twice before tearing the delicate bra up.

“I liked this one.” Y/N pouted.

“We can shopping in fucking France and you’ll buy a new one.”

“Okay.” She giggled, unbuttoning his shirt and throwing somewhere in the room. “Now would you do the favour of fucking me?”

“As you wish, your highness.”

In a slow movement, Stiles pushed inside her wet pussy, both of them grunting due to the intimacy now shared. He remained still for a minute, waiting until she adjusted to him, being the loving bean he had always been when it came to the love of his life. Removing a few hairs off of her forehead, Stilinski leant in, pecking her lips fondly.

Not want rushing anything, the chestnut brown haired man then began moving smoothly. It wasn’t rare that the two of them would chose to make love rather than having wild sex, but tonight it was so special that they simply couldn’t help it. Her hands cupped his cheeks, their gazes linking like there was nothing else in the world but the two of them.

A low moan slipped her lips when he hit a sweet spot, which brought a cocky smile to his lips. Stiles always felt the most amazing fucker in the world when he got you to moan. You joined him, giggling a little.

“What are you thinking about it?”

“That you are adorable.” She whispered, the stinging feeling of his scruff burning her neck as he kissed the region. “That I’m so lucky I married you.”

“You cheesy muffin.” His hoarse laugh had her shivering. It could also be related to the fact his pace grew significantly. “Did you ever, uh, think we’d be here?”

“Hmm.” The way he angled himself within her forced a moan out, she dug her nails down his pale back. “Sometimes. But I never figured you made the get married type.”

“And you were okay with that?”

“I was.” Inhaling his scent made her smile. “All I wanted was to be with you, I never cared much about titles.”

“All I ever wanted was to be with you too.”

They shared a fond kiss, melting into each other as their hands intertwined. Y/N could feel the known tightness on her lower stomach, letting her know her second orgasm was edging her and, by the way he was getting sloppy, she knew that Stiles was close as well. The tips of his fingers drew figures on her thigh, small goosebumps spreading on the woman’s frame.

Stilinski’s hands hugged each side of her body, his lips wrapping themselves around Y/N’s right peak, toying with it until it was turgid under his touch. She clenched around him, lifting her hips to increase the friction.  

“Oh fuck… I… Urgh!” The words floated from the woman’s mouth while she finally surrendered to the pleasure, her toes curling and her chest rising against his face. “Dammit’, Stiles!”

“Just a little bit more, baby.”

“Uh-uh.” Her voice was frail when she agreed. “Fuck.”

His movements grew careless, their hips meeting in an irregular pattern. Their mouths linked again, she brought his bottom lip between his; he moaned, his hands gripping the base of her thighs, thrusting harder than before, only fall apart, his warm seed spilling inside her when he cummed.

The couple spent a few minutes just there, experiencing the abundance of sensations. At last, he rolled off of her, taking the place beside; she crawled to lie her hand on his chest, noticing that his breathing was still uneven. Stiles stroked her back, kissing the top of her head.

“Well, hubby.” Y/N said, a smile ghosting on her lips. “That was fucking awesome.”

“It was indeed.”

“I mean, I love when you fuck me like that.”

“Could you stop talking like that, you naughty girl?” Stiles brought her leg to mix with his, his hand running down it. “I love you.”

“Yeah, I love you too.”

[theotherpages]

National Poetry Month #9 - Catullus - Catullus IV

Every rock and roll band occasionally does a ballad. Why? I have no idea, but I assume that they need something slow and easy to sing after bouts of energetic screaming and bashing. In more general terms, even when you’re really good at something, you need to try other things from time to time.

Today we’re going to hop in the Wayback Machine and go sixteen centuries back before Grimald, and talk about about Catullus ( Gaius Valerius Catullus) a Roman poet from the first century BCE. Some 116 of his poems survive to the present day. I was amused to see that half of these are still part of the current AP Latin syllabus.

