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palbabor-writes · 4 years

Text

Impetuous

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Adult language, SMUT/18+only, cunnilingus, switching, bratting, face-riding, Satoru being Satoru, so he’s chatty & in general the worst

Words: 12,815

“Knock it off,” you huff, doing your best to ignore how your breasts press against the flat planes of his chest. Then his fingers are under your chin, gently tipping your head up and leaning so close that his lips are inches from your own.

“But what if I don’t want to?” he teases, his voice falling into a lower, hushed pitch before he relaxes his hold, letting you slip from his hands.

Notes: this thing has been languishing in my drafts since like, January. because it was my first step away from BNHA i’ve sorta over analyzed it & edited it, likely to death. but anyway, without further ado, here is my first venture into the JJK fandom! thank you for edits & suggestions: @albinoburrito, @kugutsuu, @kogo & everyone else that i’ve forced to look at this thing. love you all sm & ty for putting up with me!

& it’s gojo because of course it fucking is.

Impetuous im·pet·u·ous /imˈpeCH(o͞o)əs/ adjective done quickly

“I hate to be a harbinger of bad news, and I can understand your frustration, but that’s what they asked me to do. Doesn’t matter what continent we’re on, elders are elders. Honestly, I’m a little shocked that this teaching pathway is even an option for him.” Although you speak softly, your voice seems to carry more in these close meeting rooms, clattering off the tatami mats and gleaming leather couches.

Yaga massages the bridge of his nose and adjusts his dark sunglasses before lifting his eyes to yours. “I understand, but I still feel that he would be an asset to our school. As long as his motivations remain pure, that’s all I can ask for, at present.”

“Pure or not,” you continue, lacing your fingers as you cross one leg over the other. “It’s vital to see how he handles himself on these missions. What if he has a student with him? I’ve never seen his fighting style, but I’ve heard he can be reckless. How can he foster confidence and proper growth if he’s not measured on the basics? There’s the additional worry of taking him off of the higher ranked missions. Or, if you elect to keep sending him on them, can he handle both? Can he teach and still be a successful sorcerer and asset?”

“He’ll be expected to do both. He knows this,” Yaga sighs, reaching for his lukewarm cup of tea. “While he’s not known for his conventionality, I don’t think that will interfere with his teaching. As I said, some recent events at the school have helped to illuminate the importance of managing the coming generation. Satoru is confident, and I believe that will translate well to any future students. He’s already taken on some responsibility with young Fushiguro and the boy is doing well under his instruction.”

“Fushiguro?” you ponder. Your school administration and the head elders had given you a list of names, people who represented the top families among Japan’s sorcerers, but you don’t remember seeing a name like Fushiguro among the others.

“He’s related to the Zen’in family,” Yaga explains, spreading his vast hands open as he replaces his tea cup against the low table that rests between the two of you. “So, if I’m understanding correctly, your superiors in America have sent you to Japan to collect a series of reports. One is on the influence of curses and how our alumni comport themselves in the field. The other is the analysis of our teaching styles and to, how did you put it, ‘further diversify your own teaching abilities as a jujutsu educator.’ And, as if that wasn’t possibly enough, to observe our newest teaching candidate, Satoru Gojo.”

“In a nutshell,” you confirm, a smile quirking the edge of your lips. “We’ve got some missions lined up, right?”

“Yes. You will enter the field with Satoru and one other returning alumna, Shoko Ieiri. She’s finished her medical degree and will join our research facilities in the coming weeks.”

“Oh! She’s the one who can use the reverse healing technique! I’ve heard of her.”

“Yes. She was in Satoru’s class. I realize your report is the main aim that you have here, but I would ask that you keep an open mind. While your report is of value to our school, it will not affect my decision on the matter.”

You lean against the stiff cushions of the couch and cock your head at Yaga’s impassive expression. “Of course,” you assure him, noting that nothing in his outward appearance shifts as you give him the response he was waiting for. “Should be an interesting week, at the very least.”

“Oh,” Yaga replies, finally cracking a less than reassuring grin. “Satoru will make sure of that.”

“Hey! (L/N)-san! The next report is up and they’re sending a manager for us, hurry up! Stop scribbling things in that little notebook. What are you writing anyway? Is it some kinda biography? Oooh! Is it on me? Is that why you keep looking at me? It is, isn’t it? Ahh, now I’m gonna feel self-conscious.”

You snap your notepad closed and slip it into your hip pouch, stepping toward the two fellow members of your team. “It’s just routine notes and you don’t need to call me (L/N)-san. I realize it’s likely force of habit, but please, just call me (Y/N).”

“Ahhh! We’re already on a first name basis! I’m blushing. I’ve never had a girl be this forward with me!” Satoru sighs, clapping his hands against his cheeks and leaning over you. “You’re so bold!”

“Ugh,” you scoff, rolling your eyes at him. “Liar, and stop that. I’m still the senior sorcerer in this party. I–”

“But you’re just a grade 1,” he interrupts, bracing his hands on his hips and exaggerating his stance, moving his face close to yours. As he looms ever nearer, you raise your chin and hold your ground. This invasion of personal space is a tactic he loves to use.

At first, you’d figured he was just another one of those guys who weren’t aware how intimidating their sheer height and presence came off to others. However, as the days wore on, you noticed his intentional maneuvering. He would press at Shoko too, but she was better at ignoring him, so he soon turned his full attention to you.

“Yeah, I might only be a grade 1, but they have given me the command on all of our missions. It’s my job to file the reports, a task that you, as the technical ‘junior party’, aren’t trusted to do.”

“You’re so right! That’s a tremendous responsibility. How do you stand under all that pressure (Y/N)! The role of the pencil pusher is such a big job. I should act right! Or I’ll never be a real jujutsu sorcerer! God, look at this Shoko, we need to get our shit together! At this rate, we’ll never be able to file our own reports!”

“Now, now,” you tut, raising a finger in front of your face, forcing him to take a subconscious step backwards. “Watch what you say, after all, you’re wanting to become a teacher. So some part of the masochism of endless paperwork must appeal to you.”

Satoru’s smooth lips raise into a broad smirk and pulls away, arching his arms behind his pale head. “Hmm, I’ll give you that one (Y/N). Mainly because of your choice of wording. Masochism. What a word for it. And why’d you have to say it so straight faced? Oh, that reminds me, what time is our next mission at?”

“Uh, why did masochism remind you of that?” you pause, lifting your wrist so you can check the time on your watch. “I think it’s in two hours, give or take traffic.”

“Hmm, and it’s in the Chiba district?”

“Yeah, that’s in Tokyo, right?”

“It is,” Shoko chimes in, twirling a lock of her long brown hair between two of her fingers. Her low voice reminds you, and you turn to face her. “Speaking of names, I never asked, would you prefer Shoko or Ieiri?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she replies, lifting her tawny eyes to yours, catching some of the bright sunlight as it fades into the deep circles under her eyelids. The contrast makes her skin look even more pallid. “First name, last name, whatever is easier.”

“Shoko okay with you then?”

“Sure,” she nods, the ghost of a smile lifting her lips.

“Oi!” Satoru interrupts, slinging an arm over Shoko’s shoulder and fixing you with a pointed look. Or you assume he is, it’s hard to tell where he’s looking because of those white strips of cloth that obscure his eyes. “You know what’s in Chiba, don’t you?”

You blink at him, unsure if this is another one of his aimless questions or something genuine. “No. Should I?”

“You’re a tourist and you really don’t know what’s in–”

“We’ve already been over this Satoru; I am not a tourist,” you protest. “I’m here on official business from my administration to–”

“Yeah, yeah. Look, special, ‘top secret’ assignment or not, you’re still basically a tourist because it’s your first time to Japan. You’re honestly telling me you didn’t look up anything before you arrived?”

“Um,” you waver, eyes narrowing at the cheerful leer that’s drifting over Satoru’s angular features. “I looked up some basic things. I know about the Shinjuku and Roppongi districts. Oh, and Harajuku, that’s a big one too.”

“Mmhm, very good, my little tourist, but do you know what’s in the Chiba district?”

“Don’t call me that and stop screwing around Satoru. If this has nothing to do with the mission, then I’m not interested. I could care less what’s in the district–”

“Might just be rumors, but I’ve been hearing about an increase in cursed activity. Especially around that theme park. I’m sure you’ve heard of it,” he looks upward, pearlescent hair tumbling behind his wrappings. “I guess it’s not surprising that it’s a hot spot, what with all the people who are always checking it out. It’s pretty famous.”

Tch. He’s not gonna tell you.

You suck your teeth and twist your hand back to your hip pouch, digging for your phone. As you peer over the search results you can hear him rambling on about the notoriety of the unnamed place but as soon as you hit the second result, your head whips back up.

There’s no way.

Of course you’d heard of it, you’d even thought about it when the higher ups asked you to take on the assignment to Japan, but never, not in a million years, would you have figured that you’d have a chance to go. Not on this trip.

“Are you serious?” you breathe, blinking up at his smug face. Satoru doesn’t answer, just pops one hand under his chin and gives you a shit-eating grin. You look back at your phone and bite your lip, doing your best to contain your budding excitement, double checking the map for the district.

If he’s not pulling some kind of elaborate joke, it looks like Tokyo Disneyland is the location of your next mission.

“What… what the fuck is this, some kinda elaborate joke??”

The gates to the amusement park are warped, and the paint is peeling; one side looks like it’s about to melt off of the frame, all twisted metal and faded rust. Just past the gates you can see what looks like an old merry-go-round, complete with lions, tigers, bears and several sets of horses. At the tip-top of the ride rest a star, and atop that star is a wraith like curse. It spindles around the flecks of gold and cool bronze, baring its teeth at the three of you and sputtering a long line of broken speech as it twists and turns.

“Huh, still looks about the same. This place was enormous when I was a kid. Now it’s a trendy spot for ghost hunters and thrill seekers! I think five or six people died here last year.” Satoru grins, tucking his hands into his pockets as he strides forward. In seconds, he’s beside the curse on the merry-go-round, silencing chittering of its inane dialogue, letting an eerie quiet seep over the rest of the abandoned grounds.

“So stupid. I cannot believe I let him make me think we were going to Disneyland. You know what he’s like, Shoko! Why didn’t you tell me? He–”

“I honestly don’t listen to him. No idea he was making you think this was Tokyo Disney,” Shoko interrupts, already following the path Satoru took, tucking her brown hair behind her neck with a loose hair tie. “But since we’re here, could you lower the curtain and take care of those level 2 curses on the ticket booth?”

You let out a long sigh and toss her a quick affirmative, reciting the familiar incantation, watching as the darkening shield slopes its way down from the skies, sheltering the three of you within its haze.

The first set of curses are easy enough and you swiftly take care of them, unleashing your cursed technique and splicing them into faded dust. How ridiculous, you think, opening the door to the booth and dodging an ill timed lunge from a sneakier curse who was hiding inside. Satoru honestly had you thinking that you’d be going to the Disneyland theme park. On the way over, he’d even told you about the layout of the park and what potential curses might be lurking about.

What a jerk.

Still, you muse, turning toward another shrieking hulk of a curse that’s lumbering toward you, it’s impressive he’d led you on so easily. You make a mental note to get back at him later, for now you need to clear this area and focus on the task at hand.

“I cannot believe that you led me on like that!” you pout, knocking back a small swig of beer.

“Pfft,” Satoru chuckles, wagging one long finger at you. “Didn’t ever say it was gonna be Disneyland, did I? You came to that conclusion all on your own.”

“Oh please! Making me look up what ‘famous tourist spots are in Chiba’ and then nodding each time I said I was excited to see some of the rides on the way over.”

“You could have really been into haunted carnivals. How was I supposed to know?”

“Ass,” you snap playfully, sticking your tongue out at his pleased smile.

After the mission and spotting your peeved expression, Satoru had insisted that you let him take the two of you out for a drink. According to Shoko, the bar in this neighborhood was highly rated and had some of the best specials in the entire district.

The place was packed; but somehow Shoko had secured three seats up at the bar top, ushering you to sit between her and Satoru, informing you there must always be a three foot buffer between her and ‘that loser’. The bartender seemed to know her and, before you could pull yourself into the worn leather seat, three foaming lagers were passed across the rough surface of the bar top, one for each of you.

“Thanks,” you’d murmured, cupping your hands around the glass. On your right, Satoru pushed his lager toward you, raising two fingers at the distracted barkeep as he chatted with Shoko. “What’s wrong? Don’t like beer?” you’d asked, bemused by his disgruntled expression.

“Nah,” he’d confirmed, wagging his digits a little faster, chin lifting as he let out a huffed exhale. “Messes with my eyes. I want something to eat, though. Hey! Shoko! Stop flirting with him and ask if they have anything sweet! Shokooo! Don’t ignore me!”

Shoko made a show of rolling her eyes but, a few minutes later, a plate of piping hot fried sweet buns appeared and he’d swiftly grabbed up one, popping it in his mouth and smacking it hungrily. You’d turned to ask Shoko what they were, but by the time you’d twisted back to Satoru over half of the cakes were gone.

“Damn, you inhaled them,” you’d exhaled, a little shocked he could scarf them down that quickly.

“Well, they’re not bad and hit the spot, for now,” he’d grinned. “Want one?”

“I’m good. You might bite my finger if I get too close… mistake it for one of the buns…”

“Awe, what’s wrong? Think you wouldn’t taste good?”

“Yikes,” you laugh and Satoru hums, clearly pleased with your genuine mirth.

Shoko, who was soon engrossed in conversation with a few of the other patrons to the left of her, kept ordering rounds for the both of you. To keep up, you diligently sipped at each fresh beer, careful to keep abreast of the thrum of the alcohol with several responsible swigs of water. Satoru seemed content with his small order of sweets and peppered you with questions about life in America. He asked about what grade year you taught, the ins and outs of curses within the states and how you liked Japan. He kept things lively and made a point to throw in a few lighthearted jokes at you, beaming each time you laughed at his barbs.

“So, what you’re saying is there’s no one in America quite like me?” he teases, stretching his long arms dramatically before leaning closer to you.

“Stop that! You’re gonna hit someone,” you grin, trying to shove at his side, watching as your hand freezes in midair, held off by his limitless technique. “Seriously? You’ve still got that on?”

“Mmhm,” Satoru intones. “24/7, 365!”

“You would,” you try to jostle him again, bemused by the fraying and shimmering sliver of infinity that rests between the two of you.

“It’s a tremendous strain on my brain, you know,” he bemoans, dropping his head and fixing a long frown over his lips.

“You deserve it.”

“Ack!” Satoru cries out, clutching at his heart. “Wow! No sympathy! You really gonna treat me like this? My senpai?”

“May I remind you - Tokyo Disneyland,” you intone, glaring at his haggard expression.

“WOW. You’re never gonna let that go, huh?” Satoru cracks a face, arching his mouth and hollowing his cheeks, letting a high pitched, cracked voice leech from his lips. “Ahhh, that damned man! He deprived me of my dreams! The chance to see Tokyo Disneyland, one last time!”

“What is that? Me? But… old?”

“Pretty good, right?”

“No.”

“Well, I think it was uncanny!” he crows, nodding.

“What in your warped mind makes you think I’ll sound anything like that when I’m old?” you ask, pushing your empty beer pint forward as you purse your lips.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so excited over the idea of a theme park,” he ponders, tapping a bent index finger against his smooth chin. “Don’t you guys have them in the states? The Disney parks, I mean.”

“We do, we have two. But, since you made me think we were coming to Tokyo Disneyland, I looked up some rides,” you snatch your phone from the counter, scrolling through a few photos before you land on the right one. “Ah! Here it is! Look at this! See?” you chirp, pushing the gleaming screen of your phone toward him.

“Uh. What am I looking at?”

“It’s the Tower of Terror!”

“Which is… ummm… a ride?”

“Yeah? And look at it! It’s upside down! I don’t think the one in America does that,” your finger reaches toward your phone and you blow up the closest image, tapping at the bright colors. Satoru laughs and waves a hand up, attracting the bartender once more and gesturing for another beer for you. “Imma get you another drink, you’re fun like this, plus, you’re just too cute with that little smile.”

You miss his last comment, wholly focused on finding another set of images. “Oh my God! Look! During Halloween they have a night parade in front of it! And… ahhh! Satoru! There’s a green ghost at the top! It’s almost like that curse we saw tonight at the carnival!”

His long fingers snatch up your bright device, and he yanks it away from your wide eyes. “Ok, that’s enough of that. I’m worried you might end up cursing me for not taking you.”

You give him a sour look and vainly try to grab your phone back, fingers unable to pass through his unseen barrier. “What? No fair! I still don’t understand how you can always have this up!”

“Practice,” he taunts, shaking his head at your determination and wandering touch, chuckling each time you bounce off of his cursed technique. “On another note,” he begins as your new lager is placed in front of you. “What’s in that report that you’re working on?”

You decide to ignore the fact that he’s still holding your phone and cautiously sip past the foam of your fresh beer, peering up at him, studying the lines of his white cloth. It doesn’t tell you much, so you look at his lips instead. They’re pale, but they’re held in a serious line, so you carefully construct your response. “What makes you think I have a report?”

“Why else would you be here?” Satoru counters, rapping his nails against the warped wood of the bar top. “I know you met with Yaga and you’re too cautious and overpowered to be sent on missions with Shoko and me. So you must be here for something else.”

“Officially,” you concede, “I’m here to observe the teaching techniques and skills of the alumni of your school. I’m sure this will come as no shock, but curses are getting more powerful, both here and overseas, and we’re doing our best to keep ahead of those changes. I’m supposed to pick up what tricks I can and bring them back home, to see how we can implement it.”

“Reasonable,” he allows, spreading his fingers before coiling them under his palms again. “But that’s not everything, is it?”

No, you think it’s not.

You lower your beer and look over at him. He’s braced himself against the bar and his head is dipped so his chin is almost against his breastbone. He doesn’t exactly look dejected, but you can see that he’s thinking deeply and something about that openness makes your heart squeeze. He looks a bit like a kicked puppy.

Ugh, he’s not a bad guy. He’s funny, and he knows what he’s doing, plus he has the confidence to get where he needs to go. In all honesty, he wouldn’t make a terrible teacher. Maybe not the best, but he certainly wouldn’t be the worst.

“I–there… there’s some concern you’d be too divided - that it’s not practical to have you teach and go on missions. I also don’t think your own elders trust you much.”

“Ah-ha!” Satoru beams, springing upward and pointing two finger guns at you. “You are here to look in on me! Knew it!”

You can’t help but laugh at him. “Fine, fine, you got me. Let’s get this over with, huh? So we can get back to talking about things other than work, I liked that. What’s the most direct thing I can ask? Hmm, oh! I’ll start with something easy–Why do you want to teach?”

“That’s easy?” he whines, head falling again.

“It’s straightforward,” you bargain, propping your chin on your fist, looking him over.

“Sure, let’s pretend that’s not a deceptively loaded question! Alright, well, it’s the best way to change things.”

“Change things?”

“Yup. Like you mentioned, lately curses have become more powerful and lately it feels like I’m the only one who’s being sent on these high-level missions. Frankly, it’s stupid to rely on just me that much, you know? That’s not practical, or even realistic. So, to my mind, it’s vital I throw my support behind some of these up-and-coming kids. You know, foster the next generation and all that. I want reliable allies in the field and to have that, I’ve gotta make sure they’re taught right. Give them everything I know, make them better than me, stronger than me.”

You’re quiet for a long breath, eyes wide, fingers frozen around your glass, which was midway to your lips. “Damn,” you smile, letting the word hang. “You know, that was actually a pretty good answer.”

Satoru clicks his tongue and curls his lips in a grimace. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I mean,” you chuckle and look up at him, eyes bright. “Well, your attitude doesn’t always inspire confidence.”

“Ahhhhhh,” he groans, thumping his covered forehead against the bar. “Such a low blow! Bartender! Another round for me!”

“Please,” you sigh, finally taking a sip of your beer. “Do not call your sweet buns ‘another round.’” He grins at you and leans across the bar top, shifting his weight toward your bent arm. The pressure of his shoulder is warm and you nudge at him a little, playfully. He tuts at you but continues to stare ahead, a faint smile teasing the edge of his lips.

As the bartender slides the requested plate of sweets down, you suddenly realize that you’re touching him. Your eyes widen and you slowly turn your head toward his. He’s not looking at you, content with chewing on his sweet bread, but he’s still braced against you. It’s like all of your senses are finely tuned to that one spot of faint friction between the two of you. You can feel the lines of his muscled arm as he shifts and you involuntarily gulp, doing your best to ignore the abrupt thudding of your heart.

He said he always kept it up, didn’t he? Something about 24/7 and all the days of the year, so why is he…

“Hey,” Shoko’s voice startles you and you instinctively slide closer to Satoru, arm dragging against his shoulder as you try to right yourself again. “I’m gonna go win this drinking contest these guys have started. You two sticking around for a bit?”

“Uh,” you begin, but Satoru cuts you off, draping an arm over the back of your chair. “Yeah, we’ll be here. What are the stakes?”

“Not sure. But the pot is likely against me, if you’re in a betting mood.”

“Sure, I’ll put 20,000 yen on you.”

“Is…” you start, but Shoko is already walking off, one arm pumped into the air as she shoulders her way to the long table that’s filled with five or six others, all of them holding a full pint glass of beer between their hands. You turn back to Satoru and let out a long breath. “Is that safe?”

“Huh?” he asks, face close to yours. You can smell his cologne from here and the heady scent of him and crisp patchouli fills your senses. “I mean Shoko, will she be ok?” you elaborate, eyes studying the space where his own would be, silently hoping that he’ll pull down the barrier that covers half of him from your curious gaze.

“Ah,” he nods sagely, leaning back a little to look out at where Shoko is sitting, quietly waiting for the start of the game with her full beer. “She’s got a ridiculously high tolerance. Wouldn’t be surprised if it’s part of her cursed technique. She’ll be fine.”

“True, she likely knows the limits of the human body better than anyone else. But… I don’t think I��ve ever seen her so… excited?” you muse, sitting against your chair and running into the flat palm of Satoru’s hand. For a moment, you debate shifting away, but he’s not really doing anything, just letting the tips of his fingers rest against the curve of your spine, tapping a disjointed rhythm as he watches the start of the contest, that all too familiar smile still tugging at the corners of his lips.

“She used to be a little more laid back, you know?” he replies, leaning a little harder into your side as he lowers his voice, keeping close to your ear so you can hear him. “She always looks so tired now and her whole outlook has changed, but I suppose four years of med school will do that to you. Although, I did hear that she cheated her way out.”

“No!” you gasp, eyebrows lifted in shock. Satoru laughs, and for once, you’re not thinking it might be at your expense. “Yeah! Just the word on the street. But I wouldn’t put it past her. Shoko’s always done her best to avoid things, namely confrontation or extra work, so it makes sense she’d jet outta med school as fast as she could too.”

“That’s crazy and frankly, terrifying.”

“Riiight?” he shivers, lips raising in an exaggerated wince. “But that’s our Shoko. I’ve got a feeling she’ll do well at the school and I’m grateful I’ll have time to work with her again. It’s been way too long…” Satoru trails off and you can feel his hand slip up your back, fingers ghosting over your shoulder blades.

“Stop that,” you scold, shaking him off with a quick jolt and twisting around to look at his roguish smirk. “What happened to always maintaining your barrier?”

“Awe” he groans, dunking his head against your shoulder with a thump. “Come on, I’ve gotta win you over somehow!”

“Are you serious?”

“Well, I mean, I want the job.”

“I’m gonna hit you,” you threaten, doing your best to keep your bubbling amusement contained.

“Try it,” he taunts, lifting his head and keeping his face close. His nose is inches from yours and you can barely make out his sharp grin, but you can feel the drag and pull of his breath as it passes over you, leaving a lingering sweetness against your skin. Instantly, your hand lifts to him, fully intent on shoving him back, but you can’t move any closer, trapped by the sudden emergence of his infinity.

“Ass,” you prickle, shaking your head at his antics. Another peal of laughter falls from his soft lips and you can’t help but smile back, caught up in his infectious joviality. “Tch. Don’t make me find more Tokyo Disney pictures.”

“You can’t,” he informs you, cocking his head at your confusion. “I still have your phone.”

“Hey! Give that back!” you gasp, snatching blindly at him. He shifts back into his seat and yanks your device out of his pocket, waggling it tauntingly in front of you. “Uh-uh! Gotta get past the barrier first!”

“That’s not fair!”

“Never said that I’d make this… oh! Shoko! How did it go? Win me something?”

You twist and spot Shoko’s dark head approaching the two of you. She pauses beside Satoru and flips a large stack of bills down on the bar top, a wide grin on her usually impassive face. “As expected, I won. Here’s your cut, Satoru. Don’t spend it all in one place or on another order of sweet buns, would you? Think you can do that for me?”

She and Satoru bicker back and forth playfully as you unfold several of the notes, aimlessly organizing them on the countertop as their brisk conversation winds back down.

“So,” Shoko murmurs, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket and knocking one free from the carton. “You two gonna head out soon? I don’t really see a need to call one of the managers, the school’s close by and so is (Y/N)’s hotel.”

“Yeah,” Satoru replies, finally passing your phone back as he collects the neatly stacked set of yen from you. “Figured, I’d see her back.”

“I can find it!” you protest, jamming your phone safely into your pouch once more.

“Sure,” he mocks, arching toward you as he braces an elbow against the bar. “You can barely speak Japanese and I know you can’t read much kanji, but sure thing, let’s let you loose in the city. See how far you make it before you’re calling one of us, hmm?”

“That’s not… I–”

“Yeah, yeah,” Satoru waves his hand back and forth and turns back to Shoko. “I’ll let her finish her drink and then we’ll head out. See you tomorrow?”

Shoko nods at his question and, for a moment, you think you spy a knowing look pass between the two of them, but before you can call out to her, Shoko is already making her way toward the door.

“What was that?” you ask, eyes narrowed as Satoru looks down at you, white hair gleaming under the low lights. “What?” he asks innocently, propping his chin onto his open palm. “That look that the two of you just gave each other.”

“No idea what you’re talking about. You sure that beer didn’t hit you a little too hard?”

“Ugh, shut up.”

Despite it being late August, a cool breeze greets the two of you when you step out of the bar. “It’s so nice out,” you comment, readjusting your boots as you hop onto the sidewalk.

“Mmhm,” he agrees, bracing his arms behind his head as you make your way down the street. “So did you decide what you’re gonna write in your report?”

You glance up at him and make sure he can see you rolling your eyes. “Back to trying to butter me up?”

“Never! Just asking. If you wanna say I’m crazy and can’t be trusted, that’s fine. I can think of a few others who’d agree with you.”

“Oh? Who?”

“Most people,” he laughs, stepping a little nearer and bumping against you, shocking you with the actual weight and warmth of his body again. As you continue on, you lift your hand to his arm and press the pad of your finger against his sleeve. This time, nothing bars your way so you run the digit slowly along his arm, smiling when he shivers and bats you away.

“Stop that! Someone’s gonna see and think you’re taking advantage of me!”

The laugh that explodes from your chest at that mental image makes you stop dead in your tracks, arms lacing around your shaking stomach. Satoru scoffs at your bent figure and leans down, shaking his head at your guffawing.

“The… the… fact that you… think that anyone… would think that… I–”

“You’re lucky your laugh is so cute,” he muses, bracing his arms over your bent back, playfully pinning you down as he crosses his forearms.

“Hey!” you protest, squirming under his hold. “Let me up!”

“Tell me what you’ve written about me!” he threatens, chuckling as you squirm under him.

“I only said that Satoru Gojo is an absolute monster and shouldn’t be trusted with anyone’s future,” you cry out, overly pantomiming your overwrought expressions, peeking up at him from under his laced arms.

“Oh? Just that? Well, you’re right. So, fair is fair!” Satoru replies, slipping off of you so fast that you nearly tumble to the hard concrete. Half a beat later, he’s back in front of you and lifting you back to your full height, fingers soothing over your arms as he tugs you toward him. “Would it kill you to toss in a bit of praise? Talk about my undeniable prowess and skill? Wax poetic about my stunning efficiency? You know, make them think that I’ve won you over with my charms. After all, you can’t resist me, can you?”

“But what if I don’t want to?” he teases, his voice falling into a lower, hushed pitch before he relaxes his hold, letting you slip from his hands.

A distant quake dashes up your spine, but it’s not from the chill in the air. “Uh, you sure you didn’t sneak some shots under the table? The way you’re pawing at me, you’d think you were the one in the drinking contest.”

“Nah, I told you, I don’t drink. Messes with my eyes.” Satoru pats his index finger against his white wrappings for emphasis.

“Mmm, the six eyes, right? Powerful ability, from what little I’ve heard of it.”

“Yeah,” he hums. “It’s a rare technique. Wanna see?”

You’d walked on, but once the question leaves his lips your feet swivel back, as if they have a mind of their own. He’s standing where he was, hands dug into the pockets of his pants, a lazy smile resting on his lips. The moonlight makes his hair shine, and the gleam is bright against the darkness of the street. The glow makes him look taller, imposing. He’s quiet as he waits for your answer and you take advantage of the extra time to mull over the strange man in front of you.

He’s enigmatic; a force to be reckoned with, for curses and fellow sorcerers alike and, like most jujutsu users, a little crazy. Even knowing all of this, there’s something about him that’s drawing you in. It’s like the pull of a magnet. It tugs at the forefront of your mind and makes you step closer, wanting to see if you can unravel the puzzle that’s Satoru Gojo.

“Fine,” you hear yourself reply, crossing your arms, steadfastly watching for his next move. “Go on. Let me see what all the hype is about.”

He grins and that mischievous look makes your heart beat race against your breastbone as yet another quake slips up your back. “Ready?” he asks, right thumb hooking under the fabric that covers his eyes. You nod once and the pad of his finger starts that short, upward, pull.

He’s slow, painfully slow, in his unveiling.

The smooth angle of his upper cheek peeks out, and he’s careful to roll up the white cloth as he goes. Then, right as he hits the groove of his lower eye, he stops, a frown pulling over his lips. “Mmm, I don’t know…” he contemplates, holding his thumb under his wrappings. “What if I don’t live up to your expectations? Can’t let you down. Not when you’ve been so patient. I know you’ve been wanting to ask, I can see it in your face. Every time we’d start an exorcism you’d look at me, like you were waiting, watching to see if I’d finally take off the coverings.”

Did you?

Does it matter?

Do you want it to matter?

Flabbergasted by his all too true accusations and entirely eaten up with curiosity, you march up to him and wrap your fingers around his raised wrist, not noticing that you’re actually touching him and completely unaware of the alluring smile he flashes when your hand coils around his. “Ugh, come on! For once in your life, stop being such a tease! You’re never fair, always so… so pompous and… and–”

You’d shoved his hand upward as you began your preamble but as soon as the tightly wrapped cloth passed over his right eye you feel your breath leave your tensed body.

His eyelashes are pale, the same ashen color as his hair, but they contrast beautifully with the lone eye that peers down. Beautiful? No, it’s more than that. It’s… it’s…

Truthfully, it’s indescribable and unlike anything you’ve ever seen.

It’s blue; but it’s not an ordinary shade. No, the color seems to meld and shift before your shocked gaze, drifting from hue to hue as the color deepens and lightens. Clouds. It’s like clouds passing over a summer sky. The brightness of the cerulean ensnares you, and you can feel your mouth go dry as you stare up at him.

His eyes are stunning, perfect, and irresistible, hauntingly so.

“So, what do you think?” Satoru asks, pulling his wrist from your grasp and snatching your limp hand in his, twining his long fingers between your own. His skin is warm and you need to say something, anything, but your mind is stuttering, lagging miles behind as you fall headfirst into the overwhelming pull of his presence.

Finally, you unstick part of your tongue.

“They’re… uh… I don’t… ha… God…” You shake your head roughly and the familiarity of that motion slips out of the trance he’s placed you under. As soon as you can think again, you jerk your hand from his and blindly walk down the darkened street. Your heart feels like it’s about to fall out of your chest and you can’t stop nibbling on your lower lip.

It’s not… this isn’t how this is supposed to go, you think, trying vainly to get the shine of Satoru’s eyes out of your mind.

“Never answered my question,” Satoru coos beside you, his long legs quickly catching up with you. “What’s wrong? You like em�� a little too much?… Or…”

“They… they’re kinda creepy,” you blurt out, fingers curling into your palms.

“Creepy!” he gasps, hopping in front of you and lifting up both sides of his wrappings, granting you a peek of both eyes. You do your best to avoid looking at him head on, turning and weaving from him, but he dances closer each time you shift. Damn it. His animated performance makes you exhale a quiet chuckle, and he takes your amusement as a sign to continue, constantly placing himself in your way with a broad grin.

“Stop!” you plead, openly laughing at his sudden burst of silliness. “Now you’re acting like a creep! Satoru! Don’t! Stop showing them to me! You’re losing all of your appeal! Isn’t part of your charm the mystery? Actually, that’s likely all of your charm. Come on, stop it, there’s a cop on that street corner, he’s gonna think you’re drunk and harassing me!”

“Whaaat!” Satoru gulps, whipping his head around to look at the tired policemen that’s leaning against a dim street lamp. “Oh no! The police! Quick (Y/N), before he spots us!” His long fingers snatch up your pliant wrist and he tugs you into a dark alleyway.

“Hey! Where are you taking me? Officer!” you call out playfully as you balefully follow him, dragging your feet along the dusty ground. “He’s over here! Help!”

“Oi! Knock it off! You wanna get me arrested?”

“Oh please, there’s no way that guy is about to follow–”

“Shit! Shhh, he’s coming this way! Come on!” The sheer force of his grip yanks you forward and you stumble after him. He takes the corner of the next alleyway and the pair of you dash along the wet patches that litter the broken concrete. He’s moving at a tremendous speed, but his feet barely make a noise as he glides over the grimy ground and it takes everything you’ve got to just hold on and keep up.

A few twists and turns later, you can finally see the bright lights of the busy street that your hotel is on and you feel a heavy exhale of relief leave your burning lungs. Satoru skids to a halt right before he tumbles onto the safety of the sidewalk that rests a few paces ahead and pulls you beside him, grinning down at you as you try to catch your breath.

“I think we lost him!” he beams and you suck your teeth as you bend over, hands bracing themselves against your knees. “There…there’s no… he wasn’t actually chasing us. Even if he was, I doubt he can catch up now….” your voice trails off as you hear a distant shout from the alleyway and the thud of heavy boots.

No. There’s no way you think dumbly as you stare into the darkness, eyes searching for movement.

“See? I told you he was on to us. He’ll see us if he comes this way. What if… Oooh, lemme try something,” Satoru’s broad hands grab at you and he swiftly maneuvers you against the damp brick of the nearest building, careful not to scrape your back as he pushes you against the rust colored siding. “Just play along, I doubt he’ll notice. Don’t give me that look, it’s your fault he’s following us!”

“My fault? I didn’t… oh–”

His lips are sleeker than you’d imagined.

That first, teasing kiss he gives you already has you lifting your head, following the beguiling smoothness of his mouth, silently asking him for another caress. When he leans down your hands bunch into the dark fabric of his uniform and you can feel his smile against your slackened lips. He doesn’t touch you; his fingers don’t wander to the back of your jaw or the dip of your skull, instead he opts to flatten his angles against your curves, pressing until you can’t feel anything but him.

The next kiss he gives you has a little more bite behind it, literally.

His sharp nose bumps your cheek and his teeth worry against the plush swell of your lower lip, sucking and nipping until you’re snatching for his shoulders, searching for some kind of leverage. His mouth parts and right when you think he’s about to deepen his strokes and teasing pecks, he leans back and cocks his head at your flustered expression. “I’ve always wanted to try that,” he tells you, bracing one of his arms above your head. “It looks so fun in the movies.”

That cop could be right behind him, could be waiting for you both to stop your ridiculous routine and face the harsh gleam of reality, but you don’t care, not right now.

Your hands had fallen from him when he pulled back, and the absence of his warmth makes you desperate to touch him again. But, when you snatch at the corners of his dark jacket, you’re met with that damned barrier.

“Really?” you bemoan, licking at your kiss slick lips, trying again. “You’re the worst, you know that? You let me get used to the idea of having access to you and then just cut it–mmmph…”

With a faint shudder of space, his barrier is lowered once more and his lips are back against yours. This time, his hands join in and he cups his fingers behind your ears, tilting you up as he glides his soft touch over you until you’re groaning.

“Could have just told me you wanted more…” he rumbles in between his caresses, fingers tracing over the line of your jaw, your neck, and the slope of your shoulders. It’s like he can’t decide where he wants to go and you love the momentary burst of indecisiveness that’s broken over him.

More, apparently, entails you asking him to come up to your room.

He’d laughed when you’d mentioned it, your lips swollen and glassy from his attentions, and you’d almost taken it back, peeved by his genuine amusement at the idea, but then he’d plucked you into his arms and smoothed any lingering doubts with another flurry of nips and kisses.

“This gonna make it into your report?” he grins, yanking his high collared jacket off and tossing it carelessly onto the floor. “I should,” you barb, pulling the long band of your hip pouch off, letting it clatter to the ground as your fingers work up the buttons of your own uniform. “Let them think that you’re abusing your status.”

“Tch, me? Abuse my power? Never. Hey, I think you’re supposed to go slower with that. Don’t just yank all of your clothes off. You know, take your time, tease me a little,” Satoru chuckles, jerking his chin toward your busy hands.

“Oh? Wanting a show?” you ask, threading the last button and spreading the heavy material apart, revealing the thin shirt that’s obscuring his view of your breasts and stomach. “Well, that’s too bad, because taking all this gear off is never fun, or sexy for that matter…”

“Not with that attitude,” he hums, stepping closer, peeling his skin tight undershirt off and revealing the sleek planes of his rippled muscles. Most sorcerers are fit; and many boast beefier sets of pectorals and curving arches of biceps and triceps, but there’s something about the streamlined leanness of Satoru that’s making your hands itch. He’s not far, you could reach out for him, slip your fingers over the dips and beveled lines of his abdomen and follow that tempting strip of white that winds down the front of his pants, but that makes this too easy and there’s nothing about Satoru that’s easy.

“Mmm, that’s a new look.” His voice is distant to your ears, but the satisfied note that’s vibrating through his words makes you snap your head up, fingernails scraping against your palms. “You look like you wanna eat me (Y/N)… or maybe, taste is a better adjective. Awe, what’s the matter? Worried I won’t let you?”

You run your tongue over your lips and lift one hand, holding it steady and crooking your index finger at his brazen expression, pleased to see that cheeky smile of his falters a little. “Do me a favor, come here and take off that blindfold.”

“Ah-ha, so bossy,” he growls, voice sinking into that sinfully lower octave as he raises his broad hands to the back of his wrappings, unwinding the fabric and slowly advancing toward you. He stops when the tips of his toes are inches from your own, bracing his palms toward his face, holding the last strip across his eyes. “Wanna do the honors? Or are you expecting me to do all the work tonight?”

“As if. Besides…” you snicker, pulling two fingers to the remains of his blindfold and peeling it down, watching as his hair falls forward, slowly divulging the top of his forehead, pale eyebrows and that shock of avid blue that’s already gazing down at you. “I think you like when I tell you what to do, don’t you?”

“Ahh, looks like she figured me out,” Satoru groans, letting the ivory bindings fall to the floor, his hands already reaching for your waist. He doesn’t give you an opportunity to study him, but they’ll be time for that later, you reason, arms lacing around his chorded neck.

This kiss is hungrier and his tongue immediately dances along the seam of your lips, pressing until you give in. It’s an awkward angle, but he expertly adjusts himself to you, slotting a warm palm against the small of your back and raising the other to curl into your hair, lifting you until it’s perfect.

He’s greedy, devouring every inch you give him with a ravenous edge, but when you suck on his lower lip, he slips into something that’s clearly a little more unhinged.

Suddenly, he’s the one who’s bending forward, trying to get as close to you as he physically can, hunching until you can trace your fingertips over the sharpness of his jaw. His teeth clink against yours as he snatches you up, and you can feel the sharp bulge of his length, the hardness grinding down your hips and stomach as he yanks you nearer. It’s hard to breathe, but he’s refusing to let you budge, lips avariciously seeking and pulling, leaving you with nothing else but the sheer enormity of his touch.

“Fuck,” he gasps, finally letting you fall from his grasp, heaving out a few unsteady breaths. “You’ve got way too much on. Why do you still have so much on?” He plucks at your shirt but stops when he frees the edge from your pants, cerulean eyes bright in the moonlight. “Take it off,” he heaves, forehead pressing against yours, lifting his fingers from you. “Take it off for me, please?”

You nod, a little taken aback by his sudden desperation, and he watches closely as you yank the thin material up, blue eyes shining as you unveil yourself. When the shirt passes over your breasts, he gives you a distracted kiss to the temple before he pulls away, freeing you to pull it over your head and sighing happily when it finally hits the floor, leaving you partially bare. As soon as your arms lower, he’s back against you, hands cupping at your hips, jerking you forward. “Whoa,” you gasp, bracing your palms against his chest. “Slow down. Let me get the rest of this–”

“No, no, no, no,” he chants, fingers smoothing up your spine. “Stop, for a second… just… just gimme a minute. You feel so nice. Your skin, it’s… it’s so warm and so fucking smooth, ahhh. Ohh, yes. A few more seconds (Y/N), just let me… It’s been so long since I’ve touched someone like this. I kinda forgot what it felt like and I don’t wanna let go, not yet.”

His head is bowed and that hauntingly blue gaze is covered by his winced eyelids, but he can’t seem to stop moving. Even as he asks you to hold still, to let him touch you, feel you, he keeps shifting his weight and burrowing his brow into the dip of your shoulder.

“Can I take this off?” he asks, nails scritching at the clasp of your bra. “Please? Lemme take it off. Come on. I know you wanna touch me too, I saw how you were looking at me a minute ago. You’re so fucking cute, I can’t… ahaha, fuck, I sound insane. Look, I’ll slow down, I promise, just gimme a little more of you.”

When he mischievously snaps the strap of your bra against your shoulder blade, you can’t help but laugh at his infectious exuberance. His head lifts from you and he turns his attention to your neck, soft lips sucking and nipping at you until you’re wriggling in his hold. “Alright, alright! Just step back, Satoru! I’ll take it off,” you placate, knocking him away and huffing at the long face he gives you in return. “Here,” your fingers unhook the two pronged clasp and the delicate lace slips from your shoulders, falling to the carpeted floor with a hush. “Okay, that’s everything on the top half. Now what are–Ah! Satoru!”

He takes full advantage of his superior speed and before you can blurt out a proper retort, he’s against you.

His teeth worry at your earlobe and he immediately hoists you upward, seizing the lush curve of your ass and pulling you into his powerful arms, urging your legs to wrap around his trim waist. When you shakily oblige, he cups one lean arm under you, but the other drags you forward, scraping your newly bared breasts and stiffened nipples against the planes of his powerful pectorals. When he walks, you jostle in his grasp and coil your fingers around his neck, smiling when he moans contentedly at your reliance on his firm hold. “Damn,” he grunts, cocking his head so he can lick a wet circle into your pulse. “You feel fucking good (Y/N). So damn smooth, how are you so soft? God, I want more, I wanna feel everything.”

The front of his shins hit the edge of your bed and he tumbles you down, a dark grin spreading over his face as he watches you stretch out teasingly. He plants a knee into the soft bedding and braces both arms beside your head, leering over you.

For a long breath, both of you study each other, eyes whisking over gleaming skin and the curves of your faces. Without the added heft of that blindfold Satoru’s snowy hair hangs loosely over his face, straight tendrils clinging to his brow, making him look younger, mellower, and so very handsome. Opting to take advantage of this lull, you reach up and thread your fingers into the silken strands.

When you reach the edge of his temple, you scrape your nails against his scalp, grinning as he lets a heavy exhale fall between his lips, cerulean eyes falling to a pleased half mast. “You’re trying to distract me,” he accuses, gliding a wide palm up your side. You shake your head and keep twirling his hair across your fingertips, marveling at his own softness. “No. I just like your hair.”

“That’s a first,” he snorts, cupping a palm underneath one of your breasts and pulling his thumb over the swelling bud of your nipple. “Here I am, trying to feel you up, and you’re too distracted by my hair to appreciate it. How rude.”

“Shut up,” you gasp out, arching into his hand as he tweaks and plucks at your pebbled tip. “You’re lucky I’m even… mmm… letting you do this.”

“Please. It was your idea, remember?”

Satoru lowers one of his braced arms, letting his weight fall heavily to one side as he keeps his deepening ministrations up. Your fingers are still buried in his hair when he drops his lips to your breast. You feel the flick of his tongue first, and the light tap has you bowing your back, gasping out a faint cry as his rough appendage continues to swipe and twirl over your sensitive flesh. Instinctively, your hands tug at his pearlescent strands and he tilts his head up, fixing you with a lazy stare. “That’s better, looks like I just need to refocus you, huh?” he muses, his words half garbled as he sucks your plump breast into his mouth. He keeps flicking his tongue over you as he suckles, lapping and nipping until you’re writhing under him.

Once he’s satisfied, his free hand lowers to your grinding hips, forcing you to lay flat against the bed, switching his attention to the neglected twin, sucking and pressing open mouthed bites to your damp, shaking skin.

A tight heat is coiling in your core and your thighs rub against each other, trying to cool the sharp pricks of arousal that are coursing through you. As soon as your hands fall from his head, Satoru picks up his pace, licking his sloppy tongue under your breasts and nibbling his way down your quivering stomach. “You’re still wearing way too much,” he scolds, fingers toying with the gold clasp of your pants.

“It’s… oh… difficult to take things off when you… ah–won’t let me move more than two feet from you.” You’d meant it to sound a little firmer, but his constant touch is wearing down your focus, distracting you with brilliant flashes of his luminescent blues and whites.

“Awe, (Y/N),” he whines, popping his hand against your hip, long fingers digging into your swelled curves. “That’s not fair. I told you, I always have my barrier up. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve touched someone, anyone? I mean really touched them?”

“Daw,” you sigh, propping yourself up on your elbows and peering down at him. “You poor thing. The all powerful Satoru Gojo, too honed and practiced with his neutral technique that he can’t even hold anyone’s hand.”

“Ha, such a jerk,” he laughs, exaggerating a wounded frown. “I bare my soul to you and this is how I’m treated?”

“Stop being so dramatic,” you scoff, yanking your legs from under him and popping up on your knees, hands reaching for him, curling under his jaw and urging him upwards. His eyes lock onto yours and the grin that tweaks the corner of his lips gives you an idea. “You said you wanted to touch more of me, right?”

As you wait for your answer, you scoot backwards, making him follow you across the bed, finally luring all of his sprawling form onto the cool sheets. “Mmhm,” he grunts, doing his best to keep close, teasing fingers inches from your skin at all times, always ready to stroke and cup each time you pause. When you hit the headboard you stop, studying his features, admiring the growing hunger that’s screaming its way out of his wide eyes.

“You ever eaten a girl out?”