Catullus, like Grimald, lived in a time of war and turbulence, near the end of the Roman Republic.  He wrote a wide variety of poems, including many short epigrams, and also many poems to his live interest, Clodia. He was a fan of the Greek poet Sappho, so his pet name for her was Lesbia. To students who have studied Latin in school, Catullus was sampled repeatedly, but with much care by our teachers. He could be humorous, and he loved a good insult, but much of it is so sexually explicit that it is difficult to discuss in polite company. Whenever there is a literal and a deeper meaning, teachers were quick to steer conversation into safer waters - which leads us to today’s poem, which has always been one of my favorites.

I think it shows, beautifully, that when the rock & roll poet of his era decided to write something serious instead, the result can be lyrical and memorable. Here it is first, in the original Latin: (don’t worry, you can skip down, I don’t really expect you to read it)

Catullus IV

Phaselus ille, quem videtis, hospites, ait fuisse navium celerrimus, neque ullius natantis impetum trabis nequisse praeterire, sive palmulis opus foret volare sive linteō. Et hoc negat minacis hadriatici negāre litus Insulāsve Cycladās Rhodumque nobilem horridamque Thraciam Propontida trucemve Ponticum sinum, ubi iste post phaselus antea fuit comāta silva; nam Cyrōtiō in iugō loquente saepe sibilum edidit coma. Amastri Pontica et Cytore buxifer, tibi haec fuisse et esse cognitissima ait phaselus, ultimā ex origine tuō stetisse dicit in cacūmine, tuō imbuisse palmulās in aequore, et inde tot per impotentia fretā erum tulisse (laevă sive dexterā vocaret aura, sive utrumque Iuppiter simul secundus incidisset in pedem), neque ulla vota litoralibus deis sibi esse facta, cum veniret a mari novissimo hunc ad usque limpidum lacum. Sed haec prius fuere: nunc reconditā senet quiete seque dedicat tibi, gemelle Castor et gemelle Castoris. 

-- Catullus

And here is my favorite translation (and yes, I had to use the Wayback machine to find it. I wrote it down in 1975). It is about a boat the speaker once traveled on, that he now sees at rest. There are some nice metaphors here on youth and age, excitement, and reaching the end of life. It has a different viewpoint, but bears some similarities to  Tennyson’s Ulysses.

Catullus IV

This ship, friends, tells us it has sailed, Declares it flew upon the sea And, birdlike, flew more rapidly Than all the rest. Swift ships have failed To catch her when they race with oar and sheet. All met with quick defeat, She won the Adriatic’s praise And praise of the Cyclades, Of noble Rhodes, of Thracian seas, Windy and rough, and of the bays Of savage Pontus: she’s made journeys there When other’s wouldn’t dare. Before she traveled far away, Her mast in old Cytoris wood Was once a stately tree and stood And spoke in whispers, and they say Amastis’ and Cytoris’ summits heard Her softly murmured word. This ship says these things were known To them, when she with rustling hair Stood lonely on a summit there: That she in waters madly blown Would steep her palms, and gliding coolly by Scorn every stormy sky. I sailed with her, and I saw how She tacked to right and left and knew The winds of Jupiter which blew Upon her sails or on her bow, She made no vows to gods who ruled the seas But weathered all storms with ease. She made her final Odyssey To this calm bay where she will stay And age in peace and where she may Repose, protected from the sea. Sacred to Castor and his twin, This Ship Has made her final trip. -- Catullus

I remembered this so well, in fact, many decades later, that when I wrote Ethos, the fifth book in The Republic of Dreams, I made one of the key elements of the story a boat named the Tyche (Fortune), whose existence mirror’s Catullus poem (perhaps with a bit bumper ride, though). One of the voices of the series, poet Natalia Yeka, writes an homage to it, echoing Catullus:

 Last Voyage of the Tyche (in the style of Catullus IV)

[Written upon seeing the boat at anchor off Ashkelon]