The question hangs for half a second and you can see his pupils dilate, the black threatening to swallow up the sky streaked blue of his eyes. Then, right when you’re about to tease him for his gaping mouth and flushed cheeks, he’s bowling past you, splaying out against the mattress and pulling you on top of him.

“Fuck, that’s by far the best thing I’ve heard all day. Hell, all month. I’ll likely go to my grave thinking about that question. Ouch! Stop squirming, you’re kneeing me in the ribs.”

“I wouldn’t… Satoru! I can’t breathe if you hold me like that!” His arms are like cables, all tensed muscle and raw strength as he pins you against his heaving chest, lips kissing and nipping at any part of you he can reach.

“Whatever,” he grumbles, sucking a bruise into your arched collarbone. “Hurry up and take your pants off. And don’t say you can’t do it like this, you’re a grade 1 sorcerer, you can do anything you put your mind to.”

“Is that going to be part of your teaching regime?” you smart, bucking your hips up so you can unclasp and wiggle your pants down your legs.

“Oooh, you’re right, that sounds good. Damn, I gotta start writing this shit down. That way I can have a whole list of euphemisms. Can you imagine? Molding young minds and helping them to stand up to all the bullshit that those so-called elders make everyone suffer under. All those rules and regulations, the stupid ins and outs they make us all jump through–”

“Hmm,” your voice falls to a gentle hum as you snatch at his chin, stilling his chatter with a single finger against his lips. “That sounds ambitious, but why don’t we take things a little slower, give that mind of yours something else to focus on?”

“Oh?” Satoru smirks, arching an ashen eyebrow at you. “Then you better get up here, before I get distracted again.”

“Don’t you mean down?”

“Huh, down? Ah, I see where the confusion is. Nah, I want you to ride my tongue, baby, so hurry up.” His long arms help him jerk you upward, easily lifting and enticing you forward. That early impatience is peeking out once more, and he pops his head up, nostrils flaring as your uncovered cunt drifts nearer. “Ah, God, I bet you’re so fucking wet. I can smell you from here. Come on, grab onto the headboard and let me get to it.”

Your legs shake as you plant them beside his head and you do your best to steady your pounding heart, pulling a thin stream of air through your parted lips. As soon as you touch the wood of the headboard, he’s gripping your thighs so tightly you’re sure he’s going to leave bruises behind. The tip of his nose is the first thing you feel, and it’s so close to your pulsing clit that you inadvertently cant your hips forward. “Ooh, sensitive, are we?” he crows, nestling himself under you, his breath hot against your dampened folds and wet curls.

The following slick slurp of his tongue and the slow pass of his lips make your head tip back. He’s surprisingly gentle, slowly licking his way along your labia, pulling and sucking as he goes, teasing closer to that tight bud that’s waiting, just a little bit higher.

At first, you worry about crushing him, too caught up in the placement of your weight to fall into the haze his mouth is begging you to slip into. But then his lips latch onto you, careful to mouth in time with the thud of your clit, suckling and squeezing until you can’t help but grind down, earning yourself a sharp groan that reverberates against your trembling skin. Using the weight of the headboard as leverage, you roll your hips over him, shifting in time with his well-placed rhythm.

He’s good, but even the great Satoru Gojo isn’t perfect, not all the time.

When he nips at you a little too hard you shift back, depriving him of your wet heat, loving the petulant sighs and moans he gives you when you do. “Ah, sorry. Gimme a little more time,” he bargains, fingers sinking into the voluptuous curve of your ass, tying to urge you back over his glistening lips. “I’ll do better, (Y/N). Besides, I want you to cum for me. You taste so fucking good and I want it, I want all of it. Hey! Don’t be like that! I said I’d do better. Come back here.”

God, he’s such a brat.

Every time you shift away he’s got another string of exasperated pleas ready, twitching his fingers and shaking his pale head at your impudence. “Less talking,” you moan, shivering as he delves his tongue into you, feeling his grin as your cunt squeezes around his intrusion. “Ok, ok,” he growls, using his brute strength to overpower your tensed legs. “Mmm, yes baby, ah–just relax, I’ll take care of you.”

Fuck, you think as you sink your fingers into his hair, spurring him on, this feels way too good.

When he captures your clit between his teeth and tweaks the tip of his tongue against you, you can’t help but fall to pieces. Your orgasm hits you like a battering ram, seizing hold of your muscles as it rolls through you and scattering a faint spark of spots across your vision. Satoru’s arms wrap around your blindly pistoning hips, helping you to sink closer, ravenously slurping and swallowing down each wave of arousal that hits his gluttonous lips.

You’re still shaking when he pulls out from under you, flipping you bonelessly under him as his hands finally rid himself of his clearly tented and damp pants. Your eyes are just clearing when you catch sight of him, studiously following that trail of white curls to his impressive length. His cock is long, curving proudly toward his chiseled stomach and bubbling a clear string of pre-cum from the flushed tip. You do your best to sit up, but as soon as he catches sight of your movement, his broad palm is pressing you back. “Ah-ah,” he taunts, stroking a hand over his swollen cock and wiping the last of your slick from his face against his shoulder. “Keep still for me, ‘kay?’”

His wide palms spread your legs apart, and he soothes his fingertips along your skin as he tugs a few heady groans from himself. “Fuck, you look so good. You’re so goddamn pretty. When you were sitting there at the bar and you looked so fucking happy I couldn’t take my eyes off you, you just looked so nice. Haven’t even known you a week, and I’m already obsessed with hearing that laugh of yours. You put some kinda spell on me, huh? That what this is?”

“Ugh, stop talking, Satoru,” you threaten, watching the steady ebb and flow of his clenched fist. His cock looks so smooth and you’re desperate to reach for it, to take hold of velvety flesh and see how long it would take for the world’s strongest sorcerer to be putty in your hands.

He arches a pale brow at your blatant stare. “You want it?”

“I want you,” you correct, and the smile that breaks across his handsome face makes your heart squeeze.

“Awe, how can I possibly say no to that?” he asks, gleefully lining himself up with your slit. Despite his early eagerness, he’s taking his time with this part, running the bulbous head of his cock over you, gathering up some of your gossamer strands, slicking himself with your dripping arousal. “Sorry,” he amends when he makes another pass along your folds. “It’s been awhile and I want to take it all in. I don’t wanna rush this.”

“It’s fine,” you smile, lifting your hands to pass them over his stomach, watching as his muscles ripple under your delicate touch. “Just don’t take too long or you’re not going to be on top for much longer.”

“That a threat or a promise, baby?” Satoru leers, finally slipping his tip past that first, tight ring of your entrance. Despite his bravado, his lips curl over his teeth and he lets out a low hiss as he sinks into you, inch by shallow inch. The pressure of his cock makes you arch, legs automatically wrapping around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. He bows his head and his ethereal gaze falls behind his shaking eyelids as he thrusts forward, edging himself along until he bottoms out within you. Fuck, you feel so full.

The stretch of him makes you shake and you’re grateful he’s taking his time when he stills, lips smacking distracted kisses over your heated cheeks and parted lips, giving you time to adjust to him, and he to you. After a few steadying breaths, his teeth bite at the hollow of your throat and he pulls his hips back, grinning as your hands grasp into the sheets, a sharp whine escaping you. He echoes your sentiment, letting a gasping string of curses tumble from his shaking lips as he ruts forward again, one hand gripping at your right leg, prying you from his waist and slinging the trembling limb over his shoulder.

This angle has him pressing against something wonderful and sharp, and you can’t help but gasp out his name as he starts to methodically ram into it, over and over. You can feel him swell at the sound of your pleading moans and you savor the feel of his cock throbbing against your tender walls. “More,” you shudder, fingers trying to hurry his steady hips as he diligently cants into you.

“In a minute,” he grunts, biting at your pliant skin, arms coiling under your back. “This feels too fucking good. Let me just… ah… fuck…”

He slows, moving at a pace that sets your teeth on edge, and you thrash under him. Although his cock is digging against that aching place that’s sending dots and stars across your eyes, it’s not enough pressure. Licking your lips, you worm one of your hands between the two of you and pinch and roll your fingers over your clit, easing some of the tingling bittersweetness that’s pulsing over you.

“Alright, alright, point taken,” Satoru chuckles, releasing your leg from his tight grip and re-lacing it around his hips. “How do you want it, baby? You want it fast? Or do you want it hard? Tell me.”

“I don’t know,” you murmur, peeking up at his enthralling cerulean, willingly ensnaring yourself in the intensity of his gaze. “I just want more of you.”

“Tch,” he hums, cupping a hand against your warm cheek. “Don’t say shit like that, I might end up falling for you.”

The laugh that echoes from your lips is swiftly cut off by a gasp as he abruptly ups the pace of his thrusts. He’s quick, but he’s still listening and watching for what you like. When you moan he’s right there with you, steadying his rhythm, and when you call out his name, he digs a little harder.

It’s too much. It feels raw, like you’re scratching at a cut. Like there’s some itch that you just can’t reach.

All of it, the feel of his meaty balls slapping against the sticky plushness of your ass, and those breathy moans makes your head spin. The intensity of the moment slips your fingers from your clit, but he makes up for their loss by grinding down each time he sinks into your cunt, scraping the hard edge of his pelvic bone against your throbbing bud.

He’s good. Fuck.

You can feel the hazy slope of your orgasm approaching and you blindly arch up each time he careens downward, ensuring that he’s hitting right where you need him to. His movements start to hit a lull as he slips into his own fog of lingering pleasure, dipping his head to your neck and sighing contentedly when you kiss at his temple. But the tenderness of your touch must knock him out of his own whirring thoughts and he rewards you with another set of rapid fire thrusts, his lips pulling from your neck to seek out yours, kissing and nipping until you’re gasping for air.

“Mmmm,” he moans, breath hot against your skin. “You feel so good and you’re getting so fucking tight. You gonna’ cum for me? One more time?”

You do your best to gulp out a reply, but the abrupt press of his calloused thumb against your clit makes you shake instead, a tingling rush of heady arousal racing its way up your spine. Smiling down at your awed expression, he lifts his fingers away and uncoils your legs from his waist, flinging them both over his broad shoulders, his knees settling forward as he continues to roughly thrusts his hips forward, driving you quivering body into the soft sheets.

“You like that? Does it feel good? Does it? Fuck baby, I’m begging you, give it to me one more time. Can you do that for me? Can you cum for me? I want you to cum on my dick, ah, come on (Y/N), just once more, that’s all I’m asking. You can do it, can’t you?”

He’s rasping his questions against the shell of your ear, hands cupping at the side of your face, keeping you close as he races toward his own end, voice lifting into a frantic plea as he hurtles closer, desperate to feel your satisfaction rippling around him before he completely looses himself to the aching pleasure of your body.

“I–” you choke out, arms lacing around his back, nails pressing half moons into his skin. He moans at the bite of your touch and tilts your hips upward, seeking more of you.

That change is all it takes.

The tip of his cock presses down, lifts, and then suddenly you’re seeing stars.

“I’m… yes! Oh, fuck. Satoru, just like that. Don’t… don’t stop!” For once, he doesn’t tease. He just smiles, his face flushed, pale cheeks dusted a pleased pink and repeats the motion, careful to keep everything absolutely steady. The repeated push and pull, the warmth of your cunt, the feel of your skin, it’s making his cock throb and his heart race, but he’s determined to see you break.

There. There it is. Fuck, you’re so pretty.

On an outward pull of his hips, your back arches and your thighs tense and he lets out a long growl, quickly breaking his fastidious rhythm and sinking back into you, gasping as you flutter around him. A new flush of wetness leaks out of your cunt and squelches between your pinned legs, dripping over the cleft of your ass.

He only lasts a few extra ruts, but the feel of him swelling and pulsing inside your tender pussy almost topples you over the edge again and you cling to him in the aftermath of his release, your heaving breasts catching against his flat pectorals.

With a quick peck, he slowly lowers your legs and eases himself out of you, blue eyes widening at the sight of his softening hardness leaving your leaking pussy. “I don’t know which I like better,” he contemplates, leaning back on his haunches and slicking his index finger up the pooling dribble you’ve both left behind, spreading the spidery traces across his hand. “You wet and dripping for me or filled to the brim with my cum.” His lewd comment makes you huff out a low groan of exasperation and you roll off of the bed, shaking your head as you steady yourself and walk toward the bathroom.

After a brisk rinse in the shower, you pad back into the darkened room, fully expecting to see an empty bed. You’re not sure why that’s your first thought, but something about Satoru doesn’t scream: I’m the kind of guy who likes post coitus cuddles. So the sight of him, bundled under your sheets, white hair poking just above the edge of the blankets, is a surprise.

“Oh,” you pause, dropping your towel on the floor as you openly gape at him. “You’re still here… I, well, I figured you’d take off.”

“Huh?” Satoru croaks, popping his head up, his face comically askew. “What kinda guy do you think I am?”

“Apparently the kind that stays over,” you snicker, digging around for your discarded bra and panties.

He lets out a mock gasp, popping a hand against his cheek. “How could you say that! And after I gallantly brought you back here?”

“And fucked me,” you remind him, slipping your lacy underwear back on and re-adjusting the clasp of your bra.

“That too!” he qualifies, arching a pale eyebrow at your impassive face. “I’d say I was pretty generous. You did cum twice after all.”

“Oh my God,” you sigh, crossing your arms across your chest and perching beside the edge of the bed, shaking your head at the sprawling man under your covers.

“Come on, you wouldn’t seriously make me walk all the way back to the school at this hour. What if something happens to me? How could you live with yourself, knowing you kicked me out into the cold?”

“It’s summer,” you point out, rolling your eyes. “And you’re… what six foot three… and you have the legendary six eyes… I mean, I think you’ll be ok.”

“(Y/N),” Satoru begins, narrowing those bright blue eyes at you.

“Yeah?”

“Is it your habit to sleep with helpless guys and then kick them out? You’re so cruel.”

“Stop it,” you warn, snatching at the sheets and yanking them off of his naked form.

“No!” he protests, fingers clutching vainly at the thin cover. “Your bed is so nice! Come on, I’ll be good and I don’t snore. Well, not that I know of anyway…”

“Ugh, fine. I don’t have the energy for this and we have to be up in four hours. Just shush and scoot over.”

“Oh? Do you not have the energy because I fucked it out of you?”

“I’m sorry, were you wanting to stay the night?”

“Alright, alright,” he splays his hands up in supplication and makes room for you, watching closely as you curl up beside him, a smile playing over his lips. “Hey,” he asks once you’ve closed your eyes, leaning close to your reposed form.

“What?” you groan, cracking an eye open.

“Can I be the little spoon?”

“Satoru…”

“Mmhm?”

“Shut up.”

notes: hehe. i feel like he’d be so freaking chatty in bed. plus, how could i not make him a little touched starved? stop making me like characters that just wanna be held universe, gosh :3c

#jjk friday #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #satoru x reader #satoru x you #satoru x y/n #reader insert #jjk imagines

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gay-ghosts-committing-crimes · 4 years

Text

Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

based off of this post by @ificouldtakeusback

AO3 link

Warnings: death and grief, bee mention

Summary: Bobby deals with losing Sunset Curve <3

Writing taglist (ask to be added or removed): @barrel-of-cat-mituna @completekeefitztrash @tiergan-andrin-alenefar @lemontarto @hershis-kotlc @genesiscaveat @everything-else-and-mars @juline-dizznee @chaotic-basics @an-absolute-travesty @classyfunnyquotesmuffin7 @smolanxiouscatvoids @itstiger720 @introvertedscarecrow @sunset-telepath @an-idiot-in-a-trenchcoat @cowboypossume @anaccidentwaitingtohappen @sofia-not-sophie @fire-sapphics @dr-alan-grant @real-smooth @juline-dizznee

“There’s a grief that can’t be spoken There’s a pain goes on and on Empty chairs at empty tables Now my friends are dead and gone”

The morning arrived like a man condemned to death, slow-plodding and weighed down by guilt... by grief. The night before had been a swirl of energy; the energy of playing The Orpheum, the energy of being together, about to succeed, on the edge of everything they’d dreamed of. And then... the anxious energy and sick-to-the-stomach feeling of knowing something’s not right. A panicked rush to find his bandmates, his friends, because they were about to go on but they weren’t there, they weren’t there and something wasn’t right, something wasn’t-

Then came the sirens. The red and blue lights. The churning in his stomach became a cold stone.

But now Bobby sat alone, the morning sun streaming in like a memorial to the light in their eyes before it was snuffed out, and he didn’t have energy. He didn’t have the energy to feel anymore, he was exhausted.

He reached up to scrub at his face, wiping away tears that had long stopped falling, eyes dry and scratchy from crying until 3 a.m. and not sleeping at all. He wished he could sleep. He wished he could close his eyes and see something other than the bodies of his friends, something other than the way they had died in each others arms, wished he could think about anything other than the fact that he’d never hug them again or play music with them until his fingers bled and his throat was hoarse and his face sore from smiling.

He just sat. Alone. Exhausted.

The garage-made-studio was silent around him, and he longed to scream. Scream because he was never getting them back, scream because he was hurting, scream scream scream because the studio wasn’t meant to be quiet. It was meant to be filled with life and sound and four boys who loved each other in a way their ‘real’ families never would, playing music and goofing off and being together. It wasn’t meant for a single boy too tired to even cry anymore.

“Here they talked of revolution Here it was they lit the flame Here they sang about tomorrow And tomorrow never came

From the table in the corner They could see a world reborn And they rose with voices ringing And I can hear them now!”

Bobby grabbed another box and shoved on top of one he had already stacked, angry tears burning behind his eyes. He hated this room and he hated this garage and he hated that he was alive and his friends were dead and he hated the fact that he was expected to be okay.

Because he wasn’t. He wasn’t okay and he had watched his friends take their last breaths and maybe if he was there sooner they would be alive, but it didn’t matter because they were gone and he wasn’t okay.

He grabbed another box and choked back a sob, anger and guilt and mourning caught and tangled in his chest like a swarm of bees swarming in his lungs until he felt suffocated and smothered. He tripped over a box and bit back a scream, choosing instead to kick at the box before falling to his knees. He couldn’t do this. He was just a kid, and he couldn’t do this.

The tears fell, hot and messy and his voice was choked and gasping, nose snotty and eyes red. Was it less than a week ago that the four of them had stood, side by side, in this very place? Singing and laughing together because they were doing it, they were finally making their place in the world! They were going to turn the music industry on its head and become something.

Bobby remembered how it had started; he and Reggie were the first to meet. They learned guitar together, they sung and played and thought ‘maybe this could be something’. And then Luke came with his voice and guitar and it was something. It was incredible and it was new and they found a place that could be their own and they claimed it for themselves, claimed it for who they were and who they were going to be. And then Alex... Alex with his anxious hands and killer drums came along and suddenly Bobby had a family again.

He remembered the late evenings of lukewarm pizza and song-writing challenges and four boys who were in love with music. It was freedom and it was flying and it was loving and being loved for who you were and not because you were what people wanted from you. It was four boys singing their hearts out. Singing their lives. Their hopes.

They had sung about their future, and now they didn’t even have one.

“The very words that they had sung Became their last communion On this lonely barricade At dawn

Oh my friends, my friends forgive me That I live and you are gone There's a grief that can't be spoken There's a pain goes on and on”

Bobby thrashed, sweat dripping down his face and his eyes flew open, chest heaving and heart racing. He groaned and rubbed a hand over his face, sighing when he realized he was too tightly wound to go back to sleep. Reluctantly, he got out of bed, tugging on a light sweatshirt and grabbing his guitar before slipping out of his room and heading out.

The night air was muggy and thick, but chilly enough that he was glad he remembered to put something on over his t-shirt. The walk to their... his studio was mostly quiet save for the rare passing of cars, and he let himself get lost in the way the stop-lights reflected in the water on the road, a broken and distorted portrayal of their mirror image. It’s like him, he thinks, and wishes he wasn’t a seventeen year-old boy who had to think of things in terms of ‘Before’ and ‘After’.

He finally got to the studio and slammed the door behind him. It wasn’t like he was going to be quiet when he practiced anyway.

The music started soft. Started gentle and intriguing, and then began to harden, to twist into something loud and broken. It was jagged and hurting and Bobby sang till his throat was dry, like maybe if he sang hard enough they would come back, like maybe if he ruined his voice he wouldn’t have to live with what his best friends had died for, like maybe the universe would bend its uncaring ear and hear him, hear his grief and anger and grant him some semblance of peace, something like an ending.

He played for hours, the pads of his fingers sore, his voice choked and strained from yelling the lyrics, but he kept on. He kept on because when he played it was like the ghosts of them stayed behind to listen.

Luke would be grinning from somewhere beside him, hands moving deftly over his own guitar, Reggie beside him getting flustered when Bobby winked and then playing an incredible riff despite it, and Alex behind them, his hands playing magic on his set, smile wide as he enjoyed the music. And Bobby.

Bobby strumming and looking at his bandmates and maybe it hurt worse when it was all over, losing them again and again every time he stopped playing, but for that brief moment his friends were back and he wasn’t the lonely teenager in an empty garage with only a few boxes around him to remind him of what is was like to have a home in other people. For a brief moment he was ‘Bobbers’ and ‘Bobbins’ and he was winning a tickle fight with Reggie and getting his hair floofed by Luke, for a brief moment he stopped being ‘Bobby, the boy who lost his best friends and bandmates at age seventeen’ and was ‘Bobby, who was getting chided by Alex for putting his stuff everywhere’.

For a brief moment he wasn’t grieving the only people who really knew what it was like to love him.

“Phantom faces at the window Phantom shadows on the floor Empty chairs at empty tables Where my friends will meet no more

Oh my friends, my friends Don't ask me what your sacrifice was for Empty chairs at empty tables Where my friends will sing no more”

Bobby got older and changed his name. He didn’t want to be the boy that lost his friends, the boy left behind, so he became Trevor, a man who wasn’t brokenhearted.

It didn’t stop him from being brokenhearted though.

He still saw them in everything, and it wasn’t fair. He’d go to the beach to stare at the water only to jerk his head around when he heard Reggie’s laughter. He’d go to a café but when he’d sit down he’d see Alex drumming his fingers on the table, waiting to order, hear Luke rambling excitedly about a new song he was working on.

The boys may have been dead, but he’d never escape their memory.

He could shove it down as hard as he could, but in the end he’d turn around a corner and catch a glimpse of Reggie walking by, he’d be in the grocery store and overhear Alex sassing Luke. It was a never-ending cycle of shock, hope, and then crushing sadness, because it was never them and it never would be.

The beach was always silent, and the chairs were always empty.

Bobby was alone.

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bones-sprouts · 3 years

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hot take time? i have a lukewarm one. i really like the way quackity does his lore streams. like i love the really cinematic and produced lore. it always feels so interesting and well paced and i respect quackity so much for doing them. they really do match his character. BUT! i wish quackity would do a few more streams between those that are just. quackity building onto nevadas. quackity doing whatever. just something other than the produced content since it takes so long and ends up making his lore seem barren compared to what we see completed in between. i really do wish he did a few streams building the casino or even just hanging around with slimecicle being funny. just liven up the place ya know?

that goes for karl too! i like tales! a lot! it’s always very funny and i am emotionally attached to some of the tales characters that we wont even see again. since they take so long though, i wish he would do a few streams just hanging out with sapnap or george. just something you know? (i understand karl a little bit more for not doing stuff as he’s been on a break i believe? not entirely sure but i think hes been less active recently so)

these arent really hot takes but i wanted to ramble about them whoops sorry

valid and true !! the stuff is gorgeous, but i wanna get really invested in their character stuff. like its the same problem sanders sides has

(send in your hot takes. cowards)

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fordanoia · 4 years

Text

One of a Kind

Fandom: Gravity Falls || CW: - || Paranoid!Ford era trying to think of places to hide his journals (one shot)

______(~1.4k words)______

He just had to stay calm. The gradual pounding of his head made that hard though. The catastrophe of a mess around him made it hard. The monument of his stupidity — sitting like an anchor dozens of feet underneath the wooden planks and dirt and stone — made it hard.

Mostly the pounding headache was the problem though.

Every time he tried to gather his thoughts another throb would scatter them. Which was just wasting his time — time that he didn't damn well have.

He grumbled bitter nothings as he pushed the lukewarm mug of black coffee further away so straighten the map on the desk in front of him. He’d been at this for- well however long it took him to get through a little over four cups of coffee. He had to find a place to hide his journals, but where? He couldn’t just bury them all in the ground somewhere. They had to be in different kinds of hiding spots. If he just buried them all then mole people would wind up with an interdimensional portal breaking open a hellish dimension. Then if he hid them in ugly, disused dressers then it would be a guild of antique collectors, but the same scenario. Regardless of how interesting the beings were that found the journal, or how boring, it was still terribly dangerous.

Ford belatedly realized his body was drooping practically to the desk and jerked back to sit up straight again. Quickly pushed his tired limbs up to stand and walked around in ambling directions.

These had to be secure, they had to be safe. Gravity Falls was neither secure nor safe though.

He could bury one. Stash another in... the machine of- a box only opened by some hidden machinery. He could do that by the bunker.

The third journal. Where was he going to hide the third journal? The... The best place would be anywhere far away from here. That wasn't exactly an option right now though! Snow season was quickly approaching and he had a limited amount of time to get back to the caves before the hike would be too dangerous for him. Anywhere he went, it would take too long for him to get there and back in time. Not even accounting to actually hiding the damn tome.

If he could find Fiddleford, he'd be able to ask him to take it with him on his way to Palo Alto. Like he wasn't already long gone that way, by now.

Ford swung around to grab the mug from the desk and take a large drink from the bitter and burnt coffee forcing himself to pull his mind back from the line of thought and think.

"Or he's here, which is worse." He rambled aloud, walking back around in unclear circles and lines with the mug in his hands.

Worse because if Fiddleford was still here then he was running around with a memory ray and some enabling cronies to help him blast away memories left and right! His, theirs, Ford's — anyone and everyone, who cared!

"It's not like it's harmful!" Ford ranted, mockingly. "No, there's not like there were obvious flaws in the design that were pointed out! Obvious flaws in the damn concept itself!!" He gritted his teeth, momentarily, before whipping his hands out. "If you're-!"

A loud crash of glass — of breaking, of intruding, of death and assault and assail (but mostly death!) cracked off his sentence and the air.

Ford snatched the first thing in reach, a large chunk of crystallized rock from a Geodite's shedding, and reared it back to swing!

When he swung, the crystal glided through the air — not a problem, it could surprise them. The best surprise was always a zero hesitating- a dehesitating- an aggressive and quick offense!

He looked for a figure to swing at or react to as quickly as possible before it could get a jump on him! The room was a blur of colored shapes that he focused to snap together, only to still see nobody.

Ford breathed out hard, to look for the intruder. The invisible- had Bill enlisted the Invisible Wizard? Or the Hide Behind!

He backed up against a bookcase so the damn thing couldn’t sneak up on him, spotting for signs of its path. "Come eat crystal, you ugly ax-stealing-!" His mind buzzed in red at him.

It took a moment for his actual thoughts to catch up with what he'd subconsciously already figured out. There was no window in this room. There was no entrance here. The crash hadn't been a broken window or other entryway, all of which were reinforced with some wooden boards anyhow.

His eyes scanned the ground to quickly find the source of the crash. A broken mug, coffee dripping from its shards on the floor and splattered across half the wall below a small nick in the wall paper.

“Oh.”

Ford sighed, letting his arms drop back down to hang in front of him, and feeling a little stupid. Thankfully, he was too tired to feel more than a little of any emotion though, which had its perk right about now.

He set the crystallized rock back onto its shelf before leaning down to inspect the damage, namely to figure out which mug he’d broken. (What a silly thing to worry about right now.)

This had to be the fourth mug this- week? He kept losing track of where the damn things were at and wound up breaking them, though usually by knocking them over not haphazardly throwing them without realizing it. Luckily he had a surplus of mugs. However, at his current rate he wouldn't for long. Too late to invest in making a shatter-proof mug now though.

He gingerly placed the largest pieces of the pastel purple ceramic into his hand, able to get a chunk that had the letters "Thir" on it. He stared at the piece.

Thiram? ...Thiuram- Thi...

Then it clicked.

"Ah. 'Flirty Thirty.' Right..." He squeezed at the bridge of his nose with his free hand in annoyance.

The image of the tacky mug in his memory was not a particularly pleasant one. Hot pink text on top of a soft purple background on a fairly standard mug shape, except for the unreasonably uncomfortable shape of the handle meant to mimic the number ‘30’ on it.

Definitely not his biggest loss.

He resumed carefully picking up the shards from the floor to clean up the mess.

Ford didn't even remember getting this mug. It was so obnoxious he couldn't imagine why he'd held onto it, much less willingly got it in the-... first place...

The dawning realization made his fingers slow and something heavy settle. This wasn't his mug. It had been Fiddleford’s.

Fiddleford had left it to have at least one mug for himself here that he could use. (As though there wasn't already a whole shelf of mugs to use). Ford was half sure Fiddleford had just done it for the fun of Ford's face whenever Ford would look over at him and see the ridiculous mug, yet again remembering that it existed and, furthermore, was inside his lab sitting alongside the most important research of his life. History books did not show drawings of Katherine Johnson working on equations with a pair of sunglasses shaped like smiling, planets in orbit (that were also wearing sunglasses) or Isaac Newton underneath an apple tree, wearing a shirt saying ‘I discovered Gravity and all I got was this lousy t-shirt!’

Of course, Ford hadn't known the truth then about the portal and it’s not something he wanted in the history books anymore... but this had still been a damn, tacky mug. That much was still true.

And now it just looked like some broken mug, and you couldn't tell how awkward the handle was anymore or known it'd squish your hand if you tried to hold it like mugs are supposed to be held — or how ridiculous the hot pink looked with all the little orange designs around it. Now it was just... pieces scattered on the floor.

He had plain mugs, mugs with knowledgeable jokes or quotes, and ‘technically free’ mugs he'd accidentally walked off with from the local diners. That mug had been the only truly tacky mug out of all of them. The tackiest mug across all of town, he’d bet. Unforgivingly ugly and irreplaceable.

Ford sighed, standing up again so he could get something to clean up the mess, trying to think back to potential hiding spots for his journals and avoid the pointless pondering of why he apparently felt bad about such an obnoxious mug of all things.

#gravity falls #gravity falls fics #stanford pines #my fics #c: paranoid ford #lowkey considering asking peeps to not tag a certain Thing #(which peeps that know me likely know what i mean)#but also lowkey just hoping people won't tag it that anyhow #also though this is probably the silliest paranoid ford fic i've done #lil angst #like Zero scare #spoiler tags now but #ilggohirug zlwk wkh vpxjjhvw vploh; orrnlqj uljkw dw irug dv kh wdnhv d gulqn iurp wkh wdfnlhvw pxj lq halvwhqfh.#Ilggohirug: zh vxuh duh pdnlqj klvwrub khuh :)#Irug: /wkdw pxj lv dq lqvxow wr vflhqfh dqg frpiruwdeoh pxj ghvljq/

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dhwty-writes · 4 years

Text

Chapter 13 - A Broken Shelter

A lot of you are wondering how Geralt and Jaskier will get out of the marriage. All I have to say to that is… not yet! But! They talk! Also, there’s a picture of Janina, now.

Thanks as always to @persony-pepper for betaing this chapter. Have fun :)

Summary: Waiting for Jaskier in the woods is horrible. The news the Viscount delivers after are, somehow, even worse.

Read on AO3

prologue | previous | next

There were a lot of things Geralt didn’t enjoy about the world he lived in. Injustice. Annoying songs. Barkeeps who spit in his food. Not enough drink, not enough sex, not enough time with his brothers. Destiny.

But the list of things he truly despised was surprisingly short. It went as followed:

1) Lukewarm liquids. No fluid on this earth was meant to — or even could be — be enjoyed tepid. Ale was supposed to be cold, bath water hot, nothing in between.

2) Ciri crying. He hated the helplessness that came with that. The realisation that he, Geralt of Rivia, a witcher, was utterly unfit to take care of a child. Much less a royal one. Much less a royal one who began seeing him as her father of all things.

3) Jaskier being silent. Jaskier’s tirades were legendary, everyone who spent more than a few seconds in his company knew that. The bard was able to monologue about basically everything: a pebble in his boots, a torn seam, trampled flowers, lukewarm ale, and, most impressively, the rude behaviour his fellow humans spared for witchers. But when he was silent? That was when he knew he should be worrying.

4) Djinns. He’d only known one in his entire life but that one was responsible for his bard’s almost-untimely demise and the fucking curse that had ruined his relationship to Yennefer, and thus to Jaskier. No, he wasn’t taking criticism on that one.

5) Being incapacitated when something dangerous was afoot. He hated it. He was a witcher, created to stand between danger and humanity. And yet, more often than he would like, he couldn’t.

Like now. There was obviously something dangerous afoot. Elsewise he wouldn’t have been sent away. Was there something even more incapacitating than being sent away? The early-winter forest didn’t answer when he asked it as much.

“My point exactly,” he muttered, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders and continuing his trek through the woods. It was fucking freezing and he hated it. He didn’t really know where he was going, just away from Lettenhove, and then back again. Always circling the castle, but never approaching.

“Fuck, Jaskier,” he cursed. He was still trying to make sense of the hasty ramblings the Viscount had uttered earlier. ‘There’s a reason witchers don’t meddle in human affairs,’ he thought gruffly, 'and it’s precisely this.’

A witcher’s life was a simple life. Pass the Trials. Complete the training. Set out on the Path. Kill the monsters, collect the coin. Return for winter. Repeat. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Humans were so damn complicated, noble ones doubly so. 'Beguiling, backstabbing bastards, the lot of them.’ They never said what they meant, shitting on the very same hand they shook and then using it to rub the crap in your face.

'Never trust a noble,’ Vesemir had taught him. He was beginning to wonder why he’d never followed that counsel. Because somehow somewhere along the Path he had managed to amass a gaggle of them; he’d befriended one talkative viscount-turned-bard-turned-viscount-again, bound his destiny to one notorious runaway court mage, and practically adopted the heir-apparent to the Cintran throne. ‘The fuck,’ he thought emphatically.

And none of them were exempt from this nobility shit. No, on the contrary, as much as they pretended to hate their noble life, all of them actually seemed to at least momentarily enjoy their power— revel in it even. Ciri least of them all, but Geralt was halfway convinced that she didn’t actually understand the extent of her position. Yennefer and Jaskier on the other hand? No, they fit right into the stinking heap of horseshit that courts tended to be.

And the longer Geralt stayed at Lettenhove, the less he understood the web of lies his former friend wove around them. He didn’t understand a damn thing of the intricate illusion Jaskier conjured with skillful words. And of course, the Viscount couldn’t be bothered to explain it. He hated it.

And the orders. Gods, how he hated the orders. Witchers weren’t made to follow orders, not from petty humans at least. From Vesemir that was another kind of story, but his former teacher could still probably wipe the floor with him, blindfolded and one hand tied behind his back.

The fact that Jaskier could do the same in a verbal sparring match was quickly banished from his head. He was angry, and irritated, and… confused, for fuck’s sake— and it was all Jaskier’s fault; he didn’t need to comply with him on top of that!

Still, he had followed the order. Not because he actually recognised Jaskier as his superior, but because the Viscount had been scared. He didn’t like seeing Jaskier scared. Vinegar was a hideous stench on anyone, but mingling with the not-bard’s usually flowery scent? It made him want to retch.

So, he had gone. To appease his not-friend, he told himself. 'And because of the promise he gave me.’ If witchers were capable of knowing fear — which they weren’t, definitely not — it would have been what he’d felt when Jaskier had told him to leave.

Even remembering the words made him feel… weird. It made him feel weird. There even might have been a sense akin to worry, mixed with a terrible resignation that ‘this is where it ends.’ That that was the moment Jaskier finally decided he had enough of him, that sheltering him as well as Ciri was too much of a burden, too much of a danger to himself and his sisters, and so the witcher had to go.

Witchers weren’t afraid. But if he could be, he just might’ve been.

But Jaskier had promised, and so Geralt had to cling to that vow. No matter if it had sounded like farewell. He shook his head violently and thumped his fist against a tree to clear his mind. 'No, don’t think of that. You’ll go mad if you do.’

It was the early afternoon when he heard hooves, still a good distance away. But when he strained his ears, he could almost make out the conversation. There was a quiet background chatter and unmistakable laughter. 'Jaskier,’ he thought, and stumbled against the tree, overwhelmed by the wave of relief. 'Finally.’ His head was reeling with alleviation as he stumbled through the underbrush, desperate to get back to his bard, to finally know what was happening, to-

“Oi!” an unfamiliar voice called. “Wait for me, Roman. I’m going for a piss.”

He staggered to a halt. 'Do not come seek me if there is another person with me,’ he remembered Jaskier’s words, the tremor of fear that distorted his words, and the deep wrinkles that furrowed his brow.

'Shit,’ he cursed silently. He might not know what was happening, but if there was one thing he knew, it was Jaskier’s fear. And Jaskier’s silence. If Jaskier did not call for him, if Jaskier was not alone-

He tried to fight the worry churning in his guts. 'Jaskier has nothing to be afraid of,’ he reminded himself. 'Not from his liege, he said as much.’ It had been Geralt he had been afraid for.

And he had given him an order. So, Geralt turned on his heel and hurried away from the riders.

After that first close call, it became only more and more difficult to keep the worry at bay. Especially as the sun began to set. Treacherous thoughts from earlier that day rose as the shadows grew longer. Geralt wasn’t afraid of the night, of course. It was a stupid thing to be, as a witcher. He didn’t mind spending the night in the woods. He didn’t need to worry about never waking again for such a folly.

'But what if I wake and Jaskier still doesn’t come?’ his foolish mind supplied. 'What if he’s too craven to tell me to my face that I mustn’t return?’

Geralt was almost brave enough to spare himself the wait for the answer. He was almost brave enough to go right away, leave Lettenhove, Ciri, and Jaskier behind and forget them. Almost.

But as so often in the past months, Geralt had to discover that he was a coward. Again.

He couldn’t find it in himself to leave, so he found a clearing to spend the night— far enough from Lettenhove and the road that no traveller would happen upon him but close enough that he would still hear Jaskier approaching.

He didn’t light a fire, nor did he settle down to sleep. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t dare. When Jaskier came to find him, he needed to be alert. ‘If he comes.’

It was almost midnight when his patience was rewarded. There were hooves in the distance again. This time, Geralt didn’t leap to his feet to rush towards them. He did his best to forget that embarrassing episode, truth be told. This time, he waited.

The rider brought the horse to a halt no more than three hundred yards from where he knelt. “Geralt?” Jaskier asked without raising his voice. He could still hear him loud and clear.

Absentmindedly, he wondered how often he had already repeated that process while he listened intently for another human. When he heard none, he got to his feet, making his way towards him.

“I’m here,” he said once he got within earshot of a human.

“And thank Melitele for that,” Jaskier responded, squinting to make out the silhouettes outside of the narrow circle his torch illuminated. Geralt almost laughed. He was facing the wrong way. Not-not-roach pranced nervously where the Viscount held her loosely by the reins. “Where- Oh, there you are.” To his credit, he jumped only a little when Geralt lightly touched his shoulder. Even through the thick layers of cloak, doublet, and shirt he could feel the shiver that ran down the Viscount’s spine when he turned to face him. “I’d already feared you’d abandoned me.”

'As did I,’ he confessed in the privacy of his mind. “Never, my lord.”

“Good. That’s good.” He took a shuddering breath.

Geralt didn’t know why he hesitated to remove his hand from Jaskier’s shoulder, just like he had that morning. It was odd, and he knew that he should stop but he couldn’t. Since when did he crave the casual touches Jaskier had piled on him. 'Since when do I miss them?'

Before he had a chance to examine the strange fancy, he was forced to lift his touch as Jaskier thrust both torch and reins into his hands. “Hold that for me, will you?”

“How was your liege’s visit?” he asked while Jaskier climbed into the saddle again.

“Hm,” he answered uncharacteristically. “Let’s say it was a mixed bag. Some good, some bad. Overall, the good parts outweigh the bad, I reckon.”

“Hm,” Geralt answered in turn and handed him his reins. He kept the torch, though, and looked up at Jaskier expectantly. He didn’t say a word. ‘Great.’ So, it was on him to carry the conversation. Again. “Was this the bridge?” he asked, for lack of a better question.

The Viscount stared down at him in obvious confusion. “What bridge?”

“After you got back from your parlay,” he explained. 'And got drunk,’ he didn’t say, “you told me about a bridge. One we’d cross when we’d come to it. Was this the bridge, my lord?”

“Well, um… yes. Sort of,” he replied slowly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Not-not-Roach flicked her ears in annoyance. “It was the beginning. The first step across unsafe waters. It won’t get easier from here on.”

“Hm,” he answered. He hated those cryptic responses with a passion. “Care to elaborate?”

The Viscount tensed. “No,” he answered coldly.

Well, then. Nothing he could do about that. They continued their way back to Lettenhove. With each step Geralt fumed more; it was humiliating to walk while Jaskier rode. And in silence at that. Memories came back to him, of him snapping at the bard to shut up while he was babbling and humming and composing. The gnawing feel of guilt was hard to ignore.

It didn’t take long for him to break. “Don’t you think I deserve your honesty, Lord Lettenhove?” he spat out. “You seemed awfully concerned about my well-being for punishing me with ignorance now.”

“And you seemed awfully uninterested in my life for pestering me with questions now,” Jaskier quipped wittily. There was no real bite behind the words, though.

“It was easier to let you do the talking,” he offered up the tiny bit of truth. “Comes more natural to you.”

“And what about this situation makes you think any of this will be easy?” he shot back.

Geralt lowered his gaze. 'Nothing,’ he supposed. That wasn’t what Jaskier wanted to hear, though. “What do you want of me, my lord?” he asked quietly. “I- I don’t understand you anymore.”

Jaskier sighed and passed a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Geralt,” he admitted meekly after a while. “This isn’t fair to you, I guess. There’s just so much… It’s just a lot, alright?”

“Alright,” he answered in lack of a better answer.

“You are right, though,” he kept on talking. “I owe you honesty.” After a small pause he continued: “There will be others. Winters are seldom spent alone, as long as the roads are halfway safe to travel. And when they aren’t anymore, you stay where you got stuck until it thaws again. Now that two months since my father’s death have passed, I won’t be able to refuse invitations anymore. So, there will be guests in Lettenhove soon. And not all of them will be looking forward to sharing a roof with a witcher.”

“Hmm. I’m used to that.”

“I know, it’s just-” When he looked up, he could see Jaskier chewing on his lip. He hadn’t done that for a long time. “I’ll do my best to protect you. But I told you, you are not under my care, like Ciri is. I fear there will be blood spilt on my soil before the winter is done.”

He felt like he was suffocating, barely recognising the voice as his own: “So, are you going to throw me out?” That was what he had been waiting for, after all. The moment when Jaskier decided he wasn’t worth the trouble, when he showed him the door, when- His mind was racing, calculating already if he could still make it to Kaer Morhen. 'Never,’ he knew. By this time of the year the path was almost impassable, the Killer living up to its name.

“Goodness no,” Jaskier’s words shook him from his thoughts, “not if there’s another way.” The smile he shot him was almost playful. “I’d rather have you where I can see you, witcher. Not out there where anyone can just snatch you up and let you rot in some dungeon.”

He was still busy processing the smile and nearly stumbled over his next words: “Is there another way, my lord?”

The grimace that passed over his face was so utterly Jaskier that his earlier worries were almost forgotten. “I think so,” he said and wrinkled his nose. “You won’t like it though.”

Geralt shrugged. He didn’t like a lot of things about the present situation. The unbearable tension between him and Jaskier above all. “If it keeps me at Ciri’s side…,” he answered casually. 'And at yours,’ he didn’t say. He hoped his not-friend got the meaning all the same. “What is it, my lord?”

“I talked to the Count of Hangfelt. He gave me his leave to expand the Castle Peace to you. Isn’t that great?” He smiled artificially.

Geralt frowned deeply. “What’s a Castle Peace?”

“What’s a-” Jaskier spluttered and nearly fell off his horse. “Geralt, are you kidding me?” he asked once he had regained his balance.

He shook his head. He didn’t understand why that was such a big deal.

“No inhabitant of a castle might take up arms against another? All feuds end where the walls begin? The king’s peace holds no power over another man’s hall? Any of that ring a bell?”

“No,” he huffed. 'Great. More confusing noble fads.’

“No? Is that Redanian law, then?”

Geralt had no fucking idea. Did he look like a thrice-damned lawyer, for fuck’s sake? He wasn’t the one who had studied at a university.

Luckily, Jaskier didn’t seem to expect an answer: “The Castle Peace is what guarantees there is no bloodshed in Lettenhove. It’s what protects you from my sister’s wrath and makes sure I don’t wake to poison in my breakfast. It dictates that as long as you are within my walls no-one, not even the king, can lay a finger on you. It means the lord can grant you asylum.” He paused for a moment. “Well, in theory, that is.”

“In theory?” he inquired. He didn’t like the sound of that.

“In practice, I am not the lord of Lettenhove Hall.”

Geralt frowned. He’d learned that earlier that day already and that was still something to chew on. Lettenhove was drenched with Jaskier’s spirit to the core, so somehow, he had expected the castle to be in his family’s hands for centuries. Apparently, that was not the case.

“Might be, though,” he continued. “If all goes well.”

“Hmm.”

“Well, let’s not dwell on that. There’s… one more thing.”

“Spit it out, bard,” he growled. He hated it when Jaskier told stories in bits and pieces. It was his livelihood, for Melitele’s sake, he should be better at storytelling than this.

“Viscount, but alright,” he corrected him. “There’s an oath you need to swear.”

Geralt’s eyes snapped up. "Oath? What oath? You said no oaths.”

Jaskier at least had the decency to wince. “Ah, that’s not quite correct. I said a promise would suffice, for now. It doesn’t suffice anymore.”

He was fuming. 'Oh, you dirty, backstabbing little liar. Just you wait, you prick, once all of this is over-’

“So, about that oath,” Jaskier quickly continued. “It’s an old law, from the times when the humans first came to the Continent and hadn’t settled down yet. A wartime oath, forgotten by us, but still remembered by the Elder Races. Fitting for this time of bloodshed, isn’t it? You’d be, ah- protected like family. Much like Ciri is.”

He scowled warily. 'What are you not telling me, bard?’ He knew him long enough to tell when he was hiding half of the truth. “Where’s the catch?” he tried to ask as casually as possible.

“Ah.” The faint shadow of a blush crept up his cheeks and he looked away in embarrassment. “See, that’s the thing. It’s rather irreversible. One of its prerequisites dictates some kind of debt you can’t repay. And until you did your due, it won’t be lifted.”

Geralt scoffed.

Jaskier began babbling: “I knew you wouldn’t like it and I’m sorry. I can’t think of anything else, though, and-” It was almost endearing, reminding him much of how it had been before-

Then he couldn’t take it anymore. “Fine,” he interrupted him sharply.

“Fine?” Jaskier asked in plain disbelief.