This boat you see before you, my friends,   Was once the fastest of ships. If her sails and spars could speak, they would attest   How, birdlike, she flew upon the swells, And fled more rapidly before the wind than all the rest. Swift ships of many flags have failed to catch her   As they raced with engine, oar, and unfurled sheet, Every one of them met with quick defeat,   For never was any other hull even half so fleet. She sailed the steep Dalmatian coast,  Flew swiftly through Aegean seas Trading from Rhodes to Thracian shores.   In times of mystery, intrigue, and war, She crossed the Red, Black, and Alborán with ease. Through raging storms and writhing waves,   Round rocky shoals and windswept bays, She’s taken her fearless crew to places where   Other captains would never dare. The trees from which her soul was made   Once stood stately on a mountainside, Weathering wind and rain and conversing with the sky   Asking Aeolus to teach them to fly. And you know, my friends, that he answered. You see her now at rest, not in her accustomed waters deep,   But in the stillness of this harbor. She has made her final Odyssey and earned her sleep   As once she earned her keep, There is only one question I must answer:   Tell me, does Fortune have a daughter? – Natalia Yeka, American Poet (22nd Century CE)

Do you think my high school Latin teacher would be impressed that I still remember this stuff 42 years later? --Steve

[abalonetea]

@simplelinesunfashiond​ sent me in an ask to do whatever  i wanted for the Kiss Prompt and??? i got carried away but here’s Kisses Out Of Order, from my wip A Life Out Of Order, which was totally fun to write.

  Skittles shouldn’t be kissing Tony.   The band has been broken up for three weeks and he’s so red-raw inside it hurts, so drunk and high that he’s not sure if this is really happening or if it’s a dream – except it has to be real because Tony reeks of Menthols and has hair spray stiff hair and is warm pressed up tight against Skittles.   It’s the sort of bar where no one gives a shit what goes on, and the corner is so dimly lit that it’s hard to see anything. But the piercings in Tony’s ear still glint and there are lights flashing in Skittles vision, floating, pulsing orbs that shouldn’t exist but do. Tony laughs into Skittles lungs and the whole world swims sideways, or maybe it’s just Skittles that’s leaning.   I miss you, thinks Skittles, tries to gather up those angry, dizzy words and push them out through tongue and tooth and painted red lips. I miss you so fucking much.

  Lips on the back of Skittles shoulders, butterfly soft. Big hands threading through his red, red hair, pulling it back, pushing it out of the way, and those kisses move up, over the curve of Skittles neck. He yawns, stretches, leans back into Eric’s hand. “Wha’time is it?”   “Late,” says Eric, voice morning rough. “I’m hungry.”   “Den go git yerself somethin’.”   “Skittles.”   “What?”   “We’re going out.” It’s not phrased like a question. Chapped lips brush against the back of Skittles neck and then Eric is up, pulling away, nails making one soft-jagged line down the curve of Skittles spine and – he supposes they’re going out for breakfast.

  No one else is at the gas station, or at least they aren’t in the parking light. It might not even be open anymore. Skittles can’t tell. He’s more focused on the way William rubs a calloused thumb under one eye, trying to get off the last of the make-up from the gig Skittles had two days ago. “You’re dishgusting.”   Skittles laugh is warbling. He catches William’s wrist in one hand, lime green painted nails pressing lightly against heavily tanned skin. “Says the guy wit blood all over’is face. Dood, ya don’t got no room ta talk.”   “I got plenty of room,” huffs William. He licks his thumb again, starts wiping at a different spot on Skittles face. “How did you get covered in glitter?”   “Part’a the act.” Skittles shrugs, runs his hand up the length of William’s arm. “Hey, Willie.”   “Don’t call me that.”   “Can I kiss you?”