“Yes, fine, my lord,” Geralt growled. He didn’t like it or anything but it wasn’t like he had any other choice. There was nowhere else he could go, and if that was what was needed that he could stay the winter, he’d do it. With a fucking bow and a smile, if need be. “You think my debts to you are high enough for that?”

Jaskier’s face was unreadable when he looked up. “They have to be,” the Viscount decided. He pulled on not-not-Roach’s reins as they stepped out of the forest and Lettenhove came into view. “I’ll draw the documents up tomorrow. As soon as Lord Hangfelt leaves.”

“He’s still there?” Geralt asked, not bothering to mask his surprise.

“He is. South Wing. Don’t go there if you can avoid it.”

“I won’t,” he promised. He observed the wistful look on Jaskier’s face, taking in the moonlit road. “Ride along, my lord,” he said softly. “I’ll find my way.”

He seemed to hesitate, looking doubtfully at the witcher. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he answered and didn’t even hide his smile. 'Almost adorable,’ he thought, 'that he’s worried for me.’ Despite knowing fully well that he could see just fine in the dim light. Even Jaskier could, the moon was bright enough.

“Well, then,” the Viscount replied, gripping the reins a bit more loosely, “Jakub will show you to your new rooms as soon as you arrive. Goodnight, my witcher.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Goodnight, my lord,” he replied. And then he was off, chasing down the road at a breakneck speed that never would make Geralt’s heart not skip a beat. After a few moments of staring after him in the dark he continued his own way back to the castle.

There were more guards than usual when he finally arrived on the top of the hill. They barely looked at him before waving him through. Warily, Geralt took in the empty courtyard. It was peaceful. Tranquil, almost. He’d never have noticed the strangers’ intrusion if not for the horses tied down in front of the stables. Well, and the guards posted before the South Wing, that eyed him warily. He nodded politely and slouched off to the East Wing.

He almost gave in to the urge to go check on Ciri, but before he even reached the North Tower, Jakub was at his side. “Geralt of Rivia,” he said quietly and Geralt raised a curious eyebrow, “his Lordship offers his apologies. After such a strenuous day, he’s already retired.”

That was new. The grey man had never bothered with his name before. Now he even offered a tiny bow. 'Why the sudden change?’ he wondered. He shrugged as an answer.

“If you might follow me, so I can show you to your rooms, sir?”

He nodded gruffly and trailed behind him, all the while frowning at him warily. First the name, now the sir. Was it some kind of trap? He didn’t think the grey man cunning enough for that, nor did he think it likely. So, it had to be something else.

His frown only deepened when Jakub held the door to the third floor open to him instead of leading him further up the stairs. “Why are we here?” he asked, hesitating to step into the antechamber.

Jakub blinked stupidly. “I am showing you to your rooms, sir,” he answered simply.

“Here?” he had trouble keeping the shock from his face. He knew well enough that this floor was off-limits for almost all inhabitants of Lettenhove Hall. Ciri was free to come and go, of course, Janina ignored her brother’s wishes as always, and he’d been tolerated the last two times he’d brought himself to come knocking on Jaskier’s door. But the rest? As far as he was aware, not even the servants were allowed to enter, safe for Jakub, of course.

Now, he almost envied them. The lord’s chambers made his skin crawl. The scent of fear, grief, and hatred had seeped deep into the very structure, each floorboard, curtain, and piece of furniture reeking of vinegar, onions and infected wounds. And tears. Always the salty tang of sadness— the scent clung to Jaskier, too. 'No wonder he hates his home so much.’

“This way, sir,” the servant said calmly, and led him to the only of the three rooms Geralt hadn’t entered yet. It was a nice room, he had to admit, far nicer than the one he had stayed in before.

He barely had a moment to take it all in — the large feather bed, the coals in the fireplace, the three additional doors — when Jakub spoke again: “Will you require any assistance with your armour, sir?”

“No,” he answered as he strode over to the bed. It was a four-poster, with velvet curtains and an embroidered canopy and all. He barely dared touch the fancy quilt on top. It was gold threaded, for fuck’s sake.

“Do I have your leave to retire, then?” He barely registered the servant speak, still too mesmerised by the silky feel of the duvet. It was silk, he realised with horror. “Sir?”

He shrugged, uncaring. “Sure.” When the door shut behind him, he took the chance to thoroughly examine his new room. First, he tried the doors. Two of them were locked and he didn’t dare to pry them open, but the other led to a private bath of all things. Not that he’d complain, especially not when he found fairly warm water waiting for him in the washbowl. He quickly stripped off his armour, glad for the opportunity to wash off the dirt of the day spent outside.

Once clean, he continued inspecting his new chambers. They were luxurious; there was no other word for it. With a fancy tapestry, a shelf storing old poetry volumes — and one new one, untitled and without a cover, deposited on the nightstand with nothing more than a bookmark drenched in Józefa’s perfume. The chest at the foot end of the bed was open and filled to the brim with warm winter clothes he wouldn’t be able to refuse now. There was a desk, too, expensive parchment and goose quills next to a weapon’s rack and an armour stand, where Jaskier’s old wooden sword was already waiting for him.

He had the sudden overwhelming need to sit down. 'Fuck,’ he thought. Who the fuck wasted all of that on a witcher? He found himself thoroughly questioning Jaskier’s sanity. The bard had never been the most proficient when it came to budgeting tasks, but this was a whole new level of ridiculousness.

He almost didn’t dare settle into the bed. 'What if I break something?’ To prevent that, he stripped off the quilt and two more silk blankets as well as some of the down-filled pillows, depositing them carefully on the divan.

But even wrapped in only the linen and woollen sheets, sleep didn’t come easily to him. That was for an entirely different reason, though: With nothing else to occupy his mind and his eyes closed, the sounds around him grew incredibly loud. There was a cat prancing around in the dining room, Jakub settling into bed, too, and mice in the walls.

And the worst part of all of that was that he could hear Jaskier, too. The Viscount was sleeping soundly, his peaceful breath resonating loudly in Geralt’s chambers. From time to time he turned onto the other side, rustling his blankets, or talked nonsensical in his sleep as he was wont to do.

It shouldn’t bother him. Sixteen years they had travelled together. Sixteen years of listening to Jaskier commit to sleep just as loudly as he did everything else. They had been separated by a campfire at most, sharing beds and bedrolls more often than not when coin and temperatures were low. Why were those same sounds so infuriating now?

He knew it was kindness that Jaskier allowed him to stay in so close proximity. Still, he wondered if Jaskier knew that it was torture, too.

There was another possibility for his irritation, of course. One that Geralt didn’t like to dwell on too much. Maybe it was the wall that separated them that bothered him. A physical divide adding to the emotional void between them. Maybe it was the fact that he was so used to the bard beside him. And now he wasn’t. So close and yet out of reach. 'Torture.’

And yet, he didn’t get up and leave. He didn’t flee. If that was the prize, he had to pay to get a few precious moments with Jaskier, he’d pay it. He’d pay it a thousand times over.

Just like the oath. Geralt scoffed. He couldn’t believe that Jaskier thought for even a moment that Geralt might refuse. He might be dense, but not that stupid. The rest of his life at Jaskier’s side? That wasn’t the worst fate he could imagine.

#My writing #OWBABH #of witchers bards and broken hearts #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #geraskier fanfiction #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #the witcher fanfiction

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king-finnigan · 5 years

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(I’m So) Human - Chapter 2

You can also read this on AO3! M A S T E R L I S T

A/n: So, this was supposed to be a oneshot, but there are so many dodie songs that are perfect for Geralt and Jaskier, so this turned into a six-chapter fic. I regret nothing. This chapter is based on Ready Now by dodie. As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don’t hesitate to leave a like and a comment if you feel like it!

The first time he sees the blue-eyed Bard, Geralt is sitting in the corner of some tavern in Posada. He sips his ale as the man – barely more than a teen – gets pelted with food. Typical humans, cruel beyond reason. He wasn’t even half bad.

Still, he doesn’t really appreciate it when the Bard actually walks up to him, trying to strike a conversation with the Witcher. He smells of curiosity and excitement – a combination Geralt has rarely even scented around him. People always smell like fear or anger, more often than not both. Except for this man.

“Love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.” Geralt has to admit, the Bard has some guts. Still, it’s best if they don’t strike up a conversation. The Witcher has nothing good to offer, anyway.

He doesn’t look up, hoping it will discourage the Bard. “I’m here to drink alone.” Good. Precise, decisive, a sure way to finish this before it even starts.

He was wrong.

“No one else has hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance.” If people pelting you with food counts as a comment. “Except for you.” The man moves into his line of sight, and Geralt rolls his eyes. He’s not in the mood for small-talk or having to tell the Bard to fuck off, but he will do the latter if the man doesn’t leave soon.

The Bard is hard to ignore, though. A movement of his hand to accentuate the words that flow out of his mouth like a waterfall. A hasty smile, a flash of white teeth. Sitting down in front of the Witcher, uninvited. Everything about him is distracting and demands Geralt’s attention over and over again.

He bites the inside of his cheek, as the Bard finally realizes he is, in fact, sitting in front of a Witcher. Geralt awaits the reaction he’s come to anticipate over the years – fear in the Bard’s flowery scent, impossibly blue eyes looking away, rambling as he makes a hasty retreat.

Yet, that doesn’t happen. That’s strange. Confusing.

Instead, the Bard shuffles in his seat a bit, eyes lighting up as his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Oh, fun.”

Geralt frowns. You definitely did not expect that, did you, Geralt? It all becomes a bit too much, as he suddenly has no idea what to do anymore. He stands up, grabbing his swords, and making his way out the door, leaving the Bard behind him before he can corrupt the innocence and light that seems to emanate from the man. Or so he hopes.

You saw through me all this time.

The Bard follows him out of Posada, for some reason. Geralt can hear him jogging up the dusty path, trying to catch up with the Witcher. He does, eventually. Geralt sighs and considers getting on Roach and riding away as quickly as possible, but the path is too steep and he doesn’t want to risk hurting her.

His hand grips the reigns tightly, knuckles undoubtedly turning white under the leather of his glove, as the Bard chatters on and on. He’s loud and annoying and Geralt’s already really fucking confused as to why this man is following him. It becomes too much again, and he shuts his eyes tightly, breathing in the hot summer air deeply, trying to calm himself down.

The birds are too loud, as is the crunch of footsteps in the sand, and the chatter behind him doesn’t cease. He feels acutely aware of every scent, taste, sound, and the places where his armour touches his skin. It’s overwhelming, and he wishes he could just clamp his hands over his ears, and bury his face in Roach’s fur to ground himself. As he always does when this sort of thing happens.

It is then that four words break through the static that’s assaulting his senses. “-the Butcher of Blaviken!” He stills, squeezing his eyes shut for a second longer, pushing away the noise that surrounds and invades his mind to the background. He shouldn’t do that – he knows – because if he doesn’t find a quiet place to let his senses rest now, this feeling will return later, twice as bad.

He turns around, now, though, regarding the wide smile on the Bard’s face. “Come here.” The idiot actually does as he’s told. Too trusting for his own good.

Geralt makes sure to hold back a little when he punches the man in the gut. That’ll keep him away. He turns back around, leading Roach along the mountain path, sure that, this time, the Bard won’t follow him again.

He hears footsteps behind him. You were wrong, Geralt.

“That’s an impressive right hook you’ve got there! Kind of hurt, but I’m sure you didn’t mean it like that-“ the Bard keeps on chattering, the words coming out of his mouth so quickly that they seem to blend into each other.

Geralt can’t help but smile, just a little. The man is a fool, naïve, innocent – yes – but apparently he’s also determined and not as weak-hearted Geralt first thought he was. An interesting combination.

They keep walking, and the Witcher can’t bring himself to push the Bard away again – not for now, at least. They will part ways after this contract.

I’d forgotten, people are kind.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been half a day since he’s met Jaskier – as he found out the Bard’s name is – and they’re sitting in a tavern a little ways outside of Posada. He looks out over the room, counting the people, assessing the mood of the crowd, making sure he knows where all the exits are. There’s a wall behind and next to him – as he prefers. Less sides for enemies to attack.

Jaskier, on the other hand, is sitting opposite him, back fully exposed, head down, writing in his notebook. He’s vulnerable, and Geralt can’t help but eye the room a little more carefully, making sure no one there might be planning to rob the Bard of his meagre possessions at some point. If they do, the Witcher will make sure they’ll think twice the next time.

His eyes widen a bit, and his ale stills halfway to his mouth, hanging in the air aimlessly, as he realizes he’s not intending on leaving Jaskier tonight - or even tomorrow, for that matter. He doesn’t know when he decided that, or even if he really did at all. Maybe it just came to him naturally. Stupid idiot, always going around trying to protect people. They’re better off without you, Geralt.

He takes a sip of his ale, pushing the accusing voice to the back of his mind. He casts another look around the room, noting how two gentlemen on the other side of the tavern are having a heated discussion. He decides to keep an eye on those two – in case a brawl breaks out and he has to keep Jaskier from getting hurt.

There it is again, that need to protect. You’ve always had a soft heart, Geralt. His hand clenches around the tankard a bit, as he tries, once again, to push away that little voice.

He sighs, and looks up, catching a glimpse of impossibly blue eyes before they quickly look away. He remembers earlier that day, when Jaskier tried to ask about his scars. He feels guilty now, looking back at how he had snapped at the Bard, but his scars are a topic he’s… sensitive about. They always remind him of the fact that he’s not as invincible as everyone assumes Witchers are, and that, one day, he’ll die too. Alone, forgotten.

Jaskier hasn’t asked about them again, though.

I was hurting, and you knew.

He looks away again, ordering two more ales from the nice barmaid. She gives him a smile that almost – almost convinces him she’s not scared to the death of the Witcher, and hurries off again. He steals another glance of Jaskier, who’s looking into his half-empty tankard with a frown on his face, before Geralt empties his coin pouch on the table.

Well, fuck. There’s enough coin for those two ales he’s just ordered, and maybe a meal tomorrow evening. He needs a contract, fast. He sighs and hands two silver pieces to the barmaid when she places the tankards in front of them, taking the old ones away, after Jaskier’s quickly downed his.

The smell of lukewarm ale invades his nose and suddenly, he feels light-headed. He looks down at the table, shovelling the remainder of his money into his bag. The tavern reeks of ale and sweat and hormones, as middle-aged men try and fail to flirt with the women there.

The people are too loud, everyone chattering, the sound of dozens of footfalls, drunken laughter here and there and the occasional shout. The room is too dim, there are too many people, too many things happening all at once. He’s once again acutely aware of every little sound, smell, taste, colour, every press of the wood of the table against his arms, the bench underneath him, assaulting his heightened senses.

It’s overwhelming, and he curses himself for not taking a breather when the same thing happened earlier that day. He knew this would happen, that the sensation would return tenfold later, yet he had brushed it off. Idiot.

Amidst all the noises, he’s able to discern a voice, closer than the others but still so far away in the racket that invades his ears. “Geralt, are you okay?”

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to take deep, calming breaths, trying to keep his heartbeat down. It speeds up nonetheless, and his hands involuntarily ball into fists.

Then, a touch on his arm, loud in his already overflowing mind, pulling on him. He lets himself be dragged away, blindly following the person this hand is attached to. Dammit, Geralt, you should know better than to let your guard down.

All of a sudden, when he feels like he’s about to collapse under the pressure and the loudness of it all, everything falls away. The noises dim, and when he opens his eyes, the world around him is dark, empty mountains stretching out under the moonlight. The night air cools the sweat on his skin, and he sags against the tavern wall.

He waits, while the storm around him finally calms down, his heartbeat slowing to a normal level, the crickets outside not so immensely loud in his ears anymore, the touch of the tavern wall no longer overwhelming. He looks to his side, at last, after several minutes of silence and blessed nothingness, and sees Jaskier, looking at him, concern in his eyes.

He realizes the Bard was the one to drag him out of the tavern, when things became too much. He saw – truly saw what was going on and he helped. The Witcher doesn’t know what to say, so he simply stares, dumbfounded, grateful.

Eventually, Jaskier smiles at him brightly, slapping Geralt’s arm. “Right, I’m going back inside. I want to see how well people respond to my new song.” He walks backwards to the door, giving the Witcher a dorky thumbs-up before he disappears back into the tavern. “Wish me luck!”

So you showed me what to do.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been a month since he’s met Jaskier, and they’re in the woods, halfway between two towns, both of the villages too far away to reach before midnight. Geralt doesn’t think the Bard minds, though, as they’ve slept outside a lot in the past month – rooms are expensive, and they’ve barely got enough money to eat, anyways.

He works on the fire, and remembers two weeks ago, when Jaskier tried to build one. Always trying to be so fucking nice. His hand clenches around a branch, the wood creaking under his fingers as he recalls how the fire had nearly set Jaskier and the forest around them ablaze, and Geralt had managed to stop it from happening just in time. Something clenches in his gut at the memory, and he writes it off to hunger.

He sits down heavily on a log, once he’s done with the fire, and starts fumbling with the straps of his armour. They’re always a nuisance and he wonders why the fuck no one’s thought of a better alternative than all these goddamn straps and pieces of leather. He bites down on his cheek, trying to distract himself from the frustration that’s building up inside of him, when suddenly, Jaskier’s hands replace his.

He looks up, noticing how the Bard sticks his tongue out of his lips a little as he works – just like he always does when he’s concentrating. He does it when he’s writing, when he’s tying his shoelaces, when he’s trying out new chords, and now, as he undoes the straps of Geralt’s armour quickly. Not that you’ve noticed, right Geralt? Not that you’re looking at him all the time.

He brings his hand up to push Jaskier’s away. “I can take care of my armour perfectly fine by myself, thanks.”

Jaskier stands up, hands on his hips, like a scolding mother, eyebrows raised above brilliantly blue eyes. Stop staring, Geralt. “I know that, dear Witcher,” the Bard says, “but you take forever to do it. So, let me help, and we’ll be able to eat three hours earlier than if you were to do it by yourself. I’m starving.”

How could you ever say no to him, you weak-hearted fool? He can’t, so he doesn’t. “Hmm.”

He watches, as Jaskier continues undoing the straps, tongue poking out of his mouth again, blue eyes concentrated and focused and-

Looking at him. Great one, Geralt, now he’s caught you staring. Jaskier cocks his head, hands coming to rest on his knees. “What?”

The Witcher has to tear his eyes away, instead focusing on the brightness of the fire, hoping it might blind him, preventing him from staring at Jaskier. “Nothing.”

You said: “I will listen, tell it all.”

“Come on, Geralt, surely you have some interesting stories to tell me.” Jaskier has his notebook in his lap, pencil ready to write down any sparse detail the Witcher might give him.

Geralt shrugs. “It’s monster hunting, Jaskier, it’s not as interesting as everyone thinks.” He smirks at the annoyed look Jaskier gives him, noting in the back of his mind how beautiful the Bard looks when he pouts. Don’t be weird, Geralt.

He continues: “You get the contract, you find the monster, you kill it, you get money sometimes. That’s all there is to it.”

Jaskier sighs dramatically, and rolls his eyes, making a show of putting the pencil and the notebook away. “Really, Geralt, if you won’t tell me anything, then I’ll just have to follow you around some more.” Please do.

He’s not sure why he wants the Bard to keep him company so badly – really, he’s mostly a nuisance and a bother. But he’s also a friend. He frowns at his hands, resting in his lap, the realization hitting him a little too hard to be comfortable.

He shrugs it away, and stands up, spreading his bedroll on the forest floor, and laying down. “You should sleep, it’s getting late.��

He turns his back to Jaskier, listening as the Bard stammers a bit, then lays down as well. He closes his eyes, desperate to shut out whatever it is he’s feeling, the guilt of being so short with Jaskier just now gnawing at him. He pushes it away, falling into a restless sleep.

“When you’re finished, we’ll talk more.”

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been a month and a week since he’s met Jaskier, and they’re sitting by the campfire once more. The Bard is huddling into Geralt’s side, notebook in his hand as he shivers. It’s not that cold, but the Bard only has thin, unpractical clothing, and they don’t have enough coin to buy him a cloak.

Geralt sighs, and takes his blanket from Roach’s saddlebag, wrapping it around Jaskier. He does not grow warm all of a sudden when Jaskier smiles up at him brightly. He does not feel something flutter in his chest when the Bard presses himself back into Geralt’s side when the Witcher sits back down.

His heart does not melt a little when Jaskier pouts at him. “Please tell me a story of one of your adventures, I need new song material.”

Geralt sighs, mind coming up empty on anything useful or interesting. “I don’t have adventures, they’re just contracts.”

Jaskier sighs theatrically. “Oh, please, you didn’t get your nickname out of the blue, did you? Come on, Geralt, please tell me.”

He feels his jaw clench at the mere memory of Blaviken, and the things that transpired there. “No.”

Jaskier pulls away, looking at the Witcher quizzically. “Is it too painful?”

Geralt closes his eyes for a second, trying to push the hurt away. How does he always see right through you, Geralt? “Maybe.”

The Bard purses his lips, brow furrowing and oh gods he does not look adorable like that. Suddenly, his face brightens up again, blue eyes alight with an idea. “If I tell you why I changed my name, will you tell me about Blaviken?”

Geralt cocks his head, taken aback a bit. He changed his name? Despite his reservations and the old hurt he can still feel at the thought of telling someone about Blaviken, curiosity flares up in him. “Fine.”

But I didn’t know how, so we took it in turns.

A few hours later, Jaskier looks up at him from where his head is laying on Geralt’s shoulder. “So, it wasn’t your fault.”

Geralt frowns. “It was my fault. I killed those soldiers, I murdered Renfri.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, looking at him with a half-smile that says ‘oh, gods, you’re so stupid,’ and makes Geralt’s knees a little weak. “They would’ve killed you if you hadn’t. It was self-defence.”

The Witcher snorts, looking at the embers of the dying fire. “The people of Blaviken seemed to think otherwise when they pelted me with rocks and chased me away with pitchforks.”

He feels a warm hand on his own, and looks at Jaskier’s thumb tracing soft, soothing circles in the back of his hand. “Well, the people of Blaviken are stupid. And so is everyone else.” Jaskier’s voice drops to a whisper. “I will fight anyone who calls you the Butcher of Blaviken ever again.”

Geralt smiles, finally meeting Jaskier’s brilliant, blue eyes. “You just said it, too, though.”

A smile in return, and Geralt does not notice a dimple in the Bard’s right cheek, barely there, little more than a slight indent of the smooth skin. “Well, I’ll fight myself, too, then.”

He does not startle at how close Jaskier’s face is to his, he does not see how the embers cast soft shadows on the Bard’s skin, how the blue eyes seem to light up in the dark, he does not feel how the entire world narrows down to the man pressing into his side, to the hand that’s resting on his own.

He does remember he’s a Witcher, and that Jaskier deserves better – so much better than anything Geralt has to offer. He pulls back, standing up, and his skin does not mourn the loss of contact. “Right, I’m going to sleep. It’s getting late.”

He walks around the ashes of the fire, laying down on his bedroll, back turned to Jaskier. He does not feel cold all of a sudden, and if he does, it’s only because Jaskier still has his blanket.

To my surprise, we found my words.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been four months since he’s met Jaskier, and they’re all but getting chased out of the town with pitchforks. People glare at them, angry shouts of ‘mutant’, ‘freak’, ‘monster’ thrown at his head. He doesn’t mind that much, though. He’s used to it by now.

What he does care about are the insults Jaskier has to endure, the likes of ‘Witcher’s slut’, ‘filth’, ‘whore’ that make Geralt’s blood boil. He holds his head up high, shooting death-glares at everyone who even looks at the Bard the wrong way.

He steals a few glances of Jaskier as they make their way out of town under the vengeful gaze of the people, lining the streets. He admires the way Jaskier doesn’t say a word in retaliation, for once, and holds his chin up, looking straight ahead.

Sure, this may not be the last time they will come across people like this, but Geralt feels a little less worried about it, now that he knows Jaskier will stand his ground and know when to strike back and – more importantly – when not to.

They leave the town as quickly as possible, angry shouts thrown at them until the wind is able to carry the sound away.

Feet firm on the ground, we stood hand in hand.

“You okay?” Jaskier looks up at Geralt’s words from where he’s been fiddling with his lute, plucking a few random chords.

The Bard smiles a bit, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just been… a bad day, I guess.”

Geralt sighs. “That’s one way to put it.”

It’s quiet between them for a few moments, and the Witcher goes back to cleaning his sword. It’s not dirty, or anything, and he actually shouldn’t clean an already spotless blade, but he still needs to be able to do something with his hands.

Get your mind off the shit of this world. Off the way you’re hurting him by simply being you. He closes his eyes for a second, pushing the voice as far away as possible.

“What about you, though?” Geralt looks up, meeting impossibly blue eyes. “Are you okay, Geralt?”

He nods curtly. “I’m fine, I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t be.” His heart does not break a little at the sincerity with which Jaskier looks at him. He does not melt at the blind hope and trust in those blue eyes.

“No,” he says, ever so softly, “I shouldn’t be.” His hand stills for a moment, before resuming to rub at the silver of his sword with the damp rag. This is the first time he’s ever admitted, even to himself, that maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t deserve this kind of treatment.

Jaskier’s made him more confident, he realizes. Has made him believe that maybe he does deserve good things happening to him, that he isn’t an inherently bad person. The Bard’s faith and trust in him has rubbed off on him.

He vows, right there and then, to become a better person. If not for himself, then for Jaskier. Because he doesn’t want the little lark’s heart to break once he realizes that Geralt’s not the person he thought he was.

So, he promises himself to be better, do better, become better – be deserving of Jaskier’s inherent goodness and light.

The world seemed to tell me that I have a plan.

He smiles softly as the Bard strums another chord, the tip of his tongue sticking out from his mouth, brow furrowed in concentration. He’s beautiful.

He knows Jaskier needs more song material, and the past few contracts have given less to sing about than a particularly good sandwich – not to mention the coin has barely been enough to buy them said sandwich. They need the money, and the easiest way to get it is through Jaskier’s music.

He sighs, hesitation in the pit of his stomach. Though, for the first time in a long while, he’s determined. If he’s been able to talk about his worst scars, the ones caused by Blaviken, then surely he might be able to talk about the other ones as well, right.

And yes, they do remind him he’s mortal and not invincible, that he will die at some point, alone and forgotten, but…

Maybe, with Jaskier there, he won’t die like that. Not alone. Not forgotten.

And if that’s the case, well… the scars aren’t so scary all of a sudden. Maybe he can just talk about them, then. So he does.

Together we sang: “I’m ready, now.”

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been half a year since he’s met Jaskier, and they finally have enough coin for a room at an inn for the night. The innkeeper informs him that there’s only one room left, due to the upcoming Spring festival, but neither of them mind. After all, they’ve slept in each other’s proximity countless of times, and rooms are expensive.

He simply shrugs and takes it, ignoring the way the innkeeper seems to try to say something, but Geralt’s already gone, up the stairs to their shared room, as Jaskier trails behind him.

He sighs as he walks in, the prospect of sleeping in a real bed tonight already making him feel more at ease. He starts taking his armour of, suspecting that he won’t need it tonight, anyway.

His hands start fumbling with the leather straps, when he notices Jaskier – or, more accurately, the absence of Jaskier’s hands, undoing the harder to reach straps. He looks up, meeting big, blue eyes, looking confused and worried.

He does not feel a sharp jab in the pit of his stomach at the sight of Jaskier looking so unhappy. He does not feel the strange urge to hug the Bard, to tell him everything’s going to be alright, no matter what the issue actually is.

Instead, he cocks his head. “Are you going to help me or are you just going to keep staring at me?” Great one, Geralt. Be fucking rude to him, once again. Jaskier sputters a bit, dropping his belongings in a corner with a disregard that is so uncharacteristically not Jaskier. Geralt frowns, but decides against saying anything about it.

The Bard does come to help the Witcher take off the armour, but his hands are fumbling and unsure, something Geralt has rarely ever seen before. It worries him.

Finally, Jaskier speaks: “Uh… Geralt.”

His voice sounds almost unfamiliar, with the way he talks so softly, so concerned, as though the Witcher is a caged animal that’s about to lash out. A tiny bit of worry creeps into Jaskier’s scent, but not fear – never fear.

Geralt sighs, trying – and failing, probably – to look sincere. “What?”

Jaskier swallows thickly, and the Witcher’s eye is not caught by the way the Bard’s throat moves when he does that. He does not think about putting his lips there and inhaling Jaskier’s scent of strawberries and campfire smoke. He does not nearly miss what the Bard says because of this.

“There is only one bed.” Blue eyes evade his, and he does not want to beg Jaskier to just look at him again, so he can see the tiny ring of white that surrounds his pupils, barely visible against the light blue.

He almost forgets to reply, and his voice feels thick and syrupy in his throat. “And?”

Finally, Jaskier looks back at him, and Geralt does not become weak at his knees goddammit. “Who’s going to sleep on the floor?”

Geralt nearly laughs at that. Does he not know you’d do anything to have him close for at least one night, Geralt? No, he doesn’t even consider it. Of course he doesn’t, you treat him like shit.

He pushes the voice away, instead focusing on what’s real, what’s genuine. Jaskier, in front of him. Blue eyes, brown curls, rosy lips. He almost forgets his words again. He shakes his head slightly, trying to clear his mind. “No one is.”

“Oh.” Jaskier nods, hands coming up again to continue their work, tongue sticking out of his mouth slightly in concentration. “Okay.”

Geralt does not feel something warm blooming in his chest.

Something new, something strange.

He’s standing in front of the mirror, porcelain cool beneath his fingers as he grips the edges of the sink. Jaskier’s downstairs, and Geralt can hear a few fleeting notes of the Bard’s performance filtering through the wooden planks beneath his feet, the crowd bursting into cheering and laughter as the song ends.

The image of himself in the glass is blurry, and he wipes at the mirror, though the years-old dirt can’t be rubbed off the surface that easily. He lowers his hand again, fingers holding onto the side of the sink as though it’s his last lifeline. It isn’t, though.

His last lifeline is downstairs, starting a new song.

He looks into his own amber eyes, for the first time in years – decades even, maybe. That’s you. Yes, you, Geralt.

He tries to will the voice in the back of his head to shut up, but his efforts only make it seem to grow louder and louder. Look at those yellow eyes, that white hair, that scowl. Ooh, scary face. A coward in monster’s clothing.

The porcelain groans under his fingers, and he makes a conscious effort to loosen his grip – a new sink would surely cost them a fortune and earn them a life-long ban from this inn. He squeezes his eyes shut, figures dancing behind his eyelids.

He opens them again, staring at the man in the mirror. A man – he tells himself – nothing more.

Not a monster, not a demon, not a coward. A man.

It’s been years since he really, truly looked at himself in the mirror – he never could bear the sight after the trials were over. He could even less after he had left Blaviken, the red stains on his hands never truly washing off, it felt like.

It felt like. Not ‘feels’, not anymore. He looks down at his hands, now, and can only see the dirt of the road under his fingernails, a bit of soot from last night’s campfire on the back of his right hand. He can almost hear Jaskier’s voice in his ear: “You need to take more baths, Geralt. Really, I can’t walk around with someone who’s covered in dirt all day, every day, can I?”

He smiles down at the sink, and gathers himself for a few seconds, before looking up again. Amber eyes stare back. Yellow eyes, white hair, an eternal scowl. Monster. The little voice is back, whispering in his ear, curling down his spine.

Yellow eyes, like a snake – it says. Like a field of dandelions – he retorts. Like the sun, Jaskier has told him on several occasions.

White hair, unnatural, wrong. Except when Jaskier brushes it out, or runs his fingers through it, or comments on how beautiful he thinks it looks under the light of the sun.

Scowl, always scowling, always looking angry. He remembers the time Jaskier had laid his head on Geralt’s shoulder, a soft thumb, slightly calloused from lute strings, coming up to rub at the skin of the Witcher’s forehead. Smoothing the wrinkles away, dissipating the scowl. “Why are you so angry?” Jaskier had asked. Geralt had replied: “I’m not.” He closes his eyes, letting warmth flood him. Not when I’m with you.

Not a monster. Geralt. Just… Geralt.

Downstairs, Jaskier starts another song. It’s Toss A Coin, and Geralt smiles involuntarily. His heart skips a beat when he looks at himself in the mirror again, smiling. He looks… different. Not good different or bad different, he just looks a way he’s never seen himself before. More carefree, happier, yellow eyes lighting up like the sun. Is this the way Jaskier sees me?

Maybe it’s good different, after all.

He suddenly feels tired, his entire body weighing him down. He lets go of the sink, fingertips brushing against the small indents he’s left in the porcelain, and he hopes no one notices it. He doesn’t want to pay for a new sink.

He lays down on the bed, pulling the blankets around him as he hears Jaskier coming up the stairs. He smiles again, and finds joy in the action, as he remembers the man in the mirror.

Ten feet taller, I had changed.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been nine years since he’s met Jaskier, and he grunts as the Bard empties a bucket of water over his head.

“Now, now, stop your boorish grunts of protest.” Jaskier drops the bucket onto the floor, as Geralt tries to scrub the Selkiemore guts off his arm, only managing to smear it out more. Fuck.

Jaskier continues talking as he walks over to the towel cabinet. “It is one night bodyguarding your very best friend in the whole wide world, how hard could it be?” He wipes his already spotless hands on the towel, as Geralt turns around.

“I’m not your friend.” The words are out of his mouth before he realizes it. Though, to be honest, he’s not wrong. Jaskier may be his best friend, but the Witcher’s been nothing but mean and cruel to the Bard, despite his intentions of treating him better. So he’s not Jaskier’s friend, really.

Yeah, whatever, Geralt. Anything to try and keep your distance and deny what you’re feeling for him.

Jaskier smiles at him, seeing right through the Witcher, as always. “Oh, oh really? You usually let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?”

Geralt pulls his eyebrows up at him. That was one time, three years ago, because I got bitten in the ass by a feral dog. That you provoked. He says nothing, though, and Jaskier chuckles. “Yeah that’s what I thought.”

He continues to the shelf that holds all the bath salts and oils, nimble fingers picking at a few bottles before he chooses a particular kind of salt. Sandalwood, Geralt notices. Something that won’t assault his heightened sense of smell as much as flowery perfumes would. He knows me so well. His heart does not clench at the thought.

Jaskier keeps rambling, barely able to contain his excitement. “Every lord, knight, and twopenny king worth his salt will be at this betrothal. The lioness of Cintra herself will sing the praises of Jaskier’s triumphant performance!” With a swirl and a dramatic flick of his hand that’s so typically Jaskier, the bath salt lands in the water.

But that’s not why the Bard has asked him to come along, Geralt knows. As much as it hurts him, he knows Jaskier has a particular reason for inviting him. ‘Bodyguarding your very best friend in the whole wide world,’ he remembers.

“How many of these lords want to kill you?” He does not feel a sharp pang of hurt at the thought of how many people Jaskier has slept with to acquire such a large amount of enemies. Stop it, Geralt, you’re just a friend.

Jaskier looks away, blue eyes lighting up the whole room, candlelight flickering on his face and he does not look beautiful, stop thinking like that, Geralt. “Hard to say, one stops keeping count after a while.”

He walks around the bath again to hang the towel on the hook on the wall, rambling as he does so: “Wives, concubines, mothers sometimes.” Geralt does not feel hurt.

Jaskier turns around, and Geralt realizes he’s been scowling again, as the Bard frames his face dramatically. “Ooh, yeah, that face! Scary face! No lord in his right mind will come close if you’re standing next to me with a puss like that.” No wives, either, then?

Still, he feels a little bit of pride at the fact that Jaskier trusts him so blindly, lays his life in Geralt’s hands because he has faith the Witcher will always be there to protect him.

I believe you, I’m not wrong. Oh, it suits me to feel strong.

He takes the tankard of ale that’s standing next to the bath, though Jaskier’s hand immediately swoops it away from under his nose. You’re lucky you’re cute.

“On second thoughts, might want to lay off the Cintran ale. A clear head would be best.” His hand slaps on Geralt’s shoulder as he stands up, leaving a trail of blazing fire in its wake as he puts the mug away.

Geralt sighs, hand clenching involuntarily. “I will not suffer tonight sober because you his your sausage in the wrong royal pantry.” He knows he’s being unnecessarily cruel to the Bard, that Jaskier has every right to sleep with whoever he pleases. But still – it hurts.

Jaskier doesn’t reply, and Geralt takes that as a cue to continue, to fill the uncomfortable silence with something, anything: “I’m not killing anyone, not over the petty squabbles of men.”

Jaskier scoffs. “Yes, yes, yes. You never get involved, except you totally do, all the time.” And goddammit how does he always look through me?

His eyes follow Jaskier as the Bard walks around the bath. “Ugh, is this what happens when you grow old, you become unbelievably crochety and cantankerous? Actually, I’ve always wanted to know, do Witchers ever retire?”

Geralt’s only ever known one way for Witchers to stop taking contracts. Dying. “Yes, when they slow and get killed.”

“Come on,” Jaskier continues, hand on his hip, brilliant blue eyes curious, “you must want something for yourself once all this monster hunting nonsense is over.”

Except it never ends, not that Geralt’s ever heard of, anyway. And even then, what would he do? Become a farmer? Settle down? Even if he does - which he won’t – he will outlive anyone he settles down with.

He will outlive Jaskier. He does not feel a surge of anger and hurt at the thought.

He cocks his head, as Jaskier looks at him expectantly. “I want nothing.”

He does not think he smells disappointment in the Bard’s scent. He’s definitely making things up. False hope.

“Well,” Jaskier pouts a little, resting his folded arms on the edge of the tub, and gods would he stop looking so beautiful, “who knows, maybe someone out there will want you.”

Only if it’s you. He almost says the words, but remembers once again that he’s a Witcher, and Jaskier deserves so much better than him. “I need no one, and the last thing I want is someone needing me.” Cause I will inevitably disappoint you.

Jaskier looks up at him, all blue eyes and candlelight on soft skin and brown curls. “And yet, here we are.”

Geralt blinks, not sure if he’s really heard what he thinks he’s heard. That Jaskier needs him. No. Not possible. It was just a figment of my imagination. Still, he feels a spark of hope, kindling in his chest. That maybe there is something other than monster hunting waiting for him, that maybe he doesn’t have to be alone, for the rest of his life.

You said: “I will listen, tell me it all. You don’t like the ending? Then we’ll find one that’s yours.”

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been twenty-two years since he’s met Jaskier, and he’s filled with grief and guilt as he sits on a rock on the side of the mountain. It was his job to keep Borch safe, and he failed. Not only that, but he couldn’t even save Téa and Véa. Now they’re gone. Dead. Because of him.

He feels Jaskier sitting next to him, a flash of the bright red of the Bard’s doublet in the corner of his eye, and he remembers how beautifully it contrasts with Jaskier’s blue eyes. Still, he keeps his gaze trained on the horizon.

“You did your best, there’s nothing else you could’ve done.” Reasonably, Geralt knows that. He knows the planks were half-rotten and unstable, he knows he never could have saved them, but still, it hurts.

They sit in silence for a while, as Geralt lets the guilt and grief consume him. Suddenly, again, that soft voice next to him: “Look, why don’t we leave tomorrow? That is, if you give me another chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion.”

Geralt scoffs at the thought of Jaskier not being a worthy travel companion. If he wasn’t, they surely wouldn’t have spent twenty-two years, three months, and five days together, would they? Not that Geralt was keeping track of how long it’s been since he’s met the Bard. Not that it means anything to him.

Jaskier continues, apparently spurred on by Geralt’s half-chuckle: “We could head to the coast, get away for a while.” Oh, gods, there’s nothing I would rather do.

He almost says it, but hesitates. What if he seems to eager? Comes off too strong? Maybe Jaskier doesn’t even mean it like a vacation, maybe he’s just heard of a contract or a monster on the coast. Maybe Jaskier wants to hear the Siren’s song for once, because Geralt wouldn’t let him come along on the hunt the last time they encounter one. What if-

“Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn’t it?” Geralt curses himself for overthinking the offer, for not taking it when he had the chance. Would it sound too awkward to do so now? Maybe it would but-

“Life is too short. Do what pleases you, while you can.” Jaskier’s voice has trailed off into a whisper. Geralt frowns. Life is too long if I have to live part of it without you.

Still, he knows Jaskier can’t possibly mean it like Geralt so desperately hopes he does. Twenty-two years and not once has the Bard made a move. So, clearly, he doesn’t feel the same way the Witcher does. Unrequited feelings. Sounds like a corny song.

Maybe that’s it. “Working on your next song?”

Jaskier chuckles, a sound that reverberates in Geralt heads and he does not wish he could hear the Bard chuckle like that every day for the rest of his long life. “No, just… trying to figure out what pleases me.”

What pleases me? Hearing Jaskier laugh pleases him. Seeing him smile does, too. Hearing him sing, watching his fingers on the strings of his lute, seeing those brown curls in the sunlight, having those blue eyes looking at him. The lame jokes, the stupid quips, the petty squabbles with other people that insult Jaskier’s music. The drunken laughter, the soft snoring, the yawns early in the morning.

Oh, gods, I’m in love.

He does not realize after twenty-two years that he’s in love.

What now? He looks at the sunset, acutely aware of Jaskier’s presence next to him. Now, he will go to Yennefer’s tent, tell her he’s leaving, and take Jaskier up on his offer to go to the coast. And then? He’ll see.

How did you know? That’s all we need. A promise of hope is enough to feel free.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been twenty-two years since he’s met Jaskier, and he makes the worst mistake of his life.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been twenty-three years since he’s met Jaskier, and he’s standing in front of a shitty inn, in a nowhere town. He’s heard rumours of the Bard being here, after a year of searching for him.

Of course, he doesn’t have much hope of finding Jaskier here, since most of the rumours he’s chased up until now were dead ends. Either Jaskier would be long gone, or he was never even there at all. Still, Geralt will take any chance he can get at seeing the Bard again.

If only so he can say sorry. For everything. For the shouting, for the hurt, but also for not showing Jaskier the appreciation he truly deserved all those years. For the mean words, for the ignored sentences. For everything.

Feet firm on the ground, we stood hand in hand.

He walks into the inn, immediately noticing it’s quite packed, despite it being a small town. Maybe Jaskier’s here, after all. He does always gain a lot of attention.

Geralt approaches who he assumes is the innkeeper, a pot-bellied man with a – frankly, impressive – moustache. “I heard there was a Bard in town.”

The man wipes a glass on a dirty cloth, smearing out the filth over the surface. “Aye. You heard right, Witcher. Though, I don’t think he’s up for a performance tonight. ‘s Been drinking all day.” Geralt frowns. That doesn’t sound like Jaskier.

The innkeeper takes his silence as encouragement and continues: “As a matter of fact, he’s been drinking for the past few days he’s been here. Not really great performances, if you ask me. Can’t even distinguish his lute from a chair, if you get what I mean.”

Geralt cocks his head. That doesn’t sound like Jaskier at all. “What does he look like?”

Maybe that’ll clear things up. It does. “Brown hair, blue eyes, wears pretty fancy clothing, though they’re a bit old, if you ask me. Lovely fellow, even though he’s off the rockers all the time.”

That’s Jaskier, alright. “Where can I find him?”

The innkeeper raises his eyebrows at him suspiciously, relenting after holding a short staring contest with the Witcher. “Upstairs, last door to the left.”

“Thank you.” He walks up the stairs, ignoring the way people stare at him. The usual.

And I told the world that I have a plan.

He stands at the top of the stairs for a few seconds, thinking about how torturous the last year has been without Jaskier. No singing, no humming, no music, no chatter, no Jaskier. And it was all Geralt’s fault.

How stupid he had been. Mistake after mistake, piling up into one big, shit-covered crescendo that left him alone and angry and regretful.

He’s been writing a letter, or a speech, or something – he’s not entirely sure how to label it - for when he would find the Bard again. He’s scratched it out and restarted it a hundred times. The right words never really seemed to come, or they would be… too much. Too sensitive, too revealing of his true feelings.

He doesn’t want to chase Jaskier away. Not now. Not while he still has a chance of at least getting him back as a friend.

He was finally able to perfect his speech about a week ago, and he’s not nervous. He’s definitely not more nervous than he’s ever been in his life. He walks up to the door, hesitating a bit, hand up in the air, ready to knock.

It might not be Jaskier. The Bard might not want to see him. Even if he does, he might not forgive Geralt. And, even then, things might never go back to the way they were before.

Only one way to find out.

He sighs, finally knocking on the door.

Together we sang: “I’m ready now.”

He pats his pockets, and realizes he forgot the paper with the speech in Roach’s saddlebags. The door opens, Jaskier startling when he sees Geralt.

#the witcher #The witcher fanfiction #geraskier #gerlion #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #I'm so human #chapter 2 #mine

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lamrien · 4 years

Note

💋--kissing roughly for you-know-who and i'm already sorry about it :/

“Is it yours?” Lucien asks, voice flat. They’re standing in the kitchen across from each other. Lucien’d been digging through the fridge when Ronan came in. The tile’s stained red. He’s set his phone on the counter-top, next to Ronan’s jacket, crumpled up and worse-for-wear. It’ll need to be dry-cleaned, at least, if not thrown out entirely. His hair’s a mess. And his shirt– Lucien’s heart has decided to perch in his throat and it’s thundering so loud he feels like all other sound is drowned out. Maybe the worst part is he doesn’t really know why.

“Of course not,” Ronan says, incredulous. He’s already working at the buttons of his shirt, starting at the bottom, but his fingers aren’t really doing anything. They’re not unbuttoning. They’re just. Sitting. On top of the buttons. There’s a stutter to his movements, half-hesitant. Lucien takes a step forward, hands flexing, arms already outstretched.

But there’s still– there’s still blood. It smells like it, and looks like it, metallic and sharp in the air. And it’s not like he’s never seen it before, but it’s different, loathe as he is to admit it, when it’s on Ronan and not some stranger he’s never spoken with. There is a strangeness to this, and the distance between them, less than a foot apart, standing in their shared kitchen that they don’t really share and looking at each other. Lucien, for a few unbearable moments, is left to watch and wring his hands and worry. And Ronan is looking at Lucien like he can see it on his face, like he knows Lucien doesn’t know what to do, and he hates it.

You could hear a pin drop, and then:

“Do I want to know?”

“Would you care if I told you?” Oh, and that’s a little harsh, a little meaner than he’s used to, but Lucien’s no fool. Ronan’s still a little rough around the edges, obviously.

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” Oh, please.

“You’re just – the worst. The absolute worst. I don’t even know why I bother to…” he’s beset by his own internal ramblings, voice kept at a low mumble while he finally snaps back into his own body. It’s enough to break the ice and he makes quick work of the buttons, all filigree, golden and shining and splattered with little drops of crimson. If it were anyone else it might have been awkward, standing in each other’s space, just, you know, breathing, but they’re at least comfortable with each other by now. They’d have to be. Lucien wouldn’t have married him otherwise, he thinks. Ronan shrugs the shirt off when he’s done and he’s not shaking anymore, but he’s got a look in his eyes like a frenzied beast, a little manic. It’s out of character, for him, or what Lucien’s seen of him, what Ronan’s willing to show.