   They’ve been in Europe for almost two weeks and Skittles is tired, and wired, and living the life that he’s always dreamed of. Bass echoes in his ears even when the band isn’t playing but right now they are, and the music echoes in his brain and vibrates in his bones and hums in his heart – and the people in the crowd scream out along with them even though they don’t know the words and this – this – this is where Skittles belongs.   He reaches out, grabs the hand of someone in the stage, sweaty palms sliding together as he bellows out the lines of their hottest song yet, Meet Me On The Wayside. “I’m having fun and ya know I can’t conceal it, I’m living large and I know you feel it! Got a laugh in my lungs and a name on my tongue and hard liquor in my ve-ei-ei-eins!”   Tony hits the back up vocals right on cue, voice deeper than Skittles is ever going to be. “We’re living life on the wayside! We’re living life on the wayside! We’re living life on the wayside and I’m running down, running down, running down on – “   It breaks into a drum solo, hard, heavy, the beat matching the one in Skittles chest and he staggers left, saunters even, all red thigh high boots and glitter caked skin and too much everything crawling under his skin. Even with the boots on Skittles is still shorter than Tony, has to use the guitar strap and a fistful of dyed blue hair to pull himself up, up, crash their mouths together the same way Snazzy goes down on the cymbals and the crowd goes wild.

  Teeth bite hard at his lower lip and Skittles shoulders hit the wall and there are fingers in his glue crisp hair and he thinks, thinks, thinks that this isn’t what he ever thought it would turn out to be, where he’s got all his jagged pieces on display and Eric is so good at gathering them back up, water in his hands, sweat on the back of his neck, only to prove that he’s even better at tearing Skittles apart all over again.   There’s still an argument on the back of Skittles tongue but he’s too tired to try and bring it back to life and Eric is so good at dismissing them anyway and – the radio is playing and All We Are comes on and Skittles thinks it’s so ironic he could die.

  William pulls back, doe eyed and quiet. He looks utterly ridiculous with pink smudges on his lips and Skittles smiles at him, laughs, says, “damn, I’ve been wantin’ to do dat fer ages.”

 Skittles is fourteen years old pretending to be sixteen while he crashes a part on the outskirts of town. He drinks cheap beer and smokes cheaper cigarettes bummed off of Cathy Maes, who tries to pretend she’s better than everyone, but the whole town knows that her daddy’s stolen credit card is what’s funding this place.   Everything is dark and loud and Skittles loves it, the way the bass crashes over him and speaks to something deep in his soul, the way Tommy’s cousin from out of town keeps glancing his way, smiling with crooked teeth and crow’s feet and wavy dark hair.   Skittles smiles back at him, chip toothed and freckle faced, saunters across the crowded dining room like it’s gold on his nails and not a sharpie marker that he stole from the Quickie Mart on the way here. “Hey,” he says, leans right up close in Tommy’s cousin’s face. “Ya wanna ditch dis place?”

  Tony runs fingers over the bruise circling Skittles neck, is more quiet than he usually gets.   “Don’t think dat hard.” Skittles bats at Tony’s shoulder, because this isn’t a conversation that he ever wanted to have, ever thought he would get to have. “Yer gonna bust somethin’.”   “Lucky I don’t bust his head,” grumbles Tony. The opening act is still on stage but it sounds like maybe this is their last song, because it’s loud and slow and a build up to a ballad no one wants to hear - Skittles life spilled out in words about small town kids and big dreams and sour clouds of smoke that suffocate, suffocate, suffocate me.   The next touch makes Skittles jump, just a little, when purple stained lips press against his forehead. It’s chaste in a way that Skittles doesn’t really know, like his mother catching Asher on the way out of the house, like pretty Sarah Lee smiling at him from across the cafeteria right before she asks Linda White out for the Wolf Moon Dance.   “You’re staying at my house,” says Tony and it’s a nice thought but they both know it’s a lie.

  “What did he do?” Marcello is draped out across the worn sette that’s been shoved in Skittles dressing room. They’re one show away from leaving for Europe and it feels like there are bees under his skin.   Skittles is nervous like he hasn’t been since that first time he walked up to Eric’s front door, knowing him only as the friend of a brother of his own brother’s friend, and that whole trip went south so why wouldn’t this one?   When he doesn’t answer Marcello tilts his head up, dark bags under his even darker eyes and it must be written plain as day on Skittles face because all he says is, “oh.”   “Yeah,” echoes Skittles. “Oh.”

  “Schorry, buddy. I just – I gotta go.”