He makes a decision for the both of them. He hadn’t been planning on spending the night, but he is, now, and Ronan’s just going to have to live with it. He’s still holding the shirt, so Lucien pries it from his hands and leaves it by the doorway. The kitchen floor and counter-top and jacket can all wait until tomorrow, when it’s not close to midnight and they’re not both the way that they are. “I want to shower and then go to bed.” I, he says, but really means you, and Ronan’s smart enough to trail after him, ever-obedient when he wants to be. The bathroom’s plenty big for the both of them but Lucien hates looking in the mirror that takes up most of the fucking wall, so he focuses on getting the water warm instead, sleeves rolled up to his elbow.

Ronan’s tired enough – or wired enough – that he doesn’t bother playing games. There’s the sound of shoes being kicked off, a belt buckle, fabric hitting the floor, and then he’s under the water before Lucien can warn him that it’s hot. Ronan waves off his bare-minimum fussing and turns the knob so it’s lukewarm and then sits atop the built-in rest in the shower. Installed for days where even physiotherapy doesn’t do the trick with his leg, Lucien knows that, but it’s got other purposes, too. Convenient, when they were younger and playing at being even younger than that.

Ronan’s got gray in his hair and crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes. Lucien, if he does bother to look at himself closely, can see that the bags under his eyes are not going to go away, no matter how much sleep he gets. His left shoulder gets sore right before it rains, and he’s never quite understood the science of that, but it’s a neat little trick in spite of the pain. Verona, by most standards, is a city with a young soul. A soul in love. They’re about to turn the corner and outgrow it, he’s sure, but chances are, Ronan doesn’t care. And neither does he, now that he thinks about it. Ronan’s watching him like he knows something, one brow raised and the other set in a knowing sort of smile. Lucien matches the entire expression save for the smile, and then strips and steps into the shower anyways. It’s that, or sleep with that tacky feeling that comes with full-body sweats, the kind that accompany nervousness. The water feels nice.

He’s standing in the space between Ronan’s spread legs and staring down at him – raises one hand to thumb at a fleck of blood sitting at the left side of his jaw, larger than the rest. If he examines him closely enough there’s splatter everywhere, from collarbone to cheekbone to chest to belly. He can’t help himself. “What did you do, flay someone from the stomach-up?” He can picture it pretty easily, but he can picture Ronan doing most things easily.

Ronan’s got his fingers digging into the dips of his hips, rubbing in small circles, idle movement. He doesn’t have the same smile as before. In fact, he’s not smiling at all. He’s got a thousand-yard stare, almost, but Lucien’s still cradling his jaw with one hand. And then, “maybe I did.”

“You’re awful.” It’s stupid – he almost tacks on my love at the end, but doesn’t. He doesn’t think he can really bring himself to lie tonight. Just the thought is exhausting.

“But not the worst?”

He doesn’t even have to sigh act like he’s playing at unimpressed – Ronan’s already grinning, wolfish, because he knows he’s won, and his husband is awful in the aftermath of a victory. Even so, he acquiesces to letting Ronan take him apart under the warmth of the water, all teeth and tongue clashing together. Ronan’s always bitten more than he’s kissed, but there’s something nice about the familiarity of it. He’s got fingers tangled up in hair, and, maybe it’s a little absurd, but all he can think until the water gets cold is not the worst.

@ronanivarsson / ASK MEME

#ronanivarsson #:thinking:#this barely qualifies as answering the prompt but I THINK WE'LL LIVE #blood tw #death tw #murder tw #benvoliosantodomingo #BEWARE OF FALSE PROPHETS / RONAN

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dakarimainink · 4 years

Text

Chapter 3

WARNING: Mention of abuse. Somewhat strong language.

Rainy day. Full cafe. One question. "Sorry, is this seat taken?"

You know what's coming!

It was a grey and rainy this Sunday evening. I had ventured out to the usual café where Lilly served me my regular hot chocolate. It was already half full in the café when I first arrived but managed to snag myself a corner table. It didn’t take long until the café was full of people seeking shelter from the heavy downpour. I had taken my laptop with me before I left my apartment and had decided to get some time into my own personal projects.

The atmosphere was calm and a light jazz was playing in the background, beneath the relaxed groups of chatting people. I was deep into my own thoughts when a black mass appeared in the corner of my eye. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realise it was an actual person next to me, trying to grab my attention.

I flinched when a big hand appeared in front of my face. I looked up at the man standing next to me, almost drenched in water. His tailored and rugged beard and brown side parted hair was dripping down his scruffy face. He had clearly run through the rain for a while. His blue green eyes met mine as I rose my eyebrows.

“Sorry, is this seat taken?” The man asked, his voice raspy as he scanned my surprised face. My lips slightly parted as I tried to figure out how to speak. My mind was still stuck in writing mode, and even though thousands of words went through my mind, I had no idea how to reply to this simple question. His bushy eyebrows rose as his full lips curled into a smile. I had never seen so full lips on a man before, and it made my stomach turn. “You alright?” He added as he leaned a bit forward. For a moment I hoped he would lean into a kiss, as I had a strange urge to know what his lips tasted like.

I took a sharp inhale and held my breath for a short second before finally breathing out; “No, please.” My eyes followed him as he pulled off his jacket, hung it on the chair and sat down. I pulled my laptop closer to me to give him space for his coffee cup.

He wrapped his rough fingers around the cup. I couldn’t help but take in as much details as possible of this stranger, as it gave me inspiration for my writing. He had an intimidating aura around him, but the softness in his eyes and the corners of his lips told another story. It wasn’t until our eyes met again I found myself actually staring at him. I darted my eyes down and stared at my own fiddling fingers.

He let out a puff of laughter. It made my heart leap as he held out his hand towards me. “I’m Tom.” He introduced himself and for a moment I had no idea how to act. I grabbed his hand and gently shook it. He was warm, or perhaps it was the coffee? He kept a grip on my hand as one of his eyebrows rose. “Do you have a name?” He asked with a chuckle.

I felt my whole body heat up and a shade of pink rose up to my cheeks. I snapped myself into reality as I shook my head. “I mean yes, I’m Luna.” I answered hurriedly. He let go of my hand and I retrieved it so fast one would think that touching him burnt me. I darted my eyes down again and bit my lower lip. Idiot, I thought to myself.

We both went quiet as he took a sip of his coffee. I hunched over my laptop as I tried desperately to hide behind the screen as I tapped away on the keys. My clumsy words played on repeat in my head as embarrassment washed over me.

“What is it about?” The rough male voice tickled my eardrums as he peeked over the top of my screen. I looked up at him and leaned back. “Your writing.” He added and gestured towards my laptop.

I looked at the word filled document on the screen and tried to wrap my head around what I was actually writing about. I had never given my story writing a synopsis and had no idea how to even describe it with few words. “Uhm… well…” I began mumbling to myself before I realised he had no idea what I was talking about. “I have no idea how to make this as short as possible without drowning you in endless explanations about it.” I said and rubbed the back of my neck.

“Give it a try.” His smile made we want to giggle like a little girl. I felt like an idiot, especially when I was a grown ass woman who lived by myself. The only thing more depressing than my behaviour was my sex life. In that moment I chose to even blame that for my behaviour. To receive this kind of attention from a man, or even any kind of attention, was overwhelming considering I didn’t have sex with my ex the last year and a half we were together.

As I made my attempt of explaining whatever it was I was writing about, he genuinely showed interest. Or perhaps he was as confused as a chameleon in a bag of Skittles, I really couldn’t tell the difference. Not once did he interrupt me as I talked and gestured with my whole body and the more I spoke, the less I thought of actually talking to this handsome man and instead dove into the sea of lore in my writing. The more I spoke, the wider the grin grew on his face. When I finally had managed to tell him everything I leaned back in my chair and took a deep breath. I really need to write a short summary of this thing if I’m to ever pitch it to anyone, I thought as I took a sip from my lukewarm chocolate drink.

“Wow.” He breathed out as he scanned me. He was obviously processing the whole show of my telling. He finally leaned forward in his chair; his hands wrapped around his cup. “That was quite the story.”

“Thank you.” I replied and closed my laptop. My eyes were caught by the veins popping up from his arms. Sometime during my rambling, he had rolled up his sleeves and I felt my stomach do a flip. I felt like such an idiot I wanted to duck down underneath the table. Why couldn’t I just behave normally in front of this man? He must think I am mad. “So…” I began, forcing my eyes away from his arms.

“I am sorry to ask, but I couldn’t help but notice your unique dialect. May I ask where you’re from?” He shot in as he took another sip from his coffee.

My eyes scanned the room and it was less crowded than earlier. The whispering voices had slightly died down since I first sat down at the table. “Where I am from?” I repeated. He nodded and grinned. God, those fucking lips. “Norway.” I said shortly. “You ever been there?”

“No.”

“Don’t, it’s as expensive as healthcare in the US.”

He chuckled and leaned back in his chair. I guess I can be funny, or perhaps it was a pity laugh? No, it was definitely funny, I smiled to myself. The conversation between us led on and I slowly eased into a comfortable state where I didn’t feel like a tomato talking to him. He seemed genuinely interested in all the ideas in my head and I even managed to make him laugh again. Of course I tried to ask questions back, but I’m terrible at keeping a conversation going, but he seemed to take the lead. In the end, we spent at least an hour talking about everything until our pleasant conversation was interrupted by his phone ringing. He excused himself and stepped away to take it.

I took this moment to check up on myself. My stomach was brimming with butterflies and it was a feeling I had only felt once before. Of course, that relationship ended in some bruises and me moving here, but perhaps it would be different this time. Not that I thought in a million years this man would be interested in me, but the thought was entertaining. During our conversation, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had seen this man before. I never managed to pin him, but I knew deep down that he was somehow familiar to me.

Tom returned to the table and picked up his empty cup. “I’m truly sorry, Luna, but I have to go.” He explained and I felt my stomach sink to the bottom of the sea. “It was a pleasure to spend some time with you and talk with you. I recommend you try and pitch your idea to some producers. I know it will be a hit.” He added. I felt the disappointment wash over me as I stood up to say goodbye to him.

He leaned forward and wrapped one arm around me. His beard scratched my cheek as he hugged me tightly. The scent from his perfume made my legs tremble and I swore I blacked out for a moment. Oh god.

“It was nice talking to you Tom. And thank you for listening to my rambling.” I chuckled and tried to hide the never-ending disappointment that kept crashing over me. He let go of me and the heat from his body left me and I felt a shiver down my spine.

“I recommend you try BBC; I know they would be interested in your story.” He winked and I swore my legs would buckle right under me. “Take care, love.” He smiled widely before he turned on his heel and walked towards the exit. As he opened the door and embraced himself for the rain, he looked over his shoulder and gave me one last smile.

My eyes followed him until I could no longer see him. I sat down again and felt dizzy from holding my breath. His perfume was still lingering in my nostrils and my stomach wouldn’t stop doing flips. Oh fucking god, I’m in love with a man I will never see again, I thought to myself. I leaned my elbows on the table and hid my face in my hands. I’m so fucking pathetic. As my eyes were closed and I could feel the back of my neck turn red and warm, I kept seeing his blue green eyes, looking back at me. “I really need a bath.” I whispered to myself.

Note: Do not fret, it's not the last time they will meet. It just doesn't seem right that Tom would give her his number in this little meet up or anything like that. I have it all planned out, just bare with me!

CHAPTER LIST

#ao3 #writing #original character #original female character #short #chapter #tom hardy #fanfiction #alternate universe #finally he's here

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littlestartemis · 5 years

Text

I have nothing better to do so I’ve decided to ramble my opinions on all of the pokemon rivals in sequential order. Under the cut cause I intend to go into detail on these.

Blue

This kid is a mixed bag for me. Part of his problem is that he just suffers from being a generation 1 character, which means only having one character trait apparently. Yes, he’s a jerk, the first ever jerk rival, and people love that, but being a jerk without nuance just makes you... loathsome. Even some of the weaker rivals, I still had these surprised moments of joy when my gameplay was halted to duke it out with them. With Blue? He’s the only one I ever uttered a groan at. “Oh good, this fucker has to waste me time and make me backtrack to a pokemon center to patch myself up before moving on.” The most insufferable thing about him is that no matter what, no matter how many times you put him in the dirt, he’s always convinced he’s so much better than you...

Until later games. It’s never stated what happened. If he had some self reflection, if Oak sat him down and told him to grow the fuck up, or what. But the next time we see him in the generation 2 games and onward, he’s still got this aura of smug confidence about him, but he seems more matured despite it. Like yeah, he’s hot shit, but you can be too if you work hard enough, maybe even almost as good as him. And while I love all of that for his character, that all comes after the fact. So as it stands, the Rival Blue, is lackluster, annoying, a headache, and undeserving of such a good fucking champion theme. Also the bitch has no unique rival battle theme unlike literally anyone else.

I’m also going to go into their music, though not nearly as much as their character.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z5s4VYC9xR4

There are so many official variations and remixes and retoolings of the Kanto Champion theme that picking the “Best One” would be a practice in futility I think, so I just picked one of the better ones. What I have to say applies to pretty much all of them. And goodness, while I think Blue is a lukewarm rival it’s no wonder why this track has stood the test of time. Normally champion themes are in one of two categories, at least for me. The buildup themes, or the 0-100 themes. Some of them take some time to get there, to make you sweat a little as you realize who you’re dealing with, and some of them just kick down the door and GO. Blue’s theme though is interesting in that it kind of does both. It’s powerful, it’s oppressive in its composition and instrumentation, but there is just the tiniest buildup right after the bombastic kick off. I love it, it’s a strong theme with no real weaknesses.

5/10 rival, 8/10 character and theme

Silver

I think there was a time where if you asked around communities who long time player’s favorite rival was, a good majority would probably say Silver, and for good reason. He was another jerk rival, but with that fun little word I used before; nuance. He was mean, but rather than very deliberately being rude to you, it seemed more like he had other plans that you just happened to keep standing in the way of. He had a goal and he was going to accomplish it. And what was that? Curb stomping anybody brave or stupid enough to traipse around in a black and red uniform. This kid had a clear cut vendetta against team rocket, but instead of making him your ally with a goal like that, it set you as his obstacle every victory for you was one less for him, one less distraught rocket face he would get to see. And we even find out later why, and it’s fascinating. Giovanni’s kid? That’s utterly unique, and it really puts his hatred of team rocket and the idea of finding strength in others into a perspective you can really understand. Not to mention, there’s a bit of storytelling through gameplay with Silver that I’m sure most veteran pokemon fans know. So, he gets a Zubat on his team. Cool, right, edgy bat fits with the edgy tween. But at the very end of the game, when he’s been beaten time and time again and forced to confront why he isn’t strong enough, he realizes it’s because he’s been thinking only of his own strength, and not how much stronger his pokemon could be if they had his genuine care and support. And lo and behold, in his postgame battles, he’s got a proud, fully evolved Crobat on his team, which can only evolve with strong friendship. That’s good shit.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZAV8mJY_Qs

For some reason it was kinda tough finding a decent rip of his theme. Ah well, this is easily one of the coolest rival themes. Much like Blue’s champ theme, it has this sort of oppressive energy about it, as if Silver isn’t even looking down on you, he’s just waiting to crush you and be on his way. He’s a fucking bad dude, and he’ll snuff you out however he can if it means he can get his shit done.

9/10 rival and theme

Brendan and May

This pair of nerds. They’re... interesting. I do feel like they get a worse rap from folks since they were the first friendly rivals and the ones to start the trend, and truthfully I have nothing against the idea of having friendlier rivals. If every rival was an asshole it would get really stale really fast. These two though... Well, there’s just not much to them. In the rival role, they’re Professor Birch’s kid, which is basically their entire motivation for going on a pokemon journey to start with. A glorified favor/errand to fill out the dex cause they just happen to have easy access to one. Us being around is purely incidental, and I’m pretty sure the only reason they initially have an interest in us is because we’re Norman’s kid, a gym leader’s kid (dark shoutout to Brendan for throwing some nice 2002 sexism in his introduction with “Oh, you’re a girl? When I’d heard our neighbor was a gym leader’s kid, I was kind of hoping you’d be a boy.”) They get some extra significance in ORAS, which is much needed, having them around for a few Team Aqua/Magma encounters and even one last hurrah battle after you become champ to make up for throwing in the towel like a bitch after Lillycove. I don’t have much nice to say about them, but that’s mostly because I don’t have much to say about them, and what’s there is just... there.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4rP0OXxc-zk

I’m not sorry. So, with our first friendly rival is our first more chipper rival theme. And truthfully, I like it! It’s very high energy, and has this twinge of suspense partway through to remind you that they have a wailmer you son of a bitch and you will respect the shit out of it under the cycling road. It’s bouncy, it’s fun, and it still has just the edge it really needs to be a proper battle theme I think.

4/10 rivals, 6/10 theme

Wally

And possibly the reason Brendand and May are so Just There. Wally. Now, I’ll say up front, I have a massive Gardevoir/Gallade bias, they’re my absolute favorite pokemon of all time, so having a rival character themed entirely around the pokemon family? Yeah that gets some free points from me. But earnestly, even without that, for as little as he appears he really is the true rival of the game. It’s a short story, but one you can rally behind. This sickly kid who isn’t even capable of catching his first pokemon without supervision and has to move to a small town with clean air just to like, function properly. But with dreams of becoming a pokemon trainer. He has the knowhow, he downloads apps he can use and study, he’s done the research beforehand for what all he needs to know, and after we set him straight in Mauville, he goes on his own journey separate from our’s. And when we see him again... what a god damn transformation (how do you become a badass by just unbuttoning your shirt). He really did it, he worked his ass off, and he made it to the pokemon league, he got a fucking mega stone - two mega stones actually since he gives you one - and he isn’t that same weak kid from the start of the game. He’s your equal, and you will respect him, if not for his power, then by the effort he had to put in to get to where he is now.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K_CiTJJg5_s

Why is this song so short. Powerful, resolute, triumphant, and 40 seconds long what the fuck. Length aside, this is the song Wally absolutely deserves, without question. I can’t express it anymore than in those few words. It’s the theme of perseverance, and the strength you can attain by never giving up.

8/10 rival, 9/10 theme

Barry

What a perfect bundle of energy. Barry is another friendly rival, but not just because he’s nice or something. No, he’s your friend, your childhood friend, and he treats you like it. He’s nice and is clearly happy to go on this adventure with you, but he also slams into you without saying sorry or feeling like he really needs to, and threatens to fine you billions of dollars if you’re late for your super important meeting on the outskirts of town. He is fucking chaotic dumbass personified, with such brilliant strategies as “run through the grass so fast the wild pokemon can’t catch us”, “let’s say thanks to the professor for giving us these novice pokemon by catching a legendary pokemon”, and “here’s the perfect foolproof winning strategy: never miss and never get hit, you’ll win every battle gauranteed”. And god dammit if he isn’t endearing for it. He’s your best friend, and has your best interests at heart, going so far as to take the fall with Rowan when he thinks his dumbass plan might lose you both the chance to get your first pokemon. But, he also wants you to be damn sure that the next time you see him he will be stronger, and he will beat you, and he will be the champion first, and is that one of those walls you put your face in to take a funny picture holy shit check it out I’m a croagunk haha. If you don’t like Barry, you’re taking the games too seriously, and I suggest you get in touch with your inner child because they’re probably starved for fun characters in your media.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hv8g5u55QFA

Did I say high energy because I meant high energy. A battle theme for the sugar high in all of us, he’s just so fucking excited to battle you again. Much like Brendan and May, there’s the tiniest hint of suspense later in the song, but it’s much shorter and less pronounced here. Because it’s not so much a battle with much at stake so much as two best friends having a good old fashioned round against one another for shits and giggles.

9/10 rival, 7/10 theme

Cheren and Bianca

If you had asked me a month ago what I thought of these two I don’t think I’d have had much good to say. Or... much to say at all, for that matter. For reasons that are very unclear to me now, generation 5 didn’t stick with me like others, and that’s actually kind of upsetting since I just recently finished playing through White version again. And boy, do these two have character in spades.

I’ll start with Cheren. Cheren is great, because he’s actually almost a jerk rival, and I get the feeling if you weren’t supposed to be prior long time friends he actually would be. He’s very cool and calculating, and not too shy about getting pissy with each loss. He’s happy to lend you a hand, giving you tips, items he’s found that might be helpful, and fighting beside you against Team Plasma at a few turns. Something that stuck out to me was how nearly every rival battle was punctuated by “We both have the same number of badges now, so we should be on equal footing. Let’s put that to the test.” And each time, he’s not just being mad that he lost and then storming off, he’s very outwardly trying to deconstruct why he’s losing. You could almost picture him with charts and tables out, nose buried in his X-Transceiver screen between destinations, absolutely sure he missed some key strategy you used or that he simply overlooked. He’s very much the “power for the sake of power” rival at the start of the game, until the champion and the events with Team Plasma force him to confront his own flawed, short sighted goals. He can’t just Be Strong, he needs a reason for that, and that reason is ultimately protecting not just people important to him, but everyone. And that is just. So god damn cool. It extends to his eventual teaching role. Not only will he get stronger on his own, but he’ll teach others to be stronger, and in turn they’ll protect others too, and so on. And I think that’s perfect character motivation through and through.

Now Bianca. Oh man, do I love Bianca. She’s somehow the living version of if you perfectly spliced an introvert and an extrovert. She’s charming, outgoing, friendly, encouraging, and... also very shy, humble, not one to speak up most of the time. At least at first. And it’s such a tiny, blink and you miss it character trait, but every time she looses she needs like a full five seconds to hide her face under her hat before speaking again. Losing to you time and again does get to her, but she’ll be damned if she lets that deter you and your progress. It’s not your fault she lost, it’s her’s for not being stronger, and she ultimately realizes it’s because while she’s enjoyed raising pokemon and going on this journey, battling just isn’t where her heart is. But she still went on the journey, and fought to go on it, arguing against her father’s wishes for her to return home, and fighting by your side however she can through the debacle spreading over the region. She learns to stand up for herself and what she wants when she actually wants it, and even though in the end she might have been good enough to challenge the league if she kept at it, she realized it wasn’t for her, and that’s still ok.

I don’t have much to add on regarding Cheren and Bianca’s roles in B2W2, beyond that it’s such a delight seeing them both realize their true purpose and being really happy with where they’ve wound up. Also I love their new looks.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Yr5Taoyalo

Their theme invokes the same sort of feeling as Barry’s in the sense that this is less about beating the other person and more about two friends having a good time with some friendly competition. Any sense of suspense is almost nonexistent, and the fun factor has been cranked up. It’s bubbly, it’s cheery, and it never really lets up, and while I do think that makes it kind of weak as a theme representing both of them, it makes for a fun song.

9/10 rivals, 6/10 theme

So like, I know BW/B2W2 are older games, but, spoilers for plot stuff.

I’ve heard a lot of arguments regarding whether N even counts as a rival instead of an antagonist outright, but I personally think he’s meant to be the rivalry edge to make up for Cheren and Bianca being so buddy buddy, like they were trying to address the friendly rival complaints after the last two games. And N is certainly a fascinating beast (hah), being very intentionally directly designed to be the dark antithesis to the standard pokemon protagonist character. The protagonist doesn’t speak at all, he speaks too quickly. The protagonist’s goal is very vague and broad, simply being “the best”, while N’s is powerfully stubborn and full of conviction. And of course it’s right there in the design, he’s even got the hat. N is also a very tragic character, intentionally raised and taught from childhood all for the purpose of being Ghetsis’ perfect tool towards world domination. He can literally speak with pokemon, he doesn’t get people, and interestingly up until the final battle in the game, he exclusively catches and uses local pokemon when you meet him, presumably releasing them once his friends have helped him test your own resolve. Team Plasma eventually splits into two factions in B2W2, those who truly believed in their ideals, that what they were trying to do was create a better world for people and pokemon alike, and those who were just using it as an excuse to be cruel dickbags and steal pokemon. If Ghetsis is the later, N is the former. This isn’t an evil plot for him, he isn’t some wicked mastermind working behind the shadows, he’s very clear cut and up front with you about what he’s doing, why he’s doing it, he even basically says “hey I could be wrong, I’m like 90% sure you’re also a hero so prove it and show me who’s intentions are more pure.” I love this guy, and I’m genuinely happy he ends up just living a happy life with his pet dragon wolf friend by the end of B2W2.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O0ajBL15Knk

N’s theme is a weird one for me. I genuinely don’t enjoy the composition, but I can’t deny that it’s pretty perfect for him. This intentionally twisted idealist seeking all of the best things in all the wrong ways. It’s dark, fast paced, foreboding, and the ticking clock in this final version really sells that he won’t back down on creating what he truly believes to be a perfect world if you don’t get him to listen to reason. In short, wonderfully thematic, just not for me.

9/10 rival 5/10 theme

Hugh

I’ll be up front, I’m very overdo for a replaying of B2W2, so my recollection of Hugh is a bit foggy. That said, I do recall liking him. He’s high energy, but he also has a better handle on knowing how to direct said energy. Much like Silver before him, he’s very goal oriented and with a vendetta to work through, but rather than seeing your presence as an obstacle, you’re a trusted friend and ally, anything to make stomping out Plasma that much easier, and what better way to fight crime than with a friend at your side. I recall he had a habit of lashing out at strangers for being inattentive of their pokemon since his little sister’s purrloin got stolen (irony) by Plasma, but it comes from a place of good, so you can kinda get it. He’s well meaning, head strong, and a bit of a hot head, and while I need to reacquaint myself with him, I remember liking him alright if nothing else.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WZDEr6_xzsM

Shockingly, his theme is a bit more subdued in terms of your average battle theme. It’s got a bit of an edge to it, and I love the shit out of those drums, but it still has that friendly ring to it. Oddly, it gives me more of a megaman vibe than anything pokemon. And trust me, that’s not a bad thing. Just a very strange song altogether though.

6/10 rival and theme, subject to change

Serena and Calem

I don’t recall how much of this is true for Serena, but I do seem to recall the two actually having somewhat different personalities. And Calem borrows a bit from what I liked about Cheren. He’s still being buddy buddy with you, but as each loss piles on, he starts to get more and more outwardly frustrated with himself over them. What’s he doing wrong? You’re supposed to be at the same level as one another, why can’t he pull out just one win? And he’s slightly less apologetic about it, so he is a bit of what I described with “what if Cheren was still your rival but not your childhood friend”. I want to say that Sarena is much the same, but it’s simply been far too long, and for what good points they’ve got even after two full playthroughs, they just... don’t bring much to the table, much like similar rivals before them Brendan and May. And man, speaking of not bringing much to the table...

The Friend Gang

Mmmm... let’s start with what I like about them. Because earnestly, there is an aspect about Tierno, Trevor, and Shauna (respectively) that I like. For all of our rivals up until now, you’ve had roughly the same goal. To conquer all 8 gyms, defeat the elite four and champion, become the champion yourself, and maybe save the world if you happen to be in the area at the time. And you know, world of pokemon, that makes sense it’s all well and good. But like, some people run businesses. Some people drive taxis, some are singers, some are artists, some are scientists, not everybody wants to be a world class ace trainer. And, neither do these three. Tierno is interested in dance, and seems to want to go out there just to see new moves and techniques to incorporate them into dance moves. Trevor is actually interested in and invested in filling out every shred of information in the pokedex, which is refreshing since you know, we usually get as far as like maybe 50 pokemon tops before just calling it quits. And Shauna, I’ll admit I don’t recall much of her, but I seem to remember her going out on her journey much for the same reason Bianca did. Do figure out what she actually wants to do in the first place. Unlike Bianca though, she never really finds it I don’t think. So, they’re trainers, but with their own unique goals in mind. That’s cool! ... and it’s also all there is to them. They’re extremely one note most of the time, and regrettably very forgettable. Calling them rivals at all honestly feels kinda generous.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=73UoF45hBVQ

Imma be real with you chiefs, I’ve been listening to like every other Gen 6 song except this one while writing this. This could have easily just been the generic trainer battle theme in any other region, which... after my analysis, I’ll admit, kinda makes sense. These aren’t ace trainers or anything, they’re just... some friendly peeps doing their own shit who happen to know how to battle too. But, thematics doesn’t save a song on it’s own.

3/10 rivals and song

Hau

Hau is just... god damned precious. He’s loose, he’s chill, he’s excitable, but not always excited, and happy to go with the flow on things. He’s not your childhood friend, but he acts like that just means he’s got lost time to make up for once he gets to know you, more than happy to offer you up snacks and whatnot. He’s a fast and loyal friend, and surprisingly one with his own goal in mind that actually kind of weighs on him in the background. He’s the grandson of the island Kahuna, Hala, which means he’s eventually supposed to take that role from the old man. And that’s a huge responsibility for a kid who just wants to enjoy the sun and malasadas. But, it’s one he wants to live up to earnestly, and he’s willing to work towards. He just has a little trouble working past that initial fear of “how can I possibly be as good a kahuna as my grandpa”. Plus, once he makes a friend, he’ll fight for em, eagerly and happily going along with you to the Aether Resort when he finds out Lillie’s in trouble. Rain or shine, Hau’s got your back, and is easily one of the best friendly rivals to date if you asked me.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4BYcMPXxJrg

This one reminds me a lot of Cheren and Bianca’s theme but this time it’s a lot more fitting. It’s a fun and silly time, whoever loses doesn’t matter, so long as everyone’s having a good time! A bit of a boring song, but perfectly befitting the character, so it gets a bit of a pass.

8/10 rival, 6/10 theme

Gladion

I would say “who hurt you”, but we have the answer to that question, and it really helps propel Gladion and indeed the entire Aether family to the heights of “well written pokemon characters”. But, we’ll stick with just Gladion here. When we first meet him he’s just another skull flunky, but even then not really. For as pathetic as the skull grunts are (I love all of you but you’re so bad), even they make fun of him. He’s a nothing to nobody who has nobody, nobody but him and his weird dog. He is so much the rebellious tween but dammit if he doesn’t have a good reason with how horrible and abusive Lusamine became after her awry experiments with ultra space. He took their experimental pokemon for his own, ran away, and never looked back, just trying to live a happy life as best he can with Type: Null. He’s very hardened, and clearly not looking to go make any relationships, but eventually he does warm up to you at minimum as someone he can trust in battle, and by the end of the game someone he can see as an equal and maybe even friend. Really, calling him a rival is a bit off. He has no real beef with you or your journey, most of the time it seems like he’s just fighting you because he’s in a bad mood. But he’s a young man who’s been hurt badly, and wants to keep others from feeling that same kind of hurt, and obviously if he’s nice and strong then nobody can ever stop him from keeping himself and the people he cares about safe. The friendliest of jerk rivals who deserves the utmost care and protection.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mDLj143lxVk

How to make a good battle theme: Step 1, slap bass. Step 2, there is no step 2. Jokes aside, I love this shit. It is utterly not in line with what you normally expect from a pokemon theme, and that kinda makes it work really well. It’s wild, it’s strong, and it denotes a kind of complexity to its energy. Not jaw dropping, but just a great slap.

8/10 rival and theme

#pokemon #rivals #mason says things #god that took longer than I thought I wish I knew when I started this

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anamelesstraveler · 7 years

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Smoke in our lungs

A SniperPilot fanfic. Rated T.

Part 1/2 | 3,629 words

All Cassian wants to do for New Years is drink, dance, and forget about his life for a little while.

“Sorry!” A body stumbles into him, or Cassian sways into them. In the end, he isn’t sure.

What he is sure of is that he lifts his gaze and finds the most gorgeous big brown eyes looking back at him.

This story includes drunk New Year’s shenanigans, Cassian being a tired and needy drunk, and both of them being utter disasters. Welcome.

This one was originally for SniperPilot Winter’s New Years prompt. But.... I am a slow writer oops.

Part 1.

Cassian has, maybe, had a little too much to drink.

The tipsy, floating warmth he’s been nursing has rapidly slid into a sluggish, dizzy crawl. The pounding bass that had vibrated along his skin only an hour ago is now a twisted, volatile thing that makes his flesh prickle. The music is a smear of wordless sound. The people around him aren’t quite a blur yet, but he’s too drunk to care about focusing on any of them. And yet he still keeps knocking back the drinks Kay dutifully offers him - what exactly Kay keeps ordering, he’s forgotten to ask, but they burn just right in his throat so he doesn’t bother.

The glass clanks awkwardly against the table as he goes to set it back. “I think you should slow down,” Kay says lightly. It sounds like an admonishment anyway.

“We had a deal, remember?” Cassian grunts. “You get to be guard dog as long as you keep bringing me drinks.”

“I believe the deal was that I let you drink as long as you don’t do anything stupid. Giving yourself alcohol poisoning is considered stupid by most standards, Cassian.”

“‘ven’t had near enough for that.” Cassian swipes back a stray lock of hair. His face feels hot and clammy after being on the dancefloor. “I’m going back out. Have another one of these when I get back?”

Instead of answering, Kay shoves a lukewarm bottle of water into his hand. “Drink at least another third of that before you go.”

He rolls his eyes, but does as he’s told anyway. “Sí, abuela,” he mutters between gulps.

“You’ll thank me tomorrow. Or in five minutes when you don’t pass out on the dancefloor.”

Cassian wanders off without giving a reply to that, desperate to feel the press of the crowd around him again; strangely addicted to the haze and heat of the music and the people. His half-drunk mind conjures parallels to the sea, of sinking into the crush. Of sinking into it and becoming not himself for however long he can manage it.

That’s all any of this is.

Cassian doesn’t usually enjoy this kind of partying - at all, in fact. He’s always had things he’d considered more important to do: studying and training drills and countless other things. But he’s spent too long with responsibility being his burden to carry. He’s devoted too much of his life to doing and fighting for what was right. Spent too long breaking off pieces of himself in the hopes that he could somehow make a difference. And after he’d wrung himself out, he’d knuckled down and done it all over again.

The paths are different now. Medical school comes with less risk of violence and death than the military had. But the cycle of responsibility and discipline feel the same to him when he’s exhausted and ready to collapse under his own weight. Like tonight, when all he wants is to forget about everything around him. Tonight is New Year’s Eve, and this time and this club might just be the perfect opportunity for Cassian to for it.

“Sorry!” A body stumbles into him, or Cassian sways into them. In the end, he isn’t sure.

What he is sure of is that he lifts his gaze and finds the most gorgeous big brown eyes looking back at him. And then he must be stumbling, because a hand comes up to his arm to steady him. Cassian’s eyes dart down, tracking slowly up from the elegant hand to toned forearm, up and up the slender, surprisingly strong form of the man in front of him. His eyes falter on the angle of a bearded jaw, the softening waves of long dark hair, and the quick movements of his soft-looking lips as he continues to ramble apologies at Cassian. (His brain may or may not blank entirely when the man’s tongue flicks out to nervously wet his lips.)

And then back to those eyes again. Those eyes that are watching him with curiosity and a hint of fear. Oh. Right.

Cassian waves a hand dismissively. “S’alright,” he mumbles, and then has to say it louder to be heard over the music. The stranger (the Unfairly Pretty stranger) leans, placing his empty glass on a ledge nearby. The shirt he’s wearing stretches enticingly across his frame as he does, and Cassian finds himself distracted again. When he straightens, it’s to brush apologetically at the new wet spot on Cassian’s shirt.

Ah. God, maybe Cassian really has had too much to drink tonight. “Let me get you another one,” he finds himself offering.

That (Too Kissable) mouth curves into a frown. “I’m the one who spilled the drink on you,” Entirely-Too-Attractive says.

“Did you?”

His question, at least, seems to put the beautiful stranger at ease. “How many have you had, man?” he asks, visibly biting back an amused smile.

“Too many,” Cassian admits. And then decides: fuck it, all he’s wanted tonight is to forget about being the one to plan, to think about the right way to do things. Fuck consequences. “Hey… hey, do you want to dance?”

The club is too dim and too bright in turn thanks to the light show up by the stage. So Cassian can’t see if the Doe Eyes is blushing or not. But by the startled, almost shy change in his body language, it’s a close thing. Which is… great, actually. It at least means that Cassian isn’t getting punched tonight. The lights flare brightly, and yes, he’s definitely blushing. “I-I’m not…” Cassian barely hears over the pulsing music. The rest is lost under it all, but after a few moments of blinking at the man’s expression, he sees the uncertainty there.

He leans unsteadily closer. “You can say no, it’s okay,” he says, taking the stranger off guard. Cassian is about to turn and leave, to let the unspoken rejection roll off his back, when Ridiculously Cute Smile reaches out to stop him. It may be the (several) drinks talking, but the single touch makes Cassian want to drag him closer and never let go.

(He’s known the man for all of two minutes and hasn’t even asked his name yet. It’s definitely the alcohol.)

“No, no, I do,” he yelps a little too loudly, right into Cassian’s ear. “I want to dance with you!” The spark of elation that wells up in Cassian is so overwhelming that he nearly misses his next words. “I just don’t usually…”

“You don’t have to impress me,” he laughs, a bit too rashly, and then pauses. That didn’t come out right. “You’re cute and I just want to feel you for a while.” That’s… probably not right either, but Dazzling Brown Eyes sputters and doesn’t protest as Cassian pulls him towards the dancefloor. They weave into the crowd, Cassian carelessly slipping past dancers absorbed in their own little worlds (some of them more… explicitly than others) in search of a clear space.

He turns and pulls the alluring stranger to him the moment they find space enough to breathe. His shame has been left behind somewhere between drinks, and so he doesn’t even question the urge to press up against this beautiful man with his Soulful Eyes and his Plush Mouth. Cassian can feel him jolt under his hands, but not away from him. “This okay?” he asks anyway, and mutters under his breath: “Please let this be okay.”

He gets distracted watching the man’s lips form unheard words, but gets his answer in the slight nod of his head. In the arms that come up around Cassian’s shoulders. It’s all the permission Cassian needs to let his hands slide around his slender waist, settling the lines of their bodies more firmly together.

It’s so easy to get lost in the thrum of the music, the hazy grind of the beat that seems to over take his own pounding heart. It’s even easier to get lost in his new companion, the two of them moving together with the music, unwilling to step apart for anything other than swaying against each other. And Cassian had known he would feel good, but he hadn’t anticipated the heat that crackles along his nerves everywhere that they touch. He hadn’t thought about the fact that he’d never want to let go.

All Cassian wants is to let his hands wander, to feel as much of this beautiful man as he can. But no, no, he knows he can’t go that far. Not yet. Not even though Cassian can feel the hot little gasp between them or the shiver that courses through the man’s body when Cassian’s hands make a thoughtless slide from his hips up his sides.

He ducks closer as soon as the music quiets for even a moment, pressing his lips to the man’s ear. “What’s your name?” Cassian has to know. He’ll hate himself if he doesn’t learn at least that much.

There’s a breath against his cheek as the man huddles close in return. “Bodhi,” he answers, and there’s a rasp in his voice, something breathless and exhilarating. Cassian wonders if that’s what he sounds like after he’s had the breath kissed from his lungs too.

“Bodhi,” Cassian tests the name on his tongue, and wonders if it’s just his imagination or the flickering lights, or if Bodhi’s eyes go dark at the sound. “Nice to meet you, Bodhi.” He certainly doesn’t imagine the sudden, almost musical laugh that bursts out of the man.

He falls in love then and there, he’s sure of it.

Their moment is shattered as the music starts up again. If Bodhi looks like he’s going to say anything else, it gets lost. Cassian loses track of how long they dance after that, one song blurring into the next. Bodhi is far more intoxicating than any drink he’s had tonight, and all Cassian can think of is staying like this, pressed almost intimately against him forever.

The music cuts out abruptly, startling them both, with the dj’s blaring announcement that midnight is almost upon them. The monitors on either side of the stage flare to life with footage from Time’s Square, and the cheering almost drowns out the start of the countdown to midnight. Thirty. Twenty-nine. His arms still around Bodhi’s waist, they stumble out of the way of the over enthusiastic dancers nearest them. All around them couples are clinging, people are making to find someone to kiss as the clock strikes midnight.

Twenty seconds, and Cassian turns to find Bodhi watching him. And Cassian forgets all about the chanting, shuffling crowd around them, and about the confines and dead ends of his life. He finally finds what he’s been looking for tonight, not in the bottom of a shot glass, but in the endless depth of Bodhi’s gaze.

Their lips meet at fourteen seconds to midnight.

There’s a gasp that mingles somewhere between them. Cassian doesn’t have time to figure out from who, because Bodhi hands come up, cradling the back of his neck and pulling him closer, deepening the kiss before Cassian’s dazed mind has a chance to catch up. He clutches Bodhi to him, lips parting at the tiniest flick of the other man’s tongue, desperately beckoning him. His knees threaten to buckle from the sheer force of his own desperate wanting.

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

Around them the crowd shouts and screams. There are flashing lights and the soft touch of confetti raining down from the ceiling. Someone shoves into them in the chaos, knocking them apart. Cassian blinks down at Bodhi, wild and dazed. There’s confetti caught in Bodhi’s hair. He can stand it only long enough to take a breath before dipping his head for another kiss. “C’mon,” he breathes urgently against Bodhi’s lips, nipping them even as he starts to tug the man away from the crowd. They have to break their kisses to make their way back off the dancefloor, and every second that Cassian isn’t kissing Bodhi feels like he’s suffocating.

He can’t be bothered to find a place more private, simply clutching Bodhi’s hand as they come free of the crowd and dragging him over to the nearest unoccupied alcove between the pillars and equipment. Cassian lets his back hit the wall, with more force than he’d planned for. It makes Bodhi stumble into him, makes him catch himself with a hand against Cassian’s chest and Cassian all but whimpers. He’ll feel ashamed over the sound come morning. Now all he can think of is getting Bodhi’s mouth back on his.

He’s dizzy even before Bodhi kisses him again, thankful that his weight is there to keep Cassian pinned to the wall and upright. Cassian sucks at hot, kiss-swollen lips, his face tingling from the scrape of the man’s beard. The hand at his chest slides up his throat to the hinge of his jaw, a gentle brush of fingertips at first and then tighter until Cassian’s mouth falls open for him. His hands cling to the back of Bodhi’s shirt, pawing at it in an uncoordinated effort to get his hands beneath it.

“Hey.” This close he can hear the husky whisper without straining.

Cassian’s response might as well be called a whine, chasing after Bodhi’s mouth. Everything feels too hot, too close. Like his skin has been pulled too tight. It all feels like too much and not enough. Like he’s dreaming and fighting not to wake up. He wants to drown himself in Bodhi’s kisses, in the weight of him; wants to grind down on the thigh that’s nudging between his legs until he forgets his own name. That’s all he wants - he just wants to not be for a few minutes.

“Hey… hey, shhh.” Bodhi’s voice is soft against the curve of his jaw now. The scratch and scrape of his facial hair is soothed by his lips pressing hot kisses. And it’s with a jolt that Cassian realizes there are words spilling out of his mouth.

“Please, fuck, I want-- I need this. Need you, please.”

He clenches his eyes shut.

“It’s okay. No, hey, look at me?” Warm hands cradle his face, patient and sweet, until Cassian takes a steadying breath and opens his eyes again. And Bodhi is there, still, not a figment of Cassian’s imagination or a hallucination brought on by the drinks he’s had. So heartbreakingly beautiful and gentle, and he’s watching Cassian with concern on his face. “You okay?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that one. It… doesn’t seem to soothe the growing worry flickering across Bodhi’s face.

“Okay, look, I’m going go up to the bar and get us some water. This is going a little fast. And then maybe we can… talk? About this? After you sober up a little.”

Cassian finds himself nodding. His heart is racing in his chest and he’s gone lightheaded. When Bodhi steps away Cassian sways a little, trying to regain balance. He’s so disoriented that he doesn’t think to stop Bodhi until he’s already slipping back out of the alcove.

Once Bodhi disappears among the other club goers, the sound from outside their little corner comes rushing back. The bass is so strong that it vibrates the walls. The chatter all around him is a constant undertow. It makes Cassian’s skin crawl. It’s a shock to his system - remembering just how much he dislikes places like this. The crowd on the dancefloor is no longer an anonymous comfort but a claustrophobic monster waiting to swallow him.

There’s no chance of keeping track of Bodhi’s progress in all this. Cassian should stay where he is - Bodhi had said he’d come back. Had said they’d talk. Hadn’t he? And maybe talking would lead back to kissing him again. But the longer he waits, the more Cassian feels ready to climb right out of his skin. And so he too sets off into the club again, in what is hopefully the general direction of the bar, cringing every time someone jostles by him.

But it’s not Bodhi that he finds. He wanders between people, disoriented in the flashing lights, and stumbles back upon Kay instead.

The moment he breaks through the crowd, his best friend looks up from the sharp brunette that’s taken up residence at the table with him. “There you are!” Kay shouts over the music. “I was wondering where you’d gotten off to…” His expression pinches suddenly, taking in the sight of Cassian. “Oh no. Absolutely not.”

“What?” Cassian mumbles. Distantly, he wonders what he must look like. He feels wrecked and shattered. (How - how? All they’d done was kiss.)

Kay climbs to his feet, turning to the petite woman and muttering apologies to her. She waves a hand at him, her eyes tracking down Cassian curiously. It’s all the observation of her Cassian can manage, because Kay is suddenly shuffling into his space, blocking his view. “Alright, we’re going home.”

“Kay--”

“Unsafe club sex is certainly on the list of stupid things, Cassian. I think you’ve had enough tonight.”

“I didn’t-- I wasn’t fucking anyone, Kay,” he snaps, his face feeling hot in the significantly cooler air around the tables.

“Yet. You’re glassy-eyed and you’re going to have some impressive beard burn tomorrow. Come on, I’m not releasing you on the world like this. You won’t make it five minutes with your dignity intact.” Kay tucks an arm around his shoulders despite the muttered protests Cassian gives, and steers him in the direction of the door. Cassian peers around him, eyes scanning futilely for Bodhi in the faces of people they pass. And with every person who is not Bodhi, the more the fight drains out of him.

It feels like Cassian has been walking through a dream. He lets Kay lead him from the club, lets the cold night air wash over him. The first breath of winter air exhausts him, like a switch being flipped. Everything is suddenly too much all at once, the cold and the bright lights grating on his senses. All he wants to do is go back to their apartment and sleep.

“Cassian?” Kay calls to him as they wait for their car to be brought up, startling him. His friend’s gaze is quiet and worried. “Are you alright? Do you feel sick?”

‘I was looking for someone,’ he wants to say. And: ‘I wanted to go home with him. He was too beautiful to be real.’

“M’okay,” he sighs. “I’m just… I’m tired. And drunk. Let’s just go home.” He all but falls into the passenger seat even without Kay’s urging.

Inside the club, Bodhi returns to the little tucked away space to find it empty. He stares at the space that had once been occupied by… fuck, a gorgeous man that was too alluring to be real. “Damnit,” he hisses under his breath. He sets the two water bottles he'd left to retrieve aside, eyes darting frantically around for any trace of him.

All he finds are the faces of strangers.

END PART 1.

#sniperpilot winter #SniperPilot #Bassian #CassianBodhi #Star Wars #Cassian Andor #Bodhi Rook #fic: Smoke in our lungs #Let me weave you a Dream

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